by Gates, Moses
The abandoned coffee baron’s mansion we’re at now is also in this condition. Water damage has led to the city declaring an emergency evacuation of the squatters. The result is an abandoned building, and a thriving shantytown behind the gates in the yard.
The folks in Preserva SP have been there before and know some of the inhabitants. They call off the barking dogs, which they have in place to keep out druggies and not curious urbanists, and let us in. We bring some presents and chat for a bit with the residents before entering the actual building. I end up talking mostly with a friendly, middle-aged woman named Neiva.
ABANDONED MANSION.
You would think a shantytown in the concrete yard of a half-decomposed building would be a residence of last resort. But it turns out it’s not. I learn from Neiva that the government has offered the residents new housing virtually for free. The problem: it’s situated over three hours away. Most residents have opted to stay instead, because many people have jobs and connections downtown that they have to be close to. This demonstrates the enduring problem of the South American megalopolis.
Many people in New York complain about the poor getting forced out of neighborhoods with convenient access to the city center—in our case Manhattan. While this is true, it is nothing on the level of the amoeba-like urban sprawl of the poorer parts of the globe. A lack of comprehensive public transport ( Paulo has three full subway lines and a six-station stub line, unconnected to the main network, for twenty million people) and heavy traffic all conspire to make getting from point A to point B a lengthy and wholly unpredictable task. It’s not even an option—a best-case scenario of six hours a day in traffic commuting, and a worst-case scenario of working late and having to grab your few hours of sleep on the sidewalk? The folks would rather stay in a shantytown than endure it. It’s a good bit of perspective for those people in New York who complain about being forced to move two subway stops farther out into Brooklyn.
After conversing with the residents, we head into the mansion. It’s a beautiful old building. My companions are mainly interested in the colonial architecture, pointing out old detailing and brickwork. But for me the most interesting things are the murals. The mansion is covered with them—some whimsical, like a painting of a Garfield-style obese cat, others serious and sad, commemorating the expulsion of the residents of the abandoned building. There are some examples of pixaçao, the harsh and angular graffiti style native to Paulo.
I notice some writing by one of the murals, partly in English and partly in Portuguese. It reads “Saudades—Last Day Sadness.” Saudade is one of those wonderfully untranslatable words that encapsulates a feeling endemic to a particular culture. It’s sometime loosely translated as “homesickness.” “Longing melancholy nostalgia” is more accurate, but even that is far from perfect. It’s a particularly Portuguese word, one that I’ll probably never really understand.
There’s also a strange design, a snaking pattern of two shades of blue, which I notice on a few walls throughout the building. José Rodolfo tells me he sees this pattern only in places like this—places the people walking down the street normally never see. Later I find out this is by a Paulista artist, a guy named Zezao, who started painting this pattern in the sewers of Paulo.
This is one of the most rewarding things about going exploring: the ability to see things other people don’t. What it happens to be—an old sign on an abandoned observation deck, a message on the subway tunnel walls, a mural painted in an empty building—isn’t even all that important. Anyone who says they don’t get at least a small kick from the exclusiveness of going places you aren’t allowed is lying. I leave happy, saying good-bye to Neiva on the way out.
“LAST DAY SADNESS” MURAL.
“SAUDADES” IS WRITTEN ABOVE IN PIXAÇÃO.
ZEZÃO.
NINETEEN
When trying to get official access to interesting, generally off-limits places, you’re usually looking at one of four different scenarios, depending on how popular and well-known the place is. These scenarios are really not too different from trying to get to any place that you can’t just walk right into. Nightclubbers will recognize at least two or three of these stages as well.
In scenario one, the place is so obscure and unknown that the challenge is just finding the guy with the keys, who is usually happy to let you in as long as it isn’t dangerous or too much of a hassle. He’ll usually talk your ear off too: it’s always exciting when people show an interest in something you own or manage, especially when it’s a rare occurrence.
In scenario two, the place has become better known and more popular. As this happens, access becomes easier. Since people are interested in the place, an infrastructure is set up. There’s someone to handle calls, someone who can open the doors, maybe even official hours. At the very least, when you ask about the place, you don’t have to deal with responses like “What? Why do want to go there?” or “Uhhh, I don’t really know who would be in charge of that.” For the owners, the benefit is social. People like showing off what they own, like the idea that others consider their area of expertise important and interesting.
In scenario three, as interest in the place grows, a tipping point is reached and the process reverses itself. Now it’s a hassle to let in everyone who wants to visit. And there’s no social benefit to doing so, either, because the place is already popular. The point of giving people access to an interesting place that you happen to be in charge of is pride, social value. If that pride and social value are already there, what’s the point? Why bother with the time and hassle anymore? And, worst of all, now exclusivity becomes the way you gain even more social value from the place. A vicious cycle begins: the fewer people you let in, the more exclusive it becomes, the more social value is gained, and the more people want to go.
Finally, in stage four, as interest grows even further, another tipping point is reached. Now people figure out how to make money off the place. The value is no longer social but monetary. If they can make enough money to make the hassle worthwhile, then the place becomes open—but always on a monetized basis. This isn’t necessarily a standard admission charge; it could be for special events, for professional photo or film shoots, for high-end fund-raisers, for any number of things. In fact, the most disturbing trend is when this monetization and exclusivity are combined: instead of trying to make a small amount of money off a large number of people (like a standard observation deck), the building tries to leverage its exclusivity in order to make a large amount of money off a small number of people, thereby making money, saving time and hassle, and preserving exclusivity all at once.
This can easily be graphed on something I call the “Access Curve.”
THE UPPER LINE REPRESENTS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN OWNERS ULTIMATELY CHARGE A STANDARD ADMISSION FEE IN STAGE 4. THE LOWER LINE REPRESENTS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THE OWNER INSTEAD TRIES TO LEVERAGE EXCLUSIVITY AND BECOME A HIGH-END DESTINATION IN STAGE 4.
• • •
In New York, all interesting rooftops have long since progressed to stage three or even stage four. For instance, one nice spring day a few years after this trip to Brazil, I’m riding around with the cast and crew of Off Limits, a show on the Travel Channel about places normally closed to the public. I’ve already done some scouting for them and helped host a segment, and on their last day we’re looking to get a rooftop shot of the city for the opening credits.
“I use what I call my ‘good ol’ boy’ charm,” says the field producer. “You know, just be real friendly, pretend I don’t quite know what I’m doing. It usually works pretty well.”
I already know we are doomed for failure. New York City is not a place where you can just go where you want with a smile and a nod—even if you are on TV.
Still, we give it a shot. I know several roofs that will provide great views and be easy enough to film on. The producer and I try six or seven. At every one the response
is the same: either a flat no or an invitation to try to make an appointment to rent the rooftop (at a hefty rate) through the management.
Luckily, in Paulo, rooftops—as well as the city itself—are still sitting in stage two. People are excited to show off their city, and they feel that what they have to show far exceeds the interest generally shown in it. Paulo is the largest city in the southern hemisphere, and arguably the financial, social, and fashion capital of the continent as well as the Lusophone world. Yet it’s never mentioned in the same breath as Paris, London, New York, or Tokyo, or even thought of as a vacation destination like nearby Buenos Aires or Rio de Janeiro. I’m not entirely sure why this is, but it probably has something to do with the outside perception of Rio as being music and beaches, and Buenos Aires as beautiful people and tango, while Paulo is, quite unfairly, just thought of as a kind of generic, third-world megalopolis.
I make it up to half a dozen rooftops when I’m here. Some are your standard tourist observation decks, although almost all are free of charge. Some are open only sporadically or, as is standard in Latin countries, seemingly at the whim of whoever happens to be on duty. Some are private, but it is simply a matter of asking building management to let you up. Most of these decks are in the old downtown, affording only somewhat different views of the city, although I also get up to a rooftop bar in the Avenida Paulista area a few miles south, which has a gorgeous view of the row of rooftop antennae that is a Paulo skyline landmark.
There’s been talk of removing the antennae—which are located on top of the skyscrapers on Avenida Paulista because the avenue is geographically the highest point in Paulo—and replacing them with one large antenna similar to the CN Tower in Toronto and the Space Needle in Seattle. Personally, I hope this doesn’t happen. Even though the antennae are somewhat outdated and not terribly aesthetic, they’re an interesting identifying feature of the skyline and a symbol of the city. For a town that doesn’t always do a great job marketing itself, some kind of unique identity is always a plus.
On my last day in Paulo, I decide to head up one more observation deck, the Edificio Itália downtown. The Edificio Itália was erected by the city’s Italian community (hence the name) and has both a restaurant and an observation deck at the top. My guidebook tells me I have to patronize the restaurant in order to visit the deck, but I have quickly learned not to believe what I read in guidebooks concerning what’s open and allows visitors and what doesn’t. Some information is right, some is half right, some is officially, factually correct but not at all relevant to actual reality, and some is dead wrong. It turns out the observation deck of the Edificio Itália is currently perfectly open and free of charge, no restaurant visit needed. I head up there for the view, and as a surprise end up encountering Gabriel from Preserva SP and his friend Guto.
VIEW OF THE MIRANTE DO VALE.
The Edificio Itália used to be the tallest building not just in Paulo but in all of Brazil. That honor now belongs to the Mirante do Vale, a narrow rectangular building a little ways away. Downtown Paulo is hilly, and despite being the tallest building, the Mirante do Vale actually ends up being lower than some others due to its being constructed in a valley (“Mirante do Vale” roughly translates into “Overlook of the Valley”). We decide to head over and see if they’ll let us up on the roof.
• • •
S Paulo is kind of schizophrenic when it comes to residential security. Middle-class people tend to live in high-rises surrounded by fences, topped with barbed or even electrified wires, and staffed 24/7 by security guards. You might think this would make for difficult access to the roofs of residential buildings. But no, we simply go up to reception and ask, and five minutes later a janitor is escorting us up. The elevators have an interesting transport philosophy: they stop halfway between two floors, with either a half-flight walk up or a half-flight walk down the stairs to get to the floor. This leads to half as many potential stops and, at least theoretically, less transportation time.
FIVE FLOORS OF NOTHING.
TOP OF THE MIRANTE DO VALE, SÃO PAULO.
We go to the top floor, walk up a half-flight of stairs, and the janitor unlocks a door. But we aren’t on the roof yet. It turns out the top five stories don’t exist. Not empty floors but nonexistent floors. No floors, no ceilings, no walls. Just five-foot-wide concrete ledges forming huge rectangles surrounding nothing, one for each level. We get up to the top level, the middle third of which is actually covered by a helicopter landing pad. The view is spectacular.
The janitor hangs out while we go traipsing onto the other part, the topmost of the aforementioned five-foot-wide ledges. The ledge is crumbling to the point where there are holes in the concrete you can stare right through. There are no guardrails, no nothing, with a fifty-foot drop on one side and a five-hundred-foot drop on the other. I cannot imagine anywhere in the United States letting us do this—for free no less. We hang out for a while, take some pictures, tip the janitor 10 reais (about $4), and head back down. I am already in love with Brazil. And it’s the weekend before Carnival. And the next stop is Rio.
Rio de Janeiro, February 2007
Rio is my chill city. I’ve decided to take a break from adventuring and just hang out on the beach, listen to great music, and otherwise be a regular tourist for a while. This is greatly helped by knowing my friend Felipe, a native Carioca (as residents of Rio are known) whose family always makes sure to make me feel welcome in their city—although sometimes in unexpected ways.
“Oh, man. I totally forgot to tell you. Tomorrow we have to dress up like women.” This is the news from Felipe as we’re sitting enjoying the best black beans in Rio after heading back to his house from a street party in Ipanema. The party was terrific. The music was great, the atmosphere fantastic. My only complaint was the complete lack of bathrooms. The default men’s room turned out to be a palm tree on the beach. I have no idea where the default women’s room may have been—or even if there was one.
But as fun as the Ipanema party was, it was just a warm-up. The next day we wake up, and Felipe presents me with a piece of black negligee that I somehow manage to make fit. He dons a red bra and dress himself and we’re off, picking up a few friends en route.
Three days earlier I was ready to skip Rio de Janeiro. I’d been there before, seen the town. It wasn’t on the way to where I was going. I was having problems getting in touch with Felipe. I had a whole host of reasons not to go. What could I have been thinking? In my book, anyone who doesn’t want to see Rio every chance they get needs to have their head examined.
Rio de Janeiro is undoubtedly the most strangely beautiful city I’ve ever visited. From an urban planning perspective, nobody in their right mind would plunk down a city where Rio is: it’s literally built around (and sometimes on or through) mountains. Not a few nice little hills like in San Francisco or Rome—mountains. Throw this together with over a dozen beaches and a rain forest, as well as the culture, people, architecture, neighborhoods, and everything else you can expect from a big, diverse city. Add one of the world’s most famous landmarks, and then put the whole thing in Brazil. It’s not hard to see why they call the place “La Cidade Maravilhosa”—“The Marvelous City.”
Like most interesting cities, at least from a geographical perspective, Rio came about because it had a great harbor, which led to early colonial settlement and development. But its surrounding terrain is not exactly conducive to a traditional city structure. When viewed from above, it becomes even more clear how absolutely ridiculous it is to have a city there—and how great it is that there actually is one. And luckily, this isn’t too hard to do.
For anyone traveling to Brazil, my advice is this: You’ll probably fly into Guarulhos, Paulo’s international airport. Stay awhile in Paulo, and then fly to Rio. If you fly from abroad directly into Rio, or if you transfer from Guarulhos to Rio, you’ll almost certainly end up flying into Galeao International Airp
ort, north of the city. However, if you book a ticket from Congonhas, Paulo’s domestic airport, into Santos Dumont, Rio’s domestic airport, you’ll be rewarded with one of the most spectacular flight descents in the world. The ascent from Paulo isn’t bad, either: going up you can see just how vast the world’s seventh-largest city really is.
ASCENT FROM CONGONHAS.
As Congonhas–Santos Dumont is the most traveled flight pattern in the world, with over one thousand flights a week, you don’t have to worry too much about reservations. Multiple airlines have planes leaving at least once an hour, and there’s even dedicated ticket desks for “buy and fly” purchases.
Now, don’t get on the first plane, at least not if you can’t get a window. Wait until the one after, where you should pretty much have your pick of seats. Both sides have great views, but I’m partial to the left-hand side just a bit more. Santos Dumont is a little two-runway job right next to downtown. This isn’t the difference between flying into LaGuardia instead of JFK: flying into Santos Dumont is the equivalent of flying into the Wall Street Heliport. Not only are the views astounding, but you can grab your stuff and walk right into the middle of Rio. Getting to the subway, which will take you to the touristy parts of town, is only about a fifteen-minute stroll through downtown. Felipe picked me up a couple days ago fresh from this descent.
