Obrigada, Brazil

I travel a lot by myself. Not necessarily because I want to, but because I have long periods of time off in between intense periods of work and most of my friends are not able to ditch and mount up for extended adventures. I came to terms with traveling alone quite some time ago as I refused to forfeit seeing the world simply because I was traveling solo. Life is way too short to be on someone else’s schedule.

“You’re going to Rio?...ALONE?!?!” Let’s just be real, it was my mother who said this. In retrospect she had a point; hopping away to Rio with no real plan except to take Portuguese classes and live in a shared apartment with strangers for three and a half weeks would seem crazy in any scenario. Add the fact that it was Rio and you might be able to appreciate my mother’s concern which I promptly ignored along with all of the blogs of accounts of people being robbed or assaulted in the street. Millions of people live in Rio and thousands visit every day I thought. What’s with all the fear mongering?

To start, Rio is a city of contradictions. Brazil touts itself as a racial democracy, but underneath, those who suffer most are black and brown people living in overcrowded favelas with little to no opportunity. The “safety zone”, which includes Leblon, Ipanema and Copacabana, is marketed to tourists as the only place to stay where you can blissfully walk the streets without fear surrounded in your own haze of ignorance. The beaches are long and wide and I observed people of all colors and creeds enjoying its splendors. I made my way to Posto 7 most days to people watch and find the queijo man on the beach to get my cheese fix.

The beaches of Rio are packed with sun worshipers from around the world. When a thong-clad 80+ year old woman sauntered by holding the hand of her thong wearing 8-year-old granddaughter, it was a clear sign to me that I needed to change my bathing suit immediately. I felt extremely out of place in my full bottomed dead give-away you are from the USA bikini bottoms. I left the beach and shortly after returned sporting a brand-new thong bikini. Feeling a bit breezier and oddly confident, I felt more like I fit in and spent the whole day on the beach ordering drinks, eating cheese and acai bowls, and trying to translate the multitude of conversations going on around me in rapid fire Portuguese.

At sunset each day, tourists and locals gathered by the rocks jutting out off the beach to clap wildly for mother nature’s brilliant sunset show. In the remaining twilight as people headed home, it became readily apparent that the city is extremely segregated both racially and economically. People living in the safety zone casually strolled the neighborhood on their path home, perhaps stopping at a fun bar on the way, while everyone else walked through the safety zone up several hundred steps to reach their homes high up in the hills in the favelas surrounding the city.

My first night in Ipanema, I was so excited as I imagined meeting as many black Brazilians as possible. After all, second to Nigeria, Brazil has the second largest black population in the world. I wanted to know their stories, feel the culture and understand their struggles. How was the lived black experience in Brazil different from mine in the US and Panamá? I had so many questions.

The room I rented was on the 22nd floor of a tall building near my language school. My apartment had no air conditioning, so I frequently visited the open window to stick my head out to catch the breeze. From the window, I could see directly eye level to other high rises and to the orange-brown brick houses in the favelas. Everyone seemed so close, but I knew that I was lightyears away from experiencing the “real” Brazil. In my entire stay in Ipanema, I rarely encountered black or brown people in restaurants, at my language school or on the street. It was as if they didn’t exist. I began to wonder how I would be able to cross the firm, clearly drawn line between tourist bliss and the marginalized masses.

My first day in language class, I was surrounded by Swedish, Canadian and Danish classmates. For five hours each day we muddled through beginner Portuguese, my mind mixed up completely thanks to already knowing Spanish. Exhausted by the end of our first class, a group of us went for a snack and I became friends with a kind Canadian on the walk to the bakery. We bonded over pão de queijo when we both realized we were pronouncing “pão” as “pau” which made the cashiers at the checkout laugh as we proudly used our present tense Portuguese to announce, “Eu tenho dois pau de queijo”. We continued to make the cashiers laugh hysterically when we asked, “Onde está pau açúcar?”, which translated to “where is sugar penis mountain?”. People, the “ã” in Portuguese is seriously important!

 As we stuffed our faces with cheese penis bread laughing at ourselves trying to make plans to visit the infamous sugar penis mountain, my new Canadian friend mentioned that she was renting an apartment in the nearby favela. “You can do that?!” I said. More importantly, I thought, “Why did you do that?”. I stared at her white skin wondering how she made it past the first few steps leading into the neighborhood. Clearly, I hadn’t come to terms with my own US conditioning and ignorance about favelas and the people who live there.

The following week, I went with my Canadian friend to her house in the favela. Up to this point, I had refused to do any official “favela tours” as I had zero interest in supporting the “stare at poor people and take photos” type of tourism that is increasingly and unsettlingly popular in Rio. However, I was curious about the chasm that divided my apartment building from the favela so I agreed to go as long as it included actually talking with people who lived there. Additionally, I knew it might be my only chance to interact with black Brazilians in a way that was not forced. For example, my dance teacher at my language school was black and while it was wonderful learning samba from him, it was a very curated experience and not at all what I had envisioned in my mind.

To get to my friend’s rental house, we crossed the clean and orderly streets of Ipanema over to the metro stop and got into a huge elevator, known as the “favelavator”, which took us up the equivalent of 500 steps. Prior to the favelavator, people had to walk up those steps just to get to the base of the neighborhood. As we ascended in silence, I immediately felt the change in the color of the people around me. As a black traveler, it was a nice and welcomed change to the predominantly white and tourist population living in Ipanema, Copacabana and Leblon. I felt like I fit in and I appreciated the rush and hum of busy commuters all eager to get home. I almost felt like I was in New York on the 2 train with my fellow black and brown people who are usually the only riders left on the train past 125th Street. Let’s not forget that New York City is also one of the most segregated cities in the United States. The difference between the segregation we see in the US versus what I felt in Rio was that there seemed to be absolutely no escape for people living in poverty in Rio; zero opportunity and no way out.

The most memorable experience of my entire trip occurred in the favela that night. I witnessed the vibrancy of a community carving a space and identity of their own against a backdrop of orange and brown government issued brick sameness. In the US, I encountered sameness in a much more comfortable way, but without the vibrancy, which ultimately prompted me to leave on my own quest for authenticity. When I asked my Canadian friend why she decided to stay in a favela her response was simple, “This is where the people are.” She had an easiness about her that I surely did not.

As we walked up the steps, I overheard the sound of walkie talkies and I wondered what was being said. On a dimly lit set of steps, my friend turned to me and explained that the young men who watch the neighborhood were talking about me over the radios letting each other know that a foreigner was entering. Territories in favelas are fiercely defended. Up and up we walked and I finally understood the true concept of a Brazilian booty workout. People don’t have nice butts because they necessarily want to, rather, climbing 500 steps with arms full of groceries forces you to have a nice derriere out of survival and necessity. 

The enormity of the vast expanse of favelas soon hit me as I paused to stare across to the favelas on the other side of the safety zone. Most houses didn’t have doors, people hung out of windows, played music and children chased each other in the street. On a narrow stretch of walkway nestled between a few houses, we stopped for a beer at a local bar. The street lamp created a strange double shadow such that every time I moved my arm to take a sip of my beer, it looked like I had several arms protruding from my shoulder. The boisterous group sitting at the folding table next to us asked my friend where I was from. I replied in my best Portuguese, “Eu sou do Estados Unidos”, and they all shook their heads knowingly. Apparently, my poor grammar and US style of dress instantly gave me away and I felt an immediate disconnect with my black Brazilian brothers and sisters. After a while, we managed to strike up a conversation albeit in my very broken Portuguese, but I remember feeling elated to have the opportunity to hang out and experience what I perceived as “real” Brazil.

After a few beers, we walked further up the steps to where a basketball court parted the buildings. It was alive with a few kids running around playing in that same double shadow lighting from the bar. Even further up on the right we passed a discotheque and a shop selling basic food supplies. The neighborhood was pulsing even in the shadows of monochromatic lighting. I took it all in; smelling delicious foods wafting from homes and listening to music I couldn’t understand falling out of wide-open windows.

I don’t have pictures of that night, only the frozen images in my mind of the smiles and laughter of a tight-knit community. It’s hard to explain the feeling I had there, but I felt secure and surrounded with an intense energy. I can honestly say that I didn’t quite know what to expect, but the reality of that particular favela – albeit a pacified favela – was nothing like anything I had read online. I certainly do not want to underestimate or undermine the serious crimes that occur in other regions and favelas in Brazil, but I do want to bring to light the importance of recognizing when you are walking in a bliss of ignorance. It is likely the most hurtful state of being when traveling. In Brazil, I learned to open my eyes and to be a more conscientious traveler. Additionally, I also realize that the people I encountered in the favela struggle on a daily basis for survival and basic necessities and in no way do I want to paint the picture that there are no problems to be solved. I only wish to share one single moment that forever changed my thinking and the way in which I travel.

Obrigada, Brazil.

If you are planning a trip to Brazil, I highly recommend language classes at Caminhos Lanugage Center in Ipanema. The instructors are excellent! Click here to learn more.