Aaaahhhh! My mouth breathes a sigh of relief as the horror of my gingivitis comes to the beginning of its end. All thanks to a fine dentist, of the finest Japo-Brasilero stock, who took me to his clinical bosom yesterday and, accompanied by a soothing commentary in almost flawless English, scraped my gums clean until they bled. And bleed they most certainly did! Huge slivers of bacteria-filled calculus were pointed out to me lovingly as they were wiped onto the back of his rubber gloves. I was also invited to watch the procedure on a handy little portable mirror. Thoroughly descaled and advised, better than any of my NHS chaps and chappesses had ever managed, I went about my way, resolving to look after my teeth in future as if they were my own.
After such grotesqueries, it is my pleasure to touch upon the delightful subject of Rio. Not Engalnd's very own, dear, dear, Ferdinand but the city that owes its name to a mistaken belief by the Portuguese explorer who discovered the place that he was sailng down a huge river which turned out to be merely a slightly over-extended bay. He was obviously really, really eager to name that sucker! Oh, but it is a beauty. Maria and I spent a wonderful weekend traversing all the song-inspired beaches (my favourite being Leme, presumably a misspelt tribute to our very own Motorhead's lead rabble-rouser) and swooping up and down mountains that allow views which don't just take your breath away but sweeten it up with camomile before popping it back in your tongue in a silken negligée. Almost as spectacular as the ocean waves which constantly gobble up surfers (soon rescued by Team Rio: Surf Police) is the inland lagoon, just a few blocks back from the ocean. We crossed it at night in a swan-shaped paddleboat and traversed its entirety by bike the following day. No crime, muggings, shootings to report but the favellas twinkled naughtily from the hillsides the whole time, looking by day like scabs and by night like some kind of barnacle-inspired bling, and all the time threatening to burst their pustular violence over the toned, tanned bodies of the elite. But for that weekend at least, they didn't.
Got a night coach back. The air-conditioning belted down the whole time like a Antarctic wind. It wasn't even that warm. This was supposedly how executives travelled. It gave me a really nasty headcold that lingers even now and I felt quite dreadful in the morning. Resolved to take planes to all Brazilian cities in future...
Next time: Bussing Down to Sao Paolo!
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