Bossa Nova Discovered

In Lima, Peru, the Huaca Pucllana pyramid is made of clay and adobe, the size of cinder blocks on end. A message came from Rio de Janeiro, an invitation to fly there and spend New Year with a dear friend who had recently managed the Equestrian Events at the Brazilian Olympic Games.

The mystery of how clay pyramids could coexist with the Amazon rainforest in Peru was solved by checking the annual rainfall in Lima, which is the same as in Cairo. Also, the Lima pyramid is about 1,500 years old, not 5,000 years old, as those at Giza in Cairo are. A flight over the Andes to Rio, a one-night hotel stay, and the following day a rental car went for 140 miles to a fishing village North of the city. Her father and Mother had rented a house. My friends' parents lived in the South of Brazil, in the Pantanal, where they farmed and raised beef and horses and extracted mineral water, which they bottled. They lived a quiet life, retired from nuclear power station construction engineering.

The journey went according to plan, but the holidays meant only small hotels had space, so a pousada was booked, and a clean, air-conditioned room on the ground floor, right next to the pool, was provided.

At the rental house, the family meeting was lively, and the beef from the farm was grilled perfectly as stories were swapped, and finally the midnight hour came and went. The next day, we wandered the small fishing village and had lunch, agreeing to meet again for dinner before I departed for Rio. That's when the rain began; torrents of rain filled the streets and lifted manhole covers. The rental car only made headway towards the restaurant by pushing a wave of water ahead, with one wheel raised on the sidewalk. A quick call and dinner was cancelled. The car made it back to the pousada, where reception was closed. No matter, I had my key and switched on the light with relief at being back in my room, but I wasn't alone. A small army of black cockroaches had invaded the room to avoid the flooding. Reception was closed; nobody answered the phone, so I sat upright on the bed until the early morning, beating off occasional curious cockroaches who approached.



Very early, reception opened, and WiFi was switched on so a booking could be made at the Hilton on Copacabana Beach in Rio de Janeiro, and with apologies to hosts, the journey back to civilisation began.

The rental got parked out front, suitcase, passport, car keys, and a tip got left with the concierge with instructions to check me in and find me in the bar. An elegant lady raised an eyebrow and smiled at my queue-jumping a line of people in loud Hawaiian shirts who were about to check in before joining a cruise the next day.

The bar was cool; the large windows were rolled open. The breeze and the sound of the waves hitting Copacabana Beach were mesmerising. The concierge brought my room key, and after a very long shower, the bar and beach were inviting. In the bar, a small man played the piano, and a girl flautist had taken the stage and began playing lively Bossa Nova tunes as night fell. A group of young people of many races danced together and gyrated their hips with fluid movements. Finally, an understanding dawned about the low-key power of Bossa Nova. Then, they played " The Girl from Ipanema," which is the next beach along the coast. Finally, the gentle music and rhythms became clear and kept me up late into the night.

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Posted to Big World with Martin McFie IN THE All About Jazz GROUP
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