overseas briefing Some abroad, all aboard

Author: Angela Evancie

Like many of Rio´s older neighborhoods, Santa Teresa wears on its sleeve as much of its history, an imposed love affair with European culture and architecture, as its present: the development of a new tourist economy in the face of rampant poverty. Narrow cobblestoned streets switchback through thick tropical undergrowth, whose invasion has been curbed, literally, by sidewalks splattered with fallen mangos and stone walls covered with graffiti. Neocolonial mansions and mosaic-tiled staircases, the traces of the erudite-flight of yester-century, alternate with modern apartment buildings and tiny shacks, the ineveitable encroachment of the surrounding favelas. Small monkeys dart back and forth across the telephone lines and street-car cables.

And that brings me to the best way to get up to Santa Teresa: by a yellow, San Francisco-style cable car, called a bonde. These hulking wooden masses that spark their way around corners and stop for anyone who puts her arm out used to service many of Rio's neighborhoods. Now the only two cars that aren't in a museum, #4 and #11, share a track in Santa Teresa. A seat in a car that departs from Estaçao Carioa (Carioca Station) costs 60 centavos, and passengers that stand on the running board and dodge branches and the rearview mirrors of oncoming traffic ride for free.

And so the bonde, a variation of an antique amusement-park ride, becomes a mode of transport shared by two very different demographics: the frugal, if not penniless, residents of Santa Teresa, and the visor-wearing tourists, on a quest for the quaint. And yours truly, somewhere in between.

As a bonde only departs from Estaçao Carioca once ever 20-40 minutes, a considerable line forms accordingly. One afternoon, I find myself in front of two fuming Santa Teresa residents. Only one commonality, or simple proximity, are necessary to incite conversation between two strangers here, and thus these two commence. Their topic of choice? The damned tourists.

"They should run a few cars a day just for them," the woman holding her groceries says.

"And residents should pay less," adds the student.

Less than nothing? I think to myself. This is my first time traveling in a country where I understand the language, and the reward is a bittersweet one.

As we on the bonde begin our jerky ascent, one man in a bright yellow BRAZIL t-shirt shouts to his companion, "The literature says to expect this!" The girl standing in front of me makes plans on her cell phone, while others take impossibly tiny photos on theirs.

I try to act the part of resident (albeit a temporary one), and feign uninterest at the sweeping views of the city that open up below us and the old buildings that we speed past. When the conductor puts the car into high gear, and classic roller-coaster cheer explodes from the middle of the car. And, under my breath, I join in.