A French Interlude

A few weeks after returning from Brazil, I'm hired to sing at the French Christmas Markets.  Pianist Ed will accompany me on keyboard.  He already knows some of the songs (from our mid-year show "A French Romance") so that's a very good start.

It's very exciting to be going this gig.  It's a way to combine two of my favourite things - singing and French.

I remember the day I gave up French.  The decision was swift and sensible, and tinged with a feeling of tragedy.

French was my favourite subject and I was good at it.  But during the second year of my Law/Arts degree, I began to wonder where exactly French was leading me.  Apparently, my next step would be to go to France and work as an au pair.  

Living with a French family.  Looking after their children.  Doing the housework.

Really?  I'm doing all this study so I can become ... a babysitter?

And then what?  European languages are not very useful in Australia.  

Move to Europe?  Apply for work as an interpreter, competing with all those people who've grown up speaking several languages?  You're dreaming!

I needed a qualification that would get me a job.  I withdrew from my Arts degree and became a lawyer.

Over the years, I've attended French conversation classes, watched French films and travelled in French-speaking countries, in an effort to maintain my language skills.  I've never attained the level of proficiency I hoped to achieve.  But I'm sure that all that early language study has helped me to learn Portuguese over the past two years.  Knowing how to learn a language makes it easier to learn new ones.

My French is good enough for singing, and I'm very happy to have this opportunity to use it.  

We're doing a 45-minute set.  Ed comes to my house and we work through seventeen songs.  Some of them are completely new for me.  I discard some songs that are too difficult to learn in time for the show, and others that are not lively enough for an outdoor festival.

Ed quickly learns the new songs.  He sight-reads the music, sometimes asking if there's a recording.   Listening only once or twice, he pencils in the names of chords.  It is a delight to work with someone so talented and conscientious.

After a total of four hours' rehearsal, we settle on thirteen songs.  There's a good variety - songs in French, songs by French composers, songs from French films, and even a French Christmas carol.

Our final rehearsal takes place soon after the horrifying terrorist attack in Paris.  When we practise the Christmas carol, my emotions get the better of me.  As I sing "Joyeux Noël" tears begin to flow and I struggle to keep singing.  I can't help but think about the people who will not be having a happy Christmas this year.  Best to let this emotion come out before the event.  

Our performance is on the Saturday evening, and we are requested to be there one hour ahead of time to set up.  But when we arrive, a woman is on stage doing a cooking demonstration.  She continues for an hour, until it's time for us to perform.  

So when we step on stage, the audience is already in place.  There is no sound-check or rehearsal.  The first note I sing into the microphone is the start of our first song, and we adjust things as we go.

It's very satisfying, and an unexpected honour, to be performing at the invitation of the Alliance Française, ten years after my first hesitant foray into singing.

And it feels wonderful to participate in this demonstration of solidarity between Australia and France.  

I will return!

The day after our show at GATS Theatre, my husband is leaving Brazil.  He needs to get back home to attend a conference.

I am staying on for a few days, as Enéias and I have one more show to do.

My husband asks me to accompany him to the airport in Florianopolis, to help with the language in case the need arises.

It's a long, tiring journey by car; for me the round-trip is seven hours.

Arriving in Florianopolis, the check-in goes smoothly, we kiss goodbye, and he's on his way back to Australia.

The driver returns to collect me for the trip back to Jaraguá.  He is a man of few words.  He switches on the radio.  I sit in the back seat, listening.  It is some sort of comedy show; I can make out some of the phrases.

We stop at a roadhouse.  I ask him "Tem banheiros acqui?" (Do they have toilets here?)  He replies "Tem!" (Have!).  As I say, a man of few words.

Over the next couple of days, we relax and prepare for the final show.  We go to Samuca's home to watch the video of our show at GATS theatre.  Samuca has done a good job - I gratefully hand over a wad of banknotes to him.

I'm nearing the end of my visit, and I am beginning to feel more at ease with the language.  At times I even manage to crack a joke that makes people laugh.  It's always very ironic that by the time you get a grip on the language, it's time to go home.

I put on the Jaragua promotional T-shirt that I have been given, and wear it around the town.  I pose for a photo outside the hotel, to demonstrate my gratitude for their sponsorship.  We visit some of the town's dignitaries - the Mayor, and the Director of the Cultural Foundation.  Wherever we go, there is coffee, strong and sweet, served in tiny cups.  I receive gifts, including a large, glossy book about Jaragua.

The Director of the Cultural Foundation tells me that next year the town will celebrate its 140-year anniversary.  He wonders if I would like to come back to Jaragua and perform for their celebrations?  Yes, I would be happy to consider doing this.  Perhaps I could set up the show in Rio to coincide with it?

We rehearse for our final show, which is in a pub.  We try out some new songs.  Some of them work; some don't.  There are songs I'd love to sing, but the Portuguese lyrics are too long and difficult.  I'll need to practise them at home over the next few months.

This show will be more light-hearted, and we prepare some comedic touches.  Rubens sings a song about a duck, and brings out a whistle that makes a quacking sound.  During a break in the rehearsal, he produces a snack that he has made for us - chunks of caramelized coconut.  It is so delicious, I can't stop eating it.

We arrive at Stannis Pub for our sound check.  Jean once again joins us on drums.  Seeing the setting in which we will perform, I decide to "bring back the rock chick".  It's a pub - no one is going to listen to quiet bossa nova music here.  I am determined to get their attention; I will not be "wallpaper".

At 9 pm we commence our show.  Surprisingly, "Bossa as rock music" works really well.  Just sing louder and add a bit of attitude!  The people near the stage are paying attention.  Then I begin my most difficult song - "This Happy Madness" (Estrada Branca), with its complex chromatic steps; it requires intense concentration, or you can get badly lost.  As I sing the first line of this song, the sound of shouting erupts from the next room.  The football just got exciting, and now they are chanting loudly.  Noooooo!  How can I compete against this?  I am not going to lose it.  I turn away from the chanting sound, and face towards the table where Eneias' friends and family are sitting.  I sing the song to them.  Towards the end of the song I am able to turn back and look at the other side of the room.

I hold the song together and end on the correct note.  This is my proudest moment of the tour.

When Rubens and I sing together, it makes a fun ending to our set.

After a short break, Eneias and his friends continue with a second set, and Rubens performs a very funny comedy routine.

Next morning, I pack up everything - including my new pandeiro and a pile of CDs given to me by local musicians.  I say my farewells to everyone, promising to return.  Rone accompanies me in the car to the airport.  We arrive early, and our driver, Ishmael, takes us on a short tour of Florianopolis.

After the impossibly long flight, I arrive home.  I tell my husband about the invitation to go back to Jaragua next year to sing for their celebrations.

My husband looks at me for a moment, and says "Some men have wives who take up ... gardening."

A concert in Jaragua

Sunday - the day of our show in the theatre known as GATS.

Eneias' girlfriend Marli cooks a delicious lunch for us.  Her home is large, airy and tastefully decorated.  Everything matches.  There is a large garden  and balconies all around, looking out upon the nearby hills and surrounding countryside.

Marli has two big dogs.  After a brief introduction, she announces that she will put them into their enclosure.  She calls to them - "Biscoito!" and they snap to attention, keen to get their biscuits.

We laugh that the dogs speak Portuguese.

For dessert, Marli has prepared a caju mousse.  Caju is a tropical fruit, which I first tasted in Olinda a couple of weeks earlier.  The mousse is creamy, tangy and sweet.  Normally I try not to eat a lot of sweets, but I cannot resist a second helping of this delicious mousse.

We head back to the hotel and I get dressed for the show.

I leave my husband resting in the room.  Eneias collects me and we go to the theatre.

There's a back entrance leading to a long, thin dressing room.  I set up my steamer and put my makeup bag on the counter.

We meet Samuca, who is going to video the show for us.

The sound and lighting check takes a long time.  I sing too much, and worry about wearing out my voice.

The instructions on the packet of cold pills tell me to take one a day.  I've already taken two, but my nose is still running.  I decide to take the risk of a third pill - I can't be blowing my nose on stage.

Eneias gets dressed in his performance clothes and warms up with some quiet singing.

We are at the theatre for three hours before the doors open.  The long wait makes us both nervous.

Finally the lights go down and the show is announced.  We take our places on stage and we're on.

Eneias encourages me to speak to the audience in Portuguese.  It's a big mental effort, but I manage to produce a few sentences.

Thiago joins us on guitar for Viajei and then I leave the stage while they perform Eneias' composition Sou de Santa Catarina (I am from Santa Catarina).  In this song Thiago plays harmonica, then he and Eneias sing together.  The performance is quite moving - they are both proud of being from Santa Catarina.

Finally we reach the end of the show, and Rubens joins us on stage for Wave and The Girl From Ipanema.  He plays the shaker and imitates a trumpet sound.  He's so funny, he makes me laugh out loud.

Afterwards, everyone wants to be photographed with us.  We go to the shopping mall for supper, and quite a few audience members are there too.

This was the concert in Jaragua.

Our next goal is a concert in Rio.

Getting warmer

After our open-air performance on Saturday morning, I explore the market stalls around the square, and purchase some gifts and souvenirs.

We have a quick lunch with Enéias and his family.

Then we go on a tour to the top of the Boa Vista mountain.  Rone collects us from the hotel, and he and his friend Philippe take us in a four-wheel-drive.  It's a beautiful day for sightseeing.  Heading up the mountain, the road becomes a steep track, and some cars can't make it up the slope.  We see them stationed in odd places, just parked where they stopped, when they could go no further.  Ahead of us, a car is reversing alarmingly, vacillating in the middle of a three-point turn.  Halfway up, there's a little church; the Italian community raised funds to bring it in pieces from Italy and rebuild it here in the south of Brazil.  We stop and look inside the church, and admire the view of the town and the surrounding countryside.  Finally we reach the mountain top, where the view is spectacular.  There's a paragliding ramp where people are risking their lives, sitting on the edge of the hillside, and even dancing joyfully on the precarious slope.

Rone's English is returning rapidly.  He is speaking very well.  He and my husband are now conversing easily.  But for me, this is a trap.  I need to practise my Portuguese, but Rone's fluency in English begins to make me lazy.  To counteract this, I ask him to tell me the names of things in Portuguese; try to make our conversation bilingual.  I also attempt some of the more complex grammatical constructions, e.g. "Without you, we would not have seen this".  Because of Rone's facility with English, I can explain to him what I want to say, and he can tell me whether I'm right or not.  This helps build my confidence to use such phrases with others.

On the way back from the mountain, we drive through a large park.  It has a lake with an island, where capybaras are resting in the sunshine.  We stop to admire a long wall of mosaics created by Rone for a local company, to mark its centenary.

That night, Enéias is performing in a restaurant called Xis-Cao.  We all go there for supper.  As we take our seats, the proprietor, Pinho, brings us caiparinha cocktails.  I take a large gulp.  It's very strong; tastes very good.

Enéias is already playing when we arrive.  Before long, he beckons me to come up and sing with him.   I take my place on the small stage and ask him which song he'd like to play.  He says "All of them".  He wants to run through our whole program; this is going to be another "open rehearsal".  Pinho joins us for The Girl from Ipanema, playing the melody on his cornet.

No one is listening to the music.  Later, a video of the event will reveal a room of people at tables, intent on eating their meals and talking amongst themselves.  But this is a great opportunity for us to practise for tomorrow night's show.  It takes all the pressure away.  I take a lot of vocal risks, trying out high notes that I would never normally attempt during performance.

Tomorrow night, we're on.

Warming up

After a few days of rehearsal, our first performance is in the food court of a shopping mall. Enéias describes this as an "open rehearsal".

He says that if I need to stop and start again, it's OK - it's a rehearsal in public.  But that doesn't really feel right to me, and I resolve to treat it as a performance.

Before the show we meet the Centre Manager, and from our conversation it seems that she's expecting a performance.

We set ourselves up on the large stage.  There are a few people seated at tables in the large open space.  No one has cone to listen to the music. It's lunch time, and they are here to eat.

But this is a great opportunity for us to warm up and get used to working together again.

I have been struggling with a cold and a chesty cough, and I do my best to stay in control and not collapse in spasms of coughing.  I've been using everything at my disposal - cold pills, nose drops and a nasal spray. But my airway is gurgling and I've been coughing harshly, which is not good for the voice.

Enéias introduces the show, and I try to relax and just let it happen. My voice comes out surprisingly well. I've been taught how to take quiet breaths, down low,  instead of shallow chest breathing that can irritate the airways. I manage to hold it together for the duration of the performance.

Family and friends arrive to support us.  Some of the diners also applaud, which is an unexpected bonus.

In the afternoon we do some impromptu performances, at the GATS theatre and at the advertising agency run by Enéias' brother.  By the end of the afternoon I'm feeling tired fand sounding hoarse. My husband urges me to rest my voice and insists that we go back to the hotel.

Our next performance is on the following morning.  When I awake, I'm relieved to find that my voice is no worse than yesterday. It seems to have recovered reasonably well during the hours of sleep.

It's an open-air performance, in a large square outside the museum. Market stalls are being set up.  For this show, we are joined by a young percussionist, Jean.  We draw a good crowd - forty or fifty people stand around to listen.  I recognize some of the faces. The audience is attentive and applauds enthusiastically.

I recall what the journalist said about Bossa not being relevant these days.  So I decide to sing out and be animated, like an outdoor rock concert. It has to be lively and I think we hit the mark. Eneias tells the audience that I used to sing rock 'n' roll (which he pronounces "hoknholl").

During this performance I feel very relaxed.  I feel "in" the songs. The singing seems easy, and even though I'm sick, I have plenty of breath control.  I've discovered the secret of life.

At the end of the show Eneias brings his friend Rubens onto the stage to join us for an improvised rendition of "The Girl from Ipanema".  We have not rehearsed this, and it's a bit of a mess, but never mind.

I am invited to sign the Civic visitor book.  Lots of people want to meet me and my husband, including Carol, a funkily dressed young English teacher.  She wonders if we could attend an English language meeting at the end of next week. Unfortunately we will be gone by then.

In the afternoon I duck into the pharmacy and inquire if they have a steamer.  Steam is meant to be the best thing for the voice.  I can't make any steam in the hotel because I don't have a kettle.  The shower is good, but I can't stay there all day.  Yes, they do have a steamer.  I carry the big box back to the hotel and set up the machine.  When I plug it in, steam immediately appears - it's a cool-steam vaporizer, but I guess it's better than nothing.

This is good progress.  I can use this machine several times a day, and even take it to the theatre to use before I go on stage.

No responsibility; no control.

Now that I am in Jaraguá do Sul, I have to "go with the flow".  Enéias has made all the arrangements. I follow him around to wherever he needs to go, and meet all the people who want to meet me.

It's like our week in Adelaide, but the situation is reversed.  There, I took Enéias around with me wherever I went.   Preparing for the show in my home town, I was responsible for everything.  I had to maintain total control.  There was so much going on that my brain nearly burst.  The singing was just one of many things that needed to my attention.

Now, Enéias is in charge.  He dictates where and when we will perform.  He directs the style of music.  I happily surrender to it.  All I have to do is sing and be nice to people.  I can do that.  Is this what it's like when you have a manager to look after your business affairs?

He has arranged for a journalist to come to the hotel to interview us.  It's not clear when this will occur.  The day before our first performance, while we are having lunch, he takes a phone call.  The interview will be in an hour's time.  We go back to the hotel.  I change my clothes, and start thinking about what I might say about the show.

The journalist, Heloíse, arrives.  The three of us sit on a couch in the hotel lobby.  The interview is entirely in Portuguese.  To commence, I manage to construct a couple of simple sentences with diplomatic intent: "I am very happy to be here"; "Jaraguá is a lovely city".

Enéias does most of the talking, but I have to follow the conversation in case they suddenly ask me what I think.  And Heloíse has questions for me.  "What is the connection between the two of you?"  "How long have you been singing?"  "What attracted you to Brazilian music?"  She comments that Bossa Nova is no longer a popular style of music in Brazil.  Young people prefer to listen to "rap" music.  Bossa has an elite image; it's the sort of music that you would have to pay a lot of money to hear in a theatre.  Enéias says we are going to make it relevant by performing in the open air, in a free show for the public.

The interview goes for half an hour.  I have to concentrate intensely.  We talk about Enéias' visit to Australia in February, and that this is my first visit to Brazil.

Heloíse asks me what I have most enjoyed about Jaragua.   I think for a moment.  I've been here for one day and haven't seen all that much yet.  I tell her that we have a beautiful view from our hotel room window.  I say that there is a "boa vista" outside our hotel window.  The room looks out onto a mountain and a river bounded by trees.

It turns out I'm absolutely right.  The mountain outside our room is called Boa Vista.

A photographer arrives, and asks us to sing something, while he takes some pictures.  Then we go outside and have more photos taken in the hotel garden.

Next day we are featured in two local newspapers.  One article is titled "Intercambio Musical" (musical exchange") and the other proclaims "Bossa nova com sotaque australiano" (Bossa nova with an Australian accent").

Both headlines are perfect.

Facebook friends spring to life

Most of our rehearsals take place at Eneias' apartment, which is upstairs in the main shopping street.

The centrepiece of his home is the music studio - light-filled, spacious and well-equipped.  It's a lovely environment in which to rehearse.

Then, for a change of scenery, we decamp to a music shop across the road, where we play for the staff and customers.  I note the wide selections of pandeiros and other percussion instruments, and start to plan what I might buy.

During our first couple of days in Jaraguá we are introduced to some more of Enéias' friends.

I've encountered these people on Facebook, and some have already "friended" me.

It feels strange meeting people in person, when until now they have only been Facebook friends.  It's like meeting a the cast of a TV show.

Thiago swings into the apartment with his guitar.  He and Enéias weave a spell with a wonderfully creative version of Vitor Ramil's song Viajei.  As I sing, I feel as if I'm floating.

We visit the theatre where we are perform, and there we meet Rubens, actor and clown.  He teaches us how to play the shaker and also the "cuica" (the instrument with the funny "whoop-whoop" sound often heard in Brazilian music).

At an advertising agency we meet Márcio, who had helped to calm my anxiety in February, while I was waiting for Enéias to arrive in Adelaide.

And at our first performance, at a shopping centre, there is Bogdan, my very first Brazilian Facebook friend.  It was Bogdan who introduced me to Enéias.  I can scarcely believe I'm meeting Bogdan - it feels surreal.  He proves to be a delightful guy, and he also attends our theatre performance with his daughter.

Enéias' friends all seem to be musicians, writers, actors and artists.  I find myself welcomed into a creative community.

Our new friend Rone shows us his impressive mosaic creations, including a wall of large panels along a street, commissioned by a local company for its 100-year anniversary.

Enéias has a kitchen that only makes coffee.  He never cooks; always goes out for lunch.  His regular place is Bela Catarina, and he takes us there each day for the lunch buffet.

Musically, Enéias and I easily pick up where we left off six months ago.  It's much easier now we know each other.

I start to settle into the rhythm of life in Jaraguá.

The unthinkable thing

Our time in Rio is a wonderful experience.  We manage to avoid all pick-pockets and bag snatchers, and we don't get mugged.  Not carrying a handbag feels very strange at first, but after a couple of days I start to get used to it.

At no time do we feel at all threatened.

Finally it is time to leave Rio and fly south.

On the way to the airport, my husband suddenly panics.  He can't find his passport.  It's not in the pocket where he usually keeps it.  He can't speak Portuguese.  I ask the driver to stop, and explain the problem, and we spend a few minutes searching frantically.  My husband gets out of the car and searches his luggage in the back.

Eventually the passport is found, in another pocket.

We arrive in Floreanopolis.  As I wait beside the luggage carousel, I can see Enéias waiting for us.

We greet each other excitedly, and he leads us outside where a car is waiting for us.

It's a three-hour drive from Floreanopolis to Jaraguá do Sul.  On the way, we stop at a newly-built resort town, Balneário-Camboriú, impressive with its array of apartment towers overlooking a glistening bay.

As we arrive in Jaraguá, Enéias asks the driver to pull over.  He's seen a friend.  He introduces us to a thin, wiry young man, whom he introduces as "Honey".  My husband looks puzzled.  I explain that his name is probably Ronnie (the R is pronounced as H).  As it turns out, it's spelt Rone.

We check in to our hotel and Enéias takes us to lunch at a nearby shopping complex.

Returning to the hotel, I'm so tired that I lie down and sleep for a couple of hours.

That evening, we go out to dinner with Enéias, his mother, his girlfriend and friend Rone.  It's my birthday and we are celebrating.  Rone speaks some English; he lived in Holland for eighteen months.  He insists he's forgotten most of it, but he does a very good job of conversing with my husband.

After the dinner, Enéias' girlfriend drives us back to the hotel.  We get out of the car and she drives away. Standing outside the hotel, I ask "Where is my bag?"  I don't have it.

I have left my handbag in the restaurant.  I was sitting in a corner and my bag was on the floor.

I would never go anywhere without my bag.  But during our stay in Rio I've become accustomed to not carrying it.

"What was in it?" my husband asks.

"Everything," I say weakly.  "Money, two credit cards, the camera..."

"Not your passport, I hope".

"Yes.  Everything."

We ask for help at hotel desk.  I'm feeling faint and have to sit down.  The hotel clerk calls the restaurant for us.  There is no answer. We call a taxi to take us there.  The restaurant is closed.  I write  a note in Portuguese and we slide it under the door.

I message Enéias through Facebook, as my phone seems unable to contact his.  He promises to help us find the bag.

I tell myself that this is not Rio.  It's a small town.  The people here are likely to be honest.  The restaurant staff will know that the bag belongs to someone in Enéias' party.

There is nothing I can do.  I will have to deal with the outcome, whatever it is.

I do some deep breathing and somehow manage a deep sleep.

Next morning I log on to Facebook, to find a message from Enéias.

My bag was in his girlfriend's car.  She will deliver it to him.

"So, today is shaping up as a normal day", my husband says.

Yes, a normal day.  Instead of one spent cancelling credit cards, lamenting lost photos and looking for an Australia Embassy in Florianopolis.

We can play music instead.

The Bossa Nova Trail

Because of my preoccupation with finding a performance venue in Rio, I didn't do much research about sightseeing before leaving home.

I did try to book a Bossa Nova tour.  But the only one I could find was not available on our days in Rio.

Having found the nightclub TribOz on our first night here, our mission is now complete, and we can relax and enjoy ourselves for two days.

With only a quick read of the guide book and a cursory search of the Web, I manage to put together my own " bossa nova trail".

Here's my list:

• Garota de Ipanema, on Avenida Vinicius de Moraes.  This is the cafe where Tom Jobim and his friend Vinicius wrote The Girl From Ipanema, inspired by watching a beautiful young girl walk past each day on her way to the beach.  It is now a busy restaurant, bursting with bossa memorabilia.  We decide to go there for my birthday dinner.  It is a memorable treat.  But we don't see the boys who sometimes come down the street practising Capoeira (a Brazilian martial art).  Fingers crossed for our next visit to Rio.  
• Vinicius Restaurant and Piano Bar.  This place is across the street from Garota.  They have live music, although we don't manage get to a show there.
• Toca de Vinicius, on the same street.  Fantastic music shop specialising in Bossa Nova books, CDs and other memorabilia.  The proprietor is friendly and chats with us in English.  I buy several CDs that I have never seen for sale in Australia.  Apparently they often have live music outside the shop on Sunday afternoons - another thing to watch for next time.
• Bossa Nova and Companhia.  A music shop in the Copacabana area.  Larger and more impersonal than Toca, but they have a huge range of stuff, including musical instruments.  I buy a DVD of Tom Jobim's show in Los Angeles with guest appearance by Gal Costa.  I already have the CD of this concert, but now I can watch it.
• Beco das Garrafas (Bottles Alley).  An alleyway alongside BN & Co, where Tom Jobim and his friends used to perform in the small bars.  The neighbours got fed up with the noise and would throw bottles down at the revellers.
• The nightclubs on Beco das Garrafas.  As we inspect these from the outside, a woman invites us to come in and have a look.  There is an honour board listing all the famous people who have played there (including Tom Jobim) and lots of old photos and other memorabilia.  There are two bars - Bottles Bar, and Little Club (which is very intimate).
• The statue of Tom Jobim at Arpoador Beach, which lies between Copacabana and Ipanema.  This statue was inaugurated in December 2014.  When I spot it, my heart skips a beat.  It is as if he has come back to life and is strolling along the beach front, guitar casually slung over his shoulder.  I feel compelled to take his hand in mine.
• The Galeão Tom Jobim Airport, renamed to honour him a few years after his death.  In the check-in area there is a plaque with the lyrics of his famous song "Samba de avãio" (Song of the Jet).

It all adds up to a satisfying pilgrimage.

During our two days in Rio we are unable to get to the Botanic Gardens.  I've seen them in the video of Diana Krall's concert in Rio, and they look stunning.  But there isn't enough time to do everything. Never mind. Next time.

But later, I read about the Botanic Gardens.  It incorporates ... the Tom Jobim Memorial.   It has a museum with ... "the complete Tom Jobim collection"!  "A permanent exhibition with pictures, original musical score sheets, personal memorabilia and videos of some of his performances".

And I have missed it.  How could I not have known about this?

This gives us one more reason to return to Rio.

Dodging the bandits

It's our first morning in Rio de Janeiro.

We sit down to breakfast in the sunlit hotel restaurant.  The tropical fruits are delicious.

So far, I've seen Rio from the air, from the back seat of a taxi at night, and now, through the hotel window, we look out over Ipanema Beach.

We've received many warnings about the dangers of this place.  Today we are going to take a risk and venture outside.

Recalling the previous night's advice from Sharon at the nightclub, I rummage in my suitcase in search of some thief-proof clothing.  I find a pair of black cotton pants with deep pockets that have a narrow opening. The pants are roomy enough to accommodate a money belt. They can be my uniform while I'm here in Rio.

I don't normally put things in my pockets because it ruins the line of the garment. But if these pants get trashed, I don't care.  I shove the camera in down deep.  No one could possibly get their hand in there.

I put a credit card and some extra cash into the money belt and strap it on.  Also I have a thing called a "bra stash" - a silk pouch which I now fill with money and attach to my bra strap.

My wallet, watch, necklace and earrings are in the hotel safe.

Finally we step out, ready to confront the bandits that are lurking outside the hotel.

It's Sunday, and along the beach half the road is closed. People are strolling, pushing prams, cycling and roller-skating in the sunshine. Which ones are the bad guys?

Before long, I want to take a photo. I wrench my camera out of my pocket and instruct my husband to protect me while I take a snap.  I return the camera to my pocket.  No one seems to take any notice.

I repeat the process, still feeling wary.

After a while I feel more relaxed, but I'm still careful to put the camera away between photos.

We take a long walk, all the way to Leblon beach.  We skirt around a cycle race.

Over the next two days we explore the city.  It is all very civilised and no one tries to rob us.

We travel by cable-car to the top of the Sugarloaf Mountain.  The view is breathtaking, and I take lots of pictures there.

Afterwards we walk a long way along Copacabana beach, taking in the views back towards Sugarloaf.

We buy gifts and souvenirs at the Hippie Markets.

The weather is deliciously warm.  We relax on Ipanema beach in the late afternoon sunshine.

The place is so picturesque, it soon has us under its spell.  It truly is The Marvellous City.

In the evening we have cocktails at the spectacular Copacabana Palace Hotel.

My husband declares "This is the best city of them all."

I see Rio de Janeiro

The day before our flight to Rio, I still haven't heard back from TribOz, the music venue where I am hoping to hold our show next year.  We will be in Rio for three nights and two days.  In that time I need to find a suitable place.  I'm worried that they won't be open on Sunday and Monday.  This leaves Saturday night.

I look online and see that they have a show on Saturday night.  If we're serious about attending, we need to reserve seats.  So I steel myself and phone them from Recife, first experimenting with various permutations of numbers, as a call from my mobile is an international call via Australia.  When the girl at the other end confirms our reservation, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Our flight departs mid-afternoon on Saturday, and takes about two and a half hours.  Finally the plane descends,  and through the window I see the familiar contours of Rio de Janeiro.  Silently I sing the song conceived by Tom Jobim as he witnessed this very sight:

How my heart is singing,
I see Rio de Janeiro.
My longing lonely days are ending,
Rio my love, there by the sea,
Rio my love, waiting for me.

See the cable cars 
That sway above the bay of Guanabara.
Tiny sailboats down below
Dance the samba as they go.
Shining Rio, there you lie,
City of sand and sea and sky
Mountains of green rising so high.
Four minutes more, we'll be there
At the airport of Galeão!

Statue of the Saviour
With open arms above the yellow seashore...

Well OK, I can't actually see the statue of Christ the Redeemer from the plane, though my husband insists he saw it.

Arriving at the Tom Jobim airport, we reserve a taxi at an official-looking booth, and soon we're on our way to Ipanema Beach.  Our hotel is on the beach-front, and the window of our room overlooks the sea.  This is a very good start.

We have a quick meal in the hotel, then we venture outside to get a taxi to the Lapa District where TribOz is located.  It's dark, and the trip takes twenty minutes or so.  The taxi travels slowly down a quiet alley.  I can't see any entertainment venues, but he stops outside a building surrounded by scaffolding.

We've arrived.

It's about ten past nine.  We go in and announce ourselves brightly to the lady in the entrance area.

"Oh", she says.  Then, in English - "We have given your table away.  We only hold it til 9 pm.  Didn't the girl tell you that on the phone?"

My face falls.  No!  Don't tell me this!  Perhaps I didn't understand the whole telephone conversation.  I certainly didn't hear this crucial point.

"Well", she says, "Let me see if they are happy for you to join them.  Are you willing sit with others?"

Yes, of course we are!

In a moment she's back.  "Come this way".

We sit down at a table at the back of the small room.  We nod to the woman who is already sitting there.  Drink orders are taken and caipirinhas arrive.

The show is in full flight.  It is a jazz trio, and the place is pumping.

I survey the scene.  Indigenous masks adorn the walls.  Cabaret-style tables, a small stage at the front, a grand piano, a mezzanine gallery.

This place is perfect.

During a break, the woman at our table asks if we speak English.  Her name is Sharon, an American living in Rio.  We get chatting, and I seek her advice on the issue of security precautions.

Sharon has some practical advice for us.  It's safest not to carry a handbag, although Cariocas tend to carry huge ones that are thought to be more difficult to snatch.  Don't wear jewellery or a watch.  Keep your money on your person.  Use pockets and a money belt.  Keep a small amount of money accessible, and the rest under your clothes.  Don't sling your camera around you - keep it hidden, and just bring it out to take a photo.

I comment that the women around us have brought handbags and are wearing jewellery.  Sharon says it's common to put your jewellery on when you reach your destination.  Coming to the show tonight on the subway, she left her own bag at home.  It's safer if you travel by taxi.  During the evening she digs around under her clothes to find some cash.

I joke that bag shops in Rio must be going broke.

A saxophone player joins the trio, and we are left open-mouthed at his virtuosity.  At one point he removes the reed from his instrument and plays it, leaving his sax aside.

Finally we manage to speak with the Australian proprietor, Mike.  He apologises profusely for not replying to my emails - "It's been crazy", he says.

I explain my situation again - that Enéias and I have developed an Australia-Brazil collaboration, that his venue would be a perfect match for us, and that we want to have a show next year.

"Fantastic," says Mike.  "I'll put you on, no problem".

At the end of the night, a line of taxis is waiting right outside the door.  Sharon joins us, getting out at Copacabana Beach.

I'm feeling elated.  We've found our venue in Rio, and now we can relax and enjoy some sightseeing over the next two days.

Our mission has been accomplished.

A question of trust

At the conference dinner in Recife, my husband and I talk with Elizabeth, the wife of one of the delegates. We mention that after the conference we are going to spend three nights in Rio de Janeiro.

Elizabeth, a Brazilian, says she will never go there. Too dangerous.

She has some words of advice for us.

Don't go into any of the favelas. No, we are not planning to do that.

If you are driving, be careful not to make a wrong turn.  We won't be driving.

Don't wear a watch. 
Don't wear jewellery. 
Don't carry a bag.

Really?  Is the place really so lawless?

Don't stop to take any photos. What?  Can't you take any photos there?

I don't say this to scare you.  Perhaps not, but you are scaring me witless.  Should we just sit in our hotel and look at Rio through the window?

After this conversation I can't sleep.

In the morning I feel ragged, but I tell myself that it doesn't really matter.  I am only going to be sightseeing, while my husband is at the conference.  I decide to visit Olinda, the old town adjacent to Recife.

The taxi driver drops me at the top of the hill, explaining that it's better to start at the top and work my way down. It starts to rain lightly.  A few market stalls are starting to set up. I buy a big coconut and drink the liquid through a straw. It's heavy to carry.   A small group of musicians strum and sing, defying the rain which is setting in.

I head to a nearby church to take shelter.

As I enter, a young man approaches me, introducing himself as Josema.  He explains that he is a guide from a charitable organization that helps indigenous people. He points to his T-shirt, which seems to confirm this. He shows me the various features of the church, explaining them in Portuguese. I'm understanding a lot of what he says, so I allow him to accompany me around the church. He offers to take a picture of me. I hand him my camera, and as I do so, I wonder if this is wise. He takes the photo and passes the camera back.  Soon, I am pictured in front of all the main attractions of the church. And the pictures are pretty good. Now we go to an adjacent building. More photos. We visit several more churches. More commentary. More photos.  We are covering quite a lot of ground.

Josema climbs onto a wall and shakes the branches of a tree.  He picks a fruit and hands it to me. I wonder if it's safe to eat. But it seems rude not to, so I poke it into my mouth. It's delicious - acidic and sweet. Caju, he says. We take a short-cut through a hotel and the rain suddenly buckets down. We sit down and wait for the rain to ease. It will stop soon, he says. Half an hour later we are finally able to move on.

When we come to the next church, he explains that it's closed. We will come back later, he said.  Perhaps, I say.  He looks at me inquiringly. I explain that I'm feeling a bit tired.  The truth is that I would like some quiet time away from my new best friend.

We go and see some other sights, including some giant puppets.  He encourages me to buy tablecloths from passing merchants. I don't want any tablecloths. But I do buy a painting from a woman who shows me her portfolio.

Would I like some lunch, he asks?  No, I would like a coffee, and then I would like to explore the town a little on my own. He leads me into a cafe, and I buy coffees for us both. I've been wondering what the deal is for this unsolicited tour. I'm happy to make a donation, but am not sure how much would be respectable. So I ask him. He asks for an amount that equates to a bit more than $100 Australian.  I don't have that much money on me.

Josema says he has to share the money with the charity.  He has put a lot of energy into this tour, and I've got some good pictures, but this is more than I was expecting to pay. And I didn't ask for the tour, it was thrust upon me. But I don't want to insult him and make an unpleasant end to the day.

So I ask him if there is a bank nearby.

He leads me down a lonely street, saying there is a bank around the corner. We turn the corner and there is a shop with a teller machine. I put my card into the slot.  A message comes up - "Card not recognized".  Immediately I wonder if my card has been scanned.

We walk around and find another cash machine. Same result.  Has my card now been scanned twice?

Josema makes a phone call.  "He comes", he says.  Who comes?

A taxi pulls up.  We get into it.  "Where are we going?"  I ask.  "To find a bank", he says. The driver takes off at speed, tearing around corners and through narrow streets.  Soon we are leaving the limits of the old town. And now it dawns on me. I've been kidnapped. My tour guide is now my captor. And $100 is not what he wants from me. He will force me to max out my credit card. He will hold me hostage in the dank cellar of a disused building. My husband will have to sell the house to raise the ransom.

I decide to speak up and assert myself.  I will not let them smell fear on me.  "Are we near the bank?"  I ask, a little testily.  "Yes, not far now".  I wonder if I will have to make a run for it.

We pull up at a bank. I try the machine. It will not accept my card. Josema asks an officer where we can find a machine to take money out. At the airport, he says. "I'm not going to the airport!", I say, emphatically.

They will take me back to Recife.  There should be a bank there.

The two in the front seats are my drug lords, and I owe them money.

I tell them I can get money from my hotel room. They take me to the wrong hotel and eventually find the right one. I pay the taxi driver, adding a tip to the already inflated tariff.

I tell Josema to wait in the car park. I head into my hotel.

And now it is his turn to wonder if he can trust me. It would be easy for me to disappear into my room and leave him waiting there, forever. He would have no redress - the hotel staff would tell him to go away. I go up to the room and raid our safe, assembling a small brick of notes.

When I emerge from the hotel I see the look of relief on his face. I tell him that he is an excellent guide, and that I enjoyed the tour.  He shakes my hand, and they drive away.

Next day, as the conference concludes, we farewell Elizabeth.

She has some final advice for us.

Be careful in Rio.
If someone comes towards you with a gun, give them everything.
Give them your clothes if necessary.

Really?  Is Rio going to be the biggest disappointment of my life?

Beating the drum

While in Recife, Brazil, I want to find a percussion class for beginners.  I've heard that learning to play the Pandeiro is a good way to instil rhythms.  A Pandeiro is like what we in English would call a tambourine - a small flat drum with metal jingles around the edge.

An Internet search for "Percussion classes in Recife" yielded a page full of names, phone numbers and instruments taught. I had zero confidence in calling any of these people from Australia.  There was no indication as to when the classes were held, for what instrument, or what level. I don't want to find myself in a class for professionals, when I am a rhythmically-challenged beginner.

Then a pianist friend contacted me. He has a friend in Recife, whom he hasn't seen for more than twenty years. Would I meet up with him and give him some CDs?  He delivered the package to my house.

Before leaving Australia, I connected with Cristiano on Facebook, then messaged him to introduce myself and to say that I have CDs to pass on to him. Then I had a brainwave. I asked him if he could help me to find a Pandeiro class. He responded that he himself plays Pandeiro, and asked if I was experienced player.  Did I have my own Pandeiro?  No, and no!  I'm just a beginner wanting to improve my rhythms.

I asked if he could teach me. Could he come to the hotel?  Perhaps there would be a garden where we could play.  Our online discussions began to stretch my Portuguese language skills.

Arriving in Recife, I go on Facebook to notify Cristiano that we are here.  What day is he available?  I don't hear back from him immediately - he responds when I'm not online.  It takes a few tries before we are communicating in real time.

He gives me a phone number and asks me to call.  Now I feel queasy. Speaking by phone in a foreign language is one of the hardest things to do - without visual clues, you really have to concentrate really hard on what is being said. I can't bring myself to do it.  I continue to message him online.

Now Cristiano asks me for the hotel phone number. I send it, with a sense of trepidation. He will call me.  The phone in my hotel room rings. I can no longer avoid it. I pick up, and it's him. He speaks slowly and I can understand  most of what he's saying.  His voice is sonorous and he sounds like a nice person. We arrange to meet in the hotel foyer that afternoon.

Sitting in an armchair in the hotel lobby, I suddenly look up into the face of a man of about my own age, with kind eyes and an impressive mullet of greying hair.  He is holding a motorcycle helmet with a large red torch taped on top, and a big round leather box. We greet each other, and I invite him into the hotel garden.  We sit down at a poolside table and I hand him the package of CDs.

We spend the afternoon in conversation, in Portuguese and German. He used to live in Switzerland, and that's where he met my friend.

Now he opens the round box and brings out the Pandeiro.  It's large and heavy, a circle of wood with hide stretched tightly across it, and shiny metal discs around the edge. He shows me where to grasp it with my left hand. All the fingers must clutch, except for the middle one, which alternates resting on the hide and lifting off, to alter the sound from "closed" to "open".  Although my broken left wrist is gaining strength, I have trouble with this manoeuvre. Cristiano shows me how to twist the instrument to relieve the weight. Now we focus on the right hand.  He indicates a crescent-shaped section on the right of the drum where most of the wear is evident. Four beats.  1. Edge of thumb.  2. Four fingers.  3. Wrist. 4. Four fingers.  Don't control the thumb; throw it.  It "jumps", to give a strong resonant sound. The first beat must be the strongest. The beat must be continuous.

He sings some familiar songs and I must keep the beat going. I have trouble coordinating, and sometimes I lose the beat. But I'm starting now to be able to pick it up again.

As Cristiano says, you must "feel" the beat.

He encourages me to buy a pandeiro of my own, and to practise by holding the beat while I listen to my favourite music.

"You have rhythm", he says.  And this is the nicest thing I could hear today.

The other side of the earth

Getting ready to travel always makes me feel anxious. Much as I know I will have a great time, the lead up to departure always makes me feel stressed. Have I forgotten to do anything?  Will my kids be ok?  The house?  My work? The dog?

The night before departure, I always start wondering why the heck I wanted to go.

I keep reminding myself of the bigger picture. The music. The show.

Finally, after a whole day of packing we get into the car and our son drives us to the airport for our late evening flight with Emirates.

We fly from Australia to Brazil via Dubai. I know it sounds crazy, to be going the wrong way around the earth, but it means one stop instead of three. It's two really long legs - Adelaide to Dubai, then Dubai to Sāo Paolo.  If you go the other way, it's four legs - Adelaide to Sydney, Sydney to Auckland, Auckland to Santiago, Santiago to Sāo Paolo.

The flight to Dubai is 13 hours. We wait less than two hours in Dubai, then get on the next plane for São Paolo. This leg is 15 hours. It's a very long time to sit and be transported, but really not a bad way to spend some time; watching videos, reading, resting.

In the seat next to me is a tall, young Arab man, about the same age as my son.  He greets me politely and shakes my hand.  A few hours into the flight, I go to the bathroom.  When I return, he's asleep, slumped across my chair. I nudge him gently to make him move, and slide into my seat.  The boy twists his whole body around and settles down with a sigh, his head resting on my shoulder.  He's found an in-flight Mum.

During the flight I watch a movie called "Twenty Feet From Stardom", about "almost famous" back-up singers.  The subjects of the documentary are wonderful singers, who either don't want stardom or for some reason were unable to attain it.  The exception is Sting's backing singer Jo Lawry, originally from Adelaide, who has done pretty well as a jazz singer in her own right, based in New York.

Finally we board our flight for Recife. It's always the last flight that kills you.  This one is three hours long; it feels that we will never get out of the plane.

Finally, we arrive at the hotel late at night and collapse gratefully into the comfortable bed.

We've reached the other side of the earth.

There's a place for us...I hope

As we depart for Brazil, there is something really bugging me.

We will be in Rio for two days, and in that time I need to find a venue for our show next year.

How am I going to find one?  Over the past few weeks, I've made inquiries through my various contacts in Brazil.  I've been looking for someone to show me around, to suggest various venues and arrange for me to view them and speak to management.  I'm willing to pay someone to help me.

But no leads have been forthcoming.

I've tried the Internet.  You can hire a private tour guide in Rio.  One of them sounded perfect, having "contacts amongst the artistic scene".  I messaged her, explaining exactly what I need.  Her response arrived quickly - "I recommend you book the six-hour tour".

Yes.  I suppose you would recommend that. And I don't think I would be seeing inside any performance venues on your tour.

Then, on a Thursday night at La Boheme, I started chatting with the percussionist from the Brazilian music group.  I told him about the dead-end I've found myself in.  Fabian told me about an Australian guy who runs a venue in Rio.  I do a bit of Googling, and found a bar called TribOz, Australia-Brazil Cultural Centre.  It is run by an Australian jazz musician called Mike Ryan.  I emailed Mike through the web site.  He responded, asking me to send some links, so he could "see my work".

Suddenly I felt worried.  What if Mike thinks I'm not good enough?

But what our videos show is an Australia-Brazil collaboration, which is exactly what his venue is about.  So I sent him some videos from our show in Adelaide.

It would be so much easier to communicate and contract with an Australian person.  Much as I like a challenge, I would really like this bit to be made easy.  If we could tie up a deal with TribOz, my husband and I could relax and enjoy our stay in Rio.

This venue seats up to 70 people.  It is slightly larger than La Boheme.  I had envisaged something a little bigger, perhaps 100 seats.  But, if La Boheme is right for me in Adelaide, I probably don't need anything bigger in Rio, where no one knows me.

I am hoping that TribOz will be perfect.

Because I don't have any other options at this stage.

And, disturbingly, I haven't yet been able to set a time to visit and view the venue.  Mike hasn't responded to my several emails asking when it would be convenient for him to meet with us. He has just gone quiet.

Perhaps he didn't like the videos?

Fingers crossed that I've found the right place for our show, and that I will have the chance to see it.

My bags are packed, I'm ready to go

My broken wrist has been repaired.

My car has also been repaired.

When I start driving again it feels a bit strange.  I worry about twisting my wrist when turning the steering wheel.  But pretty soon I am feeling confident on the road.

Seven weeks after the operation, I begin to leave the brace off my arm.  A few days later, I manage to leave it off for a whole day.

I get my clothes back; finally I can wear the jackets that would not fit over the brace.

My hand starts to feel like my own hand, rather than one that has been stitched on to my arm.  It will take several months to regain full movement of the joint, and for my bone to rebuilt its full strength.  But I'm good enough to go.  To Brazil.

I'm going to Brazil!  Birthplace of Bossa Nova.  And I will sing it there.  Like "coals to Newcastle", "ice to Eskimos", I'll bring my own brand of Bossa to Brazil.  It still feels like an audacious plan.

In my last singing lesson before the trip, my teacher reminds me to "sing the story".  He counsels me to focus on the words instead of worrying about my singing technique.  That makes a lot of sense to me.  I think they will judge me less on vocal technique and more on the passion, spirit and heart that I bring to my performance.

And that should be easy, because I love the music.  I'm looking forward to immersing myself in the music and culture.

I consider what to pack.  We'll be travelling from north to south.  In Recife, a northern coastal city, it will be like our summer.  Jaraguá, in the south, appears to be having the mild weather that our Gold Coast, has at this time of year.  So we are not really packing for extremes of climate.

I'll need to take clothes for performing - we are doing three shows.  I have some lightweight long dresses that will do just fine.

Now the Facebook messages from Enéias come thick and fast.  He needs our full names and passport numbers for the hotel.  He suggests additional songs that we could perform.  He now knows my voice, and identifies singers who have a similar range to me, suggesting we use the same keys.  He is spot-on.

I print out the lyrics I'll need for these new songs.

In the final week, I check off a series of other "lasts". Last gym class, last visits to our mothers, last day at work, and last Portuguese class.

In this class, we study a text about a young journalist attending a job interview. Then I am asked to interview my classmate for a job at a magazine.  I manage to come up with a series of questions to ask him. John really is a journalist, and he has spent time in Brazil, so his Portuguese is pretty good. He answers fluently and is forthcoming in his responses. I can understand what he's telling me.  The exercise is successful.

This is a good thing, because on the following day I receive a message from Eneias. There is going to be a press conference and we will be interviewed about our show.  In Portuguese.

I should pack some sentences in my suitcase.

Making ready

My visits to the hand therapist are a bit like a weekly weigh-in at Weight Watchers.

Physiotherapist Mark measures my "forward and back" wrist angles and pronounces my results:

"A 3-degree improvement....a 2-degree improvement..."

The numbers seem so insignificant that my face falls.  He explains "That equals a 5-degree increase in range".  Put that way, it sounds more encouraging.

The X-rays show a bone that's mending well.

I receive the go-ahead to start driving again.  Hooray - it's two months since I drove a car.  But when I get home there is something wrong with my vehicle.  My husband takes it to the service centre, where it will remain over the weekend.  Another few days of begging lifts and catching buses.

Meanwhile, we are making ready for our first visit to Brazil.

We both need vaccinations.  I've lost a few weeks as a result of the wrist surgery, and we just scrape in to the six-week lead-time for the shots.  I manage to make an after-hours appointment for my husband.  The doctor advises me not to have the Yellow Fever shot during my performance week, in case I suffer a reaction.  I present at the clinic on the Monday morning after the Saturday performance.  Neither of us reacts to the Yellow Fever.  And this immunisation is for life.

The travel agent informs me that it could take twenty working days to obtain our visas.  We need to obtain photos of a specified size.  We must state where we are staying - but our accommodation hasn't yet been booked.  Quickly we select a hotel in Rio.  My husband must supply a letter of invitation from the conference he is attending.  We both have to sign the visa papers.  I deliver everything to the travel agent and hold my breath.  For about a week.  Then she emails me to say the visas have arrived, and I can call in anytime to collect our passports.

Eneias sends me the lyrics of a song he has written.  He wants me to translate it into English.  It is the Kangaroo Samba.  Straight away I can see that a literal translation will not suffice.  I need to write a piece of poetry.  I let some ideas rumble around in my brain, but still no inspiration strikes.

He also asks me to learn some extra songs.  I know a couple of these, but I will need to learn the lyrics - in Portuguese.  I guess the flight will be very long, and this will give me something to do.

I continue with my Portuguese language study.  It's the school holidays, but I do some lessons with my phone app, and also try to read a children's book that I bought in Portugal.  It's at the right level for me.

I begin to focus my singing practise on my Brazilian repertoire.

Eneias says they are all looking forward to my visit.

I am bursting with excitement.



Last week Gihan Perera interviewed me about the story so far.  Click on the link below to listen to the interview:

https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/7372437/IMatter-AConcertInRio-ShelleyDunstone-4433.mp3

It's all in the wrist action

After my first week of exercises to mobilise my broken wrist, I return to the physiotherapist.

He measures the angles I can achieve - forward, back, inwards, outwards.

My results are announced - an improvement of about twelve degrees in each direction.

This, he declares, is remarkable progress. 

I beam with pride at my achievement.

But at the next visit, he is less impressed.  My forearm rotations have progressed well, but the forward and back movements have only increased by one degree.

One lousy degree?  After a whole week of painful exercises, four times a day?

As punishment, I must now bend my wrist more forcibly, holding for fifteen seconds instead of ten.

He shows me how.  I breathe deeply and whisper that the pain is eye-watering.  

"Does that mean you're crying?  Good", he says, flashing his charming smile.  

Our cabaret show Kabarett is held on two consecutive weekends.  The venue gives us a technical rehearsal on the Thursday morning before the first show.  This gives us two hours to work with Matt, the sound and lighting technician, to select the lighting for each scene, and to inform him of any sound effects and anything else we require.  Our excellent pianist, Ed, joins the three of us for this rehearsal.  

My piece, "A French Romance" is about twenty minutes long, consisting of four songs interspersed with a story.  In addition to the general lighting effects, two things get added as a result of the tech rehearsal.  The first relates to my description of a "hotel from hell" where a bright streetlight shines into the room through a curtainless window.  At this point Matt switches on a bright light that shines right in my eyes.  It produces a terrific reflex action - my arm goes up to block the light, and I grimace and groan.  No acting is required.   The second applies to the song "Once Upon A Summertime" which illustrates my fantasy of a romance in Paris.  In the middle of the song I sing a verse in French, and at that point Ed hits a button on his keyboard which produces a piano accordion effect.  It sounds so funny, we all fall about laughing.  

I decide to leave the brace off my arm for the duration of the show, as it would distract the audience from the story.  But I keep the microphone on its stand, because I don't feel confident of lifting it out or passing it from one hand to the other.  The wrist works well enough to express some simple gestures, but afterwards, a friend says it looked a bit sore.  

The room is full for both shows.  I feel reasonably pleased with my piece.

I'm glad to have had this performance opportunity; that my injury didn't cause me to cancel.  It's important to perform regularly, to maintain your confidence on stage.  Collaborating with other artists has proved to be an excellent way to put a show together and to fill the room.  

But a month after surgery, my wrist is still very stiff and swollen.  It doesn't move much at all.  The hand looks like something that belongs to a shop mannequin.  I'm not driving yet, and suspect I won't be for a while.

I seriously need some wrist action.

No pain, no gain

It's time to get my broken wrist into rehab.

The hand therapist removes the brace, revealing an object that looks like a prop for a horror movie.

My hand is blocky, swollen, misshapen.  It isn't really hand-shaped at all.  The site where the plate was inserted is neat and smooth.  But the opposite site looks broken and lumpy.  There's lots of fluid on the joint.

He massages my wrist with some soothing cream.

Next, he takes hold of my hand and presses it forward from the wrist with a firm pressure.  Very firm - ouch!  I feel something yield inside the wrist.

I guess this demonstrates that it can be moved without causing damage.

Then he asks me to bend my hand forward and back, measuring the angles I can achieve.  There is not much movement.

He shows me the exercises I must do each day - pushing forwards and backwards, and rotating inwards and outwards.  Hold each position for ten seconds, and do five repetitions.  It should be uncomfortable, he says.  Actually, the message I'm getting from him is to find the spot where it hurts, and hold it till you cry.

I have to attend his clinic once a week until...some later time.

Ideally I should do these exercises four times a day, he says.  But if I can't manage four, three is OK.

This instruction has the effect he probably intends.  It sounds like a dare.  Hah!  I can do four times a day.  What kind of wimp can do only three?  I need to get this hand working properly.  And how long do I want to keep spending money on physiotherapy and taxis?

I will do what's necessary to zap it, now.

No pain, no gain.

Em-braced

A week after my surgery, I taxi to the X-ray service, and after an hour and a half my results are ready to take to the surgeon, whose office is across the road.  He declares the fix to be good, removes the dressing and fits my forearm with a black brace.  I must gradually leave this off over the next two weeks, and gradually start to mobilise my wrist.  They make an appointment for me to see the hand therapist the following week.

From there, I jump in a taxi and head to a city hotel where I am speaking at a law seminar.  My presentation was prepared only the day before - until then I had not felt well enough to work on it.

Then my friend Victoria collects me and we go to a shopping mall for coffee, a long chat and some poking around the shops.  I can't try anything on without removing the brace, so I just look around, and resolve to come back when I'm wearing easier clothes.

The brace feels very comfortable.  It gives a wonderful feeling of stability, and it enables me to move my arm a little more.

Who knows when I'll be able to drive again?  I'm happy to pay my hairdresser for a twice-a-week wash and blow-dry (I can't hold a hairdryer at the moment), but I'm less happy to pay for taxis to get there.  I decide to start walking.  It will be good for my health and I'll burn some calories.  If I can get there within 45 minutes, I'll walk.

It only takes twenty minutes to reach the hairdresser.

I walk to the shopping centre and buy one of the dresses I'd looked at.  Hah!  Pleased with myself.

My son drops me at the gym or at my Portuguese class, and I walk home.  Happy to be a bit independent again.


And finally, I feel like singing again.  I resume my lessons and my teacher helps me regain my confidence.

At the weekend, we go out to the Cabaret Festival.  I'm determined to dress up, even if it is a bit difficult - I'm sick of wearing tracksuit pants and loose shirts.  Don't care about the brace - maybe I could get a matching one for the other hand?  My dress is bright red velvet, with matching necklace and earrings, stockings and heels.  I booked for this show months ago.  We're on Table 1, right near the stage.  I sip a crisp white wine and let the wonderful Brazilian music course through my veins.

Unbreak my arm

The day after returning home I go to hospital for advice about my broken wrist.  I have more X-rays and see an Orthopaedic surgeon.

He says the bone is slightly misaligned.  I should have surgery to insert a plate and screw.  It's Friday afternoon.  He will add me to his list on Tuesday.

I ask him if I'll be able to travel to Brazil in a couple of months. He thinks it will be all right by then.

I need this surgery.  My arm isn't getting any better.  I can't do anything - not even unpack from our trip.

It will be painful, but at least it will be "forwards" pain that will move me towards recovery, not the pointless sideways, drifting, directionless pain I'm experiencing at the moment.

On Tuesday morning my husband takes me to the hospital and my mother arrives, as she lives across the road.

My room is spacious. I get into the bed and they conduct some tests on me, including an ECG because of my prior heart surgery.

During the afternoon I get sleepy and drift off. My mother returns, thinking I will have had the operation, but I'm still waiting and there is no news I can give her. She brings me a nice magazine about France.

Finally, in the evening, they come to let me know it's my turn. I have to walk down to theatre, wearing a hospital gown and robe, and little paper slippers.

The anaesthetist asks me what I'd like. I can have a general anaesthetic, or a block to my arm, or both. I don't think I'd like to have this done under only local anaesthetic. I opt for both.

She gives me an injection and continues to chat to me.  I lie quietly with my arms by my sides.  But when I look to the left, I am surprised to see my arm outstretched. They are removing the cast and I hadn't even noticed.

One of the nurses is Lisa, a friend of my sister.  It's lovely to see a familiar face.

Then the lights go out for me.

When I come to, I don't feel any pain. I remain in post-op for a while, then they take me back to my room, where my husband is waiting. He has brought flowers.  I drift off to sleep.

During the night I wake up.

I have no idea where I am.

Someone is gripping my right calf muscle with both hands.

My left arm has disappeared.

My foggy brain sets about unravelling these three mysteries. I take in the surrounds of my hospital room.  Around my lower legs are calf massagers; these auto-inflate like blood pressure cuffs, to stop blood clots from developing.  Finally, I locate my arm.  It is hanging up alongside my bed. They have folded a pillow slip lengthwise and pinned it to form a long, thin bag.  It now contains my elbow and forearm, is tied at the top and is hanging from a hook. My arm has no feeling at all. It's like a piece of meat hanging up to become dry aged beef.

I press the call bell and the nurse comes. I want to go to the toilet. She brings down my lifeless limb and passes to me, suggesting I support it at the forearm.  It's like a sausage that you would put under the door to keep out a cold draught.

Back in bed, with my dead arm hanging up once again, I'm awake and hungry. She brings me a cup of tea, a sandwich and a cake. I scoff the lot, then I turn on the television.

I come across a French movie and decide to watch it. A pregnant woman is a recovering drug addict. She is very beautiful, though - her appearance has not been ravaged by her addiction.  Her partner has died and she is now having a relationship with his brother.  He in turn is having a relationship with her male friend. She gives birth to a baby girl and the dead partner's brother comes to visit. She asks him for a cigarette, goes outside to smoke it, and keeps going. She gets on a train and leaves him to bring up his baby niece.

I'm glad I didn't pay to see this at the cinema.

Next morning, my arm still has no feeling. I tell this to the nurse, then:

"Hang on, I'm getting some tingling in the fingers"

She says "That's because I'm playing with them. Can you tell which one I'm touching?"

The hospital wants me to vacate my room. They want me to have a shower but I don't feel confident. I still have no control over my arm.

When the numbness goes, the pain kicks in. With a vengeance. I have had a metal contraption attached to my bones.  But the new bandage is lighter and more flexible than the plaster cast.

Finally I'm ready to go home. My mother arrives and signals to my uncle to bring his car around.

On the way home I drop in to the pharmacy and collect the pain relievers prescribed for me.

At least now I'm on the mend.

The show will go on.

Dis-armed

This is the first time I've broken a limb, and I had never realised how inconvenient it is to have only one arm.  My arm is encased in plaster, making every little thing more difficult to do.

During the remainder of our holiday, my husband has to cut up my food and help me get dressed.  He wheels my suitcase and cabin bag along with his his own.  The cast has to be covered with a plastic bag while I shower.  I can't get my contact lenses out, so I decide to leave them in until I get home and can see my Optometrist.  I make do with dry-shampooing my hair.

I count my blessings - at least it's the left wrist; it could have been an ankle, or both arms, or a head injury.

My arm is bruised and swollen.  From time to time the fingers go numb and throb painfully, making me cry out.

The flight home is gruelling.  The long journey from Europe to Australia is very broken up, and none of the legs are long enough for sleeping.  My husband, travelling for work, is in Business Class, whilst I'm in Economy.  Each time we board, I point to my husband with the Business boarding pass, my broken arm and my own Silver status with the airline.  At no stage do I get upgraded.

It's very hard to eat an airline meal with one hand.  Most of your food is sealed in plastic packets which are difficult to open when you have no power in your fingers.  Plaintively I seek assistance from the flight attendants.  On one leg, a kindly Russian woman next to me plays Mother.  She also arranges my noise-cancelling earphones on my head, after witnessing my clumsy and ineffectual attempts to get them on.

During the flight there is a lot of time to think.  Anxieties come to visit.  I broke my wrist.  Is old age around the corner?  Will I be well enough to go to Brazil in  couple of months?  Will I be OK while I'm there?  I picture myself falling again or being randomly run over.

Arriving in Melbourne, there is a six-hour wait for the final flight to Adelaide.  We check in to an airport hotel, lie in bed for a few sleepless hours, then check out and bus back to the airport.

By the time we get home I'm truly wrecked.

I feel really daggy with my ugly, mummified right arm.  Some of the swelling has gone down, loosening the cast, so I feel the jarring of bones rattling around.  Sleeves won't fit over the cast.  I dress in whatever is easy to pull on and off, and stick with these same clothes, even if they are dirty.

I feel like an old lady.

I can't exercise.

I've collected a cough and can't sing.

My Cabaret show opens in three weeks.