not the motorcycle diaries

OK, my life is now officially Ridiculous. As anyone who has had the joy of a one-track conversation with me recently will know, I am yet to obtain a Brazilian visa, for various reasons, some to do with my inertia and some to do with the somewhat impenetrable bureaucracy that the process relies upon. Anyway, I finally got to the Consulate yesterday, with every single scrap of documentation that I had been told I required, to be informed that, actually, I also need a police check before the application can be processed (this takes about 3 weeks, which is going to be interesting, given that I leave in less than 4). All students travelling to Brazil for student type purposes need a police check. It’s just a rule (a new one, apparently, that’s “not written down anywhere”. Brilliant). So I took a deep breath, caught the bus to my local friendly police station, and requested said police check. They said I needed more forms of ID. I went back home, collected said forms of ID, and presented back at the counter. They told me to sit and wait. I waited. PC Polly Page came out and said that I should come back later, because it turns out the fingerprinting machine was being fixed that afternoon. Crazy. So I went to meet Melissa and Rokusan for a drink. I arrived home at about 1am in a very drunken state. I woke up at 11am, having missed an appointment for my yellow fever vaccination (which, I was also told at the Consulate, I should get “just in case” the rules change over the next week about needing certification of this), and feeling like I am walking in swamp land. I had a long breakfast with Mel (Melissa II), and walked down to the police station again. They couldn’t find anyone who will do the fingerprints, but after waiting about half an hour PC Reg Hollis volunteered for the job, and I followed him meekly down to the special fingerprinting place (and was told we had to do it quickly, because a prisoner was coming through. I walked more slowly in the hope of this. A run-in with a prisoner would make it all worthwhile). Reg stood me in front of the machine and said “so, you need to pay the cash first”. $170.00. The one thing I had forgotten. I went back home to fetch said cash only to discover that I had left my keys inside. Sigh.

At 4pm I am now at uni trying to salvage some of the day (note: I also have less than 24 hours to write a seminar paper for tomorrow afternoon) and am going through e-mails. Here’s an out-take from one that a friend of mine (who recently returned to Rio) has sent me:

“I’m amazed at how Rio can get worse in just two years. I went for a walk
yesterday, and could see many empty flats in Copacabana and Ipanema. Seems like
people are abandoning Rio. Everything looks old and ran down. There were shots
in front of my mother’s place two nights ago as well, a thief was killed during
a car chase. I could hear the shots and then the car in the bridge just in front
of here. I feel imprisoned here, there�s just too many buildings and no parks or
empty spaces. Too many people too.

As soon as I get broadband working here, I’ll start to feel able to work (make
the reports I am supposed to do, look for jobs, get in touch with activists).
For now I’m just feeling overwhelmed with the prison feeling.”

I think I am going to remain in swamp land for the next few weeks - it seems to make these little realities less onerous.