The sun, the sea and nothing else

It's the city of the riotous Carnaval; the home of Ipanema and Copacabana, two of the most famous stretches of sand in the world; of butt-floss bikini bottoms and seductive samba. But being neither a sun worshipper nor a heavy-duty reveller, I was immune to Rio de Janeiro’s allure until I hit the celebrated beaches myself.

Oh, there were enough buff and lithe bodies on display to pique anyone’s interest, but what struck me was not the pageant of gorgeous people, but the wizened senior citizens, their skin dark and leathery in their bikinis and swimming trunks, their hair bleached white from sun and age, letting it all just ... hang — cellulite and flaccid flesh be damned.

Almost brazenly, they shared the beach with welltoned volleyball players, sleek surfers and nubile lovelies as if it was their personal playground.

And why not? This sheer exuberance, this joie de vivre seems to be the Brazilian way of life, and it was highly liberating - and infectious.

Carpe diem, baby, and the more cleavage the better.

I, for one, wished I had brought my bikini, though by Brazilian standards of wearing two pieces with just enough cloth to cover one’s vital nubs, my swimming costume would positively be prudish.

Learning the Lingo English is not widely spoken in Brazil, so invest in a Portuguese phrasebook and familiarise yourself with the language before you go. Note that “r” is often pronounced like “h”, so “real”, the currency of Brazil, sounds like “he-ell”. Popular destinations, such as the ornate tea room Confeiteria Colombo, often have English speakers.

This bare-all streak, however, seems incongruous in a country that is the world’s largest Roman Catholic nation; and not all are comfortable with what they see as rising hedonism.

“I just talked to them about religion, about the Pope in Sao Paolo,” reported Solon Braga, an affable 60-something retiree and Rio resident who had offered to show two apprehensive travellers very far from home his city.

“They care about the sea and the sun - and nothing else,” he said dismissively, referring to a trio of statuesque beach loungers with whom he had struck up a conversation.

He unwittingly underscored Pope Benedict’s message to thousands of Brazilian faithful the day before. The Pontiff had decried sexual immorality and the culture of hedonism, and called for moral rectitude in his flock.

Yet, when it comes to Rio’s reputation for violent crime, Solon was first to defend his home.

The city is like New York, he said, or any other major world capital: There are neighbourhoods to avoid and if you keep a low profile, be watchful and don’t flaunt your wealth, you should be fine.

The trick is to be wary. “I have insurance,” Solon declared as he unlocked the heavy-duty clamp on his steering wheel. “Still, I don’t want to lose my car.”

In fact, he was eager to show us the favela — or slum quarter, one of approximately 750 that swarm Rio’s hillsides — beside his home, a lofty villa nestled in a leafy gated community in the Jacarepagua district in the city’s west zone, a 30-minute drive from the city centre.

A favela in Rio’s Jacarepagua district. Photo by Simon Tan.

Sure, the buildings in this favela are dilapidated and clumsily constructed, but on the surface, it looked like any underdeveloped village you’d find in Southeast Asia. Home to 20 per cent of Rio’s residents, the shantytowns reveal a side of Brazilian life that is, before the advent of favela tours, not normally seen by tourists.

“The streets are dirty, but the children are clean,” he pointed out for those who associate Rio’s slums with the violent Brazilian film City of God.

“I know people who have spent entire days here without mishap,” he said proudly.

For all its negative press, there are still many who gravitate towards Rio’s - and indeed Brazil’s — vivacity, laid-back rhythm and heady sex appeal. Every year, the city’s glitzy Carnaval attracts droves of tourists.

Rio’s Sugar Loaf, accessible by two cable cars, offers a spectacular view of the city. Photo by Simon Tan.

We met them when we took the tram up the 709m Corcovado (Hunchback) mountain to gawp at Rio’s iconic monument of Christ the Redeemer, a 30m-high sculpture that towers above the city.

As we jostled with scores of mostly American and European tourists to marvel at the panoramic view, we heard a familiar accent.

A tour guide had assembled her group in front of the monument and was about to snap the photo.

“Okay everybody, say’ ‘Malaysia boleh!’”

Not quite home, but close enough.