7:00pm (Chicago) - I stare at the O’Hare flight display in disbelief. 7:00am. 7:00am!? My 10:00pm flight to Sao Paulo is leaving at 7:00am? What about our connecting bus to Rio? What about our reserved hostel in Rio tomorrow night? Ughh. I talk to someone at the United counter about this, but it turns out they don’t care.
5:30am (Chicago) - Back at the airport. I guess I was the last person to arrive, because the gate is jam packed. I buy five Auntie Annie Pretzels and prepare to board.
11:00am (Plane) - Four hours into the flight, the loud speakers ask twice in Portuguese and twice in English if there is a doctor on board. What? The lady in the seat next to me points out that our trajectory has veered off course towards a Caribbean Island. Are we emergency landing? For the next half-hour, everything happens in Portuguese… and it turns out the crisis was averted by the presence of a Brazilian doctor on board. Phew.
6:00pm (Sao Paulo) - I meet Di at the airport, and she explains that we just need to take a bus to the subway and transfer two times, then we’ll be at the bus station for Rio. Okay.
7:00pm (Sao Paulo Bus Terminal) - The next bus to Rio leaves at 11pm and arrives at 5am. Umm, okay.
1:00am (Bus) - The bus is not comfortable for sleeping. I am awake.
5:00am (Rio Bus Terminal) - It is dark out. We are off the bus. Di asks me if I want to pay $9 for a 30 minute taxi ride to our hostel, or $3 for public transit involving three transfer and probably two hours. I pause longer than necessary. The decision is obvious. Has she gone mad? I’m too tired to figure that one out right now. We take a taxi. The taxi driver tries to put our backpacks in the trunk, but I keep my shoulder bag, since it has my passport and entrance visa and cash and laptop and ipod and camera and I really, really don’t want to lose it.
5:30am (Rio) - We are in a favela aka ’shanty town’ aka ghetto. Di has booked our hostel here. But the taxi cannot find the hostel itself. #35 doesn’t exist. He drives up and down the street twice, counting for us. He says “dezoito (18), vinte (20), trinta (30)” and then he waves his hand, pointing out that the hostel doesn’t seem to exist. We noticed. But still, he wants us out of the taxi. It’s dawn, and we’re in a favela, and the hostel isn’t here, and he wants us to get out.
5:35am (Rio) - We get out of the taxi, and try to communicate to him how fucked we are. He doesn’t seem to care. He wants his money, and he wants to leave, and he hands us our backpacks. We are on our own. We wander up and down the street.
5:45am (Rio) - We still haven’t found the hostel — but then I realize. “Di, where’s my shoulder bag. WHERE’S MY SHOULDER BAG!?!? IT’S IN THE TAXI!!” Oh. my. god.
6:00am (Rio) - We are in another taxi, headed back to the bus terminal. Please, please, please let the other taxi driver have gone straight back. Please, please, please let him still have the bag….
6:15am (Rio) - It is tense in the taxi. This is all my fault. I am useless when exhausted. I am slowly starting to come to terms with losing a couple of thousand dollars worth of stuff. The laptop belongs to work, which actually makes this worse, not better. Still, I am coming to grips with it. But I can’t handle the fact that without my passport or any of my cash or any of my credit or debit cards or any of my other forms of identification… the whole trip will be ruined. A week together in Brazil is about to become a week long quest for a passport against bureaucracy and government forms and all without money in a language I do not speak. Christ.
In past travels, I have thought a lot about the idea that problems can be turned into adventures. I have learned to take things like hour bus delays in the freezing cold completely in stride. In fact, I’ve learned to turn a situation like that to my advantage: commiserating with other sufferers can be great fun. I am not taking this one in stride though. Not at all. I am terrified. And furious. And exhausted.
6:30am (Rio Bus Terminal) - At the bus terminal, we head straight for the taxi line. Someone notices us, and starts walking us back somewhere! Please let this mean they have my bag. Please, please, please… and they DO! The whole thing! The cash and the passport and the laptop and the ipod and the camera. I cannot believe they have the whole thing!
The average Brazilian taxi driver makes 12000 Reais a year, or $7000 USD a year. The contents of that bag were worth between $1500 USD and $3000 USD. And it’s ALL THERE. Wow. I must be shaking because they keeping asking me in Portuguese me to calm down.
I still can’t believe it though. What luck!
… phew …
7:30am (Rio) - We are in another taxi, and back at the favela. This time we find the hostel. #35 was apparently spay painted on the wall. Silly us. Apparently the hostel gave our room away though, because we didn’t check-in soon enough. This, however, can be taken in stride.
In the common room there are shot glasses and open wine bottles and scantily dressed women and couches. The partiers — who were apparently still going strong at 7:30am — move out to a different part of the hostel… and Di and I pass out on the couches. Our Brazilian adventure has begun.
