One day I woke up in a huge city with sprawling favelas by the seaside of Brazil’s Atlantic coast. The Christ Redeemer statue stands strong atop on Mount Corcovado as it looks down upon the dangers of the beautiful city that is filled with violence and uncertainty. The weather was hot and humid. My eyes were sore and heavy due to the long restless sixteen-hour flight from Vancouver. Regardless of the lack of sleep and the jet-leg, I felt excited to get out of the bed right away and ready to explore Rio de Janeiro without fear.
Rush, rush, rush, and go. I quickly pulled a plain black t-shirt from my disorganised suitcase as I slid my white pale feet into the cheap flip flops to make it on time before the free complimentary breakfast ended; a backpacker's dream to be able to eat or drink for free. I ran down the narrow stairwell, my shoulders bumping against the dirty stained walls. I filled my plate with the last remaining leftovers; a variety of fresh fruit and the famous Pão de queijo; cheese rolls with a soft chewy center. I sat at the long wooden table on the patio, under the warm tropical sun with two other strangers opposite me. Their faces were black and blue. Clearly, they had a big night and unfortunately, it ended badly for them. Beaten and robbed. Scarred for life with a souvenir. One feed himself by slipping food in behind the left side of his swollen lip and chewed slowly with caution. The other one did not touch his food in front of him as he had isolated himself from the world with his iPad. Are you guys all right? I asked them sympathetically, they both looked at me miserably, Be careful here, one of them said to me in his strong thick Germain accent. They turn to each other, struggling to speak to one another in their native tongue. It was not long until a young couple sat beside us and lit up their cigarettes as they drank their coffee. I heard them chatting in French and I understood every word. I warned them not to ask the question to the Germans while the wounds were still fresh and politely asked for a tab as I had left my packet of Marlboros in my room. The three of us clicked naturally and I had learned that they were also living in Canada on a working holiday visa.
The smell of sewage and urine was strong throughout the city as we walked towards Avenue Atlantico; the French couple and I were disgusted by the putrid smell. Alison pinched her nose in some parts of the city. We planned to visit the popular beachfront in Copacabana and ride the cable car to the top of Sugarloaf Mountain. As we walked I quickly patted myself down, double-checking my phone and my Canadian driver's licence was still in my pockets, along with a few loose notes, just to be safe I had stashed some cash in my socks. Jean carried my bottle of water in his bag. The girls on the beach wore thin tight bikinis and exposed their tanned butt checks freely, regardless of their shape, size, and age. Jean and I looked at each other with a smile. A sample of heaven was right in front of our eyes. Alison was not pleased with our satisfied looks. She had separated from us to take photos of other objects. Shortly after we heard her scream and we turned sharply as she was blaring in anger, Putain! Le petit est volé mon portable! I saw two young boys running from her and merge into the crowd. They had disappeared within a blink of an eye. Her phone was gone forever, leaving her in a sorrowful mood for the rest of the day. The afternoon view from Sugarloaf Mountain was breathtaking. I observed the surroundings before taking my phone from my pocket to capture the stunning view.
A city with heavy poverty and with the idea of a white guy exploring the city alone was foolish. The locals can spot a tourist in a second. I was disappointed in myself for feeling so insecure. For the Cariocas, the danger is an everyday reality and yet, they make the most of their daily lives with a smile under the South American sky.
It was a warm night drinking at the hostel bar with some backpackers from Auckland, we agreed to visit the colourful steps of Escadaria Selarón together. As we set out the following day, the smell of urine had grown stronger overnight. There was no way to avoid it. There were hundreds of tourists scrambling up and down the steps that covered more than two thousand tiles. We had to wait in line to get the perfect selfie. People began to cut in and I began to lose my patience. The four of us had given up to get some snaps of the famous landmark and kept on moving up towards the top until we had found a small bar. One thing that I read from a set of steps that had left me puzzled: This crazy and unique dream will only end on the day of my death. As the sun had set beneath the ocean, I discovered that the Chilean who created the masterpiece was found dead shortly after he had completed his project. How ironic and a damn shame for him to have died creating something very special for ungrateful people of Rio.
The one thing that attracted me to this place was to finally experience the nightlife in Lapa, known for Rio's biggest nightlife hub with the rhythm of compelling beats, samba, and the sound of jazz-infused elements that were flowing from the bars into the streets. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity and could not be missed, it was a Saturday and everyone from the hostel was suited up to go there. Pedra do Sal was the group's destination and I followed them like a lost puppy. When midnight had struck, I drew myself closer towards a girl I meet from the south of France. My weakness in life has always been cigarettes, gambling, and French women. We danced, we laughed and we kissed passionately. I sensed that there was love in the air until later when she came running to find some familiar faces from the hostel with tears in her eyes. She had had her bag taken ferociously from a man. The thief had killed our mojo, with no hope of a resolution. At three in the morning, we had left Lapa and walked in the wrong direction until we were confronted by a group of police armed with machine guns. They went out of their way and guided us back to our dormitory rooms nervously but I felt unsatisfied after losing my Frenchy and needed another drink to help me forget her. By chance, I had found two staff members who were drinking out on the patio and welcomed me for one last Cerveja before the sun came up.
After three days of Rio de Janeiro, I was ready to leave. I packed my suitcase in the morning and booked the next flight to São Paulo. Rio is a beautiful city but it had failed to meet my expectation. I had high hopes for the world's seventh-largest city, to be civilised and vibrant; I would have preferred it didn’t smell so much like urine and sewage.
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