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Published: July 31st 2017
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artsy fishing nets
A little fishing enclave at the southern end of Copacabana beach Each time I reached for my wallet the guy pointing the gun at my head would start yelling. Why didn't he want my money? I put my hands back in the air and repeated, "No falo Portuguese!" To my relief, he lowered the gun. But relief was brief. He only lowered the gun to pull the hammer back. Now I was looking down the barrel again. I was certain he was about to pull the trigger. Oddly, I wasn't afraid. I found myself wondering what it would sound like. Would I have time to hear the bang? What would it feel like when the bullet hit me? Would I have time to feel pain?
Unlike the townships of Johannesburg and Harare, the favelas of Rio are not on the outskirts of the city. Instead they are sprinkled in among the tourist haunts and hotel strips, which is how I happened to wander into this particular slum while exploring Copacabana.
I first realized that maybe I was in a rough part of town when I saw three policemen walk by with their rifles aimed straight ahead, fingers on triggers. I turned around, but on my way back to civilization I
noticed a sign at the entrance to an alley:
Museu de Favela. Curious, I followed the alley to a courtyard. No museum. But the alley continued on the other side of the courtyard. I admit that a voice in my head suggested I should forget about the museum, but I had read that the favelas were being tamed and that tourists wanting to see the "other side" of Rio could even find accommodations in them. I wanted to see the other side of Rio, I wanted the "favela experience," so I continued down the alley. Around the next turn a young man sitting in a chair by the side of the path jumped up and started jabbering at me in Portuguese. At first I thought he was a hustler offering to sell me something. Then I saw the pistol he was holding. In less than a second the following thoughts flashed through my mind:
• Is that a real gun?
• Is he taking it out or putting it away?
• Is it for me?
• Am I being robbed?
• Oh well, I guess that's part of the "favela experience."
• That's kind of a big, expensive-looking gun for a common
Ipanema I
This is what Ipanema Beach looked like the day I arrived. mugger.
My "mugger" indicated that he wanted me to slowly raise my shirt. Perhaps he was looking for a money belt, I thought. I complied. Next, he wanted me to turn around and raise my shirt again. Perhaps shooting someone in the back was easier than doing it face-to-face, I thought. Maybe he frisked me a bit; I can't remember. But now he was wagging his gun at me. He seemed to be indicating that I should go away. I slowly backed down the alley. Around the bend, when he was out of sight, I turned around to run, but a wide, ancient woman was waddling down the narrow path in front of me. I couldn't pass her. As soon as the alley widened, I barreled past her.
When I reached the main boulevard of Copacabana I found a table in the back of a crowded cafe where I could have a cup of coffee and check for psychic wounds, delayed reactions, or revelations about the meaning of life. Surprisingly, I didn't seem to have any. Perhaps I'll inexplicably breakdown sobbing in the middle of a dinner party six months from now. I reasoned that
Ipanema II
This is what Ipanema Beach looked like wo days later after I arrived. Even though I took the photo around 9:00 people were already starting to arrive. the mugger was not a mugger, but some sort of sentry guarding the hideout of a drug lord. Maybe the drug lord was the same guy the police with pointed rifles were looking for. I also realized that the kid with the gun might have been more frightened than I was.
I hate the experience of struggling to communicate. In Spanish I can at least manage to place an order in a restaurant, but Portuguese is just different enough that what little confidence I might have in a Mexico City
taqueria completely abandons me in a Rio
churrascaria. Before I left, I bought the Lonely Planet phrasebook for Brazilian Portuguese. It sat unopened on my bookshelf for a month before my departure, an exciting reminder of my upcoming adventure. I planned to study it during my long flight. The introduction looked promising. Not only would I have the right words at my disposal, it advertised, but I would be able to pronounce them like a true
brasileiro. Within two days after arriving in Rio, my little book was grimy and dog-eared. To find the phrase "menu, please," I had to frantically search through pages of useless phrases
View from Christ I
This is a panorama shot of Ipanema from the Christ the Redemer monument. such as "I have a hearing aid," "Touch me here," and "You're just using me for sex." When eventually I would find the section of "eating out" phrases, I'd have to wade through seven ways to send my compliments to the chef when what I really wanted to say is "did I order this?" or "this meat smells funny."
I wonder if knowing a little Portuguese would have helped my encounter with the sentry or if my complete cluelessness was a little bit disarming. There's no "Conversing with your Kidnappers" chapter in the phrasebook, but way back on page 171 I did find the phrase, "is it dangerous here?"
July is the middle of winter in Rio, so I wasn't surprised when I took my first walk along the beach and found that the sky was gray, the wind was howling, and the surf had worked itself into a menacing frenzy. But three days later the sun shone and the entire city was transformed. People in bathing suits filed past the cafe where I ate breakfast. They were on their way to Ipanema beach, a block away.
I finished my coffee, paid my bill, and
Getting redeemed
This is the scene at the Christ Redeemer monument. Everyone wants photos of them holding hands with Jesus. followed the crowd. Finding a patch of sand big enough to sit on was nearly impossible, even though a day earlier I was the only person on the beach. The beach is divided into marked
postos. Different crowds hang out at different
postos.
Posto Eight is where the favela kids play soccer in the sand.
Posto Nine is where the bathing beauties hangout. (The bikinis-- called "fio dental" which literally translates to "dental floss"-- were jaw-dropping.) It used to be a hippie hangout known as The Elephant Cemetery. The beach at the end of the block my apartment is on is the gay section.
One block over from my apartment is the cafe where, in 1962, Tom Jobin and his buddies used to have breakfast and watch the procession of girls heading to the beach. One of them, 17-year-old Helo Pinheiro, particularly caught his eye. He composed a song for her,
The Girl from Ipanema, and bosanova was born.
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Andrea
You too must have a travel angel protecting you. I know I do. I wander into places I shouldn't...and somehow walk out unscathed. What an experience! I think Rio would be fascinating even if you end up with a gun in your face. That guy guarding the Favala must have a story to tell.