16.8.2016.
My free, day off. Slightly cloudy, but dry. I decided to spend it on research and solitude. I went to Barra de Tijuca in order to grab the new, available metro line and thus reach Ipanema. I wanted to spend some moments by the lagoon Rodrigo de Freitas. I went down on one of the subway stations to record the atmosphere of the Favela Rocinha, even from a distance. The thought of visiting favela Vidigal is not leaving me. They say it’s the only pacified favela in Rio de Janeiro. On a photograph in which I am trying to keep the favela display, the church prevails in its greatness. One at the bottom of the hill. Makes you ask yourself once again where God is in such shocking inequalities. The church is very often distinguished within the favela itself. It is the only building that stands out in this multitude of colors. They say that within the favela there are completely fine houses, but that they are not distinguished from others in their own outward appearance. They say that there are those who can afford to leave the favela, but they do not want, they are adults, they are used to it. I can completely understand that just thinking about how much of the Belgrade blocks of flats came to my heart. No matter how more human these blocks are than favelas, I believe favelas have more life, more passion. I have the impression that the if match fell, it would not fall on an empty space, there is no single empty spot.
I reach the lagoon and walk down the streets that separate it from the ocean, still not feeling the ocean in my vicinity.
I feel the ocean only when I reach the Copacabana streets, from where I grab the subway and continue to the Gloria. Marina de Glória, the place where Ognjen and I completed our previous research. I drifted a little south. The clock pointer is approaching the midday. It’s quiet, there’s no hustle and bustle of the Olympic City and I like it. I go to the shops full of fruits and vegetables, looking at it with admiration as if I’m looking at the most beautiful wardrobe. I go out again, walk smoothly, watch people, their faces, quietness or loudness as they watch small screens in numerous bars, which are very small inside, opened doors, with several tables and a bar in the background above which the TV is hanging. I am looking at the side streets that are so narrow in moments, it is only possible to see a small part of the hills in the background and several favela houses. Most attention is attracted to buildings, ornaments, balconies poured into iron. If I had to describe in four words, I would say – the remains of colonialism. Yes, the remains of the Portuguese Empire. Remnants that are visible have been collapsing for decades. The remnants that hint at the former glow of a mighty empire that had retreated and those exploited left in poverty. It left a culture that continued to collapse along with these buildings.
At times, I believed I was walking through Lisbon, but in some other world. In the world where Lisbon has grown old, become a tired, sad, old man who has been slapped by its own life.
Those narrow, Mediterranean windows, opened at some places. I wonder if anyone lives there. This monotony of gloomy, faded colors is broken by new, loaded advertisements, the black spray inscriptions, and Palacio to Catete which decisively holds dignity. I look at the goods of the street sellers and sweets packed in transparent foils, such as Doce de Batata. It associates me with caramels, and it is also sold in larger pieces, like white halva.
I arrive at the Parque Museu de República. Through the park, an exhibition of photographs depicting women who fled from war in different countries and settled in Brazil was set up next to the museum.
The Sun shone in the afternoon hours and I felt hungry. I decided to finally try these tapioca pancakes about which I listened so much. It is prepared on the street and I stop by one stand to taste it. One lady and the gentleman are preparing pancakes. She draws flour, bakes them on three warm surfaces. I carefully watch, trying to remember the process of preparation. It works simpler than I thought and I’m surprised to see that the filling is placed on a pancake while it is still in the frying pan and warm. Excellent, I was completely thrilled with this combination of soft and crispy, with the salty filling
Still chewing, I continue along Rua to Cateta and arrive at a small square called Largo do Machado, which is also the three-border area of Glória, Catete, and Flamengo. I sit there in the park overlooking the church of Nossa Senhora de Glória.
However, I choose to continue my journey through Flamengo, where a different reality awaits me. It’s like I found the key to the door that brought me to another world. I do not know if it is better, but certainly, the world in which I somehow feel more protected. The streets are covered with lush greenery surrounded by beautiful courtyards and also beautiful houses. Trees lured me to Rua Paissandu and I surrendered to that street. Through the whole neighborhood and high palms trees, Jesus rise. With its magnificence, in its entire beauty, stands out Palacio Guanabara, the headquarters of the Rio de Janeiro government. Some say the former White House of Brazil.
Fruit seller is pushing a large amount of fruit on two-wheelers. Most people are in front of the lottery store. The window is covered with countless different tickets, different colors, and probably different premiums. They say that adherence to the lottery follows the level of poverty.
I’m entering the park, leaving Flamengo, walking toward Botafogo Bay. In front of me, Pao de Açúcar rises or well-known Sugarloaf. I am walking around the walkway and I try to absorb every moment, to be truly aware that I am there. Kids play volleyball on the sand. I’m taking off my shoes and stepping on it. It’s still cold, but not like that night on Copacabana. I sit on the sand and studying the map. Brazilians always try to help. A gentleman with a daughter came to me and asked me if I needed help. I tell him that I know there is a Carmen Miranda Museum in the area where I would like to go, but I can not locate it precisely. He says it’s locked up for renovation. I thank him warmly. This is how I call a good heart and local soul, how long would I search for it just to come across a locked door?
Sava messaged me. It says to me that he is near Copacabana where we could have a drink and a relaxed evening by the ocean. I’m stepping into the subway.
There is much more hustle in the streets of Copacabana. Many sellers put their handmade work on the sidewalk. One of them makes hats from palm leaves.
A lot of street artists are on the beach. There is Copacabana stadium, beach volleyball arena, I can hear spectators cheering in excitement. There is an exotic atmosphere on the beach. Sava and I sit down on the sand, close to the ocean and talk about earlier adventures. The beach volleyball match is over and the beach became crowded, before being left by hundreds of spectators.
We sit in one of the nearby bars, at the outer table, practically on the street and order dinner. For a while, we continue our adventure stories. He tells me about life on board, about various harbors, about the Caribbean. He says he visited Jamaica. He tells me that after a while you stop remembering destinations, you just remember the feelings you’ve had in some places. You remember love. The love that sometimes teases you to stay in such distant places. He told me some really wise words about love, about how it is the driver of everything. It really is…
19.8.2016.
This time I started my exploration at Uruguaiana Station with the intention of dedicating my afternoon to the books. Manja sent me a picture of a library that looks like it’s from a fairy tale. It looks like a place where wizards study, as an angle in which I would close and would not go out for years! At the same time, I knew that I had to find it, it would be my search for a treasure chest in the sea called Rio de Janeiro.
The Real Gabinete Portuges de Leitura is located in the heart of the square surrounded by Boulevard of Presidente Vargas in the north, Carioca Street in the south, Uruguaiana Street in the east and Boulevard Passos in the west. These four streets limit a world in which there is constant mock and togetherness of the past and present, security and danger, width and closeness, silence and crowd, fear and freedom, purity and dirt. Each time I enter into this world, in my mind, fear and decisiveness clash. However, bravely leaving the Presidente Vargas Boulevard, I enter Passos Street, and then I sail into that world. In my pocket, I wear a torn piece of a map, one that covers this square. I sweep through the narrow streets and innumerable stalls. Street food sellers are everywhere. The doors of many buildings are completely abandoned and sealed. As if in dozens of these buildings that surround these streets absolutely nobody lives. Buildings are empty of those who live in them. The streets are full of those who have no place to live anywhere else.
I see the library. A few meters from the entrance, one beggar sleeps. I can see a few more besides the painted walls and pierced windows of the surrounding buildings.
The library building is beautiful! Above the entrance, there are flags of Brazil and Portugal. To my enormous disappointment, the fence is closed, there is no access to it. I read the inscription at the entrance. The library is closed for renovation, but for my tremendous relief, it will be open before I leave Rio de Janeiro.
For a few minutes, I look around, I look again at those blurred windows. I’m looking at this empty, slightly small square. Behind it, new buildings rise proudly and say that they are living a life.
I continue a little more to break into Sete de Setembro. The bookcase that I want to find is on that street. I walk past the Teatro João Caetano Theater and continue on the sidewalk. I can see the Saraiva bookmark. I spent some time there. Yes, there is a whole section of the Portuguese translation of the Little Prince (O Pequeno Principe), made in different formats.
I continued down the same street until I reached the boulevard Rio Branco, which took me on a little longer walk to the Olympic Boulevard, Museum of Tomorrow (Museu do Amanhã), and the ocean itself. The boulevard and the pier are very lively. I feel that smell of salt. It gives me that smell and sound that seagulls sprout. I needed that rest along the water, before sunset. The museum has some terrifying grandiosity. I’m trying to define, whether on a submarine, whether on a shark that threatens to catch us at any moment with its jaws, whether on a spaceship that already casts a shadow on humanity. Whatever is the association, its essence is as scary as the outside. This museum strives to combine science and art with an emphasis on the direction in which the world is going, and this direction is terrifying. Through its setting, the museum raises questions and answers that humanity has to move towards a sustainable life. Amanhã means tomorrow, and the museum’s creators want to say that this dystopian future is not that far.
I use a little more daylight to figure out the surrounding streets of this “ocean corridor”. With a twilight, the Mediterranean is born briefly, mixed with the spirit of Harlem. At the corner of one street, one gentleman plays the saxophone. Behind him, there is a street filled with tables covered with plaid tablecloths and refreshments. Those who, despite so many free chairs do not find their place on them, sit on the thresholds of the buildings. Some sell artworks. Some in working uniforms, walk with their heads down, probably taking a respite after work. Some people pause and chat with them.
It’s getting darker. I buy one churros filled with chocolate and hit the metro. I am determined to find the artistic spot on Ipanema this time.
21.8.2018.
Sunday morning. That’s how I feel as if somebody here in Taquara’s district is going to prepare me a hot meal. It will not happen, but I definitely want to go to a market, Feira de Glória.
I’m starting to recognize faces in this city. A few days ago, I met a trainer of the Japanese swimmer in front of the Olympic Park, whose triumph I followed, from the last moments of preparation before the race to the winner’s stand. However, this is nothing compared to the fact that I begin to meet the same persons in different parts of the city.
I’m going out by the Glória district, at the metro station of the same name. I go through a market that is located on the edge of Praça Paris, and I continue down the street Rua da Glória and quickly enter the street Rua da Lappa, the district I just want to meet. To my knowledge, Lappa at night is the same as Bairro Alto at night in Lisbon. The Bohemian district that wakes up with the first dusk. Last night, Sava and I wanted to come here, but we stayed in our neighborhood, watching the youth getting ready and waiting for a taxi.
Now, this neighborhood is visibly in sleep and that daily dream causes fear in the heart. It’s empty. Everywhere around me is almost an obscene, colorful dishonor.
At moments, the sounds of street music players slow me down and make me stop for pleasure, the next moment, the nearby group on the corner is horrifying and speeding me up.
I go to Teixeira de Freitas streets, which leads me to Republica do Paraguai street and look over the quite unusual cathedral of San Sebastian (Catedral de São Sebastião).
Many talked to me about the famous Lappa Stairs. I’m standing next to the aqueduct and I know they are somewhere nearby, but I also know that one wrong turn can cost me the next few hours. I’m looking at graffiti at the corner of Evaristo da Veiga Street. One of those graffiti that walk you through civilization.
Walking into the street Joaquim Silva is somewhere like going to the Gardoš. A little inclined, cobblestone street. I realize that I was already on the edge of this street, but on the other side, at the entrance from the boulevard Augusto Severo. A multitude of colorful graffiti and brightly colored balconies, doors, and scales, in the fight with the grayness. Just before the end of the street, the presence of a large number of people gives me a reason to believe that I am at my destination. I wasn’t wrong. On the next corner proudly opens the stepped Manuel Carneiro street.
I was thrilled! To the core intrigued by the story of each of the tiles of this mosaic, as well as those whose faces showed from the windows and the balcony just above.
Each, each tile of this mosaic has its own story, its history! I am surprised by the number of Dutch motifs, those traditional ones, on a blue-and-white background. I climb to the top of the stairs. What I see from the height is the mixture of the cosmopolitan spirit and the socialist, bloc’s melancholy on a predominantly bright, white background. I wish I was here when the city was bathed in the sun.
The message sound interrupts my thinking. It is Sava’s colleague. He says he can definitely sell me the ticket for the closing ceremony, but I have to tell him as soon as I agree, otherwise, he can sell it to another person. If I agree, I should be in Barra de Tijuca in an hour to take the ticket from him in the Olympic Park where he is now finishing the shift. I was reluctant. Thoughts were fighting in me, one devoted to the needs for silence, the other devoted to the consciousness that I was given a unique opportunity to attend this historical moment that the whole world will watch, but still not being sure with whom I am trading. Thoughts did not have much time, because I had to decide as soon as possible, and the ceremony itself was also getting closer to the point.
A decision is made. I am going down the stairs and hit the metro station. “You had better come as soon as you can, you’ll need a lot of time to reach Maracana,” he wrote.
Author: Ivana Banković
The Volunteer's Journal 