I arrived at the gorgeous Casa Carioka hostel in Copacabana 90 minutes ago and now I’m unwinding with a beer. Rio is warm, humid and lush with tropical foliage. Just a few blocks down a steep hill is the ocean. A party is already underway and after some tense negotiations, the Canadian DJ’s are playing traditional samba music. Although I was exhausted when I woke up, the escape from Sao Paulo has already been worth it.
The Sao Paulo bus terminal was a very civilized and efficient affair, especially when compared with many of the Greyhound Bus terminals of American cities. Most telling was the cornucopia of cash machines from local, national and international financial institutions, such as HSBC, who bills itself as “the world’s local bank.”
After boarding the bus, our escape from Sao Paulo was a blur. I fell asleep instantly and awoke at intervals when our driver would stop on the roadside to pick up stragglers. As the road unfolded before us, I wondered if the entire journey between Sao Paulo and Rio would be one continuous urban expanse. However, at one hour and 35 minutes, almost to the second, the bus passed through a shelf of incandescent red clay and the megalopolis of Sao Paulo came to an abrupt halt. Where there had been factories and house upon house, crammed right up to the highway, only grass remained with cows to munch it, and termite mounds that pocked the landscape like acne. The first “lanchonete” we passed had two emus in a fenced enclosure.
Sign: "The flavor of America"
Gradually even the frenetic picaçao that covers every vertical surface in Sao Paulo melted away to thick, unfazed stands of bamboo, dark green pines and row upon row of eucalyptus. The smooth blacktop cutting through rolling hills reminded me of the ride through Northern California as you approach Mt. Shasta on Interstate 5. Here and there we zipped by clusters of bicyclists clad in lycra and at random intervals I saw solitary homeless men walking barefoot. With jeans, a sweater and sometimes a baseball cap, it was remarkable how closely they resembled one another, though in all likeliness, they did not no of each other’s presence just a few miles down the road. Halfway between Brazil’s throbbing industrial heart and its most storied city, these lonely urchins seemed as though they were one million miles from either.
Cruising through hamlets of rust-colored brick hovels, with boys flying handmade kites on the spanish-tiled roofs, I was beginning forget about Sao Paulo behind and, Rio, which awaited, as I focused on soaking up everything outside the windows.
As our bus climbed higher, we skirted a nuclear reservation as the clouds grew thick and low overhead. The road began to twist and the hard top deteriorated, causing our carriage to bounce on its springs. Soon I feel asleep again and when I awoke night had already fallen. We were on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro and every car that passed us seemed to be headed somewhere important and fun. From the Novo Rio terminal, I boarded a city bus that took me near the center of town for $1 and then a taxi took me the rest of the way.
I’m sleeping alone in a room with four beds and for the first time in Brazil, I intend to get a good night’s rest. I’m not sure how likely that is to happen, but at least the possibility exists. And now, my night begins!
