Portuguese vs. Brazilian

There’s no denying that my degree is unusual. The combination of languages is a strange one, which usually evokes a surprised or confused reaction. Of the languages offered at Bristol, I couldn’t have chosen two that contrast more. Russian, with its Slavic roots, aspectual verb pairs and approximately 57 different words meaning ‘to go’, has very few similarities with Portuguese, a plethora of subjunctive constructions and complex tenses.

an introduction to prefixed verbs of motion...

It is interesting to note, therefore, that these two languages occasionally sound similar. The ‘sh’ and ‘ch’ sounds, combined with the closed Portuguese accent, can lead it to be mistaken for Russian. Indeed, people have remarked that my spoken Portuguese carries a Russian twang, on the rare occasion that I have a long enough conversation for it to be detected. I can assure you, however, that the perceived similarities are merely superficial. With my focus now, naturally, on Portuguese, I have encountered an unforeseen problem: the Brazilian accent. I say unforeseen, but I suppose I mean underestimated. It turns out that the Portuguese spoken in Brazil is markedly different to the one from Portugal that I have spent two years learning. Allow me to demonstrate.

Portuguese, just like English, had to cross the Atlantic. And, just like English, the accent that grew in American pastures, was noticeably different to its European brother. Although not a perfect comparison, the differences between British and American English comes close to serving as a control in my Portuguese experiment. But where the Americans have altered a few words and the accent, the Brazilians went further, taking words from Indigenous and African tribes, as well as simplifying the grammar over time. As a result, the Portuguese spoken in Brazil is a far cry from the language that arrived in the year 1500 and, indeed, the language spoken in Portugal today.

Herein lies my dilemma. Which language should I learn? Of course, I will aim to learn both, but trying to flick between the two is far easier said than done. The choice might seem obvious: Brazilian. Brazil, which is home to nearly 20 times more Portuguese speakers than Portugal; Brazil, one of the fastest growing economies on the planet, forming part of the BRIC nations; Brazil, a hotbed of cultural diversity. And yet, I find myself leaning towards the European version, though not just in an attempt to please my Portuguese flat mates. To explain why, I shall again need to draw on the English comparison.

As an English man, I find a few of the various Americanisms than have infiltrated our language somewhat irksome. I don’t mean all of them; just the ridiculous ones like calling petrol (a liquid), “gas”, or giving the word ‘herb’ a silent ‘h’. Barbarity. Proud of my country, and of the language it has bestowed on me, I feel a sense of duty to uphold the excellence and diverse vocabulary of my native tongue. Although some Americanisms do actually make a lot of sense, I feel it is only natural for me to insist that British English is the proper way to speak, simply because we invented it.

But language is the essence of communication. And it would be both arrogant and naïve of me to say that there is only one correct way to speak English. The beauty of language is that it is adaptable and diverse. Countries and regions where English is spoken have adjusted and developed the language throughout history and continue to do so. The same can be said with Portuguese.

Brazilians are fairly chatty, and their language mirrors that trait. It is a language that is designed to be enjoyed with a caipirinha on the beach or whilst sitting in one of Rio’s perpetual traffic jams. Simplifications to grammatical rules governing gerunds, articles and the subjunctive have made the spoken language in Brazil more accessible over time, particularly in speech. The main problem this poses for me is that some expressions used contradict the grammar I have been taught.

But the main linguistic quandary in which I find myself is to do with the accent. I blame myself for not listening to more Portuguese since I started learning, but even if I had, I would probably have been listening to a language that would not hugely benefit me when living in Brazil. Pronunciation differs enormously across the pond. The suave Portuguese accent is very unlike the melodious, undulating dialect you hear in Brazil. The prominence of the ‘ch’ is instantly noticeable, while the ‘sh’ is used far less frequently. Emphasis is placed on words that I don’t expect and I regularly fail to catch a word of what my boss is saying. At times it is frustrating, but then, this is the challenge I signed up for and aim to complete it I shall.

So, what is my decision? Which accent shall I attempt to master? Well, the answer is actually both. I remain firmly sitting on the fence. Brazilian Portuguese should be my answer, given that I am likely to spend more time here than in Portugal, the next 4 months included. However, if truth be told, I prefer the Portuguese accent. Perhaps its resemblance to Russian appeals to my soul; perhaps I feel I should honour the inventors of this language; or maybe I just understand it more easily. Whatever the reasoning behind this impulsive decision, one thing is for sure: my head says Brazilian and my heart says Portuguese.

A Weekend in Paradise: Ilha Grande

After six weeks of living in a city as beautiful as Rio de Janeiro, where the sky is consistently blue, the temperature rarely drops below 30-degrees, and the glistening, blue waves of the Atlantic Ocean lap lazily over the white, sandy beaches, I could be forgiven for thinking that I was in paradise. However, this weekend, I was amazed and delighted to discover that I was wrong.

A three-hour bus journey South of Rio, lies the enchanting Ilha Grande (Big Island). Its uninspiring name could not contrast more starkly with the delights found there: lagoons, wildlife, beaches, waterfalls and a dense jungle of spectacular diversity. I set off on Thursday morning for a long weekend away with three amigos from university, after managing to negotiate a couple of days off work. The journey, though wrought with suspense (we feared the last boat to the island might set sail without us), was thoroughly pleasant and we arrived in beaming sunshine and good spirits.

the approach to abraão

Delighted to be out of the city for a few days, Caz, Chaz, Bonge and Maz disembarked in the small town of Abraão on Thursday afternoon. Towering coconut trees lined the cobbled streets, free of vehicles, but thronging with restaurants and tourist shops. I’m told that tourists only started coming to the island about twenty years ago, and although you certainly feel the travelling atmosphere, something about the place still feels a little undiscovered.

Settling back into the hostel lifestyle was ever so easy. Grab a beer, sit on a hammock and get chatting to whomever you see. As it turned out, this Brazilian island seemed to be entirely made up of Argentines and Israelis. Now, my Hebrew really isn’t up to much, so I fell back on my Spanish, which has become rusty over time, but still just about comprehensible. Thoroughly chuffed at our arriving successfully, the first evening revolved around caipirinhas and partying on the streets to a live, local duo. Even better was that the rain, promised by numerous websites and devices, did not come.

(from left to right) Chaz, Caz, Maz and Bonge

Up early the following morning, despite mind and body fervently protesting, we set off to Lopes Mendes beach at the South of the island. Acknowledged by the Guardian as one of Brazil’s top ten beaches, it had a lot to live up to, but the 3km stretch of deserted beach and clear water did not disappoint. I wholeheartedly agree that Ipanema beach in Rio is a beautiful sight, but seeing Lopes Mendes, devoid of buildings, cars, street sellers and other punters, showed me just what I’d been missing. The jungle backdrop alone was enough to make my jaw to drop.

But before enjoying this stunning beach, we had to negotiate a two and a half hour trek through the trees, up and down steep hills in 37-degree heat. It was worth it though, just to arrive at the beach with a feeling of accomplishment. I deserved this. However, I perhaps didn’t deserve what happened next, although I’ll let you be the judge of that, as it was entirely my fault. Firstly, my new, sparkling white speedos had apparently befuddled me earlier in the day. Somehow, I had them on inside out. It was all fun and games until I discovered that they had become slightly see-through. However, I defy you to find anyone better at reversing speedos whilst being buffeted by churning Atlantic waves.

carefree tanning

The second misfortune to befall me was again entirely my own fault: desperate to cover myself in sun cream, I reached into my bag and hurriedly sprayed what turned out to be insect repellent all over my face. Two hours of sweating profusely, two different brands of sun cream and two hefty sprays of the jungle formula were brought together on my face with the force of a chemical reaction. For a few minutes I was moaning, cowering beneath the shade of trees and draped in a damp towel. I definitely deserved a lie down.

Throughout the weekend, we made use of the taxis the island had to offer. Boat taxis. You pay to get from A to B and for a free speedboat ride. Not a bad deal if you ask me. Saturday was spent on a boat, exploring various beaches and lagoons that the island has to offer. Tanning nicely in the morning was followed up by some snorkelling and kayaking, either side of a beachside barbecue and topped off in the evening with throwing ourselves off the side of the boat. I was having a fantastic time.

sun, sea and speedos

Even the eventual, monumental thunderstorm couldn’t dampen our spirits. But in true British style, we sat on the deck of the boat, getting pelted by water and having a laugh. The other passengers informed us that we had perfectly lived up to their stereotypes: Brits on holiday will stay outside no matter what. Add my burnt thighs, chest and back to that and you have the definition of a Brit abroad. The Brazilians must have thought we were crazy…

Returning to Rio was fairly uneventful, but it felt nice to be returning home. It may not be the paradise island of Ilha Grande, but you won’t hear me complaining. Trekking to the beach gives you a sense of accomplishment, but it is far more convenient when it’s on your doorstep. A lazy, beach island is lovely place for a weekend, but you just can’t beat Rio.

Atop 'dois irmãos', with Ipanema and Lagoa in the background

Roaming Around Rio

This week couldn’t have started more differently to the last, but there were a few similarities. Last Monday’s street party and this week’s day in the office were both enjoyable, but for different reasons. Similarly, both the consumption of numerous alcoholic beverages during last week’s festivities, and my requirement to speak with foreign journalists in English, Portuguese, Russian and French(!), had the same effect: rendering me speechless.

But enough about that! After over a month here, I feel I can finally share with you my nuggets of wisdom about Rio’s transport network. Now, bear with me. Transport, like food, is one of those things that you can only really understand when you visit another country. I also think it can tell you about the people that live there. In Russia, the roads were haphazard and unpredictable (think Russian Roulette); in China, they somehow functioned, despite phenomenal mayhem; in the Dominican Republic, I sometimes couldn’t tell what was road and what was pavement. In Brazil, it is different again. Mayhem would be far too strong a word, but the Brazilians do like to keep you on your toes.

Buses

In a word: absurd. They drive so fast around Rio. You’ll get thrown around when you’re inside one and find yourself in danger when you’re not. The drivers seem to race each other around town, stamping on the accelerator and smoking the brake pads. Theories as to why this might be range from the drivers’ boredom, to a sadistic desire to terrorise pedestrians. I would like to think it isn’t the latter, but you can’t be too sure.

Almost a bus...

Metro

The metro in Rio is actually rather lovely. Being only 35 years old, it is noticeably more modern than its London, Moscow or New York counterparts, for example. Thankfully, the air conditioning works a charm and it is oh so necessary. Secondly, the trains are all wider than most others, meaning they feel less ‘tubey’ and more comfortable. I have become a wee bit of an expert, with my Oyster card equivalent and an encyclopaedic knowledge of the map. This is maybe helped by the fact that there are only two lines and about 40 stations in total. They could have made more of an effort if I’m being brutally honest.

Bike

Rio has a network of offensively orange bicycles that one can use to avoid the traffic. That is, as long as the system works. Too many times I have found myself feverishly yanking at the handlebars of a quite clearly locked bike, with an automated woman’s voice on the phone telling me that I have 45 minutes to return said contraption. Nothing is more infuriating. But then, it costs 10 Reais a month (£2.50) so I shouldn’t really complain. But I will anyway.

Bike selfie. 

Taxi

Taxis are good fun. It’s an opportunity to have a chat with a stranger. I ask his name and football team and you get cracking from there. Rush hour traffic in Rio can be ridiculous, so you need to have a couple of icebreakers at the ready. Taxis at night are a different story. Most of these drivers also like to drive around at breakneck speed, but the most ludicrous thing I have discovered is that at some point in the evening, the well-known and respected red light becomes no more than a ‘suggestion’. What. Just what. The ‘edge-out’ technique is used at every crossroads after about 9pm. Madness. Sheer madness.

Walking

There’s a lot to be said for walking in Rio. The weather is smashing at the moment and I do enjoy just looking at things, whether it’s the beach at sunset or a restaurant menu (it’s a tough call as to which I prefer). And of course, you can pass anything off as learning Portuguese really. Talking to myself is a particular favourite. I get some weird looks, but I’m having fun so it doesn’t bother me. The weirdest thing is the black flip-flop marks I get on my feet. If anyone can explain this oddity, I would be most grateful.

There are plenty of others I could go into: skateboard, moto taxi (a ride on the back of a motorbike = tremendous fun), roller-skating, swimming… But I have covered the main ones. Rio’s roads may not inspire fear like the Russian motorway does, or make my life flash before my eyes like a Chinese mountain pass, but it is somewhere that people cycling the wrong way down a dual carriageway is commonplace, and for that it must be commended. I think I’ll stick to the cycle paths…

Carnaval

As expected, Carnaval was absurd. The sheer amount of people partying, beers consumed, feathers adorned and fun had was staggering. I don’t know the exact statistics, but I feel that ‘rather a lot’ is an accurate estimation with regard to all of the above. Such is the number of people and blocos (street parties) that everyone’s Carnaval experience is different. Here is a rough guide to mine.

Day One

Location: Santa Teresa

Costume: Colourful clothing and guitar-shaped sunglasses with a Brazilian colour scheme.

Life Lesson: Don’t wear your favourite clothes. They will get wet.

This was an early morning start. People were hammered by 8 30, as vast crowds packed the narrow streets in Santa Teresa. The costumes were remarkable. There were some timeless classics: Mario & Luigi, Jesus, cross-dressers; some more original ideas: The Sims, a Tinder ‘Match’ (for those unfamiliar with ‘Tinder’ http://www.marieclaire.co.uk/blogs/543941/tinder-the-online-dating-app-that-everyone-s-talking-about.html); and the genuinely inexplicable: a man with a 6 foot long wooden club and these fine chaps.

Full marks to miss Silicon Valley on the left. 

Needless to say, I felt phenomenally underdressed and made a concerted effort to change this for the following days. Santa Teresa’s streets were so busy that it was impossible to leave, meaning that a 3-hour samba session in blistering heat was the only option. I can’t say I complained too much, especially as onlookers sprayed water from hoses in their front garden to keep us poor carnaval-goers cool.

Day Two

Location: Lapa

Costume: Bog standard t-shirt and shorts (nightwear).

Life Lesson: Flip flops are not a good idea.

After a day spent in the office covering the League Cup Final and Madrid Derby among others, I needed to let off some steam in the evening. The services of Lapa were required: cheap caipirinhas from street sellers and wandering around the busy streets, again to the tune of the ever-present samba drumming. The two downsides were the smell, which was fairly repulsive, and a muddy residue that had gathered on the ground, causing my feet to squelch uncomfortably.

Day Three

Location: Gloria

Costume: Red vest, silver wings, feather headdress, ample amounts of sun cream.

Life Lesson: Wearing large wings makes walking through crowds an immense struggle.

Wings and feathers are a perfect combination.

The “Bloco de Sargento Pimenta” (Sargeant Pepper), was, as you may have guessed, Beatles themed. I’m told that 100,000 people were in attendance and it was pretty spectacular. Live samba covers of Beatles tunes and an infectious atmosphere were the orders of the day. Yellow Submarine was particularly enjoyable, as was spending the day dancing and drinking under a hot sun.

Day Four

Location: Ipanema

Costume: Brazil dress, green wig.

Life Lesson: Go to the toilet when you can, even if you don’t need to.

This was my favourite day. After some free caipirinhas and a barbecue at the hostel of the inimitable Harry van Manen, a group of us headed to Ipanema to join in the festivities. With the sun still out, we headed to the beach and I watched the sunset in the water, along with some smashing people. It was an unforgettable moment. Many complimented my attire as I struttes my stuff during the parade. Happily, we found ourselves right in the thick of the action as people danced their way down the streets.

I think I make quite a good girl...

Days Five-Seven

Location: Various

Costume: Various

Life Lesson: There is always something going on.

Carnaval technically finished on Wednesday, but has reignited for the weekend. I had three days of ‘rest’, during which time I had a lovely dinner in Lagoa (amazing views) under the watchful eye of Christ the Redeemer, beers on Copacabana beach and another night out in Lapa. You could say I was easing myself out of it all…

Day Eight

Location: Leme

Costume: Buzz Lightyear Mask

Life Lesson: Carnaval doesn’t stop for rain.

I got absolutely drenched. You would have thought that I had been for a dip in the nearby sea, given the state of my clothes. Early on, I gave up on trying to avoid the rain and embraced the whole situation. It seems the Brazilians will party whatever the weather.

Day Nine

Location: Ipanema

Costume: Undecided

Life Lesson: Only time will tell.

Today is the last day. I know not what is in store, but the one thing I can be sure of is that it will be a good laugh. The Brazilians know what they’re doing…

The boys. 

Job's Your Uncle

Since my arrival in Brazil, I have been trying to get various things done. After finding an apartment, buying a Brazilian phone and making several (necessary) trips to the beach, I thought I had better try and find a job. This is certainly easier said than done. I had been emailing, tweeting and irritating Brazilian companies for over a year before my arrival, with very little success. The rare replies would be ones explaining that they have no need for an unqualified English person who doesn’t speak Portuguese that well. Fair enough.

However, after persistent emails to one unfortunate man, I have now landed myself a job (I believe). Following on from a successful interview, I spent most of the weekend in the office. The job is rather perfect. It is with a sports newspaper, which reports almost entirely on football, seeing as that’s the only sport the public are interested in. There is a saying here: "Volleyball is the most popular sport in Brazil. Football is a religion." ‘Working’ is not so bad when you’re surrounded by televisions showing every game you can imagine and your job is to write down what is happening, especially as my first assignment was to give a report on Stoke’s marvellous victory over Arsenal. But the best part about the job? It’s all in Portuguese: the writing, the interviews, the office banter. So it ticks all the boxes: prevents boredom on my part, satisfies my University’s demands, whilst not impinging too heavily on my carioca lifestyle. Cracking.

Carnaval parade outside my window.

The one problem is that the Carnaval festivities have kicked off. I won’t be working this week, but did find myself in a couple of awkward situations over the weekend. I was casually getting the metro home, only to find the station absolutely rammed with people, all in fancy dress. Tarzans and Playboy bunnies surged past me, all scantily clad and in exceptionally high spirits. I felt rather out of place in a shirt and chinos, but joined the throngs heading for the exit. Above ground, I realised that there was a rather large street party going on and a parade that would end up going right past my flat. The pushing and shoving wasn’t over for me, so I threw caution to the winds, took my shirt of too and got stuck in. I wasn’t going to be left out.

The street parties are rather mental. During Carnaval, they kick off as early as 8am, meaning that you could quite easily dance, drink and divulge in whatever you fancy from dawn until dusk, as well as during the night when the mayhem continues. Thousands of people converge in fancy dress and just have a good time. It is a fantastic idea and one that I am looking forward to immensely, if also slightly apprehensively. My main concern is not the lack of sleep or the large consumption of alcohol; it is, as you should probably have guessed, that enormous, burning ball of gas that preys on fair maidens like me. No matter what anyone says, it is impossible to apply sun cream during a Rio Carnaval parade without the use of magic.

'More love please' - Santa Teresa

Before the Carnaval atmosphere became too intoxicating, however, I did embark on another touristic adventure. The highlight of Rio de Janeiro’s week has undoubtedly been the arrival of Surrey’s very own, Harry van Manen. Most of you will not have had the pleasure of meeting the man so I shall try to explain him. His phenomenal exuberance is such that a Brazilian man, dressed entirely in the feathers of several exotic birds and dancing samba that you can only dream of, would not succeed in stealing the limelight. Rio and Harry are a perfect match.

Anyway, we had a lovely walk through the arty, fashionable district of Santa Teresa. As you can imagine, I felt right at home… We chose to go at midday, which probably wasn’t the best idea as Santa Teresa is up a painfully steep hill. Having sought refreshments, however, we could sit back and take in the stunning views. I suppose that’s the benefit of building a city in between a load of hills and mountains: there are great to views to be had all over the place.  

Me with a view

But for now, Carnaval awaits. There is chanting outside my window, to which I must attend. Hopefully I will survive.