On the Beach

Another city means another day of wandering with neither purpose nor direction. There are the usual regal, flag-laden buildings, the usual shops, plazas and statues, then there's the favela. The favela appears to run the length of where the city meets the beach, then the river. Rather than the handful of tents, as in Ciudad Del Este, this is a town in itself. Each structure is made up of assorted wooden panels and struts with a corrugated tin roofs - they're entirely reminisent of Mick Dundee's place in Mick's Country. From a vantage point, I watch the beginning of a new shack being hammered together. The folks here are going about their business. I don't know what that business is, but it's not wallowing in self-pity. I spot the city's Club Nautico on the other side of a thin section of favela, and being a seasoned sailor, I pass through for a poke around. The favela sits in a trough of land, between the main city's edge and the beach. On the beach, there's some heavy machinery doing some work - moving or compacting sand or something. As I climb up onto the beach, past a sign marked - Peligro de meurte y accidentes graves - I turn to find much of the backend of the favela is drowning in a wide swamp. Two pairs of goalposts and the ends of sunken rowing boats protrude from some three feet of stagnant, reed lined water. On the way out, I make a turn to walk through a street of the favela, but am promptly picked up by a local with a friendly suggestion to go around.

In the middle of of the afternoon, after browsing the colourful local market maze, I stroll up to the gates of what looks like a park, but with a young police officer guarding it. I ask him if it's public. He tells me: es publico, pero muy peligroso - it's public, but very dangerous. I'm a little confused by that, but continue my stroll, looking out for danger. Farther inside, there's a marching band in practice, a game of a volleyball, and another of football. The most dangerous thing I find is a mean looking bronze bust, the eyes of which have been sprayed red by someone who agrees with me, but unless there's a river of angry viscous pink slime running under the city, I don't see what's so peligroso.

I decided to save a negligible amount of money and cook something today. Earlier, at the supermarket, I'd picked up a lamb chop, an onion and a piece of bread. I'd recalled there was rice, oil and salt at the hostel. From the fridge, I take out and arrange my purchases on the kitchen counter. After a quick spin around, then two more thorough rotations, I discover the hostel doesn't have a cooker of any description. And so, dinner is lamb tartare.