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.