Dancing
There was a "flamenco and rumba" concert at one of the cultural centers the other night. It was a fusion band that was mostly flamenco, and I don't know how much rumba, but it was really amazing. I went with about 10 people from the hostel: a gaggle of British girls (average age 20) a pair of swedish girls, and one guy named Sean who lives on Bleecker street in NYC.
Finally. Some dancing.
I danced my little heart out. Quite effectively, from what the brits told me. I danced with some guys, a little too close for my liking, but that seems to be how it's done here. There was none of that gross stuff from the night before...they really like the ladies, but evidently they like the dancing just a touch more. I left at about 2 in the morning, which was about the time that the brazilians were choosing their foreign make-out partners for the evening.
The next morning, one of the the Swedish girls had the best opening line for a story:
"So I'm waking up to the guy in the favela...."
(A favela is a pretty dangerous shanty-town, often run by drug lords, fyi)
The favela room had no wall, so she was getting rained on in the middle of the night. Then it took him two hours to take her home (you can't just walk around a favela unaccompnaied by a favela-dweller because it's too dangous) because it was raining so he didn't feel like working...
Ah, Brazil.
Bargaining at the beach
I had my first day at the beach. The closest beach is in Barra, a part of town along the coast about 20 minutes away by bus. It's a very narrow strip of sand, but clean with a consistency of brown sugar. A dream to walk on. The ocean floor is the same. Gorgeous. Sean accompanied me, which was great because as much as I like to do things alone, it's safer to have a companion, and I thought I'd be harassed less with a man around. no one bothered us at all... there were mostly families there that day.
The water was a perfect lukewarm temperature despite being winter. The sun was warm but not too strong. There was a man who walked by selling fried cheese on a stick for one real, about 50 cents. He walks down th beach with a tupperware container of pre-cut cheese and a small grill. Delicious.
I haggled with a sarong vendor. I liked this giant sarong of the brazilian flag. He sits onth the beach, smooths out the sand, and writes "25" with his finger.
I tell him I understand portuguese. But no thanks.
He erases "25," and writes "20," determined to conduct this transaction without words.
"No thank you, I say."
"17," he writes.
I say "two for 17."
"2 for 25" he says.
I hate haggling. Now I have two brazilian flag sarongs.
Was that a red light?
Sean and I went to Yemanja, a restaurant about halfway between the hostel and the airport, recommended for its baian cuisine. Sean, despite being 22 and a recent Columbia grad, has developed the same love of trying new foods, and despite being a poor college student, doesn't mind spending some money on good food (unlike most of the hostel residents). Both of have wanted to try "moqueca de camarao," a traditional stew of shrimp, dende, coriander, manioc... but in Bahia, the dish is usually made for two. It was delicious, and definitely could've fed three. A couple of strange desserts, a couple of caipirinhas later and we staggered out and waited for a bus for an hour before I opted for an expensive taxi ride.
At some point, I notice that Sean is looking behind him. The taxi passed through a red light. Full speed. then another. And another. I counted a total of 6. It turns out that it is too dangerous to stop at red lights here at night (carjacking), so after 11 pm it is legal to speed through lights.
Nice.
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