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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.