Last night I went to polish off the last of my Sports Factor story on Lucha Libre.
It's on the general ridiculousness, sorry, 'cultural machoism' of the Free Fight and last night's foray was great fun.
First I interviewed a lot of people between the age of 1 and 6 about what they like about Lucha Libre. While none of the one-year-olds actually said, "It's amazing because it instills aggression and machoism in us from a very young age", that's ok, because it's all in Spanish and I can just dub it in the voiceover.
(For any americans reading this, that was a joke)
I'd already contacted the media person, Sandra, who wrote me a one line response that all I needed was media ID and a zoom, neglecting to mention that I had to be registered beforehand and be on the door. A bespectacled man tells me I have to come back during the week and register at the office, before coming back AGAIN to do my work.
No thanks.
I'm going to employ a little Fernando-ism. I tell him I don't need to take my camera in (omitting a mention of my mini-disc recorder and mic) and somehow convince him to let me enter for 'a very short time'. I leave my $1500 camera with a lady in a raincoat called 'Tere', who smuggles it inside her jacket, tucking it under her armpit. I wonder if I'll see it again.
The spectacle, to be honest, is amazing. The sound of bicycle pumps powering car horns, heard from a distance without a hangover, is compelling. The ridiculous men in the ring are quite amazing, and I have a great time.
I emerge half an hour later with all the sound I need, and Tere dislodges my camera from her armpit. She is a lovely lady, Mexicans are very warm (not just their under-arms).
I'm going to try 'assertive' (pushy) more often.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
HOME JAMES
or is that just a quote my mum uses and nobody else?
Whatever the case, 1.30am Sat night finds me sitting, exhausted in the Rio de Janeiro airport, waiting to be processed out of the country.
There's all manner of people-watching pleasure to be enjoyed. A woman with the most striking resemblance to Miss Piggy I've ever seen. You'd think if you looked that much like her, you wouldn't curl your hair in EXACTLY the same style. Her mother looks like she might have once shared the trait, before massive amounts of surgery that have left her looking more like Michael Jackson With A Miss Piggy Hairstyle.
I don't know if it's the late hour, but I always find myself thinking these mean thoughts in airports. It was the same leaving Mexico, a stream of consciousness like:
"Denim with denim, when will Mexico learn it's just wrong. Why do people wear it like a suit here? Why is that woman wearing gold heels at 3am in the airport? God, that is one hairy guy. Whoever gave that poor lady those foils deserves to be shot."
Unnecessary, all of it.
Back to the here and now in Rio and I'm fascinated by a couple. I can't work out where they're from but they're young, maybe 25. They first catch my eye because of his Inspector Poirot moustache. Not many 25 year olds outside of the south coast of India have moustaches these days. He looks exactly like one of those classic skinny detective characters, or maybe someone from Fawtly Towers, I can't put my finger on it but it's rivetting. Actually, yes, Manuel from Fawtly Towers, that's it.
She looks like Marisa Tomei and holds the honest belief that his role on this earth is to make sure she's happy. She passes the time with activities like being photographed (by him), directing him on how to stack their bags correctly, complaining, rousing, changing out of patent leather heels into flip flops (at least she's sensible) and complaining.
It's like watching a road crash, for some reason I'm rivetted.
Finally I get them out of my system and head for the boarding area. Five minutes later they arrive and plonk their massive amounts of hand luggage down right next to my head, which is encased in hoodie for the purposes of sleeping. You'd think that'd be the implication, but no, the loud complaining and equally loud placating continues until we finally board. Finally, sleep is near.
I make myself comfortable in the window seat, and am just closing my eyes in the upright position (no reclining permitted before takeoff) when I hear a familiar sound.
It's her.
Are they stalking me? The thought momentarily crosses my mind that they are spies (ok, so I'm tired and irrational) but I dismiss it as spies are supposed to blend in with the furniture and she acts more like the world is a table and she's dancing on it.
He takes charge of stowing the hand luggage, and in the process of demonstrating his manliness crushes the carry-on luggage of several other people, which makes me wonder if perhaps they may be Israeli.
(borderline humour)
Then does undoes all his good work by taking off his suit jacket (on which he was carrying her backpack and I found myself a little distressed about the shoulder pads getting crushed. Why is he wearing a suit on the plane anyway?) to reveal a waitcoat. This guy has read way too much Agatha Christie.
She then reclines her seat into my face. Definitely Isreali. (SORRY! not funny I know...)
I consider several courses of action, including popping my head over the seat and yelling at her, popping my head over the seat and hitting her, but opt for the more subtle, kneading my knees into the back of her seat.
The results are less than stunning.
Anyway, make it home ok and find myself stuck in an immigration line two hours long with 'mauricio'. He's Brazilian and ready to handle topics like "are latinos less trustworthy than Australian men?", "could you have bought a house if you hadn't done all that travel?" and "quirks of language" (where I unwittingly disclose that I hate Portuguese. Honestly I have to stop doing that.
We really pass the time nicely, but not nicely enough for me to stand by him when he comes out of customs to discover his baggage has been lost. I know, I'm a terrible person, but staying just would have led him to believe that I'd make a dependable wife.
No hard feelings though, because (yes I am writing this post facto) he wrote the sweetest email a couple of days later to say that he'd gone to California and:
I liked a lot to talk to you and your way of thinking etc...I haven't seen you before but It seemed that I knew you before from the way we talked (you know what I mean)? ...but my trip just
changed the direction and I am here right now in california ok!
OK!! Sweet...
The first thing I notice is that the air still smells like sewerage, but in a nice familiar sort of way.
Whatever the case, 1.30am Sat night finds me sitting, exhausted in the Rio de Janeiro airport, waiting to be processed out of the country.
There's all manner of people-watching pleasure to be enjoyed. A woman with the most striking resemblance to Miss Piggy I've ever seen. You'd think if you looked that much like her, you wouldn't curl your hair in EXACTLY the same style. Her mother looks like she might have once shared the trait, before massive amounts of surgery that have left her looking more like Michael Jackson With A Miss Piggy Hairstyle.
I don't know if it's the late hour, but I always find myself thinking these mean thoughts in airports. It was the same leaving Mexico, a stream of consciousness like:
"Denim with denim, when will Mexico learn it's just wrong. Why do people wear it like a suit here? Why is that woman wearing gold heels at 3am in the airport? God, that is one hairy guy. Whoever gave that poor lady those foils deserves to be shot."
Unnecessary, all of it.
Back to the here and now in Rio and I'm fascinated by a couple. I can't work out where they're from but they're young, maybe 25. They first catch my eye because of his Inspector Poirot moustache. Not many 25 year olds outside of the south coast of India have moustaches these days. He looks exactly like one of those classic skinny detective characters, or maybe someone from Fawtly Towers, I can't put my finger on it but it's rivetting. Actually, yes, Manuel from Fawtly Towers, that's it.
She looks like Marisa Tomei and holds the honest belief that his role on this earth is to make sure she's happy. She passes the time with activities like being photographed (by him), directing him on how to stack their bags correctly, complaining, rousing, changing out of patent leather heels into flip flops (at least she's sensible) and complaining.
It's like watching a road crash, for some reason I'm rivetted.
Finally I get them out of my system and head for the boarding area. Five minutes later they arrive and plonk their massive amounts of hand luggage down right next to my head, which is encased in hoodie for the purposes of sleeping. You'd think that'd be the implication, but no, the loud complaining and equally loud placating continues until we finally board. Finally, sleep is near.
I make myself comfortable in the window seat, and am just closing my eyes in the upright position (no reclining permitted before takeoff) when I hear a familiar sound.
It's her.
Are they stalking me? The thought momentarily crosses my mind that they are spies (ok, so I'm tired and irrational) but I dismiss it as spies are supposed to blend in with the furniture and she acts more like the world is a table and she's dancing on it.
He takes charge of stowing the hand luggage, and in the process of demonstrating his manliness crushes the carry-on luggage of several other people, which makes me wonder if perhaps they may be Israeli.
(borderline humour)
Then does undoes all his good work by taking off his suit jacket (on which he was carrying her backpack and I found myself a little distressed about the shoulder pads getting crushed. Why is he wearing a suit on the plane anyway?) to reveal a waitcoat. This guy has read way too much Agatha Christie.
She then reclines her seat into my face. Definitely Isreali. (SORRY! not funny I know...)
I consider several courses of action, including popping my head over the seat and yelling at her, popping my head over the seat and hitting her, but opt for the more subtle, kneading my knees into the back of her seat.
The results are less than stunning.
Anyway, make it home ok and find myself stuck in an immigration line two hours long with 'mauricio'. He's Brazilian and ready to handle topics like "are latinos less trustworthy than Australian men?", "could you have bought a house if you hadn't done all that travel?" and "quirks of language" (where I unwittingly disclose that I hate Portuguese. Honestly I have to stop doing that.
We really pass the time nicely, but not nicely enough for me to stand by him when he comes out of customs to discover his baggage has been lost. I know, I'm a terrible person, but staying just would have led him to believe that I'd make a dependable wife.
No hard feelings though, because (yes I am writing this post facto) he wrote the sweetest email a couple of days later to say that he'd gone to California and:
I liked a lot to talk to you and your way of thinking etc...I haven't seen you before but It seemed that I knew you before from the way we talked (you know what I mean)? ...but my trip just
changed the direction and I am here right now in california ok!
OK!! Sweet...
The first thing I notice is that the air still smells like sewerage, but in a nice familiar sort of way.
Friday, August 17, 2007
FRIDAY .. I'M IN LOVE
Actually, I~m not.
Woke up in pitch blackness with a very itchy head. Great, nits are just what I need right now. Turns out it's 10am but the curtains are just very good.
The shower is brutal, as there's no hot water in our new down-market hovel... err hotel.
Fern doesn~t want to offend his ex-boyfriend~s cousin~s boyfriend by moving back out the day after we arrived, after he'd fixed us up in a room with four beds (read: dorm). I mean, as I said to Fern, it's only possible to sleep in one bed at one time so we don't need the other two beds. Whatever the case, we~re staying.
We finally step out for our long-awaited beach day - to soak up some of Ipanema Beach's best rays - to discover it~s actually overcast and blowing a gale.
We opt for Plan B which is, you guessed it, eating.
We enter a cafe just as some pigeons are flying out, and have the usual bad coffee and delicious pastries. Where is all the good coffee in this country, that~s what I want to know. I mean, fine, take my cigarettes, take my alcohol... but don~t take my caffeine, please.
We pass a pleasant breakfast reminiscing about the northern territory and ... gosh, I can't think what we natter on about.
We then walk the length of Copacabana - I take pics and record sound.
Then Fern gets a call from one of his friends/love interests, and we jump on a bus to orka (pretty sure that's not how you spell it) - which it turns out is where Rio's second biggest tourist attraction - SugarLoaf - is located. I have yet to get to the statue of christ, one of the world's seven wonders.. but I have seen a LOT of rent boys (one of the world's lesser-known wonders)
I strongly recommend a walk around the base of Sugarloaf to anyone, it made me wonder why I live in Mexico. Francine and I drive to a running track plonked in the middle of the city, a couple of thousand metres above oxygenated air, but not out of reach of the ubiquitous fumes... and run around in circles. Yes, there are nice gum trees there, but that~s about the extent of the eye candy.
Here, the air is thick with oxygen instead of fumes, the view is amazing both out to sea AND on the track... and it feels like home, on my skin, in my lungs and under my feet.
The vista of rocks jutting out of the sea, rainforest dropping into water, little old fishing boats bobbing about in the bay ... and monkeys, yes, MONKEYS in the trees of the rainforest... is amazing.
I left the boys to themselves and came back to Copa where I discovered the perils of walking unaccompanied by a male. My head is still itchy.
On the bright side, my idea to slightly amend my print feature from Straight Male Rent Boys Who Sell Sex to Male Tourists, to Rafael: The boy from Ipanema / Ipanema's Icecream Boys went down a TREAT. That is because Rafael is actually a god, and the pics are amazing. I will post them when I get back to Mex.
So not all is lost.
Woke up in pitch blackness with a very itchy head. Great, nits are just what I need right now. Turns out it's 10am but the curtains are just very good.
The shower is brutal, as there's no hot water in our new down-market hovel... err hotel.
Fern doesn~t want to offend his ex-boyfriend~s cousin~s boyfriend by moving back out the day after we arrived, after he'd fixed us up in a room with four beds (read: dorm). I mean, as I said to Fern, it's only possible to sleep in one bed at one time so we don't need the other two beds. Whatever the case, we~re staying.
We finally step out for our long-awaited beach day - to soak up some of Ipanema Beach's best rays - to discover it~s actually overcast and blowing a gale.
We opt for Plan B which is, you guessed it, eating.
We enter a cafe just as some pigeons are flying out, and have the usual bad coffee and delicious pastries. Where is all the good coffee in this country, that~s what I want to know. I mean, fine, take my cigarettes, take my alcohol... but don~t take my caffeine, please.
We pass a pleasant breakfast reminiscing about the northern territory and ... gosh, I can't think what we natter on about.
We then walk the length of Copacabana - I take pics and record sound.
Then Fern gets a call from one of his friends/love interests, and we jump on a bus to orka (pretty sure that's not how you spell it) - which it turns out is where Rio's second biggest tourist attraction - SugarLoaf - is located. I have yet to get to the statue of christ, one of the world's seven wonders.. but I have seen a LOT of rent boys (one of the world's lesser-known wonders)
I strongly recommend a walk around the base of Sugarloaf to anyone, it made me wonder why I live in Mexico. Francine and I drive to a running track plonked in the middle of the city, a couple of thousand metres above oxygenated air, but not out of reach of the ubiquitous fumes... and run around in circles. Yes, there are nice gum trees there, but that~s about the extent of the eye candy.
Here, the air is thick with oxygen instead of fumes, the view is amazing both out to sea AND on the track... and it feels like home, on my skin, in my lungs and under my feet.
The vista of rocks jutting out of the sea, rainforest dropping into water, little old fishing boats bobbing about in the bay ... and monkeys, yes, MONKEYS in the trees of the rainforest... is amazing.
I left the boys to themselves and came back to Copa where I discovered the perils of walking unaccompanied by a male. My head is still itchy.
On the bright side, my idea to slightly amend my print feature from Straight Male Rent Boys Who Sell Sex to Male Tourists, to Rafael: The boy from Ipanema / Ipanema's Icecream Boys went down a TREAT. That is because Rafael is actually a god, and the pics are amazing. I will post them when I get back to Mex.
So not all is lost.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
SHOOTING STAR
We wake at 7am. Rafa is coming to pick us up at 8, to get the best sunlight. I read that somewhere, about early morning sunlight being the best for photography. So being such a professional, I insist on an early start. I suspect 'early' actually refers more to 5am sunlight, but surely we're in the general zone.
First, we head to our new hotel in Ipanema, which Fern has secured through his ex-boyfriend's-cousin's-boyfriend, and discover it to be a towel-less, shared-bathroom, blanketless, mirrorless, breakfastless step down... for the same price we were paying before. The only added bonus is dogpoo, which adorns the hallways care of a mangy-looking dog that wanders around as if it's at home (which, i dread, it is)
Rafa comes with his array of different coloured Speedos, and we all head to Ipenema beach. Walking along the beach, Fernando breaks the news about us not having an article about rent boys to include him in, as the exception. Hard to talk about the exception when there's no proven rule. We are just doing the pics for his benefit, so that he's got something to show around.
The photo session is amazing. Honestly, I can't believe we have found such a god.
After hours of poor old Rafa standing, oiled, in various poses in the stinging sunlight.. we all head for lunch. For photographic excellence, I had to act a bit flirty, to get the best from the subject, and Fern is now insisting I can't NOT sleep with Rafa after all that flirtation. It~s starting to get annoying.
Not having heard back from Andrea (Mr OECD of Senior Economist fame) about the interview request, Fern decides to pay him a personal visit. A handwritten note at reception of his hotel will really turn things around, he insists. In his words 'noone turns down Fernando DF, I mean, does he know who I am. Um, hello Andrea, Fern DF Freelancer with ABC Radio here.' All the keywords.
He sets off on thonged foot to Ipanema's poshest hotel. I head to the net cafe and pitch a slightly amended story angle 'hey Luke, what about we ditch the straight rent boys in amazing clubs selling sex to gay tourists in favour of Rafael, the boy from Ipanema who sells acai on the beach, but not sex?'
Fern gets back from posh hotel with news that Andrea has checked out, suggesting maybe we should email him. He already has the subject line worked out: 'THANKS'.
Fern and I then upload 38 of our most compelling Rafa pics to the net (for pitching purposes) over the space of six hours, due to a couple of slight hitches on the internet. Quite a few slight hitches actually. We are both wired, totally exhausted.
By the end of the night, we have been in here so long that I know what song is coming next on the loop tape. Unfortunately, it~s Lilly Allen, Smile, which really grates in all its off-key glory. God I hate that song.
First, we head to our new hotel in Ipanema, which Fern has secured through his ex-boyfriend's-cousin's-boyfriend, and discover it to be a towel-less, shared-bathroom, blanketless, mirrorless, breakfastless step down... for the same price we were paying before. The only added bonus is dogpoo, which adorns the hallways care of a mangy-looking dog that wanders around as if it's at home (which, i dread, it is)
Rafa comes with his array of different coloured Speedos, and we all head to Ipenema beach. Walking along the beach, Fernando breaks the news about us not having an article about rent boys to include him in, as the exception. Hard to talk about the exception when there's no proven rule. We are just doing the pics for his benefit, so that he's got something to show around.
The photo session is amazing. Honestly, I can't believe we have found such a god.
After hours of poor old Rafa standing, oiled, in various poses in the stinging sunlight.. we all head for lunch. For photographic excellence, I had to act a bit flirty, to get the best from the subject, and Fern is now insisting I can't NOT sleep with Rafa after all that flirtation. It~s starting to get annoying.
Not having heard back from Andrea (Mr OECD of Senior Economist fame) about the interview request, Fern decides to pay him a personal visit. A handwritten note at reception of his hotel will really turn things around, he insists. In his words 'noone turns down Fernando DF, I mean, does he know who I am. Um, hello Andrea, Fern DF Freelancer with ABC Radio here.' All the keywords.
He sets off on thonged foot to Ipanema's poshest hotel. I head to the net cafe and pitch a slightly amended story angle 'hey Luke, what about we ditch the straight rent boys in amazing clubs selling sex to gay tourists in favour of Rafael, the boy from Ipanema who sells acai on the beach, but not sex?'
Fern gets back from posh hotel with news that Andrea has checked out, suggesting maybe we should email him. He already has the subject line worked out: 'THANKS'.
Fern and I then upload 38 of our most compelling Rafa pics to the net (for pitching purposes) over the space of six hours, due to a couple of slight hitches on the internet. Quite a few slight hitches actually. We are both wired, totally exhausted.
By the end of the night, we have been in here so long that I know what song is coming next on the loop tape. Unfortunately, it~s Lilly Allen, Smile, which really grates in all its off-key glory. God I hate that song.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
OOPS (F*ck) I DID IT AGAIN
For some reason the inverted comma button here is right under the 'esc' button. I could kick something.
MIXED RESULTS (read: FAILURE)
(if reading this post is as laborious as executing the day was, best skip to the next one)
Wednesday: I've taken to doing up schedules in order to fit all our hectic movements. Time in Rio moves at a different pace, maybe because we walk everywhere. YOu wake up and next thing you know it's 1am and you're going to bed.
Schedule looks like this:
8am: run
9am: brekky
10am: research + call: gay org, neri, andrea goldstein (OECD), Le Boy
3pm: sauna
8pm: Fernie DATE / Michelle INTERNET
Day looks like this:
8am: Fernie ridicules Michelle for not going for a run
9am: walk to bakery, devour several pastries
10am: it all comes a bit unstuck.
Fernando tells me I've really blown it by letting Andrea 'get away' (so true) and he takes over the role of re-finding him while I go about finding out what Andrea can talk about. Fernando has all the traits I lack: tenacity, assertiveness, insistence, shamelessness, and bluff. I can't bluff. I have all the traits that you'll find if you go to thesaurus.com, 'antonyms' for tenacity etc.
My research includes googling "What is the OECD?" (oh, come on, who actually really knows?), "Andrea Goldstein", "Andrea Goldstein, Slim", "Andrea Goldstein, emerging markets" and other inspired combinations.
Over the course of the day, Fernando's quest to pin Andrea (yes, we have taken to pronouncing it like a woman) has him calling: France cellphone (voicemail), conference organiser to find out where Andrea is staying in Rio, organiser's contact, organiser's contact again, organiser's contact calls back with hotel name, information for hotel number, hotel (from ambient setting of public phone right beside watering hole, very professional) hotel again to leave a message when phone rings out.
Fernando hangs up the phone looking pleased, announcing triumphantly, "We've got 'im."
Actually, we've got his hotel. If it happens to be one of those rare 5-star establishments with no security and only one guest staying, he's quite possibly right. We have got him.
The afternoon is peppered with references to 'what Andrea calls back' as we go to check on Fernando's annointed sauna.
It's another juxtaposition. Suddenly I am walking through the doors of a mysterious converted house, where a dykish-looking woman tells us the owner doesn't come in, they have to wait for her to call. Fernando does his insistent thing, and succeeds only in pissing her off. We leave our number and exit.
From here, we set up camp over the road to watch the rent boys arriving. This way, Fern says, we can choose the ones we want to interview tomorrow. When we are granted access. With our camera. And mini-disc recorder. And female genetalia. Did I mention one of his traits is optimism?
Something strange happens. It's compelling. Every few minutes a beautiful, pumped up macho boy walks up the street, looks over his shoulder ... and then slips through the door. They all make sure they are not being watched.
So, when one guy gives the street a really proper once-over, to discover me and Fern unabashedly staring back, enraptured, he keeps walking past the door.
MC: Not a rentboy then?
FD: Definitely a rent boy.
MC: Well, where's he gone then?
FD: He's hiding.
MC: Oh come on you can't be serious. Look, he's just buying a phonecard.
FD: Stalling. Trust me, it's a diversion.
The young stallion turns his aviators towards us and stares back. Then he walks to the phone booth, near where we are standing, and picks up the receiver, never taking his eyes off us.
MC: Come on, let's go. Honestly, we don't want to blow our chances by stalking the staff Fern. Let's come back tomorrow.
FD: No, we should talk to him.
MC: And say what?
FD: He probably thinks we're a couple looking for action. They find that exciting, because they have to do men all the time so when a woman comes up, that's good.
Too-ing and fro-ing continues. The phone rings, it's Marcelo Neri (poverty expert)'s assistant.
We turn, take the call, and turn back to find the Aviator Dude with his phone pointed squarely at us, taking photos. He looks quite sinister.
The hunter has become the hunted. Is this how he felt?
We retreat, for a cup of tea around the corner, and say 'hello' as we pass him. He looks a little startled.
I think we've blown our last chance. I head off to see a man about a poverty problem, and Fern goes on his date.
Wednesday: I've taken to doing up schedules in order to fit all our hectic movements. Time in Rio moves at a different pace, maybe because we walk everywhere. YOu wake up and next thing you know it's 1am and you're going to bed.
Schedule looks like this:
8am: run
9am: brekky
10am: research + call: gay org, neri, andrea goldstein (OECD), Le Boy
3pm: sauna
8pm: Fernie DATE / Michelle INTERNET
Day looks like this:
8am: Fernie ridicules Michelle for not going for a run
9am: walk to bakery, devour several pastries
10am: it all comes a bit unstuck.
Fernando tells me I've really blown it by letting Andrea 'get away' (so true) and he takes over the role of re-finding him while I go about finding out what Andrea can talk about. Fernando has all the traits I lack: tenacity, assertiveness, insistence, shamelessness, and bluff. I can't bluff. I have all the traits that you'll find if you go to thesaurus.com, 'antonyms' for tenacity etc.
My research includes googling "What is the OECD?" (oh, come on, who actually really knows?), "Andrea Goldstein", "Andrea Goldstein, Slim", "Andrea Goldstein, emerging markets" and other inspired combinations.
Over the course of the day, Fernando's quest to pin Andrea (yes, we have taken to pronouncing it like a woman) has him calling: France cellphone (voicemail), conference organiser to find out where Andrea is staying in Rio, organiser's contact, organiser's contact again, organiser's contact calls back with hotel name, information for hotel number, hotel (from ambient setting of public phone right beside watering hole, very professional) hotel again to leave a message when phone rings out.
Fernando hangs up the phone looking pleased, announcing triumphantly, "We've got 'im."
Actually, we've got his hotel. If it happens to be one of those rare 5-star establishments with no security and only one guest staying, he's quite possibly right. We have got him.
The afternoon is peppered with references to 'what Andrea calls back' as we go to check on Fernando's annointed sauna.
It's another juxtaposition. Suddenly I am walking through the doors of a mysterious converted house, where a dykish-looking woman tells us the owner doesn't come in, they have to wait for her to call. Fernando does his insistent thing, and succeeds only in pissing her off. We leave our number and exit.
From here, we set up camp over the road to watch the rent boys arriving. This way, Fern says, we can choose the ones we want to interview tomorrow. When we are granted access. With our camera. And mini-disc recorder. And female genetalia. Did I mention one of his traits is optimism?
Something strange happens. It's compelling. Every few minutes a beautiful, pumped up macho boy walks up the street, looks over his shoulder ... and then slips through the door. They all make sure they are not being watched.
So, when one guy gives the street a really proper once-over, to discover me and Fern unabashedly staring back, enraptured, he keeps walking past the door.
MC: Not a rentboy then?
FD: Definitely a rent boy.
MC: Well, where's he gone then?
FD: He's hiding.
MC: Oh come on you can't be serious. Look, he's just buying a phonecard.
FD: Stalling. Trust me, it's a diversion.
The young stallion turns his aviators towards us and stares back. Then he walks to the phone booth, near where we are standing, and picks up the receiver, never taking his eyes off us.
MC: Come on, let's go. Honestly, we don't want to blow our chances by stalking the staff Fern. Let's come back tomorrow.
FD: No, we should talk to him.
MC: And say what?
FD: He probably thinks we're a couple looking for action. They find that exciting, because they have to do men all the time so when a woman comes up, that's good.
Too-ing and fro-ing continues. The phone rings, it's Marcelo Neri (poverty expert)'s assistant.
We turn, take the call, and turn back to find the Aviator Dude with his phone pointed squarely at us, taking photos. He looks quite sinister.
The hunter has become the hunted. Is this how he felt?
We retreat, for a cup of tea around the corner, and say 'hello' as we pass him. He looks a little startled.
I think we've blown our last chance. I head off to see a man about a poverty problem, and Fern goes on his date.
HARD DAY'S NIGHT
I just wrote a whole really long post, pressed one button and it all deleted and can't be retrieved.
That sums up the last two days.
That sums up the last two days.
Monday, August 13, 2007
GIRL FROM IPANEMA
Well, almost. We~re moving from one dodgy hotel in Gloria to another dodgy hotel in Ipanema tomorrow.
Brazil: I saw in my birthday surrounded by gay men watching Witney Houston drag - for researching purposes. We were in Le Boy, which has become more Le Dirty Old Man in the intervening three years since I was last here. Back then, it was gorgeous guys as far as the eye could see, and amazing go-go dancers as high as the eye could see. Hence our return, as I~ve promised DNA magazine and 3000 word feature on straight male go-go dancers who sell sex to men.
Like much of life, the years have robbed it of its beauty and youth.
Still, I managed to find two pleasant little cuties who I like to think of as "Where's Wally: the couple"
I saw the birthday out doing some good solid navel-gazing, and resolution-making. My 20s were hard, but for a reason. I~m happy to be here, at this age, and full of hope.
Today is a little stressful because I~m not sure where we~re going to find aforesaid go-go dancers, if we~re so out of the gay loop in Rio. Also, Fern~s involved in some international sting operation involving a kidnapped French child, a remote town in Brazil (his current home) and Interpol. And he~s also illegal at the moment because he~s overstayed his visa. That combined with his on-again-off-again relational difficulties have left things a little strained.
Also, I can~t smoke as I am 30. I~m looking at the future and it~s so smoke-free I~ve gotta wear shades, that just isn~t quite so joyful in this precise moment.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
BRAZIL V MEXICO
Sure we think of Latin America as one big, happy family, but after living in Mexico the subtle differences start to become apparent. ie:
- in Brazil you can walk down the street in shorts without men having heart attacks
- even if they do look at you in Brazil, they hiss as a sign of appreciation far less often.
- often you're being ogled by someone you want to ogle back (in stark contrast to Mexico, where it's more likely you'll want to vomit back)
- in Brazil, it's two or three kisses on the cheek to say 'hi' and 'bye', in Mexico one suffices.
- in Mexico, if you sneeze in public eg on the bus, everyone in hearing range will say 'salud' (bless you). In Brazil, noone says anything.
- in Mexico, if you're in an eating establishment and someone leaves or enters, they will say 'provecho' (bon apetit) to everyone who's eating. In Brazil, noone says anything.
- in Brazil, there are people inside the ATMs. In Mexico, the ATMs are empty of people
- in Brazil, if someone asks you for spare change and you have it, you give it to them. In Mexico, you ignore them.
So, in a nutshell I think it would be fair to conclude that:
- Mexico is friendlier, except when it comes to the people who drew the short straw in life.
- Brazil is much better place to be a woman, on every level. Unless you happen to be the woman who was employed to sit in the ATM.
I'm serious. There was a whole wall of them, with one or two actually functioning. And as I went to take my receipt, I saw fingers pushing it out. Now that's what I call over-employment. You can't call it an automatic teller machine if it's actually a human teller machine.
- in Brazil you can walk down the street in shorts without men having heart attacks
- even if they do look at you in Brazil, they hiss as a sign of appreciation far less often.
- often you're being ogled by someone you want to ogle back (in stark contrast to Mexico, where it's more likely you'll want to vomit back)
- in Brazil, it's two or three kisses on the cheek to say 'hi' and 'bye', in Mexico one suffices.
- in Mexico, if you sneeze in public eg on the bus, everyone in hearing range will say 'salud' (bless you). In Brazil, noone says anything.
- in Mexico, if you're in an eating establishment and someone leaves or enters, they will say 'provecho' (bon apetit) to everyone who's eating. In Brazil, noone says anything.
- in Brazil, there are people inside the ATMs. In Mexico, the ATMs are empty of people
- in Brazil, if someone asks you for spare change and you have it, you give it to them. In Mexico, you ignore them.
So, in a nutshell I think it would be fair to conclude that:
- Mexico is friendlier, except when it comes to the people who drew the short straw in life.
- Brazil is much better place to be a woman, on every level. Unless you happen to be the woman who was employed to sit in the ATM.
I'm serious. There was a whole wall of them, with one or two actually functioning. And as I went to take my receipt, I saw fingers pushing it out. Now that's what I call over-employment. You can't call it an automatic teller machine if it's actually a human teller machine.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
RADIO NZ CORRESPONDENT'S REPORT
This message will self-destruct in one week:
http://www.radionz.co.nz/national/programmes/nights/20070807
click on Americas Report.
I leave for Brazil in six hours and haven't yet packed or (more pressingly) written my ten-minute Sports Factor story ... on Lucha Libre. Better get cracking.
http://www.radionz.co.nz/national/programmes/nights/20070807
click on Americas Report.
I leave for Brazil in six hours and haven't yet packed or (more pressingly) written my ten-minute Sports Factor story ... on Lucha Libre. Better get cracking.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
NEVERLAND... ANYONE??
Jemima says the expat community here is full of people with Peter Pan complex. Maybe I exaggerate and she was just referring a few individuals... but whatever the case, Monday morning 4am when I found myself in a children's playground doing mazes, slippery slides and 'who can swing the highest' competitions with two highly-respected foreign correspondents and a Mexican artist, I was inclined to agree (just for record, I'm pointing finger at me. And maybe SMJ).
Well, more the next day when I woke up to find the back of my legs bright purple, bruising sustained during aforesaid competitive swinging... but unnoticed due to the anaesthetic properties of tequila.
(I won, just for the record)
But then, when I realised why my ear was really quite sore, I revised my concurrence. It brought recollections of the cement animal sculptures (is the best word I can find, but kids' style) with holes in the middle, and my claim that I could be the one to fit through the middle, despite glaring disparity between the size of my body and the size of the hole.
I got my head through no worries. The shoulders, not so much so. And then discovered that it's a lot easier to get head through, than back out again. As I half stood there, bent over with my head on one side of the sculpture and body on the other, hearing voices somewhere above me talking about calling the fire brigade in the morning (how do you break a solid cement animal without breaking the not-so-solid flesh-and-blood animal stuck in it?????) I decided there was only one thing to do. I crushed my ear into a shape it was never meant to be, and pulled.
Forget Peter Pan. The entire incident puts me more in the idiot category.
But, God it was fun.
Well, more the next day when I woke up to find the back of my legs bright purple, bruising sustained during aforesaid competitive swinging... but unnoticed due to the anaesthetic properties of tequila.
(I won, just for the record)
But then, when I realised why my ear was really quite sore, I revised my concurrence. It brought recollections of the cement animal sculptures (is the best word I can find, but kids' style) with holes in the middle, and my claim that I could be the one to fit through the middle, despite glaring disparity between the size of my body and the size of the hole.
I got my head through no worries. The shoulders, not so much so. And then discovered that it's a lot easier to get head through, than back out again. As I half stood there, bent over with my head on one side of the sculpture and body on the other, hearing voices somewhere above me talking about calling the fire brigade in the morning (how do you break a solid cement animal without breaking the not-so-solid flesh-and-blood animal stuck in it?????) I decided there was only one thing to do. I crushed my ear into a shape it was never meant to be, and pulled.
Forget Peter Pan. The entire incident puts me more in the idiot category.
But, God it was fun.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
CENTRAL AMERICA QUIRKS
MEXICO:
Cabbies:
People will picnic anywhere, even in the middle of the Zocalo / main square:
Shopfronts leave no room for ambiguity re their line of work:
GUATEMALA:
False (and freakish) advertising is not shunned. This sign says, 'we can pierce your baby's ears and more.. .without pain':
Fully-grown people can tend to be exceptionally small:
Shopping trolleys are avoided unless absolutely necessary:
In fact, there's no limit to what can be carried on one's head:
CUBA:
Many Cubans have never used a camera:
Cabbies:
People will picnic anywhere, even in the middle of the Zocalo / main square:
Shopfronts leave no room for ambiguity re their line of work:
GUATEMALA:
False (and freakish) advertising is not shunned. This sign says, 'we can pierce your baby's ears and more.. .without pain':
Fully-grown people can tend to be exceptionally small:
Shopping trolleys are avoided unless absolutely necessary:
In fact, there's no limit to what can be carried on one's head:
CUBA:
Many Cubans have never used a camera:
Thursday, August 02, 2007
PERFECT DAY
Today's the most beautiful day I've ever seen in Mexico. The air is dry and warm, and for some reason is giving my flashbacks to Grade 7: Friday afternoon in knickerbockers playing softball on a sports oval of freshly cut grass. It's a nice feeling.
Another separate email from the deputy editor at Gay Times assured me the article was interesting and well-written, but not general enough - and sorry Andrew but Dep Ed trumps Travel Ed so I'm going to pick up my shattered ego and keep on running.
Another separate email from the deputy editor at Gay Times assured me the article was interesting and well-written, but not general enough - and sorry Andrew but Dep Ed trumps Travel Ed so I'm going to pick up my shattered ego and keep on running.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)