Friday 22 July 2011
Tuesday 5 July 2011
Witchery
It is quite unusual to be faced with witchcraft while watching a really bad children's TV show. In Brazil, it happens. This is JuJu, a "panicat", from Panico na TV here in Brazil. She's basically an attractive if slightly tranny-like woman who prances up and down in not many clothes on a show so bad, it makes me yearn for Italian tv. There used to be a show (who knows, with Berlusconi in charge, there still is) where women in lingerie kind of danced around to tacky music. It wasn't great, but at least I could admire something pure in it. Panico na TV is one of those magazine shows with music and stuff, where the dolly birds are some kind of nonsensical add-on.
Anyway, bleary with exhaustion one day last week, I was reading a gossip item about how the other "cats" accuse this character JuJu of practising macumba on her rivals. It is a type of witchcraft which involves sacrificing animals and all sorts. I can only imagine how much more fun it would have been when I was a celebrity journalist to write this kind of thing about, say, Jordan and Kerry Katona. Wouldn't put it past either of them, especially when you run out of things to reveal on the cover of OK! but it isn't really a strong part of British culture.
It's different here. Most days when I leave the house, I walk past a little bowl of sand, sometimes with black and red candles burning in it, sometimes with a dead chicken or a bottle of cachaca by its side. Since I live in a Bohemian area, I did wonder if this was some kind of contrived gesture and ignored it. But the panicats episode opened my eyes to how common this stuff is. A friend who has just got his visa to move to Australia said some friends had told him not to talk about his plans before they were concrete, in case people used "bad energy" to disrupt them. I'm a cynical type, and I'm not sure what "bad energy" really is. Is that what comes out after too many beers and an ill-advised chicken jalfrezi at midnight?* But really? Even if you believe in it, in 2011, can people really believe that such a thing has the power to change the course of events?
Other than providing more interesting celebrity gossip, I'm not sure if this type of thing has any benefits. It is kind of interesting but I saw the serious side when I was warned not to trust people too easily. The lady in question thought that opening up to others could leave you open to this kind of evil hoodoo. That can't be good.
Black magic - here, it never went away.
* I shouldn't have said that as I dearly miss Indian food.
Thursday 9 June 2011
Notes from Favelaland
Not my name, the name a friend who lives in Complexo do Alemao gave to what his home becomes in the hands of others. A kind of Disneyland for well-meaning foreigners, a place where fantasies and dreams (and nightmares) are played out. Where politicians arrive to have their photos taken with a child, never to be seen again. Where artists from other countries turn up to add something original and edgy to their portfolio.
I've never had such a stressful time working on something as the past week. As well as the pressure of trying to find and do justice to some sense of reality about the place (will post the story, and therefore enlighten you on the subject, once published), there is the difficult of even finding out the truth.
Then someone accused me of not having the right to write about Brazil, since I'm not Brazilian. While that is a ridiculous argument, since it pretty much negates the existence of any foreign correspondent anywhere - not to mention free speech generally - it threw a light on a certain tension that exists. It is why, as a dear friend said to me afterwards, expats create "sad little huddles" rather than integrate.
I saw that Four Four Two this month is denouncing the death of Brazilian football, and I wondered if Brazilians do feel like the gringoes take over their voice for them, often making wild inaccuracies in the process. Of course, a certain type of person will always try to attack journalists in social situations. I always put it down to a mixture of envy and the kind of controlling personality that doesn't like anything being published which that person doesn't agree with personally.
That free speech thing, kind of sucks if you're a bit of a tyrant about your opinions. At the same time, it isn't the first time I've been faced with sentences like "you're not from the third world, you don't understand." It's the flipside of being called Blondie in the street. A bitterness and resentment which, to be fair, is rare in Brazilians who are generally pretty sociable and curious folks in my experience.
Anyway, somehow that was all about me, but it's difficult to write about these stories until they are published. It's kind of overwhelming to see the huge hope on the one side, and the suffering and violence on the other. How cynical can I be? How cynical do I have the right to be?
One thing is for sure, the next story is going to be about dogs, clowns or fit men. Light relief needed.
I've never had such a stressful time working on something as the past week. As well as the pressure of trying to find and do justice to some sense of reality about the place (will post the story, and therefore enlighten you on the subject, once published), there is the difficult of even finding out the truth.
Then someone accused me of not having the right to write about Brazil, since I'm not Brazilian. While that is a ridiculous argument, since it pretty much negates the existence of any foreign correspondent anywhere - not to mention free speech generally - it threw a light on a certain tension that exists. It is why, as a dear friend said to me afterwards, expats create "sad little huddles" rather than integrate.
I saw that Four Four Two this month is denouncing the death of Brazilian football, and I wondered if Brazilians do feel like the gringoes take over their voice for them, often making wild inaccuracies in the process. Of course, a certain type of person will always try to attack journalists in social situations. I always put it down to a mixture of envy and the kind of controlling personality that doesn't like anything being published which that person doesn't agree with personally.
That free speech thing, kind of sucks if you're a bit of a tyrant about your opinions. At the same time, it isn't the first time I've been faced with sentences like "you're not from the third world, you don't understand." It's the flipside of being called Blondie in the street. A bitterness and resentment which, to be fair, is rare in Brazilians who are generally pretty sociable and curious folks in my experience.
Anyway, somehow that was all about me, but it's difficult to write about these stories until they are published. It's kind of overwhelming to see the huge hope on the one side, and the suffering and violence on the other. How cynical can I be? How cynical do I have the right to be?
One thing is for sure, the next story is going to be about dogs, clowns or fit men. Light relief needed.
Wednesday 13 April 2011
Myths and legends part 1
It has struck me that when you are in another country, talking to other people who have moved there from abroad, a strange thing happens.
People behave in lots of ways that they wouldn't do at home, but one of the weird things they do is accept wholesale any information given whatsoever about the new place. Without questioning it, without judgement, nothing.
So it came to pass that my friend from the US, when in England, was told that the English drink a lot because one year the Irish topped a poll of European drinkers, and we didn't want them to 'win' again. This was related as a fact, not a funny anecdote. I can imagine Winston Churchill (for some reason, it has to be him), announcing gravely over the wireless that it is the duty of every man, woman and child to go to the pub immediately, to defend the reputation of our great nation. Everyone gathered round sombrely, determined to do their patriotic duty.
Thus the off-the-cuff remark becomes inscripted in marble.
Another Brit living here told me with great authority why it is that Brazilian women actually cultivate (rather than avoid) bikini lines on their chests. Topless sunbathing is banned, but she said the actual reason is that they want to show men they are quite pale underneath the tan, and capable of having white children. There is plenty of evidence of racism, unfortunately, in this country that bills itself as 'a country for all.' But this was just pushing it a bit too far. In that case, why not be like the folks I met in Thailand, who avoided getting a tan at all costs, and tried to look pale all over?
Since the same woman, mother of two youngsters, advised my 45-year-old friend and I to have children for a permanent visa, I can only conclude that she was one of these tedious sorts who thinks the meaning and purpose of everything begins and ends in children. Not sure who has less chance of doing this, me or a 45-year-old woman. In any case, the lack of spontaneity and freedom motherhood inevitably entails would mean I might as well live in the UK after all. No need to go to all the bother and expense.
For the record, I think Brazilian women do this because men find it sexy, since it shows the outline of the breasts. When analysing the sense of any theory, I think it makes sense to acknowledge that the male fascination with breasts is a more powerful drive than most.
People behave in lots of ways that they wouldn't do at home, but one of the weird things they do is accept wholesale any information given whatsoever about the new place. Without questioning it, without judgement, nothing.
So it came to pass that my friend from the US, when in England, was told that the English drink a lot because one year the Irish topped a poll of European drinkers, and we didn't want them to 'win' again. This was related as a fact, not a funny anecdote. I can imagine Winston Churchill (for some reason, it has to be him), announcing gravely over the wireless that it is the duty of every man, woman and child to go to the pub immediately, to defend the reputation of our great nation. Everyone gathered round sombrely, determined to do their patriotic duty.
Thus the off-the-cuff remark becomes inscripted in marble.
Another Brit living here told me with great authority why it is that Brazilian women actually cultivate (rather than avoid) bikini lines on their chests. Topless sunbathing is banned, but she said the actual reason is that they want to show men they are quite pale underneath the tan, and capable of having white children. There is plenty of evidence of racism, unfortunately, in this country that bills itself as 'a country for all.' But this was just pushing it a bit too far. In that case, why not be like the folks I met in Thailand, who avoided getting a tan at all costs, and tried to look pale all over?
Since the same woman, mother of two youngsters, advised my 45-year-old friend and I to have children for a permanent visa, I can only conclude that she was one of these tedious sorts who thinks the meaning and purpose of everything begins and ends in children. Not sure who has less chance of doing this, me or a 45-year-old woman. In any case, the lack of spontaneity and freedom motherhood inevitably entails would mean I might as well live in the UK after all. No need to go to all the bother and expense.
For the record, I think Brazilian women do this because men find it sexy, since it shows the outline of the breasts. When analysing the sense of any theory, I think it makes sense to acknowledge that the male fascination with breasts is a more powerful drive than most.
Monday 4 April 2011
The city that celebrates itself
Recently, in a blast from my past employment, I went to cover the premiere of a new animation called Rio. It was strange how it was like riding a bike, the adrenaline, the chatting to celebrities, improvising when you've run out of questions and competing with everyone around you while maintaining a fixed smile.
In this case, the celebrities are just providing the voices, and you could argue that the real star is the city itself. It's going to be followed later this year by a movie called Rio, Eu Te Amo, a series of 10 short movies about the city. That's following the similar ones about Paris and New York which we've already seen. What with the Olympics and the World Cup coming here, there is a resurgance of pride which can only be a good thing. Cariocas themselves often wear clothes with tourist slogans on them, which I can't imagine happening too often in London.
Of course it brings its downsides. People are talking about a property bubble in the exclusive areas of Leblon and Ipanema. Some of my older friends are cynical that they have heard all this before, that Brazil is perpetually on the up but never quite arriving there, and of course the building for the games and the football is behind and there are constant stories about how corruption means nothing will be ready in time.
I sense another problem too. When I was in London, something which now strikes me as strange was always happening among people I knew. People would say it was the best city in the world, and obsess over books and pictures of the historical city to the exclusion of interest in other places. How could they know it was the best city in the world when they had never lived anywhere else! Perhaps all cities that aren't in the United States feel the need to assert their cultural identity to some extent. A part of it is discovering who you are, exploring the factors that created that identity. Too much and it just becomes smug, and ultimately a little dead and irrelevant. Nothing reminds me of this more than the skinhead/soul scene I used to be a part of. Religiously dressing in the same clothes and restricting themselves to the same limited genre of music, what is fascinating about it is the extent to which these people are living in an England which doesn't exist anymore. Perhaps it never did.
Here it is difficult to hear music other than samba, funk, forro and choro, probably in that order. Funk might have its roots in Miami bass but ultimately it is a resolutely Carioca sound not made anywhere else in the world now. A British friend of mine says the reason he could never live here permanently is the lack of openness to new or different things. Interesting bars have opened and closed down again in a nanosecond in Ipanema as people prefer to stick to the classics they know and love. In a way this is the strength of Rio de Janeiro. Unlike the feeling I got in Mumbai, where the assumption was that all things Western are culturally superior (even to the point where young Indians I knew were lapping up bland doughy pizzas and "grills" instead of their own delicious cuisine), there is a strong sense of identity. But just congratulating yourself over and over again is not a recipe for progress or creativity.
Depressingly, the outside influences that stick tend to pull the city towards the worst aspects of the US. People buy a cheap laptop in Miami and then think it's a model metropolis. The challenge is going to be keeping this unique identity that makes Rio special while becoming the dynamic "world city" that the economy demands. As with funk, perhaps being open to outside influences doesn't have to mean being swallowed up by them.
In this case, the celebrities are just providing the voices, and you could argue that the real star is the city itself. It's going to be followed later this year by a movie called Rio, Eu Te Amo, a series of 10 short movies about the city. That's following the similar ones about Paris and New York which we've already seen. What with the Olympics and the World Cup coming here, there is a resurgance of pride which can only be a good thing. Cariocas themselves often wear clothes with tourist slogans on them, which I can't imagine happening too often in London.
Of course it brings its downsides. People are talking about a property bubble in the exclusive areas of Leblon and Ipanema. Some of my older friends are cynical that they have heard all this before, that Brazil is perpetually on the up but never quite arriving there, and of course the building for the games and the football is behind and there are constant stories about how corruption means nothing will be ready in time.
I sense another problem too. When I was in London, something which now strikes me as strange was always happening among people I knew. People would say it was the best city in the world, and obsess over books and pictures of the historical city to the exclusion of interest in other places. How could they know it was the best city in the world when they had never lived anywhere else! Perhaps all cities that aren't in the United States feel the need to assert their cultural identity to some extent. A part of it is discovering who you are, exploring the factors that created that identity. Too much and it just becomes smug, and ultimately a little dead and irrelevant. Nothing reminds me of this more than the skinhead/soul scene I used to be a part of. Religiously dressing in the same clothes and restricting themselves to the same limited genre of music, what is fascinating about it is the extent to which these people are living in an England which doesn't exist anymore. Perhaps it never did.
Here it is difficult to hear music other than samba, funk, forro and choro, probably in that order. Funk might have its roots in Miami bass but ultimately it is a resolutely Carioca sound not made anywhere else in the world now. A British friend of mine says the reason he could never live here permanently is the lack of openness to new or different things. Interesting bars have opened and closed down again in a nanosecond in Ipanema as people prefer to stick to the classics they know and love. In a way this is the strength of Rio de Janeiro. Unlike the feeling I got in Mumbai, where the assumption was that all things Western are culturally superior (even to the point where young Indians I knew were lapping up bland doughy pizzas and "grills" instead of their own delicious cuisine), there is a strong sense of identity. But just congratulating yourself over and over again is not a recipe for progress or creativity.
Depressingly, the outside influences that stick tend to pull the city towards the worst aspects of the US. People buy a cheap laptop in Miami and then think it's a model metropolis. The challenge is going to be keeping this unique identity that makes Rio special while becoming the dynamic "world city" that the economy demands. As with funk, perhaps being open to outside influences doesn't have to mean being swallowed up by them.
Saturday 19 March 2011
Seasonal fruit
In one week, the clocks here will change, officially heralding autumn. When I arrived here, we were in the full throws of autumn, although all I remember are dazzling blue skies and the force of the sun in my eyes every day. I felt some dismay when I realised this. A part of that is knowing that those sweltering days, day after day of the late 30s, watching the huge orange stone of the sun dropping into the ocean at Arpoador, only to see the same thing happen again the next day, and the next day... all that is going to be over soon.
Someone told me last year that winter in Rio de Janeiro is beautiful, and it is - not even the occasional grey sky will take away the drama of the mountains or the lushness of the vegetation on them. At that time, everything was new for me. Now, I am going to be following the inevitable pattern I am already familiar with. The pattern of the seasons that shrinks time, so it is impossible to forget what happened this time last year, what usually happens at winter, what's been lost and how long you will have to wait for that state to change. It's like the boat in The Great Gatsby, pulling you back into the past (even the recent past).
I think that's what makes me anxious about it, more than just the loss of the hot beach days. Everything was new when I arrived, an unending horizon. Now, I am a slave to routine again without perceiving when that change took place.
On the upside, that means I am no longer on the treadmill I was on when I first arrived. I know where to get nice food for less money, I can get around and I've got friends, all the things that I didn't have during the exhilirating (and sometimes really difficult) first six months.
Many's the time I've missed things in life even when I knew full well they were actually awful at the time. The approach of a year here, and the reverting of the seasons back to the one I arrived in, has made me realise just how long it's been. A certain type of person will always look back at the past like this and I definitely am one of those. I think today I realised I was just content, it's home here now, and I didn't even notice that happening. Bye bye summer, roll on autumn.
Thursday 10 March 2011
Love and lies
In what is I'm sure time-honoured tradition, I split up with someone (again) during carnival. I soon discovered this is nothing. Another friend, having been seeing a guy for a while who told her how much he loved her, etc, was excited to meet up with him when he got in touch.
When she arrived there, he was already kissing another girl, and asked her what she was doing there to boot.
If love is tough here at the best of times, carnival is easily the worst of times. The sheer drunkness of most folks makes fidelity an impossibility, while "carnival kisses" are a solid part of the experience.
Something strange I've observed here: flirtation is a daily way of life (and I'm in favour of that, it definitely makes the day go more smoothly) but so is jealousy. It's much less common for people to have friends of the opposite sex, generally because their partners won't accept it. I was often asked "amigas or amigos?" (the female and masculine of the word) when I told my fella I was out with friends.
As usual in this country, them's the rules and very restrictive they are too, but there is always a way round them. It's not unusual to see catfights between women in the streets, as despite feeling this jealousy keenly themselves people still cheat like nobody's business.
The trail of a few half-hearted blocos continues today, and into the weekend, but many people will have woken up today, quite possibly hungover, probably going back to work, and in some cases, contemplating the fact that their fling/relationship/marriage is now in tatters. That's carnival for you.
When she arrived there, he was already kissing another girl, and asked her what she was doing there to boot.
If love is tough here at the best of times, carnival is easily the worst of times. The sheer drunkness of most folks makes fidelity an impossibility, while "carnival kisses" are a solid part of the experience.
Something strange I've observed here: flirtation is a daily way of life (and I'm in favour of that, it definitely makes the day go more smoothly) but so is jealousy. It's much less common for people to have friends of the opposite sex, generally because their partners won't accept it. I was often asked "amigas or amigos?" (the female and masculine of the word) when I told my fella I was out with friends.
As usual in this country, them's the rules and very restrictive they are too, but there is always a way round them. It's not unusual to see catfights between women in the streets, as despite feeling this jealousy keenly themselves people still cheat like nobody's business.
The trail of a few half-hearted blocos continues today, and into the weekend, but many people will have woken up today, quite possibly hungover, probably going back to work, and in some cases, contemplating the fact that their fling/relationship/marriage is now in tatters. That's carnival for you.
Wednesday 9 March 2011
The party's over...
...And I couldn't be happier. A great day on Saturday (at least I think it was Saturday) gave way to last night, when I turned up in Lapa (party central at any time of year) sober. The attempts at pulling had become more agressive and joyless, like the spasms of an animal that has already died (I forget why they do this; something to do with electrical impulses).
Lifeless, dead eyes; a man kicking another man who was already lying on the ground, unmoving; police threatening a group of child robbers with sticks (the child robbers were crowded under the arches with us, but there was nothing we could do except hold on to our phones and money because it was pissing down with rain); rivers of urine flowing down the street to meet the tide of litter and rainwater.
It's been good at times, but I can't help rebelling from the universal gurning and grinning assumption that all partying is good. Maybe I'm just too old for it. The man with chattering teeth, who stood alone in the bar we finally escaped to last night, interrupting us occasionally to eat our spare bits of food which had dropped on the table, was probably not on the good side of 50 however.
Maybe it's just that things go in cycles, and now it's time for order, peace, diligent hard work and normality. Though since I haven't found any of those things in the past eight months of being here, it's unlikely to happen suddenly now.
Saturday 26 February 2011
Lei molada
So I got up at 7am, and joined crowds of people in the heat, with rubber dingys around their waists, men dressed as women, etc. for a few beers as the bloco came to Santa Teresa. The little yellow tram that still run here was filled (when it eventually arrived) with a band, and the throng followed it up the hill.
It was a surreal sight at first, the mixture of bright-eyed people such as ourselves who had just got up and those who never went to bed. Somehow the sheen that covers them is different, being older I guess. The red eyes are a giveaway too. Among the crowds was a group of lads who had dressed up as police from Lei Seca, or Dry Law, the cops who breathalyse folks here and fine them or take away their licences. If you have any booze in you AT ALL this can happen, which has gone down like a cup of cold sick in a country which has more holidays than any other a year, and that's before you take into account the full impact of carnival - and let's not even go there if it's a World Cup year. In fact, I am slightly afraid of still being here when the football's here, seeing as Brazil have a good chance of winning (looking at previous records) and the place wil go nuts.
Instead of Lei Seca, the guys had 'Lei Molada' (or wet law) and were offering to breathalyse people to check they had drunk enough alcohol. I was advised to drink more. I imagine that will happen over the next few weeks - but first, the tranquility of the Pantanal.
It was a surreal sight at first, the mixture of bright-eyed people such as ourselves who had just got up and those who never went to bed. Somehow the sheen that covers them is different, being older I guess. The red eyes are a giveaway too. Among the crowds was a group of lads who had dressed up as police from Lei Seca, or Dry Law, the cops who breathalyse folks here and fine them or take away their licences. If you have any booze in you AT ALL this can happen, which has gone down like a cup of cold sick in a country which has more holidays than any other a year, and that's before you take into account the full impact of carnival - and let's not even go there if it's a World Cup year. In fact, I am slightly afraid of still being here when the football's here, seeing as Brazil have a good chance of winning (looking at previous records) and the place wil go nuts.
Instead of Lei Seca, the guys had 'Lei Molada' (or wet law) and were offering to breathalyse people to check they had drunk enough alcohol. I was advised to drink more. I imagine that will happen over the next few weeks - but first, the tranquility of the Pantanal.
Friday 25 February 2011
Drums in the air
I am writing this while there is the occasional explosion of drums in the street outside. Being on a windy hill, it's difficult sometimes to work out where sound is coming from. In a way, it doesn't make much difference since being two weeks away from Carnaval means blocos of folks with deafening drums are pretty much everywhere.
Cariocas seem to travel most of the time, while their city fills up with tourists and people from outside Rio.
I wasn't looking forward to it particularly, seeing as I feel like an enforced party sometimes isn't fun - particularly one that goes on for more than a week. It's sort of like drinking with an alcoholic; at first it's a thrill ("we're starting at 7 in the morning!") then it starts to make you feel ill, and just when you feel totally broken and exhausted, it really kicks in.
However everyone says the bloco in Santa Teresa is one of the best, and having just got a ticket for the winner's parade on the final weekend at the sambadrome, I must admit I'm excited.
Before that, I'm going to spend a week in the Pantanal, the world's biggest wetland, getting up at 5am to trek across the big open plains in search of wildlife. I'll post some pictures on here once I come back, if I come back, and don't get eaten by an alligator or bitten by a Brazilian Wandering Spider (google that shit if you don't know).
Cariocas seem to travel most of the time, while their city fills up with tourists and people from outside Rio.
I wasn't looking forward to it particularly, seeing as I feel like an enforced party sometimes isn't fun - particularly one that goes on for more than a week. It's sort of like drinking with an alcoholic; at first it's a thrill ("we're starting at 7 in the morning!") then it starts to make you feel ill, and just when you feel totally broken and exhausted, it really kicks in.
However everyone says the bloco in Santa Teresa is one of the best, and having just got a ticket for the winner's parade on the final weekend at the sambadrome, I must admit I'm excited.
Before that, I'm going to spend a week in the Pantanal, the world's biggest wetland, getting up at 5am to trek across the big open plains in search of wildlife. I'll post some pictures on here once I come back, if I come back, and don't get eaten by an alligator or bitten by a Brazilian Wandering Spider (google that shit if you don't know).
Thursday 24 February 2011
Blame Google
And its slightly sinister attempts to configure all accounts together. I used to use another email address to post on here, and it's taken about half an hour to get into my own account. Thanks, but I don't particularly want my gmail (used for work) to link to my Facebook (used for friends) to link to this (somewhere in between).
Anyway, this week in the 40 degree heat I have been mostly knocking teaching on the head in favour of journalism. Probably in anticipation of the World Cup and Olympics here (right after the UK ones provide some tabloid fodder), you can't go anywhere without seeing adverts for English schools. They've often got names which try and make them sound really authentically American, like Wise Up or Uptown. They pay their teachers about £4 an hour, even less if you consider the time you spend preparing and travelling.
In some ways it's been good, as I've met lots of people that way and students have given me ideas or information about stories along the way. I just felt a bit like Will Smith in The Pursuit of Happyness when he's going to work every day in a suit, leaving a homeless hostel, and working at a stockbrokers but hardly being able to afford to eat. Now I'm keeping on a few private students just really for the conversation and excuse to leave the house.
In other news, summer is idyllic here, you can go to the beach every day, drink beer and wake up to another blue sky. The only problem is these little blighters - cockroaches - which are absolutely everywhere.
Next missive soon, if and when I manage to log in again.
Sunday 9 January 2011
Feliz ano novo
It may be nearly the 10th of January, but it still needs to be said.
I spent the new year, like a lot of people, on the beach at Copacabana, listening to samba, watching the fireworks and people throwing gladioli into the water for the spirit that is said to live there. Everyone wears white. It feels like a lot more hopeful a way to start the new year than getting hammered in the freezing cold and dark, waking up with the hangover from hell as I did on January 1 every other year in London since time began.
Apart from the surreal (and somehow dirty-looking) sight of Christmas trees and decorations in the lead-up to December 25, I barely noticed it was that time of year at all. Which, being apart from loved ones aside, is probably the best way to deal with Christmas in my opinion.
Since then, most Brazilians take a slow start to the new year despite having to go back to work generally on Jan 3 and working the week in between. Lots of English classes have been cancelled though thankfully I've been busier with journalism work.
In a strange twist of fate, Amy Winehouse, the epitome of car crash celebrity that dominated my previous employment, has been staying in Rio in a hotel almost opposite my house. I've seen the clusters of journalists outside day after day, and could not bring myself to join them. It's funny how irrelevant it all begins to seem. I can imagine how people like my parents feel, being perpetually pelted with this stuff about people whose identity they're not really sure of. Reading the News of the World, which is now not possible for free online from Brazil (or anywhere for that matter) is a strange experience. All I can think of when I do it is the deals that have been struck behind the scenes and the money that has changed hands, as agents set up false romances, paparazzi false photo shoots, and a process which must at times seem almost incomprehensible to those outside of it unfurls.
Even when I'm trying to contact potential interviewees here in faltering Portuguese, not sure if I'm going about things the "right" way, at least having a genuine interest in what they've got to say helps. It's not that process of week after week having to drum up interest in perfectly dull people such as Cheryl Cole. The process of journalism becomes weirdly easier out here than it was in the comfort of the city I've lived all my life.
The Christmas period did bring a wave of homesickness, and vows to come home, which now it approaches seem harder to justify. As it's turned out, the prediction that nothing would change hasn't been true - there have been births, deaths, life changing events in the lives of people I love. Even the barman of my former local changed pubs. But London is still there as it was, without hills giving way to the ocean, without blue skies, with it's middle class property-prices-and-school-fees obsessed folks sucking the joy and spontaneity out of everything. While occasionally writing features for the Daily Mail on the horror and indignity of shopping at Lidl since the recession.
My jury is still out on the timing of my return, though it's worth bearing in mind that even my former neighbour Ronnie Biggs went home eventually.
I spent the new year, like a lot of people, on the beach at Copacabana, listening to samba, watching the fireworks and people throwing gladioli into the water for the spirit that is said to live there. Everyone wears white. It feels like a lot more hopeful a way to start the new year than getting hammered in the freezing cold and dark, waking up with the hangover from hell as I did on January 1 every other year in London since time began.
Apart from the surreal (and somehow dirty-looking) sight of Christmas trees and decorations in the lead-up to December 25, I barely noticed it was that time of year at all. Which, being apart from loved ones aside, is probably the best way to deal with Christmas in my opinion.
Since then, most Brazilians take a slow start to the new year despite having to go back to work generally on Jan 3 and working the week in between. Lots of English classes have been cancelled though thankfully I've been busier with journalism work.
In a strange twist of fate, Amy Winehouse, the epitome of car crash celebrity that dominated my previous employment, has been staying in Rio in a hotel almost opposite my house. I've seen the clusters of journalists outside day after day, and could not bring myself to join them. It's funny how irrelevant it all begins to seem. I can imagine how people like my parents feel, being perpetually pelted with this stuff about people whose identity they're not really sure of. Reading the News of the World, which is now not possible for free online from Brazil (or anywhere for that matter) is a strange experience. All I can think of when I do it is the deals that have been struck behind the scenes and the money that has changed hands, as agents set up false romances, paparazzi false photo shoots, and a process which must at times seem almost incomprehensible to those outside of it unfurls.
Even when I'm trying to contact potential interviewees here in faltering Portuguese, not sure if I'm going about things the "right" way, at least having a genuine interest in what they've got to say helps. It's not that process of week after week having to drum up interest in perfectly dull people such as Cheryl Cole. The process of journalism becomes weirdly easier out here than it was in the comfort of the city I've lived all my life.
The Christmas period did bring a wave of homesickness, and vows to come home, which now it approaches seem harder to justify. As it's turned out, the prediction that nothing would change hasn't been true - there have been births, deaths, life changing events in the lives of people I love. Even the barman of my former local changed pubs. But London is still there as it was, without hills giving way to the ocean, without blue skies, with it's middle class property-prices-and-school-fees obsessed folks sucking the joy and spontaneity out of everything. While occasionally writing features for the Daily Mail on the horror and indignity of shopping at Lidl since the recession.
My jury is still out on the timing of my return, though it's worth bearing in mind that even my former neighbour Ronnie Biggs went home eventually.
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