Iguazu Falls, and Flying in Rio de Janeiro

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Is Rio dangerous? Yes. Is it beautiful? Unbelievably so. Are the beaches amazing? Absolutely. The women? Don’t get me started. The food? Unlike Argentina, here they actually spice the meat! Expensive? Like Chile, but a lot more then Argentina. Copacabana? The famous beach is still gorgeous but is ridden with prostitutes and not safe to walk at night, or so I am told. Ipanema? With adjacent Leblon, it is the most expensive suburb in South America, or so I am told. The Corcovado Cross? Huge. The sea? Warm. The waves? Big. Tell me about the hang gliding? OK.

But first. I arrived at night, well aware of Rio’s unsavory reputation. After Lima and La Paz, I was taking it with a grain of kosher salt, but then I met a young couple in Foz who were mugged in Rio the night before, and then I saw just how close the slum favelas were to the beach, and then I saw the police helicopters with gunmen flying about, and cops with thousand-yard stares, and the glares of half-naked men with wicked intentions, and suddenly, I wasn’t so brave. With no contacts whatsoever, I headed for a hostel named Che Legarto in Ipanema, even though it cost a whopping $20US a night for a dorm bed (other hostels in Copacabana range between $15 ≠ 18US, which ain’t so sweet either). Even here, I did not feel safe, and was recommended not to walk alone at night. I befriended Shem from New York (who is often mistaken for the “bad guy in Shaft” or the new Batman, Christian Bale) and we met up with his pals who now live in Rio. “Rio is like everywhere else,” explains Scott, a TV producer. “It’s just that being at the wrong place at the wrong time seems to happen here a lot more.” Like my former life in Johannesburg, everyone he knew had been affected by violent crime in some way or another. “Things are getting worse,” says the lovely Carolina, my server at a bar. “I have two degrees, and cannot find any work!” I ask the same question I ask everywhere: Are you positive about the future in your country?

“I am leaving this country,” says Daniel, an actor. “I just cannot take it anymore. If I find somewhere good, my parents will follow.” All this was sounding distressing familiar, except Rio has the most incredible white sandy beaches, a laid-way-back way of life, street parties of such vibrancy the cobblestones of St Theresa practically rattle, and a natural setting nothing short of spectacular. On Sunday I walked for hours from Ipanema to Copacabana, gawking at the dental floss bikinis and so many happy, beaming families. Families from the right side of the favelas, that is. “We have an unofficial civil war,” explains Daniel. Just a few weeks ago, a favela exploded and 30 people were killed. But lying on a beach, all that is a world away, somewhere behind you, like a few kilometers behind you, to be exact. Meanwhile in Lapa, people are getting sloshed on the streets as plastic stools and a tablecloth constitute a bar, music is everywhere, laughs and screams and so much colour. I catch a 9-piece world-class samba band and the staff is literally bouncing as they pour stiff caprinheas. There is a huge stadium erected on Copacabana for the FIFA Beach Soccer World Cup, and I catch a few matches to watch men dance and dazzle with a soccer ball. Spain beat Thailand, South Africa got creamed by the Ukraine, the crowd hissed at Argentina destroying Australia and I couldn’t get into a Brazilian game. Prostitutes roam the bars in such numbers that Scott was concerned if his new girlfriend might be “working on the side”, and everywhere I see old foreign men with gorgeous young Brazilian girls. “With social conditions like this,” says Adam, “women put security before love.” Wealth, passion, poverty, heat, sex, drugs and dreams… Rio is ground zero. And the best place to see it is from the sky.

When I was five-years old, I saw a Blue Stratus aftershave commercial which made me want to fly. The advert had some chiseled blonde schmuck in red spandex hang gliding through the Alps, and I thought it was just the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Further along the coast from Ipanema is the wealthy suburb of Sao Lonrado, which has a natural mountain reserve perfect for hang gliding and paragliding. Tandem flights for both are available, and I found Pedro, who has been gliding since he was 15, and who showed me pictures of his dad in the World Championships in Austria from the 1970’s. Flying is in his blood. He picked me up in his dune buggy; apologizing for being lateähe had just flown with a 70 year-old Australian women. Still, I was nervous, especially when we reached the top of the steep Pedra Bonita, the city twinkling in the sun beneath the clouds. I strapped on my gear, and, with my one arm on his shoulder, we practiced running off the ramp. It was about now that my bladder began flashing Warning Signs. The glider was quickly assembled, the camera attached to the wing, and here we go, running at speed into thin air. Whoooosh! We rode the thermals, flying alongside seagulls and hawks, just like birds, as Pedro said. I had been French kissed by a freedom I never knew possible, and realized immediately that gliding is something that will turn me on forever. We landed 15 minutes and a lifetime of experience later. Although we came in at tremendous speed, touchdown was gentle and controlled. I screamed, and then hugged Pedro, and then found out how much it costs to buy a glider (about $6,000US) and how long it takes to learn (about one to three months) and promised myself to look into it when I returned to Vancouver. Pedro gave me the pictures and some amazing video of the take-off and landing, which still gives me goosebumps when I watch it. By the time I got back to the hostel, Rio was unthreateningly gorgeous, but it was already May 10th, and I had a connecting flight to catch to Fortalesa. I had blown a week’s budget in just three days, but Brazil, with its richness of life, already delivered priceless memories.

Fortalesa Airport
Brazil

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