Rio de Janeiro - A City of Contradictions

The marvelous city, drowned in poverty. The infamous glorious beaches lining one side of the city, as the favelas border the other side. The happiest people in the world, mixed in with absolute desperation for their country. Even their music, with its eccentric rhythms and endless movement, always has that haunting voice accompanying it. A country so willing to push itself ahead, with a massive surplus in their budget, a country with frightening amounts of natural resources and guaranteed wealth, held back by the habits it founded in poverty.

 While I was there for a week on minimal budget thanks to my usual terribly disorganized financier, my opinion of the city would rollercoaster over the course of every day. My first day there, I was mugged in broad daylight by kids on the beach; one guy held me as another ripped my bag off of me and ran to the top of the dune and emptied my belongings and picked up only the cash. All of his friends stood around watching. I could not help but stare them all down, no matter how hard I tried to look away. And lo and behold, as I went over to my pile of stuff, they came over and helped me pick it up. And none of them could look me in the eyes. They were so young, they were doing this for their families, trying to get ahead on the white man´s petty change.

 The same beach, a few days later: sitting in the blessed sun, reading, an elderly man walked over and offered a game of beach tennis. After teaching me for an hour, he invited all of my friends to a beer to watch his friend sing samba up the beach. He was so needlessly kind, so wonderfully curious and informative. The next day he came again, played again, and gave my friends shells that he picked up years ago in a shell crop, which he had adorned with a painting of Ipanema beach on them. His friend gave my friend lengthy legal advice; we all laughed as the sun set over those telltale double-mount hills. People so effortlessly friendly and kind, so naturally funny and good-natured. Sitting on the same beach.

 That is just a couple of people; the contradictions go much further. The city center is polluted, with the countless airconditioners raining down onto every street, nasty smells rising out of every crack in the ruined sidewalks, the noise of the city making it virtually impossible to hold a conversation on the street. All of that in front of the biggest city park in the world, Tijuca Park, which is an actual rainforest within Rio, filled with exotic birds, raccoons, snakes and the looming statue of Jesus. The Real, so much stronger than the Peso, in a country so much more visibly underfunded. Even the sight of seeing Asian, Black, White, Brown people all speaking Portuguese seemed so farfetched and modern, so much history that seems to have nothing to do with each other blending together, melting into the same city, a city founded in the first place by the French (and where are they now?). The city seems like a collage of odd bits and end of the world thrown together into the most terrific scenery, a melange of flavors, habits, traditions into the mixing bowl called Rio.

Backpackers deciphered

 After a decent amount of hostels, countless acquaintances, and too many adventures to possibly recount, I have managed to more or less classify the people that I surround myself with every day.

Class A: THE STRICT TRAVELERS
These individuals are on the journey to see, to take pictures with their SLRs, to rough it, to carry tents and sleeping bags and to truly mark themselves on the map and sights checklist. These guys are not going to have late nights out, as that may mean that they would not wake up in time for the tour bus. They are determined as hell.

Class B: THE HOSTELLERS
Typically in the 17-23 range, always anglophone (be it Aussie, English or Kiwi), and bordering alcoholic, these chaps aim to go from the station to the hostel, eat at the hostel, sleep at the hostel, drink at the hostel. When they leave the hostel, it is with an activity organized by the hostel. They are hostel hoppers. When they say that they traveled South America on their gap year, they will be familiar with the local cocktail of every country, but will not be able to ask directions in the local language. They sleep during daylight hours, and are a great laugh at night.

Class C: THE IN-BETWEENS
A good mix of wanting to see the city, making the effort to get a good deal into the itinerary, getting to bed every few days to have the energy to do it. But they are not to be taken anywhere near as seriously as THE TRAVELERS, as they will not abstain from a good party hostel, and will definitely participate in the odd loose night out. They will definitely know how to ask directions in (insert language), and probaby have the most interesting stories to tell.