Elizabeth Bishop - Prose

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Visitors to Rio de Janeiro usually exclaim: “What a beautiful city.” But sooner or later, the more thoughtful are likely to say: “No, it’s not a beautiful city; it’s just the world’s most beautiful setting for a city.”

Guanabara Bay is one of the largest landlocked harbors in the world, and many travelers say it is the most beautiful. Sharp granite peaks rise around it almost directly from the water in a series of fantastic shapes that suggested rather simple names to the Portuguese mariners who first came here: Sugar Loaf, Crow’s-nest, Rudder, Two Brothers, Hunchback (or Corcovado).

Because the mountains are so close to the ocean the moisture in the sea winds condenses quickly and clouds float unusually low about them. This makes for considerable humidity; fussy people complain that their silver tarnishes quickly and their shoes mildew in the closets. But the dampness also gives a softness to the atmosphere that is one of Rio’s charms. Although distant objects are clear they are bathed in a pink or bluish light — dreamy and delicate.

The granite peaks still bear all manner of tropical vegetation. Lianas hang from them, and wild palms wave on their tops — between and over city blocks — with a romantic effect unlike that of any other city.

Beautiful as it is, this setting does not lend itself to city planning. For 400 years, the city has probed slowly between the peaks in every direction — until it has grown like a lopsided starfish.

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As in most capital cities (of which Rio was one until the capital was moved to the newly constructed Brasília in 1960), most of the population seems to come from somewhere else. The very poorest Brazilians — those from the north and northeast — have arrived in increasing numbers for 20 years or more. Now they come packed in old buses or in trucks filled with benches called arraras (“macaw perches”).

Some find work; some are unemployed. Some move on. But very, very few go home, because city life — wretched as it may be — is still more diverting and satisfying than life in the dead little towns or villages they come from.

These people swell the sad and notorious Rio favelas (slums). More ambitious and prosperous people, bright young men seeking university degrees, young bureaucrats and politicians also flock to Rio. Many of the “real” Cariocas themselves are Cariocas from only one or two generations back — when the family left the old fazenda (or estate) and moved to the city for good.

Even if São Paulo is now a much bigger and richer city, many intellectuals prefer to live in Rio. It is still at least the intellectual capital of the country. In its extremes of wealth and poverty, it mirrors the inflation brought on by former President Juscelino Kubitschek’s breakneck drive for industrialization, and by the graft that flourished under both him and his successor, João Goulart. It is a city that reflects the uncertainties of the entire nation since an army coup last March and April ousted Goulart and installed Marshal Humberto Castelo Branco as President. Finally, after 400 years, it is a city that has grown shabby.

There has been a “Paint Rio” campaign, with photographs in the newspapers of the presidents of paint companies handing gallons of free paint to the mother superiors of orphan asylums. House cleaning is needed badly; even the reputedly glamorous section of Copacabana is full of stained and peeling 10-story apartment houses.

Some parts of the city have new street signs, also badly needed. These light at night, helpfully, because Rio is a very dim city these days, but they bear advertisements as well as street names, and are criticized for being commercial and in bad taste.

In contrast to the general decrepitude, there is the brand-new Flamengo Park, with a new beach, gardens, an outdoor bandstand and dance floor, a marionette theater and rides for children. It is by far the city’s best birthday present to its citizens, and although it is only about three-quarters finished, the citizens are embracing it by tens of thousands.

Flamengo Park is narrow, but almost 4 miles long, reaching from the edge of the commercial section of the city southwest along Guanabara Bay. It now looks like a green tropical atoll just risen from the water, but it is really the result of three years’ hard work on an unpromising, hideous stretch of mud, dust, pipes and highways long known as “the fill.” It is the one esthetic contribution of Gov. Carlos Lacerda’s administration of the city and its suburbs.

Most of the beaches have been refurbished a little. Copacabana has just had its lifeguard “posts” taken down — as suddenly as landmarks vanish in New York. For years, Cariocans have said: “I live between posto three and posto four,” or: “Meet me at posto six,” and it will seem strange not to have these points of reference any more.

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Because of the quatercentenary, hotels have been booked solid by out-of-town Brazilians and tourists. Elderly American ladies in print dresses and sunglasses walk the mosaic sidewalks determinedly, looking for something to do. The trouble is, there isn’t anything to do or not much. Rio is not really ready for large-scale tourismo. The bon mot of the moment is to refer to the 4th Centenário as the 4th Sem Ter Nada. Spoken fast, they sound much alike, but the second phrase means “without a thing.” Meanwhile, two or three luxury liners arrive every week with more tourists.

A sight-seeing boat has been launched, something Rio has long needed, since its greatest attraction is still that fabulous bay and its islands. Eight gondolas are being built for the Lagoon, a large, enclosed body of water south of the city. According to the papers, these are “copied exactly from a bronze model Governor Lacerda brought from Italy,” and will have “red velvet awnings.” Provision has been made for outboard motors, too, in case it gets too hot for rowing. Two new cable cars are about to start making the trip to the top of the Sugar Loaf and back. Again according to the papers, the “visibility” will be better from these than from the old ones. This is hard to believe: How could that panorama be improved?

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Although the pace of city life increases constantly, there is still time to stand and stare in Rio. Men linger in groups in downtown cafés or at newsstands to discuss the latest political moves or look at the passing girls. Visitors are always surprised at how many men who would be — in Henry James’s word—“downtown” in New York are on the beaches at 10 o’clock on weekday mornings. This does not mean that Cariocans do not work hard when they work. They just go about it differently.

There is, in fact, much moonlighting. With the present inflation, it is hard to see how workers or the middle class could make ends meet if it were not that everyone down to the humblest nursemaid and lottery-ticket seller did not have some little “business” going on on the side.

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There was some talk of having Carnival for a whole week, in honor of the quatercentenary, instead of just the usual four days, but even Rio finally quailed at the thought and the idea was dropped. But Carnival sambas were in the air for weeks in advance; each night, groups went singing and dancing through the streets with their drums, rehearsing. Traffic would stop, or edge around them, and little boys tag along. No Cariocan can resist that rhythm: The cook sambas in the kitchen, and the guests in the sala move to it unconsciously (the word is rebolar ) as they go on with the conversation.

The sambas, marchas and other Carnival songs are the living poetry of poor Cariocans. (The words “rich” and “poor” are still in use here, out of style as they are in the affluent parts of the world.) Their songs have always been made from whatever happened to be on their minds: obsessions, fads, fancies and grievances; love, poverty, drink and politics; their love for Rio, but also Rio’s three perennial problems: water, light, and transportation. As an old samba says: