Slumming It

I must have done something very right in a previous life.

I’ve no idea what it was (being burnt as a witch if the old crone who once read my past life cards is to be believed). Whatever it was it would seem that, for me at least, this life is destined to be a high one.

Having returned to Rio noticeably slimmer and more toned than when I left, Leila (a fellow bikini booter) and I were dining at the Copacabana Palace. Here we toyed over the idea of whether heading into one of the favelas (slums) for the night was:
a) completely insane
b) a bit of an adventure
c) fantastic fodder for the blog
d) downright dangerous

Having weighed up the pros and cons and decided that it was probably a combination of all four, I plumped to give it a bash. On the back of a tip off from Paddy in Paraty I headed to a place called Maze, and a B&B of sorts run by Bob - the rather eccentric BBC Brazilian correspondent of ten years past. His house was located in the Tabares Bostos favela to the north of Copacabana.

To say the favelas have a bad reputation in Rio is like saying the Whore of Babylon was a woman of easy virtue. The setting for Fernando Meirelles’ City of God, they’re home to an estimated 20% of the city’s population and the majority of its drug and gun related crime.

With this in mind, when I asked the hotel concierge to book me a cab to take me there I was met with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. Ignoring my solicitation he continued to pore over the extensive room service bill of the fat American and his hooker to my right. Reiterating my request in a slightly more assertive tone I was assured that I couldn’t go into the favela alone and that if a local were to accompany me there they would need permission to enter from the gang leaders running the place.

Still keen to check it out but not wanting to take any unnecessary risks I called Bob who happily agreed to meet me and a cabbie on the edge of the favela and walk me in the rest of the way.

Twenty minutes later I was in a minicab heading up a winding cobbled road toward the slum, the closer we approached the more hap hazard the buildings became until we reached, quite literally, the end of the road. Towering up in front of us were story upon story of precarious self build shoeboxes and some of the dodgiest looking electrics you could possibly imagine.

I called Bob. He met me with a broad smile and a paternal arm around the shoulder then led through the ever decreasing alleyways of the slum towards his place, (pics 3-5). On arriving at Casa de Bob we entered through a wrought iron gate in a secluded doorway which led to a narrow stone staircase. I climbed the steps and couldn’t believe what greeted me at the top…

Imagine you've never seen Dr Who and you walked into a police phone box and saw the control deck of the Tardis behind it. The amazement and disbelief would be on a par with how I felt. To say Bob’s stunning place was unexpected is an understatement of monumental proportions. If you’d told me I was in an art gallery on the lower East side or somewhere off Hoxton square I’d have believed you. In the heart of Rio’s slums? Never. Open mouthed, Bob led me towards the back of the living area revealing a beautiful terrace and one of the best views in Rio (including the one from the Cour Corcovado). “Can I interest you in a glass of bubbly?”

It was surreal. Totally surreal. Champers in hand, I was introduced to a delightful group of ex pats and fellow travelers who’d also managed to make it to Casa de Bob and my timing, it seemed, was fantastic.

While the food in Brazil is amazing the one thing they lack is a decent ruby. Thankfully, using a selection of curried comestibles bought over from home, one of the locals cooked up an entire Indian banquet. Chicken tikka, lamb rogan josh, pilau rice, flat breads, mango chuntey - the whole shebang and the perfect antidote to a week of vegetarian fasting at Body and Soul. The food was fantastic and the company even better. Bob was a colourful character with some of the most interesting, emotive, harrowing and hilarious stories of his days in Beirut, Belfast, Brazil and Crouch End. As the wine and conversation continued to flow the sun set slowly over Sugar Loaf in the distance.

And there I was. In the heart of Rio’s slums listening to the sound of corks popping, flutes chinking and feasting on one of the best Indian curries you could ever hope to find this far west of Brick Lane.

Yes indeed, I really must have done something right somewhere along the way.