The afternoon drinkers on George Street here in Hove are a rum lot, a glorious mix of ages and gender, most seemingly down on their luck, others lost in their personal reverie. Makes me sieve the memories of my own life and my relationship with alcohol and other drugs ….. although I am certainly not ‘down on my luck’ and probably never have been!

At one point in my teenage days, I vowed not to drink ….. but that didn’t last long. After ‘prep’ at boarding school one evening, we went off on bikes to The Owl, probably the smallest, grottiest village pub imaginable. I should add here that ‘pubs’ were out of bounds! My chums suggested a half pint of the basic draught beer, probably Wadsworths from the local brewery. I remember lifting it to my lips; bitter, watery, my face wrinkles even now at the thought of it. Somehow I drank it, not relishing the taste. And then I was persuaded to have another! Didn’t take much for my vow to lie shattered on the straw-strewn floor. Besides, alcohol plays a huge part of the fabric of our Western society, a lubricant for work, love and play, so why not just do what’s expected?

And everyone smoked!! Silk Cut, Passing Cloud, Gauloise, B&H, Dunhill, Marlborough; you name it, I probably smoked it! My grandparents lived in Bath and on a day off school I would take the bus to see them. My grandfather smoked unfiltered cigarettes and the ash would drop onto his waistcoat; the butts went into the wastepaper basket and then Granny, before retiring for the night, poured in some water to ensure there were no live embers!!! Once, on my way back to school on the Sunday evening, I got off the bus in Devizes to stretch my legs, with a cigarette in my mouth. Down the steps, straight into one of the school prefects! Oops! That earned me 6 strokes of the cane and much street cred! We got rather blasé about it as we got more senior. Ray and I would have a cigarette after breakfast ……. and then go off to the Applied Maths lesson; it took Mr Hiscock the teacher to remind us that cigarette smoke sticks to both breath and clothing!

At home as a family, my parents, brother and I would watch Saturday night television – smoking; on some occasions you could hardly see the screen through all the smoke! And to think it was permissible to smoke on the London Underground, on aeroplanes and in the cinema; I think we’ve moved in the right direction here, banning it from all public places! You remember that wonderful Nina Simone song “Don’t smoke in bed!”? Well, I think I used to start and finish the day with a cigarette; such is the addiction, the craving for nicotine. There were long periods in my life when I didn’t smoke and long periods when I did, but I had my last cigarette in 1994, well on Tuesday 21^st April at 9pm if you were wondering! Do I miss it? Sometimes, if I’m honest, yet smelling second-hand smoke is …. revolting!

Attitudes to alcohol and other drugs in the British Army simply reflected what was going on in civilian life, although thankfully the use of drugs other than nicotine, soft or hard, was rare. We smoked and we drank, both often to excess. My step-father gave me a silver cigarette case when I graduated from The Royal Military Academy; I still have it ……. and his father’s pewter hip flask circa 1890. I was posted to Germany, to a small town called Lippstadt, to help deter the Russians, for the Cold War was at its height. The hip flask came into its own filled with ‘ferrets’, a 50/50 mix of brandy and cherry brandy, on the bare-arsed live-firing ranges of Bergen-Hohne when the temperature dropped to minus 10 deg C.

We drank at lunchtime and in the evening. We ate in dinner jackets once a week and had formal ‘dinner nights’ once a month; we drank, often to excess! In the old Luftwaffe Officers Mess where we single officers lived, there was an interesting addition to the fittings in the ‘Gentlemen’s’. Made of good quality porcelain were two objects which looked like urinals, but were in fact receptacles for …… vomit! Yes! Truly; complete with long vertical side bars, brass and polished daily, to grip on to. Can you imagine? Even today I think how simply awful …… but so practical if alcohol had got the better of you! By the way, I don’t want to give the impression that we were always pissed! When we were out of barracks training, often for weeks on end, we were dry! We simply worked hard and played hard!

When I first started giving blood, the National Blood Transfusion service offered tea & biscuits afterwards; and still does I guess. But men were also asked whether they would like a bottle of Guinness, on the basis that this famous Irish stout would replace some of the iron that was contained in your donated pint of blood. Seemed madness to say ‘no’! So The State encouraged you to drink!

Not a great fan of beer, I developed a taste for wine, which when I was growing up was still a bit of a celebratory drink. The white wines were dominated by Liebfraumilch and Black Tower, cheap German imports – about the only good thing about them, in my opinion, was the name! I loved red wine, the gutsier the better. In my youth it was generally French although you could get decent German reds if you happened to be in that country. Gradually wine from the Antipodes made its way to England and Shiraz and Grenache became a favourite tipple. It was fine to drink as the advice at the time was “Red wine is good for you!”

Sailing and drinking seemed to go together too. There was one occasion when my hired yacht was tied up alongside a German one in the port of Soenderborg in Denmark; the crew had gone ashore – probably for a drink! The skipper of the German one asked whether I wanted to join him for a gin; my mind immediately imagined good gin, lovely tonic, a slice of lemon and lots of ice. Belong decks he opened a bottle of Gordon’s, and poured a generous amount into a glass …… and that was it; after a while neat gin isn’t that bad, but it does give you a headache!

I won’t recount how we felt the following morning after a few of us tried every drink on the bar list of the local teachers’ mess; or tell you at what time I had a first beer at the start of a yacht race in The Baltic. I will however offer my rather untutored observation after a Wine/Food Tasting event ……. that dessert wine will go with any type of food and I’ll advise you against drinking too much Pimms, with little lemonade and in strong sunshine.

Twelve years ago, I completed an ordinary detox of food and drink for the month of January; you know the sort of thing, no red meat, chicken, coffee, alcohol, wheat etc. Being quite an obsessive character, for me it’s often all or nothing. I couldn’t, for instance, just have one cigarette a day or a week, as some people can; it’s nothing or 20. I recognised that this was almost the case with alcohol. Was there a day in the week when I didn’t have a glass of wine with supper? Or could I not really remember??!!  Ha! Ha! So whilst I happily went back to drinking coffee and eating red meat, I sort of delayed drinking alcohol again. And that’s where I am today, looking for good non-alcoholic beers, and there are some, and coping in a society where it’s normal to drink. “Still not drinking then?” the husband of a friend asks. “No!” “Oh! Go on, just one won’t hurt!” For some drinkers it’s impossible to see that you can survive without alcohol, for it makes us more relaxed, less inhibited, so surely you would, wouldn’t you?

There was a discussion on the radio about alcohol some time ago and someone suggested that 99.9% of all human relationships in our Western culture generally started over a bottle of wine or a pint of beer. Celina and I had our first supper almost three years ago; she had some wine, I had some water. Someone said one drinks alcohol to make other people more interesting!! If this is the case, I leave you to draw your own conclusions!

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

It’s funny being back here in Hove after so long in Rio de Janeiro, but at least we had some relatively warm local weather to welcome us back. Even places familiar to one seem strange at first but you soon get back into the grove …… and you notice what’s new, what’s changed and what’s stayed the same …… if you keep your eyes open. There are those lovely lines from TS Eliot’s poem “The Four Giddings”:  “….. the end of all our exploring, will be to arrive where we started ….. and to know the place for the first time.” To know the place for the first time, huh! So we walk, looking, observing, finding the familiar and the new, unconsciously remembering and realigning.

Our neighbours had said that the sea had been extremely rough in January and February; we walked the 200 metres down to the shore. We looked; it looked at us, benign and calm at low water with relentless small waves lapping the sand. Had it really been rough? Had tons and tons of pebbles been hurled up off the beach, up onto the Victorian promenade, up against the beach huts? It looked so innocent, this sea that lapped the beach, as though it was teasing …. as though it was disclaiming all knowledge of its power.  Woes betide us when we forget, when we disregard the power of nature.

A photograph from February shows the whole promenade, some 20 metres wide, covered with pebbles to a depth of 50 centimetres or so ….. and the ‘beach’ only sand. I suspect the council shovelled it back, and the sea threw it back on a few more occasions before those winter storms finally abated. Can the sea have a sense of humour? Although it’s not alive as such, it acts, in cahoots with the moon and the wind, as if it is, doesn’t it? I bet a few council staff looked at the sea and said: “OK! Don’t do that again!” And of course it did, like some naughty boy, testing, teasing. Looking at the calm water shimmering in the afternoon sunshine, it’s easy to forget its power.

But I’ve experienced the same sea, turned malevolent and churned into turmoil by gale-force winds, when I’ve been sailing. Storming into The Solent past the Needles on an overnight trip from The Channel Islands many years ago, it doesn’t take a moment today to feel the lurching of the boat, the torrential rain and the sound of the screeching of the wind on the rigging; it was gusting severe gale force 9. Sure, I shouted at the sea: “Enough! Enough!” ……. and it ignored me! I never forget that power, that power of the natural forces on this planet; one is safe at sea because you develop a very healthy respect for the sea and understanding that makes sailing such an exhilarating sport. But I digress! Hove, Oh! Yes!

Further along the beach that destructive power has wreaked further havoc on the old West Pier, one of only two ‘listed’ piers in the United Kingdom. Closed since 1975, it was always going to be refurbished. Sadly, in 2003, just as money was allocated for its rebuilding, a fire completely consumed that which could be consumed. The Victorian ironworks have stood, twisted, bent and actually rather beautiful, abandoned in the shallows off the beach since then; a red buoy sits to seaward, warning of the danger. And now the power of the sea has reduced the remnants still further, large pieces having given up the survival battle and surrendered to the elements. I sense it’s time for the council to remove it completely, if only to save this magnificent Victorian structure further embarrassment.

Funnily enough this gaunt skeleton of past glories reminds me of some of the regular daytime drinkers at The Clifftonville Inn in nearby George Street!! (“Oh! God” Where’s he off to with this PC?”). Pedestrianised George Street is one of those streets that seems to attract certain types, and Hove is full of ‘certain types’!! In nearby Tesco’s you occasionally see Elvis, but it’s George Street which has the full panoply of life, in all its rich pageantry!! There are Goths galore and then those delightful old men and women who insist on dressing up before they venture out, never mind the hat, scarf, lamé suit and brogues or the smudged lipstick. Turkish men smoke and drink coffee at the outdoor tables of the café, the busker tries his luck with boxed musak accompanying his songs, at another café a regular has animated conversations …. with herself (!) and then there are those who congregate for a snifter. For them a drink or two and a smoke are essential elements of the day. Of course the stereotypical black clothes, the gaunt face, the odd pony tail and numerous tattoos don’t help to challenge my prejudicial and judgemental observations! The men look as though their ‘food’ is in a glass, the women exhibiting that rather ‘smoked’ look, taut paper-thin skin and wrinkled, from too many cigarettes … and their voices betray the smoker’s cough! If you’re feeling a little low, go and walk up George Street; you’ll soon feel better! Here the cry “Don’t forget your ‘5 a day’!” has a different meaning; more likely 5 pints and 25 cigarettes (roll-ups in this case) and not a piece of fruit or a carrot in sight! I wonder how they got to be the way they are, for surely it’s not healthy; maybe they don’t care, just enjoying the lift of alcohol and nicotine ….. I know I did!! But that’s another story!

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

If you’re a tourist going to Brazil you need, not surprisingly, a tourist visa.  There are plenty of other categories of course, catering for every type of visit or sexual persuasion! According to the Brazilian Consulate website the tourist visa is valid for 90 days and can be renewed for another 90 if necessary. You simply fill out the form on your flight and hand it to the person manning the Passport desk when you arrive. Sounds good, huh? Having cancelled our planned trip out to Rio de Janeiro in September last year, we looked at dates for the end of the year, 2013 that is. We knew we had to be out for Celina’s father’s 80th birthday on the 1st January 2014 and then thought about when we’d come back. February? Nah!  March? Well! OK! The end of March. That sounds about right; come back as the UK changes its clocks to British Summer Time. So we duly book our flights.

Looking at travel insurance, we began to realise we have, somewhat inadvertently, booked to be in Brazil for 92 days. And believe me, being older than 60 and wanting to stay somewhere for more than 90 days, getting travel insurance is NOT easy. Rather than change our flights by a couple of days, we plough on with our arrangements, succeed in getting some insurance, knowing of course …… we could extend my visa.

We arrive in Rio de Janeiro International airport, which in my opinion ranks way below, say, Delhi, around 2100 (midnight UK time) on the 27^th December last year. Our BA chum, Jorge San, welcomes us, well me (!), with flowers; maybe he thought my heart surgery would have finished me off and he wouldn’t see me again? We queue up to clear our passports; secretly I hope that they would give me a visa for 92 days and not simply 90. “Ē possivel estender o visto por 92 dias?”  (“Is it possible to have one for 92 days?”)  “Nao!” But the lady said we could simply extend it at any Policia Federal station/office, in fact the piece of paper stuffed into my passport reiterates this; there would be a charge (about Rs70 – almost £17). We are through.

Now I should explain at this point that I like obeying the law. Hey! I spent 20 years being paid by Her Majesty (God Bless Her) to protect the Kingdom, its laws and way of life, so it’s as ingrained in my DNA as the annual rings are in a tree. Surely my attitude towards Brazilian law should be no different. I put a note in my electronic diary to make sure we have got the extension way before the visa runs out …. and relax into the way of life in the tropics. Celina, who lets these things bother her, drops into a nearby Policia Federal office in Leblon when she’s finished at her dentist, during our first week. “Oh! No! Not us.” “ Eu nāo sei!” (Don’t know!) Try the British Consulate.” “But it’s not a British visa, it’s a Brazilian visa!” Eu nāo sei!”

We are flying down to Sāo Paulo from Santos Dumont, the ‘city’ airport in central Rio. We take the opportunity to see the Policia Federal there. “ Eu nāo sei!” The computer sits on his desk and I assume he could have found out what he should do by going onto a website, or even picking up the telephone; but no, a shrug of the shoulders and a “Try the Policia Federal in Sāo Paulo.”. Talk about passing the buck! This we do on arrival, not pass the buck, but try another Policia Federal and meet the same response! “ Eu nāo sei!” Later we have dinner with some Belgium chums, working in Sāo Paulo. They have had a nightmare trying to get extensions to work permits; sometimes they have paid a fine, and sometimes immigration passport control hadn’t noticed. “Don’t spend any more time on this; pay the fine!” I feel so uncomfortable doing this, against the grain so to speak, that I ignore this useful advice. In retrospect, stupid!

Back in Rio de Janeiro, we get in contact with our BA man, Jorge San. He would ask his chums at the airport. “Come out on Friday; I’ll introduce you to the Policia Federal and they will extend your visa.” By this time the visa has two weeks to run. Rio de Janeiro International airport is not the best place to be on a Friday afternoon, actually on any afternoon, as travelling back into the city takes forever; the traffic is horrendous. Jorge San is being kind, so we accept and spend two hours travelling out to the airport in a taxi (Rs60). We go up to the Department of Immigration. The world and his wife are ahead of us! Some have clearly camped out for days; others have that resigned look that one develops when confronted by bureaucracy. Jorge San disappears into the melee, re-emerging minutes later and waving us in. We sheepishly jump the queue and go into an inner office. I do not understand much Portuguese yet, but I’m good at reading body language and facial expressions. After the initial pleasantries ….  “Tudo Bem?” .. “ Bem! Voce?” …. “Bem!” there’s a serious conversation between a policeman and Jorge San. After a few minutes Jorge starts looking ‘worried’ and Celina blushes. It transpires that yes, he could extend it but …….. wait for it …… the computer wouldn’t connect to the printer, which anyway was out of ink, and so he couldn’t give me a receipt for my R$70. (And of course public officials in Brazil are not able to take cash without giving a receipt. Er! Is that right?)  His suggestion, and ‘he’ being a public servant and member of the Policia Federal, was to turn up for the flight and pay the fine for the 2 days – ie become illegal! Celina had blushed I suspect out of embarrassment for her country and the way things don’t work. We said: “Thanks.” and left; 2½ hours later we were home, having achieved absolutely zilch/niente/nothing/nada!

On Thursday 27^th March 2014 I become an illegal ‘estrangeiro’ (foreigner) in Brazil. Do people notice? I think initially I have some sign over my head; “I’m not legal! Arrest me! Deport me!”. But then I gradually relax …… as no one notices ….. and if they do they don’t care. On the Saturday, our BA Jorge San, who by this time was probably as embarrassed as Celina about the state of the Brazilian civil service, has helpfully said he would ensure our departure is as painless as possible, so we turn up for our flight in good time. Within minutes our suitcases are on their way and we make our way to ……. the Policia Federal, full of hope that I could admit my guilt and pay my fine (two days at R$8 per day – I have it in change in my sticky little hand). The chap is really really nice ……. and once he understands the issue ….. he smiles and starts interacting with his PC. A frown crosses his forehead; he slides his chair across the office to another PC at another desk. I look over his shoulder at the PC. It shows a box with a large red cross in it; he can’t interact with the office in Brazilia ……. and can’t print the receipt. I CAN’T PAY THE FINE. I want to scream, I want to shout, …… but actually it’s more appropriate to laugh, to laugh at the ridiculous nature of the situation, stymied at every turn, wanting to be ‘legal’ but not allowed to be …… by the police!! There is more discussion, a date stamp is found in a bottom drawer ….. somehow he finds an ink pad that actually has not dried out …… and my passport is stamped; I’m, er, legal! I press my damp notes and coin into Jorge San’s hand as he volunteers to pay the fine on the Monday. We leave, go through Passport Control to get ‘airside’ and relax.

This is Latin America. The middle class criticise and rail against corruption, the poor queue. If you live in a country such as England where the administration of the law works, it’s extremely difficult to understand just how this continent and in particular this country works … when it doesn’t work. But it does …. “Amanha”!! Living in the tropics will never be easy for those of us northern Europeans where respect for the law is in the DNA, because it works. But here, it’s the way it is ….. so why bother to get steamed up about it? You need to resign yourself to waiting, maybe in the queue, like the people in the airport, or not. Turn up and pay the fine!!??

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

P.S. The irony is that Policia Federal in Brazil will have made a note that I overstayed my visa and that I paid a fine (I have a scanned and emailed receipt to prove it!) But actually the next time we fly to Rio, I’ll be on a new passport, with a different number ……. and there will be no record of me ever being in Brazil. I can imagine being told: “Enjoy your stay with us!” as I’m handed back my passport!

Do you ever think when you go, say, to a huge airport like London’s  Heathrow, and check in for a flight somewhere, or even go to a busy railway station ..… and stand and watch the frenetic pace of life going on around you …… that this is how it normally is, every hour, every day, every week …… without it impacting your own world one little bit? We visit it briefly, fleetingly; people all over the world doing their own thing, living … just as you are living your life.

I’m lucky enough to have ancestors who travelled widely in the C18th and C19th; as a consequence I have a large family global diaspora, not to mention friends all over the world. It’s really fun to wonder, to imagine, what others are doing, when it’s lunchtime, in the sunshine in Hove ……..

Over in New Zealand there are relatives galore as Great Great Grandfather Henry moved his large family from India to Auckland in 1860, so I can take my pick. Here their day is over, it’s midnight and almost mid-winter and one could imagine everyone is safely tucked up in bed, in this “Land of The Long White Shroud” as it’s affectionately known. In Auckland Cousin Angela is probably dreaming about her latest Square Dancing exploits and her husband Michael of his next trip to England. In Tauranga cousin Peter and Gwenda are certainly tucked up in bed and near Napier Brian and Nicola should be in bed, but their dining room table is probably covered with maps and paperwork, as they put the finishing touches to their trip to North America. New Zealanders love to travel; they call it ‘Overseas Experience’ or OE, irrespective of age. They will be in Edmonton, Canada in August for the ITU World Triathlon Events for which their son William has qualified.

On South Island, Deb Nation, Nicola’s sister, is not one for an early bed; she lives in Lyttleton near Christchurch and worked for Radio New Zealand’s ‘Spectrum’ programme. I suspect she developed a habit of working late to meet deadlines and now, with no ‘work’ deadlines, she is simply reflecting on her day. Across the Tasman Sea, the evening is younger by a couple of hours. In the Merewether suburb of Newcastle cousin Libby Laery, who was born one day before me (!), has had a lovely day at her local sea-water swimming pool, and then probably chatted with her chums at the local café; now it’s time to get ready for bed.

In Cawnpore, India, it’s 6 o’clock in the evening, a hot and dusty evening, and the sounds of this busy town are clear over the Christian cemetery wall. Within, it’s a peaceful scene with its long dead inhabitants resting in the dry earth. Great great grandfather Henry’s father Stephen Nation lies here, where he succumbed to Cholera in August 1828 at the age of 48.The location of his grave is marked on the cemetery map, but time and weather have caused the tomb to crumble and the weeds are abundant; the exact location is impossible to find. He was born in Dulverton in Somerset, educated at Blundells, a minor Public School which is still open for business (!), joined the East India Company aged 16 and had had a very successful military career.

Here in England, it’s lunchtime and Celina and I, having been to our daily Bikram Yoga session, are just getting lunch organised. We ‘found’ another cousin of mine a couple of months ago, Sarah Kelen (née Corbett), and, as she lives in England, I imagine she’s lunching too! We hope our geographical closeness will enable us to uncover more of what the Corbetts were doing, are doing in Brazil.

Corbetts went to Brazil in 1830 and so here there are many relatives; you don’t get icebergs in the tropics but if you did, I’ve only found the tip! The generic Victorian era family had large numbers of children to offset the high incidence of infant mortality and Augustus Corbett and his descendants are no exception. We are in contact with Cecilia Corbett Moreira, who lives an hour from downtown Sao Paulo, but despite efforts on both sides to meet, we have yet to do so. There it’s 9 o’clock in the morning and probably cool, as they move into winter. In late May they had a huge hailstorm which left the city covered in white stuff!

The city that’s holding the 2014 International Triathlon in August is Edmonton, and that city has been the home for Caroline Carrol, a first cousin, for many many years. Here it’s 6 o’clock in the morning and I suspect she’s asleep, although I know her house is on the market ….. so she may not even be there! Oh! Well!!

In Victoria, British Columbia, it’s 5 o’clock in the morning and Michael Nation is up early. Well! I can only imagine he is huh!!? I look up the time of sunrise in Victoria at this time of year. It’s around 0515, rising almost in the North East (well, on a bearing of 52°), so Michael will see the sky lightening and maybe reddening. His great grandfather and mine were brothers and he’s been doing a huge amount of family research over the years. Recently he found some papers relating to Stephen Nation. Not expecting to die (!) Stephen hadn’t made a will and his widow Mary Ann simply auctioned all of his ‘stuff’ before returning to England with the five youngest children; the minutiae of the ‘stuff’ is amazing! Michael’s due in Europe later this summer, continuing to uncover more family connections. “Good morning Michael!”

So as you sit and live and love and work where you are, imagine people you know, family and friends, sitting, sleeping, working, living and loving where they are ………… across the world, at this time, at this moment. Just a thought!

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

 

 

 

When I first went to Brazil in 2012 I went to meet, and stay with, Celina’s parents, who have lived for forty years in a suburb of Rio de Janeiro called Sāo Conrado. It wasn’t until my second trip that I realised that this is actually pronounced “Sock Ohardo.”; well, something like that! Now my fifth trip has come to an end and I feel compelled to describe this very unique place.

Sāo Conrado is west of Ipanema and Copacabana, and is physically separated from them by a mountain on the east side called Os Dois Irmāos (The Two Brothers) and on the west side by a larger mountain called Pedra da Gavea. To the north the Parque Nacional da Tijuca is a wonderland of trails, steep ravines and the usual flora and fauna. Until the late 1970s the only way to travel into the city was either along a narrow coast road that hugged one of the brothers (!) or through a shanty town called Rocinha. As the government’s house building programme failed to keep pace with the growing need, the people built their own shacks and so these ‘favelas’ grew, higgledy pigeldy, cheek by jowl, but the vehicular traffic through the area ensured public visibility. In 1978 the city engineers tunnelled through the Two Brothers (ouch!) and built a dual carriageway all the way through to Barra on the other side of Pedra da Gavea. Rocinha was bypassed and the only traffic that continued was the one concerning drugs! It became a dangerous place, dangerous for those who lived there and for those from outside. Nowadays the programme to clear the favelas of criminals is having an effect; visit Rocinha on an officially-sanctioned tour and you find a bustling suburb of 90,000 inhabitants, with fast-food outlets, banks, churches and all the normal commercial activity that’s needed to support a large population. They even have their own internal postal service; the government delivers mail to a sorting office and Rocinha does the delivery! It’s not perfect by a long shot and it’s not completely cleared of the insidious drugs, but it’s getting better. Sadly the wealthy residents of Sao Conrado still hang on to their memories of the dangerous times and this distorts their view of the place, blaming it for everything bad; apparently Rocinha in 2014 is very different to that 20 years ago.

From the top of Rocinha, the view across Sāo Conrado is stunning. Ignore the roofs of the favela, these days tiled and painted, in the foreground, and the ground drops away towards the coast, with tall blocks of apartments nestling near the beach and a large golf course split by the main road. And here’s one of the biggest visible sights of contrasting wealth in Brazil. From Rocinha, a poor crowded favela, you not only look at the swimming pools and expensive shopping ‘mall’, but also at one of the most exclusive clubs in the country, the Gavea Golf & Country Club (GGCC aka Gavea). The irony is that some of the people who live in Rocinha work at Gavea; others work in the up-market shops or as domestics in the large houses and apartments that proliferate. Is this a pure example of a symbiotic relationship? I’ve got to know this area well and it’s off the tourist routes, unless they want to launch themselves off Pedra da Gavea on hang gliders or parafoils.

The Gavea Golf Club started in the early 1900s; Celina’s grandfather was one of the founder members and lived in a house overlooking the golf course, so I am amazingly lucky, very privileged, to be able to experience life within the club. I hope I’m not being too hypocritical in saying I really enjoy this but at the same time understand its juxtaposition with Rocinha. This is a very very exclusive club …… but I can tell you …..

During the week it’s the old & bold generation who play golf, assisted by caddies in white uniforms and electric golf carts. Afterwards they sit in wicker chairs, drink Chopp (a light Brazilian beer), smoke cigars under the sun umbrellas and talk about that missed putt, that hole-in-one! In the early evenings and at weekends the younger members practise their swings and putts.  I’m not a golfer but there is nothing so wonderful as the sound of a perfectly hit golf ball, the sound of metal striking the hard case of the little ball; it’s a sound one occasionally hears here! When you’ve completed 9 holes you have to cross a road and through an underpass to the next five. Golf carts are not known for their acceleration and watching them wait for a break in the fast-moving traffic to cross to the underpass is slightly unnerving.

The course is beautiful, mown fairways and manicured ‘greens’, all tended by an army of groundsmen. Eighty foot palm trees stand sentinel across the course; monkeys chatter in the trees; and yet you can look up …… and see Rocinha, ……. and maybe on a Friday hear the fireworks that supposedly celebrate a delivery of drugs. I wonder what members think when they see Rocinha, sitting like a boil on the hillside, needing to be lanced, maybe? Maybe they don’t ‘see’ it, see it for what it is, maybe they’re just inured to the way life is here.

In addition to the golf course, there’s a swimming pool where members swim laps, play with their children, cool off or even take some exercise in an AquaAerobics class. In fact it’s only members who can use the extra facilities, of the gym for instance, but we managed to join the pool exercise class for a couple of months until we were spotted …. and banned! There’s always someone who wants to enforce club rules in a very petty way and Gavea is no exception. Maybe because its exclusivity is so jealously guarded they are needed, but The Toad and her deputy, a retired Head Mistress- type, take their self-appointed role extremely seriously. Woe betide anyone who stretches the rules. I did sneak a haircut in the members-only area and hoped that The Toad was snoozing under an umbrella. In the old-fashioned chair Ferdinand cut my hair well, offering well-thumbed copies of either Playboy or an International Yachting Magazine – I certainly couldn’t afford any of  the yachts and as for what was on offer in the Playboy Magazine ….?

I titled this PC “Reflections of Sāo Conrado” and I am reminded of the old adage “Treat people as you expect to be treated” when I observe people at Gavea. The staff here are unfailingly courteous, whether they are the security detail on the gate, the pool staff or the waiters. Nothing seems too much trouble – I guess being employed at Gavea is considered quite a bonus. No one yells “Sanduiche Natural” or “Biscuito Globo” here by the pool! Santos or Clovis appear as if from nowhere and dispense coffee, drinks, and refreshing food; the Japanese sashimi is to die for. One young pool attendant has an alarm call at 0330 so she can make the commute and be on time. Yet I watch the way some people interact with the staff and I think: “Come the Revolution …….!” And of course the current president of Brazil is an ex-Marxist guerrilla so it’s not such a wild thought!!

If you have young children in Brazil and you can afford it, you have a nanny. In fact the Brazilians I’ve met find it really strange that, for instance, my daughter Jade doesn’t. “How does she cope?” “She has two children and she doesn’t have help?” So at Gavea the nanny, dressed in a white T shirt, white shorts and white Havianas, (the ubiquitous ‘flip flop’) is a common sight.

The real irony of this area of Rio de Janeiro is that it is named after a saint who had a reputation for caring for the poor and disadvantaged. Maybe he shakes his head in disbelief when he walks the fairways of Gavea during the night, and looks up and sees Rocinha, its lights twinkling up the hillside. Edgy, incongruous, this is Sāo Conrado.

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

Note: If you know absolutely nothing about golf, this is my brief explanation …. and I do not know much!!

You have to hit a ridiculously small ball as far as you can towards a distant hole, and try and get the ball into the hole. To make it easy they plant a colourful flag in the hole. Can’t miss huh?  You hit it with a club which is very special, a stick with a weight on the end, and they costs a fortune. There is no correlation between the cost of the club and the distance you can hit a ball. On most ‘holes’ you need to hit the ball more than once. The longest distance anyone anywhere has hit a ball is 515 yards, but normally 250 yards would be considered a good distance. It’s very competitive; the person who puts the ball into the hole with the least number of hits wins. Simple huh?

 

 

Paraty or Picinguaba? Such a difficult choice; by reputation two of the most beautiful locations on the coast between Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo, and certainly two wonderfully exotic-sounding places!! Picinguaba is to the west of Paraty, and is a beach resort guaranteed to provide a place to unwind, a place to watch men fish and maybe to eat their catch; they’ve named the village after the indigenous tribe that lived here in the C16th. Paraty (pronounced Parachee) is closer to Rio by 40 minutes and has centuries of history – sounded perfect! Dear Brazilian chums of Celina in London had stayed at the Pousada Porto Imperial and had enjoyed it enormously. We booked online; it took a phone call to persuade them not to insist on my photocopying my passport and both sides of the credit card, scanning and sending them!! Accommodation in good hotels in Brazil is not cheap but the Porto Imperial did not disappoint in any respect and its location was excellent.

The commercial development of São Paulo and Minas Gerais during the C17th and C18th relied heavily on the development of Paraty as a port, an outlet for their exports, sugar, gold and coffee, to Portugal; in fact the road from São Paulo became known as the Caminho do Ouro (Gold Way). Latterly, as the drinks industry developed, casks of the Brazilian liquor Cachaça, distilled from sugar cane, joined the trail. Paraty was one of the most important ports in Brazil before Port Santos was built, closer to São Paulo, and loved by the Imperial family. Now it’s one of the best preserved Portuguese colonial towns, and may eventually become a World Heritage site.

With the hotel on the eastern edge of the old town, you can walk out of the front door ….. and into the C17th. Well! Almost! It’s easy to sense the ghosts of townspeople past, the traders, the fishermen, the sailors, their feet on the old cobbled streets. Half close your eyes and the throng, noise and bustle of this past life becomes imaginable. The buildings may have been turned into restaurants and bijoux shops selling locally-made arts and crafts, but the structure hasn’t changed. Well-proportioned single storey buildings, with only the odd church, such as the church of Igreja da Matriz Nossa Senhora dos Remedios standing in the main square, and larger mansions, boasting a second level. This was a small town, the old part no bigger than 200m wide and 300m long.

The streets are paved with an uneven collection of stones, the forerunner of the uniform cobble. The centre of the street has a more level line, well, comparatively (!!), probably for the  wheel of a hand cart. If you’re unsteady on your feet, this is not the place for you; but you do get used to it and tread carefully. The only disadvantage is you tend to be looking down at where your feet might go next, and not up at the architecture. One of the tour guides said that physiotherapists did a roaring trade tending sprained and twisted ankles. On the seafront the church of Igreja de Santa Rita Postal de Paraty has become the iconic pinup of Paraty. Fish is plentiful and fresh here, and we ate at Batholomew’s and at the Banana Da Terra. Both restaurants would do well in London; wonderful food but sadly comparable prices!

We had two complete days so decided to spend one on the sea and one in the hinterland. Like all coastal towns that depend on tourism, there are plenty of options. Neptun II, a 30m yellow schooner, provided exactly what it said on the tin. In the company of some 50 others from all around the world, we sailed off into the bay, to anchor off a beach to swim, to watch the colourful fish and dolphins, to visit other islands in the bay, and to have lunch on board. The canned music was tolerable, drinks were available, and the crew did everything they could to ensure we had a fun and safe time.

Fabio drove the truck the next day and was our guide for our trip into the Atlantic Forest, part of the National Park of Bocaina Mountain. A teacher of Capoeira (see note below) and a boat skipper, he took us to the obligatory Cachaça distillery where at 1100 in the morning you are invited to taste this very Brazilian drink – and of course make a purchase in the shop. The sugar cane takes 6 months to grow and develop its juice; the cropping and manufacturing process starts in May and runs until November. Then on to Pedra Branca, a large waterfall with swimming pools and roaring cascades. Strange to swim in natural water that’s not salty! Absolutely beautiful; miles from anywhere, floating in a rock pool, I could easily have imagined I was in paradise – if I could have shut out the noise of all the other tourists, that is!

Another Cachaça distillery, another torrent of water tumbling over smooth rocks, bumping along jungle trails, Avocados hanging from the trees, wild Banana plants growing by the roadside; a nice change from the beach …. and the sea!

Paraty has a more modern commercial part, stretching further inland, but it’s the old town which attracted me so much. No cars, no bright street lights, the houses all painted white with colourful shutters and doors often of differing colours; and I even got to love the strange ‘cobbles’.

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

P.S. Incidentally, in the UK if we think ‘international book festivals?’ we think of Hay-on-Wye; here Brazilians think of Paraty, where there is a huge festival during the winter!

Note: Capoeria

Capoeira is a Brazilian form of Martial Arts, combining elements of dance, acrobatics and music. It was developed by the slaves who came from Africa to labour in the sugar cane plantations. Through Capoeira they learned how to fight and defend themselves, but disguised this as a dance, thus escaping punishment. With the abolition of slavery in 1888 those trained in Capoeira became a nuisance in the cities. As a consequence, the teaching of it was banned in 1890 and that ban not lifted until 1941. Today masters of Capoeira, Capoeiristas, teach all over the world and the Martial Art has a huge following.

It’s a little known aspect of life in Brazil but there is something of a fixation on the bottom here. Is it the only country in the world to have a competition for the most beautiful bottom? Have you ever heard of Andressa Soares aka Mulher Melancia (Watermelon Woman), who’s famous for having an enormous bottom that she shakes and …….. you know the sort of thing? For those with more time on their hands than sense, look at her on YouTube.

Why do I feel the need to tell you this, to add this as a postscript to my PC about beach life here in Brazil? Well, I had talked about the dental floss and how popular it is. A few weeks ago, we were on our way back from the beach to find a cab and we were walking up a side street full of parked cars. It was that time of day when families leave the beach for home, and ahead of us a couple were loading their beach paraphernalia into their car boot; they had a young child so there was a lot! The woman hadn’t bothered to cover up and was still as she had been on the beach. Celina drew my attention to the fact that her dental floss had, er!! shrunk? It was going to be one of those situations when you had to drum up courage to pass by on the pavement …… just as I did, she leant over the boot. I should say at this point that she probably would not have made the regional heats for the Best Bumbum Competition (Yes! Really! That’s what they call a bottom here – bumbum!!). I have never been so close to so much exposed cellulite on a public street in my life; I squeezed past, averting my eyes and trying not to cry, laugh, get stressed, feel awkward.

I do think my heart rate increased though so was glad I’d had that bypass!!

Just thought I would share this with you!

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

Rio de Janeiro is famous for its beaches, for their proximity to the centre of the city and therefore for their ease of access, for their cleanliness, for the clarity of the water. And Brazilians love the beach; as the sun comes up the beaches and paved areas come alive with joggers, walkers, fitness fanatics, swimmers, surfers, volley ball players. The names of two beaches, Copacabana and Ipanema, are recognised throughout the world. Maybe people come just to search for that girl on the latter?!

When we go to the beach we go to the 18km long beach of Barra da Tijuca, which starts some 6kms west of Sāo Conrado; it’s only 10 minutes by taxi as opposed to 40 to Ipanema – such is the traffic in the city!

The beaches are overlooked by Life Guard stations located every 500m or so. From here fit men and women keep an eye on what’s happening, and help those in difficulties. Despite the lovely looking water the offshore currents are strong and potentially dangerous. Beach sports proliferate; put up a net, stake out an oblong, and the ball gets punched backwards and forwards. Closer to the sea a couple will hit a small hard ball to each other with a table tennis-like bat; it’s known as Fresco ball. Again, and again and …….. the hard ball on hard wood produces a sound that carries across the sand ……the sound of beach life in Brazil. Some days we walk along the sand, just on the water’s edge, from Life Guard station 2 down to Number 5 or even 6 or maybe (!) 6½! If you get too hot, the sea is cool and refreshing.

“Sanwhitches Natooral, Sanwhitches Natooral!” In Portuguese this is actually ‘Sanduiche Natural’, but this is how my untrained ear hears it. For me it epitomises this beach life in Brazil. The chap carries a coolbox over one shoulder, but his body is bent by the uneven weight, his head bowed and he seems to drag his feet through the hot sand, forever crying “Sanduiches Natural” with great enthusiasm! Honestly, would you ever want a sandwich when it’s 36°C? He’s become so familiar to me that when I don’t hear him, I wonder whether he’s OK!! But he’s not the only salesman; you hear them all shouting their sales pitch down the beach – “Mate!” (pronounced ‘matchee’) – a strong sweet tea in a can, “água!”, “chapeu” (think Panama-style hat),  sun tan lotion, bikinis, wraps, and of course “Biscuito Globo”. This thin doughnut-shaped ‘biscuit’ isn’t really a biscuit as you or I would know it. It’s made of polvilho flour, is extremely light, and in the beach environment, just to die for!! Anywhere else you would think: “What is this tasteless, flavourless snack”!!! At weekends an enterprising Brazilian of Arab decent (?) rides a fibreglass orange camel, the panniers stuffed with kebabs and other Middle Eastern food. It is SO bizarre, the Arabian music heralding his progress down the beach, his helpers pushing and pulling the camel, and people queuing up to purchase his food. The cash box is under the tail!

Every now and again there’s a Barraca, a temporary tubular steel construction of shade from which you can hire chairs, an umbrella and buy cold drinks. The one near Life Guard station Two is run by Severina. She is an absolute delight. Fifty something, during the week she runs a small shop; during the weekend her Barraca is the centre of beach gossip and wisdom. She’s known Celina for many years and welcomes us in true Brazilian style. Call from our chairs for some ‘água sem gas’ and a Zero Coke, and she dives into her huge cool box and hands them to Mineiro. He’s in his 80s, needs a knee operation and is not a good example of dental health; he hobbles across the sand, oblivious of its scorching temperature, and smiles as he hands them across. He loves being useful!

Brazil is famous for its beaches and for its beautiful people. There has been a gradual move away from near nudity in the carnival parades of the past and it’s little known internationally that being topless on a beach is unlawful. But I’m never quite sure when reality ends and imagination begins; never more so than on the beach! We all know that Brazil invented the ‘Brazilian wax’ ……. and it doesn’t take long on a beach here to understand why it was necessary. You know that term ‘dental floss’? Well, some women spend a huge amount of money for very little material to go around ‘you know where’. And the men? Well, they simply ‘strut’ and ‘pose’. Tattoos are numerous and colourful, upper bodies are honed, smoothed and packed  …..  and then they just stand, like a peacock, flexing, puffing, colourful. There are, of course, more numerous ‘normal’ people, of varying shapes and sizes, just enjoying the sunshine.

Further to the west are the smaller beaches of Prainha and Grumari, where the biggest waves in Rio de Janeiro attract numerous surfers. You need a car to get here, out beyond the urbanisation, and the undertow on the beaches discourages families with young children; worth the drive if only for the lack of other people. But there are no cries of “Biscuito Globo” or “Sanduiches Natural” and, despite the thunder of the waves and the yells of the surfers having fun, it isn’t quite ‘beach life in Brazil’!

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

The beat is incessant, the rhythm infectious; welcome to Samba time in Brazil! You can’t help but join in, unless your feet are nailed to the earth; even staid cool Englishmen move, if only a little, a gentle shake here, a loose hip there.

I certainly had no real knowledge of what ‘Carnival’ meant here. I understood it took place over four days before Ash Wednesday and involved everyone, but imagined street parades with floats and dancers and extravagant costumes. Back when it started in 1823 it might have been, but now it is more, much more …..

Firstly there are the Blocos, street parties where seemingly anyone who can create a stand for a DJ and/or a singer, order the beer, simply has to wait for the crowds of 20-30 year olds to turn up and party, some in crazy costumes, some smeared with paint; Oh! And it needs to be next to the beach if possible. ‘Carnival’ here is a holiday and the local newspaper named 90 places where there would be a bloco. Sadly the rhythm of Samba seemed absent from the ones we heard, replaced by techno or somesuch, but my sources say this is not usual. My abiding memory is of huge unattractive noise during the gathering and huge unattractive rubbish everywhere when it was all over. The Rio street cleaners chose Carnival this year to stage a three day strike over wages; they’ve now been offered a monthly salary of Rs1200 (£300). I feel sorry for them as they clearly take pride in cleaning somewhere, only for uncaring souls to drop more rubbish, the beer can, the take-away food wrapper. Sadly I sense this is the same the whole world over; certainly London and Brighton are not immune from this loutish behaviour.

The Samba Schools represent both ordinary neighbourhoods and favelas and are a hugely important part of the social fabric of these communities. Whilst the actual carnival parade may take a school just one hour, the work in deciding on a theme, in designing the costumes, in making them, in rehearsing – in fact the thousand and one things that go into making a successful endeavour – will start for the 2015 carnival in the next few weeks!

The Samba Schools here in Rio parade not along the streets any more, but in the Sambodromo. This unique stadium was designed by the Brazilian architect Oscar Neimeyer; completed in 1984, it is a 13 metre wide stretch of concrete, 700m long, with banks of 14 viewing stands on both sides. The Sambodromo has a capacity of 90,000 and will form part of Rio’s Olympic facilities in 2016. (For what I’m not sure!!) Each school gets an allotted start time for their parade; with over 5,000 people in each school, the timings are sensibly flexible, but you can imagine the logistical nightmare of getting the right group into the right place at the right time. The schools compete to go into the Special Group, the winner of which gains enormous prestige and kudos.

So now I have a better idea of what one aspect of carnival is all about but then you have to get some tickets. You might think it was easy, reasonably straight forward; Celina will tell you otherwise. After looking at vaguely official websites and worrying that they might just take your money and run, she rang around some hotels and found Livia in the Hotel Windsor in Barra. After 36 hours of telephone calls we secured two tickets for one of the viewing stands, Number 11, opposite the judges for the Sunday night. (See below) I say night because nothing starts until 2100, and the last samba school, Beija Flor, was not scheduled to start until 0350!! Start!! Not finish!! But this is Rio de Janeiro …….

We bought tickets for a coach from the hotel and arrived at the Sambodromo rather late due to the traffic, after the first school had started. One is assaulted by noise, by the Samba beat, by people singing and sellers selling beer and soft drinks. We climbed up into Stand 11, up and up, until we stood at the very top, hemmed in on all sides by the multitude of people, mainly locals but a smattering of tourists from all over the world; there was no space left in the concrete stand to sit so we stood!. The sheer enormity of the spectacle is awesome; thousands and thousands of people, in the parade, on the stands, staffing it, security, stretching the half-a-mile down to the start. It didn’t seem necessary but to herald the start of the next school, we had 5 minutes of fireworks, cracking, whistling, banging overhead.

Each Samba school decides a theme, and the floats and dancers interpret the theme, telling the story. They say Brazil is a creative country; well, the creativity and sheer exuberance on display here is breath-taking. To the inexperienced ear, the ‘samba’ beat remains the same, only the words to the songs peculiar to the school, but the costumes, colour and displays vary so much and are simply amazing. Gradually the next parade moves along between the stands, each set of dancers showing off their outfits with a vibrancy and enthusiasm that emphasised the fun and delight that they obviously all feel, to take part in the “Greatest Street Carnival in the World”.  We felt really privileged to have seen it.

Celina has a Latin sense of rhythm and for her the sound that gets her on her feet is the sound of the drummers. These Bateria play a vital role, keeping the beat going and loud enough to be heard by the parade participants. In the Sambodromo there were possibly 300 drummers in each Bateria, creating sounds out of a huge variety of drums.

Time slipped by. I got rather blasé about what I saw, judging one better than another, more of the same, but different!! Eventually after a school called Mangueira were half way through, we decided to make our way down to a coach; it was after all 0255! We were in bed by 0400 and learned later that there was still a traffic jam around the Sambodromo at 0730. What an experience; what a night!

Whilst the spectacle of the Sambodromo was huge, electric but impersonal, one evening the previous week we had gone done to the beach at Sāo Conrado and watched the local samba school of the Rocinha favela practise. Here the bateria was 60 people …… 6 feet away! You could see the concentration on their faces, these creators of the beat, their joy at being part of such a family, the sweat; people started dancing ……. “and the beat goes on”, as they say. This is where it all starts, with a group of people wanting to dance to the samba beat.

Listen to the beat and smile

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com

PS If you ever go to Rio for Carnival book through Central Liesa de Atendimento in Rio de Janeiro. Ticket prices vary enormously.

 

 

 

 

 

The road to Petropolis, a one-way dual carriageway, rises up from sea level into the green and lush mountains where the city lies. The air is clearer here, almost 10 deg C cooler than on the coast and the pace of life more relaxed. We arrive at the central bus station after an uneventful 90 minute trip from the centre of Rio. One of the great aspects of life in Brazil is the quality of the loos and after our long journey this is where we head! Celina suddenly asks: “Have you got your passport?” …….. and here’s me thinking I’m just going to have a pee! “Yes!” I reply, not really understanding the significance of the question. Whilst in the UK we don’t have a national ID card, they do here in Brazil and it’s often asked for, so it’s advisable to carry one’s passport for ID purposes ……. I pull it from my pocket. The Loo Attendant (note the capital letters!) scrutinises it …….  and suddenly I am waived through the turnstile without paying  – being over 65 can be an advantage here!!!!

Whilst history was not one of my favourite subjects at school, I now love finding out how certain events have shaped nations and been catalysts for change. If history bores you, skip this bit! When Napoleon was rampaging through the Iberian Peninsula in the early 1800s, confronted amongst others by the Duke of Wellington, the Portuguese Royal family decided Lisbon was too dangerous and sailed for their colony Brazil. After Napoleon’s defeat in the Peninsular War, his failure to win at Waterloo, and his exile to St Helena, the Portuguese king, Juan VI, decided it was safe to return to Portugal. His (crafty?) son stayed on and in 1822 declared himself king, Pedro I, of an independent Brazil. King Pedro I liked Rio de Janeiro but found the summer insufferably hot, so decamped to the mountains some 90kms north, and started the construction of a palace. Well, he didn’t, obviously; he told some senior officials who told some lesser minions and so the palace was built ……. and Petropolis was founded in 1843. Pedro I eventually went back to Portugal and his son, Pedro II, and his family would spend the hot months here and it flourished as the summer court. German farmers from the Rhineland were encouraged to immigrate and to settle on the King’s outlying lands, to help give the palace a charming urban setting. The city becomes a magnate for the rich and famous, all anxious to be connected in some way to the Royal Family and it remained the centre of Brazilian society until the declaration of The Republic in 1889. Their huge ostentatious mansions, now either owned by the State or by medical clinics, stand as a reminder of a bygone age. Petropolis was the official capital of the state of Rio de Janeiro between 1894 and 1902, when that status transferred to the city of Rio. (What if Napoleon hadn’t lived? What if the King of Portugal hadn’t spent time in Brazil? What if his son hadn’t stayed? What if …..??)

We stayed in the summer house of Celina’s father Carlos’s half-sister Teresa, who sadly remained in Rio but who had ensured we had a comfortable night. Her house is very central and lies just behind the Cathedral of São Pedro. The cathedral is made of grey granite and reminded me of something Scottish, although it had been designed by a Frenchman. A small side chapel holds the remains of King Pedro II, his wife Teresa, their daughter Isabella and her French husband Count d’Eu.

The Imperial Palace is now the Imperial Museum, housing memorabilia of the family including the Imperial crown; it’s worth a visit. And for those who run stately homes and palaces worried about the wear and tear on the floors of countless visitors, do what the Imperial Museum does; soft slippers that fit over your shoes are provided, so you can glide around without scratching the floors! A little like speed-skating I suppose; never done it but I imagine?

Another interesting place to visit is a quaint little house built for the Father of Aviation Alberto Santos-Dumont. Whilst history debates whether he or the Wright Brothers could claim the title, this quirky rich son of a coffee plantation owner certainly flew the first heavy-than-air machine supported by a wheeled undercarriage in 1906. Most of his life he spent in France where his aviation inventions are hugely admired. His friendship with Louis Cartier led to the latter designing him a watch he could wear on his wrist, as he needed two hands to pilot his aeroplane and couldn’t look at his pocket watch! He developed MS and returned to his native Brazil in 1931, settling in Petropolis. Look on-line at this house and see the staircase that can only be used if you start with the right foot! His suicide in 1932 is generally thought to be caused not only by his depressed feelings about his MS but also the guilt he felt that his machines were being used in warfare, locally in a 6 month conflict in the state of Sao Paulo.

Growing up in England I used to believe that virtually all the important inventions in the world had been made by the British. Then I began to understand that that wasn’t quite true, that actually the Americans had had a few successes, not to mention the French, then that actually the Chinese had invented everything before everybody else …… and now I have to accept that it was a Brazilian who first flew a heavy-than-air machine and not the Wright Brothers. Heh! Ho!

Back to Rio the following day, a longer journey timewise because of the traffic. We came down to Barra de Tijuca which lies just to the west of the suburb of Sao Conrado and is the site of the main Olympic park for 2016. There is a new bus station and by 2016 the new Metro extension will link Barra with central Rio; currently it’s a huge construction site.

Hope all’s well with you. Smile!

Richard Yates – richardyates24@gmail.com