Taxis and other diversions

One of the good things about a cruise is the briefing given before a port visit. The very knowledgeable staff summarise what guided tours are on offer and also provide appropriate information about local conditions. We do not go on many of the guided tours, but always pay attention to the advice we are given – and have ever since our first voyage on the Reina del Mar to South America.

The first morning we were in port in Rio, Rab and I took the tour to Corcovado (we later realised that we could have done that on our own at a fraction of the price). It was a drizzly morning so the views from the statue were patchy. Once we got back to the ship we decided to head for Sugar Loaf on our own as the weather had cleared.

We picked up a taxi along the quay – in the days before the War on Terrorism there were no problems getting in and out of ports. And strangely enough I don’t recall ever having read of a ship being hi-jacked back then. We had a slight problem explaining where we wanted to go as we had no idea about the Portuguese language. We had seen Sugar Loaf rendered as Pao de Azucar in brochures but asking the driver to take us to Paroh Akoozare didn’t help. We finally dug out a guide book and pointed “Si! Pahno de Azookar,” he said. Ever since then I have tried to have the name of any destination written down to show a driver – although that didn’t work in Bangkok as Royal Orchid Hotel was written in English script, not Malay. And then there was the driver in Riga who may have been illiterate or just a smartarse. But I digress ….. back to Rio

We had been warned to ensure that the meter was turned on and to ignore any offers of ‘special rates’ from the driver. We recalled this and as we drove off we told the driver to turn on the meter. Shaking his head he said “Special. Only five dollars.” “No! NO!” we said, “Meter.”, pointing to the device. His only response was to start lowering his asking price as we rocketed up the Rua Branca. Finally realising that we weren’t going to get anywhere we told him to stop and bailed out. Leading him to demand payment. It was quite exhilarating in some ways to be standing having a stand up shouting match in two languages as the traffic swerved around us until we were rescued by a passing Carioca who spoke good English. Once we explained what had happened he sent the taxi on its way, stopped another for us and directed the driver to our destination.

The final cost was the equivalent of a few cents as the cruizero had just been devalued – again. That’s something the Brazilians have done fairly frequently over the years. At this time they had merely lopped three zeros off the values so what had preciously been 1,000 cruizeros was now 1. All very confusing, especially as there were three types of notes in circulation – new notes showing new values; old notes stamped with new values; old notes showing only the old values. Since a bus fare might have been 2,500 ‘old’ cruizeros there were many old and very badly worn notes.

The South African Rand was at that time even stronger than the US dollar, so costs were very low for us with an exchange rate of about 7:1. It was quite amusing for us to see that not every traveller understands currency rates. On the last day in Rio we were buying some drinks to keep the cost of our planned party on the ship down. A litre bottle of what was said to be gin cost the equivalent of 25 cents, so we had quite a party. But while we were in the bottle store, a tourist travelling on the France, which was also docked, came in to buy a bottle of Scotch. He was of the school which believes that the louder you shout at a foreigner, the easier it will be for them to understand. I always feel like saying “They are not deaf, just not Anglicized.” I did tell our friend Liz that in Istanbul when we landed up there with her as she shouted at the man in the restaurant who failed to understand her question about the ingredients of the dish she was pointing to. Given the fact that Turkish men are not renowned for being SNAGS - Sensitive New Age Guys – and the fact that there was a cleaver within handy reach, I felt that yelling aggressively might be counter-productive.

Anyhow this bloke, after a deal of pointing and shouting managed to get the Scotch he wanted in the quantity he wanted. Now to pay. All prices were marked in cruizeros, so he simply took a wad of US dollars out of his pocket and fanned them out asking the shopkeeper to take the price. The lighting in the shop was not very bright, but I could spot the gleam in the shopkeepers eye from where I stood. He carefully started extracting notes, watching his customer’s face for any reaction, finally judging that he might be reaching the limit at a price equivalent to about ten times the actual marked price. Both parties seemed to be very happy with the bargain. We didn’t buy Scotch ourselves, so I have no idea if the liquor he bought was actually related to Scotch. Our gin was certainly just poorly flavoured cane spirit.

The concept of bargains is one that have caused us some amusement over the years, perhaps none more than the man on the cruise we took from Hong Kong to Singapore to see in the Millennium – the proper Millennium – 2001. He proudly showd us the Rolex he had bought in the market. He said he knew it was a fake, but he had been told that some fakes were better quality than others and the vendor had assured him that this was an excellent fake, which is why he was prepared to pay over the odds for it. How that lucky salesman must have smiled. Not sure if the watch stopped before we got to Ho Chi Minh City.

Apropos the taxi fight, we had another in Buenos Aires later on our trip. Again we had boarded a taxi at the docks to head into town for a meal at what was said to be the best steakhouse in the world. Argentineans eat even more meat than US citizens and the servings, when we finally got there, resembled small calves on the enormous platters. But we had to get there first and after making sure the meter was on, we set off. The taxi driver seemed pleasant and we seemed to be headed in the right direction – so far so good. But when we got to our destination he asked for a fare about 15% higher than that shown on the meter. Off we went again, this time in our non-existent Spanish versus this non-existent English. Again a passerby saved the day. He explained that the fares had all been increased the day before, but the meters had not been re-calibrated and pointed to a notice to this effect – in Spanish of course – in the cab. So we paid up with apologies and left with smiles all round.

Over the years we’ve had a few run-ins with tax drivers. There was the London cabbie who took me for a long ride through the suburbs and when I asked him if he had misunderstood the address I asked him to take me to. That made him furious but I gave him a tip to show it didn’t really bother me. The pound tip I gave him whistled past my ear as I walked away and was caught by the doorman. I said he could keep it. And the bloke in Warsaw ….again a digression – and back to Rio.

Sugar Loaf was terrific, although at that time I was somewhat wary of heights. Not entirely acrophobic or even vertiginous, but uncomfortable with the thought of long drops in flimsy cable cars which had parted company from their cables. And just how good was the maintenance? All went well however and I was most amused to listen to Rab chatting away to a Carioca, who spoke no English, explaining that we were from South Africa. Her key to gaining understanding was reference to Dr Chris Barnard, who had recently carried out the first heart plant – mimed very well by Rab. This while munching on churros calientes – a new flavour taste for us.

The local foods, drinks and (when I used to smoke all those years ago) cigarettes have always been such an integral part of our travel enjoyment. There were many new flavours and ideas we came across while we were in Rio. Fresh fruit drinks – con leche (with milk) or con aqua (with water) were a wonderful surprise and dealt with the tropical heat very well – as did the local beer Brahma Chopp. Prawns in batter sold from street vendor’s stands, so many foods flavoured with coconut and delicious. Lipsticks and nail polish in colours never dreamed of in staid old South Africa. And the clothes! Wow! Bearing in mind this was the Age of Aquarius and Hippiedom was King, what was available was amazing – and so cheap. I’m sorry to say that the only shots we have of ourselves at that time are on old 8 mm movie film (must convert those sometime); while those on slides have alas succumbed to the rigours of moving around the world over the last forty plus years.* Those striped trousers with the checked belt, topped off by a necklace of horses teeth was something else, man…..

So much to see, so much to do. We caught a bus to Ipanema – and the girls were there, tall and tanned and young and lovely, wearing the most amazing swimming costumes. Two piece costumes had by then been allowed in South Africa and there were even some bikinis – but these outfits!! We have all become inured to dental floss and small modesty patches for women on beaches over the years, but we’d never seen anything like these girls and their undress before. We had a couple of lovely swims and topped of a great day with an excellent meal on the balcony of a restaurant overlooking the Copacabana.

* Eureka! I find that it is time consuming, but not too difficult to transfer from VCR to DVD and then clip shots from the digital record!! As I converted my 8mm to VCR some years ago......well, I tried clipping a couple of shots .... and although they're grainy, they're the record:-)

We Go To Rio

As I was dropping off to sleep last night, my mind was crowded with memories of our time in Rio during our first cruise together, back in 1969.

The ten days from Cape Town had been spent lying like so many lizards in the sun – no one had told us then how that would cut our lives short – sipping on cold beers, eating great food, laughing at the antics of the entertainment crew, dancing the night away and…. well, just generally enjoying ourselves as you do on a cruise. Now we were approaching the coast of Brazil for our first stop – Rio de Janeiro.

We’d crawled up from our cabin in the bowels of the ship before dawn. Huddled on the foredeck with other sleepy passengers we could see the craggy coast sliding towards us on a cloudy morning. I don’t think any of us had realised the height of the cliffs guarding Guanabara Bay on which Rio sits. The gap we were heading for was narrow but beyond that we could see ranges of mountains. The grey light was fading and the day was becoming brighter when, in a very theatrical heavenly gesture, the clouds parted and like a spotlight, the morning sun shone on the state of Christ The Redeemer – Corcovado - just long enough for us to get a couple of long range shots. Unforgettable and certainly among the very best of the many memorable sights we’ve seen.

The other very happy memory of Rio is, not surprisingly for those who know us, related to food. At the end of every trip, usually as we’re waiting at the airport heading for home, we try to evaluate the high spots of the trip – best meal, best experience, best view – and try, often with considerable difficulty, to slot in the latest of these into the very much longer list from previous travels.

There is no doubt about some items. Rab is certain that she will never have a better pizza than the one we watched her eat at Saltsjöbaden outside Stockholm. I still can’t make up my mind whether the Schweinhaxe I devoured in Cologne last year was better than the one I enjoyed with gusto in Swakopmund in Namibia – and what about the Gravadlax on our first visit to Stockholm – and Lars’ Baltic Herring Pie and…. But there I go, digressing again. Back to Rio.

We’d teamed up with some other young folk on the ship and had agreed that we’d all go out on the town the first night we were in port. We went our own way during the day –there are some good stories about that! – and met for drinks in the late afternoon. One of the couples was bubbling over with enthusiasm about the guide they had met – a university student by the look of him – and his plans to take us to a German Beer Hall that night. They reportedly did a mean Schnitzel there. It’s always bit awkward being the dissenters in a crowd of enthusiasts and so after objecting as politely as we could – and offering in vain to cook schnitzels for all back in Cape Town we agreed reluctantly to go along.

Unfortunately, after a hair raising rise on a speeding bus, the venue was closed when we got there. Undeterred, the lad suggested that he knew of an even better place and led us through some rather dodgy byways and lanes to what looked for all the world like a Steakhouse that wouldn’t be out of place in Cape Town. The proprietor, who may or may not have looked like the guide, welcomed us with open arms and invited us to be seated, putting a glass of curiously coloured liquid by each place. “Tigers Milk”, the guide told us and we were urged to drink it down while the beers were opened. As the glasses were topped up again, Rab and I asked “How much?” “No, no, don’t worry, this for you.” came the response.

As the only ones with any experience out of South Africa, we suggested that we should get some pricing in place before we ordered the meal – there were no menus – but were assured that it was a very cheap place to eat. Only a dollar or two (this was 1969) – and the steak was the best in Brazil. Again we felt we had to go along with the now slightly sozzled group who were all somewhat upset when the bill came with a price that was well above the estimate, especially when the expensive Tigers Milk was included. I think we all blew several days budgeted spending on that meal.

All of which made us ensure that everyone knew that we were not going to the German Beer Hall the following night with the mob and would make our own way to a Brazilian restaurant of our own choosing.

Finding a suitable restaurant is never too difficult for us in a foreign spot. We just ask the locals where they eat. That usually ensures that we find a reasonably priced meal serving the kind of food we might not get back home. And so it was in Rio. We were in a jewellery store in the Rua Branco admiring the stunning work and stones when we got chatting to the charming young lady behind the counter. We thought she was an American living in Rio as she had a soft US accent but she assured us she was a Carioca as the proud residents of Rio identify themselves. She recommended a restaurant – Chale – and gave us directions how to get there. She assured us we would not be disappointed. And we weren’t.

The suburb where we found ourselves that night was not well lit. The driver of our taxi – a Volkswagen Beetle as all Rio taxis were at the time – pulled up outside what seemed to be an imposing mansion and gestured that we had arrived. Well aware of the potential dangers that can lurk in unfamiliar places and the difficulty we might have in getting a taxi back to the ship, I stayed by the car while Rab went to investigate matters further. She was back in a flash and I thought we’d be headed for home but the smile on her face, once I could see it through the gloom made me realise that she approved.

We paid off the taxi and crunched up the brord driveway. At the double doors of the stately home stood two small boys dressed in the formal page boy outfits of the previous century, holding flaming torches. The maitre d was in tails and the waitresses (thank goodness we didn’t have to call them waitrons then) were gorgeous Cariocas in floor length hooped skirts, gliding round the elegantly furnished rooms, romantically lit by candles. No one spoke English so ordering a meal caused some laughter as the staff demonstrated the main ingredients – fish, chicken, coconut, peppers….

As we sipped our local wine – we could indicate bianca so at least that was the right colour – the sounds of a guitar being gently strummed came floating into the room, followed shortly afterwards by a handsome balladeer who strolled through the tables singing a Portuguese version of “Those Were The Days”. I think that was the first time Rab said she could die happy and she still goes weak at the knees remembering the night.

The food was excellent, the price was right, the taxi was there when we needed it and we boarded the ship in a state of euphoria. Certainly a night to remember.