Ferro do Corcovado

The train ride to the top winding it way up, like a nature trail with a difference. Holding onto my small rucksack which I have wedged between my knees, the train overcrowded, mixed foreign voices chatting animatedly as I stare out at the wonders, as I pass them by. A break in the mountainside and I catch a glimpse of the coast, high rises and hotels dotting the bays, golden hues of orange against the shimmering blue horizon. Lush green trees, the odd shanty or stone building, dogs running around wild. Children small playing in the rubbish, some unclothed, waving and grinning at the sceptical sea of faces, cameras flashing at them as we pass them by. In the mounds of rubbish, scavenging locals search for their gold, enough to feed their families tonight, eyeing us up warily. How rich we must seem to them.

The train comes to a stop at the top of the hill. The throngs of people, hanging around, all come to see Rio’s most famous postcard, the statue of Christ, blessing the city with its open arms. I follow the crowds, the masses of people all making the same pilgrimage, to the base where a small chapel is standing, with a queue of people all waiting to go inside. I stand back and gaze up at the 100ft high monument of concrete and soap stone. Making me feel dizzy, I break free from the people and head out to look out, eyeing the view, scanning for a place to stand alone and admire the breathtaking views.

Guanabara Bay, Sugar Loaf, I can see all around. The Southside neighbourhoods, the shanty’s, Copacabana beach, with its thronged women and leering old men. The Tijuca forest behind me, with its wildlife not heard over the peoples voices coming and going from the souvenier shack,  but enticing all the same. I sit on the wall and look out, pulling out my water and drink.

The End

3 comments about this story Feed