Gumba

Footwear gained. Acid house phone lost. Another night of rebolando do popozao and groping lady friends, more cheap cachaça than you could drown a cat with and pangs of guilt that I didn’t shoot all the footage I needed. Just my brain. Processing everything. In no particular order. I’ll be fine in a couple of days. 

Note to self, don’t watch City of God before entering City of God.

So the rain has been, along with more ants, and more ants that were bigger than the first lot of ants. And another species of creature I had absolutely no idea  even existed. At first I thought it was an oversized rat that had been feasting on hormone pumped chicken from Lapa, then I realised that even rats couldn’t grow that big.  Its tail was enough to get the gag reflexes going and the wirey mane of black hair encouraged flashes of cleaning a long left dirty saucepan using the hump of the creatures back to scrub away those forever irritating stains.  After much research kindly assisted by our dear friend Google, it became clear that our furry little friend was called Gamba, but somewhere along the line I slipped in the letter ‘u’ and decided to call it Gumba.  After much fun and hilarity from the new discovery, I was forced into shock when a photo was produced of a dead Gamba taken on a drunken crawl home. It’s little face, its little mouth. Possibly one of the most revolting animals I have ever seen, but yet hours of fun and entertainment. Maybe I just need to grow up or maybe you just hold onto these things when inhabiting an alien postcode and a funny little ball of fluff comes to visit you in the dead of the night.

Spitting Nuns

In a world where you are lost in translation 95% of the time, it’s sometimes nice to know people understand you. Or at least, what you are trying to say. My mention of beef curtains at the dinner table or the text I sent in Portuguese asking a friend of a friend if she was a book are just two good examples.

I was pleasantly surprised however, with the warm welcome from a young boy in the street, shouting at the top of his voice, ‘Welcome to Rio’. I thought ‘what a nice kid welcoming the pasty gringa to his city in our native tongue’.  Then the thought evaporated, fast, as his mate followed it with a massive ‘Fuck You’. Ying and yang is big in this city and you kind of get used to it.

One moment your 100 miles high, dancing in a Samba school with enough energy to power a Double Decker Bus, then the next your inhaling human shit, watching a transvestite shave his legs out of his bedroom window. I can’t complain though as everyday is like an unfolding circus and you never know what will happen next, its just unfortunate I am still trying to sort out my footwear. My last attempt was unsuccessful and all I came home with was a Japan Midi mobile that flashes an acid house face every time I try to save a number. Have to say I was pretty impressed.

My sleeping is becoming strained here. I can’t work out if it’s the change of diet, change of scenery or just sheer lack of comfort. It’s been a while since I have inhabited a bunk bed and the other night I could of sworn it was more than just me about to take a kip. By the light of my computer I saw the crevice of someone’s bottom sat directly between my legs and became paralysed by the weight of someone or something for a good 5 minutes. Once the panic attack was over I proceeded to locate every crystal I could find that might protect me from things that go bump in the night and clutch them tight to my sweaty moz bitten body. It was a rough night I can tell you.

Apart from that I am half way to paradise. That is if you consider spitting nuns and lady boy prostitutes in g strings heaven.