Easter In Floripa

My reward for a month’s hard work and far from spectacular weather in Rio de Janeiro was an Easter getaway in Santa Catarina, Brazil’s beach state. In a country with over 7000km of coastline, beaches are not exactly hard to come by, so I was excited to see the cream of the crop. My destination was Florianópolis, a place I had desperately wanted to visit when in Brazil three years ago, and renowned for two things: beaches and parties. In other words, something Brazil has in unnecessary abundance. I thought I’d better check it out.

Curitiba's Botanical Gardens

But before reaching Floripa, as it is more conversationally known, I had planned a brief stop off in Curitiba. The bus timetable forced my hand somewhat, but I was very happy to visit another of Brazil’s twelve World Cup cities. Also, had I managed to secure a job with HSBC, which was on the cards at one stage, Curitiba would have been my home. And what a lovely home it would have been: a bustling metropolis with pleasing parks, minimal congestion and none of the foul smells that hang in Rio’s air. But the best thing of all was the buses. Unlike Rio’s four-wheeled death traps, Curitiba’s main form of public transport unlocks all areas of the city with graceful serenity, waltzing around with admirable nonchalance. But it was the bus stops that really took the biscuit. Circular pods, elevated a few metres off the ground, allowing for the speedy exchange of passengers. Different, thrilling, futuristic: it was a bus journey like no other.

A bus stop. That's right, it's a bus stop.

My next bus journey, alas, would not be quite so thrilling. The plan was simple: leave bags in the bus station, drink until 5am, board a bus and sleep. The first half of the plan couldn’t have gone more swimmingly. I arrived at the station, tipsy and tired, ready to sink into a rapid slumber. But the bus was late. By four hours. The four hours of darkness that I had so carefully allotted to sleep; the four hours in which I would pass from drunk to hungover. Fighting with fatigue and the need to stay awake for when the bus arrived, it was an uncomfortable wait. Despite large seats with a first-rate recline, traffic shattered any hopes of arriving in daylight. An entire day to enjoy Floripa’s coastline had been wrenched from my grasp. So much for ‘good’ Friday.

Florianópolis would turn out to be worth the wait. The city sits just off the mainland, on Ilha de Santa Catarina, boasting a phenomenal 42 beaches. Along with some Bristol-Portuguese blokes, João, Luisão and Samuél, I set off to Floripa’s main seaside attraction: Lagoinha do Leste. Situated in the less touristy southern part of the island, the beach was secluded, an hour-long trek required to reach its white sands. Had premature clouds not obscured the sun’s rays, the view would have been nothing short of exceptional. Indeed, the Lonely Planet guidebook has it listed as one of the 20 ‘must-see’ things in Brazil. As it was, we occupied ourselves with various beach sports, ranging from football to golf, which would have my muscles screaming in agony for days to come. So committed were we to the sport, that many of us drew blood. This was not a relaxing afternoon on the beach; it was a physical battering.

Lagoinha do Leste beach. Rather lovely.

Getting back to the hostel was a challenge. Floripa’s bus system is appalling. Buses run from terminal to terminal and never seem to go exactly where you want them to. The other problem was, as per usual, traffic. A torrent of rain probably didn’t help, but the fact of the matter is that there are not enough roads on the island to accommodate all the cars that want to use them. My advice is to leave yourself lots of time, or rent a motorbike I suppose. My confusion was aroused later that day for a second time by the music in a nightclub. Dull, repetitive hip hop was inspiring no one. All of a sudden, Lou Bega’s Mambo No. 5 dragged the punters from the depths of extreme boredom, only for the monotonous drone to resume immediately. It was most bizarre. At least I got three and a half minutes of fun…

Praia de Mole (Mole Beach - haven't figured out why it's called that...)

Easter Sunday always features a beach. Every year Kent’s finest getaway, Dymchurch, hosts the Marrow family. My only Easter absence was in 2011, but I still managed to wake up at Uruguay’s ‘Punta del Diablo’. Many readers will pleased to know that Florianópolis’ weather on the big day was rather poor. And judging by photos, England’s south coast really was the place to be. A pint of Old Speckled Hen in Floripa’s very well run English pub offered some solace.

Fortunately, Easter Monday dawned bright and clear. Rather than leave our fate in the hands of public transport, my travel companion (Georgie – a fellow travel enthusiast) and I embarked upon a 30 minute trek across sand dunes. Our reward was the Joaquina sandboarding centre. The premise is simple: snowboarding on sand. It did feel very similar to snowboarding, but my rustiness was blindingly obvious. Choosing to wear nothing but my speedos was also a bold call, and one that would leave me bearing strong resemblance to a yeti, such was the amount of sand clinging to all areas of my body. Nevertheless, it was another physical workout and well worth my time.

Sandboarding debut

All too soon, the time had come to return home. Getting out of Rio had been necessary, but returning to the ‘Cidade Maravilhosa’ is hardly chore. Floripa had provided the perfect getaway: a break from work, reunions, secluded beaches, burning and lots more. It was a little too touristy for my liking, but on the other hand, the city centre had an enormous tree, which required several stands to keep it up. You win some, you lose some. 

that's one big tree

A Passion Like No Other

Football is everywhere. And in a football-mad city, with the world cup just two months away, it was only a matter of time before I would have to write about it. But don’t let that inevitability scare you off. This is not a tactical analysis, more an exploration of how and why football holds such standing in the Brazilian psyche.

It’s a stereotype that Brazilians love football, that the country stops for the national team’s matches and that babies are born with a ball at their feet. This is not a misconception. I see football-related things on a daily basis. Firstly, football shirts are sported in abundance, from professional journalists in the workplace to babies adorned from head to toe in the colours of their team. Rio’s four teams, Flamengo, Fluminense, Vasco da Gama and Botafogo are well supported, but you will also see the usual suspects from Europe: Liverpool, Chelsea, Real Madrid etc… On the beach, there is the constant patter of footballs and volleyballs, as men, women and children alike exercise the right to show off their skills, which are plentiful.

Support is huge. Despite protests and concerns that stadia won’t be completed, there are already ridiculous levels of excitement in the air as the World Cup approaches. Advertisements and talk of the ‘Copa’ is relentless. At work, a sports newspaper, in an environment made up largely of adult males, there is a phenomenon that is taking the office by storm: the World Cup Sticker Book. I queried this with my colleagues, explaining that where I’m from, the sticker book is aimed at children. I was not only shot down straight away, but have since bought a copy of my own and become an avid collector, to the extent that my local newsagent no longer has to ask what I’ve come to buy. Now, I begin my working day by trading players in a throw back to the Pokemon era. Here, being obsessed with football is not only tolerated, but understood and encouraged. The same cannot be said at home.

My sticker book

But for all this love of the game, stadiums are rarely full. One may cite the cost of tickets or the dangers of returning home late as reasons for this, but in reality, Brazilians tend to be fair weather supporters. That is to say, they’ll only come to see a winning team play. Last week, I went to see Botafogo play in the Copa Libertadores (South America’s Champions League) and was quite shocked at the fans’ reaction to going a goal down. Having applauded wild shots from distance and hissed any pass played backwards, the entire crowd completely lost their rag when Botafogo conceded. Abuse was hurled at the players for the remainder of the game and they continued to get an earful whilst heading down the tunnel. Similarly, many Flamengo fans boycotted yesterday’s Rio State Championship Final against Vasco da Gama, following their side’s exit from the Copa Libertadores in mid-week. Unlike in Europe, the domestic competitions are considered almost irrelevant in comparison with the continent’s greatest prize, such that many Flamenguistas weren’t present to see their team triumph.

Vasco fans celebrating going a goal up

Yesterday’s final was a sensational spectacle. After much deliberation, I have adopted Vasco as my local team. The strip is classy, all black with a diagonal white stripe, which is reversed when playing away from home. The support is deafening, as I experienced yesterday, but as I said, only when the team is winning. Flamengo’s goal two minutes from time, rendered half of the Marcanã silent. It was eerie. The stand emptied moments after the final whistle had sounded, which was not only remarkable but also reassuring, in case an emergency evacuation is required during the World Cup. Sound travels extremely well in the Maracanã’s bowl-shaped stadium. Capable of holding 80,000 people, I was surprised by the amount of noise just 50,000 could create. Jumping, swearing and banging things ferociously would best describe the typical Vasco fan.  

Me in a vasco shirt

But there is something else that characterises the Brazilian football fan: a fear of disappointment. Rather than try and give the players a lift, he will complain loudly at their ineptitude, bemoaning the lack of success that his team might enjoy. The 1950 World Cup Final, which Brazil lost in the Maracanã against Uruguay, by a goal to nil, was an unbelievable disappointment. I’ve heard stories of fans committing suicide after that game, claiming that they had nothing left to live for. Brazilians have perhaps become more realistic since then, but losing this year’s World Cup is still a largely inconceivable notion. The pressure on the players will be unprecedented, far greater than the expectations we place on the shoulders of the England team every four years.

Botafogo vs Unión Española

The country will be brought to a standstill. Basic services will cease to operate. These are not wild predictions; I have it on good authority from several Brazilians and many foreigners, who have lived here for donkey’s years. The one prediction I will make is that Brazil will win in the Maracanã on the 13^th July. The Copa is destined to end up in their hands, urged on by a population that simply will not contemplate anything but victory. When Brazilians are in a good mood, the parties are a lot of fun. If Brazil were to win the World Cup, the excitement levels in Rio will be nothing short of dangerous. Bring it on.   

The Brazilian Booty

In these parts, the booty, or bottom if you will, is an art form. The thong bikini is one of the most important part of a Brazilian woman’s wardrobe. The ‘melons’ (melões), to use the local term, are the most desirable part of a woman’s body for many and as a result, it tends to be looked after with great care and attention by its owner. So I’m told. But don’t worry; despite the elevated status of female hindquarters, I shall be focusing on the body as a whole, irrespective of gender.

First things first, Rio’s beach culture plays a big role in sculpting the bodies of its inhabitants. Runners, cyclists, skateboarders and walkers are ever-present on the beachside cycle paths from dawn until after dusk. The heat, often sweltering, is hardly conducive to wearing clothes and these fitness-happy cariocas strip down to the bare minimum without a trace of embarrassment. Seeing a supermodel-esque female jogger overtaking an elderly gentleman, resplendent in speedos and a large belly overhang is wonderfully commonplace.

Ipanema beach

Outdoor gym equipment lines the beach as well. Occupied predominately by men, these areas are where Brazilians come to fine-tune their muscular definition, or perhaps to just show off how many pull-ups they can do. Needless to say, I have not yet attempted to compete. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it” seems to be a cariocan philosophy. Just as there is no shame in letting rolls of fat obscure the design on your swimming costume, there is no bitterness towards those who reveal their irresistibly toned, tanned bodies. And rightly so. After hours by the beach perfecting your body, you deserve some credit.

Making the most of the free gym

Of course, exercise can only get you so far. But fortunately, the Brazilians are also blessed with being beautiful. An extensive assortment of races has descended on Brazil over the centuries. This blend of races has created a formula, which produces magical results: a very attractive population. I don’t know the science behind this, but it does make a stroll along the beach more enjoyable. Brazilians, utterly devoid of self-consciousness, play football, volleyball, swim, drink beer and tan. Men, with shaven chests and impossibly ripped torsos, laugh and joke with women, wearing about enough material to cover my ear lobes and displaying enough cleavage to turn anyone’s head. It is an infectious atmosphere, exciting and cheerful, that captivates me and makes me thankful for the invention of tinted sunglasses. After all, the dangers of UV rays from a fierce Rio sun are not to be underestimated...

Despite the health conscious environment that is unavoidable in Rio, a large chunk of society is obese. It’s easy to see why: portion sizes. Now, I’m no stranger to large amounts of food, but even I have been impressed at the way Brazilians can load up their plates. It is true that a diet based largely on rice, beans and meat could be a contributing factor. Furthermore, being obese can have its perks. On the metro, signs instruct passengers to give up their seats to the elderly, the disabled, the pregnant and the obese. Obese people can also apply for special tickets at the World Cup.

Volleyball on Ipanema beach

The reason I chose to study Portuguese in the first place is debatable. I may tell myself that linguistic curiosity overcame me, but we all know that this Summer’s World Cup did not escape my notice. Or perhaps a subconscious part of my brain was drawn to Russia and Brazil for other reasons; reasons that can be explained by clicking on the following link:

Top 10 Countries With The Most Beautiful Women In The World

Beauty is subjective, but it’s clear that I’m prepared to follow the advice in this article. It’s just a shame that my incoherent attempts at flirting and a unfortunate tendency of meeting pretty ladies whilst munching on Tangy Cheese flavoured Doritos (it has now happened twice!) have rendered me a far from suitable candidate to tap into the quality on show.

Walking around topless is a luxury that I am beginning to get used to. As is wearing my speedos without drawing attention to myself or offending others. In Michael Palin’s book on Brazil, he commented that, despite an enormous gulf in wealth and class, men and women from opposite ends of the social ladder can enjoy the beach next to one another, in nothing but a pair of speedos or a bikini. The body transcends social class, bringing equality to the most Brazilian of pleasures: the beach. Being a part of this most carefree environment is thoroughly enjoyable.