It was 1.30 a.m. I thought it would be rude to just leave, so I called Celso and told him it was too hot and noisy to stay. He didn’t sound that disappointed.
I was back in my own bed at 2.45 a.m.
I woke up this morning feeling guilty about leaving Celso’s place. But then it occurred to me that maybe Celso had only invited me round ’cos he wanted me there for security whilst he was out working. Krish and Christian agreed that it was best that we’d left, so I didn’t feel too bad.
We went to a block party today. It was the worst party I have ever been to. Aimlessly walking about as people blew whistles and made noise with air horns. I would normally avoid things like this. I remember not enjoying the Queen’s Jubilee street party when I was a kid. Scruffy Sandra ate loads of the trifle me mam had made and didn’t bring anything to the party. This block party was worse. There was no trifle whatsoever. People just stood around looking a bit bewildered. It was like wandering amongst the staff of an office block who are stood on the street ’cos a fire alarm has gone off. At least the noise from a fire alarm is necessary. The noise these lot were making was just noise pollution. There was a bloke walking around dressed as a pink poodle in some pants that left his arse exposed. Maybe this isn’t a block party and this is an office block on fire and he’s singed his arse. He got annoyed when strangers pinched it.
I saw Celso’s gay friend. He was with another man. I’m not sure if it was his boyfriend as he wasn’t black.
I told Krish that I’d had enough. We went back home.
I didn’t really enjoy today. I had some Toblerone to cheer me up.
I said it would be nice to go to a quiet beach to get away from all the noise. Krish said he knew where a nice quiet beach was but we’d have to get up early to get there. I agreed.
We ate chicken and beans again. Christian said he would speak to our fixer about getting the cook to do something different for tomorrow.
Got up at 5.20 this morning to go to the quiet beach. Even Ipanema and Copacabana beach would be quiet at this time of the day. Krish said it would take an hour to drive to our destination. Bin Laden seemed miserable. I don’t think he likes an early start.
Unsurprisingly we were the first on the beach, apart from a man who was serving drinks under a canopy. We found a nice patch and got comfortable. I was sat enjoying the view when I was disturbed by a banging noise. I turned and saw the man under the canopy smashing ice. I also noticed he had his knob out.
I told Krish, and he didn’t seem that surprised. It was a bloody nudist beach. I’ve never understood why people like to do this, least of all at 7.30 a.m. It wasn’t that hot yet, as the sun hadn’t come up properly. He still had his T-shirt on, so why couldn’t he keep his shorts on? I watched, as he kept bending down to pick up more ice. It’s like he was trying to wind me up. Every time he bent down his arse and balls swung in my direction. He looked like the back end of a bulldog.
More fellas turned up, chatting with their arms folded and their knobs and bollocks out. There were a few women too. Two large ladies in their late forties sat behind me. I had no idea if they were completely nude because their breasts hung that low they covered the more private areas.
A man came over and gave me a leaflet listing the rules of the beach. It had lots of useful instructions, including advice on what men should do if they had a moment of excitement. The leaflet suggested sitting down as soon as possible or entering the sea and staying there until the excitement goes away. With the women I had on view, I don’t think there was any chance of any of that.
Half an hour later, the man who gave me the leaflet came back and asked me to get nude or leave. I said, ‘I’ll leave, thank you very much.’
I couldn’t go far though. Krish and Christian and Jan (cameraman) and Freddie (soundman) had to get more pictures for the telly programme.
They were told they would have to be naked if they wished to carry on filming. So they got naked. It was the first time I felt like I got my own back on them for all the stuff they’ve been putting me through.
Back at the house Krish told us we were going to a favela tomorrow. They normally liked to keep everything a secret up until it happened, but Krish said he had to tell me about this, as the favelas are the roughest parts of town where drugs and guns rule and he would have to give us a Health and Safety briefing. What’s going on? I didn’t come to Brazil for danger. Krish was suddenly acting all serious, which was hard to handle when earlier today I’d seen him walk about a beach with his knob out.
A different cook was cooking tonight. She made spicy beef with beans.
I got up 30 minutes earlier than I needed to today as I wanted a ham toasty for breakfast and the toasty machine takes 20 minutes to warm up. I thought about how this could be my last ever meal as we were going to a favela today. In that context I suppose I shouldn’t complain about having to wait for the toaster to warm up.
Over breakfast there was a lot of talk about the film City of God. Apparently, the favela we were going to was similar to the one that was in the film. Everyone but me had seen the movie. I seemed to remember hearing about it, but was put off ’cos I heard it had subtitles and I don’t like films with subtitles. I may as well read the book.
Krish explained that we would have to sit on the back of a motorbike, as the favelas are not really suitable for vans. It’s the first time Bin Laden looked happy the whole time I’ve been here. Easy day for him. So I got on the back of a big bike that was being ridden by a bloke called Johnny who was a local from the favela. We darted round corners and went down alleyways. As we whizzed through the streets I saw guns on every corner.
Big ones too. The crew followed behind. At certain points we were told not to film, as the gang leaders did not want to be captured on film. We had to point the cameras down to the ground so they could see we were not secretly filming.
Finally the bikes pulled up, and I was introduced to a man called Henrique. He had no weapons. He was not a gang leader. He was going to teach me a Brazilian dance called the samba.
Henrique took me to a derelict building where for two hours he taught me various moves. I showed him a few of my own moves, which he described as ‘crap’. Bit harsh, I thought. The first 30 minutes seemed like fun, and I wasn’t taking it too seriously, until Henrique told me I would be dancing in the Rio Carnival. Even though I’m not that well travelled I had heard of this and started to feel worried. I trained harder now. Henrique told me 4,000 people would be watching, and it was a big deal for the team I would be dancing with. They had been training all year and were hoping to impress the judges enough to go up a league in the main competition.
But the harder I tried, the more frustrated I became. There was too much to remember. In the end Henrique suggested