Copa Hostel

If you have ever backpacked you will know one of the best and worst aspects of it is the unpredictable nature of accommodation. You can check trip adviser all you like but at the end of the day it’s still a bit of a lottery. Some places are great, some not so great. Unfortunately Copa Hostel on Copacabana beach falls into the latter category.

We had high expectation of Copa mainly because it was highly rated and also because of its affiliation with Hostelling International. Our disappointment lay not in the fact that it had poor facilities or that it was located in a bad part of town. Rather, the disappointment was in their customer service. The staff were nice people, however they took lying to a whole new level. They lied so much, and so well, that it was actually funny.

When we first arrived in Rio we were keen to stay in a centrally located place and we were also keen to stay in a HI (Hostelling International) hostel because the one we stayed at in Iguazu was really cool. On paper Copa Hostel had it all. On paper Copa Hostel was perfect.

In our initial conversation to book the room the person we spoke to told us if we booked there and then we would receive 20 beers upon arrival. We were already sold on the hostel and didn’t need any sweeteners to close the deal but we thought it was a nice extra nevertheless. Three Aussie lads like us will always find a good home for 20 beers. However when we arrived to check in, the person at reception had no idea what we were talking about. In fact when we told him, he looked at us as if we were crazy and almost laughed.

You can imagine how disappointed we were. One minute we had 20 beers and the next we were getting laughed at for having the audacity to ask for 20 beers. To console us, he said that the bar has a ‘buy one get one free’ offer so we shouldn’t worry because drinks here are good value. Fair enough, we thought.

The beer and free drinks lie were just the beginning. Below is a laundry list of some of the other issues we had:
- The 3 bedder we booked only had 2 beds
- The TV remote was for a completely different TV set
- The microwave had a plug that did not fit the Brazilian standard
- There were no towels
- And the bathroom smelt like something unholy had died, then crawled up someone’s arse and that person died as a result. It reeked!

The bed situation was easily fixed. After experiencing ten days of the ultimate luxury of having his own room in Florianopolis, it was Dennis’ turn to rough it. And he happily obliged to sleep on a mattress on the floor. But the other issues took a bit longer to resolve, some were never resolved.

In addition to the above, after a few days we ran out of gas for our stovetop. We were spending quite a bit on eating out and were looking forward to eating in so this presented a problem for us. It took them five days to get another gas canister. Each person we spoke to blamed someone else, it was never their problem. Time after time, hostel staff would come into our apartment to inspect the situation, promise to be back to resolve the issue and were never seen again.

Getting back to the buy one get one free offer at the bar. Guess what? A beer at Copa costs 5 reais . But a beer costs 2 reais max at any other place. So that’s not ‘buy one get one free’, they’ve just doubled the price of beer!

Finally, they sold us on a party cruise in the harbour. Jorge at reception told us that the boat had a capacity of 200 people and 130 spots are strictly allocated to girls and 70 to guys. Not that it mattered to Dennis or I, but Sam, being single, thought it was a good ratio. And you guessed it, when we arrived, the boat was filled with guys all sold on the same false promise. All expecting a boat full of drunken horny girls but instead left staring, face to face with a boat full of pimply horny dudes. There were so many guys on this boat it looked like a bucks party. Thanks Copa!

I probably sound like a whinny bitch right now. And in all fairness it wasn’t that bad. The room itself was close to the beach, it had air-conditioning and it had reasonable views of the water. It was expensive for Rio but in the whole scheme of things it was OK. And the people who works at Copa? Well, they do have a tendency to stretch the truth but then I’m told that’s customary in South America. We still had a good experience and Rio will always have a special place in my heart.

What Rhymes With Rio?

The air is misty, the temperature nippy
It’s been like this for days
The clouds are low, Sugar Loaf a no go
Will the Christ ever be unveiled from this haze?
Despite the weather, we’re still having fun together
Enjoying the city’s sites and sounds
From that famous beach to the hills just out of reach
Rio is like heaven here on the ground

I love this city. It’s a blend of the fabulous and the gritty
Full of beautiful bellas with their fortunate fellas
Surrounded by thousands of poor souls surviving in ‘em favelas
There are 750 of them built over public space, all over the place
They lack sanitation, nothing to displace waste
Ruled by drug lords all fucked off their face
This situation is a national disgrace

Despite this shock inequality, the people of Rio are top quality
Despite this reality, they still offer non stop hospitality
Always looking to have fun
They’re the coolest people I have ever met, second to none

Copacabana Beach

Sugar Loaf from Botafogo

Rocinha Favela

eat, pray, LOVE

Love is the catalyst for so much craziness. It provides so much joy when you have it and causes so many tears and so much sorrow when it’s gone. It’s like a drug and can drive grown men wild.

And where exactly do you find love? Research says a quarter of the population find their love match at work. Some go on dating websites or hang out at bars, I guess most are just friends of friends. But me? The only place I know in Sydney to find such a potent elixir is in Kings Cross. And it is at the Kings Cross Hotel where I first met Rx.

I’m not a big fan of PDA (public displays of affection) – especially on a forum such as this. But truth be told, I’m more than a little smitten. Ten years older than me, previously married and the mother of two amazing boys. At first glance, I’ll admit she is not a likely candidate for me. But like Janet Jackson once said: “that’s the way love goes.”

When my mum first found out about our relationship she was… surprised. I don’t blame her as I know this is a new situation for her and she only has my best interests at heart. She asked me to list three reasons why I like her. But at the time I refused to do so. This is a relationship not a mortgage application. But mother (and everyone else) I’m going to let you in on a little secret, I have over 40 reasons.

When it comes to finding a new partner most people would have a list of desired attributes in their head. Loyal, funny, tall… whatever. I too have a list, except I have mine in Excel. I have grouped the list into four broad categories, given each attribute an importance weighting (because attributes like loyalty should count more than height) and rated everyone I have ever dated. It’s a little OTT but it works for me. I call this system my Compatibility Matrix and Rx’s cmax scores are off the charts. So mum, this isn’t a rash decision against the status quo. Rx is great and I have the empirical evidence to prove it.

OK, in my defense I’m not a complete freak. I had sleep issues for a while so this is what I did during my sleepless nights. It kept me sane and it was practical too.

In addition to working out a system to measure compatibility when you first meet someone, I’ve also put some thought into new ways to sustain and improve relationships once you’re actually in one. It’s loosely based on corporate planning and communication models. I’m not going to bore you with the details but the premise lies in the fact that corporations are designed in a way to maximise profit so relationships can be modeled in a similar way to maximise happiness.

I’m probably going to be greeted with a straight jacket followed by a lengthy stay in an institution when I get back to Sydney, but I am determined to tell the world how I feel. Love is hard to find – and even harder to keep. I feel I made a bit of a mess of my last one. Not only did I cause myself and my family a lot of anguish but I lost my best friend, her family and countless other people who were close to me. But this time I’m going to do everything I can to make sure history does not repeat itself. And that’s the way love should go.

eat, PRAY, love

It fascinates me when people state their sexual persuasion as bi-curious. It suggests a lack of commitment, but it also suggests a willingness to dabble. It’s a little like how I am with religion. Maybe it’s because I grew up an atheist in communist China or maybe it’s because my parents have always been fairly ambivalent towards the topic. I have always been very skeptical of organised religion but at the same time, I’ve also felt very receptive to the divine and I have been more than willing to dabble. So in that respect, I guess I’m God-curious.

I was still living in China, around the age of six or seven, when I first heard of the commonly understood notion of God. And to be honest even back then it made no sense to me. A supposedly omnipresent figure, sitting on a throne in the sky watching and judging my every move. “So is God like Chairman Mao?” I would ask my mum. “Well, sort of,” my mother would say, “except God isn’t real. He is a fictitious concept invented to subdue the working class. Religion is nothing more than an opiate for society.” “But what happens when you die?” I would ask, hoping to get just a bit more conversation out of her before I was forced to go to bed. “Nothing. When you die you cease to exist. There is no heaven or hell, reincarnation is just a myth and you won’t be dreaming because you’ll have no brain function. NOTHING. Now go to bed!” But how could I sleep knowing I have maybe another 70 years left of being me and then BANG, lights out, nothing until the end of time? For the love of Chairman Mao there’s got to be something, hasn’t there?!

I have a confession. I think I’m a mormon. I’ve never been baptised as one but when I was living in Darwin this lady, Linda, used to come to our house every Sunday. And in our living room we would sit and she would tell me stories about God and the Church of Latter-day Saints. She even gave me a Bible which I eagerly read cover to cover. Although all is not what it seemed. My real interest lay not in our Bible discussions but in Linda’s daughter Sonia who used to accompany her mother. However after a few months Sonia stopped coming and I lost interest. But I kept the Bible, just in case.

As I grew older my interest in the divine did not diminish. Far from it, in fact I grew more and more curious. I would often corner my religious friends and annoy them with questions about their beliefs and argue over doctrine. This usually happened after I had a few drinks and it never ended well.

My conviction for the Supreme Creator is exacerbated by the fact that I secretly think the world revolves around me (or not so secretly as some might argue). I’m sure I only think this way because I’m an only child (having no siblings make you a bit wacky). I know rationally that it is not the case, but deep down I do sometimes feel I’m the star of my own Truman Show and when I leave the room someone will jump up and yell: “Cut! That’s a wrap people.” Then everyone goes to lunch.

And you know what else is really weird. I see the number 33 everywhere. It’s true. Many of you would have heard this from me before. I see the number 33, especially on clocks, much more than I see any other number. Non-believers would say it’s just a coincidence, but it’s not. Just yesterday I woke up at exactly 6.33am, then I went back to bed and woke up again at 8.33am. After lunch I went to the toilet and what was the time when I looked up mid-pee? 12.33pm! It’s everywhere and I’ve seen it all my life. Actually, that’s not true, I only started seeing 33s when I was in Darwin around the time I first met Linda, strange… It used to freak me out but it doesn’t bother me any more. Nothing good happens when I see it, but nothing bad happens either. It’s just there, it’s a part of me and I’ve learned to accept it. But if this is happening to anyone else please contact me. I’d love to hear from you. Maybe we can start a cult.

Ever since my relationship break up I have felt an even greater urge to look for meaning. I googled Tibetan prayers, I read the Koran (well, bits of it) and I downloaded meditation MP3s. The MP3s were especially effective on my insomnia (and beat the hell outta vodka). Even though this trip does not directly involve the pursuit of devotion, it doesn’t mean I’m not looking. After reading about Liz’s Ashram experience I was half jealous and half inspired. I want a guru, I want to reach the turiya state, I want to be at one with the universe and feel the presence of God.

EAT, pray, love

I know Eat, Pray, Love was first published four years ago. I know even before Oprah it was dubbed as courageous, intelligent, captivating and absolutely hilarious. I know I’m a complete laggard, but better late than never. I love this book!

I was browsing the aisles of a bookshop in Sao Paulo airport when I spotted it. Having had no English TV since Buenos Aires (and having read The Alchemist four times) I was desperate for a new book to keep me entertained. The English section in the bookshop wasn’t big. In fact my only other real option was Twilight. I like vampire novels as much as the next guy, but having said that, I happily handed over 40 reais ($24) for Eat, Pray, Love and spent the next few days totally engrossed in this marvelous memoire.

It’s appeal is immediately apparent. Elizabeth Gilbert’s story is real, raw and totally relatable. And being on a bit of a journey of self discovery myself, it really made me think about my own situation.

On the surface I have nothing in common with Liz. She’s a professional woman in her mid 30s, whereas I’m a guy in my 20s with the mental age (and the baby face) of a teenager. She travelled by herself in search of pleasure, devotion and balance, whereas I’m travelling with two mates in the search for our next hostel and lost luggage. She had purpose whereas I have no idea.

However, we do have something in common, Liz and I. I can relate to her relationship breakup, I can relate to her depression, I can relate to her search for transcendence and I can relate to her finding love again.

Breakups suck. And when a long-term relationship breaks up it really REALLY sucks. I’m not going to go into the details of my relationship breakup but let’s just say it was pretty messed up. I know I caused Rita pain and although my suffering was nothing compared to hers, I too am all too familiar with the company of depression and loneliness. I’ve never held a serrated edge next to my wrist as Liz did, but everything is far from being tip-top when it takes a quarter of a bottle of Smirnoff to go to sleep each night. I’m not going to go into it, but I feel you Liz.

I am, however, going to go into our shared passion for pastries, our shared lust for linguini, and I know we both are ach’n for some bacon. I love food. Whether it is boiled, braised or baked. Whether it is local or exotic. Whether it is fresh or frozen. I’m really not picky, I love it all. I love the way it smells, the way it tastes and the way it leaves me going hmmm, hmmm, hmmm.

One of my favourite questions to ask is “What is the weirdest food you’ve ever eaten?” I like to ask this to new acquaintances because it’s a bit quirky and their answer usually provides an insight into how adventurous, well-travelled and open-minded they are. Being Chinese, I usually win. Exotic food such as pigeon, donkey and jellyfish have been staples in my family’s diet ever since I can remember. But the weirdest food I have ever eaten has got to be deep fried cicadas. When I was little I used to catch cicadas with my cousin in Shanghai and my grandma used to deep fry our catch and serve it to us as a high protein mid-afternoon snack.

And those who know me will also know I eat really quickly. In fact, I think I’m the fastest eater I know. As far back as I can remember, I have always been like this. My mum reckons it’s because I starved to death in my past life but I reckon it’s because when I was little, my dad kept trying to steal my meals so I had to eat quickly or it would be gone. Whatever the reason, I’m sure my insatiable appetite combined with my eating speed is a recipe for obesity, diabetes or some kind of heart condition later on in life.

Although today I am still eating quickly, I haven’t eaten anything too crazy on this trip yet. Having said that I have definitely indulged myself. From steak and wine in Argentina to hot dogs and empanadas in Brazil I’m sure all the extra calories have had an impact on my life expectancy. But who cares, a life of dieting is no way to live! Our next stop is the huge US of A and I can’t wait to go SUPER SIZE!

Chapter 7 – Camarote Planeta Othon

I would like to take this opportunity to retract my previous comment about camarotes. OMG, camarotes ROCK!

It’s the second last day of the Carnival and we were looking to finish the festivities on a high. The majority of the action had moved to Campo Grande so we thought we would get a spot in one of the camarotes along the circuit there. Once again we made our way to the car park outside Aeroclube to get a discounted T-shirt. Having learnt our lesson from last time we quickly struck a deal.

Unfortunately we couldn’t get a camarote in Campo Grande so we got T-shirts for Camarote Planeta Othon in Ondina instead. We all remembered seeing Camarote Planeta Othon when we were in bloco Bob Sinclar. It was the very last camarote before the end of the parade and it seemed good enough. We each paid 150 reais ($90) for the ticket, which is a bargain considering the retail price is 200 reais ($120).

We all assumed camarotes are just like nightclubs set along the length of the circuit. But we were wrong. Camarotes are more like nightclubs in heaven, they’re awesome! Planeta Othon is huge. Set up just in front of the Bahia Othon Palace Hotel, the entire structure is more an entertainment complex than a nightclub. From the blocos below all you could see were the verandas, but they were just the front facades. Behind the verandas were your usual bars, restaurants and dance floors but upstairs there were free massage, makeup counters (for free makeovers), internet access, video games, fortunetellers, cinemas and a games room. It was amazing; I could go on about it all day.

The problem with being in a camarote though is there is so much other stuff going on, the Carnival parade below is almost a secondary distraction. But we’d already seen most of the acts and had been in a bloco so we didn’t really take much notice of all the commotion below and instead took our time to explore all the entertainment options inside. Like kids in a fun house we ran from room to room doing just that. We played Street Fighter for a while then table tennis, then Dennis jumped on the computer while Sam and I got our fortunes told. Some nice girls from Brasilia acted as our translators and apparently I’ll have some good news regarding my career soon and I’m great in bed – her words not mine, I swear!

We had the best time. If you ever have the chance, you need to experience this in person. Carnival Salvador 2010, what a week, what a party, what an experience of a lifetime.

Inside the camarote

Check out this game!

Enjoying a nice deep fried snack

Chapter 6 – Bloco Bob

Fortunately we heard there was another market right behind Barra beach so we hopped into a taxi and made our way there. When we arrived, there were no camarotes left either so we changed plans and decided to do a bloco instead.

As soon as we got to Barra we ran towards the market area and once again the hunt was on for a good deal. A guy selling Bob Sinclar for 100 reais ($60) approached us. We turned him down because we were keener to get into Yes Bahia Club. However, we looked and looked and couldn’t find T-shirts for Yes anywhere.

We walked around for another hour or so, looking and bargaining and once again prices started to rise as shirts began to sell out. Bob Sinclar shirts became 150 reais ($90) and we were once again losing time and options. In the end we bought what we could find and paid the princely sum of 200 reais ($120) for Bob Sinclar. Yes we suck at this, but at least we’re in.

It turned out joining the Bob Sinclar bloco was the best thing we could have done . Being the only major international act, it was jammed packed with people from all over the world. We bumped into many people we met in Igazu and Florianopolis. The bloco started around 10pm and we danced and sang along the moving stage until it reached the end of the circuit in Ondina at 3.30am.

As we passed each camarote all we saw were these bored faces looking out and down at the action below. We were dancing, they were still. We were smiling, they were bored. We were having the time of our lives and they were looking at us having the time of our lives. “Good call with bloco Bob,” we screamed, “good call!”

Our friendly shirt dealers

Hello ladies

Inside bloco Bob

Chapter 5 – We Suck At This

I know Carnival is the party of a lifetime but why does it have to be so expensive? Entry to an average bloco costs from 200 reais ($120) to 500 reais ($300) and camarotes cost even more. Tickets to the best camarotes can go for thousands of reais – who could afford this?

Tickets (or T-shirts) to either blocos or camarote are sold through official outlets or online but given their value and demand there is also a big black market for them. We first heard about these black markets from our Aussie friend Alex (who we met in Lima) but other people we met and local taxi drivers have told us about them as well.

So today we hopped into a taxi and told the driver to take us to the nearest such place. The taxi driver dropped us off at Aeroclube Plaza. The black market is situated in a huge car park just outside Aeroclube. When we got there the car park was a sea of buyers and sellers all looking to strike a deal. The scene is hard to describe – sellers were either selling T-shirts straight out of the boot of their cars or had their goods lain out on the ground, market style. Alongside T-shirt sellers were also food and beverage vendors looking to make a buck. There were people everywhere all bumping into one another, everyone was yelling, and like Barra Beach the previous night the whole place stunk like pee. If a Haitian refugee camp and the New York Stock Exchange had a love child, that freaky little baby would be Aeroclube.

Up for sale were T-shirts for all blocos and camarotes. All the acts – big and small, all price ranges and all at a discounted rate. I have no idea how these people get their hands on this merchandise. They have serial numbers so I don’t think they’re fakes. Maybe they were stolen; maybe they were purchased in bulk at wholesale prices. I don’t know and I couldn’t care less. All I wanted was a good deal.

We were a bit tired from the night before and were looking to get into a good camarote to see the action from the safety and comfort of its viewing platforms. Dennis was once again our key negotiator. The first person he approached offered us Camarote Ceveja CIA for 400 reais ($240) each. After some bargaining we got the price down to 250 reais ($150) but we thought we could get a better deal so we walked away. “That’s the key boys,” Dennis kept saying, “walk away so we don’t seem desperate.”

It was already 5pm and starting to get dark. We thought this would help our chances in securing a better deal because these T-shirts were only valid for tonight only and surely they would be desperate to sell. As any good economist would know, that assumption would be correct if supply outstripped demand. But unfortunately that was not the case. Demand for these discounted T-shirts was huge and as the day turned into night, far from being desperate to sell, T-shirts were beginning to run out and as a result prices were steadily going up.

“We suck at this,” I said frustratingly. It’s now us who were beginning to get desperate. We even went back to the first guy and asked for Camarote Ceveja CIA but that had been sold to some other lucky bugger long ago. Each time was the same story; T-shirts with prices we scoffed at when we first arrived were rising in price. 350 reais ($210) shirts are now costing 450 reais ($270) and the longer we waited the higher the prices went.

Eventually, exhausted and desperate we agreed to pay 350 reais ($210) for Ceveja CIA. We would have saved ourselves 100 reais ($60) each and 3 hours if we had bought it from the first guy. But just as we were feeling confident we were going to get those 3 final shirts we were told they had already been sold. “Now what?” Dennis asked, “Now we’re fucked.”

Chapter 4 – The Toilet Deficit

It’s our second day here in Salvador and we just wanted to check out the action so we hoped into a taxi and told the driver to get us to Barra Beach. Alvin asked me on facebook whether I’ve seen any trannies yet. And yes, I’m happy to report the first of many were spotted on route to Barra.

As we stepped out of the cab, an army of cross dressers who squirted us with water guns immediately surrounded us. Some were gay men who like men and some were straight men that like to dress as women. We couldn’t tell which were which so we ran and sought shelter in a nearby service station. The streets surrounding us were indescribably chaotic. There were people everywhere, rubbish everywhere, sounds and colours everywhere. It was all too much. I need a drink NOW!

When we finally made it to Barra Beach it was even more chaotic. Thousands, no millions of people were packed along the esplanade all jostling for position, all hoping to get a glimpse of their favourite singer or band. One by one each bloco passed us with their army of fans all wearing the same T-shirts, singing and dancing. Each performer has a colour to distinguish themselves from the others making each bloco a sea of red, yellow or orange. It’s like a musical version of the Indonesian general election.

Along the entire route of the circuit were street vendors selling anything from drinks to cigarettes to coloured beads and wigs (there’s that Brazilian entrepreneurial spirit again) so you need never to stray far from the action to get what you want. But unfortunately, the availability of beer was in stark contrast to the unavailability of toilets. There were no portaloos anywhere along the circuit so you do the math (or is it biology?). Surplus of beer + deficit of toilets = the whole place smelling like piss. People were peeing everywhere, it was shameless and disgusting, but I guess when you gotta go, you gotta go… It was not just the guys; women too were relieving themselves anywhere and everywhere. On the beach, between parked cars… I’ve never seen so many bare arses in my life.

A quick word on security. To be honest it wasn’t that bad. I’ve heard of friends being pick pocketed and robbed but we didn’t have any issues. There was a constant police presence, which was comforting, although their actions were a little disturbing. The police here are extremely heavy handed. They carry guns, big guns and have even bigger batons. More than once I saw them charge a section of the crowd, weapons drawn and kicking arse. I think the official policy is to hit first (and hard) then ask questions later. On our way home we saw two police officers laying into a black kid Rodney King style and then spraying his near unconscious face with pepper spray. The whole time all we heard from the kid was his screaming: “Stop it, I work here!”

The crowd during the day

The bar is never far

Carnival security

Chapter 3 – How It Works

The drumming, music and miscellaneous sounds lasted all night. “Thank God for earplugs,” I thought to myself as I awoke to the alternating beats of the blocos from right outside our window. Today is the official first day of Carnival in Salvador. I think the way it works is there are two major Carnival circuits around the city – Barra Ondina and Campo Grande. Unlike Rio, the music is mostly Axê, which means these circuits are dominated by major local pop acts. This is what makes Carnival in Salvador so appealing, instead of looking at unknown Samba schools the audience is treated to performances from their favourite pop idols and they have the chance to dance and sing along with them.

The focus of Carnival moves with these acts. On the first few nights all the attention is on Barra Ondina and then the performers move to Campo Grande to woo the crowds there. Wherever the major acts are, the helicopters, media and the thousands of adoring fans from all over the world are there with them. There are also other smaller circuits (such as right outside our hotel in Pelourinho) but the big parties are either in Barra Ondina or Campo Grande.

There are three ways to participate in the festivities. You can either just go to one of these circuits and watch and dance from the sidelines. This costs nothing but you’ll have to put up with the crushing crowds and the lack of amenities and security.

The other options involve money. Quite a bit of money. You can either buy a T-shirt (they’re actually more like sports singlets), which entitles you entry into a bloco. The cost of the T-shirt depends on how popular the performer is, prices range from 200 reais (AUD $120) to up to 500 reais (AUD $300). Paid participants get to walk along with the moving sound stage and are protected by a ring of security holding a very long rope (it wraps the entire bloco), keeping the undesirables out and those wearing the right colours in. Tagging behind the moving stage is a moving bar and a moving toilet – very important.

The other paid alternative is a camarote (pronounced kema-roch). Camarotes are basically nightclubs set up along the entire route of the circuit. They are elevated far above the crowds and each passing bloco would stop and perform to their fans standing on the verandas. The benefits of being in a camarote are: it’s safe, comfortable and you get to experience all the acts. Most also include all you can eat and drink as part of the entry fee. But camarotes are not cheap. Entry ranges from a few hundred reais to thousands of reais. Considering a beer is sold for 1 real (60 cents) on the streets, you’ll need to drink a lot for the experience to be worthwhile. (Hmmm, what does doing cost benefit analysis with beer say about my personality?)

The crowd at Barra Ondina

Bloco Timbalada

Camarote Monte Pascoal