BRAZIL: The Flying Carioca

The Douchebags’ latin shenanigans continue out of Iguazu and into a brief layover in Sao Paolo. Most companies in Brazil are centered in this enormous metropolis, which appears to offer nada attractions to tourists. So we skip hurtling into the city and simply head off to Rio de Janeiro, the Fiesta State, where people like to eat, drink, dance, play football and make boom-boom.

The flight into Rio arrived in the early evening. As we leave the Antonio Carlos Jobim airport into Ipanema, we begin to sodomize the Portuguese language in unison as we vainly attempt to give the taxi driver directions to our beachfront hotel.

Driving along the highways, you get a sense of the dramatic contrast between the city’s gorgeous landscape and the favelas’ devastating poverty. I, like others have had some misgivings over traveling to Rio de Janeiro. Anyone who has watched “City Of God” knows the harsh realities that lie beyond the favela walls: poverty, gangs and drug lords. But all that imagined anxiety absconded as we arrive in a gorgeous beachfront property on the edge of Ipanema, surrounded by its trendy attractions and the most genetically gifted females on Planet Earth. We’re in Rio. It’s Carnaval week. Let the festivities commence.

The first stop, naturally, was the towering Cristo Redentor on top of Corcovado Mountain. It was a perfectly clear day and no hint of haze obscured the majestic view of the city. But to our misfortune, the area was jampacked with tourists from all over the globe, taking sunny pictures of themselves with the perennially douchey “arms apart” photo cliché (which ranks number 3 in the list of all-time photo clichés. Number 1 being “Hey, I’m holding up the Leaning Tower of Pisa” and number 2: the miserable

“Look, I’m jumping!” act.)

After driving into Rio’s Centro, our taxi driver, the pudgy Antonio drove us up to the famed Sugarloaf Mountain. Its name is said to refer to its resemblance to the traditional shape of concentrated refined loaf sugar. The 20 dollar fee to ride the cable cars, I thought, was a total rip-off. While inside the cars however, passengers were treated to a raunchy public lip-lock by a couple of semi-hot Brazilian lesbians, who struck poses for their audience that connect with primal instincts that cannot be described in terms without using phrases such as “self-generated moisturizer.” The trip to the Sugarloaf’s single, intentional note hits perfectly here. And then returns to its regularly scheduled suck.

The rest of the scorching afternoon was spent analyzing the merits of the micro bikini around the Rio beaches and drinking the Brazilian cocktail of choice: caipirinhas, at the penthouse pool, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

Rio - 1, New York - 0.

I dare not miss a chance to tick Item no. 26 off the so-called bucket list. Hang gliding. Over Rio. May the wind gods find me worthy.

It was mid-morning in Rio as our guide drove us up a tall granite mountain on the edge of the city. After reviewing the salient provisions of my travel insurance and signing a 2-page waiver, which can be described as no less than a “contract of adhesion,” my pilot and I begin a 6-minute training session. Is that the reserve parachute? Good.

The time has come. With bollocks of steel, we ran like mad off the edge of the granite ridge, and drop a few feet until the sail filled with enough air to support our tandem flight. We flew over a swanky residential neighborhood, the Park Tijuca Forest and over Rio’s stunning beaches. I looked down at the beachgoers crammed along the shore like ants. From the distance, you can see the Cristo Redentor with arms outstretched as if the way cooler JC was saying “What were you thinking?” The 12-minute flight was serene and extremely zen-like. Suddenly, I was one with the sky, and thoughts of my slumping 401K and anxieties over the shit sandwich known as the U.S. economy simply sublimated into the summer breeze.

We land in Sao Conrado beach without incident, then hang out at Poste Nueve (the trendy beach zone in Ipanema), watch some cariocas do some capoeira, and grab a late dinner with my Brazilian friend, Zeca at a boteco in Leblon which can only be described as beyond the outer fringes of the nebula of awesome.There we take shots of cashatsas to set us up for the grandest street festival on the planet: Rio Carnaval.

Take everything you think you know about the Rio Carnaval and set it aside. Take it out of your skull, put it in some of that Tupperware® you keep in the kitchen drawer and bury it in the back of your fridge never to be seen again. Because that’s exactly what the Rio Carnaval was like. This is Mardi Gras times 100,000. This is the MMFF Festival Parade with the majesty of all the Enteng Kabesote floats through the years combined. This is the U.P. Lantern Parade on steroids, cutting and replacing the Diliman fuglies with hundreds of topless supermodels. The thundering samba drums. The frenetic crowd. The cheap beer. It was so magnificent that it defies every expectation. In other words, it is one of the greatest things I have ever seen.

IGUAZU: Bare Falls Witnessed

The mammoth falls of Iguazu cascade in a deafening roar at a bend in the Iguazu River where the borders of Argentina, Paraguay and Brazil meet. A dense, moist tropical jungle surrounds the waterfalls, short-listed as one of the new seven wonders of the world. Other short-listed candidates include Adriana Lima’s perfect behind and Bar Rafaeli’s insanely gorgeous body. But sadly no commercial tours have been set up for these natural wonders yet.

We based ourselves in the small and sleepy Argentinean town of Puerto Iguazu. It made sense to stay in the Argentinean side over the Brazilian section as the hotels and restaurants are better, the area is safer, the prices are lower and the gambling is perfectly legal.

The first day in Iguazu was spent on the Brazilian side, which offered an astounding panoramic view of the cataratas. After crossing the Argentinean-Brazilian border and navigating a two hour trek along a jungle trail, we were treated to nature at both its angriest and finest. Upon seeing the monstrous Iguazu falls, U.S. first lady Eleanor Roosevelt reportedly exclaimed “Poor Niagara!” Upon seeing it, we crowed “Poor Pagsanjan!” With all its raw power, the falls were mind numbingly magnificent. And so was the twelve dollar buffet lunch at the restaurant.

After sunset, we ventured into the Brazilian city of Foz do Iguacu to check out the local carnaval. In this city, the carnaval party was centered in a wide open avenue as music blared from parade-style floats and hundreds of people samba’d their genetically gifted Brazilian asses off in the streets.

The next morning, we wandered into the Argentinean side of the cataratas, which offered better close-up views, more eco-activities and accessible walkways. The 100 peso adventure tour (also known as the “Ripoff Grande Package Tour”) included an anti-climactic truck ride through the forest, where the highlight was seeing a lone tocano perched on a branch. The cool portion of the proceedings however was a speed raft ride across the rapids and right into the furious waterfalls known to many as the Salto Tres Mosqueteros, where our collective asses were handed to us by the soaking rage of Mother Nature.

Sena was served at a local Puerto Iguazu institution, the El Quincho del Tio Querido restaurant, recommended by our ace driver, David. I wholeheartedly suggest the restaurant’s signature dish, the river fish. It will rock your world.

The night’s merriment continued at the local hip club, “Jackie Brown” which to my surprise, played excellent house and Euro-douche music. Kids were bumping their chests in this local gem. Cigarette smoke filled the club and we decided to get some fresh air. We finally ended up at the Casino Iguazu where we miserably and collectively failed at this fine institution’s offerings of legalized games of chance.

ARGENTINA: Douchebag Tango

What do you do in a middle of a global recession and when the US economy is on the verge of total collapse? You say – “Eff this!”. You pack your bags, forget about your tanking stocks, dismiss thoughts of hyperinflation and head over to party at the world’s sexiest continent.

The samba stars were aligned as it seemed like the perfect time to fly south. The US northeast was suffering a bitter winter. Beneath the equator, summer was at its glorious peak. Above all, it was the season for the grandest spectacle on the planet: the Rio Carnaval (not to be confused with Fiesta Carnival in Cubao, that other grand spectacle of the 80’s).

After very little debating, I and a couple of New York-based friends (I, Pañero and The Murse, or we three, hereinafter collectively known as “pinoy douchebags”) hopped on a red-eye 10 hour flight from JFK to our first destination: Argentina. Rather than wasting precious time getting inebriated on five dollar Coors lites or playing in-flight poker, the douchebags decided to do the practical thing – a last minute review of lingua castellano. Leveraging a trusty phrasebook, we mastered basic but vital Spanish phrases such as: “Quiero mi befe chorizo muy hecho” (I would like my Beef Chorizo, well done), “Dispénseme soy usted un menor” (Pardon me, are you a minor?”), and “Dónde puede consigo dinero de fianza” (Where can I get bail money?)

Buenos Aires, which literally means “the Good Air”, is one classy metropolis, a capital of cool, a lost European enclave in the center of Latin America. Our trendy hotel was right smack in the middle of downtown, just behind the famous Teatro Colonial and the monumental Obelisco. Smelling the good air, we trooped over to the Puerto Madera area, a new development on the Eastern side which housed the finest restaurants and bars overlooking a random rio. Like Hoboken, but not exactly. Having the case of the post-flight munchies, we, as committed gourmands, decided on the area’s most authentic Latin eatery the good city had to offer: Hooters, Buenos Aires, a place where we enjoyed the local wings and other things.

After a tonic tasting of Isenbeck cervezas coupled by the blandest pollo ever concocted by man, the taxi dropped us off at postcard perfect La Boca neighborhood. The Calle Museo Caminito in the middle of this district was wrought with cobblestones, tango dancers, gaudily colored conventillos and plastic statutes of Eva Peron, Diego Maradona and Che Guevarra. The kitsch overload struck me more as commercial than cultural but it was an amusing outing nonetheless.

Downing buckets of Patagonia and Quilnes cervezas led us to desecrate the religion of tango in front of a somewhat appreciative audience in a local tango café. A ten minute cab ride then led us to San Telmo, the oldest Barrio in Buenos Aires. This neighborhood exuded that Euro-bohemian air, sans the Euro-bohemian trash, with its old churches, quaint cafes and charming antique shops.

We gaited through Plaza de Mayo before heading back to homebase. Next on the agenda was Fodor’s choice (or as The Murse eloquently puts it: “Frodo”) as the best parilla in Buenos Aires: Rio Alba. The beef chorizo was as amazing as the best service provider in a Palermo brothel. Rio Alba, hands down, served the tastiest and most tender cut of beef my palate ever experienced. After washing down a fine bottle of Argentinean Malbec, we ended the night at the trendy Recoleta area to experience even more stirring nocturnal activities.

The morning of the second day in sunny and sultry South America was spent with the Argentinean Gaston, a trusty and personable tour guide who bore an eerie resemblance to one of my Peruvian metrosexual friends. Gaston’s free tour comes highly recommended, mainly because it was, well, free and was given with a pseudo-left wing political slant. What’s refreshing is that he looked more like a UP activist than a Japanese commercial tour drone.

Gaston led us through Plaza de Mayo, Buenos Aires’ focal point of political uprisings and the Casa Rosada where Evita/ Madonna/ A-Rod’s beau gave stentorian speeches to the local crowds above a pink balcony. The fine walking tour ended at the Obelisco, the symbolic city center. Gaston recommended a local pizza parlor, the El Palacio de la Pizza along Avenidad Corrientes for an authentic working-class comida before we pay respects to the tomb of Eva Peron and other Argentinean aristocrats.

The La Recoleta cemetery houses graves of some of the most influential and important persons of Argentina, including several presidents, scientists and local nobles. While we were standing in front of Eva Peron’s tomb, at least six tourists were mumbling Evita show tunes. And right across the Peron-Duarte tomb is the mausoleum of one familia Alvarez. Como se dice “creepy” en espanol?

It was mid-afternoon and we zipped across other Argentinean landmarks: Plaza San Martin and Calle Florida, stimulating an appetite for another carnivorous dinner at La Cabrera: labeled as Tripadvisor.com’s best parilla. After another sitting of South American gluttony and downing yet another fine bottle of Malbec, we capped the Buenos Aires night off back at the trendy Recoleta area to tango with the locals and chillax in divey bars. 

Buenos Aires is one classy city, the cutting edge of cool with outstanding and thriving culinary and cultural scenes. It is a jewel right smack in South America, where denizens are educated, urbane and seem to be more convinced they’re more European than Latino.