This day starts out like all the others in that I go for my walk along the beach, go to the Marriott, grab another cup of coffee at that place by the Princess Copacabana and wait for The Office to open for breakfast. While I'm waiting, I walked down to Meia Pataca and sit outside to enjoy a pot of coffee. Another gentleman is sitting two tables over and as my cigar smoke floats towards his table, I asked him if he minds me smoking. He says the smoke doesn't bother him, he's from the states, is a college professor and a spending his summer in Rio.
I found out that this guy is a fucking genius because when the spring semester ends in May, he travels down to Rio and stays till the end of August teaching a college course. This guy has figured out how to travel here, hang around hot co-eds and get paid at the same time, something I could never ever figure out.
I ask him for some professional input regarding my "Dummy Series" and he suggests that I tell him a few of my stories so he can assess my writing skills. I explain the Presbyterian story, Pouseta--Pousada and finally, the "Three Fingers in the Air" story. He has this incredulous look on his face the whole time and then says, "I assume it's an autobiographical series?" "Fuck no! I reply, "It’s all about me."
He looked a little shocked at my answer then asked me if my character gets any smarter as the stories progress or is Jaguar a "Cleausou" like character. I begin to think that this fucking egghead is trying to show off by mentioning some obscure French literary character just to confuse me. "Since Jaguar is really me, what do you think? Don't you think I grow and develop with each and every trip instead of just staying stupid the whole time," I ask him? He tells me that he thinks he's figure it out, but he's not quite sure and doesn't want to commit himself at this moment.
He mentions Cleausou again, whoever the fuck that is, and then comments that I'm wearing a pink shirt coupled with the fact that my name is Jaguar so apparently I’m very subtle in my sophisticated satirical approach. "What sophisticated satirical approach are you talking about," I practically screamed at him as he was making my head spin? He calmly replied, "Don't you get it, the pink shirt and a type of cat?" What the fuck is he talking about, a pink lion, a pink tiger or a pink cheetah? He stood up, smiled at me and said that he had finally figured out that the Jaguar character is, in fact, me and that I would eventually figure out the riddle with the cat as he quickly departed Meia Pataca.
I could swear that I heard him tell me to "inspect her" or did he say "Inspector" as he was leaving shaking his head from side to side? Intellectuals are so fucking weird aren't they? The rest of the day different types of cats kept running through my head like, ocelot, Siamese, tabby, cougar and I couldn't come up with anything that made any sense with the color pink. I finally figured out that he was just trying to drive me crazy and you know what, he was successful. I hate it when intellectuals mess with me because they always win.
After the confusing conversation with the Egghead, I go to The Office for breakfast then back to the apartment to cuddle with MBL. When she gets up at 10 a.m. she's pretty cranky and then informs me that she has started her period. Oh God, my vacation keeps getting worse every day, why are you doing this to me? That explains why she's been a little uptight the last few days and the whole time I thought it was because of Lurch, but she was really PMSing instead. She sends me to the store to buy "pads with wings" and this trip turns into a nightmare.
Because I needed to buy food and soda also, I decided to go to the local supermarket to buy her the pads instead of going to the pharmacy like I should have done. I load my cart with all the food that I need and then search throughout the store to try and find the God damn fucking pads. A young lady comes over to help me and I have to figure out some way to explain what I need. I don't want to point to my crotch to indicate that I need to buy something for that area so I do the next best thing. I put my right thumb in my right arm pit and move my arm up and down indicating that I needed something with "wings."
She nodded her understanding and the next thing I knew I was standing in the meat section in front of the chickens. You won't believe this, but exactly the same thing happened to me twice more with different female store clerks. Finally, I gave up and went to stand in the cashier line and, wouldn't you know it, I'm standing right next to the fucking pads. I pick up a package, throw in the cart and thank my lucky stars. Maybe today isn't going too badly, I think to myself.
When I get home and unpack I find that the garbage can is filled and needs to be emptied. Miss Bubble Lips tells me to take the bag into the hallway and put it down the garbage chute. You have to understand that I have never lived in an apartment building before, so this ritual is somewhat foreign to me. I take the 13 gallon garbage bag out of the can, tie it securely then take it out into the hallway to find the chute. As I try to stuff it in I realize that the chute is made to accommodate bags no bigger than one gallon in size and I'm trying to stuff a considerably larger one down it.
MBL suggests that I take some of the garbage out, but I have a better idea -- I'm just going to stuff the whole thing down it. Believe it or not, I was somehow able to squeeze it through the chute, but as soon as I got past the opening it fully expanded blocking the entire apartment building. Because we were the only ones staying on that floor they were able to easily figure out who was responsible and, consequently took away my garbage privileges for the rest of my trip. Because I fucked up the entire building, every fucking day I had to take a small plastic bag down the street and deposit it in one of those orange cans that hang from the telephone poll. They wouldn’t even let me throw it in the dumpster behind the building. God damn fucking Brazilians!
At around 1:00 p.m. I meet Fernando outside the building, he gave me a funny look and then we walked across the street and into the favela. Don had informed me that Fernando had arranged with the local Chief (Godfather) to bring me into the favela and that I was under his protection while I was there. I remember thinking, is there any way I can get this Chief's help on the outside to keep me out of trouble? But I quickly dismissed the thought immediately as totally unworkable. As we go into the favela I notice that I'm the only man in a pink shirt and that makes me feel much more comfortable because I know that Fernando won't be able to lose me or get me confused with anybody else.
I have to admit, I wasn't quite prepared for what I was going to see, but at least I was suitably dressed, at least according to MBL. There is a small street that goes up the hill for about two blocks and then you have to walk up steep twisting stairs the rest of the way. Whoever built the stairs was somewhat retarded because they were all of different heights and widths making the climb much more difficult.
To add to the drama there were absolutely no hand rails anywhere and right alongside of the stairway was an open sewer about 18 inches wide and about one foot deep. The stench was phenomenal and at one point where the sewer crossed under the sidewalk I looked into the open sewer and saw two dead rats. What the hell was in there? If it was so bad that it killed rats, how toxic was the stuff?
There was dog shit all over the sidewalks and we would have to often walk around it, but surprisingly there weren't any dogs present in the favela. As we rounded a corner, I found out that it wasn't dog shit at all as we saw some guy rise from the squatting position and pull up his pants, having just deposited a little present on the sidewalk for us. In addition to those little obstacles they were also live wires just lying across the sidewalk everywhere. I decided it was better to step on a live wire and kill myself immediately than step in someone’s shit and die a slow horrible death from some God awful Brazilian disease.
As we got about halfway up the mountainside, Fernando took me in to a little luncheonette to see how the locals live. He arranged to meet one of his friends there and I bought them both lunch, which consisted of stewed chicken, rice, beans and some noodle dish. I explained to everyone in my broken Portuguese that "Fernando mi amigo," and for some reason he cringed every time I made this comment to his friends. Boy, for a big guy, he sure is sensitive.
Perhaps he was somewhat embarrassed by being with an Americano in such squalid surroundings. Regardless of what his motives were, I took no offense at the strange look he gave me whenever I mention that we were friends. The owner who was standing in the kitchen behind the pass-through insisted that I try some of his food. I tried to explain to him that I already had something to eat back at the apartment at noontime and I really wasn't hungry at the moment. I pointed to my watch with my finger on the number 12 to indicate when I had last eaten.
That was not the smartest thing I could've done because I was wearing my old Tag Heuer watch and all of a sudden everybody's eyes focused on it. The place was filled with about eight other men and these were guys who would gladly lop your arm off to remove a cheap $10 Timex to satisfy their drug habit. And here I was showing them a watch worth about $200, a veritable fortune in the favela. Regardless of what I said, within a minute a plate was put in front of me with two pieces of stewed chicken and a boiled potato on it. I kept on patting my tummy to indicate that I was full, but chef gave me this severe look that strongly suggested that I try his meal.
As I was picking through the chicken, the chef and I use that term rather loosely, displayed a 4 inch stack of folded R$50 notes. It consisted of about 15 bundles of R$50 notes folded in half, totaling approximately R$15,000. Everybody smiled and laughed, but really didn't pay much attention to the amount of money being displayed. I have to admit that I was little confused because about every 30 seconds the chef was sending meals out in aluminum foil containers like those you get at a Chinese restaurant, placed in white plastic bags.
The reason I was so confused was do the fact that no one ever called on the phone to order and no one walked in the door to ask for a meal. As a matter of fact the place was so poorly supplied that, when I ordered a beer they had to send someone down the street to another place to get it. When he came back with my beer, he placed it in a cooler for about 30 seconds then walked over to me and said "cerveja," I nodded and he walked over to the cooler and got out my beer and brought it to the table. What could he possibly be sending out in those meal packages that could be so profitable, I wondered? Perhaps he was running the favela equivalent of "meals on wheels" for the local elderly and shut-ins. Yeah, that must be what he's doing, but how does he make all that money?
At one point during the meal I poked my head out the window just to see what was in the neighborhood and Fernando told me to get my head back in quickly by indicating with his hand and index finger that I could be shot. Guess I won't look out that window anymore today. When I was finished my meal I reached in my pocket, which contained about a R$120 and you wouldn't believe the stares I got. You would've thought that I was the one with the R$15,000 because everyone was practically drooling at the money in my hand. Oh God, please get me out of here in one piece.
Just before we left the place the chef called me over to admire his kitchen. If I wasn't sure before that I was going to get sick I was now as I looked into the amazingly filthy kitchen. This place made the "cuisine court" at Vila Mimosa look as sterile as a hospital operating room in comparison. On one end of the room was a cutting board with a large slab of meat on it absolutely covered with flies. At that point, I was happy that I had the chicken and not a piece of that meat.
As we climbed higher and higher the views became spectacular. Often during our climb we would have to pass around little old ladies lugging groceries home. I felt sorry for them, but what could I do? Shit, they probably need the exercise anyway. Every little old lady we passed I scrutinized closely to see if she’s the one who fell on the sidewalk the other day. I swore that if I found the bitch, I’d push her down a flight of stairs. No wonder she could run so fast, climbing these stairs really does a job on your legs. When we got to the top I took a couple photos and Fernando pointed out a tram that runs up the hill. Why the fuck didn't we take this thing up the hill instead of walking? Most likely because it's broken all the time or so Fernando indicated.
On the way down I noticed a girl up ahead wearing exactly the same color shirt that I had on, climbing the stairs and swinging her hips from side to side. As we got closer I realized that this was not a girl, but rather a flaming fag wearing an almost identical outfit to mine. Oh shit! Now I knew why MBL picked out this outfit for me -- she was trying to get me killed. I have to admit it would be pretty easy to get killed in this favela because I probably saw about 20 guys with guns in their belts and about 30 guys standing around with machetes and their hands. Since there's no sugar cane in the favela, I assumed they use them as weapons not work tools.
By the time we got out of there I was happy to be back in civilization and the two of us walked to Alcazar to meet Don. As we’re walking there we pass a homeless guy sleeping on the sidewalk. My cell phone rings and when I go to answer it no one’s on the phone. That’s when I realize it’s the homeless guy’s phone ringing as he awaken and answers it. Ah, you have to love Brazil.
Don was sitting at his usual table sipping his afternoon tea and when I sat down he leaned over to me and whispered, "I think his name is Francisco not Fernando like I told you." Oh shit, here I was dressed like a fag up in the favela telling everyone that I don't even know my new boyfriend well enough to call him by the right name. I was lucky that he didn't kill me or crack my skull like a coconut. Now I know why he gave me those strange looks every time I called him Fernando.
The day before Don suggested that I give him R$20 for the tour, but instead I gave him R$20 for taking me into the favela and R$20 for taking me safely out of the favela. Don then explained to Francisco that he'd given me the wrong name because he always called the kid "Magilla," which I incorrectly assumed was a derogatory term rather than an endearing one. From then on I called the kid "Magilla." Now I look back on it, I was fortunate that I didn't get killed or gang raped by a bunch of deranged Brazilians. Come to think of it, they probably thought I was the deranged one and that's why they left me alone.
That night we went to The Office for dinner and to watch a football game. We met Sweetmesquite and Mack69 there for a delicious meal. To show the guys that MBL really and truly loves me, I asked her the following question in front of them, "You love me for me, not the money I pay you, don't you?" She answered in the affirmative and I just smiled totally satisfied with her answer. No sooner had she answered that question than Sweetmesquite asked the following question, "Then you won't mind if he goes with us to the termas tomorrow?" Again she answered in the affirmative with one little caveat, "Yes, he can go to the termas with you, just give me his AMEX card before you leave." Gulp!
SF Hombre arrived a few minutes later and the first thing he says, "This is Miss Bubble Lips, I presume." Boy, I'm glad that she learned the other night that I called her that behind her back or else I'd be dead right now. After the introductions, I explained about the conversation that had just transpired. Without missing a beat he said, "Tell her, sure here are both pieces." All of us roared with laughter and Miss Bubble Lips just sat there figuring out some way to gain even with me. Turns out she found an effective way in only a few short minutes.
Her solution centered on Mack69 who was sitting right next to her. The other night when we met Sweet and Mack, she was immediately smitten by his boyish charms and cute smile. How can I describe him? The best I can do is he's exactly like a clean-shaven leprechaun, always happy, charming and terribly lovable. The guy’s a fucking pussy magnet! This attraction she had for him was compounded by the fact that several women also wanted him and they were sending him long notes written on napkins. MBL would translate them for him and some of them were extremely suggestive. One of them even included a phone number along with the admonition that her husband might answer the phone so he must call soon while she's out with her friends. Mack tried, but due the fact that The Office is in a dead zone for cell phones, he couldn't get through.
Ever since that night MBL would wrap her arms around herself and squeeze her tits together and say, "I just love Mac, he's so cute." That pissed me off because I knew exactly where Mack's head would be if he was standing in front of her as she hugged him. Now the bastard is sitting right next to her smiling and laughing as we're watching his Cowboys trounce the other team.
She would look over at me and tell me how much she loved being next to the Mack and I would just tell her to watch the fucking football game. Mack even attempted to teach her some of the fundamentals of the game, but she couldn't figure it out so he gave up. As a matter of fact when the game was over she announced that American football is boring. "Boring! You and I sat here for three fucking hours the other day watching two Futbol games that ended in identical 0 to 0 scores. Now that's boring," I hissed at her. To tweak me one more time she gave Mack a great big hug just before he left. I kept my eye on him to make sure he didn't cop any cheap feels, if you know what I mean. He didn't and that's when I realized that I didn't have to worry about him, but rather MBL copping a feel.
The next day I get up again early and as I'm walking down the street I hear a number of the street urchins giggling as I pass and I also hear them shout out "Gringo Loco." I stop in front of a storefront and use the window as a mirror to check to make sure that my shorts aren't split open or anything like that. I don't see anything wrong and continue my walk till I get to Ave. Atlantico and more street urchins start laughing at me as I passed by. What the fuck is wrong with them, I wonder? That's when I notice that I'm wearing two different shoes on my feet, one a light brown and the other dark brown. I immediately go back to the apartment, change my shoes and continue on my walk.
The shit flickers are out in force today and I successfully avoid four of them on my way to the Marriott. On my way back, I decide to once again walk on the sidewalk along the beach. As I approach Hooker Beach I see a group of people congregating on the sidewalk pointing up to the top floor of the Rio Othon Hotel across the street. Holy shit, someone is having a worse trip than I am and is planning to end it all -- I have to watch this. I get in the middle of the crowd and look where everybody is pointing, but I don't see a thing. That's when all of a sudden everybody breaks out in laughter and the crowd immediately disperses. What the fuck just happened? That's when I look down and saw that the shit flickers had extracted their revenge on me by cleverly diverting my attention to get even with me. I don't know what the stuff is, but it tastes like a mixture of peanut butter and Vaseline.
On my way back to the apartment it starts to rain so I ask MBL what she wants to do today. "Go to shop," she says, which according to her means going to the local mall. We walked down to Alcazar, meet Roberto and he drives me over to the cambio across the street from Blame It on Rio 4 Travel so I can change some more currency. Because it's raining heavily and there are a lot of cars on the road, Roberto has the park about half a block away and I run to the corner where Ben Brothers is located.
As I'm getting my money changed, I notice out of the corner of my eye that Roberto has pulled his yellow taxicab right up out in front of the store so that I don't have to run down the block. Because there is usually a criminal element lurking around the neighborhood, I don't really pay attention to anything other than security as I enter the taxi. I put my hand on Miss Bubble Lip’s thigh and say, "Hi Honey." She immediately screams at the top of her lungs, I launch myself upward smacking my head against the ceiling of the taxi and suddenly four sets of hands from the front seat reach backwards to grab me.
What the fuck is going on, I think to myself? Oh shit, I'm in the wrong fucking yellow taxicab. Desculpe is all I can manage to say as I climb out of the taxi. I recognized the guy in the front passenger seat as one of the more unsavory characters in Copacabana and I was soon to learn that he is part of the local Mafia. Yeah, I keep getting more good news on this trip, don't I. Further down the block Roberto is flashing his lights to get my attention and as I slink back to the car I can see the both of them laughing their heads off. Needless to say they laugh all the way to the mall at my expense. MBL asks me how I could be so stupid as to get in the wrong taxi and I explained to her that they all look alike to me. "Look at them Honey, each taxi is painted the identical yellow color with a blue stripe down each side. I can't possibly tell them apart," was my feeble excuse.
Later when we returned to Copacabana we stopped in at Alcazar to see Don. As soon as he sees me he starts laughing so I know that he is heard the taxicab story already. I described the unsavory character in the front seat to him and he says, "Oh yeah, he's in the Mafia." "Oh shit, now what do I do?" "He knew you made an honest mistake, didn't he," Don asked? "Yeah, I'm sure of it," I replied. "Then you have absolutely nothing to worry about, but then again….," he trailed off what he was saying. "But then again what," I asked. "Well, I guess that mistake excuse didn't help the guy who hit John Gotti's son and killed him, did it," was all he needed to say to send me running back to the apartment to hide out for a few hours.
That scare Don put in me actually was one of the fortunate things that happened to me that day. Because I went back to the apartment and, little did I know it, within minutes I was going to be struck down by what I call "Favela Revenge." As soon as we walked in the apartment, I practically doubled over in pain and started to rush towards the bathroom. Miss Bubble Lips sensing that something was wrong asked me what was wrong with me. When I told her that I thought I was going to be sick she told me to use the maid's bathroom by the back entrance, not her bathroom. "What maid's bathroom," I asked? She dragged me by the hand to a little room off the laundry room and said, "It’s in there." "Where?" "Around the corner," was all she would say as she walked back into the living room and turned on cartoons.
Sure enough, there was a small bathroom in there, but in front of the toilet was stored a step ladder. Suddenly the pain hit me with unbelievable ferocity and I could barely stand up and that's when I realized that I had to get a step ladder out of there before I could use the toilet. Have you ever tried to lift up a step ladder when you're asshole is about ready to explode? Well, I have and it's not an experience I want to repeat ever again in my lifetime. Somehow I managed to get it out and as I sit down on the toilet I experience sudden explosive projectile diarrhea. I never ever thought I would use the last three words of the preceding sentence together to describe what was happening to me, but it’s an accurate description.
As I'm sitting there dying, I reach up and touch the wall in front of me and grab a handle coming out of the wall to steady myself. Unfortunately, as the pain becomes more intense I turned this handle and suddenly was drenched by the shower head above me. "What the fuck is this," I said out loud? Wouldn't you know it, this little toilet stall was a toilet -- shower combo unit for the maid and I turned on the shower full force. When I came out half-hour later MBL said I must've been a lot of pain because I sure did sweat a lot. Rather than give her another opportunity to laugh, I just nodded and kept my mouth shut. Luckily for me “Favela’s Revenge” was short lived because that night we were going out to dinner with Hemp and Don.
Hemp and Don had been raving about this restaurant in Ipanema called the Esplanada Grill for the past week, especially the creamed corn that they serve as a side dish. Who would've thought that grown men would rave about creamed corn, but after trying it, I too am convinced that this is one of the best dishes I have ever eaten. The steak at this place is phenomenal! I can still taste the one I had whenever I think of it; it was that good. We had a lot of laughs, some wine and as we were leaving Hemp gave Miss Bubble Lips a huge hug goodbye. On the ride back to Copacabana she said that it was very nice of him to give her such a warm hug and I said, "He was just checking." "Checking for what," she asked? "Silicone," was all I needed to say. She hit me and called me a dirty old man.
The next morning when I went to The Office for breakfast I brought along my camera to document something for all of you. You know how I say that Brazil has the worst paper towels imaginable, well; I decided to take some photos to prove it. After I'd finished my breakfast I went in the bathroom, washed my hands, broke the damn faucet and then grabbed a paper towel. As they ripped off in my hand in little pieces, I decided to take some photos. I take about five photos and when I walk out of the men's room everyone in the big kitchen, which is located right across from the men's room, was staring at me. Apparently they could see my camera flash whenever I took a picture and I guess they were trying to figure out what I was doing in there. I smiled and told them that the faucet was broken, paid my bill and walked back to my apartment.
On the way back to the apartment I got waylaid a little when I decided to stop to buy some Coke Lites at that little convenience store--bar located below Lurch’s apartment building. Several of my friends were there from the other night and they invited me to join them for a few beers, which I did. Actually I felt great, because this was the first times in my life I was ever able to walk into a place and say "the drinks are on me." We celebrated something for about an hour then I went home to fuck MBL. Oh, damn it, I remembered that she's on the rag and suddenly my whole mood changed.
Gentlemen, I would love to stay around and finish this report, but unfortunately I have more pressing business to attend to in Rio. Don't worry; I'll finish this report sometime within the next 20 days. I apologize for this unavoidable delay, but I'm sure all of you understand my situation. I'll say hi to MBL from all of you.