Thongs n' Things

Ipanama Beach, Sugar Loaf Mountain, Copacabana, caipirinhas, beach volleyball, beautiful bodies, thongs – all define the glamour of Rio de Janeiro. It’s about 7 a.m. and I’m just off the overnight (four) flights from Galapagos to Rio de Janeiro, where I am privileged to be spending a day, before immersing myself in various Brazilian forests for the most hectic two weeks of my journey. My hotel room isn’t ready, in fact they really weren’t very helpful at all, so I am taking an early morning wander on Ipanema beach in heavy shoes and long trousers while everyone else sports speedos and thongs (spot the Englishman!). There’s a big however, however, just because one can wear a thong, doesn’t necessarily mean one should! 

Ipanema panorama

Having been brought up on some of the world’s great beaches (Scarborough, Perranporth) I feel that I know a thing or two about beach life, but some of the sights here surprise even my seasoned eye. It’s not a fable, ladies really do play beach volleyball here, under the palm trees, wearing thongs. Most of the rest of the people around, including the blokes, probably shouldn’t and contrive to slightly put me off my delayed breakfast.

  

Bikini brollies

Backed by a busy six-lane road (why do they always do that to beaches?), then apartment blocks and hotels, with a spectacular granite spire at one end, this sweeping beach of beautiful white sand with the texture of demerara sugar is a perfect stage for people-watching. Here, not only should you sport the body beautiful here, but you must be seen to be building the body beautiful. Everyone, everywhere, is exercising in some way (except me), including open-air, on-the-beach, iron-pumping gyms, beach football and volleyball, surfing (on rubbish surf) and runners, lots and lots of lycra-clad runners and power walkers.

As I stroll along the prom, feeling overwhelmed but trying to look cool, I am startled by a loud roar immediately behind me. I turn half-expecting a wild animal, to see a runner dressed in an early ‘80s green tracksuit. Every 50 steps or so he lets out a wild roar and no-one seems to bat an eye-lid. Later, in the same place I believe I hear the piercing whistle of a steam train. Fooled again; the high-pitched hoot is bursting from a lycra-clad lad marching military-style at speed, straight arms swinging and, on each exhalation, emitting a shrill, steam whistle. I watch in disbelief as he disappears into the distant throng – no-one else seems to notice.


I reach the far end of the beach, where I stop for a fresh coconut juice straight from the nut. I clamber up a small rocky peninsula to gain height for photos and, embarrassingly, bother people to take a pic of me with my camera. Looking down there are several highly-bronzed, middle-aged men in speedos, standing like statues with hands clasped behind their backs. Their heads are raised and their eyes are closed. They stand, unmoving, for ages. Eventually, I deduce that they are sun-bathing vertically, although I can’t fathom why.

My one aim on my day in Rio is to pay a visit to Pao de Azucar (SugarLoaf Mountain), which starred in the James Bond film Moonraker (the one where metal-mouthed Jaws eats through the cable car cable!). For once on this trip it’s sunny, albeit slightly hazy. I take a ride on the engineering miracle that is the Pao de Azucar cable car, which rises to the heavens in two stages, with a stop off halfway on a lower granite outcrop. The views here are excellent and there are various surprisingly classy bars, cafes, shops and historical presentations of the history of this engineering miracle. OK, there are loads of people, but it never feels crowded and I even find a back path through some peaceful, shady gardens, clinging to the mountain side. The second part of the ride up is really spectacular. As the cable car departs the station, the mountain drops away precipitously, leaving me breathless and ever-so-slightly unnerved. It climbs rapidly and steeply to the narrow crown of Pao de Azucar.

The pinnacle-top vistas are unique. The geography of my location is mirrored several-fold as far as the eye can see; rocky spires, hundreds of metres high, pierce the sky. Forest creeps up their flanks as far as it dare until the gradient becomes too steep and smooth for living things to gain a foot- or root-hold. These isolated pinnacles are strung together by patches of forest and ribbons of curvaceous white sand – including Ipanema and Copacabana, the tower block back-drop defying the perceived lack of space for between 6 and 13 million closely-packed people (depending on which website you source your figures from!). One of the most dramatic peaks is Corcovado – home to the emblematic statue of Christ watching over the city. The Atlantic Ocean here is deep blue and studded with green-topped islands, begging exploration. Swooping through these perspectives are large birds of prey, using the mountain-side breezes for lift – it’s unusual to look down on such animals from above. The Pao de Azucar guards one side of the pinched mouth that forms the entrance to the enormous natural harbour. Colonial era forts at one time literally guarded the entrance and remain as reminders of a Portuguese past.

I make a relaxed return to sea level, halting briefly halfway for another leisurely wander. At the end of the wire trip I take a taxi back to my hotel. Not only does the driver fleece me, he drives like the maniac chimera of Jenson Button and Dick Dastardly of the '70s children’s TV programme, Wacky Races (I suppose I must me Muttley!). I arrive unscathed, feeling several years older and with less hair.

I say goodbye to vibrant Rio, its poorly-thought through thongs and James Bond cable cars, and prepare myself for the next few days exploring the restoration of the once-great Atlantic Rainforest.