“When I’m not fighting, I make cakes.”

So there I am gaily dancing around the floor of my nearest, (and possibly shittiest nightclub). Drunk on booze, I head to the bar to order another round of cheap tequila and even cheaper white wine and the dude behind the counter starts chatting me up…

“So what do you do?“
“I travel around the world fighting men.”
“So what are you doing now? You out of a job?“
“No, when I’m not fighting I make cakes.”

It was then it suddenly dawned on me that rather than being a great quip, what I’d said was in fact true. This is my life. I necked the tequila and wine, then gagged and crunked a little longer.

Quite how I had time for a job I don’t know. Even though I’ve only been back in London moments I seem to have packed in an awful lot - quite literally. In addition to making seven of the eight tiers of wedding cakes for two sets of upcoming nuptials, attending one of West London’s least leading Drum and Bass nights, picking up and avoiding Italian bar men, an eleven hour lunch, a laughably failed mission on a hen night, meeting various blokes to talk about fighting, I’ve also finalised my departure from Ealing Green. There is now officially no longer a chez Channon and all my worldy belongings have been crated up and entrusted to some very nice men from Pickfords.

It’s official I’m now NFA. I am homeless in addition to jobless and manless. And in all honesty I can’t imagine feeling any better about being the epitome of a failure at all the things I should have achieved at least one of at 31 years of age.

Next up is the road trip that will lead me to Florence and my first non-fighting related endeavour. I’m going to attempt to learn Italian and study fine art. Contrived as it might sound it’s one of those things on the list of stuff I meant to do one day. And, rather than leave it any longer, next Monday will be the day. Donal and I are driving down there, (I still have use of the company convertible for a few more months). Donal is an Irish carpenter made good. He looks like Robinson Crusoe but with a slightly smaller beard and an Aston Martin, who leads a far more interesting life than Robo did on innumerable tax free islands. He’s a man that I lived with in Amsterdam for a while and somehow, unbeknownst to him or I, he perpetually attracts adventure making him a shed load of fun and the perfect ’road trip’ companion.

While I’m there I shall attempt to write up some of the fantastic interviews I conducted in Brazil with various fighters, (there’s been complaints from the boys about the absence of fighting news on the blog - sorry about that). Highlights include a common theme of fearing Muay Thai boxers, the history of Capoeira, the evolution of animal styles and a run in with some dodgy chaps in jim jams.

Prior to that I’ve got to finish the cakes so expect recipes in addition to a step by step, picture by picture, sponge/butter cream/marzipan and fondant run through.

Hot Wax

I’m on my last few days in Brazil (for now anyway). Shortly, I shall head back to London for my friend Andrea’s wedding preparations. Specifically the making her wedding cake - a three tier lemon sponge creation she’s picked from a magazine. Thankfully it’s not too complicated. (I have a habit, when confronted with the joyous news that one of my best friends has reached the holy grail of true love, of immediately opening another bottle in celebration and then offering to make the cake for the big day.)

Before I leave Rio I had hoped to seek out a boxing school for a few final rounds of training and a chance to try wrestling without a Gi. Specifically at a place called Luta Pela Pez, (Fight For Peace) situated in a favela and set up to channel the energies of young people living in the slum into a more productive outlet. Their website bares the saddening statistics that violence, primarily associated with firearms, is responsible for 59% of deaths of young people between the ages of 14 and 19 in Rio de Janeiro. In 2000, across the state of Rio, 6,218 people aged under 25 were killed by firearms. What’s even more tragic is that of these 609 were aged just 7 or less. Luta Pela Pez endeavours to alter these statistics by investing in young people and providing training.

Sadly, it seems that time is against me and this time around I won’t be able to make it there. However, with this and my samba school still on the ‘must do in Rio list’ I may make another stop here on my way to or from the Caribbean at Christmas.

There are many things for which Brazil is famous. With little interest in football I’ve been able to experience some of those less well known as well as the popular tourist traps. The highlights have to include the breathtaking scenery of Paraty and the city of Rio, the kindness and friendly approach of the locals in Tabares Bostos, the skill and agility of the Capoeira and Ju Jitsu fighters I’ve encountered, the hidden gems - both people and places and the fantastic food. Needless to say to try and take in even a fraction of Rio in just three weeks simply isn’t possible and I’m incredibly glad I have a return flight booked already.

So in the absence of any manly activity before leaving I decided to participate in one of the country’s most famous feminine exports. I could go into more detail here but I think today’s subject matter says enough and were I permanently based in a country where the smallest swim wear was de riguer the thorough, (yet mercifully swift) approach of the lady at the beauty salon might not have seemed quite so unfamiliar or in fact, invasive. But, needless to say now I can tick another Brazilian booty treatment off the list.

Slumming It

I must have done something very right in a previous life.

I’ve no idea what it was (being burnt as a witch if the old crone who once read my past life cards is to be believed). Whatever it was it would seem that, for me at least, this life is destined to be a high one.

Having returned to Rio noticeably slimmer and more toned than when I left, Leila (a fellow bikini booter) and I were dining at the Copacabana Palace. Here we toyed over the idea of whether heading into one of the favelas (slums) for the night was:
a) completely insane
b) a bit of an adventure
c) fantastic fodder for the blog
d) downright dangerous

Having weighed up the pros and cons and decided that it was probably a combination of all four, I plumped to give it a bash. On the back of a tip off from Paddy in Paraty I headed to a place called Maze, and a B&B of sorts run by Bob - the rather eccentric BBC Brazilian correspondent of ten years past. His house was located in the Tabares Bostos favela to the north of Copacabana.

To say the favelas have a bad reputation in Rio is like saying the Whore of Babylon was a woman of easy virtue. The setting for Fernando Meirelles’ City of God, they’re home to an estimated 20% of the city’s population and the majority of its drug and gun related crime.

With this in mind, when I asked the hotel concierge to book me a cab to take me there I was met with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. Ignoring my solicitation he continued to pore over the extensive room service bill of the fat American and his hooker to my right. Reiterating my request in a slightly more assertive tone I was assured that I couldn’t go into the favela alone and that if a local were to accompany me there they would need permission to enter from the gang leaders running the place.

Still keen to check it out but not wanting to take any unnecessary risks I called Bob who happily agreed to meet me and a cabbie on the edge of the favela and walk me in the rest of the way.

Twenty minutes later I was in a minicab heading up a winding cobbled road toward the slum, the closer we approached the more hap hazard the buildings became until we reached, quite literally, the end of the road. Towering up in front of us were story upon story of precarious self build shoeboxes and some of the dodgiest looking electrics you could possibly imagine.

I called Bob. He met me with a broad smile and a paternal arm around the shoulder then led through the ever decreasing alleyways of the slum towards his place, (pics 3-5). On arriving at Casa de Bob we entered through a wrought iron gate in a secluded doorway which led to a narrow stone staircase. I climbed the steps and couldn’t believe what greeted me at the top…

Imagine you've never seen Dr Who and you walked into a police phone box and saw the control deck of the Tardis behind it. The amazement and disbelief would be on a par with how I felt. To say Bob’s stunning place was unexpected is an understatement of monumental proportions. If you’d told me I was in an art gallery on the lower East side or somewhere off Hoxton square I’d have believed you. In the heart of Rio’s slums? Never. Open mouthed, Bob led me towards the back of the living area revealing a beautiful terrace and one of the best views in Rio (including the one from the Cour Corcovado). “Can I interest you in a glass of bubbly?”

It was surreal. Totally surreal. Champers in hand, I was introduced to a delightful group of ex pats and fellow travelers who’d also managed to make it to Casa de Bob and my timing, it seemed, was fantastic.

While the food in Brazil is amazing the one thing they lack is a decent ruby. Thankfully, using a selection of curried comestibles bought over from home, one of the locals cooked up an entire Indian banquet. Chicken tikka, lamb rogan josh, pilau rice, flat breads, mango chuntey - the whole shebang and the perfect antidote to a week of vegetarian fasting at Body and Soul. The food was fantastic and the company even better. Bob was a colourful character with some of the most interesting, emotive, harrowing and hilarious stories of his days in Beirut, Belfast, Brazil and Crouch End. As the wine and conversation continued to flow the sun set slowly over Sugar Loaf in the distance.

And there I was. In the heart of Rio’s slums listening to the sound of corks popping, flutes chinking and feasting on one of the best Indian curries you could ever hope to find this far west of Brick Lane.

Yes indeed, I really must have done something right somewhere along the way.

Bikini Booty

Goood Mooorrrning Pararty. Welcome to Body and Soul. Those of you wanting to look anywhere near socially acceptable in swimwear this year should rise and shine. It’s six am, the sun isn’t shining and you’ve got a full day of grueling exercise ahead of you.

Yep, you guessed it folks. I’ve reached boot camp. Bikini boot camp to be precise. Today we hiked for seven hours through the Brazilian jungle. Ross fell and twisted his knee, Louise has been bitten all over, Rodringo is fitter than your average iron man and I, after just four days off the fags, decided I’d run for a couple K just for the fun of it. Check. Me. Out.

Last Sunday morning saw my bikini body seeking campadres and I leave the mania and Mojitos of Rio behind us and make the three hour drive south to Paraty - a beautiful sixteenth century, Portuguese colonial town. A rag-tag bunch of fun-loving, city-slicking, divorced/single, meat-eating, booze-drinking folks all in search of a little good living of a different kind. And four days in it’s looking like we’ve found it.

Originally set up years back by a far more strict regime, the focus here at the camp used to be solely on loosing weight - at any cost. Now, while the results might have been radical in the short term, the number of overweight entertainment wannabes dropping like fat fighting flies half way through the trails and passing out over their paddles became too much (it’s rumoured that this is where Jade Goody’s agent sent her post BB2). Since then things have changed for the better:

06:00 Wake up call (without the booze or late nights it‘s really not so bad)

06:30 Yoga, (I am sure I’m getting less flexible by the day)

08:00 Breakfast, (lots of fruit, yoghurt and a sprinkling of granola. Carbs are kept to a minimum and acai - an Amazonian fruit which, according to Singaporean lawyer Leila, is currently all the rage in NYC. It’s often served frozen and has the look of Nuttella and taste of Hubba Bubba about it)

09:00 Six and eight hours of hiking or kayaking, (Friday it’s a combination of both)

18:00 Yoga, (we’ve yet to have an evening session where at least one of us hasn’t fallen asleep)19:30 Massage, (aside from the eating the best part of the day)

20:30 Dinner, (all food is vegetarian and, it goes without saying, booze is definitely off the menu)

While the schedule doesn’t leave a lot of time for loitering and the level of activity is pretty constant, the emphasis is very much on doing things at your own pace and making the most of seeing the sights as well as feeling the burn. The fighting fit amongst us usually speed on ahead with Rodrigo the local guide, a handsome chap who’s currently in training for a 700k mile triathlon, while those wishing to take a more leisurely approach can loiter at the back with Paddy, an amiable ex Pat who’s more than happy to hold on while you faff with your camera and stop for a restorative raisin or five.

Evenings are devoted to hot showers, massages, yoga, talk of mosquito bites and dinner. Meals are strictly vegetarian, accompanied by ginger tea and, I have to say, are very satisfying indeed, (although I still wistfully look to the kitchen each day in the hope of pudding when the plates are cleared).

The combination of fresh air, plenty of exercise, good food and a little time for the soul is a wonderful thing and the perfect antidote to the PR merry-go-round of fags, booze, super rich food and a phone that never stops ringing.

I’m almost half way through and while there are parts of the day that really push your physical and mental stamina, I’m absolutely loving it. I’m not sure that I’m actually getting any thinner but I’m certainly getting fitter and if the guns were good before I left, yesterday’s five hour kayak across choppy seas followed by a mountain of greens for lunch will see me popping spinach cans with my bare hands in no time.

Gi Whizz

I can only see out of my left eye. My right cheek and eyelid are so swollen they've closed over each other. As such, this morning's trip to the Ju Jitsu school saw the women on reception look at this little gringo fighter with a whole new level of respect.

Now, while I'd love to say that this was as a result of several rounds with Georges St Pierre, (a UFC fighter who’s also at the school right now) I'm afraid I can not - although the Gracie's are in a round about way responsible.

The elation of my first night at Gracie Camp soon came to an abrupt end at around 4am when my attic room became infested with mosquitoes - the camp is situated on the banks of a slow running canal. Said mozzies decided to have breakfast, lunch, dinner, elevenses, afternoon tea and bedtime snack on the right hand side of my face. While this was unpleasant enough, the effects of the allergic reaction were far, far worse, (see picture 1). Despite the discomfort and looking like the inbred half sister of the elephant man I braved the morning lesson at the Gracie school and I’m very glad that I did.

In the few short hours of my Ju Jitsu training so far I feel as though I’ve gained an insight into a fighting style that - contrary to my preconceptions - is creative, complex and, (this will sound obvious to anyone who knows anything about Ju Jitsu), bugger all to do with brute strength. There are certain grapples that I am now party to that - should I ever find myself victim of a mugger of any size who just so happens to be wearing Gi - I can easily employ to choke hold the assailant to death (assuming he has no fighting skills of his own, of course).

Casting aside the obvious aesthetic pleasure which any hot blooded woman could have found in the scene at the gym, the way in which the two fighters move, contort and tie themselves - their gis and their belts - into each other really is a work of art. Not in a Caravaggion/Brokeback sort of sense, but as if they were some kind of human mathematical puzzle. In my training I had been told on several occasions to refrain from exerting too much energy, Ju Jitsu truly isn’t about the physical force but the mental ability to unravel this complex creature conundrum to a point of domination.

I’m not quite sure what I had expected from this trip or my stay at the camp. Initially if I’m honest, much of it was based on the fact that when asked what I intended to do with my redundancy saying “I’m heading to Rio baby” sounded as cool as fuck. Saying, “I’m headed to Rio baby to fight” sounded way cooler. But I’m beginning to think that, a mere five days in, this trip I’ve planned will teach me far more about myself, the worldwide location of hot and fit men and why and how men fight than I had ever anticipated.

Camp? This place couldn't be any more hetero.

Today saw the beginning of both my martial arts training and quest to become a femme fatale of international renown.

I arrived at the Gracie Camp (http://www.graciecamp.com/) mid morning, bleary eyed after the discovery that Caipirinha's and I are unlikely to ever be friends. My inability to speak Portugese is also going to be an ongoing problem. Despite the hangover and language barrier, we, (myself, Jussy and the glamorous sister of Mr Royce Gracie himself) managed to communicate that I possess no fighting skills whatsoever. In return we gleaned that I can look forward to a breakfast of toast and fruit - the absence of both bacon and eggs having been highlighted to me at great length.

Feeding formalities out of the way, I was checked into the camp, my bags bundled upstairs into a sparse attic room (think Anne Frank's house meets Edwards Scissor Hand's lofty abode) and Jussy waved me off. He wore a look of pity I've not seen since my Mother left me at the gates of boarding school.

Left to my own devices before the evening's schooling, I discovered the following things:
1) All Brazilian men wear Speedos at the beach - no bad thing given point 2
2) There are an awful lot of very hot men in Brazil
3) One should never go rummaging in the cupboards at any sort of martial arts camp - you never know who's jock strap you might stumble across
4) If you're going running ensure the bottled water you're drinking is sans gas, con gas on top of all that jiggling proves rather unpleasant
5) Some folks really are living the high life in Rio - the local petrol station stocks not one but three different brands of foie gras and Veuve by the magnum

Back from my jaunt with my training was due to start at 6 o'clock. By five to I still had no idea what to wear. This wasn't so much a fashion conundrum, more a practical one as I'd been reliably informed by the other occupants of the camp that I wouldn't be able to fight with a gi, (pronounced ghee - a judo suit to the ill informed). Thankfully Murillo, (one of the chaps who works at the camp) agreed to lend me his, saving me both the embarrassment of being underdressed and around $300.

The rest of the boys at the camp were having a night off, which left me heading to the school alone. I arrived and proceeded straight to the fourth floor of the Gracie School of Ju Jitsu. On climbing the final flight of stairs a ridiculous grin grew across my sunburnt cheeks. In part this was a nervous reaction to how ridiculous I must have looked - the only gringo in town, dressed in a suit clearly meant for a man more than twice my size. However, and I'd like to draw your attention to point 2 on the list of things I learnt today, I was the only woman surrounded by an awful lot of very fit, partially clothed men currently all wrestling with each other. If this wasn't enough to get the pulse racing, the realisation that for the next two hours I was going to be in 'heavy contact' with them all was.

Needless to say 120 minutes of thigh clenching, chest pressing, straddling, rough and tumble later I've found a love for studying Brazilian Ju Jitsu I never imagined possible. Roll on tomorrow morning's class...

Baby It's Hot Outside

After thirteen and a half tedious hours, five repeats of Sex In The City: The Movie and four hot air stewards stranded in economy, (it's where you go if you turn right) I've finally arrived in Rio De Janeiro. And my word is it warm this close to the equator.

I've installed myself in a beautiful condo for the night, care of chez family Wilson, and I have to say it's all very civilised. So far I've managed to avoid any troublesome encounters in the Favelas (slums), and Jussy located a lovely restaurant around the corner that serves delicious Argentinian carpaccio and a refreshingly light Sauvignon Blanc for lunch. It's a far cry from the rough and ready start I had feared while downing numerous glasses of medicinal Chablis at Terminal 4 last night.

An early evening trawl through google maps has led me to locate the Gracie Camp just around the corner near the beach at Barra - about twenty minutes from the centre of Rio. This is where I'll head tomorrow for the first of my Ju Jitsu lessons before trekking south to Parati where my 'bikini boot camp' kicks off.

Just heading out to dinner at Porcao for traditional Brazillian fare – which, according to the ex pat ladies who lunch, will consist of plenty of meat. It’s here where my quest to find the best Caipirinha's in Brazil will also begin...