The Rock with Two Eyes
Written on July 22nd , 2014 by Dr Hobo
Some hills are best admired from a distance. This is the story of a hill I refused to admire from a distance.
Part 1
Since I’d been living in Vitória for six weeks, a giant rock on top of a large hill had been staring down at me. Literally — the rock gave the appearance of glaring, due to two cave-like features two thirds of the way up. As the highest point on Vitória Island, and through some crazy combination of my adventurous spirit and my English blood, I decided I had to climb it.
I had left it late though — I was leaving in three days, and realistically this was my only window before things got too busy. It wasn’t going to be a big deal: me and my Spanish friend who likes to run were going to jog up it, visit the neighbouring tourist viewpoint, and be back by lunchtime. We caught the bus to the little neighbourhood at the foot of the hills and the beginning of the forest. I wanted to do the hardest hill first — the rock with two eyes — but the track wasn’t clear. We asked a dodgy-looking farmer for some directions; my friend has a good grasp of Portuguese. He pointed the way and told us not to worry about the dogs.
We began our little jog in the forest. After about 10 minutes we began to hear some yapping in the distance. Soon this yapping became a crescendo of wailing. A pack of dogs that had grown from about 3 to 20 was now nipping at our heels. We made a point of showing no fear and carefully waded through their territory — maybe this wouldn’t become one of my tours for hostel guests. A little shaken, we continued on, but the track was taking us further and further away from our intended direction. We eventually ended up on the other side of the island on the road that leads to the neighbouring tourist viewpoint. Well, we were going to go there anyway, so we continued to the top and got our pictures.
I could see the rock-with-two-eyes from our vantage point — still glaring at me.
I made out a possible route to get there. We checked with some Brazilians who were also at the viewpoint, but they convinced my friend that there were bandits in the forest who would, at the very least, rob us. Now, I had done some research before going up, and my American expat friend had told me he always hiked in the forest without a problem. The Brazilians we had asked were emblematic of many in Brazil — they ride around in their SUVs, totally disconnected from the lives of the urban poor, and believed that if you didn’t have a car you were a dangerous peasant from the favela. I may be going a bit far here, but they did mess up my day epically. I wanted to at least go back the way we came, but my friend had asked for more directions and convinced me it would be quicker to go all the way down the road we had found. Against all my instincts, we did this. The problem when you speak a foreign language and actually manage to understand a local is that you take what they say as gospel — you worked hard to understand it, so you don’t analyse it the way you normally would.
We ran down this road, which took us so far from where we wanted to go it was ridiculous. My friend was now a spent force — we had been running all morning in fierce heat and it was time to go home. Inside I was livid with my friend, those Brazilians, and most of all myself. I was sure I had learnt this lesson before: to trust my instincts over my friends when it comes to outdoor expeditions. Unless they are army or outward bound instructors, my instincts are almost always better. Anyway, my friend got on the bus to go back. I still felt quite fresh and continued running.
I didn’t realise how far out of position I was, so I began running through a part of Vitória I hadn’t seen before — the poorer and rougher neighbourhoods. After many kilometres of running I eventually saw my rock. I was approaching it from a different side so didn’t see its staring eyes. There was a clear route, so I popped through a hole in the wall and made my way towards it. About halfway up the hill to the base of the rock I realised I had made a terrible mistake. It was the wrong hill. In the distance I could still see its glaring eyes — challenging me. I was completely broken at this point, tired and frustrated. I began to cuss loudly into the wilderness. I made my way back through the undergrowth and ripped the bottom of my right shin on barbed wire. Nasty but fairly superficial. This certainly didn’t help my mood.
The Mistake
In the distance: where I was supposed to be.
I got back to the hole in the wall by the road where there was a bus stop. I told myself whichever bus came first — the one home, or the one to the rock — I’d take it. The bus for home came, and I let it go. It was at this point I realised I was crazy. And that I may have something in common with that American kid from Into the Wild who died in the Alaskan wilderness. However, I hung onto the fact that I knew I was crazy. It’s the people who are crazy but don’t know it you have to be careful of.
I soon got fed up waiting and thought about hitch-hiking. A bloke with a bike eventually stopped near me — a strange gringo in the wrong part of town attempting to flag down a car had aroused his curiosity. About 5 minutes later he was giving me a ‘backie’ towards where I needed to go.
He took me to the bottom of the favela-like community that lived on the hillside near the rock-with-two-eyes and we said our goodbyes. I stocked up on supplies and began my ascent. I drew a few curious looks — being grotty, dirty, bloody and a gringo — but I soon pacified them with my Tudo Bems while I walked out of the community and onto the hill. I was at last, I believed, within striking distance of my goal. Yet I had only completed the first act of this three-part drama.
Part 2
I followed the path up the hill out of the favela-like community without drama and into the forest. After a while the path began to veer away from the hill and head downhill. This began to concern me, and I knew I had fouled up again when I heard the sound of yapping dogs. These little mutts — I’m not sure if they were the same ones from earlier — began to race towards me. Not wishing to confront them again, or go backwards, I ran into the heavy foliage in the direction of the hill. Fortunately the dogs didn’t follow, as the foliage was too thick for them. In fact it was too thick for me. After about 15 minutes of ploughing my way through trees and bushes I got to a point where it was too thick to proceed. I looked around in despair. I was in the middle of a forest, in a foreign country, kind of lost, wearing completely the wrong clothing for this kind of ordeal — a running vest and shorts. Going back to face the dogs just wasn’t an option, so I decided to have one last look around to try and get through. Somehow I made it. I broke through the foliage and found the path leading to the top.
When I finally made it to the clearing below the rock-with-two-eyes I did a little jig of joy. The view was amazing. If Vitória is to be a mini-Rio, as my last blog suggested, this is where the Christ the Redeemer statue would be.
So now I was here, it was time to see if it was possible to climb up. I was kind of hoping it would be impossible so I could go home and rest. But alas, I found a cave behind the smooth surface of the rock where there was a very possible ‘chimney’ route up.
I had a flashback to when I was young and my dad was taking me rock climbing for one of my first times in Snowdonia, where he taught me how to climb chimney-type routes. Knowing the technique, a chimney is quite safe and easy to do without a rope, so I made my way up. After a few feet I noticed a bird perched on a ledge I would have to pass through — probably sitting on a nest and very protective. I had another flashback. This time it was me and my dad climbing some sea cliffs on the coast of Wales. On that occasion my dad stumbled into a bird’s nest and it spat horrible stinking goo into his face whilst flapping and shrieking. It scared the living shit out of us and I didn’t want to relive the experience. So I went back down to find another way.
I began to traverse around the other side of the rock but could find no other possible route. Coming back, I slipped down a couple of feet on the smooth surface. Initially I thought I had landed it safely — however, one look at my hand told a different story. Blood was streaming from three of my fingertips. I hopped and panicked for a few seconds before washing them with water. Two of them had a severe friction burn from sliding down the rock. F**k, that’s going to sting later.
I knew while I had adrenalin in my veins the pain would hold off for a while. I gritted my teeth, grabbed a rock to scare the bird with, and attempted the chimney route again. It took two direct hits before the bird moved and I continued up. I was ecstatic — I was going to make it. I was reminded at one point of the film 127 Hours and realised I didn’t even have a shitty penknife in case my arm got stuck. I had almost made it — I was at the last section, about 4 metres from the top — but it wasn’t possible. It took about 10 minutes of looking around, upturning rocks in the vain hope of finding a rope and exploring small cracks before I could accept it. With a good hand I could have probably climbed out, but would have had a big problem coming back down. I needed a rope or a friend to do it safely.
Part 3
Dejected and forlorn, I made my way down. At the bottom I made a half-hearted attempt to find another route, but certain muscles were now starting to cramp and I knew that even if I found another way I was in no shape to do any more climbing. I followed the path back down to the bottom — noticing the left fork I had missed on the way up, which would have avoided the dogs — and found a bus to jump on. I shouted two destinations at the driver in my poor Portuguese which were close to where I lived, and he nodded at one of them. It soon became apparent the bus was going the wrong direction — in fact it seemed to be circling the rock-with-two-eyes as if to mock me. I soon lost it. I must have been quite a state: a gringo with bloody fingers, a bloody leg, all sweaty and dirty, shouting in English at a bus driver who obviously couldn’t understand me. A couple nearby took pity and, using charades and my little Portuguese, told me when to get off and where to wait for my bus.
Finally I was on my way. Just before my stop someone recognised me on the bus. It was a Spanish girl on exchange I had met during a night out for a Brazil game. She called me a crazy Englishman when I told her my story and made me go to the clinic with her to get patched up. I did need some TLC so I acceded — I had planned to use my own first aid kit to patch myself up, but the thought of putting iodine on these fingers scared me. I would much rather use hospital disinfectant.
I was very chuffed with Brazilian health care. I didn’t have to pay anything, wait long, or even show any documentation (they didn’t like this, but I had none on me). They cleaned my wounds and gave me a tetanus shot whilst muttering in Portuguese about crazy gringos. I gave Joanne, the Spanish girl, a hug and my thanks and headed home for bed.
I’m not sure how I felt about the day as a whole. At this point I didn’t really feel like I had failed, but the state of my fingers led me to believe the adventure was probably not worth it. I was proud of what I had achieved, but to have all that pain without the ultimate success was difficult to digest. I’m sure there is a moral to this story — can someone tell me what it is?
