downtown Manhattan. They would be that much more chauvinistic of their city that never sleeps. They would be, in effect, Cariocas. While São Paulo is most often compared to the Big Apple (both are each country’s biggest metropolis, both account for a healthy share of each country’s economy), Rio, with its many comparisons to San Francisco (its European feel, its trolley cars, its large gay population), may indeed be best considered the “Big Pineapple” of Brazil. This simply by virtue of its people: chauvinistic to the point of jingoism, and with a jeito malandro (a New York swagger, if you will) all their own that sustains their identity with their hard-knock city.As for Minas, many of my Mineiro friends have proudly claimed their state to be the Texas of Brazil. It’s one of the biggest states in Brazil, it prides itself on its traditionalism, and the virile image of the tropeiro (responsible for seeing goods in and out of Minas on treacherous 18th and 19th century roads) parallels that of the Texas cowboy. The biggest difference that sticks out between Minas and Texas is that the latter has a coast. The Gulf of Mexico may not be the crystalline blue waters of the open Atlantic, but it gives Texas a coast nonetheless. Landlocked Mineiros claim that that’s the only thing keeping Minas from being the perfect state; it already has mountains, forests, and a heart as big as, well, Minas.
(There’s a saying in Minas that goes: “Já que Minas não tem mar, eu vou pro bar” – “Since Minas has no sea, I’m going to the bar.”)
In the absence of ocean, neighboring Espírito Santo state has become somewhat of a colony of Minas, with the small beach town Guarapari attracting the most Mineiros to its sands. My roommate, Ricardo, is a Capixaba (an indigenous word used to refer to inhabitants of Espírito Santo), and he says it’s easy to spot Mineiros on the shores of his state: they’re the ones ripping off their outer-garments and running and screaming in an ecstatic frenzy into the waters they’ve been so deprived of.
Mineiros with a bit more money will head to the white sand beaches and glass-colored icy lagoons of aptly named Cabo Frio (“Cold Cape”) on the far eastern tip of the state of Rio de Janeiro. There, Antarctic waters cool off a mix of Mineiros, Cariocas, and Capixabas, slow-cooked under Brazil’s ferocious summer sun.
Only the wealthy and brave among Mineiros opt to prop up their beach umbrellas and sip on Skols or Caipirinhas on the beaches of Rio de Janeiro the city.
The names Copacabana and Ipanema are well ingrained in every Brazilian’s mind, and many an American’s as well. Ipanema conjures up images crafted by Tom Jobim in the immortal Bossa Nova standard “The Girl from Ipanema,” while Copacabana gets catalogued in our minds under the same tropical paradise category as Cancún. Perhaps that’s why you’re likely to find more Gringos than Mineiros among all the Cariocas on these and other (Leblon, Barra, Praia Vermelha) world famous beaches of Rio.
Really, when we Americans think of Brazil,
we think Rio. The name Rio stirs up visions of Latin sensuality, of beaches full of beautiful women in skimpy bikinis, and muscular surfer/soccer-player guys with equally revealing
sungas (what Brazilians call Speedos). We more than half-expect samba music to be playing naturally in the air, and sex on the beach to be more than just a drink in Rio. What we don’t expect, and why it takes a brave Mineiro to get their beach-fix in Rio, is the “Jeito Carioca,” a Carioca’s will to make ripping off tourists their livelihood.Recently the weekly TV show CQC, the Brazilian equivalent of “The Daily Show”, aired a special report about the honesty of cab drivers in Rio. One reporter took a taxi from one point of the city to another, chatted with the cabby, spoke in a Carioca accent, and overall made it obvious that he was a local. His fare came to around 12 reais. Another reporter got in another cab, took the same route, spoke in broken Portuguese to fake being a foreigner, and ended up with a fare of 60 reais. When a third reporter came up to the second cab driver and asked him if he thought Brazilians were “an honest people,” the driver emphatically said yes. When the reporter then confronted him with the stunt they had just pulled on him, the cabby sped off without so much as a word.
In my recent trip to Rio with a couple of friends, we were lucky to not run into anything near the second cab driver. The worst we encountered was a cabby who pilfered us for 2 more reais on our fare by pointing to his confusing “Fare Chart” that all of Rio’s taxi drivers keep on their dashboards, which they’ll expect naïve tourists to take it as Gospel when they use it as “proof” that their fare is more than what the meter says. In a not-so-ambassadorial moment, I gave that particular driver his 2 reais, told him where he could stick his chart, and slammed the door, hopefully giving him the hint that his tricks won’t work on every tourist, though it's not very likely. His antics likely came because the trip was a short one, and I didn’t get the chance to make small talk with him. With every other cab the three of us got into, I made it a point to talk with the driver, catching him (or the occasional her) off guard with my nearly perfect Portuguese. By the end of the route, there was no way he/she could rip me off after such a pleasant conversation, or witnessing the miracle of an American that actually spoke his/her language.
Aside from the Jeito Carioca, Mineiros have a better sense than the average naïve American tourist about the dangers that lurk in Rio’s shadows. Such films as City of God, Bus 174, and the recent smash hit Tropa de Elite (which, if it ever comes out in the U.S.—doubtful because Brazilians were outraged that it got snubbed at the Oscars after winning several top awards at other international film festivals—will be called Elite Squad) are all a Mineiro needs to see to know that Rio isn’t Minas, just like New York isn’t Texas. The first and third films are based on true stories, while the second uses media footage of an actual bus hijacking in 2000. Yes, unfortunately, there’s no denying that Rio is notorious for its high crime rate. I’m happy to say, though, that by acknowledging this sad truth I have ceased to be an average naïve American tourist, and have instead become more of a Mineiro. A brave Mineiro. Brave, but not foolish. Rio loses some of its teeth when you know where you can walk and when, and who you can trust and how. But it can still bite, so it’s important to never let your guard down. (I guess what I’m trying to say is, Chuck, after I’ve likely scared the crap out of you with this post, I can honestly say your daughter is safer with no better American than me for the two days she’ll be in Rio).
So what did this brave Mineiro-American do with his two amazing friends and travel-buddies Pamela and Andy during his 10 days in Carioca-land? Everything, and then some.
I got in on a late Friday afternoon to our hotel for the week+, Margarida’s Pousada, a cozy guesthouse nestled in the heart of Ipanema. I arrived to find Margarida, herself, screaming into the telephone at the cable company for taking away her international cable while she was recently away in the U.S. visiting her newborn grandson. While at first afraid that I had booked us in a hotel run by a grouchy old lady, Margarida, a grandmotherly and lovingly dry Portuguese woman in her 70s, turned a warm smile to me as soon as she hung up the phone and led me to our room. Indeed, her demeanor proved to be the opposite of the malicious malandragem of the Jeito Carioca; as Pamela said, she turned Rio into “Margarida-ville.” Every morning she would make us eggs for breakfast, everyday she would let us use her phone to call cabs or points of interest, every evening she would offer to make us a cup of tea if we needed one, which we did for 4 of the first five days. Saturday’s marvelous day-at-the-beach weather turned into rain, wind and cold from Sunday through Wednesday, making us feel more in a Cape Cod fall than a Rio of any season. Yet with Margarida’s cheer, eggs, phone, and tea, we made the most of what could’ve turned into a miserable first half to our holiday.
Sunday saw us prepared to drown our sorrows in a mix of rain and beer. We hit about three bars in the afternoon before capping off the night with creamy draughts and a giant helping of Portuguese- style beef stew at Jobi, a local dive infiltrated every now and then by savvy tourists like ourselves. Over our Monday morning eggs, we vowed not to spend another day as woeful barflies, and decided, perhaps a bit brashly, to devote most of the day wandering the trails of the Tijuca National Forest. Tijuca is the largest urban nature reserve in the world, in which ancient Atlantic Forest has been left in pristine condition, save the trails and roads. The day proved even rainier than Sunday, but the canopy kept us somewhat protected, and what misery the rain sent our way we took in a perpetual state of denial, telling ourselves over and over again that it’s only natural it should be raining in a rainforest. After I
got us lost on a trail that would’ve taken us to see some caves, we backtracked to find the road, which we took to the forest’s lone restaurant to eat a lunch of delicious steak sandwiches. On what should’ve been an easy trek back to the entrance of the park, I managed to get us lost again on a trail that, to my credit, did not follow the plan of the map we got at the visitors center. Again, the road became our saving grace; we followed it to the Ranger’s station to call a cab to take us back to Ipanema and civilization. That night, after hot showers to wash the forest from our memory, we went and saw the second Incredible Hulk movie at a posh theatre in Leblon’s one-year-old glistening castle of a shopping mall. While the acting was terrible (Liv Tylor and Ed Norton had ironically no chemistry together whatsoever for playing bio-chemists), the first half-hour of the movie was exciting, filmed on-site in Rio’s Rocinha favela, the largest in Brazil, and indeed the perfect place for Bruce Banner to hide from the U.S. Government. It was especially exciting for me, thinking that Americans would see this movie back home and realize after the first few minutes that—at the very least—Brazilians do not speak Spanish.Tuesday’s rain led us again to seek non-beach-related Rio activities—no easy feat. We opted,
after seeing Rocinha on film, to see the real thing. With a reputable guide, of course. We booked a three-hour tour with the Lonely Planet-recommended Favelatour, an organization that takes tourists to see “the other side of Rio.” The three of us, along with two Brits, two Irish girls, and two Turks, were shown a school in the smaller Canoas favela before being led on a tour through its winding stairs and walkways between the trademark agglomerations of small and colorful brick houses, stacked three or four high. Masses of electrical wires clung like black cobwebs to utility poles. An electrical engineer’s nightmare. Amid the black tangles, blue wires were easily identifiable: broadband. Certainly, no two favelas are alike, but this clued us in that while the other side 
of Rio may be poor, it’s not completely miserable. After Canoas the tour took us to Rocinha, the mother of all favelas. As we took its one winding road from the bottom to the top of the bairro—a road that used to be part of a Formula One racetrack—we saw shops, national banks, and even a Bob’s Burger restaurant, a national fastfood chain. From the top, we caught a spectacular view of Rocinha juxtaposed with its affluent neighbor, São Conrado. In a world where a curtain is often drawn between the many divisions between rich and poor, at the top of Rocinha, perhaps more than anywhere else in Brazil—or the world—that curtain has been flung wide open.
Wednesday’s rain took us to Centro, Rio’s financial and historical headquarters. The first stop was the Metropolitan Cathedral, an alien-looking modern cone structure with a capacity for 20,000 worshippers. After a walk through Centro’s pedestrian market,
bustling even in a downpour, we had a taxi take us to the Escadaria Salerón, Rio’s famous brightly colored tiled steps in historic Santa Teresa. Upon returning to Ipanema, we noticed the clouds starting to break just a little, and so Andy and I decided to take a photographic safari of Ipanema beach. While devoid of the throngs of Cariocas and tourists of Saturday, we caught a spirited soccer game on the sand right before yet another front came in and blew the last few shreds of blue sky away.
That night, we held our breath, hoping that we’d be awoken by the sun piercing through our window blinds.
It did. God must indeed be Brazilian. Thursday became a day of catching up for lost weather. We had met a lovely Australian couple at our pousada the day before, and they invited us to go hang-gliding with them that morning. Rio was to be their penultimate stop before a week in Spain and then finally a new life in London (the penultimate of an 8-month series of stops together through Latin America, which included, among other things, a 30-hour bus ride from Bolivia into Brazil), and they, Al and Lara, were looking to do something crazy. We couldn’t pass up the chance to do it with them. The company we booked, Just Fly, took us to the top of a mountain overlooking São Conrado. You couldn’t help but notice Rocinha’s presence just nextdoor, nor subsequently not feel lucky to be on this one of the two mountains. After a quick (frightfully quick), dare I say “crash course” in how to run off a cliff strapped to a glider (“look to the horizon and don’t stop running”), my tandem pilot and I were the first to take off. The feeling of soaring above the forest, the city, the beach, rising and falling with the change in gusts, hearing the wind fly past your ears in a low whistle, is indescribable. If anything, it makes you wish humans had been born with wings. After about a 10-minute flight, we landed on São Conrado beach in what my pilot later told me was bad wind shear. I watched Andy do the same, and then we both waited for over an hour for Pamela, Al, and Lara to make their descent, watching as glider after glider (and one parasail) came down before them. We later learned that the landing area had been red-flagged for poor wind conditions right after Andy’s flight, leading the reputable Just Fly to not take any chances. Meanwhile (and this is malandragem Carioca at its best) the gliders that did come down were rogue companies that disobeyed wind conditions, taking tourists on flights for a fraction of what we paid. While it cost more, I much preferred the route we took.
The trio finally came down, we were dropped off back at the hotel, then after some time apart off doing our separate things, the three Americans and the two Aussies met again by chance on top of one of the new Seven Wonders of the World, the Christ the Redeemer statue. Up there, you’re surrounded by postcard views. We watched the sunset at Jesus’ feet, took a cab back to Ipanema, and then went out to dinner and a few drinks—which, as so often can happen, turned into a few drinks until 5am. We figured after the gloomy first half of the trip, we deserved every minute of our first dry day.
Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, each dryer, sunnier, and warmer than the other, were spent predominantly at the beach, mostly Ipanema, but also the larger, dirtier, and more touristy Copacabana. Drunk with sun, we ended our holiday in Rio with a soccer match at the Mecca of the sport, Maracanã Stadium, between local rivals Fluminense and Botafogo. The game itself was ugly, played almost exclusively between each teams’ reserves as Fluminense was playing in the Copa Libertadores (the premier Latin American championship) final that following Wednesday (which they ended up losing to LDU of Ecuador on PKs). Still, the experience of being there—in kick-ass seats that we scored from talking to the right security guard—watching soccer where soccer gained its soul, under the left arm of Christ the Redeemer, was the greatest way we could’ve ended the trip.
The next morning we said our goodbyes to Margarida, I saw Andy and Pamela off at the airport as they set off for their next leg of their whirlwind tour of South America in Buenos Aires, and I hopped on a non-air-conditioned bus that sped on the curvy “highway” back to Belo Horizonte.After waking up in my "own bed" Tuesday morning, and breakfast without Margarida's eggs (though with Skippy Super Chunk peanut butter on a roll, thanks to Pamela), I headed into the heart of Coração Eucarístico to pick up some groceries to fill my bare cupboards. On the walk over, and in the aisles of the supermarket itself, I noticed something I hadn't felt for the last ten days. People were staring at me. True, I'd been living in the bairro for some five months now, but my neon whiteness still glowed that much more in virtually tourist-free BH. In Rio, though I was always the target of street/sand vendors hawking their wares with key words in English they had perfected over the years ("hey, my friend," "beer," "very cheap") well-to-do Cariocas, not keen on wielding their natural malandragem on tourists, wouldn't have batted an eye had I walked down the street in an American flag sunga with George W.'s face tattooed on my chest. The stares from my fellow Belohorizontinians reinforced the truth from back at the beginning of this post: Minas is Texas, Rio is New York. My Brazilian equivalent in Texas (unless he were in progressive Austin) would be getting the same stares from Texans, while a New Yorker would just bump right into him while walking by on the streets of Manhattan, not caring where he was from.
In a strange way, it's just another reminder of how much more similar than different we crazy human beings are in this world.
