Muito Prazer...and Ian Curtis Robot Samba!

Hopefully I'll be eating my words soon. Talk like a Brazilian. More specifically, eating my syllables in order to sound like a oper eaker of Zilian Tuguese. They really do end up sounding like that here, except with a deeply ingrained cultural understanding of what everyone is doing, so it sounds nowhere near as silly as that last sentence did. The word 'voce' ('you'; pronounced 'vossay') comes out like 'oce' ('ossay') or even plain old 'ce' ('say' what!) 'Ta', a common form of positive response to an opinion or instruction, I recently learned stands in for 'esta bem', or 'that's fine'. This practise lends itself to some inspired plays-on-words, such as the nickname given to one of the Beagaboys (my own nickname, inspired by the Vengaboys, for the criminal group of men-friends I've been hanging round with here in BH, purely for sociable, drinking, locating Mugabe, having-a-right-old-laugh purposes), Tomas. For ages, I couldn't work out why he was called 'Turbando' by everyone. Then I found out it stood in for 'Estou Masturbando' ('I'm masturbating') but, because they remove the 'Es' part in speech it becomes 'To(u)mas Turbando'! Clever, eh! (As an aside, most of these nicknames seem to stem from a certain Leonardo, a Puckish figure who seems to be the nominal leader, at least in his own head, of this local gang I've infiltrated. Other nicknames are not so convuluted; a Brazilian-Japanese friend is known as 'Jappa', another with Lebanese roots known as 'The Turk'. I have been so far blessed with two 'apelidos': 'Twat' and 'Wankerjimmy'.) I am currently studying Brazilian Portuguese from a deliciously chunky tome, my Bible, entitled 'Muito Prazer' and it has, indeed, been giving me much pleasure on these warm and balmy, barmy, nights. It is probably a more useful book than the Bible, and certainly better-constructed! I just kissed it. For luck.
Last week I made my first solo flight away from the overly-familiar bosom of Beaga (BH) to penetrate the awe-inspiring massiveness of Sao Paolo and see some old friends. I spent the whole day alone, sick with gripe (a cold) on another damned bus, but it was actually a pleasant kind of journey, until we got stuck in an SP rush hour towards the end and I lost my i-pod/had it stolen in the most pathetic way imaginable - it fell down the side of the seat, headphones still in ears, and in my frenetic scrabbling for it I must have alerted the c**t in the seat behind because when we finally arrived at Tiete Rodoviaria (the second-largest coach station in the world, after New York, reports 'Muito Prazer' in a reading activity) it was nowhere to be found.
Still, SP was great, like London if it stuck its own thumb in its mouth and blew, and everyone and everything became slightly more coffee-coloured. The smoking ban started THE DAY I ARRIVED, which was slightly annoying (a terrible habit, but gives you something to do when everyone's speaking a language you only vaguley understand); gives you some idea of the kind of city we're dealing with. Cosmopolitan, an eye on world trends etc. After sampling some of the gay crowd (purely visually) on Friday night, Saturday was a cracking day, and about as Brazilian as you can get. Me and my guide, Andre, took a bike ride to and through Parque Ibirapuera, a treat (a bit like Battersea Park with palm trees and coconut sellers), so as to get the 'health' part of the day over with, before going to a feijoada restaurant and eating, like, a whole pig in a stew. The restaurant, disconcertingly, became a Samba club at about 3.30 and all the tables were put aside as the live band ambled onstage and everyone began shaking their rears and stamping their feet like impetuous, overgrown children. In a kind of communal fervour. Suitably inspired, and aided by a couple of strong caipirinhas, I began to join in. I looked like Ian Curtis, quite possibly as he was dying. Or at least a robotic toy version of same, made by some nightmare Japanese fan website. Still, I'll learn. Watch. And learn. And watch some more. Mmmmmmmmm.