The 9.15 at Sao Paulo

Aaaaaaand as the Smirnoff Ten round the final corner of Sao Paulo we can see John in the lead. This young colt has had an excellent race and doesn’t show any signs of tiring. Just at his shoulder we can see Steph, a determined look in her eye but pace slowing slightly and a pronounced limp in her leading hoof. The rest of the team seem hell bent on making their mark on this race as we reach the final stretch. Kareem looks to be heading for the outskirts of the field…on closer inspection is he following a bouncy young filly he met in Pacha? Kung is advancing at breakneck pace with fire in his eyes and drum and bass in his heart.

John and Steph pull away from the pack and as they near the final furlong take a sharp turn into a much darker part of the course…

Canter.

Canter.

Canter.

In the darkened background Scissor Sisters inspires four burly, bearded men to remove their tank tops and circle each other making low Red Indian whooping sounds. Contrary to the pumping, sparky chorus I Do Feel Like Dancing, Yes Sir Much Dancing To-day, so hurl myself into the pulsing, topless mass, hands raised to the DJ booth which looms above the dance floor, a rickety ladder climb away.

This is Torre, a wonderful, little gem that we found mention of in a Portuguese blog, which also notably offered handy tips on surviving the late night culture of Sao Paulo. It is 7am and this racehorse is determined to have a stab at continuous good form.

Amongst the thirty-legged Discomonster terrorising the filthy dancefloor are the aforementioned burly topless men, a colourful selection of drag queens, chiselled guys and after my enthused attempts at ‘working the room’ I discover artists, photographers and filmmakers amongst their sweaty mass.

During a quick bar break where I discover the measures are long and the glasses tall, a waterfall descends from the edge of the corridor leading to the dance floor and cascades prettily onto the cigarette strewn floor. How original I think. Contemplating launching myself under its gushing mass I point it out to John who excitedly captures this great original feature on our Smirnoff Ten camera. During the peak of our enthusiasm, my friend from earlier sidles over and casually points to a man above us furiously sweeping the favela chic tiles. Aha. So what we’re actually dealing with is raw sewage. Also original in its own right I reason.

As the music turns from poppy hits to pounding dance we delve deeper into the underbelly of Sao Paulo’s nightlife scene using a mixture of English, French and wavey hand signals. We learn that being out and about after dark and an obvious ‘Gringo’ equals near and present danger. We also learn about the favelas and the ingrained gang culture and social structure. We manage time to slot in some protracted conversations on art and badly referenced philosophy. Despite feelings that curious, squelchy matter has navigated its way into my shoes I am loving every moment of this bizarre descent into multilingual, conversational messiness.

As 9.15 rolls around the lights go up and a miniskirted, six foot boy and apparent make up aficionado hops over, sharp looking stiletto in one hand, cigarette dangling from lipstick smeared teeth,

‘Afterparty?’ he offers in Portugenglish…

Ah. Sao Paulo…the final furlong isn’t even close…