Rio

Ah yes, Rio.

Someone said to me the sexiest city on the planet. Could be, could be.

Certainly a deep and rowdy one.

The bus ride from the bus station to my hosts house seemed endless and vivacious. A loud and raucous city that just went on and on and I asked the driver several times to me aviso quando chegarmos para largo do machado por favor. I was sure I would miss my stop but he insisted it was coming. It took me more than an hour of winding eternally through small streets and busy night markets and a veritable stream of humanity to finally reach my destination. I was a bit nervous, truth to tell. We've all seen the movies, City of God and others. We've all been told of the rampant poverty, crime and violence that takes place in this city. Of the acres of street children pouring down its avenues. Was it somehow different than all the other cities I have visited? It boded dark and mysterious. Dangerous. It is legal at night to roll through red lights here to avoid getting robbed in your car while you wait. The book said so. I read it.

I must admit that despite all the places I have been, this one made me wonder. I got off the bus and stood a bit nervously on the side of the road with my pack and my directions and watched as the bus pulled away from the curb, still not completely sure where I was going, but on the correct street at least and more comfortable on my own two feet than wedged into that bus unable to quickly disembark. But no one gave me a second look. I walked calmly along the busy road, glancing up at small signs occasionally marking the addresses and found familiarity in being able to find an address easily. The sense of foreboding wore off fast. Rio has a way of getting under your skin. My host lived near the central part of town and from her living room window, perfectly framed, one could see the Cristos – the enormous carved white sculpture of Christ the Redeemer with arms stretched wide that perched on Corcovado – the humpback mountain, all glowing and gleaming, lit up in the night through the wisps of cloud that skittered past, towering over the city as it slept....or not, as the case may be. The noise level and activity seemed to change very little as the sky slowly rotated between daylight and night...

Pao de Acucar is a must see for most visitors. It is a double humped mountain called Sugarloaf at one extremity of this awe inspiring city which is like multiple cities all strewn with beaches around a bay and its outlying islands and peninsulas, jutting forth with green mountains and grey peaks and sugared with light. It is a city which seems to have grown naturally from the earth, rising up out of nature in glowing radiance, the new buildings, shiny and modern, neatly interspersed with the rippling brick and cement waves of the favela that fill every crack and crevice that remain open for them. Off the coast and clearly visible is the the podium to modern wealth, the God of Black Gold, the PetroBras altar, pumping ceaselessly in plain sight of the beach. For me, although the view was truly stunning and displayed in all its radiance just what a remarkable delight Rio is - unlike any city I have ever seen - the best part was the tiny monkeys that came to us out of the trees and took banana pieces from our fingers with their tiny mouths while resting their paws on our hands. My first taste of jungle within the city was reinforced agan and again as I walked down ancient avenues with tall buildings litered with trees that towered to their rooftops. Humanity has built here for sure, but it is unable to prove its dominance over nature, even in its busiest parts.

I rode the bonge - an old streetcar over the aqueduct of Lapa up into Santa Teresa while local Carioca ran after us and jumped on to hang from the outer rails as we cimbed the steep hill into exquisite architecture crumbling with neglect and while whispering with history. From the top of this hill we climb an old ruin and see yet another amazing view of this endless city and can hear the crowds cheering at Maracana Stadium while the pearly white of the new buildings at Rio´s heart are interspersed almost seamlessly with the red brick protrusions of the everpresent favela which are everywhere and nowhere.

That night I learned what it means to be living near the Amazon Rainforest as the skies opened up and a deluge came down like an ocean dropping on our heads. Trees came down and rivers ran in the streets. Through it all the Christos glowed from the top of Corcovado, smug in his assurance.

I found my way to Corcovado itself, determined to hoop at the top in front of the Christos, and was surprised - though why I should any more be surprised I do not know - to have a woman approach me with my hoop - asking if I speak English. She is an American, from Burning Man, and a camp I know, and is a hooper as well. We share a moment of community in a foreign place and she borrows my hoop so she too can hoop Corcovado. Later I am with friends wandering the outskirts of Lapa and they take me to a cachaca stand. A small hole in the wall bar with a thousand bottles and brands of cachaca hanging from the ceiling. You choose the brand and they sell you shots. Cachaca is a beverage made from sugar cane that permeates Brasil with its strident tones.... After a night of taste testing and sleeping on yet another couch, I walked back to my part of town by way of the cat park - a place where stray cats go to be free. It was a rather huge city park, gated and fenced, filled with water features and forested areas, filled to the brink with stray (or abandoned) cats and kittens of every size and variety.

I switched to another couch surfing host who lived in Lapa and spent several evenings exploring old town and its gorgeous historic architecture and its crazy pulsing vibrancy of music and dancing that spills into the streets, from techno, electronica, goth and punk to forro, salsa and samba. The red tiled staircase, Escadaria Seleron, an ongoing work of art by an eccentric artist was an interesting haunt. I spent my days walking the lengths of Copacabana and Ipanema beaches. Ipanema is lustrous in its beauty and the surf was definitely up. The waves were
crashing with rash abandon and it was incredibly refreshing to swim there, though you had to hold on to your suit as the waves would dash you to the ground and tumble you head over heels when coming in or out of the water. I adored the lovely tasty treats sold by wandering vendors on the praia - Acai bowls with granola and honey - a delicious refreshing berry ice delight, Cocada - like brownies but made of coconut and sugar instead of chocolate, chewy and delicious, Queijos on a stick - white cheese they grill in front of you with herbs and spices, Churrasquinyo - grilled barbeque shiskebobs rolled in farofa, Tapioca - a tortilla or crepe like substance made from manioc flour and filled with gouiabada (guava jelly) and cheese, or coconut and condensed milk, or doce de leite - a caramel cream, or queijo con preso (ham and cheese) , agua de coco - young coconut water drank from the husk, kibe, and pao de queijo, endless variety of yumminess...

On a drizzly Sunday night a friend of a friend called, her last chance to meet up with me before I was leaving for Espiritu Sante. ¨There´s nothing happening in Lapa tonight. You should come out to Racinha. There´s a Baile Funk party happening here. You should come to the favela.¨ It was something I had wanted. I despise when people tell me things are dangerous and therefore I should stay at home. It was midnight when I rushed out to find a small collectiva van - the little buses that go to the far regions of the city. It was a crazy mad dash to find my way there and once on the bus her phone ran out of minutes so I didnt know where to get out. I told the driver Racinha and he just laughed at the loco gringo. Racinha is HUGE. When her phone finally started working again she texted me the stop but we had already passed it and so the driver explained how I could take a moto taxi back to the entrance where she waited. I hopped a moto and we wended our way down the serpentine hill while the favela spread out beside me down the vast hillside all dotted with lights like a constellation shining up from the earth to match the skies. My eyes were bright with the beauty of it. Even the guy on the motorbike with the machine gun who had preceded my bus as I entered the favela couldnt dampen my mood. I hopped off at via apia, thanked my driver in broken portuguese and started texting my friend to be sure we could meet. The baile funk was an eyeopening experience, as was the mafia dance party on the hill after. I spent the night curled on my friends bed, couchsurfing in one of the largest and most famous slums in the world, utterly safe and protected.

The next day was my last in Rio, and the morning was spent on buses making the endless return trip from Racinha. I moved a third time to the Jardim Botanico region, got stuck in another terrific rainstorm (most of which time was spent on the bus) and got to go to a very interesting circus performance with aerial artists, before meeting with more couch surfers at a forro dancing locale for my final night in town.

In the morning I explored the Botanical garden before hopping a bus to the rodoviaria for my next trip north to Espiritu Sante to Vittoria and Vila Velha.

Rio has a way of getting under your skin. It is a city of passion and it digs in deep.

I have left it behind me but I am quite sure I will be back. It is like the inevitable draw of the tide which laps so many of its shores.