By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
Landing in Rio de Janiero for the first time is an experience that you never forget. The plane comes in low over the mountains, the city lights glisten beneath you, Christ the Redeemer stands tall and proud embracing the splendour of Brazil's former capital. The moon, reflected in the sea, washes up on the shores of Rio's long beaches. But the realities of life for the traveller are not shared by the majority of Rio's residents, and I was not there for a conventional holiday. I was preparing for the fairytale told by the aerial view of this famed city to be overwritten the next day as I started volunteering in a notorious favela on the outskirts. The morning confirmed my fears, as taxi after taxi refused to take me to the favela. After half an hour of trying and failing, my luck changed and I slipped into the front seat of a run down Audi, more apprehensive than I had been when I had set off that morning. The driver signalled that I should take my belt off. For a moment I was confused, but then I remembered what I had read before I came: wearing a seatbelt prevents quick escape from the car in case of shootings or any other trouble. As we drove in silence, the roads became less and less populated, shops more sparse. The lights of Rio were being left on the other side of the bridge. Suddenly we were in the favela; fruit sellers set up on every corner, stray dogs walking aimlessly in hope of food, young children walking between cars selling popcorn in broken trainers. The driver raised his eyebrows as if to say 'are you sure you want to go on?'. I looked straight ahead through the windscreen. This was the furthest away from home I'd ever been. I could have turned back and joined the other tourists on Ipanema or Copacabana, but something told me I had to see Rio for myself; not just the glamorous hotspots, but everything. I couldn't allow myself to leave without having explored the unexplored. So we drove on, and eventually I found myself at the top of a steep street, a playing field to my left and a school, graffitied with the words 'Everyone can dream' sprayed onto its wall, to my right. I made my way down to the school, where I was to be volunteering for the next five weeks. The gate was high, and locked. I peered through the rusty bars, and the man on the other side who held the keys looked back blankly. He had a gentle face; his eyes spoke a hundred kind words, but it was clear he did not know why I was there and he was not going to let me in. After a few minutes hovering outside, someone came out of the school building and said something to him. He looked at me and smiled, placing the key in the lock. I made to go in, but he blocked my path and came out instead. The students were already on the field, he said, as he pointed back in the direction I'd come. He shuffled along, opting for the road rather than the pavement and beckoning me to follow. When we reached the field, I looked down to see a small army of students, some as young as six, kicking and passing rugby balls. The sun shone down hard, illuminating their small frames in gold as they smiled and laughed, running barefoot along the patchy grass. One of them looked up, and called out: 'Miss?'. I smiled back and nodded. He continued to run. Looking at that field, surrounded by greenery and happy faces, I forgot where I was. I had that same magical feeling of landing in Rio, but this time the glistening lights, the fairytale ending was these children and their dreams and they were the ones bringing me back down to earth.