"Did you feel him to do it? Yeah, it dropped, almost like when you step on the speed bar." This was how we valued the pilot's reaction to flying through turbulence, over another beer. On the other hand, in Rio, we did not value the loss of Silver's backpack, which on the day of our arrival, that is, November 16, 2002, is somewhere between Vienna and Rio de Janeiro. On our way out of the airport, we shake off the pestering taxi drivers, which takes considerable effort. They are very skilled and know how to go after wide-eyed and tired tourists. From the original asking price of 140 Reals, (1 Real is approximately 9 CZK), they finally get down to 95. When they see that we won't give in, they surrender honorably and point us toward the bus stop. Brazilian bus drivers are surely re-qualified freezer-truck drivers, they have air-conditioning and let you know it. The shock of a different climate hits us only after leaving the airport bus in the neighborhood of Săo Conrado, a little way from the landing field of the well-known local flight terrain.





    We work on overcoming the unpleasant tiredness from the combination of the night flight and climate adjustment by hanging out in the shade and watching the landing precision competition for paragliders which is in progress. I immediately recall the article by glider demon Tomas Suchanek about flying in Rio and his showdown with Manfred Ruhmer. It's just like I imagined it would be here. The starting field at 500m above sea level in mountainous terrain, high-rise buildings right by the ocean and landing on the beach full of cheering and tanning spectators.



    The conditions are, however, ideal for down flights only, but many pilots undertake dramatic flights through the high-rises. I personally don't feel like flying on the day of our arrival, and thanks to our tiredness we're only able to sit in the shade of the palm trees and kick around in the waves of the ocean. Occasionally our glances rest on the bathing-suit clad Brazilian beauties. I begin to understand why, when I asked him what flying was like in Brazil, Varvaro kept saying, "Well, the flying is good, but the girls…", and nodding knowingly as he drifted off into a daydream.

    But back to Rio. On the second day, we're climbing up the steep road to the paragliders and hanggliders starting field of Pedro Bonita, which is located in the National Park of Tijuca. After the racers have taken off, I go for it and fly around the start field in the weak thermals. I can't get higher than a few meters however, as it is pretty dead.





    A jumble of sounds is heard above the city, everything from honking cars to yelling children. Flying past the high-rises I catch glimpses of people's private worlds, but see nothing special, as up comes the landing ground - Pepino Beach. I crawl off out of the killing sun with my canopy crumpled into a cauliflower-like bundle, and head for the saving shade. Following my second flight, this one just straight down, I strike up a conversation with a Brazilian girl, who, in English!, shares her feelings on tandem flying with me. She's already looking forward to the next flight, so that she can take a few pictures of her beautiful city, and is seriously thinking about learning to fly herself. How beautiful is life all around and especially with so many smiling people giving the thumbs-up sign, or "Tudo bem", as it is here. It's a pleasant change for us sour-faced Europeans.



    During the distribution of prizes to the winners, Stribrnak lands a borrowed paraglider, so it seems he was able to talk one of the local instructors into it after all. Arriving at the hotel in the evening, Stribrnak finally meets up with his long lost, beloved pack and we play around like kids in the night waves of the Atlantic Ocean.