Goodbye Brazil

My last week in Brazil passed in a whirl and included some of what will no doubt become my favourite memories.

My last week included a zouk congress, a trip to the fabled Curitiba, a meeting with one of Time Magazine’s 100 most influential people of 2010 and tearful farewells with new friends. Where to start?

I won’t bore you with dance but I would like to say that being in a room full extraordinary dancers is both an inspiration (in the sense of giving me something to aspire to) and frightfully intimidating. The very pleasant and surprising difference about dancers here is that there is significantly less ego (even amongst the professionals) than I have witnessed in Australia. There is also significantly more variety in body shapes here and it has been a pleasant surprise to discover that not all fabulous dancers have lithe, chiseled bodies. There is hope for us mere mortals.

Now on to Curitiba. It is a city I have dreamed of for years. I first discovered its existence when I was doing some research about sustainable cities. I stumbled upon it quite by accident and soon discovered it was widely considered to be an urban planners version of Mecca. The state of Oregon, where Adelaide has been sourcing so many of its ideas from for the last few years, took most of its ideas from the city of Curitiba. Only, in my opinion, Oregon’s ideas haven’t worked as well because one fundamental thing is missing that made Curitiba’s success possible - fearless leadership.

Curitiba was lucky enough to have such leadership in the form of Dr Jaime Lerner - an architect by trade but a visionary thinker and leader by profession. Dr Lerner is an ex politician (having been both Mayor of the City and Governor of the State) so he knows the practical realities of leadership and implementing a vision. The extraordinary thing is how many successes he has had and how many of his ideas are a lasting legacy for the city. I am so enthralled by this man that I could go on for hours about his achievements and his ideas. But you can research most of that yourself so I won’t....for now. I do, however, reserve the right to revisit the topic. What it did make me think about most was Adelaide as a city. Perhaps because I know it better than any other place and perhaps because it is still my home, no matter how wide I roam, I began to compare Curitiba and Adelaide and indeed Rio and the other places I have visited.

I have yet to conclude my thinking on the matter but my interim thought is that while Adelaide is a nice city, that is exactly part of the problem. Somewhere along the way, we have accepted nice as being the benchmark we wish to aspire to. What happened to striving for great? Curitiba’s tourist line has 24 points of interest on it and doesn’t actually cover the whole city. How many points of interest could we include on a tour of metro Adelaide if we were to have a tourist line? Having mentioned it, why don’t we have a tourism line? Curitiba is indeed a lovely city with many things to recommend it, but many of those things are actually man-made and could just as easily exist in Adelaide if we had the vision to create them.

And therein lies the rub. Vision. For years now we have been reducing vision statements to pithy one-liners. How is that supposed to mean anything to anyone? Especially given most of our vision statements completely lack adjectives. There are two things Dr Lerner says are fundamental to positive change - clear vision and action. On reflection, these are the two things most missing from the South Australian Government and the City of Adelaide. But I digress.

Back in Rio, I spent my last 4 days enjoying all the best that this extraordinary city has to offer. I danced, walked around the beaches, partied with friends and even took pleasure in every steep step in Santa Teresa. I also compiled a list of further quirks and oddities which I didn’t mention last time and bring them to you now for your amusement.

For the first time ever, I saw truck racing. The question must be asked, why would anyone want to race trucks? They are slow and ponderous and do not corner like they’re on rails.

The world’s worst busker performed at Cafe Cito. He only spoke Spanish so I’m not sure exactly what he was saying but I think he was suggesting that the instrument he had was something traditional from Bolivia. It looked like a children’s toy guitar from a $2 shop and had roughly the same sound quality (which was marginally better than the sound quality of his voice). I gave him a tenner to stop. Speaking of strange instruments, the one used to put music to Capoeira is an interesting one. It looks like a couple of coconuts at the base with a long vertical stick protruding from them. The stick bows at the top and is connected back to the coconuts by a string, which is the bit that is played. You can be sure that the sound it emits is as strange as the instrument.

I mentioned the bodies beautiful in an earlier posting but did I also mention the street gyms? I think these are an excellent invention both for those who want to use them and those who like to admire those using them. The ‘gyms’ are actually just steel frames/bars/moving wheels etc which anyone can come along and use. An excellent way to encourage your citizens to move more and, thankfully, build muscle. Also improves the urban scenery for those of us who like spectator sports.

Road travel around Santa Teresa is fraught with peril. The streets are steep, they are cobble-stoned and become very slippery when wet. The corners were also designed for...well, I’m not sure. It’s hard to imagine a horse and carriage getting around those hairpins. Most corners are blind, so the way the locals manage that is by beeping to signal their presence. One wonders if they might eliminate the need for all that beeping if they just stuck to their lanes in the first place, but that’s another story... Perhaps it can be told along with the story of why obeying traffic light signals becomes optional after midnight.

While we are talking roads, moto-taxies deserve a mention. These are the motorbikes that congregate every so often and serve as taxis. There were a few pockets of them around the bottom of Santa Teresa which was handy on days when I was carrying groceries from the market or after hours of dancing. The fact that I didn’t die on them was a miracle (refer earlier description of Santa Teresa streets and add to that being on the back of a motorbike, juggling groceries in my hands, holding on with my thighs and no, there is no helmet involved). On the bright side, at least the moto-taxies around Santa Teresa weren’t doubling as “watchers” for the drug lords like they were in the favelas.

Perhaps because of the roads, Brazil is still a very religious country. Despite the growing proliferation of “new” religions like Assemblies of God, the deep thread of catholicism still runs through the City. And not just because Jesus stands constantly keeping watch (it really is hard to be super-sinful when you look up and see him staring at you - omnipresence takes on a whole new perspective). Each subway station has a shrine to Mary somewhere in it. It was like a version of a “where’s Wally?” game to find it.

And so it is with tears that I farewell Rio. And now the only thing left to do is plot a return......

Tales of Roads Less Travelled

As I mentioned at the closing of my last blog, one of the greatest joys of traveling is meeting other people and hearing their stories. There are so many interesting people in the world and a good proportion of them seem to be traveling.

For example, a couple of weeks ago when in Paraty I met a lovely young Swiss man (we will call him Mr Swiss to protect the innocent) who had been in South America for around nine months. That in itself is pretty interesting but the stories didn’t stop there. Mr Swiss wasn’t much of a gut-spiller but when I managed to pry stories out of him, I was simply agog.

For example, with his 21 year old female friend, Mr Swiss got from Santiago Chile to Buenos Aires Argentina on $150. That’s around 1,500 kilometres. So (conveniently) that means they had around 10 cents per kilometres to spend on transport, accommodation and food. One presumes the challenge of achieving this along with the journey itself would have been entertainment a-plenty and thus entertainment becomes a redundant budget line. He was quite nonchalant about telling this tale. So much so, he hadn’t actually told his friend who by their own definition was “closer than a brother”. Funny what some people think is worthy of sharing. Anyway, back to the story. Imagine that achievement. So how did they do it? Hitchhiking, obviously. There were kindly drivers who took them many miles and then fed them and accommodated them at their own homes. There were villages or towns they arrived in where they just knocked on doors and asked for food and accommodation. There were times when they had no transport, no accommodation and slept rough on the side of the road. Maybe being able to achieve that comes with a level of youth, when you still think you are invincible. It still seems pretty impressive to me when I think about this extraordinary feat. I told him his tale was worthy of a book. He couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.

Another cool thing Mr Swiss did was spend a month living on a farm outside Teresopolis in Brazil. Even though that sounds Greek, I assure you, it is a town in the State of Rio de Janeiro (for those also following Stephen Wills’ blog, you can add that bit of info to your knowledge bank and say you do know at least one State of Brazil). He was volunteering, growing vegetation that was used to help stabilise hillsides and prevent the landslides that are so common here. He lived with no running hot water and no electricity for a month. On one hand that is just torture, but imagine what it would do to your body and spirit to spend a whole month living in natural rhythm. The idea of being without running hot water distresses me but the feeling of rising and sleeping with the sun and watching time through the natural rhythms of the Earth would be quite lovely, I think. And also worthy of a book. Well, I would read it even if he doesn’t want to write it.

Now on to jolly tales from gorgeous women met on Favela tours. Again, to protect the innocent, we will just refer to them collectively as Miss America. Now there I sat with the two lovely and generous women who asked me to join them for lunch feeling pretty proud of myself. I’m a young(ish), single female, traveling the world, doing interesting things like dancing in Rio. I’m feeling quite smug, truth be told. Then Miss America told her tales and the smugness went right out of me.

Miss America had many tales, not all of which are suitable for the young or tender of sensibilities, but one of my favourites was when she arrived in Copenhagen after a long journey from Norway. Since she had been back-packing, she did not enjoy the luxury of a sleeper and bathroom on the train so after a week of uncomfortable travel, she was tired and very ready for a bath. Alas, she had only a few hours before her flight and, being a back-packer, not enough funds for a hotel anyway. Plus she had important business to attend to, such as souvenir shopping. Having spent the trip collecting toilet squares as souvenirs, she decided that she would splurge on a sweater. Except that it was Sunday and everything was closed. Then she spied the Hilton in the distance and cleverly thought that if anyone was going to have a souvenir shop that was open, it would be the Hilton. As is often the case with mirages, the Hilton appeared closer than it actually was but eventually, after wearing out many camels, she made it to the gift shop. Unfortunately, being the Hilton, everything was a gazillion dollars and she was but a mere backpacker. Understandably dejected, she stood in the lobby feeling very festy and sans sweater when she had an inspired thought. Surely there would be a recently-vacated room she could duck into and at least get a bath? She decided, if Barbara Striesand could do it, she could. And thus she did. Courtesy of the old custom of leaving doors open when checking out, she found an empty room, put out the ‘do not disturb’ sign and luxuriated in the most heavenly bath she had ever had. I didn’t ask but I assume she also filched a toilet paper square to complete her collection. And one presumes, this sort of thing is also why doors now auto-close behind people. Logistically this kind of activity would now be tricky in most major hotels, nevertheless, I admire her pluck.

It would never have occurred to me to do any of the three things I mention others doing. Clearly I am lacking both boldness and inspiration as a traveller. So, that said, I have been on the look out for bold steps I can take. So far I have kept it to braving public transport (yes, including the informal busses!) in Rio but since it all went off without a hitch, sadly there’s no story in it. Clearly I must branch out....ideas anyone?

Stop the Press. I’ve been wrong on so many levels.

I fear I have done Rio a grave injustice with my first impressions. While I would like to share some of the burden of guilt with the guidebooks (Messrs Lonely Planet et al shall get a stern email in the morning) I must accept responsibility for taking their words a little too literally. More specifically, I have to recast my early views of Rio as a dangerous place. I’m sure it has it’s moments, but honestly, have you seen some of the elements hanging around Adelaide’s west end after dark? They are more threatening than anything I have seen here. And today, with brave undies firmly in place, I tackled my fear of the unknown and, it turns out, badly maligned and went on a favela tour.

To save you hunting on dictionary.com, a favela is ‘an informal settlement’ and is commonly regarded as a place riddled with poverty, violence, drug cartels, gang warfare and whatever other badness you can imagine. And certainly some of that is true but there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Firstly, let me say I was in two minds about doing the tour. The idea of turning up to tour a poor community just seemed like voyeurism in very bad taste. I imagined a deranged version of the usual tour commentary, “Oh, look honey, there’s a poor person. Take a photo of it in it’s natural habitat. Wow, all that rubbish around it is so colourful.” Not to mention wondering what the people in the community thought about having a herd of white-bread, middle-class gawkers come in and take photos of them getting on with their lives. I was gravely concerned about the potential to be offensive to the communities being visited. After all, being poor isn’t a sideshow, but I very much wanted to understand the favelas, the people within them and the issues they face. As usual, I’m realistic in my expectations of what can be accomplished in a couple of hours. I am pleased to report that the tour was conducted with a high level of dignity and respect and while I still have much to learn, it has been an interesting beginning to my education.

For those with a short attention span, the take-home message is: favelas are largely made up of perfectly nice, ordinary people just trying to live their lives as best they can. Obvious when one stops to think logically about it, but a far cry from what the guidebooks and media would have you believe. Now for some facts.

Rio has over 1000 favelas. It is estimated that around 20% of the population lives in favelas. The largest favela in Rio is Rocinha with over 85,000 residents. The size of this place as well as the dynamics within it are extraordinary. As I have already mentioned in my earlier blog, the favelas are side by side with affluent suburbs. They do not fringe the city, they are integrated within it. Where there exists a suburb with houses, business, jobs and income opportunities, favelas grow up beside them on whatever vacant land there is. The establishment of these communities has a logic so pure, it’s almost poetic. The logistics however, are another matter.

Typically, the land is (or was) government-owned and people essentially started squatting on it, building dwellings from whatever they had in whatever manner they could. With no planning laws in place, there is no order to the development. That is not to say the favelas do not have a beauty of their own, but order there is not. In Rocinha (bear in mind the number of residents) there is one main road and four named streets. Every other house is accessed via alleyways. To say you are likely to get lost in such a place is taking Captain Obvious to stratospheric heights. Until today, it never occurred to me that mail delivery is impossible if you don’t have a street address. Never mind the late arrival of the Victoria Secret catalogue, how do you get your TV or new couch delivered when you don’t have an address? What do you put on your driver’s license or ID card? Rubbish collection when there are no streets for a truck to go down is a problem so residents have to walk to a communal dumping ground to get rid of their waste. In a country that generates waste as prolifically as Brazil does, this is a serious, daily undertaking. Building structural integrity is also a problem as there is no one enforcing building codes. Even if your house is solid, the fact that your neighbour up the hill might slide in through your back-door if it drizzles would, I imagine, be consistently alarming.

And now for the violence and other bad behaviour. Watch the film Cidade de Deus (do, it is extraordinary) and you can be forgiven for imagining that you will get shot the minute you step into a favela. There is no doubt that gang fights exist and people die. As we stopped at our first stop to admire the view and check out local handicrafts, a young man stood nearby with an AK-47 (or something of that nature) looking for all the world as if he was holding nothing more threatening than an umbrella. A sobering story from our guide, Marina: 8 years ago in Rocinha, there was a fight between the reigning gang and a rival one. The reigning leader was shot dead at the grand age of 23. As Marina said, lots of money but a short life. Most gang members don’t make it beyond their 20s. However, on the positive side, there is a rule in the favela to not mess in the neighbourhood. The gangs do not want to draw the police in and therefore protect their own turf. At least theft within the favela is not something the residents need to fear and once you are in a favela, it is probably one of the safest places to be. You are more likely to be robbed by a street kid on Copacabana than in a favela. Mind you, the fact that we couldn't take photos in some places did suggest a potentially violent subtext...

Until very recently, governments have ignored the existence of favelas. Residents got on with building houses and shops and business and communities without government intervention (or support). The government thus managed to keep a sizeable population of cheap labour on hand without having to invest anything in them. Sweet deal if you are said government. To call on Captain Obvious again, not so nice if you are a resident who has to walk 30 minutes a day to put out your trash and collect your mail. (On the plus side for all neighbours, the odds of you doing it in your bathrobe and accidentally flashing someone after locking yourself out of the house are low.)

For a large number of complex reasons, the balance is now shifting. Governments are starting to invest in a variety of infrastructure and social programs to improve the conditions in the favelas. Marina was very positive about the programs and their future success. Indeed, it seems that there are some wins being made in places. Favelas are slowly being “pacified” (that is, the police move in, eject the drug lords and maintain a 24 hour presence, coupled with a range of community social infrastructure programs) and there are also a number of NGO and government funded programs to provide activities to keep kids away from the gangs and to improve basic services. I am pleased about this. And it looks like the impetus to keep implementing and in fact increase these programs is growing ahead of the major dual world-stage events coming up (the World Cup and the Olympics).

There is a kind of delicious irony in the fact that many of the favelas have the best views available in Rio. It has the makings of the best under-dog story ever told and with the growing middle-class within the favelas themselves and various improvement programs, it is looking likely that these communities will be increasingly attractive places to live.

On a less serious note, evaluating whether to do this tour has also made me wonder whether I should remove 'African game park safari' from my bucket list. All of a sudden, the conversation in the lion pride played out in my head:
“Simba, you really need to do something about those tourists. It’s the fourth car-load this week. It’s getting so I can’t sit around my own waterhole without a full face of make-up. Can’t you just eat them or something.”
“Nala, darling, eating tourists isn’t the done thing anymore. I know our grandfathers used to love that sort of thing but it’s bad for business nowadays. Besides, you know how it ended for them - do you want to be a rug in someone’s McMansion by the sea?”
“I see your point, but seriously, it isn’t just the invasion of privacy. It’s wreaking havoc with dinner. The hoofed herds are so stressed and jittery at being photographed all the time that it’s making the meat stringy. Last weeks Zebra Tartare was an embarrassment. I can’t hold my head up if that’s all I can hunt down. Simba, are you listening to me? Stop ogling that antelope.”
“Yes, dear” (sighs loudly)

In next week's blog, I will tell you about one of the things that is best about travelling: meeting people and hearing their stories. On today's favela tour, I met two gorgeous women from the USA who had marvellous stories to tell. On my last trip to Paraty, I collected stories from an intrepid young Swiss man. Each person, each story is so much more interesting than mine, I will burst if I don't share them with you. Stay tuned....