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I should not pout…the great statute of Christ on top of Corcovado and Sugar Loaf, the famous hilltop setting for some of the finest views in Rio, were still open, and while the sky was gray, the city still sparkled. To reach the famous statue of Christ with his outstretched arms, one must either take a little train packed with tourists up the hillside or drive a winding road that takes you past dense foliage and luxury homes fortified like military bases. A lovely panoramic view of Rio and the surrounding areas is your reward for making the trip. It is an amazing kind of map to the city, a way for you to see all the beaches that wrap around the bay, spot the Maracena soccer stadium where the Samba Festival is held during Carnival and note the many favela, or slums, built up into hillsides around the congested city. The view from atop Sugar Loaf is just as lovely, though only reached by a series of cable cars that stretched my trust in suspension technology. Sugar Loaf is a great location to feel the wind in your hair and reflect on the sweetness of life…that is, if the rain is not threatening to wash you off the side. I would make one suggestion to the tourist planning on going to Rio in December or any other time of the rainy season…bring clothes that are not white. It will make for a much more modest and opaque adventure. Not that modesty is held in great regards here when it comes to wardrobe choices. Although it might seem like I am complaining, I am not. Rain is a motivator of serendipity. It is because of sudden downpours that I left the center of a square for cover under an awning and found the Arco de Teles, a literal arch that allows you to walk out of modern Rio, with its gray grittiness and metal jumble, into the warmth and jewel-toned colors of colonial architecture that has somehow escaped being razed in the name of progress. I saw the younger crowd of the city on stools, laughing, flirting, and listening to samba. It was strangely voyeuristic, as if I were spying on these happy people, tip-toeing through their secret world, observing their mannerisms and patterns of speech. It was also
because of the rain that I ran into Café Colombo, wet and hungry,
not knowing that the food and elegant décor, with story-high mirrors
and gildings, could rival any of the grand cafes in Europe. The hot chocolate
in the Café Colombo cannot be rivaled (except perhaps by the Café
Einstein in Berlin, just off the Brandenburg Gate). Hot chocolate, when
you look remarkably like a wet cat, has tremendous restorative powers,
although a stout glass of cachaça, the Brazilian sugar cane liquor
that tastes somewhere between whiskey and rum, would undoubtedly also have
done the trick.
The rain forced me to take refuge in a car and thankfully so because driving became one of my favorite activities in Rio. True, the roads are a mess, air quality laughably bad and signage a cruel joke, but there is much to be learned from watching children with dirt smudged on their noses sell bits of fruit on the side of the road. I experienced all kinds of new fruit there: fresh goiaba (guava), white graviola (which, by the way, make a delicious sorbet), oddly-shaped jaca (jack fruit) and maracuja (passion fruit). It was also from the car that I made the comfortable observation that despite all the travel guides telling me that the Lapa district was hip for nightlife, that it was also hip for transvestites and drug dealers and a place I preferred to skip. From the windows of the car, it was perhaps the colors of Brazil that struck me most, the turquoise blues and corals, the tomato reds and corn yellows, and the colors of the people. There are whites and blacks, but there are also the most extraordinary series of browns and most of the people fall into the latter category. It has been said that if America is a blending pot, then Brazil is a blender, and you can see the accuracy of the statement in the features and skin tones of the people. Just as there are many hues of skin, there are also subtle shades of green in the extraordinary flora that makes up the remaining Mata Atlantica, or Atlantic Forest. For Brazilians, what differentiates a forest and a jungle is not the kind of plant life in it, but rather its density and proximity to modern civilization. The closest thing to the jungle you will find in modern Rio is the Botanical Gardens, which afford you the opportunity to stroll down lanes of vines and leaves in competition for the sunlight. The potted plants you commonly find in American households grow as tall as houses in their natural environment and provide a “starter kit” to jungles for those of us less inclined to traipse through the Amazon basin. Even when you are not in the forest, you can hear the pleasant sounds of singing birds echo throughout the residential areas of Rio de Janeiro and its sister-city across the bay, Niterói. Brazilians are inclined to keep birds in cages hanging outside, so at any point during the day you can find your mind wandering towards the gentle chirps coming from somewhere nearby. Most carioca
(natives of the city Rio itself) do not spend their time listening to birds
chirp from cages hung on laundry lines, but rather devote considerable
time and energy to music. Brazilian music is something of an experience
for a first-timer like myself. The pulsing rhythms of Bossa Nova, Samba
and Forró may be recognizable to some Americans, but how about the
Gafiera, the Choro, or the Maracatu? Many tourists are familiar with Tom
Jobim’s classic Bossa Nova song “The Girl from Ipanema” and have heard
of the Samba schools that make the parade during Carnival so magnificent,
but the remarkable thing is that their international popularity has not
vulgarized their existence in their native land. Jobin’s gentle song is
still lovingly sung by Brazilians…try stopping one on the beach and asking
them to sing it. One did for me. Ask them about Samba groups and they may
laugh and nod and tell you stories of the more well-known clubs with cheeky
names such as Vem Ni Mim Que Sou Facinha (Harass Me, I’m Willing).
In the end,
the rain forced me out of the city. I went up the coast to Buzios and enjoyed
a few days of sun, until the rain caught up with me there too. If you are
stuck in the rainy season, wake up early and enjoy the morning hours of
sunshine that generally disappear into soggy afternoons. Have brunch
on the beach. There are vendors that carry trays of oysters with
lime and shrimp kebab, pushcarts that serve steaming corn with butter,
and waiters that run coconuts with a straw stuck in the top out to your
lounge chair for a refreshing drink.
The following is Elienne's first article for the magazine:
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