Carnival

     Once we found ourselves in the warm backseat of Evandro's van for what felt like the thousandth time that day, we soon started for Sambodromo. Although my eyes began to droop heavily, urging me to close them just for a couple of seconds, I knew that seconds could turn into minutes, and minutes into hours. No. I had to stay awake. Today, I was in Rio de Janiero, on my way to see the stage for the biggest carnival in the world, Sambodromo. That was not something I wanted to miss.
       After what seemed like a fleeting five minutes, Evandro soon came to a screeching halt before a vast, tremendously spacious passage way, lined with thousands of seats for spectators. In the hot, muggy air of the night, the stadium seemed all the more silent and still, devoid of any signs of live. Staring tiredly at the utter lack of people in the dimly lit stadium, I had to close my eyes for a second just to remember what Rio's Carnival in full swing would look like. Ah yes, throngs of extravagantly dressed men and women would walk down this very passageway, flaunting their dazzling sequences and feathers at excited spectators, locals and foreigners alike. And not only would there be thousands of colorful and enthusiastic individuals walking down the parade, smiling and waving, but the proud floats as well. Each would be grandiose and spectacular in their own individual ways. Each desperately striving to outdo the other and win the people's attention.
        Yes. This immensely quiet passageway, Sambodromo, was home to one of the world's most extravagant festivals, bursting with activity, and pulsating with life. After solely envisioning what Sambodromo would look like in Carnival, I felt like it was proper that the grounds of the world's greatest party get some peace and quiet at times. Of course, after several photos of the area, Evandro waved us back into the car, where we would soon be making our final stop for the day, our hotel.

Sambódromo, Home of the Rio Carnaval.

     As Evandro finished explaining the tremendous political significance of the stadium, I looked over to see a fleet of policemen striding past us on horseback. Although I shouldn't have been surprised by the police presence with the intensity of the recent riots, I couldn't help but staring at the bustling, stoney-faced parade of armed officials. Jeeps armed with heavy artillery swarmed the brightly lit perimeter of the building. Countless officials protected the front on foot, by car, and by horseback.
      Looking nearly as stunned as us, Evandro laughed as he said, " There are more policemen than fans." Apparently, there had never before been such an immense need for security around this stadium until the Confederation Cup. In fact, as Evandro later explained to us, it was a pretty precarious place on riotous game days. In the past, when Evandro was young and hot-blooded, he would often have to scrape past various thugs who would hassle him for money on his way to an unruly game.
    Now, however, the government was working hard to ensure the safety of anyone seeking to attend these events by heavily staffing the building with armed and mean-looking guards. Once we were fully satisfied with the political scene at Maracana, Evandro warmly clapped his hands together before announcing that we would next be going to the final place on our itinerary, Sambódromo, home of the Rio Carnaval.
    

A Sea of Policemen

   After a few minutes passed, we soon found ourselves lurching to a stop before a vast circular building, resembling a doughnut with too thin of an edge. Although it was about 7:00 PM, and thus pitch black outside, the bright, and seemingly endless number of streetlights suffused the stadium square with false daylight. Normally, I might be a bit uncomfortable roaming the streets of Rio de Janiero at night, but the astounding  number of armed officials in that one area instantly dissolved my anxiety.
        Marching solemnly before the broad, grey face of the rounded building, were hundreds of policeman, all wearing navy blue uniforms, streaked with neon orange "X"s, and firmly gripping slender batons. I watched them surround the perimeter of the building in awe, inquisitive as to why so many of them had gathered here.
      Picking up on my expression, Evandro began to explain,"There are a lot of police around here because there were strikes here. Some people are against this Confederation Cup because they think that the government had stolen a lot of money building this. So there are strikes all of the country. That's why there are so many cops around to make sure nothing will happen,"
      I gazed at Maracana once more in wonder. How could just one sporting event shape politics to such an extent? What was it about this place that spurred cops and civilians and politicians to action alike? Was it a confusing mixture of pride and bitter resentment. The pride of knowing that one of the world's greatest celebrations of football (soccer) would be taking place in your hometown? The resentment from the apparent  indifference with which the government treated enraged locals?

Hurtling Down the Peak to Maracana

     The hardest part of leaving the summit of Corcovado was saying goodbye to Cristo Redentor. After that it was easy, as we soon found ourselves rapidly hurtling down the lofty slopes of Corcovado. Although I was inclined to observe as much of the wilderness of Tijuca Forest as possible, I found it hard as the most I could make out were the hazy outlines of the treetrops. As I watched the landscape slowly become a blur before me, my eyes grew heavier until I was heavily drugged with sleep.
       After a few gentle jolts of my shoulder, I woke with a start to find that we were already in the parking lot where Evandro was waiting for us. I slightly cursed myself. I should have been awake the entire time, taking in whatever I could of Rio de Janiero. As I walked in a stupor to the bright, gleaming van where we heartily greeted Evandro, I sighed contently. Regardless of my reckless sleep, I probably hadn't missed much, and now that we had seen Jardim Botanico, a mall in the Botafogo District, Morro da Urca, Pao da Acucar, Selaron's Stairs, the Arcos da Lapa, the favelas, Corcovado, and Christ the Redeemer, I was immensely satisified with our travels for the day.
             But in spite of all we had seen, we were yet to see the heart and rhythm of all the athletic activity in the city, Maracana. After tiredly exchanging a few words with Evandro about the stunning beauty of Christ the Redeemer, I slumped lazily against my window, noticing the night life of the streets, without really registering it.

The Gaze of Cristo Redentor

        Once I'd finally accepted that I was actually standing in front of Christ the Redeemer, I slowly turned away from the immense statue, and duly gaped at the panoramic views of Rio de Janiero around us. While it was true that the scenery was nearly submerged in complete darkness, I  still managed to marvel at the seemingly infinite number of twinkling lights in the distance, blazing bright whites  amidst the overwhelming black. And although it was difficult to distinguish every detail of the vast and beauteous landscape at that time, I still caught my breath when I spotted the hazy silhouette of Pao de Acucar and Morro da Urca, standing tall amidst the city. Walking further down into the smooth and spacious pavilion, I stared at a doughnut-shaped building standing a little to the left of my vision. It was surprisingly visible from such a height, as it was surrounded by numerous lights and activity.
        I pointed down towards it, asking my parents what it was. After several seconds, my father replied, " That's Estádio do Maracanã...Evandro told us he would be taking us there after Corcovado and Christ the Redeemer, but-"
       He checked his watch. It was 7:00 PM, and it was time to leave the staggering heights of Corcovado and bid Christ the Redeemer a mournful goodbye. We still had to see Maracanã, the shining center of all the athletic activity in the city, and Sambadrome. Before turning away to begin our lengthy descent down Corcovado, I took one last look at Cristo Redentor's face in the darkness, and sighed. He appeared so quiet, so firm, so watchful, so still amidst all of the chaos and growth of the city. It really was hard to leave. I could've stayed there for hours. When I finally forced myself to leave, I promised myself that we would return to that very spot. Under the comforting gaze of Cristo Redentor.

The Illuminated Face of Cristo Redentor.

   We came around to the front of Cristo Redentor, and finally summoned the audacity to stare directly into his face. I instantaneously felt small and insignificant ,looking up at such a formidable figure, which could be seen from all of the distant corners of Rio de Janiero. Although there were clusters of  bustling tourists and dozens of bright, flashing lights from cameras, I could not bring myself to look away from what stood magnaimously before me.
         Now that I stood only a few meters from the base from the incredible statue, I had an unhindered view of His face. I no longer had to wistfully imagine what it would look like. In the faint orange light, his visage shone broad, angular, having a strong chin, and solemn, not cheerily welcoming residents of the city, but rather soberly accepting his responsibility to protect them. I looked closer at the details on his face. His eyes were blank, having no pupils with which to inspect his surroundings. And yet, I felt like these minute, unnecessary details would take away from the powerful of the landmark. It would make it more complicated, more human. As I hungrily continued to scrutinize the statue, I realized that most of the carving in the work was done to preserve its pure and striking simplicity.
      Framing his face were his long, strands of hair, which gave off the appearance of being soft, and smooth in spite of their being carved from marble. Other than a faint mustache at his upper lip, the solemn face of Christ had no other noticeable attempts at minute details, being rather plain and smooth. With difficulty, I pulled my eyes from Christ's face as if held in a trance, and continued to examine the rest of him, including his symbolically outstretched arms and plain apparel.  And for a moment, I almost found it hard to breath, standing before in the illuminated face of Cristo Redentor.
   

Such Majesty

 After a few more minutes, once the bright pink hue of the sky melted into a deep violet, we slowed to a stop before a lengthy flight of stairs, which lead to the illuminated posterior of Cristo Redentor.  I couldn't believe it. We were so close. Thus, in spite of my aching feet and my heavy eyelids, I was renewed with energy to ascend those treacherous stairs. While my mother did not seem to share this enthusiasm, we took to the steep, black, marble stairs after a few short breaths. Although it took a particular amount of energy climbing those steep stairs, my eyes were not fixed on those petty obstacles, but the tremendously vivid figure of Cristo Redentor before me.
         We had no doubt missed the sunset, seeing that the figure's top half was suffused with an orange light, and the bottom with a bright green, but it didn't matter. It was still...amazing. The closer I came to the awe-inspiring statue, the faster I climbed the stairs, heedless of the searing pain within them. This was Cristo Redentor. Christ the Redeemer.
       His robes were cut with a fine, simple precision, running down in vertical strips to emulate folds. And even though his raiment from behind seemed relatively simple, heaving only a few clear-cut creases, Cristo Redentor demanded and received attention and respect from every angle. Not watching my step, I faltered a little as I crossed over the last one. We had finally reached the broad, smooth, black-marbled pavilion that stood at the base of the enormous monument. Staring in awe at the broad back of this incredible monument, I wondered how it would finally feel standing directly before Him. So small in the midst of such majesty.

The Solidifying Silhouette

While my anticipation mounted as we neared Cristo Redentor, my recognition of the darkness that was rapidly seeping into the sky followed suit. As the sky turned a resigned violet hue, I realized that we had started too late. Alas, we had missed the sunset on the peak of Corcovado! Although I was vaguely disappointing for a few seconds, it quickly passed. Regardless of the time of day we reached its fantastic summit, Cristo Redentor would stun.
     I looked out the window once more, to find that we were rapidly nearing a large pavilion in which numerous cars were parked. Evandro neatly drew into a space, before informing us that we were to purchase tickets at the main counter. From there, we would be transported by official vans to the actual summit of Corcovado, where we would take a short walk to the monument itself. I sighed. Even though we stood at the base of that very wonder, I still felt so far away.
     Evandro quickly tipped his head as if signaling for us to continue to the peak. I realized that he was right. Not only could we manage to see the last glimpses of daylight of all of Rio de Janiero from up there, but also the brilliant face of Cristo Redentor at night. Not to mention that after this, we would be seeing the famed Maracana. As I began to think of all of the places I'd been in one day, my head began to spin. But no more of that, we had to get going.
     We quickly thanked Evandro as we left him in that dimly lit parking lot. Being fully experienced in the art of obtaining tickets, we quickly found ourselves in an enormous, official, white van, nearly the size of a bus, but much chunkier. We must have been the last round of the day, for it was mostly empty, except for a few tourists here or there. As we sped to the top of Corcovado, I was filled with the utmost excitement. Were my eyes simply playing tricks on me, or I was a seeing the once distant silhouette of Cristo Redentor solidifying before me?

The Rugged, Little Republic

        The journey to Cristo Redentor seemed to take forever. As we traveled around and around the  long, muddy, twisted road, with its edges bursting with the foliage of Floresta da Tijuca, I stared contently at the sight for sometime, before sighing resignedly. After several minutes of seeing nothing but the bristling, tropical vegetation and the sloping road before us, my eyes grew fatigued of the seemingly endless torrent of green, and began to gradually close themselves. The adventures of the long day were beginning to take their effect. I was starting to think that maybe a short nap would be just what I needed. A sudden jolt of the car stirred me from my lethargy. It seemed to be reminding me of just where exactly we were going.
         I looked on once more, to be finally rewarded with a gracious lapse from green, for rapidly approaching us was an array of close, stocky, beige and reddish buildings, all secured with weather-beaten terracotta roofs.  My curiosity heightened by individuals who would ever want to live at such a height, I stared at the close community with  immense interest. There were perhaps ten or so shops in the main square of the town, that were all narrowly shaped to confrom with the lofty demands of the road. None of the facades of the buildings appeared to be sleek and shiny like their counterparts in the sprawling city below them. Rather, they gave an old, rusty appearance, as if the individuals who lived in this community did not really care much for appearances, but for purpose and value.
     I smiled at my musings. Perhaps I was reading too much into external appearances. As we trundled carefully along the muddied path, Evandro enlightened us by saying that all of the artists of Rio preferred to live here, gaining inspiration from the incredible views of the city and their close proximity with Cristo Redentor. And although I found myself growing profoundly sick of the uniformity of the forests and the winding road before us, I had to admire this particular favela. If anyone knew how it felt to have Cristo Redentor as a magnificent neighbor and all of the views that He did at their doorsteps, it was the rugged, little republic on the side of Corcovado.

The Race to Corcovado

     Sensing the rapidly fading daylight, we urged Evandro to take us to Corcovado and then to Christ the Redeemer. The sun had not set yet, but was bound to within the next hour, leaving the sky the pale, washed-out blue it always is. When we were planning our trip with Evandro earlier on in the day, we intended on making it to Christ the Redeemer just at sunset, when we could witness the magnificent spectacle of colors, which was bound to occur when the powerful sun finally bowed its weary head.
       As we rapidly accelerated toward the lofty slopes of Corcovado, I could think nothing but of Christ the Redeemer. One of the world's seven wonders. 196 countries in the entire world. Nearly 2,469,501 cities, and we were so close to one of these elusive, seven monuments in the world. The road swerving around the majestic mountain of Corcovado, was a smooth, narrow one, consisting only of mud. Because of its narrow nature, however, we were held up at a particular turn, where a large bus had refused to move, and traffic was starting to build. Daylight was fading. What could we ever see of Corcovado and Christ the Redeemer if we were swept in overwhelming darkness? A few twinkling lights of the city and the illuminated face of Christ? We had to hurry. Evandro seemed to sense this as he rapidly floored the accelerator, and daringly swerved past the congested traffic. In spite of the fact that we had spent an entire day with him, Evandro would not rest until he had taken us to Corcovado and Christ the Redeemer at our expected time of arrival. My parents eyes were suddenly filled with admiration at his dogged efforts for our satisfaction.
          As we slowly traveled the winding roads, I thought about how distant Christ the Redeemer seemed from everyone in the city below him, how very aloof he was, resting atop his mountain peak. And yet, it also occurred to me how he could be seen everywhere from the city at the same time. Just a very  faint, tall, and formidable silhouette, that was always present, always keeping his arms protectively outstretched as if embracing the city. I wondered what it would actually feel like, standing at the base, of such an impressive and sacrosanct tribute to Christ, the Redeemer.

Arcos de Lapa

   With the sun setting fast, we soon turned away from the wild, brightly crimson colored mosaic, and reentered Evandro's vermilion vehicle. As we quickly sped away from Selaron's masterpiece, Evandro commented on the tight streets we had just crossed, just to give us a more vivid picture of  Rio de Janiero.
        "These narrow streets. We are in the heart of the city, now. We are in Lapa. Where all the nightclubs are, and the bars, and where the people come to enjoy the nightlife."
       I smiled at this. Now, I knew where all the best clubs were located. Time to party. I'm only joking of course. We were in Rio de Janiero to explore all of its main attractions, and its bars and nightclubs were not on the itinerary.
        After several minutes had passed, we soon hit the center of the city, which was pulsing with energy and  life. The streets were lined with prosperous restaurants, each promising authentic Brazilian cuisine and serving dozens of couples and families. Outside these stood rugged street performers, who wistfully strummed their guitars for money. I looked on, not daring to miss a second of the culture powerhouse that was Lapa. Adjacent to the various delis and restaurants stood the bustling bars, where the sound of the karaoke machines could be heard even from across the street.
         Upon seeing my mom and dad point in another direction out the window, I quickly followed their gaze. There they were, the Arcos da Lapa. Although we couldn't afford to stop, seeing that it was already six o'clock, Evandro fed us a bit of history while we passed the impressive structure.
     Apparently, it once served as a monumental aqueduct, which was constructed by colonial authorities amidst the 18th century. I clung onto the evanescent seconds, as we were passing the ancient aqueduct with tremendous speed.
     I stared at it pensively for a few more seconds, before I tried to describe how it looked.  It was a lot like a starched, white, and perfectly rectangular sheet of paper, that was ridden with numerous arch-shaped holes. In fact, most of the monument appeared to consist more of negative space than positive, much like an elegantly fashioned wedge of Swiss cheese. But, here we finally were, the Arcos of Lapa. At least for a few more seconds.

All in One Mosaic.

       Once more, our journey through the streets went in a blur, as we rapidly sped past the various pleasant verdant squares, often crowned by dusky, bronze statues. After several minutes, we found ourselves hastily slipping past several narrow alleyways in a row, eventually us leading to the heart of the city. 
     Without thinking even, I must have suddenly sucked in my stomach, to ensure that we would have no problem pushing through the closed, and uneven cobblestone pathways of the alleys. However, once a few more minutes past, we quickly snaked through the neighborhood of Lapa, before we finally reached Selaron's Stairs. 
      Having done no research prior to visiting this landmark of Rio de Janiero, I had no idea to expect. Perhaps it was some ancient monument to the city, which would consist of large, formidable pillars, and smooth, beige marble, proudly reminding citizens of the city's illustrious past.
    As I slowly exited the vehicle, and stood before Jorge Selaron's masterpiece, I couldn't even fathom how wrong I was. All around me rose a vibrant and largely crimson colored staircase, that was indundated with tiles of various shapes and colors. As the sides of the staircase vivaciously streaked up a large staircase, pieced together with numerous images and shades of red, the actual stairs of Selaron were vivid blues, greens, and yellows, providing a sharp contrast to their red counterparts. More than the striking colors and the plethora of visuals, what really impressed me was how I could see how each individual piece was meticulously placed, each outlined by a dark outline of cement. 
          Evandro informed us that Jorge Selaron was a passionate Brazilian artist, who developed an obsession for an mundane stairwell, and was determined to make it a beautiful tribute for the city of Rio de Janiero. He was said to spend every passing moment perfecting it. I stared at his vast mosaic in awe. Selaron's passion did not stop with a single stretch on a wall. No, it covered an entire staircase, which people could still use. It was as if Selaron were making a bold statement. While he was urging people to move forward and ascend his masterpiece, he also wanted them to stop and appreciate his magnificent orchestra of colors, and tiles, and the volatile vibe of the city.
      Before I reached Selaron's Stairs, I imagined that it would be a grand tribute to Rio de Janiero's past, sporting enormous columns and a smooth marble facade. But, when I finally got there, I realized that it was a tribute to Rio's present. With its dazzling array of colors,textures, patterns, people, and cultures, I thought there could be no better representation of the Rio de Janiero. All in one mosaic.

Heading for Selaron's Stairs.

 As we were in a hurry to meet Evandro and his vermilion van, our descent from Pao de Acucar and Morro da Urca went in a blur. While I still found myself dumbly staring at the views, I was distracted with the pressing urgency of rushing to the central station to meet our guide. About fifteen minutes later, we had achieved our ultimate goal of descending the staggering peaks, to reach the still bustling and crowded station. We scanned the wide parking lot in front of the main entrance for a couple of seconds, before sighting the friendly sight of a large, orange minivan, which we shortly stepped into.
      Seeing our bright, enthusiastic faces, Evandro simply smiled and asked us, "How was it?"
To which we effusively narrated the details of our dramatic ascent to the peaks of Morro da Urca and Pao da Acucar. After listening to us gush  for a few more minutes, he grinned as he told us we would next be taking a quick look at Parque do Flamengo.
    I resumed observing the rapidly moving streets of Rio de Janiero from the backseat, refusing to miss even the minute details. Once five minutes or so had passed, we finally slowed to a smooth halt as we approached an astounding view of Pao de Acucar and Morro da Urca, which proudly stood across the sleek waters of Gunabara Bay. Although I didn't get the same feeling I had when I stood on the peak of Pao da Acucar, this was altogether a different experiance. The sun had already begin its steady descent, casting a faint orangish light on the face of Pao da Azucar, and leaving Morro da Urca, its much wider, shorter, fatter and elongated brother, much darker in comparison. It was beautiful. After standing at that picturesque spot for a couple of more moments, we realized that we would have to hasten ourselves a bit, for we still were to see Christ the Redeemer, as well as Corcovado,  Selaron's Stairs, Maracana, and the favelas. But, with the sun setting fast, I doubted if we could still visit all of these places in just a couple of hours. Yet, in spite of my nagging suspicions, all of these doubts suddenly dissipated from my mind as Evandro hit the accelerator. We were heading for Selaron's Stairs. (Whatever those were) Selaron's Stairs