By the end of Tuesday we were rolling bottles of cold water over burnt skin, my sun lotion applying skills like the Rio pavements – uneven. I looked like a fruit salad penny sweet. But we slapped on the aloe vera and went on a tour of a favela. The bus turned up early, and we were ushered away after not two bites of our breakfast, but on the coach a Swedish boy gave us his spare cheeseburger and everything was alright again. Everyone on the bus was a gringo, and the Swedish lad and his friends talked to us of street parties in Lapa and how one of the group had lost at cards and had to get a man-zilian (Google it) as a forfeit. He was wearing a Mario Balotelli ´Why Always Me?´ t-shirt. Apt.
We rode motorbike taxis up the hill to the top of the favela, squeezing in between cars and buses like dental floss, until we reached the summit and walked back down, through dirty narrow streets, past bric-a-brac shacks, that looked like they could fall down at any minute, sad faces in the windows, children starting at us and talking in hushed chitter chatter, a procession of white sitting ducks. And yet there was no violence, no muggings, no stabbings, the favela now a tourist spot after exiting drug rule, with the locals encouraged to fuel their own economy – some painting life in the slums onto canvas, young boys dancing and playing trash can drums for us. There is progression, supermarkets sell Nivea and some children tap away at smart phones, mirroring life on the rich side of Rio, through dirty and desolate panes of glass. Depressing, interesting and endearing all at the same time, like watching Calvin Andrew play football.
Thursday was beach day again, a friend of a friend called Sebastian – a Rio native – picked us up in his hatchback and drove us up the coast to a secluded bay, where mist-capped mountains watched over holidaying Brazilians and local celebrities. We shared drinks, pot and dreams of returning to California, all while Sebastian´s car wound around the coast side roads like the 101 highway on America´s west coast. `It´s hard to leave Rio´ he said though. For whatever reason people can´t leave the city, be it from the stony grasp of the favela or the siren like embrace of the beaches. Rio is a city that doesn´t let its people go.
Having said that, 24 hours later, we waved goodbye to the city for a few days and took the ferry to Ilha Grande, a tropical island 150km rom Rio, that tempts travellers with postcard clear waters and film set beaches. A boat trip around the island gave us the chance to try and get skin cancer again and despite putting on more layers of lotion than someone painting a new room, we returned to the hostel pink as stereotype British prawns, our heads clouded with the island´s humid heat and questions on life. Could we live here? Do locals know anything of the outside world? Why did those two Australians ditch us for a barman and a waiter that wore a bandana, wife beater and Crocs with socks? There were no answers at the bottom of a glass of local beer Brahma sadly.
