Nannying in Buenos Aires; a Tale of Two Families, Part 2.

There’s much more to say about this nanny job! In fact, looking at the word doc it’s five times as much. Sorry!

This job was also advertised on Craigslist, but that’s where the similarities end! Actually, even there, family #2’s ad requested a German speaker who would ensure a mixed variety of developmental activities, music, art, movement and language. All good things of course, but the tone was very different!

I met family #2 on 6 May, after barely catching a bus to their gated community north of the city, known as ‘countries’. The bus was no ordinary bus, but a special, un-numbered one that leaves from designated street corners that are often confusingly close to an actual bus stop. The buses make just a few stops on their way to Nordelta (the North) and are expensive. As such, they’re only used by rich people when they venture into the city. Either them, or lucky nannies like me whom their bosses wish to save from travelling on public transport. I didn’t mind normal buses, but these were definitely nicer.

When I accepted the interview, I was told their house was 30 minutes from the city. It was actually closer to 1.5 hours. I either walked or took the subway; 30 minutes, and then took the bus for an hour. They paid for my transport and I was happy to read and look out the window. More importantly, the job paid an improved $8.70 an hour (once I got there) and promised five hours a day, Monday to Friday. I was finally going to make some (comparatively) decent money, woo hoo!

I got the job at the interview and started that very afternoon. First I had to email Tristan about it as we had no phones. I still got home to a worried Tristan, as I finished two hours later because the mum; Carolina, didn’t get back when she said she would. It wasn’t a great start but I was happy to have a steady job. The mother-in-law was there for the interview and luckily approved. Both her and Carolina were surprised that I wasn’t scared living in San Telmo. They thought it was very unsafe to live in the city. Based on the television news I can see why, but the media is hugely sensationalist.

The kids were Francisco (Fran); 8, Valentine; 6 and Kirramaria (Kirra); 18 months. Fran was a mature, kind-hearted kid, Valentine was full of beans and Kirra was cute as a button and but threw a tantrum most days. I worked from around 12.45 to 5.30, but my day was three hours longer with the commute. My hours often changed, as some days Carolina would text for me to start or finish earlier or later. After a confusing and unnecessarily heated argument in week two, she re-agreed on minimum three hour shifts; anything less wasn’t worth the travel.

Once at the community and through security, I had to ride a bike which, depending on the state of the tyres, took between 10-25 minutes. I only got paid from when I arrived at the house, so I didn’t dilly dally. The bike belonged to the family and was a fixed gear rust bucket with barely functioning brakes whose tyres went down overnight. I almost quit one evening when it was raining and Carolina wouldn’t drive me to the bus stop. My glasses fogged up so I couldn’t see, I fell off the bike when a car came along and the brakes wouldn’t work and then I missed my bus. After waiting in the cold and spending the ride home in wet clothes, I got a flu and missed a day of work. I was not happy! The kept saying they’d fix the bike, but they never did.

Their house was a double-block, two-storey, empty feeling monstrosity with a big lawn, pool, spa and private pier to the lake. They’d only moved in five months before, so there were lots of boxes and unfinished lighting et cetera. I thought it odd that such a wealthy family hadn’t gotten around to finishing the house and the little furniture they did have wasn’t great. It was a stark contrast to the fancy cars and high-end fashion they all wore. Even Kirra’s wardrobe was 100% Osh Kosh Bigosh, Guess, Gap, Polo, Ralph Lauren, blah blah blah. I have to confess though, it was nice to doll her up for an outing…

The day the kid’s friends (also German-speaking), visited & I got them all grubby drawing with side-walk chalk. Mwa ha haa.

The German Factor.

The dad’s father was German and the family preferred to identify with that rather than being Argentine (I wonder who they barracked for in the world cup final?). Carolina had learnt German and the boys went to a German speaking school. I was employed as I speak German, but it felt odd to be liked so much for my ancestry. There’s a big German community in Argentina, and while it was interesting and sometimes nice, the strength of the preference was a little disconcerting. Especially as a lot of families descend from Nazi war criminals escaping trial. Hardly something I want to be associated with. Argentina also accepted Jewish refugees, which is odd politically but also socially; imagine running into each other at the supermarket on the other side of the world?

Speaking to and even teaching Kirra in German was fine; it was helping Fran with his homework that was a challenge. Back home I hate Google translate, but here it was a blessing! However, even that couldn’t help me with the maths homework. A calculator could though! Just as long as I didn’t have to explain how an answer was achieved…

Guille; The Cleaner.

I also used Google translate to help me communicate with Guille (pronounced Giji). As I didn’t start until 12.45, she cared for Kirra until I got there and worked 9-5, five days a week. The house did not get that dirty! After talking to family #1 (in San Telmo), they said that many families hire a full-time cleaner more for status than for need. So silly.

Guille also cooked dinner for the family, which must have been dry and unappetising by the time they ate it at least two hours later. I’d rather just cook myself! Guille also cooked lunch for Kirra and I, which we all ate together. It gave me a chance to practice Spanish, but at the end of the day my brain could hurt from speaking three languages!

After counting my pay in the kitchen one time, Carolina reprimanded me as Guille might see and get offended because in her words, they ‘pay her much, much less’. Hrm… When the whole house got sick, I did make Guille go home rather than stay, but I regret not also telling her to ask for more pay. She also cleaned for another family on the weekends.

Guille and I.

I think both parents worked at the family company (something to do with a flour mill?), so when the boys got sick they stayed safely at work while Guille and I cared for them. Inevitably, we both got terribly ill (Guille twice) and had to take more unpaid days off work, as did Tristan. Eventually the parents did get sick and I didn’t feel all that bad, especially as we suspect it was due to the water system.

The fake lakes had a green ooze on them, and family #1 had told me that the ‘countries’ sometimes operate off the books, so their utilities can fail. Serves them right for not only cloistering themselves from the rest of society, but for doing so in such a way that they don’t get taxed properly. I even heard that the government fly helicopters overhead to ascertain the population and assets.

In their defense, Carolina was helping Guille’s niece; Solange, into school. Sadly, her mum was a drug addict who came and went, so Guille often cared for her. Sol hadn’t started school because they needed her mum’s signature, which was also needed for either Guille or the State to take guardianship. At the time her mum wasn’t to be found… Sol joined Kirra and I for a few days and while she was a bit difficult to discipline, she’s a sweet kid.

Day to Day.

On an average day I arrived, tidied up some toys, woke up Kirra and had lunch with Guille. Kirra was making great progress feeding herself; I hope Guille or the next carer didn’t underestimate her. We’d play inside for a while (often with water or playdough), dance to music and spend at least some time outside. We either explored the backyard or walked to the playground or to feed the ducks. While the ‘country’ looked very pretty, going outside meant lathering yourself in bug repellant because the mozzies were fierce! I suppose it’s due to the fake lakes and that the area is essentially swamp-land.

The backyard.

Perfect ducks for the perfect (looking) lakes.

At around 4.30pm the boys would get home, get out of their uniforms and have a snack. One day the dad; Alfredo, was home and asked if I’d been putting sugar in their Nesquik milk drinks. Of course I hadn’t, but I was told that they all have 1-2 teaspoons of sugar, even Kirra! I wasn’t really in a position to voice my opinion. Alfredo also allowed the boys to put 4 spoons in their tea (yup, caffeinated), right before Fran had to do homework. Fran could barely concentrate and Valentin would not stay away, so we got little done. Poor Fran was so high it was actually quite funny. They were good boys though, and quickly decided to barrack for Australia in the world-cup! Not that we lasted long…

If Kirra was sleeping due to a late nap or was out for lunch with Carolina, I’d organise the playrooms. This meant spending countless hours sorting through lego. Inevitably, the boys would up-end the containers and I’d start again another day. Eventually Carolina got flatter containers and I managed to convince the boys to stop emptying them and use our system (eg, curved pieces in one, flat in another). I never thought I’d put so much thought into lego, or be blogging about it months later!

Each day Carolina would leave a list of things she’d like me to do. For example, listen to ‘Baby Einstein’ CDs (actually not bad), sort the kids clothes, sew name labels on school uniforms, fix a broken night-light, replace old shoelaces, make bread with Kirra or take her on their little boat. I never got around to the latter two, and I also failed my mission to fix a broken kids bike. You know, not being a bike mechanic and all…

Happier to be ‘The Help’.

My feelings toward Carolina weren’t great after our fight about shorter hours or her making me ride in the rain. However, to add insult to injury, when I used her fancy, age-customised scales I saw that she was three years younger than me. I’d nannied ten years previously and was already feeling a little down about doing menial nanny work again, so taking orders and being given obvious advice from someone younger, richer and more ‘settled’ than me kind of sucked.

In the end though, I don’t envy the life of family #2. For all their money, they’ve isolated themselves in a soulless, mosquito ridden gated community in a swamp. Taking the bus along the highway, I saw smelly swamp, gated community, more smelly swamp and another gated community. Other than a few superficial-looking ones by the entrance, there’s no cafes, bars, restaurants or shops (I think Carolina did a lot of online shopping). To receive visitors they have to organise a pass for them days ahead of time, or have them leave their car at the entrance and pick them up.

I heard that people are often hijacked in their cars as they return from work and make a bee-line for their community. It makes sense. Of course the ‘countries’ are targets for criminals, being, as they are, a concentration of wealth conveniently located in one place. There’s even a market for selling passes and the security codes to people’s houses. To get my pass I had to provide my passport details and the name and date of birth of not only my stepfather, but my biological father (not mother…, hello sexism).

The families really do put a lot of trust in their hired help. We know the codes, have access to their property and belongings, do their dirty laundry, are often left alone and generally, we know we’re being underpaid and working under often unfriendly conditions.

I suppose they know this though, because at the end of each day I joined a line of other domestic workers waiting to have our bags checked. I don’t know what they were looking for. Silver candlesticks? How do they know whether something belongs to me or the family? If I was stealing small items like jewelry they’d be in my pockets or deeper in the bag they only ever really glanced into.

I’ve come to the sad conclusion that the bag checks are more psychological than practical. Even so, I find it hard to believe people are so evil; would they check bags just to make workers feel like crap? Perhaps it’s just the security staff pacifying the residents. But then, the residents must be dumb enough to think bag checks actually do anything… For me, all the checks did were threaten to make me late for my bus and wait in the cold for 30-50 minutes… They sometimes succeeded.

Mistrusting the help might also explain why at least the house I worked in was totally bereft of ornaments, art, knickknacks, lamps or really anything nice. It could be because they’d moved in five months ago, but there was literally nothing. I didn’t even see a jewelry box or nice perfumes. Was everything hidden? What’s the point of owning nice things if you have to keep them out of view?

It was an interesting experience with family #2. I for one know that I prefer to live with culture and people around me, eat non-dried-up dinners, enjoy my garden sans bug attacks, drink virus-free water and feel safe enough to display my possessions and drive home from work. They can have their ‘country’ life!

Needless to say, I feel less guilty about leaving family #2. Carolina and Alfredo took the news well though and wanted me back if I returned to Buenos Aires. After only 3.5 weeks I was still sad to leave the kids (especially Kirra), and I made the boys promise to keep their lego containers organised!

Working as a cleaner in Buenos Aires.

We’d left resumes at Ostinatto Hostel around the corner and they were our one and only call back! While they had no receptionist or bar positions available, a cleaner was going on a months leave from mid-April and they offered us her job. The hours were 8am to 2pm, Tuesday to Thursday and we decided to job share. Our salary was a flat monthly rate paid in two lots, which came to $3.90 an hour. Ouch. Beggars can’t be choosers!

We put out breakfast, cleaned the kitchen, rooms and at least four bathrooms, changed bedding and swept, mopped and dusted communal areas. Each morning we started from the top floor terrace, bringing our trolley of cleaning goods, mops and brooms with us. It was nice starting the day with a view over Buenos Aires (cue singing from the Evita musical).

“Hello! Buenos Aires…”

It was a real pain in the arse if someone left the lift door open, as it meant climbing up to five floors of stairs to get it working again! The middle of the building was open air; like a big shaft with balconies on all sides. It made it feel nice and airy, but once I dropped a broom over edge and it smashed a big light in the reception area. Thankfully no one was hurt and my boss Barbara didn’t seem too mad!

Other than failing health and safety standards, the cleaning tools, cloths and chemicals weren’t very pleasant. The toilet bins were decidedly very unpleasant, as in many South American countries, that’s where you put used toilet paper…

Other than sneaking a coffee and some food while packing away breakfast, we had no breaks and in most shifts I didn’t even use the bathroom; I was non-stop for six hours, and believe me I moved fast! Tristan seemed to take more breaks though and usually finished on time or early, whereas I always worked past 2pm. On the first day I finished after 4pm; I guess I’m a bit of a perfectionist!

My back has never been as sore as it was after each shift and I feared I might be doing permanent damage (I didn’t). I really wondered how people older than me managed, especially if they had children to go home to and didn’t have the luxury of a 30 second commute and a partner to run you a bath and make lunch.

As I started another job, I only did six shifts. Tristan did more though, because we realised that we were expected to work for five weeks, not the four-week ‘month’ we’d planned. This of course brought the pay rate down even further… Luckily Tristan was able to negotiate some more money.

We also shared a shift at the hostel’s bar, serving a total of four customers, wild! Whilst boring, I did get to take home some cake and left over BBQ from a wine tasting event held on the hostel’s terrace. Ostinatto Hostel really was great and I recommend it. It was clean (of course!), the roof top terrace is nice (and clean!), staff are helpful and they offer discounts and free weekly yoga and Spanish lessons.

View from behind the hostel bar.

The job gave us a real understanding of the pay and conditions domestic workers in Buenos Aires (and probably many other places) have to deal with. Certainly the staff and guests weren’t used to seeing a cleaner who was (relatively) young, white and English-speaking and some questioned what I was doing there.

The cost of living did not make up for the low pay. Sure, it was cheaper than back home but not enough to bring balance. For example, I worked an hour to buy a coffee. On minimum wage in Australia you’d get around five coffees. Having said that, I’m sure there are ‘off the books’ workers in Australia getting by on similar rates too.

Eco Trancoso, Part 3: Experiencing Trancoso’s delights.

Being at Eco Trancoso wasn’t all nasty bugs and sad animals. My next post will be about the permaculture and eco construction work we did, but first I want to write about Trancoso itself. Note: I still haven’t found a cable to enable me to post the better photos from my camera, so iPhone pics it is.

Bahia’s Beautiful Beach.

After lunch on our first day Sage showed us the walk to the beach. It’s a pretty walk and ends going through a small jungle, but due to another hill it’s not the easy stroll described on the website. The farm is on the top of a hill so getting anywhere is a bit of a hike, but we got used to it and the views are wide and stunning.


The beach is what Bahia is famous for and it’s truly one of the best I’ve seen. The sand is clean and there’s no rocks, seaweed or (mostly) people. Even so, a few times we were lucky enough to be approached by guys selling melty cheese on a stick, sprinkled with oregano. They melt it right in front of you on coals in a little portable BBQ. I could have easily eaten ten each sitting.

We spent every other afternoon at the beach, happily using the wooden shelters, body surfing (the waves could be huge!) and being bug free. It was fun to spot the near translucent crabs and one day some of the others helped a big turtle get back into the sea. If we wanted to use the boogie board though, we had to find Stefan and ask him to get it as he kept it in his house…


There were some hotels 10 minutes down the beach and occasionally we walked over for a beer and to swim in the river. After the isolation of the farm and our beach spot, it felt like returning to civilisation. The beach here flows into a river, so at low tide a pool is formed and when the tide changes you can stand on the crest and be buffeted from the waves in one direction and from the fast-moving river in the other. The tides really do change the shape of the beach. In the morning, it’s lovely to lie in the channels that form about 30 metres from the water.

In the afternoon, people play volleyball and practice yoga on the hard, sandy beach facing out to sea. People watching the people watchers was interesting too. One time a woman was happily yogaing to a small group of men confidently standing around her, some taking photos. If I was more prepared to look like a pervert I would have joined them; the photos would have been great. When the river becomes deeper at high tide, kids and teenagers take running jumps into its brown waters, just metres from the blue of the ocean.

Trancoso Town.

When we hiked into town it was mainly to use free wifi in one of the cafes. Other than our first few days, the internet wasn’t working at the farm. It doesn’t sound like much, but I’d intended to use some of my free time to write this blog and research and plan the rest of our trip. It was especially annoying when organising our next adventure, as we had to walk to town and back just to spend a couple of minutes checking travel confirmations. Initially we were only allowed online from 4-6pm; we’re not sure why. When we explained that this meant having to come back early from the beach or town, or between the two, and that neither were a quick walk, Stefan agreed to change the time to straight after lunch.

Anyway, going to town was cool and allowed us to enjoy meat, dairy, cheap beer and other goodies (the farm is vegetarian, mostly vegan – I am not). A market stall sold the most mouth-watering, home-made chocolate I’ve ever had and the acai was delicious and refreshing. Acai is made from frozen native berries and while I’d seen it at music festivals in Australia it was really pricey, so I never bothered. Of course, there was also delicious street meat.

There’s almost two defined parts of town; the one where locals live, eat and shop and the tourist part. We probably spent more time in the former. The horses meander unawares.


A lot of Brazilian tourists come to Trancoso, especially rich people from São Paulo and it seemed many came for weddings in the church. This meant envying posh restaurants and resorts and browsing boutique shops an art galleries. The town’s landmark is an old, small church near the cliff and looking over the quadrant.


At night the area is lit up beautifully with lanterns and interesting, recycled light fittings. For example, one was made of coffee cups and another from the bottom of soft drink bottles. We took a moto taxi (motorbike) home a couple of times when it was dark and we couldn’t be bothered with the hill. At $3 each and lots of fun in and of itself, it was definitely worth it.

Happy Horse riding.

Four of us volunteers had expressed interest in horse riding, so Stefan introduced us to Fernando who runs treks from a ranch. It’s been owned by the same family for generations, and the 90-year-old patriarch still goes there everyday and watches his great-grandchildren learn the ropes. We arranged to meet at the ranch entrance and Stefan explained the way; the directions were really simple.

When we got to where we were meant to be, we couldn’t see Fernando. For the next 40 minutes we asked locals for help and were grateful that Chloe spoke Portuguese (her dad’s Brazilian and she’s in the process of getting her citizenship). You’d think a ranch would be easy to find, but no one seemed to know. Eventually, Fernando found us in the plaza – where he’d arrange with Stefan to meet us….

With Fernando and horses found and my grumpiness laid aside, we were soon trotting through the streets and towards the beach. First, we trailed through jungly areas and out onto a cliff to view the expanse of perfect beaches down below. When we got there, we had the option of cantering and galloping. I’d been riding about six times before but had never worked up the courage to canter, even though I heard it was more comfortable than trotting.

As soon as my horse began to canter I wished I’d done it years ago! No more painfully bouncy boobs (or balls I’ve been told!) and a lot more fun. As long as I made sure I wasn’t directly behind another horse (where I’d get a face full of sand), it felt amazing to race along the beach. At one point I even swung my hat in the air, holding the reins with one hand. Yee hah! It was great going into the waves a bit and we took the horses into the nearby river for a drink.

When we passed through the quadrant, we tied the horses to some trees and shared a beer. It’s very common to order a litre of beer and share it in small glasses, it’s cute and keeps the beer colder for longer. Afterwards, it felt easy and familiar to get back on my horse and ride to the ranch. If and when I have my dream house in the hills one day, I’d love to have a horse to ride into town (as well as for treks).

Trancoso, Bahia, Brazil – Part 1: Arriving at Eco Trancoso.

I may have been putting off writing this post. I don’t regret my two weeks at Eco Trancoso one bit – I was inspired, made friends, learnt about permaculture, was taught techniques I’ll use back home and experienced a beautiful part of this world. However, we did leave a week earlier than intended.

When I began planning the trip, I wanted to spend some time in one place to start with. It’d be good to get my bearings, meet some travellers with tips to share and get my ears used to the new language (even though we began in Brazil, where they speak Portuguese, not Spanish). A cheap, helpful and interesting idea was to volunteer at Eco Trancoso; a permaculture and eco construction centre in Trancoso, in Brazil’s beautiful state of Bahia and a 20 hour bus ride north of Rio.

In around November, we filled out a brief application form which was accepted by the project’s brain-child; Stefan. We spoke with him via Skype a few weeks later, and agreed to arrive the afternoon of 7 March.

We took Stefan’s advice and got bus tickets from the station in Rio a few days beforehand. When we emailed Stefan the details, he advised that we’d probably miss the last local from where our regional bus would drop us off. With only one bus leaving Rio a day, we’d booked the only bus available. Kindly, Stefan recommended a hotel to stay at should we miss the local bus. Luckily, we met some Germans taking a similar route, changed buses, caught the last local bus and made it to Trancoso early Friday evening. Hooray for us!

When we arrived in town, we spent around half an hour calling the only number on Eco Trancoso’s website. Having no luck, we decided to use the address and directions to take a taxi. There were directions to walk there in 20 minutes but it was dark. We’d been travelling for 25 hours and were looking forward to arriving at our home for the next three weeks.

During this we met a French woman; Martine (who agreed that the walk was unsafe). At first, we thought we’d been incredibly blessed because she thought she knew Stefan and gave him a call. Awkwardly, when he arrived we realised that it was a different French Stefan, but one who helped us get a reliable taxi. Both Martine and Stefan gave us their mobile numbers to call if we needed anything and we planned to call them for a thank you drink once we’d settled. To our shame, we never did.

In the taxi, the address took us to a gated community that needed an entry code. We thought this was weird, because Eco Trancoso is more or less a farm. The taxi driver tried the number several times, again to no avail. We all shouted at the gate, tried random code numbers and briefly considered jumping over the fence to find someone, but in the end our only option was to head back to town for the night. The taxi driver’s cousin owned a hotel so we went there; as to whether we were ripped off or simply took our only semi-reliable option is anyone’s guess – we were tired, hungry and annoyed.

After a shower, we got some burgers and beers in the buzzing Quadrant (plaza). We watched people dancing, browsed the small market and randomly saw a white horse majestically strolling through. It had no saddle and didn’t seem to belong to anyone but no-one paid much attention, it was like an apparition! Brazil has a big horse culture and in towns like this, horses are free to meander around; everyone knows who they belong to and leave them be.

The next morning, we woke early and had delicious papaya and honeydew milkshakes. I’ve never liked papaya back home but it’s much better here, and while I’d never think to mix melon with dairy, the honeydew milkshake was also yum. Then we strolled through the quaint quadrant and down to the cliff top to check out the view – paradise awaited us!

Before we could explore further though, we had to make it to Eco Trancoso. As soon as it opened, we went to a tourist agency advertising for eco tours and that they spoke English. They didn’t, and nor had they heard of Eco Trancoso, but we used their internet and finally got in touch with Stefan. We were almost there!

I wanna take you to a Gay Ball!

Walking past the classic Copacabana Palace one night we noticed barricades in front of the foyer and figured we’d stick around as something important was probably about to happen. We watched fancy and likely famous people rock up in fabulous gowns and masks, including a celebrity drag queen (never found out her name!).

Inspired, on our last night we partook in another Carnival tradition; the Scala Gay Ball. We got our pricey tickets from Craigslist, and while the couple we bought them off in Ipanema were lovely, I was relieved to see them at our table on the inside. Frida and Shakti are an American / Indian couple with kids our age and went to the gay ball because they thought it’d be fun. It was.

The only way in was along a red carpet barricaded against papparazzi who encouraged us to pause beneath the giant balloon archway. The crowd cheered and I felt really silly, but it was definitely a once in a lifetime experience! Comparatively, inside was a bit of a disappointment. I felt like i was in the basement of a hotel that may have been a happening joint for bridge players in the 30s. Nonetheless, it was pretty amazing and I was grateful that we booked a table so we could sit, watch the beautiful people and safely leave our bucket of beer while out on the dance floor The music was a fun, elderly band alternating with a DJ.

We wore masks and Tristan dressed as a pirate. I donned my sequin dress with the neckline plunging to my belly button that’d only previously seen Las Vegas. I felt great, but also very aware of one thing. My real boobs.

I’d heard that one of the samba schools had committed to dancers with real boobs and had a devil of a time finding any. Plastic surgery is no big deal in parts of Brazil; many already beautiful people go under the knife and many are transgender. I didn’t spot a jiggly breast anywhere (trust me, I looked) and out on the dance foor I was acutely aware of my own. My slight envy at what this meant for comfortable clothes choice soon faded when I noticed the quality of other surgery. Too many eyes were weird, noses turned up and oddly, some hips too, well… low.

On the one hand, the body consciousness of Brazil is a win for fitness, curves and the accessibility of surgery for transgender people. On the other, it can lead to judgementalism and at least at the Gay Ball, I felt that it wasn’t so much about looking like a female but in looking like you’ve had the surgery, no matter how realistic. A new look had been created here (and probably elsewhere in the world) but as long as the people are healthy and happy, why should I care? With these thoughts and a slight hangover, we headed to Niteroi.

The Big Jesus, Sugar Loaf Mountain and Escardia Selaron.

Even though we stayed at a hotel (overpriced, even for Carnival), hostels are a major source of guidance and we booked a tour with one of them. While entrance fees to Sugar Loaf Mountain and the famous Cristo Redentor were decent, it was worth paying extra to avoid queues and be driven around. The subway was really easy to navigate, but as we walked out of each one, we prayed for no bloco!

Our guide Leandro was great. At the Big Jesus (as he called it),the detail up close was awe inspiring. The gigantic statue hovers over Rio, arms outstretched as if to love everyone despite the frivolity perhaps even debauchery) Rio is known for. I liked looking up to see if I could spot him, wherever I was in the city. At Sugar Loaf Mountain the monkeys weren’t shy and the views above the clouds via two cable cars were terrific.

We also went to Escardia Selaron; 215 colourful, mosaic steps up to Santa Teresa incorporating random tiles from around the world. I could have spent ages lingering there and I felt the tragedy that befell its creator. Chilean artist Jorge Selaron started the renovating the tatty steps in 1990 as a tribute to the Brazilian people and they became his life’s work. He was found dead on those steps in January 2013, seemingly by suicide after suffering depression and feeling betrayed in disputes about his art sales (which sky rocketed as the steps became a Rio landmark).

Amongst all this we wasted time trying to get cash from various ATMs and accounts; my least favourite thing about travelling next to carrying my bags. We spent two hours going to the bus station to buy tickets for the trip north and another hour being misled by signs to a waterfall we never found, but other than that had no troubles.

On the other hand, unforseen obstacles can lead to some surprise gems and the excuse to stop for street food. In this heat, the homemade vodka icy poles being sold out of an esky at a train station were a god send!

Ojai, California – now included, oops!

Ojai, Ventura County, California, USA.

I thought I had posted this one but seems I didn’t, sorry Ojai! We were there after Santa Cruz and before Rio – the last weekend of February.

Ok, I love Ojai as well. What can I say; Tristan’s family live in some pretty cool places. It is a bit touristy though, in the sense that wealthy hipsters drive up from L.A on the weekends and some shops are too posh for their own good. No one does breakfast like Melbourne though; even here there was no obvious signs of a brunch culture (maybe a good thing).

It’s in the truest type of valley I’ve ever been in. Every where you turn you look up to find yourself encircled by reddy brown mountains contrasted against what for us was a perpetually blue sky. It was unseasonably warm, hooray! Ojai gives you a protected, small town feeling with all the benefits of a larger town.

There’s a good choice of bars; seedy pool hall, live band venue with weathered couches, dark fancy small bar, edge of town former bikie haunt and Ojai Beverage Company, which we at least visited almost every night. To be fair, it is a two minute walk from Tristan’s mum’s house where we were staying. It’s also one of the best stocked bottle shops I’ve seen; we spent a good hour all up just browsing. The staff are friendly, the food is hearty and there’s an ever changing list of micobrewery beers (the 15 beer tasting platter is worth it, despite a couple that resembled yeasty syrup).

The annual Ojai Tennis Tournament wasn’t on, but I enjoyed relaxing on the bleachers surrounding the four outdoor courts in the local park (and a maybe pretending I was in Grease). Lots of people and their dogs use the park, its gazebo and small amphitheatre that hosts school concerts. I always love seeing people use their public spaces (like the good public servant I was).

Apparently there are hot springs but we never found them. The river is pretty enough though, and we had it almost to ourselves. On Sunday’s there’s an artist’s and farmer’s market; the strawberries were huge and the pumpkin pie was yum. I was excited to try it having only seen it in the movies and all; it was ok. I also went to Lulu Bandha’s Yoga which was sunny, laid back and welcoming.

Just out of town, we drove down an orange orchard lined road to Tristan’s very cute primary school and one morning we visited the one in Santa Paula where his mum works. Her grade two class was really sweet and a good insight. With only one or two whities, it reminded me of my primary school in Melbourne’s Springvale South, but instead of the majority having a bunch of different backgrounds these kids seemed mainly Latin American. It’s multiculturalism, kinda.

It had recently been President’s and Valentines Day, so there were signs of that, and I thought the map looked weird; centred as it was of course on America. Tristan and I gave a show and tell about Australia, which we only just kept from being completely hijacked by tales and questions about giant snakes. I managed to talk about Indigenous Australians, our varied landscapes and that we don’t ride kangaroos to school. Other than having a brain fart while explaining time zones and telling them that the sun moves around the earth, I think that I instilled some interest in Australia. Or at least a fear of our animals. Ho hum.

On February 27, via Charlotte, Carolina, we took off for Rio de Janeiro. Carnival here we come!

Burgers, Blocos, Bums and Santa Teresa.

In Copacabana we had a favourite burger place. After around 10pm, a wagon magically appears in a backstreet and becomes surrounded by hungry people. It’s hear that we learnt that standing politely by, waiting for the cooks acknowledgement gets you nothing but hungry. Loudly interrupting them gets you an X Todo burger; cheese, chillis, peas, beef pattie, bacon, ham, lettuce, tomato, tiny crispy fries and a quail egg. Mmm mmm.

Being Carnival, of course it was a great time to be in Rio. There’s a real buzz in the air and everyone’s out for a good time (it is the party before lent after all). However, the blocos we so welcomed on day one first turned on us in downtown Carioca. We were there to see Confeteria Colombo and suspect we got within metres of it, but a bloco had other plans, namely trapping and pressing sweaty gyrating bodies on us. The authorities were prepared; many stores were boarded up and roads were closed. Despite a few moments of claustrophobia, I was glad for the experience and we did make it to our second goal; the nearby Metropolitan Cathedral (definitely one of a kind).

The next time we came up against a bloco was in Santa Teresa. After begging a taxi to take us there despite rumours of the bloco, we got as far as we could before proceeding on foot. It’s a lovely neighbourhood though; my favourite in Rio. We were there to pretend to be rich. I’d booked a massage at the tranquil sanctuary of Santa Teresa Hotel and my plan to weasel into their fancy schmancy pool area paid off. After getting directions from some friendly Germans (thanks mum!), we spent the afternoon in luxury. The massage was great and afterwards I had use of a private bathroom and sun speckled, air-conditioned deck where I was brought juice and fruit salad.

We spent another afternoon on the Lagoa; a lake in the south of the city with great views of Rio surronded by mountains, peaked by Sugar Loaf. I went back to my childhood when we paddled out on one of those duck shaped boats and got yet another kitschy song in my head when we went to nearby Ipanema. It’s a cool beach, gorgeous at sunset and there were loads of people in happy Carnival mode, but it didn’t live up to its reputation and we preferred the far less touristy Copacabana beach.

What did live up to its reputation were the Brazillian gstrings. Women of all ages and sizes wear them and I think it’s great. There’s no judgement and bums look better with less on them anyway. I even got a ‘bummier’ pair myself when we got to Trancoso (not the full bum floss!).

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

We arrived on Friday 28 March, a few days into South America’s most widely celebrated festival; Carnival. To actually be in Rio felt surreal. We were staying in Copacabana (so that song was in my head) and for months my password at work had been ‘when my baby’ (goes to Rio…). We were in Rio baby!

Our first stop was the beach at the end of our street. Copacabana beach! It was a gorgeous sunny day and we ate huge fried sardines and walked with our beers into the water. They put long hoses leaking water from the street to the beach so you can walk on wet sand, avoiding burns to the soles of your feet. Genius. Australia needs this!

After a swim in the hotel’s lovely roof top pool and a nap, we walked straight into a street party; perfect timing! Known as ‘blocos’, a float meanders through the streets carrying samba singers, a dancer or two and sometimes a whole band. We joined the crowds and grabbed beers and street meat from vendors along the way. For me, ‘street meat’ is any meat on a stick you can conveniently get from local vendors; this time it was beef dipped in dried manioc. Yum!

We followed the bloco through to the beach. It was beautiful at night and people watching was fun; mainly young Brazilians on holiday dressed up as cartoon characters or just wearing crazy hats and wigs. I’d forgotten about loud American tourists until we were on the plane, but saw none until we went to the Sambadrome, and they weren’t really loud at all (but maybe I couldn’t hear them over the music!).

The Sambadrome is where the main part of Carnival takes place; the samba school competition. Dozens of schools have an hour to strut their stuff down the roughly 1km, purpose built stadium / road (which I was told is going to host the 2015 Olympic Opening Ceremony). Walking up into the stands for the first time was truly amazing; I was immediately consoled that it was worth the $450 tickets. We arrived just after the first of six schools started, so were greeted with overwhelming lights, colours, movement and sound, including fireworks. I was glad I didn’t dress up like I’d intended as no-one really did, and we spent most of the night standing up.

More than a dance competition, each school’s entry is an epic production with huge floats and outlandish costumes that make little sense without having read the theme and are too numerous to count. My favourite themes were a universally appealing toy box theme and one focusing on Brazilian’s rainbow culture; from the boats carrying slaves, to Indigenous cultures and contemporary life. Another focused purely on soccer; a fairly single-minded theme to devote an hour production to and a tricky one to keep interesting. I was bored; there’s only so many ways to make a costume resembling soccer, and most aren’t pretty).

Locals support the schools like they’re football clubs; wearing their colours and learning their anthem which is sung repeatedly for the hour. I think it’s nice for people to support dance clubs instead of sports clubs. It’s certainly unique. Many schools are in the favelas; poor slum areas on Rio’s mountain sides. It’s one of the few cities in the world where the poor have the best views, and the rich live at the bottom of the hills. So the people participating in one of the world’s most watched festivals are among their cities poorest. We were going to do a tour with a community organisation, but stupid banking and bus ticket logistics made us miss it.

Each school has around 1800 participants, some of whom are foreigners who pay up to $800 for their costume; their ticket to temporarily joining a samba school. We went on the last night when the top schools from the previous year perform. I’m not sure if the piles of costumes at the end of the Sambadrome were from the whole competition, or just one night, but some piles had to be over 10 metres tall. The next day people were selling them on the streets. So much effort must have gone into making the costumes; I hope someone’s still enjoying them.

There was a cleaner’s strike that weekend; the world was watching and it had the desired impact. It was great to see locals supporting the workers, despite the mountains rubbish piling up in the central region. We got caught in the middle of one of their marches; workers ran down a boulevard towards a bus carrying more workers. The bus was forced to stop, everyone got out (including the driver), riot police rocked up in their dozens and the march continued pretty peacefully. At the Sambadrome, cleaners did sweep after each school. One did his own samba with his broom to great cheers – he heard he was the main dancer at the Beijing Olympics when Rio was annonced. This was the first of many protests we’ve seen so far; it good to see people caring about their community.

Back at the Sambadrome, we were sat where the schools paused for the judges and it was impressive watching the participants keep at least what appeared to be genuine smiles on their faces. Everyone looked like they were having a great time. While it was hard to spot the actual samba dancers, I loved seeing them in the traditional Carnival get up. The women must be super fit to wear those heavy headdresses, feathers, sequins and heels that strap all the way up to their knees for an entire hour, in spot lights, while being judged on their dance technique. The winner was announced a couple of days later; one of the two we decided to skip in favour of bed. It was 3am after all and the last school started at 6am!

Santa Cruz & Scotts Valley

I love this area too and it’s not just because I’ve adopted Tristan’s sweet as pie, strong and generally awesome Grandma (whom we stayed with in Scotts Valley). Her house backs onto a redwood forest and to get there you cross a small bridge that her now passed husband had built. I hoped her talk of bobcats behind the house was just to scare me (but I don’t think so). We held a baby salamander though! It was about 3cm long, reddy black and looked weird and vulnerable as it crawled around the forest floor on its own.

For a week, we went for walks, watched the Olympics and hung out in nearby Santa Cruz. It’s a home of surf culture and the only place I can think of where even the locals where t-shirts and hoodies emblazoned with ‘Santa Cruz’. It’s about a seven hour drive south of Arcata and still pretty cold.

The boardwalk may just be where the movie The Lost Boys was filmed. I could imagine a young Keifer Sutherland flying over head and the Corey’s creeping around (in a good way). There’s a strong 50s theme with pastel colours, pin ball machines, a roller coaster and probably fairy floss somewhere.

A sea lion and seal colony live on pylons under the pier. We were lucky to see them swimming out into what we thought was seaweed but turned out to be an abundant hunting ground of fish. They swam off instantly to reveal clear water; a pretty cool sight. We also watched a group of dolphins, all in the space of 15 minutes and right by the pier.

In downtown there’s an abundance of people with dogs, cool food places, stores and about six op shops , mostly still full of awesome finds. Australia seems to have picked its way through all that’s left from before 1980, but Californian’s have a lot left to mine from 1900’s on wards, maybe because of their much larger population.

On Valentine’s Day we saw the midnight screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It amazes me that there always seems to be a steady flow of 16-22 year olds obsessively in love with that movie (I was one of them). The queue ran for two blocks and tickets sold out (being organised adults now, of course we already had tickets, ner ne ner ner). These midnight screenings are known for being a riot, but I’d underestimated the American enthusiasm and felt very Australian casually not shouting every call back. I’m not sure if I was proud or embarrassed. Either way, a fun night!

During the day we picnicked at the Garden of Eden; a little known gorgeous spot by the river in Henry Cowell State Park. You get there by walking along a forest railroad track and going down a narrow path (Lost Boys again…).

We also visited Capitola with Tristan’s dad and Monterey where his friend lives. Both are laid back, cute towns along the sea and have a 30s feel; wooden board walks, niche stores and salt water taffy by the barrel. I can’t not say taffy with a big twang; ‘taaeaafy’ and I rationed my precious bag of it until my efforts backfired in Brasil when they melted into one big (and probably delicious) gloop. I didn’t eat it. For shame.

Next stop, Ojai.