Channelling the Cane Spirits

Friday 25.05.07

After lunch, I was taken in a tour van to the largest slum in Latin America, Favela Rocinha. Situated west of Copacabana, it climbs up the side of a mountain facing the ocean and the wealthy bairro of São Conrado. We alighted at the bottom of the slum and climbed on the back of motorcycles for a ride to the top. Hanging on for dear life, we ascended the winding road at top speed, dodging buses, other motos, pedestrians and potholes - helmet-less of course - to the top of the favela. The valley all the way down was carpeted with thousands upon thousands of dwellings, stacked haphazardly on top of one another like a bunch of Lego stuck in a funnel. The definition of a favela is a place where you can build your own house wherever you find the space. The electricity and water are often hooked up illegally, hanging everywhere are huge black wires bundles running out toward the mains; while leaking water pipes parallel the pathways criss-crossing between the concrete dwellings.

The narrow pathways, only wide enough to walk along, wound downhill in the cool shade between the multitude of homes and little shops. They were bisected by sets of stairs that weaved almost straight downhill. I tried a cup of home-made cachaça here, and with a taste akin to drag racing fuel, the first sip warmed the belly, and subsequent sips lacerate the bowel. Beautiful graffiti murals, often expressions of life inside were painted on available walls, while waste lay about in gullies or on the banks of small streams cascading down the hill. Rent in places at the top of the hill is always more expensive, as the waste (and smell) accumulates progressively on the levels below.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cacha%C3%A7a

We learned the favelas are run by gangs who sell drugs but also ensure the safety of the inhabitants. If the leader of the gang is killed or the favela is invaded by another gang or the police, all hell tends to break loose until the balance is restored, and offending parties separated from their weapons or (often) lives. In situations such as this, many innocent people are caught in the firing line, but overall, life in a favela is not as dangerous as one might think. At this moment, only one out of the seven hundred or so favelas in the state of Rio de Janeiro is at war. The Police are involved and at last count, 108 people have been killed (90% of which were innocents) in the last month. The boss of Favela Rocinha is 24 years old and earns over AUS$4 Million per month.

In the evening, we went to a typical Brasilian Churrasco (barbecue) restaurant, which pretty much is an all-you-can eat smorgasbord, but the waiters bring different meats on spits to the table and slice it in front of you. Much later, we found ourselves at a club called Clandestino in Ipanema, the next beach over. Heavy drinking ensued, along with attempts to bump (or was that grind?) in the crush of mostly backpackers to R'n'B and thankfully later, old-school hip hop.

We hit the beaches on a gorgeous Saturday. Copacabana was crowded with locals either sunbathing and swimming or playing soccer, volleyball or a sport called futvolley ,which is a bizarre cross between the two. Others walk the length of the beach, selling necklaces, clothes, renting out chairs or giving massages. Most had one thing in common - they were wearing next to nothing! We walked all the way to Ipanema, probably the most famous of Rio's beaches. At the end of this long stretch of sand another favela, Vidigal, could be seen sprawling over a distant hill.

We returned by way of Copa's busy streets. Passing some 'unofficial' street stalls, we were surprised to see them pack up in a flurry, then all peer down the street like a mob of Meerkats spotting a snake. We found out that someone had seen a cop, and they were ready to run so their belongings didn't get confiscated. Five of us bought tickets to a concert for that night, where a famous Brasilian artist named Jorge Ben Jor was playing. It was at Circo Voador, a festival area under the Arcos da Lapa, an old aqueduct that runs through that part of town. Jorge didn't come on until almost 1.30am, but it was well worth the wait. For the next three hours, we were jumping up and down with a couple of thousand others to a dynamic fusion of samba and rock, and a couple of local friends even taught me a couple of steps of samba. I might have used a lot of superlatives to describe this place so far, but for good reason. The Brasilians are an engaging and happy people, and have a lot to be proud of.