cidade de deus

It’s snowballed.

I am now officially fucken terrified for my year end break.
I fear it like Black Friday.

Let us not forget, I will be in Israel this time next week, where bombs are bombs and not Jaegers.

It’s not the Argentina leg I’m terrified about, with my Dad.
Sure, one of us will probably lose our minds. And Dad is crazier, so it'll be him.
The chances of him going completely off his rocker and losing his slippery grip on reality once and for all, on this trip, are high.

But I’m shitting for Brazil, which I'm doing on my ace. If I don’t get kidnapped and spend the next ten years in hostage being forced to cut white powder into lines for a drug cartel, all while administering sexual services to the syndicate leader, I’ll be too terrified to leave my hotel room.

See, my stepfather has just got back from a trip to Sao Paulo.
Now admittedly that city has a bad rep, it's a lot like Johannesburg. He also visited Rio, (more like Cape Town maybe?), reporting back to my mother about the crime/hostage/violence/theft scenario.

I find this hilarious since I already am going, come hell or high water, because my fuck-off expensive flights have been paid for and I desperately need a holiday.

But on Sunday, the neuroticism was just a little too much for me to handle.

Mum:
Peas, we’ve decided that you can still go to Brazil.

Peas:
Excuse me? Since when did I suddenly need your permission?

Mum:
…Only on the condition you allow me to sew an inner-lining into your jeans.

Peas:
What?? Why?

Mum:
You’re not going to carry any type of bag on you, even a moonbag. You’re going to hide your money in the inside of your pants.

Peas:
What? Don’t be ridiculous – what are you talking about?

Stepdad:
…a decoy handbag would be good. She can fill it with bubblewrap for when she gets held up at knifepoint.

Peas:
You’re scaring the shit out of me! Why would people loot and pillage me when I step onto the pavement?

Stepdad:
Because Brazil is a dangerous place Peas, did you do any research? If you’re not kidnapped, you’ll be mugged. You need to make friends on the aeroplane and stick to them like glue.
…[formidably sombre] Your life depends on it.

Peas:
[wailing] I’m not attaching myself to some random group of people! I’m not going to be a cling-on. Jesus.

Stepdad:
In fact, you need to stay in a hotel. Not a hostel.

Peas:
This is absurd! I want to mingle with people my age!

Mum:
And you can’t drink caipirinhas, it’ll make you an instant target. You can’t get drunk. In fact, steer clear of all intoxicants. Even coffee.

Peas:
What the FUCK happened to my Copacabana Beach, free-of-couples, edgy, caipirinha-induced, hot-Brazilian-nights, lambada holiday? Filled with gorgeous, loose men?

Mum:
It doesn’t exist. They say Rio de Janeiro is more dangerous than Lagos.

Peas:
I refuse to believe that.

Stepdad:
I wouldn’t even take a backpack. Leave your stuff in Buenos Aires and carry a portable human safety deposit box. Wear camo. Actually, put a Taliban-style burqa over your face so that you blend in and/or nobody wants to go near you.

…oh and one last thing. Don’t walk anywhere. Take a taxi. Walking will surely get you killed. Don’t lie on the beach. Don't talk to strangers.

Peas:
But they wrote romantic songs about the beaches there – it can’t be that bad! I’m losing my shit here!

…. [bursts into tears] …people go to Rio all the time! ...don't they? [the paranoia taking over completely] People don’t holiday in Lagos, they go to Rio!

Stepdad:
Yes, but people go with other people Peas. You’re alone.

Peas:
I know, REMIND ME OF THAT AGAIN WILL YOU. JUST IN CASE I FORGET.
Why the fuck do you think I’m going to a place like Rio and not fucking Mauritius?

Stepdad:
...Oh and another thing, you’ll get ripped off. The Brazilians are charming and aggressive, and they’ll hustle and bother you and try to rip you off. They’ll try to have sex with you.

Peas:
Stop. Right there.

Stepdad:
Hell, I had a prostitute latch onto me the moment I arrived in Rio. And she was Per.Sis.Tint. Oh and the slums? They spill onto the beach, the poverty levels are insane.

Peas:
I am about to have a nervous breakdown.

Mum:
But on the bright side…I’m sure there are LOTS of Anglo-Saxon friends you can meet on a tour? Go on one of those tours where you see the anacondas spawn in the jungle, Peas.

Stepdad:
Well I suppose you’re an outgoing extraverted eccentric…. You might even come back.

Mum:
Also, she’s not blonde. Maybe they won’t traffic her to Belize.

Stepdad:
Doris, she mustn’t even talk to the locals. She must not get off the bus. They have bullet-proof glass on the vehicles there for a very good reason.

Mum:
She’s going to get lynched.

Peas:
I’m still in the room fuckers.

Mum:
Just laugh like you’ve been laughing. It’ll chase them away. It’s your best weapon.

Peas:
You sure you haven’t watched too much City of God?

Mum:
Don’t forget the decoy handbag stuffed with bubblewrap.

Peas:
I’m going to vomit.

Post Script: I booked my accommodation. Three blocks away from Ipanema Beach…with a swimming pool. In case, after I’ve sussed the situation out, am too terrified to leave the hostel premises. Am in a dorm so that I feel like 1) 18 years old, 2) a real backpacker 3) making friends.

Oh, and next week I’ll be in Israel. Fighting off suicide bombers. Great.

Fuck and bollocks.
Mixed with casual bubbling excitement.