Day 38

Today was, in its early part, mainly spent waiting to go to the Maracana. It was well worth sitting around for. Instead of taking the hostel lift and ticket offer (R$65) we made our own way and saved about thirty reals. We had to go in the home end with the Flamengistas (the match was Flamengo vs Athletico Paranenses) and be where the atmosphere was, whereas the tour took other people from the hostel to a quieter part of the stadium.

The Maracana itself is a hugely impressive piece of architecture; a vast bowl stadium dwarfed by sublime jagged mountains, on one of which stands the iconic Cristo Redentor statue. Around the other side favelas sparkle on the less extreme peaks.

Entering the terraces itself is another special occasion, the ground seems to expand as you enter further into it. But sat in the corner of one end, surrounded by already frantically singing supporters almost an hour before kick-off, it is striking how good the sightlines are over the whole pitch. None of the remote, impersonal distance that meets the corners of, for example, St James' Park, the Old Wembley or the top of Old Trafford.

And the supporters themselves are just incredible, frenetic for the whole time we were in the ground, either in anger or joy, always full of passion. Only sixteen thousand attended, and in a stadium that holds around a hundred thousand this admittedly looks feeble, but the atmosphere they created matched most games I've been to. Flares, flags, constant chants, screams of 'Pouta que pareu' or 'Fiz de Pouta' handsomely filled the atmosphere. For this was a must win game for Flamengo, who hadn't won in seven after being top of the league, and the tension was evident throughout.

This made an already average standard team really comprimised through fear. Players started hiding from the ball all over the pitch. Athletico were there for the taking but it took a poorly defended corner and a flapping keeper deep into the second half for them to do so. Brazilian football is strange, I only realised just how haphazard it is from the stands. There is no structure or cohesion within teams, just players ending up in different places, almost whimsically. A centre-half will regularly turn up at inside-left and stay there for a while, whilst two wing backs man the defence. Or suddenly a player will stride, unchallenged, for forty or fifty yards straight through the middle of the pitch. The sad thing, especially when the relics of former great Zico linger around the ground, is that most Championship sides would deal with Flamengo wuite comfortably, though I have to say I saw them at their worst.

Still it was a great experience, especially for the riotous, flare-ridden celebrations after the goal. Jamie was there for a full Copa Libertadores final, bedlam. We managed to meet Jamie later in the evening, or he managed to find our hostel, and we went out in Lapa, along with a guy from NYC called Brian. After a few beers we shelled out a few reals to enter a low-key, intimate and very traditional live samba bar a few streets away. The music was mellow and sonorous, softly melting through the busy, but not uncomfortable, room. It was great to get back to something Brazilian, not just the music but also the crowd who were mainly local and mainly a bit older as well.

We shuffled round for a few hours soaking up the sounds then, with one 'siguerda' on the way, splashed our way home through the teeming rain at a quite reserved half three or so. This city has so much to offer and tomorrow we're going to start exploring with an informed guide in Jamie, can't wait.