Rio. I’m not sure where to begin, let alone end. This city defies attempts at labels and ordinary descriptions. How can I sensibly explain a place that is at once monstrous and alluring?
As I’ve already mentioned, Rio is monstrous in size. It also has monstrosity in spades in the form of violence and poverty. Are these problems any bigger here than elsewhere? I don’t know. I hope I don’t have to find out the hard way. While (thankfully) I have not yet witnessed anything untoward, there are clues everywhere as to its potential. Policemen walking the beat in bullet-proof vests. Houses with high-walled fences, topped with razor wire. Padlocks on every gate. Grates or security screens on windows. Everyone knowing not to leave the house with anything that looks like it might be worth something (costume jewelry or not, the advice is not to tempt). Strong cautionary words in guidebooks about using busses and the tram (like Adelaide, it has only one).
While the divide between rich and poor in this city may be enormous, for practical purposes it’s a hair’s breadth. The favelas (shanty towns or informal settlements) that are legendary for trouble, strife, drugs, violence, poverty, theft, etc are not distant in Rio. They are not on the outskirts of the city, easy to avoid or easy to ignore. They are squished in amongst affluent suburbs, abutting them directly. When I walk to the end of my street, I look across to the neighbouring hill and there I can see a favela.
To be honest, I’m afraid. In all the places I’ve been, at all the strange hours I’ve walked them, I have never really felt afraid (except on Hindley Street in Adelaide). The thing that makes me afraid is that this place has a high concentration of people who have nothing to lose and for whom therefore normal rules of engagement don’t apply. A watch is never worth killing for (sorry Dad, not even a Breitling).....except of course if human life is worth nothing, death in exchange for money is normal and you want that watch. This is not unique to Rio to be sure, but I generally stay away from war zones as a matter of principle. Rio seems to be a kind of war zone but it’s wearing a sequined bikini, dancing to samba drums.
Despite the fear, I am already seeing that it would be easy to fall in love with this place. I can feel the intoxicating allure pulling me in, demanding that I open myself to the joi de vivre that pulses here. Last night, through open windows I listened to samba drums being played. Music is everywhere and it is a beautiful thing.
Smiles are everywhere too. The people are jolly and cheerful. No one minds that I can’t speak Portugese. They help me out by enunciating slowly and clearly and smile when I still look like a mullet with special needs. Dona Neker (my hosts’ housekeeper) is a merry resident of the neighbouring favela and has been chatting to me happily every time I see her. I’m not sure what we talk about but we both laugh a lot, so our relationship is developing well. I have learned to say “ola” and today, she said “bye, bye”. I think we’re having a game of oneupmanship and I’m losing by a word. However, if she pushes the point, I’ll lodge a steward’s enquiry on the basis that she is just repeating the same word.
I should have learned Portugese before I arrived. Not just so I could trounce Dona Neker and dazzle the shopkeepers, but, frankly, just to get by. Today I went to a lovely cafe down the road for lunch. The cafe was high above the street, outdoors under a very large avocado tree (sans fruit sadly, or I could have just pointed to get what I wanted). I must have been entirely spoilt in previous travels because I don’t remember ever having trouble ordering food. Until now.
There’s a first for everything I suppose and at least I have a good story out of it. For those in the hospitality industry, take heed and don’t make life difficult for your customers by using colloquialisms and witty names. Call a tater a spud and be done with it. Preferably, keep several simplified translations handy for those visitors who aren’t lucky enough to be familiar with the local language. In the end, I accidentally ordered a cheese sandwich, which delighted me by coming out grilled. Being a non-consumer of dairy, I didn’t really want cheese but it was better than the next thing on the menu which was “a (something not present in the dictionary) with cheese of a (something (variety, one presumes) not present in the dictionary) either forgiveness of loin of Canadian chest pains of turkey”. Thanks for nothing, Oxford Pocket Dictionary.
Despite its faults, this city has the potential to be one of the greatest tourism destinations in the world. The geography is stunning. Beaches and greenery abound. The people are friendly and joyful. The weather is perfect (Queensland, you know nothing). The culture is strong, interesting and open to participation. The food is fantastic (I’m sure the chest pains of turkey are delectable). The architecture is diverse and eye-catching. What’s not to love?
So how does one describe Rio? I have spent my first few days here pondering just this question. Even having pondered it for days, I still find myself stilted and lacking the right words. Rio is more than words. It’s all in the vibe. And yet, it’s so much more. All I can conclude is that it is not one thing or even the sum of its parts. This city is everything and nothing. It’s both a feast for and an assault on the senses. It’s frightening beyond imagination yet so alluring as to be irresistible. It doesn’t play by expected rules but it does function according to its own standards. Its full of fun and tears, joy and tragedy, determination and lost soul, love and mourning, music and violence. It has natural endowments and developed assets. It’s now clear: Rio is a woman. No wonder I was having trouble working her out.
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