The hand of Rio de Janeiro

Rio de Janeiro. Arrival. I just had the worst flight of my life. An attack at Copacabana. And walked alone through the most dangerous favelas of Rio. The first few hours of an upcoming trip around the world could have been my last. I hadn’t really arrived yet in Brazil. Because I left my heart behind in Austria at my farewell with my parents. But in the end, a hand on a bus trip through Rio de Janeiro became an outstanding guide for confidence.

Flight from London to Rio. I already didn’t like swinging up and down as a child. And certainly I don’t prefer phugoid oscillations during flight turbulences high up in the air. Half an hour before landing in Rio, suddenly my vestibular system lets me feel such intense changes in our flight movement – pitching up and down with our aircraft – that my peristalsis begins to move backwards. A quick look out of the window hatch explains why. Unbelievable! Hundreds of millions of volts are striking right next to our wings. We are steering directly through a terrible thunderstorm. And are constantly under fire. The fact that the lamps of the aircraft are now switched off does not actually change the brightness here inside. Thunderbolt flashing has awakened the night to daylight. 

From left to the right. And back. Up and down we go. The thunderstorm evokes serious death thoughts. Some start to scream. Others vomit. Stuff is flying around. The speeding up and slowing down as well as the inconstant falling during our descend becomes even more unpleasant. Acute existential worries have replaced initial thoughts about the flight comfort of our plane since quite a while. The only question now is whether the captain can land our aircraft safely. By having the fastest heartbeat a little later we hit the ground particularly hard on already flooded roads. We’ve had some head injuries on the plane. The next day I read: 40,000 thunderbolts have hit Rio in just 3 hours. Even Jesus Christ lost his finger. The nocturnal fire damaged the thumb, head and the middle finger of the 38m high statue of Christ the Redeemer.

Walk at Copacabana. The world-famous beach with the wavy mosaic stones on its promenade. Whether beggar or actor, professional footballer or drug dealer. Everyone is equal here on the beach. A lot is going on around me. Skateboarding or cycling. Or people go running. I take my time to take a photo. Slowly I take my camera out of my pocket. As always, I put the shoulder strap around my neck. And the motif has just been discovered. My right eye is looking through the viewfinder. The left one sees a couple of children slowly passing by.

Suddenly they stop. A boy runs up to me and grabs for my camera. A quick strong pull. Then I kick the rascal in his butt. Quickly they leave. In the evening a Brazilian friend tells me: “You were lucky. Rio’s children are dangerous because they are so plain. Sometimes they pull a gun completely unreflected and shoot you on the open road.”

Stay away. They told me. Anyone who enters Rio’s poor district should only do so with a guide. They tell each other. In contrary to all the advice, I’m going alone. Not only through Santa Marta, but also through Rio’s most notorious favela: Rocinha. No water supply, high crime rate, drug mafia. A few years ago, daily shooting was usual in the hidden mountain slopes of Rio.

My path doesn’t lead me only through the main streets that are well equipped with police. Rather, it’s those dark, narrow and steep streets that arouse my curiosity and lead me from house to house for some hours. Dangers? No. Spontaneously I help a man peeling potatoes. And I’m having some fun with the boys around. Otherwise, the people are smiling a lot of warmth towards me.

Airports, highways, bus trips. Actually, all these places of transit are also referred to as cultural non-places. Means, temporary places that seem to have no cultural identity. Let’s see. On my third day in Rio I take the bus. An oversized city map is supposed to show me the way to Lapa, where I have a meeting in the evening with my friends to dance some samba. But while we are moving on with the bus I am wandering. A storm of reflections on the totally crazy experiences from the past few hours disturbed my mind: my thunderstorm flight to Rio. The attack at Copacabana. And me crossing favelas. The start of my long journey was extremely ambivalent. So ambivalent that you can lose yourself. And that’s exactly what’s happening to me right now…

We passed Lapa a long time ago. I’m just recognizing now. Quickly I jump from my seat. I have to get off at the next station. I don’t even know where I could be now. I can’t ask anyone, I don’t speak Portuguese. At that moment suddenly something takes me by the hand. It is the warming hand of an old woman that gives me a reassuring smile. Somehow her protective aura is familiar to me. I think I must have felt something like that for the last time in my mother’s arms as a baby. The woman didn’t speak to me at all. She just smiles and never lets go of my hand.

At the next station we get off the bus together. I didn’t know what to make of it. Still hand in hand. Outside she shows me now a bus station from where I think I could get back to Lapa. No longer I noticed that at some point she eventually let go of my hand and disappeared. A little later I realize that the smiling woman didn’t show me a specific destination. Rather, she taught me how to leave the path of worry and how to take the path of confidence instead. Those who believe, that all of what happens will be good in the end, are free. Agreeing with the flow of life.