An Idiot Abroad. Karl Pilkington

      The heat as we left the airport this afternoon was mental. I never normally sweat on my head but today I was dripping. Even my ears were sweating. Ricky and Stephen told me that all this travelling was going to bring me new experiences, but sweaty ears were not on my list.

      As we drove in the sunshine past the golden sands of Ipanema beach I was doing a bit to camera about how much I thought I was going to enjoy my time in Rio. Then I got to my destination, Hostel Piratas de Ipanema, and my heart sank.

      ‘The rules of the hostel are to clean the kitchen after you’ve used it,’ said Fredericko, the owner, before I’d even put my bags down.

      ‘You’d best go through the rules again with the bloke who used it last then,’ I said.

      The place was well minging. Half-empty coffee cups, crushed lager cans, unwashed cutlery and half-eaten yoghurts whose friendly bacteria had no doubt been battered by the unfriendly bacteria in this place.

      Fredericko was a 46-year-old hippy who was popular with the kids who were hanging around. He had a constant grin on his face, smoked self-rolled fags, and wore bleached jeans which had been cut down into shorts. Shame he couldn’t have used some of the bleach in the kitchen rather than on his pants.

      He led me on a long, winding walk to where I would be sleeping. We set off down a dark corridor with just one electric fan that was missing its safety guard and was plugged into the wall with bare wires which buzzed dangerously. It reminded me of a previous trip to Alcatraz. Young people in surf shorts and bikinis wandered by. We continued up some dodgy stairs and across a balcony that wobbled until we finally reached my dormitory. It was a dark room with 20 or so beds in it and looked like something out of the film Annie. More young people came and went. I am too old to be here, I thought to myself. The last time I felt like this was when I finally got round to having swimming lessons at the age of 14. Most of the other kids were a lot younger than me – seven or eight. They thought I was the swimming instructor.

      Fredericko stopped at a bunk bed near the window. ‘This is the best bed in the hostel,’ he told me proudly. I couldn’t work out why, until I met a lad from Hull who explained that if you needed to empty your bladder in the night you could use the window instead of having to walk to the toilets. Not exactly en suite, but I suppose I shouldn’t moan.

      The mattress was badly stained. Mine looked worse than the others due to the fact that I had daylight showing up stains that you couldn’t see on the others. Someone’s underpants hung on the end of the bedpost. I was going to move them then I thought they might attract the flies away from me so I left them.

      I asked Christian, the show’s director, how much it cost to stay here. He said £4 a night. And then Christian said goodbye and left with the rest of the crew to check in to their rented house on Rua Saint Roman.

      I decided to try to get an early night. I nodded off to the sound of a kid who looked about nine years old strumming away on a guitar on another bunk bed.

      I was woken by Christian pointing a camera in my face. It must have been about 7 a.m. I had slept quite well. All the beds now had people in them. Bare legs dangled from the bunks and the odd bollock was hanging out, waiting for any bed bug that was ready for a bit of breakfast in bed. I went to have a wash. The toilets were in worse condition than the kitchen.

      We went for breakfast in the back of a supermarket where you pay for your food by its weight. I like this idea. They should put a twist on it and charge people by their body weight. If you’re heavy you get charged slightly more, thus helping you to cut down on your food intake. I had some toast and a bit of papaya. This was the first time I’d ever eaten papaya. It was okay, but if someone told me I’d never eat papaya ever again, I wouldn’t be bothered. I feel like this about most fruit. There is too much fruit in the world, and I don’t like buying a lot of it, as it goes off so quickly. Maybe that’s why we’re told to eat five portions a day, just to get through the stuff before it turns mouldy.

      First things first, I went to see if I could find a cheap hotel ’cos I didn’t want to stay another night in Fredericko’s hostel. But everywhere was booked up, due to it being carnival season, or at least that’s what they told me. It could have been because I looked such an unwashed scruff in my shorts and slept-in T-shirt, and they just didn’t want me in their hotel. Madonna and Beyoncé were in town. If Madonna got a glimpse of me in such a state she would probably take pity and adopt me to go with the rest of her collection.

      Finally, Christian and Krish said I could stay with the rest of the crew at their house on Rua Saint Roman. That cheered me up.

      Christian then told me I was off to meet a local man who would show me around Rio de Janeiro. His name was Celso. He was 47 years old and walked with a stick. This was quite good, as he shuffled along at a slow pace which was perfect in this heat. Within seconds of meeting him he gave me a gift. It was a condom on a string. I opened it to see a series of diagrams of two blokes putting a condom on each other. There was no need for so many drawings of men’s knobs. You only need one to demonstrate how to pop it on. I asked Celso if he was gay, but he didn’t answer.

      Instead he took me to a health spa where he wanted to get his body waxed. Celso invited me into the small cubicle to watch. He told me a lot of men have this done in Rio to get rid of unwanted body hair, so they look better and tan better on the beach. He told me I was too hairy and should have it done too. I said no. Celso told me he has his body done every four months. I read the price list. To have hair removed from the anus would cost approximately eight English pounds. I don’t know why anyone would need this doing. Who needs to get such a thorough, all-over body tan? Celso told me how he had his testicles done once and how much it hurt. Maybe this is why he walks with a stick.

      After watching for a bit I decided to just get my lower back done. This is my only body hair that does seem rather long. The fact that I have to tuck it into my underpants made me realise that it was probably time to get rid of it.

      It hurt – a lot more than I imagined it would. I said, ‘No more . . . that’s enough,’ and went to get up, when Celso told me that the lady had only removed half of it.

      With the waxing complete, Celso decided to celebrate by buying some new swimming trunks. He said he wanted to buy me a pair too. I said I didn’t want them as I wouldn’t wear them. He bought them for me anyway.

      The place the crew is staying at is okay. Nothing fancy. It is quite a rough area and police are guarding the street due to a drug raid that happened a few weeks ago, so it feels pretty safe. I have a mattress with no bed and no light in the bathroom, but it’s fine compared to Fredericko’s hostel.

      We have a cook who made some nice chicken and beans for tea.

      Celso took me to the beach today. He asked me if I had brought my new swimming trunks. I hadn’t. I did try them on last night, but the truth was I didn’t like them. I didn’t know how to break the news to him.

      We had a long walk along the beach whilst chatting about various things – from life in Brazil to how kids these days get away with doing whatever they want. I asked about his leg problem. It was something to do with diabetes. We must have been walking for 50 minutes or so, when he suddenly announced his legs were starting to ache and he wanted to sit down. As I turned to look for a deck chair and umbrella, Celso told me how much he liked this part