I have a morning unexpectedly free. A meeting has been cancelled. But the free hours  collapse into three minutes. No sooner have I started blogging, than the taxi arrives. Liliane, Malu and I go to the Oktakhe Museum. It is candy striped, like a stick of rock in black and pink, with a helipad like a giant blue lip on the top. It was built to house the collection of Brazil’s most famous woman artist, by her son who also designed the Unique Hotel. The museum is still a family affair – her other son runs the organisation. As we are eating lunch, he stops and talks to Malu.

Then back to the British Council for a meeting, into a taxi and then off to another industrial sponsor of creativity and culture. In Brazil, culture is supported by industry and not the government. Industry gets tax incentives, and cultural centres are built to monumentalise industries support of the arts and social engagement, and action plans for the workers are drawn up, which include creative courses. One worker I met had just gone on the prestigious film course in Cuba.  Workers  have a programme of personal development which engages with culture which many in the UK would envy – though of course, we are only talking about a very tiny proportion of the workers in Brazil, and the elite at that.

I feel in Brazil as if I have stepped through a cultural looking glass world: . Spoken word in Brazil is seen as too populist and reactionary, and  industry funds the arts and culture, not politicians. In the UK, Spoken word is progressive and outreaching, industrial sponsorship has barely begun.

 The people at this latest industrial group I am visiting are as intense and as playful as everyone I have met so far. That’s what I love about South`America. This abundqnt mixture of fun, combined with intellect and passion. 

Again, I have the feeling that I will see the people around the table soon. Brazil will be coming to Arvon – and the other way round too. I make a mental note to make sure that on our booking forms, we ask where people come from next year, and list all the countries.

Then on the plane to Rio. Malu is not coming to Parathi.  Nor is Liliane. My sales team and business manager as I nicknamed them. We say goodbye. Liliane’s eyes go red, she blinks rapidly, saying don’t cry. Then turns away with a flick of her hair and her heel – ever the ex professional model.

Two hours. Three hours pass. The plane is delayed. This is normal at Brazillian airports. They are chaos, whilst preserving outwardly a smart veneer of modernity, ‘I wish they would tell us why. No one ever tells us says a disgruntled fellow Portuguese passenger sitting beside me in the airport lounge of eternity. ‘Best not to know I say. Somehow I suspect the truth is more disturbing than the lack of it. Four months ago a TAM plane crashed at Rio airport.

We touch down at 11pm. I am tired. But even between shuttered eyes, I manage to see the statue of Christ – his arms open to the world as he embraces the city. See Sugar Loaf mountain. The great crescent moon  sweep of the Copacabana beach. Sense the beat of the city even from the British council car, Then sleep. Deep sleep. And dreams of Arvon in Brazil

But just before,  I go into the bathroom to  brush my teeth. Only in  Rio, in the complimentary casket of  shampoo and  hotel toiletries, could you also find  – a condom.