Third day in Rio–part 2, Santa Teresa
Mounting Santa Teresa
We began the climb up the mountain to Santa Teresa while Marcelo gave us a briefing. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, it was home to many of the swells in Rio, affording beautiful views from every angle. Like so many of the former glory neighborhoods in America, this one began to go to seed in the early 1900s (WHY??), leaving gorgeous mansions tucked in everywhere.
And just like in America, in recent years, Santa Teresa has been brought back to life in a laid back way as a home to artists and performers, who understand the value of being surrounded by both natural and man-made beauty. I’m sure the real estate is pricey now, but I’ll bet during the early days of the revival, you could have had yourself one of those incredible homes for nothing. I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that in 1975, $10 to $25,000 American would have bought you some of the finest stuff on the hill. And it was fine.
Every turn in the narrow, curvy brick road offered a new angle on fine architecture and beautiful landscaping. But it by no means gave off any vibe of being an exclusive enclave. These grand old architectural dames were there for everyone’s enjoyment, and were mixed in with some downright meager dwellings and businesses. You’re asking, “Where are the pictures, Ben?” Well I DON’T KNOW, so GET OFF MY BACK! We were in the car. It was hard! LEAVE ME ALONE! Sorry.
We passed several conclaves of revelers all the way up the mountain, and Marcelo casually remarked in his matter-of-fact deadpan, “Santa Teresa. Ees very popular for bars. People come up here to drink, then they go up to see The Christ.”
“Really?” I asked, not really doubting it. It’s close?
“Yes, he is right above us,” Marcelo replied. “But it will take a good bit of time to go up there. Better to plan another day.” Indeed.
We kept driving up, crossing the tram tracks that are still in use, seeing bars, galleries, small arty shops, and a gaggle of cool looking people, all smiling, all enjoying life. I began to realize that the only way we would find Flávia and Co. would be to accidentally run into them.
At what seemed to be the summit, but wasn’t by any means, we found a small street party going on in an intersection. We decided to park and check it out. The cop in the above picture was friendly, and there to assure everyone they would have a safe experience. At least that’s what he looks like.
Daniel and Patricia had, of course, just flown in from Salvador (and BOY were their arms tired!), and they were about as fresh as we were, having been stimulated to death the night before at Carnaval. But Daniel can eat at the drop of a hat, and everybody enjoyed the baked cheese skewers that somebody was selling.
We took in all the participants at the gathering. Looked like a melange of cool people with fun on the brain. Nothing huge, just fun. Some kind of music and rhythm going on at the core. I noticed a bunch of little throw-on costumes that lent a real down-home tone to the whole thing. Everybody I held the camera up to responded with the secret sign and a smile.
And of course Robo honed in on my camera like a gol-durned bat finds a mosquito. It’s an amazing ability, one that I also happen to share. The results are never as good for me, however.
I noticed a bunch of costumettes that seemed to be derived from Carnaval outfits. I would like to know exactly how much of the costume you get to keep.
Look at Robo. He cracks me up.
Notice the ubiquitous video camera in Robo’s right hand. Once he figured out how to use it, he had it all the time. It was fun to walk up on him talking to himself as he narrated the scene he was shooting. It always made for a great inane exchange.
shirt was plenty big, I had plenty of water and beer interchangeably,
and I wasn’t sweating too badly. Did I mention water and beer? Plenty
of both? Yes. I had to pee. I got the first “hey old man” signals as we
passed under the aqueduct, and was delightfully reminded with every
bumpy inch of the road up there.There was a bar on the corner! Surely they had a bathroom. But they
weren’t open. WHAT? A bar not open during a street festival right
outside its doors? Only in Brazil. It really didn’t surprise me, as I
reflect on it. So of course a sanitário was out of the question, eh?Same story across the street at the bar there.”Oh, that’s okay,” I said. “Hey Robo, take my picture with Marcelo!”
I told Marcelo that I had to pee, and asked what he thought about the old Salvador trick. He indicated that probably nobody would care. I looked around everywhere, and there wasn’t a square inch that contained even the slightest nook for an old man to duck into. Especially an old man who requires more concentration and a zen-like state than to just “duck in” anywhere. It was particularly disappointing, being such a professional at the pissoir alfresco (along with my enthusiastic son Frank). “Naah,” I finally said. “I’ll be fine.” He looked at me like he expected me to say that.
The only thing that could make me smile when I had to pee like that was a bunch of friendly Santa Teresa partiers
and charming Brazilian girls
“Let’s go,” everybody said.
We got in the car, and headed down, never ceasing to marvel at the little architectural details that would pop out everywhere.
As we wound down, we encountered more people in larger spaces, but they were all in accommodation mode.
Further down, we passed a stellar view of a favela, which prompted Marcelo to say “You know the favelas?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“They can be very dangerous. Tourists come and think it will be fun to go see them, go in and can be robbed and put out on the street somewhere. Many are owned by drugs.”
“Well, I think it would be pretty presumptuous of somebody to take a tour of one just to go slumming in Brazil. These people need their dignity, too. It’s not a sideshow.” I don’t know how much of this Marcelo understood, because I had begun talking very fast with him, his being a pal and all.
He continued, “There are people that have tours of the favelas, and pay the drug people off to bring tourists in.”
“I don’t think that would be cool at all,” I said.
“It can be very dangerous,” Marcelo replied.
“I think they’re beautiful,” I answered, wistfully. I also realized that my earlier ideas about a potentially idyllic life there provided drugs and discontent didn’t set in now seemed quaint and naive.
We ran into more beautiful graffiti as we flattened out in the city. These characters, if not licensed, could be. One thing I found out in Brazil is, they have no concept of intellectual rights. There were commercial ripoffs of American cartoons in several places. Robo had also told me horror stories of one of his companies’ software being pirated openly, freely and with an ingenuity that baffled everyone.
At the bottom, the view of the hillside was interesting. Especially through a foggy window.
