Parqueta

Marceyo has just waved me off. Its Dark, everything is vibrating, the smell of gasoline caresses the nostrils. I'm aboard the Vita Brazil (a smoke chuggin tub of boat) shortly departing Parquetas modestly sized dock.
Parqueta can only be described as Rios equivalent to Southend On Sea... A slightly neglected island resort an hours rumbling from the bustle of Rios Centro District.
Last night was spent debating the Pros and Cons of busing to Ilha Grande... but today...today Brazil play football. From previous experience this would make travel difficult (...everything grinds to a complete hault). So I make alternative plans...

After getting the bus the wrong way (again), I arrive at its final destination, "Centro". Its Sunday and according to the guide book, Centro is a no go zone on weekends. Centro is the business district of Rio, a few days earlier the roads were gridlocked...now its just a ghost town with a few sleeping homeless folk.

I walk to the dock with purpose.

Sarah said I should go here. An Irish lass, she works at the Hostel I'm currently staying at... We got horrendously drunk together a couple of nights back and it appealed to me that this place wasn't mentioned in the book.

The walk around the island takes under an hour... its completely deserted.

After browsing my choices where to settle down and watch the match...I'm summoned by a slightly overweight middle aged man. He mutters something in Portuguese and I reply using (the ever reliable) "fala ingles". After greeting me in some basic "Henglish" he pours me some of his Beer (the Brazillians drink their large bottled beers in small tumblers). We spend the remainder of the match making small talk and drinking more beer... I (of course) resort to the awkward complementary comments of the beauty of.... "his island".

Marcelo introduces me to old man sitting on a table across the street... he doesn't speak a word of English....
What he does do is open up a large thermo"mised" hest and ladel onto a plate a ginormous mound of steaming pork... and just for show.... a smattering of rice and beans.

...This I'm told is free.

I eat.

He ladles more..

I eat...

he tries to ladle more..

I signal by pretending to cut my throat with my hand that I'm full.

After further rejections and a couple more "grande" beers, Marcelo is slurring. "Little Lamb" (the old man = the feeder) is talking to me (in I assume slurred Portuguese). I slur back in my best Henglish.

Its important to Marcelo and Little Lamb that I make it back to Rio safely (the last boat departs in under an hour). Iḿ given a tonic water (apparently the sugar will sober me up) and plenty of notification of time passing by.

Its been emotional, and we (...me, Marcelo and Little Lamb) embrace in a hug and slurred gestures.

Marcelo (insists on) walking me to the Vita Brazil.

Thank you Parqueta...Thank you....Marcelo and Little Lamb.

(more photos

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=186743&id=637432796&l=d2274b16db)