The Story of The Man and the Flip Flops

Let's set the scene. A small rectangular room, with 2 old unstable bunk beds forming the shape of an 'r'. The room is hot. No air conditioning and the only movement of the stale humid air is provided by the rickety ceiling fan. I lay on the top bunk along the left side of the 'r', stripped down to boxers, not daring to move a muscle for the fear of a raise in temperature sending me over the edge. Stine lay on the bottom bunk of the bed adjacent, barely receiving any air from the fan and sealed off from the room by a hung towel. The man attempting to sleep on the bed above Stine groans as drunkereds do, each movement bringing the bunk bed ever closer to collapse. I close my eyes and reflect on what was a nightmare of a day:

That morning, Stine woke with the shits and stomach cramp. This was bound to happen at some point, but with a day of travelling by bus ahead, the timing could've been better. We decided to taxi straight to the central bus station rather than walk, metro, walk. When we arrived at the bus station, Stine went to use the bathroom (50p a go...worse than Kings Cross) while I went to buy the tickets, praying there would be availability on a bus leaving soon. I was told rather nonchalantly by the ticket man that all busses were full. I broke the news to Stine and we assessed our options: we could cancel our booking in Paraty, pay for a hotel nearby (low availability and extortionate prices during carnival) or we could use a black market taxi driver. Neither option seems appealing. I went outside to find an illegal cabby, and found one almost immediately. He only spoke Portuguese but managed to gain the following information: "I can take you as far as Angra dos Reis" and it will cost you 40 Reals each (about a tenner)." Cheap but risky. I went back to Stine, covered in sweat from the 5 minutes out in the heat, and we spoke I overheard an English accent. A couple in their late fifties were in the same predicament as us (minus the shits). I told them about the possible lift and they seemed interested but just as we were about to go out and haggle with guy, the ticket man said that he would try and put an extra bus on. In the mean time in-between time I went up to the Internet cafe and emailed our hostel in Paraty, explaining that we wouldn't be there til late and asking them not to give our beds away. I returned downstairs to find that the extra bus had been booked and the tickets paid for. Sorted. Well, we'd still need to get from Angra to Paraty, but we were assured that there are many local buses on that route and we'd be able to sort that out in Angra. We had an hour spare, so we went and ate with the other English couple (well, we ate while Stine looked longingly at our food, not daring to put anything in her system as it would probably shoot straight out of her anus). Ivan and Jill are both teachers from Manchester, who live and work in Lima, Peru. We shared stories and the time passed quickly.

We boarded our bus which thankfully was air conditioned and had a toilet. After 4 hours we arrived at the tropical Angra and went about getting our next ticket on to Paraty (about another 90 mins). We were told that a bus would be there at 7pm, an hour from then. Not bad, we thought. 2 hours later we started to get worried. Stine had visited the toilet so many times that the lady had stopped charging her. Kind of like those stamps you get at Costa. Shit 9 times and the next ones on us. So there we were, exhausted and hot, hungry and worried. We tried to get information on the busses but the agents of the company had gone home. Cheers. More time passed and Stine was really struggling. At this point we had no choice but to share a taxi with Ivan and Jill. This would cost us an entire day's budget but it had to be done.

For 90 minutes I was sat on the Middle seat, with Stine desperately trying to sleep on my left, and Jill on my right. At this point I was hoping that we could find the hostel and praying they still had beds for us.

We arrived in Paraty and spent 20 minutes trying to find the hostel - finally we stopped outside the door, said our goodbyes to I and J and rang the doorbell. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing. Banged the door. Nothing. Then two people who stayed there turned up and opened the door.

We found the owner and luckily she'd read my email and the beds were available. She showed us into the room and pointed to the free beds. I say free, my bed was covered with bags belonging the girl on the bed below. She moved her shit and we did a reccy of the hostel. To say it was a shithole would only be a little harsh. The two toilets, shared by everyone in the hostel were situated on the other side of the communal area which Stine was buzzing about.

I went and got us water from a shop nearby and we settled in for the night.

And that's when it happened...

The man above Stine was groaning and wriggling around, trying to sleep off his drunken state. I could just about make him out in the dark sweltering room as he spun one leg out. The other followed and he hung precariously over the bed. At this point I sat up to watch him more closely. Even that caused beads of sweat to form on my forehead. He slithered down and found his feet, staggered backwards then found his balance. Then, what can only be described as the worst sound you could ever hear after the day we'd had, filled the room. It was the sound of him pissing.

"Oi!" I shouted, hoping to wake him. No response. His piss still splattered onto the tiled floor. I knew Stine's head was within a metre from his penis and could well be in the firing line, especially now she was awake, had removed the towel and joined me in yelling at him. I leaped down from my bunk and grabbed the guys shoulder, desperately trying to avoid the spray. He woke and stopped urinating, popped his William back in his shorts and made noises similar to "uh? Whats goin on?"


"You're pissing!" We both exclaimed in unison.

"Uh?"

I turned the light on and pointed to the puddled floor.

"You're pissing"

"Noooo... No I not piss... Me?"

"Yes, you. You're pissing all over the place, look."

"It's no problem. No problem"

"Yes it is a fucking problem!"

We asked if he was going to clean it up.. He responded by just standing there, one eye looking at me, the other following a mosquito. I found his towel (orange, perfect) and handed it to him. He threw it on to the puddle, kicked it and turned back to me, still swaying.

"Oh for fuck sake, I'll do it" I placed my foot on the towel and pivoted like a timid netballer, soaking up his urine.

"Calm down" he said....

"It's hard to stay calm when someone's pissed on your flip flops. Just get out, go to the Banheiros (toilet)".

He gathered all his stuff, including the towel, and left. We never saw him again.


The next day, as it poured with rain, we decided we might just sack this place off and head back to sunny Rio.