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“Your hometown makes you think of silly things, New York City makes you talk of them… and Rio makes you do them.”
—an unofficial Rio street-crossing guard
A New York City resident for most of my adult life, when traveling I’m inclined to avoid other big cities … but I always knew I’d have to eventually uncover the source of Rio de Janeiro’s shine. Following the Bible and the Koran, the Guinness Book of World Records is the bestselling book of all time. People like records, and Rio de Janeiro—a gorgeous metropolis cleaved and encircled by soaring granite mountain pinnacles—is not excluded.
As opposed to being a tourist, I propose traveling as a poorist—one who gravitates to each country’s impoverished regions, because that’s often where the real fun hides. This sort of roaming is a lateral breed of responsible tourism, one that leaves money in the neediest pockets, not the greediest.
First of all, walking is the leading edge of eco tourism … no carbon footprint on a stroll, you can’t tread any lighter. Secondly, spending time in poor neighborhoods helps sustain them better than some bloated nonprofit organization trickling their 3% back to the poor.
Nearly one-quarter of Brazil’s population live rent-free in favelas, ramshackle cubicle communities that are custom-built on previously unclaimed land. The squatters in Rio’s favelas don’t perceive their neighborhoods as slums, since many of them border, and tower over, high-rent zones and enjoy prized bird’s-eye views of the magnificent, undulating cityscape. Like waterfalls defying gravity, these mountain-hugging, beehive-ish colonies crawl up narrow valleys behind posh neighborhoods, and thus have better views of the ocean-hugging city—the equivalent of shantytowns overshadowing Malibu.
Traditionally detached from the government, these self-policing neighborhoods eventually became independent states. Today—though still odes to free enterprise—they are integrating with society. Sort of. Typically named after a street that passes through, in favelas residents construct amateur, construction-codeless, brick and concrete compartments atop existing compartments. Penthouse rooftop decks endure until other apartments are built upon them. Often arranged in expanding concentric circles, some clusters rise as high as twelve stories. The explanation for why these inadequately constructed cubicle stacks don’t tumble down the hilly slopes bears a resemblance to why it’s impossible to keel over in a crowded subway. Many of the elaborate fort builders I met there also seemed to have a bit of electrician in them; the haphazard webs of overhead electrical wiring celebrate a free-market energy piracy I’d only witnessed in India.
One labyrinthine favela maze I explored overflowed with wires, humanity, and talk of the recorde. Entering this self-sufficient community meant navigating narrow, curving alleyways and improvised hill-climbing steps. Every other corridor had businesses, including grocery stores, tire repair shops, and beauty salons. As I wove through the maze—high above Rio’s twilight buzz—several locals either nodded or pointed me in the same direction while soberly announcing, “recorde.”
I knew I was approaching the recorde when a little girl led me by the hand so I’d turn a corner I’d otherwise have missed. She presented me to an elderly, smiley, bald man who was sitting outside on a small stool and wearing oversized black eyeglass frames without lenses. In the thin man’s lap sat a mutt fusing dachshund, beagle, and platypus. They both tilted their heads to the same side and gazed at me.
“Hello, I am Fabio …” (Silent pause: the elderly man used his fingertips to uniformly elevate both of the dog’s droopy ears so they were level with the horizon, and posed them there.) “… and dis is de most loved dog in de world.” The man and the great one cocked their heads to the other side.
“Really … how do you know?” I asked.
“Looook at him!” Fabio gushed. He released the dog’s ears and began petting his head, each backstroke temporarily widening both of their eyes. The dog didn’t seem to be thrown by its fame, but Fabio certainly was. Simultaneous with appreciating that recorde is Portuguese for record, I petted the tail-wagging icon while surveying Fabio: a treasure near the end of a chapter in his existence, glowing with the surety that his amazing partner goes unrivaled for adoration on the planet. No doubt a sainted hero amongst these hillside dwellers, he adjusted his windowless eyeglasses, flashed a calendar-resistant grin, and murmured, “World record.”
I wasn’t the first wanderer led to this reputable duo. But, like a perfect song, they intrigue and charm every time. After an hour of celebrity worship, and just before spinning on my heel to stride downhill through the mesh of wires, steps, and passages leading back onto the paved street mainstream, a final question for Fabio … “What is your dog’s name?”
“Recorde,” he winked … and then re-elevated Recorde’s ears in tribute to the bond.
If you can’t set the record, be the record.
Rio, a metro area of 13 million “Cariocans” divided into four districts, is typically known for its beaches on the city’s southern edge, but there is much more. For more on Rio de Janeiro, call (646) 366-8162 or visit www.rcvb.com.br
Jefferson Burruss, Friday, January 04, 2008 at 02:18 PMInspiring story, well thought and well written.
KATHLEEN ANNE ELIZABETH KEARNS, Monday, January 07, 2008 at 10:19 PMHi Booby....
always enjoy your good reads and deeds and voracious needs! Your latest...I had no idea that Rio was so beautiful....breathtaking really.
I also recall you saying that they really know how to live freely...sounds good to me.
I read the survival story again only to enjoy and want to kiss your boo boo's ...maybe not literally in that particular situation....but you get the jist.....then Scotland....i am going to keep the reincarnation of a medievil bootlegger in mind while i am with you next...and perhaps in me files permanantly...their must be truth in that statement.....OH YEAH...remeber sweets when you and i lit into the bottle of Glenlivet you brought home from Scotland...both of us NOT scotch drinkers...i went into a deep coma until the next morning after competitive swills of the fire water....SMOOOOTH>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>how pretty!
much love...kathleen dancing machine...xo
