Expect Anarchy in Rio

by Ariel Fried (Canada)

I didn't expect to find Brazil

As I prepared my bags for the flight to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, I was being told, for what seemed to be the hundredth time, how unsafe Rio has become. My girlfriend, a Carioca (the colloquial word for a Rio local), was bringing me to visit her family for the very first time. She had moved to Canada just over a year ago, and this was her first trip back home since. I am no virgin when it comes to traveling to South America. My mother comes from Argentina, and I still have family there. In fact, I was in Argentina during their infamous default back in 2001. That was chaos. That was scary. My family made a quick decision and decided to head to the safer pastures of Brazil (at the time). That was the last time I was in Brazil, as a matter of fact. And this time, arriving in Rio as a pasty, ginger, white kid with a Canadian accent, it didn’t matter how good (or bad) my Portuguese was, I was labelled as a tourist the moment I got off the plane, just as I was named a gringo every time I visited South America before then. I kept insisting to Nathalia, my girlfriend, that I’ll be fine; I joked that my biggest threat in Rio will be the Sun. I wasn’t entirely wrong. Nathalia, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure. Maybe that doesn’t properly describe her level of fear. She was petrified for me. She tried to convince me not to go until my own mother sat down with her and told her I’d be fine. Nathalia lived in the suburbs of Rio, on a street that borders the Ciudade de Deus, meaning City of God. If that name rings a bell, it’s because there is a popular movie that shares the same title, highlighting the gang, gun, and drug issues of the area. Ciudade de Deus is a Favela after all, and I was informed you do not enter into Favelas. While I felt relatively safe throughout the majority of the trip, the fear gripping Rio is real. And there is good cause. After the holidays, Rio de Janeiro felt a city on the brink of anarchy. It was palpable. Politicians were corrupt. Police were corrupt. And those who weren’t were literally being killed. In the suburbs of Rio, you don’t stop for traffic lights at night; someone may be waiting at the intersection with a gun. During the day, you ignore the gunshots that ring out around the area. In the morning, you hear news of banks being bombed, and people in cars being killed for not giving over their wallet fast enough to a gun-toting robber. When you get back home, you hear about a police officer that was killed in a McDonalds you visited a week before, when he heroically tried to stop a robbery. He was decimated by multiple rounds; never standing a chance. These are all real, and most Carioca’s would tell you, pretty normal occurrences in Rio on the average day. But not during the holidays. From mid December to early January, a transparent veil is dropped over the city. Police are out in force. Christmas lights decorate every shop. Positivity fills the air. And the city comes together. Rio was warm, but the people were warmer. The main interactions I had were with locals loving the Flamengo jersey I adorned from time to time. Christmas time brought people together like I’ve never seen before. It was like all the chaotic mess that I heard about before, and sadly witnessed after, was hit with a pause button that everybody took seriously. The only pops I heard were fireworks on New Years; the only screaming I heard was from revellers on the beach. I played soccer with locals, I walked the beach with an expensive camera and Ray Ban shades, and I danced like the Jewish white-boy I am in the Lapa district. If only Cariocas cared about each other like they did during Christmas, the South American city would rise again to become the juggernaut of fun and warmth that it once was known to be.