BEYOND THE POSTCARD
It’s more than just a city — look further than Copacabana and Carnaval and you’ll discover a Brazilian state like no other, says Chris Leadbeater
On the corner of Rua Argemiro Bulcao in the Little Africa district of Rio de Janeiro, a painting of Zumbi dos Palmares adorns the wall.
His neck bulges with muscle, and his eyes assess the viewer with a precision that feels all the more remarkable for the fact that he died more than 300 years ago.
Such is the skill with which his image has been recreated, that this mighty man — one of the leaders of African slaves’ resistance against their Portuguese masters in 17th century Brazil; one of the founders of the network of quilombos (small settlements of brave souls who had escaped their bondage) — looks as alive in this mural in 2019 as he did at the peak of his influence, in the 1680s.
To my shame, I do not know who he is. Thankfully, Damiana Silva does. She leads me across the road and into restaurant Bodega do Sal, where another set of faces is printed on the plaster. Heitor dos Prazeres, Dona Ivone Lara, Joao de Baiana, Alfredo “Pixinguinha” da Rocha Viana jr — 20th century Afro-Brazilian pioneers of the samba music always associated with the city.
“They were the first generation of free black musicians in Rio,” Damiana says. “They are the descendants of slaves from Bahia but were born in this city. They were shaped by this city. And they shaped it.”
Where we are standing is less than 3km from the enormous “Sambodromo”, where this most hip-shaking of musical genres is acclaimed every February amid the glitter of Carnaval. But we are more than 10km north of Copacabana Beach. It might be 1000km for all the part Little Africa plays in the popular tourist perception of this metropolis of sand, sun, soccer and sex.
The statue of Christ the Redeemer and the grand outline of Sugarloaf Mountain are similarly distant and could just as well be on different continents.
I am trying to see beyond this postcard — not just to less-recognised areas of what is a vast conurbation of 12 million inhabitants, but to the untold tales, the tree line and the urban concrete beyond. Rio de Janeiro is not just a city. It is also — as is often overlooked — a state; one of 26 such zones into which Brazil is divided. True, it is the third smallest of these enclaves — but it is also the size of Denmark.
Much of it lies swaddled by the thick foliage and the heavy humidity of the Atlantic rainforest.
In search of greater insight, I am exploring the state with TravelLocal — a travel company that crafts full itineraries, but also connects tourists with local agencies and experts on the ground. Hence my morning with Damiana, of tour specialist Rio Encantos, who picks me up at my Botafogo hotel in the modernity of an Uber, but spirits me swiftly back to former centuries.
“Rio de Janeiro is not just a city ... much of it lies swaddled but the thick foliage and the heavy humidity of the Atlantic rainforest.”
There are more echoes as we stroll Little Africa — a statue, on Largo de Sao Francisco da Prainha, of Mercedes Baptista, an Afro-Brazilian ballerina whose style of dance, infused with candomble, broke moulds; a museum, on Rua Camerino, devoted to Tia Ciata, a Bahian woman who became one of the pillars of the area in the 1910s, helping to fund funerals for the barrio’s poor.
Not all the flashbacks are positive. The ruined Valongo Wharf was where, by 1831, as many as a million slaves had been dragged ashore. Nearby, the Instituto de Pesquisa e Memoria Pretos Novos wears its horrified expression openly.
Restoration of the building in 1996 uncovered the “graves” of those who did not survive the voyage from Angola and were dumped at the dock; in one case, now cradled under illuminated glass, the skeleton of a 12-year-old girl.
These wretched ghosts stay with me into the evening, along the port avenue of Boulevard Olimpico (hugely renovated for the 2016 Olympics), and into the bright lights and busy eateries of Lapa.
They linger with me into the next day, too, as I leave town and go north — from sea level to an altitude of 870m in just 100km. Now a city of 180,000 people, Teresopolis was the site of a quilombo in the 18th century. I find myself imagining its tired escapees battling the gradient, treading the damp trails — long before the railway that would make the journey easier in 1908 (or the highway that superseded it in 1958).
My own ascent gives me a hint as to the state’s geography — and the existence of its high plateau, which rises almost immediately inland. This point is underscored by the Parque Nacional da Serra dos Orgaos, on Teresopolis’ outskirts. The Postcard Trail within it lets me continue my climb, on foot, past tabebuia trees and pink-flowering tibouchinas, to a viewpoint that reveals a ridge every bit as epic as that which frames Corcovado.
It would be remiss to ignore the shoreline of a state that is so feted for it — bracing a 636km shoulder against the Atlantic’s insistence. My transfer west along it silences the final traces of Rio’s clamour and cacophony, the day becoming increasingly peaceful through the town of Mangaratiba, and the port of Angra dos Reis, where ferries cast off for the leaf-shrouded outpost of Ilha Grande, now a Unesco site.
Paraty, at my journey’s end, has World Heritage status. It can be hard to believe that it occupies the same stretch of seafront as Brazil’s secondlargest city. But then, it developed in solitude — founded by Portuguese colonists in 1597 and given its raison d’etre in 1696, when gold was discovered in Minas Gerais. Initially, the export route ran south to Paraty’s harbour and the good times rolled. But when a new trail was cut to the burgeoning Rio in the mid-18th century, the town was left marooned. A proper road from the state capital would not be finished until the 1970s.
Even now, Paraty clings to its halcyon age. Its original kernel remains defiantly unpaved; mud sticks to my soles as I negotiate my way across its rough stones. The whitewashed church of Nossa Senhora dos Remedios looks completely unaware that the 17th century that gave it birth has ended, as it rears over Praca da Matriz. When I tumble to sleep in the walled courtyard of Pousada do Ouro, I feel as if I am laying down my head on history.
But life goes on. Tucked into the north side of town, chef Flavia Alves’ home doubles as her restaurant, Quintal de Mae — a culinary hotspot where she offers lessons in a style of cuisine that splices African and Brazilian traditions. I join her in her kitchen to learn how to cook a moqueca, a stew loaded with fish, and acaraje dumplings filled with shrimp.
I need the carbohydrate hit because the next day will be an odyssey of sorts. My guide, Jeferson Lobato Fernandes, is Paulistano by birth, but a Rio resident until five years ago — he moved to Paraty with his wife and young daughter seeking a gentler pace of existence. “Rio is a city for parties and late nights,” he smiles. “But we weren’t doing that anymore. Paraty offers a calm and quality of life that we need at the moment.”
We bounce 16km down the road, on a bus seemingly bereft of suspension, to the hamlet of ParatyMirim, where a beach nuzzles the water and a bar clicks to the uncapping of beer bottles. We aren’t, however, stopping here.
We hop into a boat for a right turn into Saco do Mamangua — a tropical fiord that bites into the landscape for eight steep-flanked kilometres. We will decant again, into kayaks. We have to, because the southern end of the inlet is mired in mangrove swamps. The only way to explore it is with oar in hand.
This isolation has benefits. The fiord has retained its soul — as home to eight communities of indigenous Brazilians. Once Jeferson and I have steered our way to a small waterfall hidden among low-hanging trees, we fix our prows against the tide and paddle hard to reach the microscopic settlement of Regato, concealed at the back of the bay.
Here, a single family goes about its business amid boat workshops and nets but the main house is open for lunch. Gracinha, the matriarch, brings us platters of fried fish, and glasses of juice squeezed from the limes on the boughs. Here, I am 260km from Copacabana but this is still Rio de Janeiro — pure, persuasive and far beyond the crowd.