Rio De Janeiro

If Rio De Janeiro had been designed by someone from start to finish, from drawing an outline of the bay and the beaches to filling it with buildings and infrastructure, you’d call the architect a nutter. It’s like a set out of a Star Wars movie, not practical by Earth’s standards. The numerous mountains sprout up too close to the coast, but they wedged a city in there anyway. Tunnels have been dug through the rocky behemoths that scatter the landscape and housing crawls up the sides with inconveniently dazzling views over the Atlantic Ocean. It would be a difficult city to traverse if it was empty, a population of over six million makes it a nightmare.

Even the name, Rio De Janeiro, isn’t right. It means January River, but the city is built around a bay, not a river. Nothing seems to have been planned correctly. The Portuguese who first settled and established a colony only did so because there was already a French settlement getting a little too comfortable for Portugal’s liking. The French got the boot, the Portuguese stayed and eventually became Brazil. So the city was founded out of spite. Nothing is typical here, but it all works. Everything that has happened in the past has resulted in the most spectacular, vibrant and bewildering city on earth.

Visiting as a tourist it’s hard to imagine you are here on a normal day, as locals go about their lives as usual. Residents jog along Copacabana Beach with physiques out of a fitness magazine, playing soccer or beach volleyball then spending the whole night drinking the limey goodness of caipirinhas. There’s a perpetual party in Rio. I’m here in July, it’s winter, there’s no notable events on but the city seems like it’s preparing for New Year’s Eve. The Lapa Street Party happens every weekend, all year round no matter what, when the entire district turns into one bouncing, Samba-dancing, pulsating entity. The thought of Rio at its peak during Carnaval boggles the mind.

Brazil’s migration history includes the Portuguese, African slaves, German migrants, the world’s biggest Japanese population outside of Japan, millions of Italians and of course the native Amerindians who linger despite centuries of being pushed aside. All of these marinate in Rio, an exhibition of races that make it hard to spot a tourist. There isn’t really a definitive Rio look…other than being fit. Perhaps the way to spot a tourist is to look for someone pale or overweight. It’d be hard to find a healthier looking population anywhere in the world. Men look like male gymnasts running along the beaches, stopping to do pull-ups and push-ups at the numerous workout stations. Women flaunt their big, round arses and flat stomachs, tanning on the sand under the year-round sun. Surfers are out even when there is no surf, and children always seem to be running. Maybe with a stolen wallet in their hand; maybe just after a football, but always somewhere. Every beach volleyball space, football field and basketball court is always occupied. Catching a 4 am bus home from the Lapa street party I saw the floodlights were still on with games still in progress, players had been waiting all day for their turn. Hopping off the bus I can still find a late night coxinha (ball of fried street food) or Brahma Beer at any number of cafes or restaurants that refuse to close. Time is as irrelevant in Rio as it is anywhere.

Visible from the wealth of the beachside penthouses are the favelas; the shanty towns for the lower classes that climb up the surrounding mountains like they’re peeping over their rich neighbour’s fence. The favelas are a world in themselves. Police aren’t allowed in; they are instead policed by the drug gangs, and because there are no police they claim there is no crime.

Naturally there are tours. In recent years the rise of tourists to Rio has resulted in busloads of nosey tourists being allowed into the favelas under the supervision of tour guides. Photos are only allowed in specific places and the tour conveniently swings by a number of souvenir stalls, bars and restaurants. I notice that our tour guide, Felipe, is the first fat person I’ve seen in Rio. And he’s not fat in that sad, offensive, obese sort of way. He’s jolly fat, full of charisma and jokes and information about the history of his city and the favelas.

Our van climbs the snaking, narrow streets past mounds of rubbish, listless construction workers and dogs and children running among the traffic before it drops us at a lookout of the congestion below. High-rise buildings nestled between the trees spread out to the edge of the blue ocean, numerous mountain peaks conspicuous in every direction.

From here we’re on foot, which is the only way to enter the concrete warrens that navigate the favela neighbourhoods. Along with no police there also seems to be no building regulations. Houses are concrete boxes with flat roofs which allow more concrete boxes to be built on top whenever there is a need to go higher. It’s kind of like real estate Jenga. Any marginally open space is filled with children’s play equipment, but there isn’t much open space. Doors and windows are left open giving a homely sense of cramped, friendly community not found in the high fenced security of the wealthier suburbs. Peering into the households, big screen televisions are on display playing whatever can be picked up by the satellites on every roof. Being poor has never looked so comfortable. I don’t imagine the shanty towns in Africa and India have cable television.

In the middle of the compressed neighbourhood we visit a primary school. The several classrooms are empty for lunch time, with all the students a level below in a small enclosed courtyard playing a violent game of dodgeball. There are more than 20 children, none older than about ten-years-old, and the courtyard is about a quarter the size of a tennis court. The ball is flung hard from each side, hitting faces and heads and rebounding off walls in all directions. The kids mostly laugh when struck; one cries, but gets over it quickly. In Australia, parents would have the game banned for promoting violence and encouraging bullying and competition and the risk of injury. In Rio, children trying to hurt each other is entertainment for the tourists, who are then ushered to another room to buy favela artwork made by the school.

We are invited to a favela party the following night. In typical South American scheduling it starts at midnight and is held in a huge warehouse on the outskirts of the favela. It’s a quiet start, but soon every local youth is there dancing in front of a wall of speakers that produce the loudest noise I’ve ever heard. The up-tempo, repetitive music dominates the neighbourhood. I can feel the rum and lime of the Caipirinha vibrating in my chest as I swallow it. Conversation is impossible. But nobody is here to talk, they are here to dance, or whatever it is Brazilian youth calls dancing. Girls place their hands on the floor, and their rotund bums stick high in the air. Males latch on from behind and thrust vehemently to the deafening music that is so loud it has become a muffled mess of noise. This carries on for hours. With so many people and many dark corners I’m positive something must have been conceived during the night.

On my last morning I realise there’s something I’ve missed. Something that’s been looking over me the whole time but I’ve kept putting off. Christ the Redeemer stands above the city, arms stretched and looking out toward the ocean and over tight sprawl below. 40 metres tall, 30 metres wide and at the top of a 700 metre high mountain the gargantuan statue has been visible since I stepped off the bus and has followed me everywhere since, helicopters buzzing around its head like flies. One of the wonders of the world it is Rio’s glorious centrepiece, a world-famous attraction and first on any visitors list. A tad naïve, I’ve left it until the last morning to go there, and then relied on a public bus to fight through traffic to get there quickly. I do get there, to the base of the mountain. It will take over an hour to get to the statue’s base because of a long line and the slow cable-car. Now that I’m closest to it I can no longer see it and have to leave. In a whole week Rio has provided me with enough distractions that I end up missing the main attraction. I’m not bothered.

As I run to catch my bus to leave Rio, thongs dragging on the ground, backpack bouncing over my shoulder and heart racing I start to hope that I’ll miss it so I could spend one more night in the marvellous city. I’m fifteen minutes late and probably shouldn’t even be attempting to catch it. But sure enough the bus is there, sitting in its bay and waiting. The driver sits on a nearby bench smoking a cigarette, time just as irrelevant to him as to anyone else.