Brazil. The constant contradiction, and I live in a two week episode of Eldorado

As I am driven from the airport by my friends family and her bestfriend, I regulary see 2 things on the roadside as we hurtle by:

Churches and Love Motels.

I am on the coast of Brazil to see the beaches and stay with my mates fiance's family, she is moving to England to be with him, and then her family and friends get me for 3 weeks. Sort of like a really bad wife swap. I also have this ambition to go to the furthest North, South, East, and West of South America. So when I look at a map in a few years I can say I travelled to every corner.

Anyway, religion is the order of the day here, it's everywhere: on the back of cars, on the walls, in the billboards, you cannot move for the power of religion. But at the same time you can't move for the hint of clandestine sex. Love motels are everywhere, basically offering you privacy by the hour to do what you want. And from what I witness over the next week or so it's shagging.

At the same time you can't move for the fear of danger. Everyone is scared, and I am told repeatedly that I am in a lot of danger, and that I can't leave the house, that people rob and kill for nothing, but my explanations that I live in Hackney fall on deaf ears.

So on the one hand you've got everyone following the word of the lord, but on the other everyone's killing, robbing, and shagging each others partners. All of which is covered quite clearly in the 10 commandments.

I am welcomed by my friends family, and her best friends family with open arms. It's truly a incredible experience, you're fed, looked after, and basically told that their house is yours now, and that whatever you want to so is cool with them. I can't recall hospitality like this anywhere else in the world other than South America.

However, things begin to take a turn for the worse one week in. It would appear that my commited, monogamous, 'I wanted to meet western men because Brazilian guys are all cheats and liars', trustworthy pal is in England feeling a little unwell. My patient mate puts it down to jet lag and the food, but a week of being sick it's off to the doctors.

Except it isn't, turns out the little lady is 3 weeks gone with her ex fellas kid. It would appear that she's not any of the things that she was meant to be.

Now I'm not going to discuss this but let's just say that what followed was 2 weeks of lying, backbiting, point winning, manipulation, emotional blackmail, and ugliness that I can't be bothered to repeat. But everything that did happen was in no way cool in a religious sense. I saw near enough every nasty characteristic you could think of. And I had to sit amongst and try to be nice.

I go away to a tiny beach resort called playa pipa, the Frenchies are there and I'm eager to get out of the city.

Now I met these guys on the boat trip, and they are the nicest set of surrender monkeys you could ever meet. However, they are both painfully good looking, in that annoying effortless French way. They slouch about looking perfect, and I feel like Rooney's hideous grown up baby next to these pair.

I decide to cope in the only way a ugly Welshmans knows how, get them drunk and hope they disgrace themselves. We drink a crate of lager and we are in merry spirits. Then from nowhere the Frenchies pull out the Cachaça. And in true backpacker style it's a massive bottle of paint thinner for about 2 quid. We drink it with a soya based fruit drink and bang through the bottle. I remember nothing from about 1am and wake up with the news that I have vomited all over the walk in shower, and then passed out.

Wales - 0
French - 2

I get back to Joaoa Passoa and am in a lift when I guy gets in and starts talking to my friend, about 20 seconds in he turns, looks at me, then says to my friend,
"He's not from round here is he?"
I explain that I'm from England and he immiediately invites me to go and play 5 a side football with him the next day. I go and am treated to classic Brazilian football. Sort of.

The fellas are all aged between 35 - 45 and are not at the peak of physical condition, especially the one with one arm. Except for 2 young lads who casually look very tasty. I introduce myself to everyone but the name doesn't stick, so it's agreed that they'll call me G.

15 minutes in and the G idea is out of the window, I am just called 'Ingleis' now and shouted at when I don't even have the ball. But all the classics are there, players cross themselves when the game starts, and again if they score. The tempers flare quicker and faster than a Bay City Rollers convention. The level of arguing is so big that I really think someones going to chop another arm off, and the standard of football is very very good.

I hold my own by not actually doing anything good or bad. the 'proffesor' kicks the ball in my face, and my team lose all their games. This has nothing to do with me, other than the fact that I'm put on the team with the worst players cos I'm English. And I'm sticking to that.

One cultural thing that I notice is manners. In every country it's different but it still manages to shock me. For example, in Brazil you can whistle at your waiter to call him over. whistle at him like he was a dog. It's incredible, and I consider the amount of shit that would be put into my food if I tried that in London.