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.

Not the Locals

I believe that there are only a few places in this world that can collect such an assortment of different cultures in one place like a hostel can.  Globetrotters of all ages from all four corners of the earth use hostels as places to party, exchange cultural ideas, hook up, banter and, occasionally, sleep.  Whether it is two in the afternoon or four in the morning, the potential for an enlightening conversation or a healthy laugh is but a sociable greeting away. 

Gerald

                My stay in Rio has been anything short of dull.  This is thanks in large part to the people that I have had the pleasure of sharing my time with.  The people who I eat my meals next to, the ones that want to go lounge on the beach and the others who like to throw back some brews and yell at one another in boisterous voices.  The following people I will list here include the overly sarcastic, the excessively friendly, the soft spoken yet laidback, the educated, the wanderers and a very angry German girl. 

                It seems fitting that I start with the two Irish blokes that I am having a round with as I write this.  Gerald, who has been exploring this world for the past year, is one of the most sarcastic people I have ever met.  It is almost like he speaks in reverse sometimes.  He is built like a rugby player and towers over most other people; sometimes causing the locals to crane their heads when he rises from a chair.  His face has a layer of scruff that seems to not have grown in the slightest bit this past week and his hair is jet black and neatly cut.  Often the first to break the ice with a sarcastic comment, he is not what you would expect of someone who has plans to take over his parent’s teacher supply store.  He often vanishes in a club to go, as he puts it, “Do Damage.”  When he reemerges later on from the seething masses he usually has smirking blonde in tow. 

                Conor carries a more laid back attitude and just does not seem to mind about anything at all.  I am convinced that it may not be possible for him to show signs of drunkenness with the exception of some rosy cheeks.  Also built like a rugby player with a head of hair that compliments his “Whatever, let’s do it” attitude, he joined Gerald for the final six weeks of his voyage.  Conor and I had the pleasure of being entertained by a very drunk Brazilian attempting to beat box and free style rap when the electricity on our booze cruise went out.  I am not sure if this guy is capable of being in a bad mood but he is one of the last people I would like to see should someone ever make him angry.    

                Over the course of my week here I have also grown quite fond of two German siblings, Raoul and Nora.  These two were taking a break from chilling in the flurry of activity that is Buenos Aries to take advantage of Rio’s white beaches.

The Germans

                Raoul has spent the past few months working in Buenos Aries, Argentina in a local’s bar and not worrying too much about where life is headed.  He can speak over four languages fluently and his manner on how he holds himself shows he has had a strong education growing up.  He sports a neatly shaven line and a bristly patch of facial hair above and below his lip, making him resemble an old Caribbean pirate when he grins at his own jests.  He has reinforced my belief that there is no such thing as a bad joke or one that can go too far.   The usual social limits of acceptance, that most others do not dare approach, he leaps over with reckless abandon while wearing a blindfold.  After graduating high school his interest in medicine lead him to enlist in the German military, where he served for two years as a paramedic.  He describes his experience as a self confidence builder but, I find it hard to believe he needs any more of that.  The man can bullshit with anyone.

                His younger sister Nora came to see her big brother for a month in South America before she begins her higher level education.  She is an atypical mix of proper lady and free spirited youth.  As well as her brother, she is fluent in a multitude of languages, well traveled and educated.  Her English is amusing to listen to as she mixes her speech with part posh pronunciations from England and occasionally throws in some American slang; much to my appreciation and chagrin.  Her blue eyes contain an impression of holding onto a confident intelligence and an adventurous sense of curiosity. Both are traits that seem unrivaled by other people who are her age.  Raoul may not know it but, with an often cool and level head his little sister looks after him quite a bit. 

                I have always thought to myself that it is good idea to learn who your bartender is.  Tommy is no exception to this rule and boasts quite a unique and interesting story himself.  

He was originally born in the Dominican Republic and adopted by a white family from Sweden.  There he was brought up in Swedish culture till he set off on his own around Europe, refurbishing hotels.  He can speak Swedish (naturally), Danish, Norwegian and English fluently, which is not something you hear someone with skin as dark as his say.  He spent some time in London where he worked under television chef and personality Richard Corrigan.   There he gleaned and transformed fine-dining bartending into his passion; mixing clever bantering with comforting conversation as he creates concoctions.

Tommy

                After practicing the trade for some years in London he knew he wanted to travel to other places in the world.  He chose Latin America to learn more about his roots and the culture from where he was originally plucked away from when he was young.  He does not regret growing up in Europe though, and still keeps in touch with his family and friends back there.  Despite all that, he feels that when he does decide to settle down it will not be back there.  A devote follower of the Christian faith, he describes his travels now as a search for a home he has not felt that he has truly ever had.  For now he is living life in laidback Rio bartending and searching.

A quick honorable mention for the two American girls from Wisconsin is necessary for this post.  These two interned in NYC over the summer together and must have decided to end the season with some adventuring in Brazil.  I do not know where it went south but, these two did not once even look at each other in the four days they were at the hostel while I was there.  I heard from the two Irish who had seen them in another hostel that this is how they were weeks back too.  I cannot understand what forced them to stay together because they simply seemed so miserable in each other’s company.

There are so many other people to discuss and write about from my time here but we will end this entry with the angry German girl.  No one has talked to her but, everyone has had the pleasure of listening to her complaints.  The kitchen closes to early, towel rentals are a ridiculous notion, it is too loud in the common room and the list can most certainly go on should I have had the patience to listen.  The first night I was here I had the pleasure of trying to introduce myself and did not even warrant a friendly hostel nod.  Later, I learned her name as the “Angry German Girl” and promptly took note not to approach within a few meters again.  You cannot please everyone I guess.

For those who can though, hostel folk are some of the best people to kick it with while bouncing around a foreign land.  Whether you are looking to gain mountains of knowledge or just someone to bullshit with while having a drink, it is worth your time to invest some time in the common room of these worldly hang outs.   

Entering Rio de Janeiro, First Night

If Sao Paulo is the New York City of South America, Rio de Janeiro is Miami; minus the over extravagant neons.  The city weaves in between immense hills that jut out of the earth creating a constant game peek-a-boo with the sparkling lights that ascend hill sides.  The breeze carries the smell of the sea nearby and streets are lined with palm trees.  People saunter up and down them with a laid back attitude that almost seems absent from the purposeful strides of the Paulistinos back in Sao Paulo. 

                I arrived in the city last night after a six hour bus ride from Sao Paulo.  The ride itself was uneventful and proved itself to be good for catching up on some Zs and finishing a book.  I hailed a cab from the bus station and gave him the address to a hostel I am staying at; he must be used to dealing with gringos as he knew the name of the hostel just from the address I presented.  I figured that the cab ride would take a bit of time because of the earthly obstructions that seem to separate neighborhoods but the clever Brazilians have built elongated tunnels straight through them. 

                Some of them seemed to go on forever and the lack of shoulders on either side of the road made me wonder how backed up the tunnels can get if a driver gets a flat tire or if an accident occurs.  The cabby careened through the tunnels and when we immerged from the burrows of the city we were assaulted with blaring street sounds and music blasting from the many clubs and bars.  We snaked our way through a few more tunnels and shortly thereafter arrived at my hostel, Che Lagarto.

                The hostel itself hosts a laid back attitude.  There is a bar on the first floor where music blasts through speakers at all times of the day and night.  A wooden porch with an awning clings closely to the street where smokers drag on cigarettes and bullshit with each other in a vast range of foreign languages and slang. Che Lagarto is located in the touristy Ipanema neighborhood of Rio, which is filled with bars and clubs.  The sandy beach is conveniently two blocks away and the metro approximately eight more down a bustling street.  The reception workers seem polite enough and the bartender is an interesting fellow as well.  I will probably write more about the people I have met in another post though; for sake of keeping stories organized.  The hostel has a kitchen that serves breakfast (included in the room fee) and dinner (a home cooked meal, one mixed drink, one beer, US$14).  In addition to the hostel’s bar, the reception promotes events and activities for both during the day and Rio night life. 

                My first experience with the Rio night life was a booze cruise on a decently sized yacht out in the harbor with an open bar.  How could I say no?  The event started at 11:30 but, in proper South American fashion, vans did not arrive at the hostel till midnight.  The other guests of the hostel and I, now properly aquatinted over some beers and banter, piled into our transport and made speedy time to the docks where we joined others on the boat.

                The boat idled in the water for some time as more passengers boarded onto the soon overcrowded deck and fought for elbow room.  Eventually it jerked to a start and pulled away from the docks to expose the city skyline of towering resorts and luxury hotels built right along the white beaches.  The boat navigated around some other docks and picked up speed, blowing sea water and wind into the faces of those on the bow.  The ocean was relatively calm and the boat never really dipped or rose too extremely but, I still made sure to do my best to stand upright.  Some others were not as fortunate and I witnessed a couple of comedic spills from girls in high heels.  Clever people…    

                Unfortunately for many of the people dancing to the music a fuse blew as we drifted around the bay.  One moment strobe lights lit the deck, people moved to the deafening music and in the next there was only a collective cry of disappointment among the passengers.  A very drunk Brazilian guy was more than happy to fill the silence with his free style Portuguese rapping though.  As painful as it was to listen to him slur words and watch him fall all over the deck, he gave an Irish guy and I more than enough ammunition to laugh at.  We kept thoroughly entertained as the boat bobbed gently up and down to the easy waves and refreshing breeze, so I was not too worked up about the music.

                They never quite got the party started again on the water and we made a speedy return to the docks where with the use of extension cords the party resumed.  Being docked though killed the mood for many and little by little, then almost all at once, the deck cleared off of most passengers.  An open bar is hard to turn down though and I lingered with some Irish guys for a bit longer till the lights came up and music was shut off for good.  By then it was a few minutes after four and cabs were lined up outside of the marina to take us back to the hostel.  After some more bullshitting on the porch with some other travelers I stumbled and climbed my way into the top bunk in my room.  

                An exciting first night, please excuse me while I start my next…

The night approaches.

Winterfest in Brazil

At the top of a steep cobblestone street that goes winding down into a lofty valley, people cautiously chose there foot holds as they made their way down into a thick fog.  From across the valley on an adjacent hilltop, golden lights winked through the darkness of a moonless night, peeking through the rolling mist at the steady procession of chattering people.   Other crowds of people sat slurping soup on shaky stools by terraced counter service restaurants or stood, speaking loudly with a kabob in one hand and a steaming cup of spiced wine in the opposite.  Despite frigid temperatures, the atmosphere was undeniably jovial and the brisk wind carried with it the echo of music in the distance.

                It was, after all, the night of Winterfest, a celebration in the heart of the southern hemisphere’s coldest season.  Along with a roommate and a couple Brazilian friends, we made our way to the festival’s host in Parana Picacaba, Santo Andre, by way of utilizing the thorough mass transit system.  For such an event, the festival was ideally located in the cool highlands away from the metropolis of Sao Paulo.  The trip there took, roughly, a little over one hour to get to the summit entrance of the valley.  Our group joined the crowds of people snaking down into the vale, past the food stands and little hole in the wall restaurants, till we came to a bridge. 

                The wooden bridge was about 100 meters long, two meters in width and built over numerous interlinking freight train rails.  Whilst people shuffled slowly onto the outstretched overpass, heavy laden trains clamored out from the black mouth of an old warehouse to disappear into the fog of the valley.  People huddled tightly together to make room for others passing by and after they passed, expanded back out to cover the bridge, only to coil together once again a few moments later.  The bridge ended at a gently sloping ramp alongside an old unused building with sloped roofs and cracked windows.  Shadows of people danced on its red brick walls as they passed under tall hanging lamps that were swaying in the cool breeze. 

                We moved as one with the crowd towards the increasingly louder music and began to incline up the other side of the valley, moving in and out of darkness caused by lofty trees and flickering street lights.  Along the way we started to pass food carts and craft stands.  At first there were but a few but, as we trekked up the increasingly steeper hill we moved by more and more till we eventually came to the main area of Winterfest. 

                Popular music loudly blared out from the entrances of buildings, people swarmed in front of food stands propped up on cobblestone sidewalks and jewelry reflected amber light from craft booths manned by savvy looking salesmen.  For the fun of it, I approached the stands and sauntered by while feigning interest in the wares.  I just wanted to see what was authentic and well designed and what was made to look authentic and well designed.  I have no interest in trinkets but, shiny things and handcrafts can be enjoyable to glance at time to time.  I made sure to keep my pace fast enough to not draw attention from the salesmen but, still give me ample enough time criticize their merchandise.  Some of it looked nice.

                We meandered through the crowd and continued up the hill till the popular music often heard on radios was replaced by the distinguishable sounds of live instruments.  Up ahead was a large pavilion, its white tarp stretched over a muddy soccer field densely packed with clapping and cheering fans.  On the stage, strumming on his acoustic guitar, was the musician Milton Nascimento.  Think Brazilian Bob Marley.  His dark skin was turning shades of bright colors as lights passed over him, his shoulder length hair was unmoving despite the sway of his feet and his scratchy sounding voice poured out from speakers placed all over the field.  The guy knew how to work a crowd and his followers knew what was expected of them.

                When he raised his hands above his head and clapped the crowd followed in rhythm.  When he held his microphone above their heads they sang with him.  And when he vanished behind the curtains backstage they loudly screamed, “Repetir! Repetir!”  After a few minutes he reemerged grinning knowingly and gave the crowd a one song, 20 minute encore that they stanchly proved they knew all the words to.  When he took his final bow the crowd went wild and as they dispersed through the field, kicking up mud and tripping over puddles, they continued to sing in unison his best known tunes.

                We rejoined the masses and moved our way back into the main Winterfest celebration to grab some grub and soak in the sounds.  I devoured down some savory kabobs and sipped a beer before we began to make our way back down the hill, over the bridge and up towards the buses that would bring us back home.  When we made it to the peak of the cobblestone road, I turned back towards the flickering lights masked behind the swirling fog; it was hard not to admire the unsullied beauty of the highlands.  It is a pity they only hold Winterfest once a year, I would have liked to bring my camera…       

Festival do Japao

                I was not entirely sure what to expect when I was invited to go to a Japanese Festival being held at one of Sao Paulo’s oversized convention centers this last weekend.  I knew that Sao Paulo has an immensely large population of Japanese descendents called the Nikkei living in the city but, beyond that, I had never even heard of a Japanese Festival.  Others certainly had though.

                As our vehicle approached the highway exit to the convention center we began to jockey with other cars and imperious motos for place in queue akin to the final lap of a NASCAR race.  Our car, driven by my roommate Pericle’s friend Renan and loaded with his other friend Jay, Pericles and myself, collectively marveled at the amounts of people walking across the highway overpass to and from the festival.  We shambled in traffic for quite some time until we eventually arrived at the parking lot where the fight for first to get in and park recommenced.  This gave us some time to observe all the people pouring into the convention centers main entrance; naturally, the majority of them were Asian.  In total the website for the Festival estimated that 190,000 people attended over the course of three days. 

The Torri with Jay and Pericles posing under it.

                Japanese customs are imbued in the country’s lengthy history and strict culture so there was no surprise that the entrance to the festival was marked by a large red Torri; the traditional Japanese wooden structure that marks Shinto temples all over Japan.  As our group entered the festival we took note that it was divided into two large sections.  The outdoor section contained an assortment of Japanese restaurants under a large white tarp and a performing stage for musical routines and other demonstrations.  The indoor section, located in the convention building itself, was divided into show booths displaying Japanese businesses, crafts and other aspects of the culture.  The aroma of shrimp teriyaki and our growling stomachs led us over to the outside pavilion first. 

Daburo, the Japanese Devil of...luck?

                As we scouted out the different restaurants and compared the prices and amounts of food being given at each one, we ran into the devil.  Covered in dry straw from his chest down and carrying a gnarled wooden cane topped with streamers of white paper, this guy danced from leg to leg around people who dared walk close enough to him.  Adults tittered behind their hands, adolescents slung out taunts and little children made sure to stay far away from the strange dancing man.  I cannot blame the kids for avoiding him though; the devil wore a blood red mask with long white fangs, two tall horns and a full mane of black hair that covered his neck and swept over his eyes.  The mask is called a hannya mask and represents the Japanese devil Daburo. 

                A funny fact about Daburo though, is that if you buy a Daburo statue it is said to bring luck and prosperity.  Rather odd for the devil, I believe.  Jay told us that when you bring the devil statue home with you it comes with two blank eyes that you make a wish upon.  As you will your desires into the devil statue you are supposed to paint one of the eyes and after the wish comes true you paint the other one to complete the wish.  Who would have guessed the devil would be the one to grant your wish?  Although, the devil in Japanese mythology is more of an enforcer of justice and good doing than he is someone who tempts your hand into sinful acts.

                We treaded cautiously around our friend the Japanese Devil and continued our search of decently priced convention food but, I was sidetracked by the sounds of short, loud and authoritative shouts.  I let them lead me to the area where the stage was and witnessed an Aikido demonstration, an ancient Japanese martial art involving wrist manipulation and using an opponent’s attacks against him.  I pushed my way through the crowd to the front of the stage and stuck my nose as close to the action as I could get.  People tumbled and flew through the air in flowery acts of powerful athletic display as the stage reverberated violently when they landed upon their backs.  The demonstrations brought back fond memories of when I practiced Aikido in Providence, Rhode Island some years back. 

Grandma Badass tossing another practitioner

                I was never very good at actually performing the complicated techniques but, I excelled at being thrown around as the demonstration dummy for my instructor.  I had practiced for two years though and could appreciate the begrudging “Oomph!” from the people who were taking the falls after spinning through the air.  I could not help but grin whole heartedly; I guess there is a bit of a masochist in me.  What was most impressive was a frail older woman who effortlessly was flipping an opponent head over heels who must have weighed two times as much as her.  I stayed for the entire performance with my camera glued to my face as I groaned in unison with some of the practitioners who took an occasional nasty looking spill. 

                When the marital artists began their closing bows I shoved my way back through the crowd to rejoin my associates and we ventured to finish our quest for food.  I settled for Japanese noodles with meat and vegetables and we ate on concrete steps while we listened to a Japanese drum demonstration; their deep beats echoing across the festival as I fought with the slippery noodles. 

                We quickly ate our meals and moved to the inside of the convention center where I lost sight of Pericles and Renan.  Not one to wait around or spend too much time searching out where they might have gone, I made way around the booths with Jay who stuck by me.  I think he was torn though to either stay with the Gringo or go search for his friends, but maybe he felt obligated to stick with me.  Together we made our way around the convention center, occasionally stopping at a booth to check out the latest motorcycles being produced by Yamaha or scope out some traditional Japanese candy. 

In the middle of the convention center there was a somber tribute to the victims of this past year’s Japanese earthquake.  Photos lined make shift aisles where people quietly and carefully moved down; examining the images of destruction and loss.  I paid my respects and moved back and forth with the crowd of people whilst admiring the destructive capabilities of the planet and the risks the photographers took to bring the world such proof.  I only needed to look once and departed soon after. 

Guests move up and down aisles to observe images of the destruction caused by last years earthquake

                Now what would a Japanese Festival be without videogames?  Jay and I made our way out of the center of the convention building and started to skirt the walls of the festival to come across a crowd of people standing around a large flat screen TV.  The crowd shouted and cheered as two people stared intently at the screen and battled against each other to a popular fighting game.  To those of you who have little shame in rocking your inner nerd, the game was Marvel vs. Capcom 3.  The players played best two of three matches and then would trade their controllers to two others who would do the same. 

The gentleman in the red shirt was the tournament's winner.

We arrived late in the tournament to watch the semifinal matches and then the final match where the two pros commanded their digital persons into performing dazzling special moves fit to give anyone with epilepsy a killer seizure.  The winner was awarded the equivalent of almost US$1,000 worth of video gaming merchandise and gift cards.  Not too shabby for mashing buttons on a remote control for a few hours. 

Our circuit nearly completed we joined up with Pericles and Renan to make our exit from the festival in the early evening, as most others were beginning to do the same.  Conveniently located at the exit of the festival was Nintendo’s booth where young gamers eagerly ran to snatch Wii remotes from the booth workers hands.  Also at the booth were drop dead gorgeous women.  To die for gorgeous women. 

These tall Brazilian babes were all smiles as they moved their curvy figures sensually around the booth giving flirty waves to pimple faced youths and overweight adult men.  Some of the braver ones requested to have photos taken with the ladies and they happily obliged with taunting poses and titalizing gazes.  I began to work up my courage to request one myself but then something else caught my eye.  Mario, Luigi and Donkey Kong, the heroes of my youth, appeared from around the corner in full costume with arms waving. 

I was torn between the beautiful Brazilian chicas or the costumed cartoon characters I had spent hours controlling on a tiny TV screen in my mother’s basement.  The lines were long and my time was short; I would only have time for one photo.  Should I stand in line to have a chance to wrap my arms around the busty beauties with all the other men? Or, should I join the screaming five and six-year-olds holding their mothers hands eagerly waiting to meet my former fictional heroes.  The choice was made and I left the festival soon after satisfied with my decision.