Fortaleza, Sao Paulo, Belo Horizonte and beyond

Ten days, seven flights, five matches.  The highlight being a definite OG, an arguable hand ball and a penalty shootout. A nation thankful to a crossbar and a wooden post.  On the subject of wooden posts I will be writing a 'blog on the Brazil game shortly.

The most intensive part of my tour has now come to a close.  From Rio to Fortaleza to Sao Paulo.  Back to Rio (for 48 hours) onto Belo Horizonte (via one night in Sao Paulo) and another bleary eyed early return to the Copacabana and all that entails.

I dream about spending time with my wife in our little flat in Crystal Palace.  About curry, baths, red wine and cricket.  About having my first decent nights sleep in a month.  About crunchy vegetables and being able to order food without cheese.




My first stop was Fortaleza.  A place rich Brazilians go to holiday.  Three hours north of Rio de Janeiro we were surprised to find it's only six hours from Lisbon.  Information that made Stuart Pearce chew his food with quiet contemplation.  The next day he faced a three and half hour flight south to Sao Paulo with a three hour stopover just so he could then take an eleven hour flight to London.  He would become quite the expert when it came to the airspace just above Fortaleza. 

In fairness Pearce does most things with quiet contemplation. 


Sao Paulo was next on the itinerary.  A city so congested it boasts the world record for a traffic jam.  216 miles.  A city whose size is equal to London but has a population double the number.  A city without a natural centre that begins 15 minutes before you land then never seems to end.  A city famous for gastronomy, for football, for crime, for pollution, for high rise tower blocks and for being ridiculous in size.  It would take a lifetime to explore. 

It is also the most European of all the Brazilian cities with a bar culture, prominent middle-class, even London Pride on tap.  A perfect place to watch Brazil in action.


And then to Belo Horizonte.  Less than an hour away but as far removed from Sao Paulo as you get.  A population a tenth the number, plenty of green spaces with a country feel to it.  It was the unlikely setting of Brazil's first knockout match and also home to a hotel that boasts the world's weirdest view.  To the right an appealing park with people boating on the lake.  "Could be New Zealand or England," I mused. 


To the front of me.  A bloke having root canal.


And finally I got back to Rio de Janeiro which is starting to wind down. A couple of weeks ago the beachfront was a constantly moving/drinking mass of fans, flags and football shirts. With the teams reducing in number so the spectators follow suit. No longer are we being kept awake by Chile's red army, the strains of U-S-A or the marching Columbians and their bloody drums.  Actually, the Colombians are still here.


The end now in sight my mind turns towards home.  Although not before the small matter of France v Germany at the Maracana and 24 hours in Brasilia for Argentina v Belgium. 

Where were you?

Where were you when England got knocked out of the World Cup?  Maybe you were in the car on the way home from work.  Maybe you resurfaced from the tube blinking into the light to find out via your phone that Costa Rica had beaten Italy.  Maybe you were following it on radio, TV or the Internet.  Your frustration growing as the clock ticked towards the ninety.  I was here.  Waiting for the IT guy to turn up to sort out a technical problem. 




Ah the glamorous world of the media. 

Although when you look at the photo upside down it looks more interesting. 




I'd like to think I was actually in space when Bryan Ruiz scored. A futuristic scene would add a touch of colour to the reality. Maybe I'm on a intergalactic cruiser a billion miles from home.  Transporting industrial sized weaponry to a satellite service station on Alpha Omega Three. I wonder if Alpha Omega Three have a football team? 

Copacabana

Before I came to Brazil I had to sit through a five hour security briefing which left me so on edge I jumped out of my seat when a cleaner appeared at the window.  Murder, corruption, riots, pick-pockets, car-jacking, malaria and dangerous drivers.  For the second World Cup in a row it seemed I was heading into a war zone.  A week in and I'm still alive and while the dangers are clear and present the real risk to my health here is the food.

My diet has been terrible.  I'm averaging about a meal and a half a day.  I've eaten more processed meat in Rio than in the six months since I was last, um, in Rio.  Big Bob's Burgers.  Twice.  All you can eat pizza.  Steak(s) and chips.  Too much coffee.  Not enough water.  I haven't eaten a single vegetable and I've drunk beer every night.  It's a teenage boy's wet dream.

And it's not just the lack of food that leaves me light-headed.  Copacabana is a dizzying place. Western rules governing colour, creed and class need not apply here.  Poverty is not the sole preserve of the ethnic minority.  Religious fervour omnipresent but not overpowering.  Rich, poor, the young and the dying are all pieces of the same jigsaw. 

Beachside is populated by people who pound the pavement with intent.  This is an area where the locals strut their stuff.  And you do not have to be a perfect 10 to flaunt tings.  Massive backsides in tiger print Lycra jostle for position on the seafront. Old men go through energetic exercise routines in the morning sun as the traffic snakes by. Both sexes bathe in skimpy swimwear leaving little to the imagination no matter their size. 

Meanwhile across the street the homeless & the addicts congregate.  Doorways near million dollar apartments house drug addicts at night who then seek the shade of the trees during the day. 

All of this takes place under the same sun but against two backdrops.  To the East the waves crash in from the ocean in a typical beach scene.  Surfers, bathers, posers, beach footballers.  To the West a darker presence.  Mountainous favelas, at times shrouded in cloud, peer down onto the faded grandeur of the beachfront hotels.  A reminder of Rio's present day poverty and its long since departed 1930's heyday.

The sun goes down early and quickly here.  Bake on the beach at 5pm if you like but you will be in complete darkness by 6pm.  It's winter and the weather conditions can change in a blink of an eye.  It's not uncommon to see startled holidaymakers dashing through hotel lobbies wrapped in a towel wondering aloud where the rain had come from. 

Copacabana adopts a different feel when it turns dark.  Tourists are warned away from the beach at night but at times it seems this may just be so the locals can reclaim it for themselves.  Small children play beach football late into the evening, middle aged folk exercise, people sit, talk, smoke, relax.  Men holding hands roller skate past hawkers holding Brazil shirts with cocaine in their shorts. 

Away from the beachfront small bars open out onto the streets.  Cheap beer, live music, dangerous cocktails and prostitutes.  Lots of prostitutes. The congregation continues long into the night. It's so busy and the alcohol flows so freely that the area feels safe although this can change quickly.  A wrong turn or sobriety can suddenly make a 1.30am walk to pick up a presenter a hairy one.  The beggars approach or shout out aggressively as you pass.  This isn't the time nor the place for a romantic stroll.

It's a real eye-opener being here.  Pre-tournament fears over safety have been replaced by a marvelling of a country and a people that do not appear to be following the same rules that we live our lives by.  Make no mistake.  Whether you find yourself football-watching or people-watching there's no better place in the world to be right now.