Bottom of the World, Ushuaia, Argentina

For a place called Tierra del Fuego (Land of Fire), it sure was cold.  When I disembarked the bus, my legs stiff and back tight after a 30 hour ride, I was kindly greeted by a blast of wintry air that lifted the previous storm’s white powder into my face.  The hour was late and the night’s sky glittered with the shining of the millions of stars overhead.  I was scheduled to meet my friend Carla at the bus stop but after running three hours late due to delays at border crossings (there are four in order to reach the Argentinean Tierra del Fuego), she was nowhere to be seen in the empty parking lot.  With little desire to let the wind slash at my face any longer I shouldered my bags and made for the main road in search of an internet café.  One was not difficult to find.  Even in the world’s southernmost city, roughly 1,000 kilometers from Antarctica, the modern world’s arms still manage to extend their reach. 

Close to the Port of Ushuaia

The city of Ushuaia was first discovered by Captain Robert Fitzroy of the British Navy while surveying Tierra del Fuego in 1833 on the HMS Beagle; the land originally belonged to the Yámana natives who are thought to have arrived to the land of fire roughly 10,000 years ago.  Soon after the expedition, British missionaries became to set up shop and are credited with first using the name Ushuaia in reports back to The South American Missionary Society, thus giving the city on the Beagle Channel its modern name.  More and more missionaries flooded into the small colony and by 1872 the first European birth was recorded.  Despite the British missionaries setting up the modern town though, the Chilean and Argentineans argued back and forth over the Tierra del Fuego landmass until they reached an agreement in 1881 which split the land among the two countries.  The accord, known as the “Boundary Treaty of 1881,” awarded the Argentineans with Ushuaia, which at the time was also being formed up to be a penal colony modeled after the one in Tasmania, Australia.  The prison did not receive its first inmates till 1896 though and closed soon after the end of the Second World War.  The port town continued to flourish in the late 19^th century and in 1904 the Argentineans recognized the town as the capital of the Argentinean Tierra del Fuego. 

Carla. The Fearless Gringo Guide

I touched base with Carla using the almighty power of the web and it was not long till I spotted her bounding down the street over slick patches of ice and around snow mounds that were pushed up onto street curbs; her curly brown hair whisking amongst her face in the perpetual breeze.  I first met Carla while in Argentina back in December as she led me around the Patagonian wilderness as my mountain guide with a group of other hopeless gringos.  Knowing my ability to wander aimlessly, Carla showed me to a cozy hostel not far from the town center where we dropped my bags and made off to a local Irish bar called the Dublin.  A destination much appreciated by locals and tourists alike.  Their Red Beagle Bear is delicious. 

Most travelers come to Ushuaia for just a couple of days to ski the snowcapped mountains of hike in the vast national parks.  My first visit to Ushuaia was just like that.  This time, however, I got to see the municipality in a much more intimate, local way. 

A couple days into my stay in the sleepy mountain town, Carla moved into her new apartment and allowed me to couch surf in her kitchen/guest room for the remainder of my time.  While residing with Carla and visiting with her friends I got to hear the local’s opinions on a wide range of topics from everything about Argentinean politics and pop culture to the cluelessness of foreigners who happen to find their way into the town.  It is not just Americans by the way, you brash Europeans who read this.  The town’s economy is an interesting mismatch of bustling port town and ecotourism.  I made sure to indulge in some of the ecotourism between sipping mates, the Argentineans version of hanging around sipping coffees, and hanging out with Carla down at the port.

More of the Port of Ushuaia

The Les Eclaireurs Lighthouse as dusk approaches

I booked a boat tour on the Beagle Channel with Carla’s company, Patagonia Explorer, where we did a grand loop of the channel as she announced to the other tour members some of the history about the channel.  During the ride we passed the famous brick built Les Eclaireurs lighthouse (“The Enlighteners” or “The Scouts” in French) which is sometimes called the Faro del fin del mundo (Lighthouse at the end of the world).  Not to be confused with the San Juan de Salvamento lighthouse made famous by Jules Verne which is further east on the Isla de los Estados.  We also sailed close up to a tiny island of seals and fur seals.  Our boat approaching close enough to smell their heady BO and listen in to them bark and gurgle at one another…or us.  As we sailed back to the port after a few hours on the water we watched the sun slip behind the mountains that encircle the bay, casting the town in long dark shadows.

Another afternoon Carla and I piled into the back of one of Carla’s mother’s friend’s car next to sets of skis.  To be frank, this horrified me.  I have never skied before in my life and have little desire to do so.  Something about falling on my ass onto hard packed snow for hours just does not do it for me.  I kept my mouth shut though and accepted the fact that I would not be sitting down without grimacing for the next few days.  Much to my surprise and delight, when we arrived at a group of log lodgings nestled in a valley amid fog covered mountains Carla’s acquaintances took off with the skis, as the two of us found our way into a warm cabin surrounded by dog kennels and houses. 

From inside the cabin, while huddling close to an iron wood stove on top of couches covered by animal pelts, we observed muscular huskies bound up all over their little homes and run circles around them; tangling themselves in their chains as they howled and yelped at each other.  There must have been close to 60 of the brawny beasts.

Explanation needed?

All around the wooden cabin walls there were grand trophies and blue ribbons hanging next to pictures of grizzled looking men leaning on large sleds that were tethered by dogs.  We warmed ourselves up and then walked out in the midst of the energetic animals.  It was not too difficult of a choice at this point to ride shotgun in a champion’s dogsled, as was being offered to us. 

We swaddled ourselves up in a wool blanket and sat down in the front of the sled and at the call of “Va!” the dogs bolted like a locomotive, kicking up snow and charging us into a light rain.  We raced on top of three feet of snow as the dogs seemed to pull us without problem, picking up speed down hills and slowing around turns.  At one point the young driver of 22-years-old, who had been competing in races since he was 13, stopped the sled and offered us a chance to stand in the back.  This was an experience that was truly exhilarating. 

Granted, the dogs knew the path and as far as steering the sled there was really little need but, ducking under branches as they whizzed overhead through tiny outcroppings of trees and over a frozen lake pulled by 12 dogs bred for speed is an experience hard to mount.  Carla and I switched after a bit of time and I have never seen a person revert back to a child as fast as she did that day.  Who can blame her though, those dogs were awesome.

Eventually though, my week in Ushuaia came to an abrupt end and I departed Carla’s apartment early in the morning to walk down abandoned streets as the wind whispered through alleys, avoiding black ice while admiring the white tipped mountains one last time.  The bus back north arrived promptly on time at 5 in the morning to take myself and two other passengers back north, away from the arctic winds as I mentally prepared myself for the next 30 hours of bumpy road and extensive border crossings.

A Much Needed Stop in Puerto Madryn

And you think you live in the middle of nowhere.

The road from Buenos Aries to Ushuaia is roughly 2,400 kms, almost 1,500 miles, of arid flat land specked with dusty towns.  The trip is made by most travelers by way of airlines on small jets that take around six hours to get to the world’s southernmost city in a hurry.  I am still working out in my head why opted to take the bus.  The three day ride is pretty dull.  Whenever the double-decker bus would happen upon a small town and momentarily unload its passengers whilst it filled its tanks, I half expected to see tumbleweeds blow by in gusts of wind.  After the first twenty hours of the ride, being constantly pestered by shrieking babies, poorly dubbed Hollywood comedies, stale air venting from the ceiling and a stiff chair that reshaped my spinal column, I came to the conclusion that it was a very good thing I had arranged to stop off in a port town on the Atlantic Ocean called Puerto Madryn. 

The tiny coastal town of 57,000 residents was settled by Welsh immigrants about 150 years ago, although, I could not find any remnants of Welsh culture around the town during my walks.  They did however put the town on the map after working with other European immigrants on a rail line to another city called Trelew in the state of Chubut.  Nowadays, most travelers visit the town while exploring the Patagonian wilderness or as a pit stop between the North and South of the country, as I did.  Without doubt or debate, the main attraction to this part of the country is the thriving nature that the Argentineans take extra care to preserve.  During the winter season, Southern Right whales frolic in the bay right off of the beach as onlookers with binoculars and oversized camera lenses sit in frigid temperatures to observe the creatures.

My bus arrived in the late afternoon as the sun was beginning to disappear in the west behind the plains of coastal Argentina, casting the town in a magenta hue while my taxi took me the short distance to my accommodation.  Sunset photography never gets old for me; the everyday activity of the earth seems to be anything but ordinary and no two days are ever the same.  Not trying to waste any time after arriving at an inn, I tossed my bags into my room, outfitted my camera and began to make for the beach to try and capture some of the suns closing comments.  Possibly spotting a whale was also on the agenda. 

Before I could reach the door though, the inn keeper offered me a cup of tea or coffee.  Begrudgingly I indulged him in his generosity as I impatiently watched the world outside turn shades of amethyst and ginger through the large windows in his front reception room.  I tried to do my best with friendly chit chat but, I think he could tell I was in a rush by my crude gulping of the tea and unabashed glances at the dimming world as I let his words wash over me.  I felt kind of bad but, after 20 hours on a bus I just wanted to be away from people in my immediate vicinity and outside where the air was crisp. 

We wrapped it up shortly after I had chugged my tea and when I made it out the door I damn near dashed for the beach to catch the light shimmer off the crashing surf and scarlet sand.  The bus trip the day before and the one looming before me on the morrow left all my thoughts when my bare feet sunk into the sand.  What a sinful sigh of relief escaped my lips once as I wiggled my toes deeper into the grain.  I contented myself with strolling down the vacant beach barefoot as a ceaseless storm of wind tossed invisible particles into my face, forcing me at times to turn my back and walk backwards against its will.  I skirted on sand dunes in between trapped pockets of water in the low tide towards the elongated wooden and concrete pier that reached out to the horizon line.  I figured that if I was going to see whales this late in the evening they would be out there and if not, at least I would watch the sun set over the city from afar. 

The pier of Puerto Madryn

I alternated between the lonely boardwalk and hushed beach till I arrived at the pier and made my way down its concrete walkway; scanning the water for breaching mammals or a spout of water breaking the surface of the swelling sea.  Along the way to the end of the dock I noticed a group of fishermen consistently pulling in fish that would flop and gasp on the ground as the men set down their lines and unhooked their catches.  Realizing that spotting whales was looking bleak, I stopped moving down the pier and posted up against a pole with my camera; snapping photographs of the fishermen’s backs as the sun dipped lower and lower.  The wind was still relentless and my fingers were turning shades of violet but, I inched forward in the direction of the group of silently working men.

Some of the group of fishermen on the pier

It was not long until I managed to put myself right in the midst of them as they alternated between sending their lines whizzing over the water or noisily crank them back in; creating a serene kind of blue collar tune.  I partnered up next to a father and a son who told me they had been at it for about an hour and would fish until an hour after the sun finished setting.  I struggled to understand why.   Their five gallon bucket squirmed with fish and my ears felt as if they were going to fall off and shatter from the frosty breeze that blew brackish mist into our faces.  People need to put food on the table and pay the bills wherever you go though. 

The son, who was 14 years-old, thrust his fishing pole out to me at one point, offering me a chance to join in and try my hand at catching a fish.  The last time I had even attempted fishing was when I was seven or eight-years-old with the cub scouts, and I do not even remember casting a line.  So I took it and hoped I did not look like too much of an amateur in front of the older men with unreadable wind cracked faces.  As I took the line, a bunch of the other fishermen had begun to pause in their routine and take a moment to squint against the sun to watch the gringo cast a line. 

The Father

So I stood on the railing and leaned against the fence, dipped the pole low and with a little jerk of my wrists brought it up and cast out the line over the water in an attempt to mimic the others.   The line hummed as I watched the weights pull it down to spelunk in the waves and snap tight in the tide.  I took a moment to look around right after the line had landed and everyone had gone back to what they were doing.  The boy looked at me, shrugged, smiled and made the motion of cranking back in the line.  I followed his tutelage and came up empty.  I cast out a few times more and still had no such luck with a bite.  His father laughed a little bit and I went back to taking pictures of the group.

One line, three fish

Eventually, taking photos became difficult in the low light and I rested my chin on my hands as I listened and watched the group cast and crank, cast and crank.  A surprisingly tranquil combination of noises blending in with the whistling of the wind, that if not for the wintry temperatures, may have put me straight to sleep.  The sun finished its act soon and a few fishermen began to pack up their stuff and pick up their writhing bags of fish, signaling their end for the evening.  I followed suit, shook hands with the father, bumped fists with the son and made my way back to the inn.

That night, myself and other guests of the inn ate together in the dining room.  I filled my stomach with savory red meat, snappish vegetables and drank a good fill of red wine; perfectly capable of conducting proper roaring banter with the inn owner now.  Gaston, an Argentinean of Irish descent, has clearly treated a journey weary traveler or two to an unwinding evening before.  Much to his satisfaction and my own, we carried late into the night agreeing to disagree on topics that I barely recall having argued for.  I laid down that night relaxed and completely oblivious to the fact that the soon I would be back on a bus for another 30 hours. 

A whale tail...I know, not the best of pictures.  Ya take what you can get though.

I arose the next morning feeling very well rested and made my way to the bus station after watching from the beach some whales splash and play.  Thoroughly prepared for all the screaming kids and dusty ghost towns the country was willing to throw at me.  Indeed, I may have to stop in Puerto Madryn this week as I make my way back north.

The Tango

Argentina is known to travelers for many things.  Savory meat cooked to perfection, sophisticated wine from the Andes Mountains and Mendoza, and the breathtaking countryside in southern Patagonia.  Indeed the meat is the best on the South American continent.  Of course the wine’s tastes are produced with the mastery of the craft, passed down from generations of Italian and Spanish immigrants.  And who can refute the beautiful snow peaked tops of Torres Del Paine or the jaw dropping rumbling glacier of Perito Moreno Glacier.  There is, however, another thing that seems to capture the hearts of travelers from all over the world; the Tango.

The tango, although originating in African and European cultures, truly began to claim its fame from the nurturing of the Argentinos in the late 1800s.  In the early 1900s the dance began to spread across Europe, being snatched up by the French first and moving to other capitals in the region such as Berlin and London.  Eventually the dance made its way to New York and the rest of North America but, its true home lies in Buenos Aries. 

One can witness the dance virtually anywhere in the city.  The distinctive music seems to radiate out of walls and down alleys during the Sunday crafts fair in San Telmo.  Many restaurants all around the city employ dancers to steal customers off the streets with dinner shows.  In the colorful Boca neighborhood, dancers twist their hips as circles of people form around the dancers to, “Ooooo,” and “Ahhhh.”  The real performances that demonstrate the tango for what it is though are the theater shows.  Alluring, vehement and able to convey a story of romance as well as any sappy Hollywood movie or trashy novel can.  Lucky for me I got to experience this.

Some people at the hostel I was staying at in the Palermo neighborhood caught wind of a show being performed one evening.  It turns out for people who showed up to the theater earlier in the day would be awarded with free tickets to the performance.  Many of the hostel folks ended up scoring multiple tickets and I was fortunate enough to earn one myself along with a friendly invite.  We gathered together that evening and utilizing the Buenos Aries bus system we made our way deeper into, I believe, the Palermo neighborhood.  Arriving at an old theater with large Greek stylized columns in front, our group sauntered in and grabbed some seats together among the locals.  The theater probably could seat a couple hundred and close to show time looked pretty full with chattering Argentinos old and young alike.            

As the lights dimmed in the old colonial theater, scratchy music sounding like it was being played off an old record player from the 1920s hushed the hum of the crowd.  Before the stage’s red velvet curtain could be raised fully into the rafters, a couple came sliding step-in-step together from the right side of the stage.  The woman was wearing a deep purple dress that swirled among her thighs as she stepped in rhythm to the man in a tuxedo’s elongated steps toward her. 

The Tango is truly the most passionate of all the dances I have ever witnessed.  Methodically moving with the twangs of guitar strings across the stage, the woman kicked her feet and twined her legs seductively in between the man’s as they stared, seemingly, deeply into each other’s eyes.  From time to time he would twirl her out at an arm’s length, only to whip her back towards him forcefully in a tight embrace.  I thought it could not only be me in the audience that was feeling hot under the collar by this point; I half expected them to start ripping their clothes off and putting on the real show. 

                The two paraded around the stage by themselves for a few moments but were joined by two more couples.  The music sped up and the new couples with it, moving across the stage elegantly and oblivious to the other couples doing the same.  Lost in their own trance, eyes locked, feet blurring.   And then the music stopped as they all struck a pose.  The crowd went nuts.

                Quickly though the music changed, picked back up and as it did the dance changed as well.  Among the stage there were eight chairs where two of the couples sat while the other began to move slowly across the dance floor, annunciating each step clearly, their footsteps reverberating among the theater walls.  The couple moved around the stage and as they approached some of the chairs, another couple rose and did the same.  The couples changed with each other, each dancing a different version of the tango’s steps. 

                As the night went on, the audience was treated to different sets of theatrics and dances, telling different romantic stories of couples in the night.  Some dances told stories of “boy chases after girl,” as two couples danced in circles while one man chased after a lonely dancer while spinning with arms wide, comically pleading.  When he gave up the chase and sulked to the chairs she moved to offer her hand.  Women.  One dance had two women fighting over a single man, constantly and skillfully cutting in if the other woman would part from his arms for but a brief inhale.  Couples interchanged partners in a blur of an eye at all times, whilst all along the women’s dresses, colorful and vibrant in the radiance of stage lighting, twirled high among thighs.  The men would lift their partners above their heads, spin and place them gently back down.

                For an hour the stage panted seductiveness, lust and romance.  When it was over the crowd stood and cheered, whistled and clapped as the dancers took deep bows under spotlights.  The curtain came down, the applause slowly died and people began to filter out of the building as I attempted to raise my jaw off the floor.  I do not think I will ever have the grace for such a dance but, the performance sure makes me want to try.

ORIGINALLY, THIS POST WAS MEANT FOR THE "LET'S GO" WEBSITE.  AFTER TWO WEEKS OF THEM NOT PUBLISHING IT I HAVE DECIDED TO POST IT HERE.  IT SHOULD FILL THE SPACE WHILE I FINISH UP SOME OTHER POSTS FOR THIS BLOG.  ENJOY  

    An atypical mix of subtropical climate and a bustling metropolis of over four million people, Rio has something to keep everyone entertained for their stay in the city.  If you are like me, strolling the wealthy white beaches in Copacobana, dodging the traffic in the hectic hustle in the centro or treading lightly through the sad slums of the favelas will only feed your curiosity on how they city is put together from a bird’s eye view.  Luckily for people like us, the city offers two great summits to inspect the sprawl from up high while the wind whips and swirls around you; Pão de Açúcar (Sugar Loaf) and Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer.)

Pão de Açúcar (Sugar Loaf)

    The lesser known of these two look outs, Sugar Loaf Mountain, gives great views of the city from the shore inward.  The peak, which is made of granite and quartz, earned the name Sugar Loaf from its shape that resembles how sugar was packaged tightly together from South American sugar producing countries until the 19^th Century.

    The summit of the steep jutting rock is reached by utilizing two cable cars.  The first takes three minutes and travels approximately 500 meters into the air to the mountain Morro da Urca.  There people disembark and can wander the peak of the lesser mountain, survey the city at lookout points, grab some food or stop in at the information center before boarding the next cable car. 

    The second cable car takes you to the peak of Sugar Loaf, 735 meters above the sea.  The ride takes about another three minutes in the cable car which departs every 20 minutes.  Here viewers can see far and wide across the city that weaves around other protruding land masses and check out some great views of Copacobana beach.  Depending on your camera’s zoom, pictures of Cristo Redentor in the distance are viable on a clear day.  The harbor beneath your feet presents views of sail ships raising and lowering their sails as they cycle in and out from the docks whilst the breeze brings the salts of the sea to your lips.

    The Cable Cars Operate between 8 AM and 8 PM, ticket prices are a bit steep for some backpackers’ budgets at R$53 for adults. http://www.bondinho.com.br/   

View from the Sugar Loaf summit

Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer)

    The ever so popular Christ the Redeemer has been shown in movies worldwide as the symbol for Rio de Janeiro since its completion in 1931.  Standing on top of the Corcovado mountain and facing towards the Atlantic coast, the statue was voted in as one of the new Seven Wonders of the World in 2007 by a global vote of over 100 million people.  The list excludes other great structures like the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Acropolis of Athens in Greece and Ankor in Cambodia.

    Christ the Redeemer can be reached one of two ways.  One way is to take a taxi to a train that steadily plods up the mountain every half hour.  The ride itself takes a little over 20 minutes and allows for views of the city below looking out to the sea.  The other way is to ask a taxi driver to take you to the base of the  Corcovado mountain where shuttle busses take people up and down.

    Which ever way you take, once you reach the big guy his views are spectacular.  The multi teared platforms gives outlooks in all the directions of the city towards the sea in a wide arcing panorama.  Screeching cars and busses spewing smog in the distance are inaudible from on the tiers, giving the impression that the city is truly far off and away from the isolated peak.  Also viewable is Rio’s large centralized lake, Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas, with looming highrises casting the edges of the pool in long shadows.  Not to mention the nearly 40 meter tall, 700 ton big guy towering over you himself, as you huddle among other guests in the crisp mountain atmosphere.

    The train operates between 8:30 AM and 7 PM Mon-Sun and costs R$36, park is entrance included http://www.corcovado.com.br/index.html

    The busses are not as predictable.  You will need to get a taxi to the base and the bus drivers may charge differently depending on the day and time.  Also, entrance to the park is R$18 which they will not include in their transport fees.

The view from the Christ at night

Which is Better?

    The decision between seeing either is up to you.  Sugar Loaf offers views of the beaches and the city clashing together which are not as viewable from Christ the Redeemer but, it is a bit more expensive and large viewpoints of the city are marred by the natural landmasses.  Christ the Redeemer on the other hand gives you outlooks of the grand centralized Lagoa de Rodrigo de Freitas and a thoroughly unobstructed panorama of the entire city.   However, some city details like the beach and harbor are far away and underwhelming. 

If you are on a timely visit (which is sad to do to yourself in Rio) hostels and hotels can book you a city tour.  One part walking and another part riding a bus, these tours can take anywhere from 3-5 hours of the day and often visit both of these sites where the entrance fee is either waived or discounted.  If you do not mind being shuffled around for an afternoon with a group of other travelers check these out.  I have heard good things from other travelers who opted to take the risk and join a group.

   If you are like me and too proud to be led around in a pack or just need to lose yourself in the city for either the good or the bad of it, throw budget to the wind and check out both on your own time. Find some people to go with and split cab fares to lessen the budget burden as well.  Enjoy the views whichever you choose!

Read more: http://www.letsgo.com/articles/toddfreimuth#ixzz1VWMqLDeo

Lapa Like a Local

Nothing to see here?

During the day in the Lapa area of Rio de Janeiro, the neighborhood is most commonly uneventful and quiet.  With the exception of screaming cars and the rumbling groans of heavy construction equipment moving rubble from pile to pile, not a lot goes on in this sleepy part of town.  Most shops are closed or seemingly abandoned and the few that are open are drowsy with business.  Other tourists can be spotted walking the cracked and unkempt sidewalks with maps in hand, puzzled looks on their faces and oversized cameras around their necks.

My first experience in Lapa was far less than stellar as well.  It was a miserable cloudy day and it was only by accident that I had happened upon it.  I did not even know that the area I was in was called Lapa and disregarded it as just another part of town; the neighborhood’s old colonial architecture forgotten and uncared for.  Little did I know that Lapa is one of the most exciting, lively parts of town in the whole of Rio and I was going to get to experience that unlike many gringos even know is possible.

                My evening in Lapa starts really early the previous morning while out wandering the streets with some other travelers in search of adventure and an open bar at three AM.  Both of which are not too difficult to find in Rio at that time.  A small group of us meandered along the beach in the Ipanema neighborhood listening to the waves lap at the shore until shouting and car horns drew us towards a bar that had people overflowing out of the entrance and into the street.  The bar, as good a place as any at that point, had an atypical mix of gringos and locals.  I was fortunate enough, or drunk enough, to start chatting with some of the Brazilians.  I suppose I made a good gringo impression with my butchering of the Portuguese language and we prattled into the later hours of the morning; I believe they were just happy I was making an attempt at their speech.  The topic of a well known street party in Lapa came up and a girl named Gabriela offered to take me out the next night to check it out.  Who was I to say no?

                The next evening she was cool enough to make it easy on me and met me at my hostel where we had a quick drink and afterward proceeded to a busy street to catch a public transportation van.  It was not a long wait till we heard the hollering of one of the VW van’s attendants screaming, “Lapa, lapa, LAPA!” half his body hanging outside the side window of the quick moving vehicle.  We flagged him down much like you would a cab and he started slamming his hand against the side door to signal for the van to screech to a halt.  He quickly jumped out, we leaped in and we made our way through Rio’s busy Friday night streets.  We rode around the giant lake that rests in the center of the city, past old aqueducts and besides famous theaters as Gabriella gave me a crash course of historical facts about the city I would never have bothered to learn otherwise.   

                After a 20 minute ride or so we disembarked the van and the sleepy area I had been wandering aimlessly in a few days ago had been converted into a street party the likes I had never seen.  Glowing orange under tall lamps, people crowded into the roads shoulder to shoulder for city block after city block till they just seemed to melt together in a rocking mass.  Gone were the deafening sounds of the back hoes and bulldozers, replaced by the chest pulsating beats of Brazilian funk music and samba emitting from the now open clubs and bars that stretched down flashing alley ways.  Food stands that were selling traditional fare created ballooning clouds of smoke that swirled into the night air and stood collectively setup on the sidewalks; maybe in an attempt to avoid the chaotic streets. 

                Leisurely we began to push through the crowds, occasionally stopping to watch a fire juggler toss flames high into the air to awe a pack of gawkers.  Gabriella, who I now pegged as either an expert bull-shitter or a very intelligent person, continued to inform me on the area’s revitalization.  Ten years ago Lapa was not what it is now.  It was crime ridden and riddled in gang warfare to the point even locals strayed away from certain areas.  With difficultly, I dragged my eyes away from the scantily clad locals and flashing strobe lights to see as much. 

                Many old colonial buildings still sit in disrepair, their chipped paint and rotted columns pleading to be invigorated and saved.  Sidewalks are pocketed with holes where I must have watched three drunken people, and I as well a few times, trip into and around.  Petty theft is also a problem here, especially for gringos.  Two people from my hostel that evening had cameras stolen from them.  A young English woman was posing in front of some landmark for her boyfriend when a man came sprinting out of the throng, snatched the camera right out his hands and vanished back into the masses at break neck speed.  An Australian girl had hers magically picked right out of her side bag in a crowd and never knew the wiser until the next day.

                Although there are still problems, the area is evolving and becoming an increasingly better place to spend a weekend evening.  Police presence is well known; their flashing red and blue lights adding to the party atmosphere on nearly every street corner and alleyway.  There will always be theft here I feel but, it is not as if it is malevolent crime where people are looking to assault one another for the sheer joy of it.  Construction and repairs are a constant fact of life in Lapa too. 

Workers are constantly tearing down buildings containing unfixable, shattered pillars and constructing new businesses with large glass windows and well lit overhead signs.  Even roads that have been torn apart and littered with lumps of tar and concrete do not discourage vendors and partiers from setting up small shops and cutting loose among the debris; creating an upbeat and admirable atmosphere.  As the Brazilian flag reads, “Ordem e Progresso.”

                This and more Gabriella and I discussed as we criss-crossed our way among the partiers.  An interesting person, it turns out she had just spent a few months in New York City on an internship from her university in Rio and was fully fluent in English.  In addition to her knowledge of the area, she seemed to know everyone in Lapa; from street to street I was introduced to locals young and old, men and women.  At time it felt like walking around with a celebrity to be honest.  We made our way down to a quieter section of Lapa and found our way to a hole in the wall store called “Casa de Cachaça.” where I did my best not to stick out like a hopelessly lost gringo.  I think with the exception of my newly obtained straw hat, I did alright. 

                Cachaça is Brazil’s national liquor made from the fermenting of sugar cane juice.  It varies in strength and tastes but, I had never known so many different types of the liquor to exist before.  The tiny store had rows and rows of old and new bottles alike lining all the shelves top to bottom.  A sign was posted inside the shop that listed over 50 different types of the liquor and where they were from in Brazil.  For a pretty cheap price we tried a few in tiny plastic shot glasses that we sipped from as we continued to wander the streets.  Some of the tastes were low in alcoholic content but powerful in flavor; one kind was made from bananas, another type produced from ginger root.  I tried one strong kind called “Providencia” and after my initial sip it quite literally made me stumble a few steps back as I felt my eyes roll into the back of my head.  No tequila or vodka I have ever tasted has strength quite like that brand.  If I had to guess, I am not sure that we could even legally produce the potency of it in the USA.

                Constantly interacting with people and pointing out other well known figures and locales from club organizers to where the transsexuals sleep at night, Gabriella led me down the same alley ways I had wandered days ago.  They seemed to have changed so much I could have believed to have been in another city altogether.  Closed shops opened their doors to become lively clubs and empty streets were so crowded that getting anywhere at times seemed to take half of the evening. 

We approached the famous Lapa Steps, made by Chilean artist Jorge Selaron.  The 250 steps stretch approximately 125 meters up a steep hill and act almost like a bridge between the Santa Theresa and Lapa neighborhoods.  In 1990, Selaron began to take tiles from old construction sites, as well as make his own and plaster them all along the steps in abstract designs.  As the step’s fame grew ever more popular, people began to donate tiles from around the world to be added into the artwork.  Selaron is constantly changing the tiles and will not stop working on the steps till the day he dies, according to his website.  They have been featured in music videos and commercials from around the world such as Snoop-Dog and Kelloggs Cornflakes.

The beginning of the Lapa Steps

                By day the area is usually silent, occasionally tourists happen by the place and their camera shutters fill the air momentarily before they shuffle onto the next picturesque destination.  By night however, the steps are heavily saturated with the scent of Mary Jane.  From almost a block away the distinctive weed’s aroma could be picked out among the crowd and as we got closer it almost seemed to be visible in the street lamps above.  No longer at the base of the steps was a tourist bus with gazing gringos but a police car with a few officers looking less than impressed staring at the jam packed steps.  We arrived just in time to watch a youth with a red fuzzy clown nose glued to his face do a hand stand and saunter down the steps on his hands past tight fit groups of people rolling joints as they cheered loudly.  There literally must have been thousands of people on the stairs puffing on doobies so large that Bob Marley would have been jealous.  We lingered for a moment then continued to wander the never ending party. 

                Much like this the course of the evening remained the same.  Time to time we would stop off at a place to grab a drink or a bite to eat until the first rays of light began to pierce through the clouds.  Like vampires, the crowds began to disperse into cabs and busses bound for home.  I imagined some stumbling to the beach to comically pass out in the soft sand too drunk to wait for a bus or pay for a cab.  Clubs turned down the music and flipped off the neons, signaling an end to the night of festivities as the streets emptied of street performers and food vendors packed tents into the back of trucks.  The sun steadily continued to rise in the east over the Atlantic Ocean, notifying us that a new day had come and it was time for us to part.  

Gabriella and I made it back to Ipanema and said our goodbyes; leaving me with questions on how she knew so much of the city’s history, so many random people in the street and who she might have actually been.  If anyone at all really, I have a hard time believing everyone in the city is as knowledgeable as her about both the underground and the more posh history of the subtropical city.

                One thing I certainly know though was that I will never judge a neighborhood solely by its appearance during the daytime again.