2 sides of Rio

Rio is hotter than I’ve ever seen it — bright, beautiful, and sunny. Perfect beach weather, if I were a beach kind of person, and definitely a nice change from the sub-zero temps and freezing slush of Iowa and Boston (I’m only gloating a little bit, I promise). I’m staying in Humaita, a really nice neighborhood a little bit away from the beach but near Botafogo and FGV, with another Fulbrighter, Teresa, who is working on her Ph.D. at Johns Hopkins. Teresa is fantastic, and all in all the only disadvantage to the apartment is the neighbor, semi-affectionately known before I came as “death metal dude” but who has now earned the additional nickname of “weird voyeur dude.” Growing up in southeast Iowa doesn’t quite prepare you for the charms of close high-rise proximity.

It’s hard to describe how it feels being back in Rio, and knowing that this time I’m going to be here for awhile. It’s both exciting and unnerving — kind of like the city itself, I guess. Rio is without a doubt a city of contrast, and this never hit me as forcefully as it did on Saturday night, when I went to Beth’s (another Fulbrighter) going away churrasco in Rio’s largest favela, Rocinha. A churrasco is basically a Brazilian barbecue, and whether you are in a penthouse in Botafogo or on the roof of a cramped apartment in Rocinha it involves the same ritual — stuffing your face with all kinds of grilled meat over several hours while hanging out with friends. But the view from the roof in Rocinha is very different than anywhere else I’ve been in the city. I’d always wanted to visit the favelas, but had stopped short of going on the favela “tours,” which (somewhat disturbingly — to me at least) involve safari-like Range Rovers with bars on the windows.

Favelas are the slums or shantytowns that dot the hillsides around Rio, often interspersed with middle or upper-class neighborhoods. On Saturday evening we took the bus from Humaita to the edge of Rocinha, where Beth met us. Climbing the hill was like entering a different city entirely — narrow, crooked streets crowded with people, music blaring from the corner bars, eateries, and small shops. The drug gangs put cement blocks in the street to keep the police cars out, so except for the occasional motorbike, it was all pedestrians. We turned right, across a footbridge over an open sewer and into a maze of narrow walkways running between the houses. Most of the buildings are 2 or 3 stories and made out of cement; the way they look, sprouting out of the hillside, reminded me a little bit of Mexico.

Rocinha has better infrastructure than some of the favelas in Rio, with roads, and electricity and running water available in nearly all areas. But it’s still a far cry from the better-off areas of Zona Sul. The last churrascoI went to in Brazil was an apartment in Botafogo. We were on the roof there, too, but the view was completely different. There was Rio sprawled in all its skyrise glamour, with the Cristo floating like a ghost in and out of the clouds, car headlights speeding along below, and the bay of Botafogo a dark blob in the middle of the bright lights of office and apartment buildings. Rocinha by night is different. There was less a sound of traffic and more of human voices — shouting, laughing — and music. We could see other people on their roofs and other parties in progress. Instead of looking down on the city we were looking up, and the lights of the favela twinkled all around and all the way up into the hills behind the house. It felt less glamourous but more intimate, more personal, on a more human scale.

Later, Beth walked us back to the bus stop at the edge of the favela. By night, Rocinha is just as busy, if a little strange. We passed drug dealers toting machine guns in the street — my blase world-traveler side had to work pretty hard to keep my Iowa-girl side from jumping about a foot when I realized what they were — and a couple of drug points. It’s part of life in the favelas, I guess. But there are other parts to favela life, too. As we exited, we saw 6 or 8 police cars wih a corresponding number of police officers lounging around and hanging out in a nearby bar. It’s a complicated, and very interdependent social world — hard for outsiders to understand, but everyone who lives there knows the rules. When I mentioned this to Beth, she shrugged and said the rules were pretty simple: don’t look too closely and don’t take any pictures. The police are always there, but they’re paid off and won’t cause trouble. The only time you need to worry, she said, is if you see policemen you don’t recognize — it might be a sting operation, and it’s better to stay away until it’s over.

We got on the bus, and pretty soon were back in Humaita, with the cars and the wide quiet street and tiled sidewalks and the doorman waiting to open the door for us and ask us how the night had gone. Rio is like that, full of contrasts: more than any city I’ve ever been in, it feels alive. The city is conflicted, friendly, crazy, ambitious — troubled, yes, but fiercely proud at the same time.