March 1st
Miraculously, after only 3 hours of
sleep, I woke up at 7.40am, despite my alarm failing to have sounded,
in time to have a last breakfast with Luciana, Thierry and Mathilde
and get to the bus station on time for my bus to Rio. When I arrived
at the station in Paraty, however, my heart sank as I saw a number of
men peering into its engine. The driver had locked the keys inside
and bus personnel and passersby alike were trying to figure out how
they could open the door without them. I thought to myself it was
typical as it was the one day that I really had to get to my
destination on time as I was meeting my sister at the airport that
evening. I wouldn't worry until it got to 10am. By 9.30am some
fiddling with wire in the crack of the door had done the trick and I
let out a sigh of relief.
The four hour drive up the coast from
Paraty to Rio was stunning – a calm coast dotted with little towns
and fishing villages on the one side and mountains surrounded by lush
vegetation on the other; perfectly relaxing after so little sleep.
When the bus pulled into Rio's hectic rodoviaria, I realised
that the serenity of the journey had been the quiet before the storm.
Despite feeling tired, I told myself to be on full alert as I
clutched my bags tightly and asked the most normal looking person I
could find about a bus to Ipanema. Funnily enough, when I found the
right platform, the only other tourist waiting in the queue was the
same woman I had sat next to on the bus from Florianopolis to Paraty
some 4 days ago. In the midst of the chaos and noise, it was nice to
see a familiar face.
The initial emptiness of the Ipanema
bus lured me into a false sense of calmness which was quickly taken
away when, at one stop, about 20 Cariocas (residents of Rio), most of
them with a bottle of alcohol in their hands, got on and started
shouting, singing and banging on the roof and windows. There was some
kind of post-carnaval party going on in Rio and I, much to my horror,
quickly became the centre of everyone's attention as name and
nationality having been established, this was then announced by the
guy standing next to me to all his friends. I tried to smile and look
confident as “Gabrielle, English” was echoing around the bus and
as the man sitting next to me collapsed into my lap muttering
Portuguese into it but I felt uneasy and my hands didn't leave my
bags for a second. The rowdy group all jumped off at Copacabana beach
and I released my second sigh of relief for that day as the bus
jolted on to Ipanema where my hostel was.
I thought I may have an hour or so at
the hostel before having to set off on another bus to the airport to
meet Helen but the receptionist informed me that buses to the airport
only go about once an hour. The oh so funny thing about the buses in
Rio is that there doesn't actually appear to be any timetable for
them; even the bus stops are a bit vague as it seems common practice
to just flag them down wherever you fancy. It was an hour to the
airport and I had three hours until my sister's plane arrived but I
didn't want to risk anything given the lack of a bus timetable so I
consequently found myself dumping my bags and standing on the curb
next to a newspaper kiosk having no idea if I may have just missed
the one an hour bus to the airport or whether there could be one just
about to arrive. I hadn't eaten since breakfast but couldn't leave my
spot to grab a tasty looking salgado and juice from the stand
just metres away in case the bus came (major drawback to travelling
alone!). After some forty minutes, I saw the bus but it unfortunately
didn't see my flapping arm. Luckily, and grateful for not having any
bags with me, I managed to catch up with it at the traffic lights and
did a little pleading sign to the driver to open the door. For the
third time that day, I let out a sigh of relief. The last
stress/relief moment of the journey came when the bus pulled into the
domestic airport. I had been in such a fluster that I didn't even
think to check which airport it was going to. Thankfully, the bus
then continued to the international airport. I arrived with a good
hour to spare and when I got to the arrivals, Helen's flight was, of
course, a little delayed anyway but it was all good as I had a
chance to buy myself that coffee and an salgado at last. All
in all, I have to consider myself lucky: I had woken up on time
despite no alarm, arrived in Rio more or less on time despite the
driver having locked the keys in the car and got to the airport on
time despite the bus not stopping to let me on and despite me not
checking whether it was going to the right airport once I was on.
Sometimes you have to count your lucky stars.
