December 04, 2018

Rio de Janeiro. Simply thinking the name was enough to trigger a faint but assertive sunburn to form behind my retinas, causing my pupils to dilate in a way that was probably not medically advisable. Somewhere in the less supervised districts of my brain, an entire tropical microclimate began assembling itself. Palm trees reclined against my frontal lobe. A warm breeze drifted through, gently riffling important memories and replacing them with significantly better ones involving sunshine and a suspicious lack of responsibility. There may have also been a parrot. It was difficult to be certain. The name itself refused to behave like a geographical location. It functioned more like an incantation—one capable of summoning vivid, slightly alarming hallucinations with excellent rhythm.

Whisper it once and suddenly the air smells faintly of lime and impending mischief. Say it twice and your imagination begins projecting increasingly implausible visions of glitter-stained samba dancers defying both common sense and several minor municipal regulations along the enthusiastic curves of Copacabana Beach. By the third repetition, you’re no longer entirely convinced you are standing where you were standing before. The pavement feels warmer. The horizon develops a persuasive sway. In the distance, waves seem to applaud, which is unsettling because bodies of water are not typically known for their emotional support.

It was, in every respect, deeply irresponsible.

If South America possessed a welcome mat, Rio would be the acid-stained corner you might consider wiping your feet on. Naturally, we agreed this made it the obvious and entirely sensible place to commence our grand, potentially disastrous adventure.

I was travelling with Callum—my suspiciously cheerful, curly-haired housemate and reluctant accomplice in all things vaguely illegal or ill-advised. Once upon a time we both paid taxes. Regularly. On purpose. This detail is important because it proves we were once considered functional by society. Now we were fugitives from commitment and any lifestyle that involved ironing as our plane screeched onto the steaming tarmac of RIOgaleão Airport at sundown. We vibrated in our seats with a combination of naïveté, adrenaline, and the lingering belief that someone, somewhere, was probably trying to warn us that we had absolutely no idea what we were doing.

We booked somewhere nearby with the noble and entirely delusional aim of not bursting into flames from jet lag. The listing described itself, with breathtaking confidence, as an “entire apartment,” available for the astonishingly precise sum of £4.72 per night. The advertisement featured three photographs, each blurrier than the last, taken from angles that implied the photographer had been both hiding and possibly crouching. One appeared to have been captured mid-fall. Another may have included a thumb.

The promise of two bedrooms, climate control, and a rooftop retreat—by all available evidence—existed solely in the realm of theoretical physics. And yet, £4.72. At that price, scepticism begins to feel extravagant. So, we chose to politely ignore all rational warning signs.

Callum, operating on four hours of sleep and an impressive amount of Duolingo Portuguese, recited our address to the driver, who raised one eyebrow in response, which in Brazilian driver language meant: Are you absolutely certain you want to do this, gringos?

Then we shrugged. Then he shrugged. A delicate, highly coordinated mutual shrug-off ensued. And then off we went, toward whatever version of reality awaited at £4.72 a night.

The ride started simple enough, with the comforting illusion that we were heading somewhere vaguely residential. But it soon became ominous as the streetlights winked out one by one like dying dreams, throwing a hood over the head of our visible surroundings. The road itself also seemed to develop a sense of dramatic flair, twisting and narrowing into an estate that seemed designed to provoke existential dread in unsuspecting foreigners.

Finally, without warning, the driver slammed on the brakes, refusing to take us any further.

“In there,” he said, pointing down a slender corridor of despair, before delivering the line that should have been the cue to run for our lives. “But be careful. This place is a favela…”

Ah. Yes. Of course it was.

It would have been far too simple if it weren’t.

Being British, Callum and I were both genetically programmed to avoid confrontation and, more importantly, to continue with any regrettably bad decisions simply out of politeness. So we stumbled off into the night, backpacks scraping along, as the concept of street names, numbers, or anything resembling logic vanished entirely around us. In its place was a rising tide of shirtless children, unsteady adults, and barking dogs who clearly considered us a minor nuisance.

We must have looked spectacularly out of place, because within minutes, a small crowd had gathered, observing us curiously before a Christ-like figure emerged from the swirling haze of uncertainty.

He extended a hand toward us.

“Daniel? Callum? It must be you!” he thundered, arms flinging open in such a vast, sweeping arc that several nearby pedestrians ducked for cover. “It’s me, Fabian! Your host! Welcome! Welcome to Brazil! Welcome to Vasco da Gama!”

Fabian moved with the theatrical certainty of a prophet, and his voice boomed with conviction—like he was presenting a keynote address at a conference only he attended.

Callum and I followed automatically.

When someone loudly shouts your name in a foreign country, evolutionary instinct tells you to comply.

He immediately clamped one muscular arm over each of our shoulders, steering us forward in a manner that was part friendly tour guide, part nightclub security.

As introductions went, Fabian was the sort of man whose backstory required a stiff drink and possibly a whiteboard. He had once been an engineer in Amsterdam, enjoying the glamorous riches of a corporate salary, safe bicycle lanes, and the mystical treasure of free dental care. He was seduced here by something more intoxicating than stock options: love. He threw away these luxuries and decided the only sensible response was to emigrate to Brazil. Now, he lived somewhere in the centre of this favela, knee-deep in community projects and waist-deep in what appeared to be his own philosophical renovation.

“It is the Brazilian way!” he declared, with a voice that was equal parts ancient sage and man who had misplaced his shoes. “Come!” he commanded, “Let me show you the house!”

Inside, our bags disappeared into a temporal storage vortex, and before we could mutter a “thank you”, Fabian piled a small mountain of glistening fruit into our arms like Brazilian Jenga. Then, without missing a beat, he shepherded us outside as if we required urgent, expert guidance.

Which we did.

“You need money?” he suggested, pointing vaguely toward the dark edges of the settlement. “To the petrol station! There’s an ATM there.”

Right. A nocturnal stroll through a favela to withdraw a ludicrous amount of cash. Brilliant. Surely nothing could possibly go wrong.

Upon arrival at the petrol station—just beyond the community walls—the mood immediately shifted. A black truck glided into the forecourt, and a trio of hulking police officers emerged, stocked with heavy assault rifles and even heavier leather. They looked more like black ops mercenaries than protectors of the peace.

“They won’t go inside Vasco.” Fabian whispered. “Not welcome. They’ll be eaten alive.”

Splendid.

This was exactly the sort of reassuring guidance you want on your inaugural evening in a foreign country.

I had questions, but my brain was busy marinating in a humid soup of adrenaline.

With our local currency safely retrieved, the three of us floated back toward the favela’s throbbing heart: the central plaza. There, the air was a curious cocktail of ethanol, sweat, and something just barely on fire. Plastic cups sloshed with caipirinhas. Grandmas danced like tiny hurricanes. A toddler DJ presided over the proceedings from a crate, like a tiny, uncompromising overlord of rhythm. And beyond the fields of haphazardly arranged plastic chairs, at the absolute nucleus of everything, was a row of caged football pitches. Each one was alive with armies of sugar-fuelled children flickering under floodlights, playing and screaming as if their lives depended on it. Maybe they did.

Fabian floated among it all like a high priest. A community hero continuously anointed by a constant stream of handshakes, hugs, and emphatic fist bumps. Even the buildings seemed to lean forward, eager to acknowledge his presence. With every step, he seemed to exude wisdom and blessings in roughly equal measure.

“No one will help us here,” he said softly. “We must look after each other. We are our own guardians.”

When we were back on quieter streets, Fabian suddenly stopped abruptly. His eyes, usually twinkling with the calm assurance of someone who believed in communal hugs and the occasional minor miracle, darkened with growing concern.

Ahead of us loomed three shadowy figures, exchanging wads of cash, and huddled over a flimsy plastic table stacked with bulbous bin bags bursting to the brim with bush weed.

“Those guys…” Fabian told us softly, his trademark grin evaporating, “…are gangsters. Businessmen, we call them.”

He frowned.

“I don’t like these fuckers.” he added. “They have nothing to lose. Way too unpredictable…”

“Do they know you?” Callum asked, hoping for some divine protection.

“Yes…” he said.

Then, after a dramatic pause.

“…But they don’t know you.”

Wonderful.

Fabian tightened his grip on our shoulders and rerouted us with the subtlety of a GPS avoiding a potentially fatal traffic jam.

Moments later, we collided with one of Fabian’s apostles—a man so thoroughly drunk that he seemed to be phasing in and out of reality—draped in a psychedelic bucket hat and clutching a potent bottle of cachaça.

“Peace and love! Bem-vindo!” he hollered, cigarette dangling precariously from his lip.

“This is Raúl,” Fabian admitted, half-laughing, half-cringing, entirely embarrassed. “My neighbour.”

Raúl drifted away into the walls behind us like an apparition, leaving only a fragrant trail of booze and burning tobacco.

Fabian, meanwhile, beamed at a pregnant woman perched in a nearby window, cradling a snoozing baby like a trophy.

“My old lady,” he said, with a paternal pride normally reserved for lions introducing their cubs to bewildered tourists. “And my firstborn.”

Then, without a pause, he extended an invitation to delve deeper into the favela in the morning on a private tour.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “I'll show you the real Brazil. Free of charge.”

Just like that, the favela was growing on us, or at least worming its way into our sensibilities. Our initial apprehension had quickly mutated into a strange sense of misdirected adventure. The danger, the chaos, and the charm of Fabian and his flock became oddly inviting.

We agreed to the tour.

Madness seemed infinitely safer than hesitation.

In making that choice, we officially entered the subterranean underworld of Brazilian tourism. Somewhere real, sweaty, weird, and gloriously alive.

In our ‘apartment,’ I climbed what I assumed were stairs—but what might have been a repurposed fire escape wrapped in alarming electrical spaghetti.

The ‘climate control’ turned out to be a wheezing desk fan from 1969. And the ‘two bedrooms’ were barely closets and possibly haunted. But the rooftop retreat was surprisingly real.

I ducked under clotheslines and vaulted over flowerpots, trying not to plunge down into the concrete pit below. Although the tangled web of washing lines adorned with yellow and blue football jerseys probably had some hidden cushioning effect, or at least I hoped so.

Flags drooped lethargically in the heat. Satellite dishes sprouted like metallic fungi. In the distance, firecrackers detonated with a cheerful disregard for safety. Fabian was probably plotting his next sermon. And the children continued to scream with either joy or terror—it was genuinely impossible to tell.

And so it began.

A very warm, slightly terrifying welcome to South America.

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December 05, 2018

Propelled by a combination of gnawing hunger and a curiosity about the precise culinary alchemy Brazilians engaged in before noon, we extracted ourselves from our mattresses, got dressed, and plunged ourselves into the labyrinthine streets.

Our master plan was breathtakingly sophisticated: make our way back to the main square. Statistically, it was the most likely place for things that might conceivably be considered food. Lacking our host, a map, or any coherent sense of direction, we relied on a method perfected over centuries: follow the scent of humanity. This consisted primarily of meat, diesel, and, inexplicably, hints of optimism.

Somewhere in that chaos lay breakfast.

When we arrived, the plaza gleamed in the fluorescent morning sun. The children were still rattling in their cages. Had anybody gone to bed? The previous night’s carnage had undergone a complete transformation and was now a new life form entirely. Bars had morphed into cafes, beer bottles had evolved into pitchers of juice, and the rum had converted into bubbling vats of coffee.

Beside us, a grizzled yet vaguely welcoming local held out his hand. It was as if he had been expecting us all along, which was unlikely, but who could say? In his hand rested two small salgados—golden, deep-fried pastry grenades bursting with mysterious meats and cheeses.

We accepted.

No money exchanged hands.

And no one asked inconvenient questions about where we came from or why Callum was wearing socks with sandals.

The salgados were inhaled with an efficiency designed for consumption rather than digestion.

Our initiation into the savage beauty of local street cuisine was complete.

With our mission wrapped, we set off to rendezvous with Fabian for the grand Vasco tour. But retracing our steps home turned out to be a futile exercise.

The alleyways weren’t just confusing—they were actively hostile: twisting, and occasionally imploding. Our only navigational aid was a deranged and unreliable list of lefts, rights, Jesus murals, and a particularly memorable warning: avoid the hole with rats. Memorising it was impossible. We were doomed from the start.

We stumbled into a quiet corner. Too quiet. Almost dangerously quiet. And then there they were: three young men stationed at the same flimsy plastic table, arms crossed, eyes sharp. The businessmen.

Callum and I stopped speaking mid-sentence.

There was a strange telepathic agreement in that silence—a sort of shared panic that communicated: do not attract attention, do not breathe too loudly, and do not trip over rising dread.

Instinctively, we picked up the pace and kept our heads down, pretending that the table overflowing with green packages was, in fact, a perfectly innocent pile of very enthusiastic lettuce.

My eyes stared stubbornly straight ahead, desperately attempting to ignore the whispers of mischief: Do not look at the bin bags. Do not inquire about discounts. Or strains. And under no circumstances should you grab a bag and run for cover.

An eternity passed. In practical terms, it was about thirty-seven seconds, but it felt more like a century if you happened to be standing in front of several extremely suspicious human beings.

As their gazes drilled into us, I was fairly certain that any remaining hope of leaving this scene unscathed had just quietly packed its bags to a nicer destination.

Without warning, the businessmen lunged forward, barking in paranoid Portuguese at a speed and pitch that was frantically undecipherable—half of it sounded like riddles, half like threats. I understood precisely none of it. But the message was obvious. We were not in control. Not even a little bit.

“Camisas para cima! (Shirts up!)” One of them yelled.

We obliged. Immediately and without argument. Up they went like surrender flags, revealing our pale, undeniably unarmed torsos, which were far from threatening. Were they inspecting us for firearms? For a wire? Alien implants? A suspicious tan line test to separate gringos from gangsters? We couldn’t tell. But whatever they were measuring, it did not pass the test.

Our compliance only seemed to make things worse. Suspicion sharpened. Our silence, which we fondly considered to be ‘innocent,’ was instead interpreted as ‘weird, unsettling, and exactly the sort of behaviour displayed by people who are probably smuggling something highly suspicious.’ Which, in retrospect, was entirely fair. We were, in fact, both of those things—and we might have been smuggling something.

All of their fingers twitched near small silver pistols neatly cradled in the front of their Adidas waistbands.

In a moment of clarity, slightly tainted by fear, it occurred to me that I did not know how to say “please don’t shoot me” in Portuguese…