Our driver was from the favela and he drove the jeep with
an ease that complimented the feeling of wind-blown
freedom excluded when taking the bus

Jennifer Grant

Perched atop the Corcovado mountain, the famous Cristo Redentor, Christ the Redeemer, opens his arms to welcome all who would come to Rio, affectionately known as the Cidade Maravilhosa, meaning Marvelous City. All over the world people have accepted this invitation, including poor rural Brazilians, from other parts of the county, who in hope of helping themselves to the employment opportunities and financial benefits of urban life have migrated for more than a hundred years, well before the statue's appearance in the 1930's, to the outskirts of Rio's wealthier districts. There, on the hillsides, they have built their own settlements, known as favelas, where one out of five Cariocas, the term for Rio's residents, currently dwells.

The largest of the favelas, or in American jargon, slums, covers 722,500 meters of hilly area south of the wealthy suburbs of Ipanema and Leblon, where Tom Jobim composed his well-known musical contribution, 'Girl from Ipanema.' and east of São Conrado. Known as Favela da Rocinha, this ghetto currently boasts 160 thousand inhabitants who are mostly Afro-Brazilian and who lack the education and training needed to develop their metropolitan occupational skills.

Tired of tours which too often turned out to be a scenic chance to shop and eat, I decided to book something more exciting and venture into this drug-infested territory by jeep through Jeep Tours (011-55-21-3890-9336) or www.jeeptour.com.br whose colorful flyer promised "knowing with us what you could not know alone."

Being that tour operators find it more efficient to limit their pick-up territory to the tourist area of Copacabana and other districts south of the tunnel separating them from the older areas of Rio, including Flamengo where I was staying, I was required to utilize the local bus system to meet up with the expedition staff in Leme. After some miscommunication at Le Méridien Hotel, our rendezvous spot, I finally hooked up with my khaki-clad effervescent guide, Barbara, fifty minutes behind schedule. Aware that inefficiency is a customary part of daily life in Brazil, she quickly forgave my tardiness, and while simultaneously conversing excitedly into her walkie-talkie, hustled me out the lobby door.

As we clamored into the jeep, I learned that a few years previously, Barbara had decided to exchange the Italian for the supposedly less cumbersome Brazilian bureaucracy. Soon after arriving, she had discovered that she had a special heart for underprivileged children and gave-up her R$600 apartment in a safer region of the city to move to the favela where she currently pays half that amount. I asked her if it was difficult to form relationships in Rocinha, since strangers, particularly tourists are strongly warned not to enter the area alone. She replied that it had taken time to gain the trust of the residents, but since she was vivacious and open, also a somewhat penniless migrant, and used whatever money stretched beyond her basic expenses to help the neighboring children, the community had eventually embraced her.

Barbara also mentioned that American tourism in Rio had dropped significantly since 9/11. This was unfortunate, since the continually declining Brazilian monetary unit, the real, priced at R$2.50-U.S. $1.00 in May 2002, made it an ideal time to visit. In fact, the price of the tour came out to a mere $45.00, payable in American currency or an equivalent sum in reais.

Our driver likewise was from the favela and communicated in short local language phrases with a smile, unlike Barbara who spoke Portuguese (Brazil's language), Italian, English and French. He drove the jeep with an ease for weaving in and out of traffic which complimented the feeling of wind-blown freedom excluded when motoring by tour bus.

The rest of our group was waiting outside their Copacabana hotel, so we promptly set off for the outskirts of the beach area and began the climb into the hills. We passed a large delivery truck in which the driver and his passenger waved and merrily shouted obscene greetings in Portuguese to Barbara who returned them with blown kisses as our transport scooted ahead. While our leader accommodated my request to forego English, addressing me in the Brazilian language, most of the narrative was given in French, benefiting the majority of the participants.

As we ascended further up the slope our escort pointed out the disparity between Rocinha approaching on our left, where most residents earn under R$80 monthly, and the American school on our right, where ex-patriots and wealthy Brazilians, wishing their children to have the advantage of a bi-cultural education, shell-out R$800 each 30 days. Nannies sat in expensive cars waiting at the curb by the school, while motor scooters and noisy city buses continued the ascent to reach life's other contingent.

Our first stop was philanthropically motivated. Favela youngsters greeted us at the top of the hill where, after hugging Barbara, they offered self-painted scenes on stretched canvas for R$25-$45. Stray dogs romped at our feet as the young entrepreneurs, some eager and some timid, showed us their wares. Having long ago learned not to carry any amount of cash you wouldn't wish to lose, I decided to forego the artwork, but distributed real notes to each of the nine sales children. Perceiving that I spoke Portuguese, the kids shyly began to ask me questions regarding the date of my birthday, where I was from, etc. We then set off up the hill with two of the junior high age boys accompanying us. One offered to carry the bag of books I had bought earlier, and after taking my sack with one hand, offered his other for me to hold.

We trudged past cement walls protecting the hillsides on which was perched plaster housing roofed with long metal sheets. Signs were painted on the walls advertising the location of local businesses. Trash littered the dirt slopes. Above ground drainage pipes, the circumference of a garden hose, draped down the earth slope to end at a spout encased in cinder blocks which emptied the contents onto the same road which we were surmounting. We passed a series of local businesses cut out of the cement bank.

A group of males lounged in the doorway of a motorcycle repair shop. It appeared to be one of the local congregating places as the men sat drinking from cans of beer, smoking, and 'hanging-out'. Next door, a local merchant tried to sweep the dust away from her doorway. Children freely meandered about. Barbara informed us that few of them attend school, even though the government currently encourages public education through the offer of a bolsa escola (scholarship), which pays R$45 per child or a maximum of $R90 per family.

Upon reaching a narrow alleyway with uneven and varying level stone steps cut in yet another rise, we began to make our way to the top, pressing our hands against the walls to detect our route. Near the summit, we entered into a narrow hall off of which was the kitchen of a local inn (pensão). Four sweating women were crowded into a space approximately 8ft by 12ft, cooking over a small four burner stove. The pot appeared to contain feijoada, the national Brazilian dish.

We scrambled up another level, passing the similar sized dining room, where about eight guests awaited their meal seated at a wooden picnic table. Upon reaching one of the few brick lined roofs, we paused to take-in the immense spread of the slum. The children continued to converse with me. My helper told me how he looked forward to celebrating his 14^th birthday with his younger sisters whom he helped to support with his artwork. He did not know where California was, but would like to visit. He opened the top of a blue plastic vat and showed me that it contained collected rainwater used to supply the plumbing-less pensão.

Since there was a serious dengue epidemic in the city, the vats had to be watched carefully for any presence of the virus carrying mosquitoes who breed in open pools of fresh water. This also necessitated the constant sweeping of rainwater, along with the slidden mud, from the narrow alleyways which comprised the backyards of Rocinha's residences. 'My child' grasped my hand protectively as we began our descent and wove through the steep pathways toward the lower confines of the favela. We passed through an inhabited section where, though I never witnessed them, our guide 'eeked' at the sight of rats.

She paused briefly in an open doorway to exchange greetings with an inebriated man who sat on his uncovered mattress placed neatly in a corner near the sink under his collection of magazine pictures exposing naked women constituting the sole decorations covering the walls. Clothes hung from the nails that held up some of the female images. The small concrete square contained no other furnishings or facilities. I had been reminded that many favela homes do not yet have access to sewage.

Through another steep stair-lined alleyway, small hole size shops appeared in the cement walls bordering the path. Our guide stopped at one to purchase a sweet-roll, while the kids used some of the money I had given them to acquire a similar treat. We rounded a corner in which middle-age men, grouped on a step, stripped casings from wire that they planned to take to the wealthier districts of Rio to resell. Barbara paused to scoop up an unhealthy looking female toddler, while her mother watched out of vacant eyes dimmed by some substance used to escape the realities of daily life.

Finally, we began to hike down Gávea Road, which heads the main street of the commercial center. We passed colorful stands of barbequing meat, fresh fruit and vegetables, handmade clothing, and other simple retail commodities. After making our way around the square, we crossed a bridge over the highway. Our driver sat waiting in the jeep in front of the sole amateur soccer field in the area. As I was tipping 'my child' for helping me, I learned that and the majority of favela adolescents did not engage in sports due to the lack of organization and willing coaches.

As the jeep sped back toward Leme, I realized I had seen a side of Rio which few people are exposed to. Though its images would haunt my sleep for weeks to come, I felt fortunate to have seen the Rio that many hear about, but so few ever come to know. The sphere of Copacabana exists for the tourists. The world of the favela persists for many of Rio's inhabitants. If you want to experience the real Rio, it is one tour which shouldn't be overlooked nor ventured on your own.

Jennifer Grant owes her love of Brazil to friends Jazon da Silva Santos, a Los Angeles resident formerly of Maceió, and Eduardo Borgerth of Niterói. She is a free-lance journalist and public speaker who hopes her future will include foreign correspondence journalism and Christian missionary evangelism in Brazil along with discovering ways to facilitate better understanding between the people of Brazil and the United States. If you wish to contact her you can write in either English or Portuguese to sjennig@yahoo.com 

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