Chasing Bohemia Read Online Free Page A

opposing hill: a dramatic stone escarpment, which might have been nature’s contribution to the cityscape, but was encrusted in the red-rust bricks of favela. The eye should have followed the avenues down to the ports, but I found my gaze unavoidably drawn to that disturbing peak, crowned among the shacks by a lonely white chapel which was obscured at intervals by the enormous blue neon light of a Brazilian bank, the sign flashing each floor-sized letter … I, I-T, I-T-A, I-T-A-U , with Hong Kong-style monotony.
    Once outside the hostel, I crossed the road and lit a cigarette. On the wall opposite were the flaming remains of some sort of offering involving a candle, a bottle of strong-smelling rum, and some old prawns in a clay bowl. As I walked, Carina came out on the balcony and screamed down, ‘Watch out for thieves!!!’ When I looked back up at her, she grinned and waved happily. I turned away and walked down to the city below, feeling as conspicuous as a giant red archery target. I flagged down a blue-and-white bus at random from a sea of filthy polluting vehicles, reassured by the words ‘The Real Bus’ emblazoned on its side, and told the fare collector ‘Co-pa-ca-bana’. She smiled pleasantly and pointed with a short bright-red fingernail to a single seat beside her. I squeezed my way in through the world’s smallest and most inconvenient turnstile and sat down. The other passengers stared back at me shamelessly. There was a sea of curious dark-brown eyes. One woman stuck her neck out to get a better look. It was probably the seat for clueless foreigners. Which was fine, I rationalised to myself, because that’s what I was.
    The bus ricocheted along at the speed of light, ramming into potholes and stopping only when a waiting passenger was actually standing in the middle of the road. In those instances, the bus would slide to a stop at the valiant passenger’s feet, a bunch of old ladies would appear from nowhere and jump onboard, and the driver would be off again, flinging the new arrivals around like passengers on the cha-cha at the Royal Show. We made our way around the bay and past palm-filled parks. The postcard peaks of Sugar Loaf Mountain flashed by to my left, grainy like an old photo through the smeared windows of the bus. We sped through a fume-filled tunnel. Homeless kids sat against carbon-stained walls. Horns sounded. The road opened up again into an avenue crowded with high-rises tagged by graffiti, and I caught a glimmer of blue sky above. Two barefoot black kids, one standing on the other’s shoulders, juggled balls at the traffic lights and then ran around begging for money. We took off around a corner and were thrown from our seats once more as the bus screeched to a halt. This time the fare collector thumbed me off. I ran gratefully down to the end of the bus and called out a thank you as I leapt onto the safety of the pavement. I almost had sea legs. The driver and fare collector waved at me with big, friendly Brazilian smiles, and sped off in a cloud of blue smoke.
    From ground level, the first thing that hit me about Copacabana was its sheer magnitude: four miles in length, gaping sand banks, and a six-lane highway that splits the wide pavements. It is enormous, excessive, and dramatic. The second thing that hit me was how shitty it all looks. The quartz-like explosions of condominiums that I had seen from the air revealed themselves to have few more architectural design merits than a north London housing estate. Flat blocks with cheap aluminium window frames and salt-dusted windows, the buildings were sea-faded but without the charm of a seaside city. Unlike classical stone edifices, which seem to crumble beautifully back into the earth, modern glass seaside constructions do not grow old gracefully. They just look cheap and messy. I could see a smattering of interesting art deco architecture, but only enough to remind me of what was lacking. The