"Crimes of Information"

You wouldn't expect Brazil, in 2010, to imprison people for such an Orwellian offence, but this is what has happened to five funkeiras who were found to have glorified bandidos in their songs.

Looking for some of them on youtube, the prohibited tunes do seem a bit pro-gansta, to say the least - guns in the air, lyrics about the Comando Vermelho (Red Command, who run a lot of the gangs), etc.

Here is one about the 'Bullet Train' which goes past Complexo do Alemao, the favela which was taken over by the army and police last month. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cOvYcSvJW1I&feature=related

Here's another one, about the 'grande familia' of Comando Vermelho.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qoza0ejktS4&feature=related

MC Dido, one of those arrested, said he didn't have much choice, and it's a powerful argument - if you live somewhere which is run by drug gangs, and the boss asks you to write a song about how great he is, who is going to refuse? Among the crimes he and his friends were accused of was inciting crime, due to songs where they appeared to encourage the setting fire of cars and robbing people that precipitated those troubles last month.

The music isn't exactly subtle, neither are the videos with their photos of gang members, guns and people shooting each other. It still seems hard to believe that people can be imprisoned just for making music here. It will be interesting to see what happens at the trial. A protest funk party was already held last night, according to O Dia today.

Adventures in Guanabara

Going past (not in) Guanabara Pizza in Leblon the other day, I realised I have been here nearly six months. I've eaten there twice, and both times had a brush with something a little terrifying.

Pizza here is extremely popular but it falls somewhat short of what Italians might refer to as pizza. It's generally thick with cheese but no tomato base, although still addictive in its own way. Guanabara Pizza is something of an institution since it stays open until the wee small hours, although I didn't realise this the first time I went and ended up sitting at the table with a character straight from The Godfather. I thought they had kept the restaurant open just for us.

The next time I went when a friend was visiting, and we were harrassed by an old dude who seemed quite sweet and friendly, but then wouldn't leave us alone, tried to pay for our meal and eventually threatened my friend and had to be removed by the management. Since things come in threes, according to legend, I'm afraid to set foot in the place again.

On the second occasion, the old fella was ex-military, and it only occurred to me later on that he would have been at the peak of his career during the military dictatorship here. Since Cariocas don't seem to be overly beloved of rules, it's easy to forget they had one here. It's usually cited as the reason for the realms of realms of Kafka-esque bureaucracy that swamps and suffocates everyone, but lately some friends have drawn other interesting parallels.

Some say the gun-obsessed culture derived from that time, when the army was in charge and to have a gun was to have status. An engineer student of mine pointed out that the inability to plan, even in business, comes from a time when there was such upheaval people realised there was no point in planning ahead too far and instead focused on being adaptable to the unpredictable changes they constantly had to weather. I had another, older student once who railed against the US obsession with forward planning in business, but perhaps he had cut his teeth in testier times. Without huge economic instability, forward planning is horribly possible.

It brings me to my own plans; I'm thinking of coming back for a bit and doing some qualifications in Portuguese, then heading back here. For six months, I've been diving forward into the vortex of Rio de Janeiro but maybe now it's time to accept as much forward planning as I can bear. And return to England during the winter. How did this happen??

An eyewitness report

After all that, I got robbed at gunpoint yesterday reasonably close to my house. I never take documents or bank cards out with me thank god, but after a minor scuffle he got my bag with my diary, phone and all my make-up in it. I joked later on that he's going to be the prettiest thief in the favela now, but it wasn't that funny at the time.

When something like that happens, I'd be a liar if I didn't say it made me feel like coming home, even with all that snow. I have to think of it as being like a tax for living here.

I've been mugged before in London but never with a gun. Sometimes gringoes here get mugged with fake guns, but I couldn't take that chance. If I had run, he was on crack as far as I could tell, and he might have shot me dead. I still feel annoyed that I could have got away with my bag.

What does a crackhead want with a John Simpson book, a copy of Architecture Today and Clinique lipstick?

Stash

The sensational TV coverage continues. For some reason, I found something really sad in the pictures today of 40 tonelados of marijuana, and more guns than I could count. It was as if the dirty interior of Rio was exposed, just this squalid stash. It made me feel sad, because the worth of it was incalculable, especially when you include all the stolen bikes and cars the police found (do you like the way I'm not including any facts or numbers here?). But when you look at pictures of the place, and the poverty that people have been living in, nothing (other than the ostentatious homes of the traficantes) is of any value at all. I wonder what will bring any currency into the place now that its only source of wealth has been removed.

It's not the most obvious image to be moved by, but for some reason other than heat-induced fatigue, it did make me feel quite sad. In the same way that when someone dies, and you look at all their accumulated posessions, you wonder if that is all that a life amounts to. Of course a life amounts to a lot more than possessions - perhaps really the opposite of this - but they tell a story about how that person lived. With the glamour of power removed, it amounts to monotony, fear and squalor, and that makes me sad.

Manda quem pode, obedece quem tem juizo

That's a kind of mantra in some of the lawless places here, which basically means "who has the power commands, and you must obey their judgements." That's a bad translation but it sounds really ominous in Portuguese and I can't get that across in English.

Things are calmer on the streets, with the army and the police now occupying some of the biggest favelas here. Even then, they are worried it might all have been too simple and there are traps lying in wait.

The TV coverage is sensational. Everything the police get access to we seem to get access to as well, so that we got to see the arrest of the traficante Elizeu Felício de Souza, with a bizarre scene on TV where he was stood with his back against a car, almost patiently being filmed, accepting that TV coverage was part of the arrest experience. I'm not sure contempt of court is a big issue here.

Now they are having to sort out things like the electricity supply and mountains of litter in the Complexo de Alemao. Some of it is public services which have been absent in the previous week due to the trouble, some are services which have never existed there. That seems essential since if you're going to go into a community and shoot some of the people you probably need to improve their lives in some way. Permanently, the army and the elite squad can't stay there, so the government will have to start providing the structure that previously the criminals had done.

It's still quiet on the streets, and not many people were out in Santa Teresa last night which is usually the busiest night. I finally had fejoada in Mineiro which never happened before as I couldn't get near it, it's always so busy there. Most people are afraid, but they are also aware that nothing like this has really happened before. A previous attempt by the police to invade favelas ended in their retreat, and friends told me last night the violence escalated then so that cars were set on fire with people still actually in them. I get the feeling the police are still pretty angry that a helicopter was shot down over Alemao in October last year as well.

I'm not sure how much trust people have in the authorities, but I really hope the end result is an improvement in the lives of ordinary people living there. Not just having to obey those people who have guns and violence at their disposal.

Guerra comencou

30 more people dead today, so I heard earlier on the TV, with tanks and the military going into favelas in the north making that figure almost certainly out of date.

Restaurants where I live closed, and even the little woman I buy cakes from closed up shop over an hour ago (it's about 8pm now). People are frightened. It seems what I was told about the bandidos starting a war if the UPP came to their favelas was true. I remember the pictures of kids playing on a BOPE tank in O Globo, as if to suggest everyone there welcomed the cops and it was just one big happy family. Not quite like that now.

Some people on Twitter are posting that they no longer trust the police operations since seeing Tropa da Elite 2, which shows a great deal of detail about police corruption.

For the time being, I'm just staying indoors and waiting for it to pass. Symbolically perhaps, a storm has also started, making the sounds of shots indistiguishable from the sound of thunder.

War and other news

I discovered they put 1,200 cops on the streets yesterday, and someone in charge said "Anyone who stands in our way will get run over."

Those are daunting words as I can't see the criminals going down without a fight.

It is a war, but it's a bit like the war on drugs, in that it appears there are many in charge who would benefit more if the status quo continues.

In other news, I have solved the motivation problem; coffee is what you need. I gave up tea upon arrival, along with lots of other things I knew I had no hope of getting and would have to swap for Brazilian foodstuffs instead. Being as I used to survive through a day with about eight cups of tea, it's a good job the stuff I'm drinking now is extra forte! I just down a few cups of the stuff and the emails and phonecalls start flying.

I have realised that it can be a lonely life freelancing, so some sort of rocket fuel is necessary to provoke action. My least favourite aspect of working in an office was always the politics. I don't know if it's similar in other lines of work (I suspect it is), but in the media it is almost a badge of honour that you took unneccessary grief in your career. It reminds me of those people who are ruthlessly beaten and bullied at school, and then go on to say "It made me who I am today" and mete out the same punishment to others. I never quite know if it's something I should have continued to tolerate or if the smart move was to get out and probably live a longer and happier life. Unless I get shot. Actually, scrap that, I'll take my chances here with the bandidos.

Off to surf again on Sat, as I'm desperate to master it. The hardest thing is being carried along by a rip current and having to constantly get out of the ocean, carrying your heavy board, and plunge back in again. I think if I was physically stronger it would be a lot easier. I have a few bruises too, but it is addictive. Each time a new wave comes, you just get taken over by the urge to conquer it. I sincerely hope my doing so coincides with the time I get a new USB port - and I can show photographic evidence.

Stupid girlie post

I realised yesterday I was getting impatient at tourists who couldn't use the Metro. it's unfair of me, but on the other hand it means I must feel at home now.

Summer has really arrived, which means not just heat, but cloud and humidity which quickly turns to rain, which then evaporates in the heat, ad infinitum. I've found myself looking at clothes in luminous pink, majenta, turquoise. It all looks different in the glowing sun, as I never liked those colours when I was in England and milky white. I've given up trying to run on the beach, and now surfing lessons have taken the place of jogging. At least the Atlantic Ocean is always relatively cool.

Having to motivate myself is the biggest problem which has replaced the problems associated with working with people. Anyone I do work with is under no obligation to help me either. I can't count how long I've been trying to write the same story, but somehow never manage to arrange to meet the person I need to interview. Of course, people in offices aren't more likely to help, but at least if you work for the same company there is a chance.

The past few days, the place has been crawling with police. It;s thanks to a new wave of arrestoes, teh term for when a huge gang of criminals invades an area and causes mayhem, stealing and assaulting people. Yesterday, two people were killed when their cars were attacked. Now it seems to have launched a mass panic, with the Mayor Serge Cabral on telly and a bunch of officials meeting today to decide what to do. Even then, as I waited to get my motortaxi up the hill last night, a mode of transport which is technically illegal, a convoy of police cars were waiting at the bottom - and did nothing to stop the motortaxis carrying on with their work. I suppose they weren't attacking and shooting people, but even so.

Sunrise

For the first time since I've been here, I've been up early enough to see the sunrise, which didn't disappoint. Going to see a really interesting project on Friday; if this and a few other things come off, I'll be comfortable enough to finally get that USB port sorted and start posting pictures here again.

A Tale of Two Cities

This always seems appropriate here. I went out to Leblon last night with a couple of entertaining ladies, one of whom is one year older than me (though looks about 25), and the happy recipient of a bout of liposuction. This explains, I thought, why so many women have such improbable bodies here. Her tiny waist and flat stomach belied her 34 years. The excuse usually given for such extreme vanity is that Cariocas have to spent most of the year on the beach. This doesn't really explain why generally, you're more likely to see morbidly obese people of both sexes flaunting their bodies in tight clothes than you would in the UK on a sunny day.

Other gems were "Dilma wants to take my money and give it to poor people," and "I'm a strong person. I don't feel pain when I go for a waxing."

It's hard not to take to someone with such a natural gift for humour, and the usual Carioca way of welcoming strangers into the fold that puts my countrymen to shame.

But if I wanted to get away from the spoilt behaviour of the young London middle class, it was a case of frying pan and fire when I came here. Many of the better off people I meet have never even travelled on the bus or Metro in their own city. I'm probably just making the same point over and over again, I do realise. The longer I'm here, the more I get used to it, but also the more I hear that makes me think things won't change. The tales of corrupt cops, politicians, etc, the engrained culture of violence, make it hard to imagine a different and more equal kind of city being possible. Thankfully there are people here who think bigger than I do.

Truth and fiction

It's quite difficult to seperate them here sometimes. I spent most of yesterday hearing tales about drug lords having plastic surgery so they can never be found by the police, stories about the kept women of the bosses of jogo do bichos (popular, and illegal, gambling game here) and all sorts.

The backdrop was Vidigal favela (although I took care to use the word communidade while there). At about 7pm, the result of the election was announced, with the Workers' Party (PT) candidate Dilma triumphant as expected. A huge cheer erupted from the admittedly already battered crowd below, and Barry White, of all things, boomed out of the stereo as we watched the sun go down over Ipanema and Leblon, with the orange lights of the Lagoa beyond.

Dilma's party is popular with the poorer voters. Nearly all my students, with the exception of a couple of liberal lefties, wanted Serra, the former governor of Sao Paulo who is slightly more to the right. Under PT, the economy has been more stable (helped by the discovery of oil) but lots of people told me they've voted for Dilma because she's from Lula's party, not for her own sake. Although it's clearly momentous that Brazil has elected a female president, the pullout in O Globo today has a picture of Dilma with her eyes cast down on the cover, with the warning words that she still has a lot to sort out - namely sanitation, infrastructure, health and education for starters. Not an enviable task ahead by any means - and all with the knowledge that Lula will almost certainly want to run for office again when he's permitted to, in 2014.

Flamengo 1, Vasco 1 (police nil)

At the football on Sunday, there were the usual numbers of cops in tanks, bearing improbable-sized machine guns. They stood in a row right next to the ticket office, even three hours before the clash between Rio rivals Vasco and Flamengo.

At the ticket office, we were met with a "moleque" (I supposed the translation is street urchin) who had no less than four different student cards, entitling the bearer to a reduced rate at Engenhao. We happily paid our money, for good seats, as it turned out, then watched him go up to every booth in turn. "The problem is he only has one face," quipped my friend.

Eventually we got our tickets. I didn't see any violence; it only occurred to me later the police, equipped for fully-fledged warfare as they were, were quite happy to watch the illegal activity before their eyes.

No new dawn

It's still cloudy and/or raining here after one week of shite weather (although perhaps everything is relative given where I've come from).

The election has been and gone, but it ain't over yet. Dilma, who was expected to win outright, now faces a second round of votes in four weeks. The Greens did unexpectedly well, with the party gaining 19 per cent of votes nationally and coming second in my city.

Here in Rio de Janeiro the people have re-elected Serge Cabral, who has already promised to roll out (sorry for saying roll out) the UPP, a programme of "pacification" of the favelas, which basically means the police will occupy them.

This extends to Rocinha, where I have already been, the largest of all the favelas containing 200,000 - 250,000 people depending on who you ask. I've asked a few people which are the most dangerous, and the answer is usually either Complexo de Alemao or Mare, both of which will be subjected to UPP from now on. The Mare favela is interesting, because it is far north of most of the wealthy people and tourists, but happens to be en route to the international airport. When I was last passing through on my return from Petropolis, a mural of children's paintings on opaque glass, a recent addition, could not completely conceal the sprawling houses behind. From the van I was in, I saw two policemen, one with the biggest gun I've ever seen on his lap, headed there.

Nobody in charge of Rio wants tourists, especially those arriving for the Olympics, to be faced with this sight as soon as they land. Those three favelas (and it isn't only those Cabral has vowed to tackle) will be an enormous and daunting challenge. Police so far have been commenting in the media that they know it is a drop in ocean, but you must start somewhere. While I agree, to a certain extent, I am reminded of that old phrase: "Tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime." Now, where did I hear that again???

When you take into account the fact that most middle class people have maids, who often live in and get paid less than my rent, it isn't any wonder so many people are forced to live in this way. A housekeeper I know is paid $R700 per month, that's about £260. He lives in most of the time, and is also fed, but this means he doesn't see his three children during the week. It is so little that this job, which is from Monday until Saturday morning, is not enough and he frequently does other work come the weekends.

It has the result that many adults are like overgrown children, unable to wash their own dishes or change a lightbulb, while the people who actually run their homes for them are consigned to a life without the luxuries, or even basics, their employees don't know how to operate or clean. Because it's the norm people here accept it, but the empregada culture has to end if there is any hope of closing the gap here. I don't want to sound like a puritanical Brit but I think it would be better for both sides if it did.

On a nicer note, there are hummingbirds even in Santa Teresa. The word for hummingbird is Beija-flora (literally kisses flowers), which makes me even happier to discover that they are here.

Petropolis and other adventures

Having declared Petropolis as too European for my tastes, I've ended up going back there twice. Once was with my lovely friend Danielle, pictured here, and once for work. I'm teaching there once a month, which is enough to make me much more solvent, Gracia Deus. I'm not sure if I've gone through the same process as many before me, of becoming quickly infatuated with Rio and then finding it all a bit too much. It's nice to have a mountainside retreat where hummingbirds flit past the windows. I don't think I could live there as there isn't enough to do, but at least it is an escape from the elections in a week. I don't seem to be able to walk anywhere without seeing bored-looking folks dragging flags behind them, or having leaflets foisted into my hands before I can say "Eu nao posso votar!" One of the candidates looks a bit like Doctor Evil from Austin Powers, although I stopped saying this after I found out he was a police inspector nearly killed by bandidos. Seemed a bit mean to poke fun out of his appearance after that.


All of them seem to have their own songs written especially for the election, blasting out of scratchy sound systems on top of cars and even taxis. One guy was obviously going for the "cool" vote and played funk music out of his election-mobile. It's like imagining David Cameron releasing a rap during the Conservative Party Election campaign. Another candidate gave out leaflets when I went to see Flamengo play on Saturday. As they are the most popular club in Brazil, he probably is making a smart gamble by claiming on the leaflet "a vote for me is a vote for Flamengo!" and choosing black and red (the team colours) for all his leaflets and posters. He's proposing to build a dedicated theme park and to hold red-and-black masked balls in honour of the team, which is definitely what this country needs right now. It takes on a far more sinister turn when you remember that it is compulsory to vote in Brazil, so even those who haven't a clue will be forced to put a mark somewhere. A friend with family in the north east said there are people he knows who never realised that Lula, the current president, had been elected, even though they were receiving the Bolsa Familia (family allowance) which is arguably his biggest legacy. Those candidates almost seem sensible in comparison with a pole-dancer called the 'pear-shaped woman' and some sort of clown fellow, a tv presenter right out of The Fast Show, who are also running. Also of course we've got Bebeto and Romario, two footballers, who are bound to succeed. It's enough to make me take Boris Johnson seriously.

Bip bip!

As a result of visiting a place with that moniker last night, I am exhausted now. This place requires much less sleep than I'm used to, since there are always things to do at night but I have to get up as early as six most days too.

Bip bip (Think it kind of means beep beep) is a bar with music, but it's so small that only the musicians can fit inside. The rest of us sat outside, while the choro musicians played that intricate style of music which sounds to me like medieval church music. It's been there for at least 40 years, but in that time, apartments have sprung up around it, so the "audience" (about 16 people) were instructed to clap by clicking our fingers. After a virtuoso performance I found it pretty hard not to smack my hands together with gusto, although not drinking any beer helped.

After a noisy start, I'm enjoying living in Santa Teresa. The rest of the city seems much calmer when viewed from above (it certainly doesn't when you're in it) and I get to sit outside while I'm typing. I'm almost developed a phobia of sorting out my USB port due to the vast expense of electronic goods here, thanks in part to a punitive export tax on everything. Not sure what I'll do about pictures, but whatever it is is certain to be convoluted and frustrating.

It was very weird to read some Brit magazines today which were full of pictures of winter coats and boots. Twice I've almost passed out from the heat, and it's going to get another 10 degrees hotter. I've got no air conditioning in my room (I hate the stuff, but even so...). I feel a bit afraid. Like I'm a bit afraid of carnaval, which might be me showing my age. The same goes for lack of sleep generally so I'm off to rectify that.

Three months in

Tomorrow I have to go to renew my visa at the airport. I'll have been here for three months.

Everyone says time goes fast here, which it does, since nobody seems to bother to sleep much and there is a kind of insane repetitiveness about everything. It's the repetitiveness of a drunk who plays the same record every night. I actually once lived with a drunk who played the same record every night, but admittedly it was nowhere near the beach.

The world of pubs and cricket is a long way away, although tonight it's actually cold. The other reason I'm staying in bed is the sound of gunshots earlier, which really could have been right outside my door. When I looked, I saw two young boys, sitting on the wall and shouting, though they didn't have weapons. The housekeeper here says drug dealers are very young when they get involved in that life - maybe 18 or less - and often get shot by the police or killed by rivals before they reach 30.

For some reason, it reminds me of a story someone told me last night as we watched the latest dismal performance from my adopted team, Flamengo. A soldier was on a break from Iraq and decided to head to Rio. He had no qualms about heading into the nearest favela on his own, where he gave West Ham shirts to several of the folks he met there. This tells you everything you need to know about the type of preparation you need to do that (insert your own West Ham joke).

Now it couldn't be more tranquil. Though it's dark I can see Guanabara Bay in the distance from the safety of my window, and an eerie-looking Cristo, eerie because he is lit up and the clouds around him look like some kind of ethereal smoke. It's this I'll be staying for, this peculiar battle between squalor and glamour, and, less agreeably, the Carioca ability to forget everything moments later in favour of a veneer of perfection.

Could still murder a pint though.

The Worst Thing I Have Ever Seen and other stories

Sorry for the delay, anyone who is reading this. (Bueller. Bueller? Fry? Fry... anyone?)

The picture situation still isn't happening so I am forced to bore any readers left to tears with words only. The worst thing I have ever seen is pretty dramatic though - and pictures really wouldn't be appropriate. At a bar in Ipanema, affluent Zona Sul, a woman was standing drinking. It's one of the "dirty feet" bars which are really just street bars, but even so, she stood out for the fact she wasn't wearing any shoes, and put a cigarette out with her bare feet.

Closer up, she had very red eyes and was clearly out of it completely. Her mishapen top was covered in stains. I was informed by my friends there that earlier that day she had gone into Cantagalo after drinking a bottle of cachaca. Although her family is rich, she has a serious drug problem. She commenced to have sex with 10 (yes, 10) men in return for drugs, a deal which they must have stuck to judging by the state of her. Some of the residents of the favela had pity for her, some said they only had disgust because she had money and options, and the, er, incident was conducted in full view of teenagers wondering by. I can only wonder at what kind of man is happy to get involved in that kind of liason.

While there is a huge class divide here, there is a surprisingly high level of mobility. This includes down as well as up.

More cheerfully, the days are getting hotter and I've got used to life in the hills of Santa Teresa. I have tried to ignore two sightings of white people with dreadlocks, a sight I never enjoy, and relish the views from the terrace outside my window, with Cristo to my left and Sugar Loaf (and the ocean) to my right. So many people live in apartments here, but when buildings are close together like that, they can become oppressively dark and gloomy during the day. Even the sighting of a plump mouse hasn't dampened my enthusiasm, although perhaps that is because it could never get close to being the worst thing I've seen this week.

The idiot elite

I finally got around to watching Tropa de Elite (Elite Squad), a very popular movie here about the BOPE, the special forces who infiltrate the drug underworld of the favelas. It is pretty gripping, as violent as you would expect, and as it was based on a book by an ex-member of the BOPE, I am assured it contains fairly realistic attention to detail.

Then I went on Rotten Tomatoes and read a litany of criticism of the movie. Chief among the gripes is the notion that it "doesn't know where its morals lie." Because directors owe it to us to give the people a lesson in morals, obviously.

Most of the complaints focus on the suggestion that the the director is trying to tell us brute force is the only solution to the drug trade and violence that comes with it.

I find this attitude depressingly endemic. If a film depicts the attitude of a character, that is taken to represent the attitude of the film itself, and there is some sort of assumption that films should tell us what to think. In extreme situations some people will offer extreme solutions, and showing that (especially in a compelling movie like Tropa de Elite) is important. Not that movies owe it to us to do anything morally worthwhile at all if that's not what the director wants to do. People will have to use their brains and make their own moral decisions. Spoonfeeding people creates a nation of idiots. Maybe it would be better if the world wasn't the way it was, but putting your head in the sand isn't going to change anything so I for one would rather engage with the bloody truth.

I would urge anyone to see the film, and I will be going to see the sequel when it comes out (here in October, not sure when for the UK and elsewhere). Apart from a dreadful REM song the soundtrack of the last one is pretty good too.

I like Bob, Bob likes Brazil

http://www.artinfo.com/news/story/35503/bob-dylan-takes-brazil-to-denmark-in-his-new-painting-exhibition/

Prime real estate?

Last week I did what a lot of ex-pats end up doing for money, and went to a casting for an advert. Foreign-looking types are in demand, even in Rio, where almost anybody could pass as a native Brazilian. I went with Lars, a German property developer who possesses the white blonde hair and crystal blue eyes of unmistakable Gringo genes.

Don't think I got the role (as a tourist coming to Brazil for the first time), mainly due to my diabolical acting skills, but now I'm on their books it could be another way to make some money.

Lars was telling me that efforts to clear away some of the favelas, at least in the Zona Sul close to the tourist attractions of Copacabana and Ipanema, will eventually lead to that land becoming prime real estate. On first arriving in Rio, especially at night as I did, it's difficult not to imagine the twinkling lights on all the hills as belonging to the kind of idyllic villages that populate the mountains of, say, Amalfi. Now I`ve been up there myself a few times, I can confirm they've got some of the best views.

This process of sanitation, starting with the police occupation (which as far as I can establish only extends as far as the visible spots in Zona Sul), also perhaps inevitably extends to the language. I was informed by one resident not to use the word "favela", because this has derogatory connotations. Instead, we must say "comunidade", which means community. As often happens in these cases, the choice of an apparently neutral word has itself become tainted. Another friend told me about a friend of his from the countryside who had formally used the phrase "rural community" to explain where he lived, but was now at great pains to point out he doesn't like in thatkind of comunidade.

It is unclear in the long-term what the "solution" will be to the favela situation, and even if one is actually needed. Sociologist Janice Perlman, in four decades of studying the favelas of Rio, discovered far greater social mobility than generally supposed, as well as the often overlooked necessity for people with low-income jobs to live near their work in order for the city to continue to function. The Indian approach of building vast housing blocks at a distance from the city seems depressingly inevitable but likely to cause problems for those workers and the city as a whole.

Their presence stuck out to me at first, but now it seems to tie in with the rest of my experience here. To do things the "proper" way is so difficult, expensive and impossible for most people, they find their own jeito, or way, whether that be building your own house on a landslide-prone hill or paying someone to get you the right papers. Somehow it all trundles along, not the way it is supposed to, and not without problems of course.

Shenanigans

I decided against the millionaire lifestyle, or, to paraphrase Cary Grant, it decided against me. Instead, I have found a ramshackle place where I can indulge a penchant for faded glamour. Yes, that old chestnut...

With a pool outside my room and a decent location, not to mention a rent which takes cash, I think I can live with this.

It was a relief to find somewhere, once I had accepted the fact I will likely be a bit of a nomad for the next few months at least. Teaching English, while a useful way to meet folks and enjoyable in itself, is far less lucrative than journalism, so I am going to adjust the way I am dividing up my time a bit.

I am currently teaching a Naval Commander in Niteroi, the island opposite Rio. For the money he pays, it probably isn't worth the trip by boat over the ocean, as when all is factored in I probably just make enough for a couple of "per kilo" meals only. Without spelling out what might be appealing about the job, I do it mainly because I enjoy it.

The other day, we were reading an article about the forthcoming elections in Brazil, which included a comment on "the shenanigans" that have gone on during the campaign. The shenanigans mentioned seemed to involve nothing more than the usual mudslinging during most elections, plus a bit of bargaining and compromise when it came to the selection of candidates. I had to explain to the Commander however that he shouldn't really refer to "shenanigans" when talking about military business at a conference. I feel justified in laughing at other people's language errors since others laughing at mine is more or less a daily occurence.

Only yesterday, I realised that the text I sent expressing my excitement at being taken to Maracana actually communicated a state of sexual arousal. Thankfully, since I am in Brazil, I do like football, but not that much.

For anyone who actually wants to know about violence and crime...

This guy has taken some amazing photos. A Brazilian friend said she doesn't like Brazilian films because "they are always about violence in the favelas" but it's an undeniable part of life here. At the same time, there's much more to Rio than that, but that's a whole other post and my coffee rush is over. Have a look anyway.

Things that annoy

I went to look at an apartment today which is overlooking the beach here at Flamengo. The old boy who lives there only wants money to cover the apartment maintenance charges and the guy who appears to be some sort of butler. The old fella likes the odd conversation about birching petty criminals (for his pleasure or their displeasure, I'm unsure), but he's not too bad really and away for six months of the year. Trouble is, even those charges alone amount to a fair bit. There's a pig-headed part of me that wants it to happen and I think I'm going to try. There is a red carpet on the marble staircase for God's sake. It's like living in Mayfair but with a view of the ocean.

Back in the real world, expect to read reports from Zona Norte (the northern and poorer part of the city) any time soon.

It's come to that point now that I've been here for seven weeks when I feel the need to assess how it's going. My need to master Portuguese has become the most pressing issue. I can have conversations with people but I'm impatient to get beyond this point. It's what makes the difference between being an estrangeiro and a Carioca.

Having said that, the folks who have tried to rip me off or patronise me haven't been Cariocas at all, but other foreigners who have been here for longer. An American woman I was unfortunate enough to meet wanted me to teach her business students English for her at a price I can only describe as peanuts, while she collected the profits. She was full of useful advice such as "don't wear havaianas" and "get yourself a therapist." Like many bullies, she used the tactic of calling me at 10pm in a kind of attempt to catch me by surprise and terrorise me in my leisure time. I've saved her number as "Pimp" in my phone now and I don't answer it.

Rio has such a strong effect on people that I think some ex-pats become possessive over their new find, and jealously guard it against others hoping for the same deliverance from mundane existences in their home countries. Young backpackers generally seem a congenial bunch, but I've had some of the world's most patronising advice from other foreigners staying here. This may be a result of my decision to teach English alongside journalism, an enterprise that attracts much younger folks ripe for exploitation at times.

People are afraid of the crime in Rio so some delight in telling horror stories about people being robbed at gunpoint on Copacabana beach and the like, or even of tourists who have "disappeared" due to some entanglement or other with dodgy types. There is no doubt that you can hear gunfire frequently (it is most definitely not the jolly fireworks I assumed when I first arrived during the World Cup.) These horror merchants forget that if you've lived in other big cities however you're no stranger to crime. I don't wish to tempt fate by being flippant about it but I don't see the point in being alarmist either.

In contrast, Brazilians are generally helpful even if there are a few sex pests. Anyway, here's a picture of me drinking caipirinhas on a boat to prove it's not all bad.

Things I miss

Aren't necessarily what I was expecting to miss.

In no particular order...

1. Spicy food - I have finally realised you can have too much cheese, and bread and pastry too, for that matter. As for beans and rice...

2. Pubs of Highgate - needs no explanation, except perhaps to say that the 'choppe', or tiny glasses of beer served here with oodles of head, are no match for a decent pint

3. Cheap books - even in Portuguese, books are still seen as a luxury. None are cheap and there are certainly no one pound classics

4. Not a lot else besides friends and family. Even Sundays are alright here, although they didn't have to be that great to beat Sundays in London, a day which can turn anyone into Morrissey even in the summer.

Mesmo quando e ruim e boa (Even when it's bad, it's good)

This phrase is one of the more repeatable ones I learned last night. Of course it comes from Rio, which I have heard described as 'the copulating city.' As well being intiated into this world view, I am getting to understand the way the men operate here a bit better.

Being looked at and chatted up is definitely preferable to being totally ignored, but the mores take a bit of getting used to. One Monday at a Samba night with my hostess and her Swiss guest, as well as other friends, we got talking to a group of people. Everyone is pretty touchy-feely here. I made a mental note not to be an uptight English bird and just accept it. It was all pretty chaste, just pats on the arm etc. Email addresses and invitations to parties, etc, all fly around prodigiously on pretty much every single night out, and a guy took mine.

Pretty soon, he was emailing/calling/Skyping at all hours, and it was by now apparent that he didn't really want to take the Suica and I on a tour of Rio in a 'friendly' capacity. Pushiness is an extremely unattractive quality for me and I didn't fancy him so I told him I already had a boyfriend here. This was on Skype chat. Then he declared in Portuguese: 'I don't know him but I am so jealous of him,' 'I'm so sad, I like you so much and now it's too late,' etc etc. People in Hollyoaks feared for their jobs, such was the ham-fisted drama that unfolded.

Then last night, the guy who taught me how to say the important Brazilian maxim above had a friend with him. This friend became equally besotted with my attached American friend in the space of about five minutes. She is a lithe and attractive 22, with long blonde hair and the kind of body you can only get through dancing (which she did). All of which makes it no surprise he was interested in her physically. Maybe he even thought they had a "connection". But the display of crestfallen dejection after she left the bar early was a sight to behold. It really was just like looking at the face of a man who has just been dumped by his fiancee after five blissful years, not five minutes.

I can only imagine it feels a bit like this for people who visit one of those countries where you can ski in the mountains then go down to the beach and sunbathe on the same day, at the right time of year. Or that day when I was at college and hadn't eaten all day, only to arrive at a friend's house where his mother had just hosted a ridiculously sumptuous buffet that was mostly left untouched. I went from feeling starving to nauseous from the over-indulgence in the space of half an hour.

Ultimately I err on the side of too much of something being better than too little, however difficult it is to negotiate these dramas at the time. Or, as they say, sex: even when it's bad it's good. I'm just going to have to start taking that attitude from now on.

Goleiro Bruno

You can't turn on any TV here, or read any paper, without seeing something about Bruno Fernandes. For those not avidly keeping up with this story, he's the (former) goalkeeper for Flamengo, certainly the most popular Rio football team. His lover Eliza disappeared, amid stories that he wanted her dead after telling her she should have an abortion, an order she refused. Then a 17-year-old friend told the police she was dead, and now the suspect languishes in a cell.

In the event that Bruno isn't actually guilty of a crime, this tale still raises some uncomfortable questions. People might think it couldn't happen in the UK,but the Ashley Cole scandal and others exposed the murky world of glamour girls serving as concubines for attached footballers, with tales of abortions being paid for with cash in brown paper bags, parties where girls are bussed in, etc.

I really wanted to watch today's final without thinking of what pigs footballers can be when they're overpaid and overindulged. Then I read that Wayne Rooney said his bad performance for England was down to missing his son, in "an emotional phone call". Might be no truth in it, have to remember that, but if it is, Jesus. He's acting like a tearful Big Brother contestant, is it any wonder England were so dire.

Don't really mind who wins out of Holland and Spain, I've got time for them both and neither have won it before. Going to Fifa Fun Fest for the last time, then to experience Rio when the World Cup isn't on.

A pão in the ass

Apologies for the lack of updates but I'm experiencing a bit of a shock to the system. After my days in Rocinha, drinking caipirinhas on the street with the King and watching any Copa do Mundo game I liked, the work begins.

At home I'm rarely saying any English words, and learning during the day how to teach English. The other night I couldn't sleep for the amount of words flying around my head. I frequently wanted to get up and look them up in the dictionary or say them outloud, but just stopped myself.

There was much hilarity at Ana's house when we looked at little statuettes of animals and had to say what they were in our own languages. I told them the word for chicken, but also that cock was the male. Then in Portuguese, I had to explain to them to be careful with this word. The only way I managed it was to say it was like pão (for bread) and the same word not delivered in a nasal way. I realised suddenly that, much as I talked about having a brief for a story, and accidentally said I have a prostitute, that I have been asking for cock with cheese at street stalls all this time.

New beginnings

It's a bit like starting a new job being here, which in a way I am doing. Today I moved in to my new home, with Brasileira Ana Lucia. When I first arrived, having overdone the caipirinhas last night, I was feeling pretty rough. There was an awkward first hour when I chatted as best I could to her mum Eva, who was welcoming but didn't speak a word of English. My faltering Portuguese it is then.

One delicious meal later, Ana arrived with a Swiss lady who is also staying here and another Kiwi friend. I don't think she speaks much English, but this could be just what I need as I really need to get the Portuguese up to speed.

Every time I think I've settled in something happens that feels new and alien. Last night, my school friend and I were drinking at the street bar (the obligatory "one for the road" which has never turned out to be just one, to my memory). I'm not sure if the man we were hanging out with, who everyone called The King, was the king of the whole of Rio, the king of his favela Cantagalo, or just the king of that bar because he's always there. This kind of thing would be cleared up with a better understanding of the language, if not totally. The King is above with myself and Nermeen.

I had been a bit spoilt because I was hanging out with Graham, who is from south London, and my school friend, and Fred who may be Brazilian but has lived in London for years and the States and has perfect English. Now the real deal starts!

Blame Mick Jagger

Well, I didn't really expect much more from England in this World Cup, but I did think I'd be safe supporting Brazil. O Globo this morning announces 'the end of the era of Dunga,' and I think they are probably right.

As I enjoyed a few beers in Ipanema following the defeat, the streets were definitely less crowded but I couldn't help but notice the Brazilians were magnanimous losers. If this had happened in England, especially Melo's stamping disgrace, it's hard not to imagine there would have been violence on the streets. Maybe I am too hard on my home country.

I do think Mick Jagger should stop going to games however. He was at both England v Germany and Brazil v Holland, and look what happened. From a story point of view, if nothing else, I was really hoping for a Brazil v Germany final or a Brazil v Argentina final. There are lots of Germans here and people of German descent. Still might be interesting to speak to them in the event of an (increasingly likely) German win for this Copa do Mundo. Bah.

Some images

I don't have photographs - yet - although Fred is going to help with that. He took one of me washing our plates up at the NGO in Rocinha today. I suspect photographic evidence of me doing any washing up at all would be prized quite highly by some of my exes and flatmates.

Instead of images, I'm going to just describe a few slices of life and hope I can add the visual element by the end of the week.

Watching the Brazil game in my street on Monday, which is like Rio's Old Compton Street. Just before the game started, two men, incredibly toned (which seems more the norm here than the exception), and wearing the scantest of trunks, make a solemn procession along the street. One carrying a Brazil flag, the other with a vuvuzela aloft. This must have been planned, but more impromptu was the man coming the other way with five labradors on a lead, all wearing some sort of memorabilia, from Brazil baseball caps to scarfs. They crossed in the middle.

Boy with a rifle the same size as him casually walking along in Rocinha.

Azure, azure, penetrating blue, always coming into view somewhere, the sky or the sea.

Kites being flown from the aqueduct above the tunnel leading to Rocinha.

Moving to sound, the type of funk, (called baile funk in the UK) which documents the gangs and their battles is called Prohibao, which roughly means Forbidden. You can listen to an example at this excellent website. It also explains the origination of that particular track.

These things are playing all day and night and can be a nuisance, certainly lots of the women I met complained about the constant noise and the repetition in the sound and the lyrics. At the same time, the sound is really incredible. People have known about this shit in London for years, so I will shut up now. It just slots into place now that I've been to the source of that sound.

Worth a read of that website as he talks about how the sound has been exoticised which I believe the favelas themselves have too.

One more image: my mum sorting out 20 pairs of unmatching socks into pairs, in just over two weeks I have been here. Had 20 odd ones before I went away.

Favela impressions

After the bank helpfully blocked my card again so I couldn't get a cab, therefore was running late, therefore also had no means of contacting the people I was meeting, meaning I was sat in the square at the bottom of the Rocinha favela alone, just hoping nothing bad would happen and the people I was meeting there would wait for me.

After all that lot, as it happened, they did, so we had an incredible journey inside the thing. I will write further about this for a publication, but the colourful and orderly exterior was in sharp contrast to what I found immediately inside. We passed the first look out point for the drug gangs that really run the place, taking a small winding pathway which led past shops, half open doors that looked into homes, and of course dogs and cats.

Everyone says the favelas have the best views, and it seems to be true. Pretty startling to find yourself suddenly at the top of a hill which overlooks the ocean, and remember you're in a slum the whole time. It's a double-edged sword, as one guy says 'I like living here, I'm free here', and that's not just because of the views. But that vista also overlooks the stinking rich of Leblon and Ipanema, and it's hard to believe children here are dying of tuberculosis and it's only a few hundred yards away.

I met an amazing resident called Marcia who has started a project to help the women there. It seems as though the higher you go, the harder people are to reach. In contrast to the pleasant square at the bottom, people on the uppermost reaches often live in little more than huts, and some never leave the favela, although there is a class structure within Rocinha itself. While I was talking to Marcia, a group of tourists, mainly Canadians and English it seemed to me, suddenly invaded the place. They were here for the human zoo - or the favela tour, as it is known. I found this a bit upsetting, as it had taken me a while to get the trust of the people I had spoken to and after spending a few hours there I had really warmed to Marcia. What will those people say about the favelas, when they get home? Several of them stuffed large notes into the donation box as they left, which is something I suppose. Maybe I'm no better than a daytripper but at least I made an effort to talk to people rather than just gawp and leave.

Reaching the ground again I was in one of the vans (not legal here but used everywhere) that operate alongside the buses, heading to Posto Nove with the azure ocean on my right and the pristine white of beachside apartments to my left. I'll be back again tomorrow but don't expect too many pictures, even when I have sorted this darned USB out, because most of Rocinha bans pictures being taken.

Embarrassment

Is an unknown concept here. I dragged my sorry arse out of the (sofa) bed for a day trip to Barra, pronounced Baha, the town just beyond Leblon. It's an ersatz town, which reminded me of some of those soulless places in the States, all gated communities and new builds. On the plus side, it has 14k of perfect beach, more sheltered and less intimidating than striding out to find your place in the hierarchy that is Ipanema.

Along with the guys doing push ups and all sorts of suggestive exercises (I am used to them now), one guy was doing his press ups alone on the beach. We were watching the sun go down from the more comfortable surroundings of a beach bar, complete with banging house. The guy kept interrupting his exercise to dance a bit, in full view of the customers of the bar. Now that's brazen.

The Imperial City

Today I went to Germany - or it felt like it. I took a bus up improbably steep roads to Petropolis in the mountains outside Rio. I have been thinking about living there, as it's got a lot of English schools and is very picturesque. I would think twice about that in Brazil's winter though. So far, I've been lucky with the weather and it was near 30 degrees on Sunday (just in time for the game).

Up that high, I thought I would escape the clouds that seem to have shrouded the city ever since, but no such luck. The clouds seemed to come into the bus station itself today, and I wore a sweatshirt for the first time.

The next story I've got planned involves Rocinha, billed by the tour operators as 'Latin America's biggest favela', which will take in much less rarefied surroundings. This actually reminds me of a poster I saw on a train once which said: 'Feltham: Europe's largest young offenders' unit'. At the time and afterwards, I wondered how this could possibly be a good thing, unless you were an out of work prison warden who had just moved to the area I guess.

Today I felt a bit like I was in an Alpine town, with its little houses with their low roofs and shutters. It reminded me of Italy or German until I spotted a palm tree or the omnipresent Brazil flag flying out of a window. The dark skies lent a diabolical aspect, but I think it would be pretty rather than forboding in summer. Now to make plans of how to get in - and out - of a favela alive. Take note, this will not be attempted alone.

P.S. once I've got my USB port working, there will be many more photos. At the moment, I've only been able to use ones others have taken.

Fifa fun

Yet more football-related insanity yesterday. We decided to brave the official Fifa Fan Zone, a place covered in more sponsors than your average Grand Prix, but entertaining nonetheless. The atmosphere was a bit like being at a festival, except without annoying girls in straw hats and face paint dressed out of the Festival Fashion section of Topshop. The atmosphere is amazing and two hours before the game it is packed to the rafters, with people taking a zip line over the crowd and baile funk pumping out.

Some of the fans we were chatting to - well, singing and shouting with - had come up from Sao Paulo and insisted on us taking photos with their club flags and shirts. Luckily for us, Brazil comfortably won 3-1 despite the ever-present threat of Didier Drogba for the Ivory Coast.

I've got into the habit of going to the same coffee place every day, while I work out my next move. Today I'll be working out how to get to the house where I will be staying for a month while I do a TEFL course. Her name is Ana Lucia, she is "very friendly and talkative" and her mum, who lives next door, cooks amazing meals apparently. This is all sounding pretty good so far. It all makes me wonder why I never did something like this before. The area is ok too as I went there last week on an aborted attempt to go to see Cristo. As my college is further to the north of town, I was a bit worried about what it might be like if I was staying there too.

Other missions today: find some fresh milk rather than UHT, go to the post office and successfully use the facilities, attempt to get a mobile phone without having an ID number, unsure this last one is going to work.

It's a dog's life

All week I've been a lady of leisure, then this morning (Saturday, and the day following the England match), I have to get up early to do a job.

This man is the very nice Hans Rodriguez, who owns a pet shop around the corner from where I'm staying. The photo is courtesy of Fred Pacifico, a Rio-based photo journalist. Hans was telling me all about the football kits for dogs, which he has been selling by the truckload for this Cupa do Mundo. I hope for Hans' sake, and mine, Brazil go all the way to the final.

Fred then told me about the chaos when Madonna came to town with Jesus. A similar panic was narrowly averted after Britney Spears Tweeted about being glad to be back in Brazil. For Rio folks, the Britney circus didn't come to town that day, as she was in Sao Paulo for the recent fashion week. Not that Britney was too aware of where she was, let's face it.

I blasted out today's hangover with a walk around the Lagoa, this time armed with my camera, and some fresh coconut milk. It's a dog's life.

Bum bums, bodies, etc.

Today I found the most famous shop that sells beachwear, appropriately titled Bum Bums. People here have eight or nine swimming costumes, where at home you'd only have one or two, because it's hot all year round.

I was heartened to see that the desired body shape here for women is much curvier, and I hadn't really seen any of the tiny skeletal women you see walking around London all the time, even in Leblon, which is where the beautiful people hang out.

Then today I saw a woman with an improbable child's physique, though she can't have been under 40 years old, and an even more unlikely pair of rounded bosoms on top of it all.

I won't pretend to understand it all.

Off to watch the England game.

Even the dogs like football

Another day went past yesterday when I didn't manage to make it to the Jardim Botanico. Still feeling confused about the time, I went for lunch and caught a bit of the Portugal game. Then the news came on("RJ"), showing people all over the city in huge traffic jams heading for Copacabana beach, where some almighty screens and a stage were set up to watch the game. Fuelled by my can of Bohemia lager, I decided to head down there. I fell in with a group of lads who had obviously decided the same thing. "Argentina! Argentina to win the World Cup!" One of them kept shouting. I put this down to the kind of japes young men anticipating watching the game tend to get up to, until I realised I had made the error of wearing a white T-shirt and sky blue shorts. There was only one thing for it: half an hour later I had purchased a Brazil shirt from a street vendor and joined the sea of yellow-clad folks heading for the beach.

By this point, it was not even 3pm, but the crowds were so overwhelming, and I started to realise it was going to be like the crush at the front of an Iron Maiden concert. I went to grab a taxi to meet my friends. Cue more efforts at Portuguese. The sighting of a dog, resplendent like its owner in the familiar yellow jersey, drew an excited attempt from me to explain to the driver what I had just seen. Thinking this was an important detail about the location I wanted, and failing to understand my faltering Portuguese, the driver called his daughter, who then explained what I was trying to say. How we laughed.

A circuitous route saw me watch half of the game at Academia de Cachaca and another half in the Bier Park, both in the fashionable Leblon area. Bianca, a Brazilian who works with my friend here, echoed the thoughts of most of the crowd, that Brazil really ought to have performed better in the match despite beating North Korea 2-1. Cue yet more pessimistic predictions from the fanatical supporters.

The party finally ended in the gay street where I'm staying, dancing and drinking caipirinhas. I got chatted up by a man who claimed to be a racing driver. Although as with the man who told me the lady who let me join her party at Academia de Cachaca owned the place, I am beginning to realise that not everything is as perfect and beautiful as it seems on the surface here.

Eu sou brasileira (not quite)

I felt pretty good when I managed a conversation in Portuguese last night with my taxi driver upon arrival, especially after nothing but a couple of hours of sweaty sleep on a beanbag in front of a screen showing the World Cup in Porto airport.

He taught me the phrase for 'hand of god' in Portuguese, after mirroring the pessimism of football fans everywhere with his prediction that Brazil will crash out of the World Cup early, leaving the way for Argentina or perhaps Germany to triumph. Maradona is one of those people who attracts strong feelings universally, it seems.

The Copa do Mundo is the subject on everyone's lips, with a man chatting about Germany's 4-0 win over the Soceroos to my waitress this morning. I enjoyed a coffee that was like rocket fuel at that cafe, along with a pasty that was as delicious as its contents were mysterious to me.

I could certainly get used to living here. That rocket fuel propelled me round the Lagoa rodrigo de Freitas, a perfect lake for a run. Not least because I nearly fell over at the sight of a team of men running in the opposite direction so incredibly good-looking it was difficult to stay on the track. Having said that, a lot of the men here do resemble Ronaldo (not Cristiano).

Apologies for the earnest, pretentious nature of the last entry, btw. I think I was getting strung out on the drama of all these goodbyes. I don't know if I'll be able to survive living here full-time for a year or more, but I'd certainly like to. Someone gave me the good advice that even if that doesn't happen you have to approach it as though you will stay forever. That makes sense.

Got lost on the way back from the lake though, I've got a long way to go yet.

Imagination rules the world

I've got a friend who is obsessed with Napoleon. I saw him last night, and he has a week off work. "What did you do on your first day off?" I asked him. "I went to see the skeleton of Napoleon's horse in Chelsea," he replied. Naturellement.

A picture that has always fascinated me is the portrait of Napoleon, in enforced exile on Saint Helena. He was put there because it was 2,000 km from any landmass, thwarting his desire to invade and rule.

The picture is of him gazing out to the ocean, none of his desire weakened despite the impossibility of realising it. I think I love that picture because he hasn't given up, but also because it depicts human limits, fallibility and frailty.

Another friend gave me a locket, and I've printed out the picture of Napoleon on Saint Helena. I won't really be in exile in Brazil, or at any rate a self-imposed one. Seeing the picture will remind me of missing home and those two friends in particular.

"The English are frigid, drink too much and don't like sex"

My Brazilian Portuguese teacher told me what he thought of the English last night. "I like living here," he said. "I've been here for 10 years and I can put up with the cold weather, especially if I go home to Brazil for a month in the winter.

"I do find the English people a bit... frigid. They don't like sex, they are more interested in drinking."

Every time I go away somewhere, I miss the orderly white buildings, the cool temperature, the silence of England. At least in suburbia, anyway. The quaint look of the streets compared to the ugly soul-destroying high rises in the Moscow suburbs was comforting to return to. The absence of anyone selling me anything I didn't want was also welcome after two weeks in Mumbai.

I have to say that it is this frigid aspect that bothers me most about the English. My Brazilian teacher said that on a night out with a beautiful female friend of his who was on the hunt for a man, not one man chatted her up or responded to her approaches. "They were all sitting in groups, drinking," he said. Not only that, but he said he noticed there was an absence of anyone hugging or being tactile anywhere in the club, even if there was no sexual purpose to it.

Northern hemisphere countries often tend to be pissheads (stand up Finland, Ireland, Russia, Canada and Germany), but not all have this lack of warmth and openness. It is such a cliche about the Brits or the English specifically that I want to resist it. Yet it's hard to imagine a friend not talking to me for three months and us never discussing why in, say, Italy or even the States. Or the complaint of my friend's mother that she wasn't invited to a wedding, which it turns out, she would have rather wash her eyes in chilli sauce than gone to anyway.

At the weekend, a Spanish friend said to me it's only in England that people "settle" for husbands and wives they don't love, but who will be reliable/good providers/come from the right background/have agreed to fill the gap that no one more exciting has been willing to fill, etc.

I know I'm not heading for Utopia. Some descriptions of Rio de Janeiro are more akin to a hell below than any kind of heaven above. Friends have talked about constant traffic jams, getting robbed on such a regular basis that it becomes part of the weekly routine, appalling poverty and corruption.

At least this project has allowed me to swerve the pressure to marry someone I'm not interested in, who's mother I have offended without ever knowing how or why. I'm sure after a while I'll be craving the rain, the green lawns and most certainly a decent cup of tea, but you can keep the mond-boggling etiquette and misguided sense of propriety.

Frostonbury

Yesterday I had a conversation about scandal in the Catholic Church, then a chat with another friend about the power of 4chan.

Then I read this gem from Sadie Frost in Celebs on Sunday: "I had a lovely party at my house called Frostonbury a few years ago. I got lots of tents and we had Tarot card reading and mad face painting and little bands. It was a real homage to 60s and 70s flower power parties."

I will be so extremely grateful when I no longer have to perpetuate this shite.

Still woke up in the early hours wondering if I'm going to have enough money for this project. Two of my friends are due to give birth in June, around the time I will be heading out on my one way ticket. By the time you get to your thirties, the choices you've made become apparent.

O futuro e agora

So now I've resigned, started learning Portuguese and begun the process of dismantling my life in this country.

I work for a celebrity weekly magazine in London, existing in an occasionally glamorous but more frequently naff, rarely friendly but usually ruthless world I am determined to leave behind.

I'm starting this blog, mostly as a diary and a record, and a way of keeping in touch with folks as I plan to start a new life teaching English in Brazil.

Hardly an original idea I know, but hopefully something in that fascinating country will be of interest. If it gives me the opportunity to enjoy writing again that's a bonus. Right now, I'm wondering if it's a crazy scheme, or if it will even happen at all. Living in Highgate has been idyllic in many ways, and I moved here when I was heartbroken after a split. It's the first time in many years I've found somewhere to call "home." I've had a few mornings waking up wondering if I really want to cut myself off from that sanctuary.

Funny to think that somewhere on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro will now become home.