Rio de Janerio – The Marvelous City – Keeps Dr. Johnny’s Eyes Wide Open

The dirty, scrawny kids from the favelas sell goods wrapped in cellophane. They tie them onto the ends of sticks about five feet long so they can reach the windows of trucks, and they stand between the lanes of traffic. This is on the freeway in the Galleao section, not a city street known for docile traffic, and the vehicles go from 60 mph to zero and back to 60 in seconds.  This section of freeway is known for brief bottlenecks where the traffic may stop completely for 10 seconds or so, therefore affording the niche for the kids to sell snacks and drinks to motorists. It seems insane, these kids standing inches away from speeding, weaving cars and trucks.

But I catch glimpses of their faces and see into their eyes. The desperation and matter-of-fact desire for survival is obvious, but their grins betray their inward make-the-best-of-it happiness. Looming above the freeway on the steep mountainside is Rocinha, the largest of Rio’s Favelas, or shantytowns. One of many favelas surrounding the city, this one is home to over 100,000 of the city’s poor.

Rio de Janeiro, “Cidade Maravilhosa”–marvelous city in Portuguese–has a way of keeping my eyes wide open. It’s an amazing city, this jewel of Brazil. Inserting oneself into the grit of the place is not for the faint of heart, for this jewel is rough-cut and edgy.

The crowd rushes to squeeze onto the bus on Rua Blanco. I get into the flow and find myself carried along in the current of colorful and mostly-shabby humanity onto the bus and against the turnstile. I fumble with the money–Reais. I give up and hold a palm-full of various small change and bills to the bus lady, and she smiles and picks the fare from my open hand.

I’m not sure how to recognize my stop, Cosme Velho, so I employ those seated around me. I write the destination on my tattered notebook and point to it. The Cariocas–citizens of Rio- around me smile and chatter in rhythmic Portuguese.

At my stop, my new friends vigorously inform me of the fact and clear the way for me to get off. With a wave and a grin I step off the bus and into another crowd. I keep my hand on my valuables pouch in my pocket, as common sense dictates. During my stay, however, I am not bothered by desperate robbers. In fact, on the contrary, time and time again I am delighted with the generosity and grace of the Cariocas.

Portuguese, even for the most avid of linguists, is not an easy language to manage. Heck, even spelling it is hard for me. This communication challenge forces reliance on the Brazilians for help, and I need to employ the creative techniques of on-the-fly communication: gestures and doodles and place names written on scraps of paper.

No discussion of Rio is complete without mention of the beautiful women on the beaches, in their “fio dental” –dental floss in Portuguese–bikinis. From Pepino beach in the west, to Flamengo in the north, they are there for the gawking. I should add that there are handsome, muscular men gracing these beaches too, but thankfully they do not wear floss bikinis. By the way, as miniscule as the women’s bikinis are, to go topless here is a definite no-no. That’s for the heathen French.

I lean over the rail overlooking the perfectly-tended field. This is the Maracana, the center of the soccer –futebol–universe. I got to this place, in the Zona Norte part of the city, with multiple assists from friendly citizens. It’s not a game day, but there are always enthusiastic visitors to the stadium, still one of the largest in the world sixty years after its construction.

The mostly-Brazilian tourists visit the locker rooms and other facilities, including a futebol museum which features more about the sport than most can imagine. Esoteric quotes about the game cover the walls, along with huge photos of Pele and scores of other soccer legends. I leave the Maracana with the feeling that to Brazilian fans there may be more to life than futebol, but certainly not much more.

The view from the Christo de Redentor statue on the mountain known as the Corcovado is unmatched. Perched 2300 feet above the sea, the 98-foot-tall Christ was erected in 1922 to commemorate Brazil’s 100th  anniversary of its independence from Portugal. Roaming the lookout deck with a few hundred other tourists, locals and foreigners alike, I take in the scene. Below me are the neighborhoods of Santa Teresa, Flamengo, Botafoga, the beaches of Ipanema, Leblon, and Copacobana. As the shadows stretch across the city from the rock formations such as Pao de Acucar and Pedra Dois Irmaos the light becomes magical, and Rio puts on its most glamorous face.

It’s well after dark. I’m eating street food in the Botafogo section of town. I’ve paused at a vender with a charcoal brazier –the Brazilians love their grilled meat–and he’s selling skewers of fresh prawns. As I pick at the steaming hot,  perfectly-seasoned shrimp I share some laughs–in lieu of intelligent conversation–with the cook.

The big bus bumps along north. I’m leaving Rio on an overnight ride into the state of Minas Gerais, land of iron ore mines and banana and coffee plantations. I’m thinking about those hustling, smiling kids from the favelas, I’m thinking about the guy in the somewhat sketchy bus station who chased me down to give me an important paper which I had carelessly dropped. I’m thinking about the delight on the futebol fan’s faces as they look out over the Maracana. I see in my mind’s eye the swaying palms of Ipanema.

Yes, the lights of Rio fade, but the memories of the Cidade Maravilhosa  shine on.