Prefatory note: There is a huge statue of Christ on a mountaintop here in Rio. It is called Christ the Redeemer and is one of the wonders of the modern world. Notably, a large statue of Christ has been built on a mountaintop in Cochabamba, Bolivia, where I will be spending a year. No, I have no plans for conversion…
START HERE
Today couldn't have been more perfect. I slept long and well. I awoke and spent the day on the hallowed sand of Ipanema, in the company of lovely people, under a proper sky, surrounded by Brazilians observing the sabbath in a sunbath. We watched the sun set itself in a particularly majestic position, casting its light up from behind the carioca mountains in an inverted pyramid. An eye-blink to the right, the Redeemer turned his back to the glory, with his head bowed toward the boredom in the North. Why was His stony glare elsewhere? Why did it not match ours?
This is a land meant to enchant. It is called the Cidade Maravilhosa, the "Marvelous City." All marvel at the climactic skyward stretch of the mountains and the song of the ocean and the urban life tucked all in between. No one, even the Paulistas (residents of Sao Paulo) who apparently in their own love of bustle degrade the Cariocas (residents of Rio) as lazy and carefree, can deny Rio a complement on its beauty.
It is the sort of beauty that makes the tourist mind forget. Yes, we miss our loved ones and wish they could share our experience, but the longing is not too strong, for the native Sirens call and content. Look at the view. Feel the breeze. Sip the coco water. Play in the waves. Close the eyes and rest. High strung? Then exalt in the Cristo, samba in the clubs, don a suit and bustle in the Centro, jog along the beach, hike in the rain forest. All are welcomed. Bem-vindo!
Now, you will be reminded that even a paradise allows for snake eyes. Those beggar children will come and ask in the practiced whine of a hungry child toward his mother, "I'm hungry." Tenho fome. Por favor. A twenty or thirty-something may catch you unaware and threaten you with a gun, or something meant to impersonate it. Somehow, we are not amazed that they might accept as an answer that we don't have anything on us. Indeed, when I revealed to one would-be thief that I had only change, he told me it wasn't worth it, apologized, gave me a hug, and walked quickly off. And the Brazilian women on the corner, in the restaurants, or on the street walking with single American men with hunched backs and misshapen thumbs, they are here, too. Ask, take, or fuck. Most of us do not know such need.
The tourist sees only the individuals in their pursuit of money. We are distanced from the systems. Remarkably, the hillsides that offer the best views also house the poorest people. These favelas are the Rio take on the shantytown and house at least 20% of Rio's residents. They apparently are run by drug lords, some of them more benign than others. Average citizens live under this sort of undemocratic sovereign, largely unchecked by the state. They come into the non-favela Rio on long bus rides or walks, enter a foreign country to make money, and return home. We dare not follow, even though we could. We--tourists and wealthier citizens--are bound by a wall of fear, of a harrowing reputation. If not the iron curtain, it is the sandpaper bikini.
The favelas are not only impenetrable, they are amazingly unreal. We drive by them on the way from the airport. They are visible from a distance in Ipanema, but they are too distant for even the ant-colony view. In Copacabana, we do not see the favelas unless we approach a particular street from a particular angle. Walking around the entire 4.5 mile perimeter of the main city lake, one sees not a single favela. Except for the rogue beggar, thief, and prostitute, we are shielded from perception. This is a land meant to enchant. For those few that are mesmerized by incantations of poverty rates, developmental economics, and competing interpretations of race, favela tours are available. Shall we go to the zoo today? And, what of the poor and lower class residents who do not live in neighborhoods that have the fancy appellation of favela. Where are they and what are their struggles?
If all this sounds bitter, perhaps it is. It is the bitterness of near-total enjoyment, of little worry and much engagement. It is the bitterness of knowing it's all unfair and being absolutely confounded by one's own position in it. What claim have I to any of my money, other than enough to fulfill my own, luxuriously-defined needs? Should I perhaps take more with me, perhaps to give the next thief a happy and memorable day (imagine him coming home that night with an unusually large cache--what would happen with the money? Would it be "heroically" used to feed a child, get some medicine, or stashed away for a rainy day? Would it be "wasted" on drugs or alcohol?). The thoughts make a joke out of monetary morality. Total selfishness and selflessness (perhaps the St. Francis kind) at least provide direction. Everywhere in-between leads to random, unpredictable outcomes. We might give once because we feel like it. What justice is there in that?
I am beyond the realm of my logic, which was already nearly broken by similar questions regarding giving to homeless folks in the U.S. At least there I had some notions of merit and cause, of thinking myself more able to discern the "worthy" from the not, of having the alternative of giving to organizations instead of individuals, of fear (based on knowledge gained in my work) of the money being used "poorly." Now, stripped of all such knowledge, I'm adrift. In a twisted way, this is my fun, my brand of tourism. I'm doing no better than any one else. I know "do-gooding" should not be done for the emotional kick, but I don't have another operating principle to guide my actions. Are tithers content with ten percent? More profoundly, what does freedom from self-satisfaction look like?
Perhaps the Redeemer on the mountaintop knows. Perhaps It is tired of all our odd glories. Or perhaps It tries to focus us somewhere else, towards the unremarkable, the plain, the un-noteworthy. Perhaps It means nothing, but simply stands there as a function of the city's boosters and cheap labor. Perhaps It is part of a majesty of which I have no grasp. I know only that mine eyes would see more simply were It not there. And then, I would be bereft of a puzzle and forlorn of joy.
START HERE
Today couldn't have been more perfect. I slept long and well. I awoke and spent the day on the hallowed sand of Ipanema, in the company of lovely people, under a proper sky, surrounded by Brazilians observing the sabbath in a sunbath. We watched the sun set itself in a particularly majestic position, casting its light up from behind the carioca mountains in an inverted pyramid. An eye-blink to the right, the Redeemer turned his back to the glory, with his head bowed toward the boredom in the North. Why was His stony glare elsewhere? Why did it not match ours?
This is a land meant to enchant. It is called the Cidade Maravilhosa, the "Marvelous City." All marvel at the climactic skyward stretch of the mountains and the song of the ocean and the urban life tucked all in between. No one, even the Paulistas (residents of Sao Paulo) who apparently in their own love of bustle degrade the Cariocas (residents of Rio) as lazy and carefree, can deny Rio a complement on its beauty.
It is the sort of beauty that makes the tourist mind forget. Yes, we miss our loved ones and wish they could share our experience, but the longing is not too strong, for the native Sirens call and content. Look at the view. Feel the breeze. Sip the coco water. Play in the waves. Close the eyes and rest. High strung? Then exalt in the Cristo, samba in the clubs, don a suit and bustle in the Centro, jog along the beach, hike in the rain forest. All are welcomed. Bem-vindo!
Now, you will be reminded that even a paradise allows for snake eyes. Those beggar children will come and ask in the practiced whine of a hungry child toward his mother, "I'm hungry." Tenho fome. Por favor. A twenty or thirty-something may catch you unaware and threaten you with a gun, or something meant to impersonate it. Somehow, we are not amazed that they might accept as an answer that we don't have anything on us. Indeed, when I revealed to one would-be thief that I had only change, he told me it wasn't worth it, apologized, gave me a hug, and walked quickly off. And the Brazilian women on the corner, in the restaurants, or on the street walking with single American men with hunched backs and misshapen thumbs, they are here, too. Ask, take, or fuck. Most of us do not know such need.
The tourist sees only the individuals in their pursuit of money. We are distanced from the systems. Remarkably, the hillsides that offer the best views also house the poorest people. These favelas are the Rio take on the shantytown and house at least 20% of Rio's residents. They apparently are run by drug lords, some of them more benign than others. Average citizens live under this sort of undemocratic sovereign, largely unchecked by the state. They come into the non-favela Rio on long bus rides or walks, enter a foreign country to make money, and return home. We dare not follow, even though we could. We--tourists and wealthier citizens--are bound by a wall of fear, of a harrowing reputation. If not the iron curtain, it is the sandpaper bikini.
The favelas are not only impenetrable, they are amazingly unreal. We drive by them on the way from the airport. They are visible from a distance in Ipanema, but they are too distant for even the ant-colony view. In Copacabana, we do not see the favelas unless we approach a particular street from a particular angle. Walking around the entire 4.5 mile perimeter of the main city lake, one sees not a single favela. Except for the rogue beggar, thief, and prostitute, we are shielded from perception. This is a land meant to enchant. For those few that are mesmerized by incantations of poverty rates, developmental economics, and competing interpretations of race, favela tours are available. Shall we go to the zoo today? And, what of the poor and lower class residents who do not live in neighborhoods that have the fancy appellation of favela. Where are they and what are their struggles?
If all this sounds bitter, perhaps it is. It is the bitterness of near-total enjoyment, of little worry and much engagement. It is the bitterness of knowing it's all unfair and being absolutely confounded by one's own position in it. What claim have I to any of my money, other than enough to fulfill my own, luxuriously-defined needs? Should I perhaps take more with me, perhaps to give the next thief a happy and memorable day (imagine him coming home that night with an unusually large cache--what would happen with the money? Would it be "heroically" used to feed a child, get some medicine, or stashed away for a rainy day? Would it be "wasted" on drugs or alcohol?). The thoughts make a joke out of monetary morality. Total selfishness and selflessness (perhaps the St. Francis kind) at least provide direction. Everywhere in-between leads to random, unpredictable outcomes. We might give once because we feel like it. What justice is there in that?
I am beyond the realm of my logic, which was already nearly broken by similar questions regarding giving to homeless folks in the U.S. At least there I had some notions of merit and cause, of thinking myself more able to discern the "worthy" from the not, of having the alternative of giving to organizations instead of individuals, of fear (based on knowledge gained in my work) of the money being used "poorly." Now, stripped of all such knowledge, I'm adrift. In a twisted way, this is my fun, my brand of tourism. I'm doing no better than any one else. I know "do-gooding" should not be done for the emotional kick, but I don't have another operating principle to guide my actions. Are tithers content with ten percent? More profoundly, what does freedom from self-satisfaction look like?
Perhaps the Redeemer on the mountaintop knows. Perhaps It is tired of all our odd glories. Or perhaps It tries to focus us somewhere else, towards the unremarkable, the plain, the un-noteworthy. Perhaps It means nothing, but simply stands there as a function of the city's boosters and cheap labor. Perhaps It is part of a majesty of which I have no grasp. I know only that mine eyes would see more simply were It not there. And then, I would be bereft of a puzzle and forlorn of joy.
Hi Kevin,
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you brought your computer, if not for yourself, for me to follow your adventures. Why not go on a favela tour? I know you want to and wouldn't the counter-argument be that if the money is well-directed, it would stimulate the economies of the people you watch ---in a quasi-self-cannabilizing kind of industry that you don't like anyway. Tourism on any level, in the favela, or already in your being in Brazil, is probably a top industry already. And why is your being a spectator from afar any different-- or better-- than being one up-close? Whatever you see, watered down or tweaked, will still be more real than what you assume where you are now. Keep writing. :)
oh, btw, I'm at Bauhaus with Sam. Private email to follow.
ReplyDelete