Oct 2013: Rio Weird

UFOs, killer polka dots, African presidents strolling Ipanema… Rio de Janeiro is unique for more than bikinis and beaches.

ESCADARIA SELARON: So this was inspiring. In the 1990s, the Chile-born artist Jorge Selarón decided to fix up the steps in front of his Rio apartment by not only filling in the holes but by also covering the stairway with colorful tiles from around the world. He sold paintings to fund the work. Donations from neighbors and friends also continued the effort to fix up a 215-step staircase frequented by beggars and drunks (and sometimes drunk beggars: I was nearly tangled in a fight here between two tipsy panhandlers when one man broke a beer bottle over the other’s head).

Last January, Selarón was found dead on the steps, and it’s still unclear if he was killed or if he committed suicide by lighting himself afire.

UFO: Visions of flying saucers usually happen from far-off distances (just ask former President Jimmy Carter, who claims to have seen a UFO). But here in Brazil, from far away or up close or even inside, the Niterói Contemporary Art Museum looks like an alien ship. It’s an amazing design by Oscar Niemeyer, Brazil’s most famous architect (who also died nearly a year ago, coincidentally).

I would expect that space-traveling UFOs are better maintained, however. The museum appears disturbingly neglected by the Brazilian government. The ceiling is falling in places, window trim is hanging, the floor is covered in a cheap rug that is threaded and wrinkled, and even the art itself is embarrassingly amateurish. None of this is worthy of the museum’s architect or its stunning location overlooking Guanabara Bay.

It’s not easy to get here. The museum is in the city Niteroi across the bay from Rio de Janeiro, and so only accessible by ferry or the 8.25-mile President Costa e Silva Bridge. We arrived via the bridge, which was a 90-minute nightmare of commuter traffic, and returned via the ferry, which was a wonderfully refreshing 30-minute breeze over the water.

KILLER BEACH BALLS: Another museum we tried to visit, but which seemed to have an 8.25-mile-long line to get inside, was the Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil in downtown Rio de Janeiro.  I don’t have much to say about the museum, since we opted for hot churros instead of waiting in line, aside from that I was nearly killed by Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama’s giant pink polka-dot balls in the atrium.

FAKE BUTTS, RIO FLOWERS: Pictured below left is a mannequin. Take note of its derriere. Have you ever seen such an, ahem, ample rear on a mannequin? I, being a gentleman, didn’t even notice until Sarah exclaimed and whipped out her camera. A mannequin is, by definition, a life-sized doll used to display how clothing might actually fit on your body. This is truly a Brazilian mannequin.

Not that all Brazilians are so naturally well-endowed. A popular cosmetic surgery in the US called the Brazilian Butt Lift seems to also be common on the beaches of Rio de Janeiro. I’d never before noticed a cosmetically enhanced buttox. But you know it when you see it. (Venezuela also has a unique mannequin to fit their idealized bodies, as The New York Times reports here.)

So it is understandable if, upon walking home from the fake-ass beach and you suddenly notice the gorgeous orchids teeming from every tree, you scoff, “Those must be fake, too.” But they’re incredibly real. Almost every tree in Ipanema and Copacobana hosts a self-sustaining orchid, planted there as part of a beautiful Carioca tradition.

NAME THAT PRESIDENT: The height of weirdness in Rio was while walking along Ipanema beach one evening after a late-night climbing session at my friend Andre’s indoor wall. The sidewalk was mostly empty. And then we walked straight into a dozen-strong contingent of secret servicemen surrounding a casually regal black man who made eye contact with me, stretched out his hand for a shake, and told me he was the president of an African country named Kanzania.

“Tanzania?” I asked.

“KEN-zen-aria,” he said, as both Sarah and I strained to listen.

“Is it near Kenya?” I asked.

“It’s in Africa, in the middle,” he said. “And you?”

“America,” I said. “But I prefer Rio. What do you think of the city?”

“I like samba,” he said.

No lie. He was also with a suited woman who said she was a general in the Brazilian Army. Still have no clue who he was.