“The guy gets a working computer and now he’s in my inbox as regularly as that annoying marketing email I’ve unsubscribed to seven times in the last month.”

Yes, I’ve had an overflow of thoughts and stories over the last couple of months I wanted to share. Without a computer, it was just a dam of information waiting to burst upon getting a functioning one. I appreciate everyone that’s followed me up to this point, and I hope you’re enjoying reading these tangent-riddled pieces as much as I’m enjoying writing them. As my signature always says, my goal is to create consumable and thoughtful content for both those interested in my proprietary travels and those interested in what it would be like if they embarked on a long-term journey of their own. Hence the links back to my two prior posts…

If you know someone thinking of hitting the road soon or would enjoy my content, please forward this edition to them.

Let’s Talk Favelas

In Google searching “Rio de Janeiro”, the majority of images returned are stunning snapshots of Christ the Redeemer, Ipanema Beach, and the overhead view of the sapphire Guanabara Bay; all these images are inherently significant of Rio and its place on the world tourism stage. However, it doesn’t take too much scrolling to notice a different theme of images crops up - the areas of the city that are inseparable in both envisioned visits and reality upon arriving. It’s here that many visitors to Rio de Janeiro are just as awestruck by Cristo Redemptor as they are by the curious array of favelas that paint the sides of the green hills in the “Cidade Maravilhosa”.

Made to look all the more infamous and dangerous by films like Cidade de Deus, Elite Squad, and Fast Five, Rio de Janeiro has its reputation firmly tied to a perceived, deadly identity just as much as a glamorous one. Indeed, alongside those search results on Google showing favelas and luxury apartment complex images side-by-side, it would be hard to avoid the overflow of YouTube videos filmed by content personas, all titled roughly the same: “VISITING RIO’S MOST DANGEROUS FAVELA” or “I SURVIVED THE FAVELAS OF RIO DE JANEIRO”. To garner high viewership, these videos are also careful to craft a narrative around these hillside communities and, many a time, do it inaccurately.

By hoping to capitalize on the notorious perception of favelas, creators depict the bustling, tight streets of these neighborhoods as death traps, lauding praise for themselves as being brave enough to enter them and “survive”. What the videos fail to pay much heed to are the origins of these once-temporary settlements, the innovative ways that communities with zero background in urban planning have come together to create a livable home, and the remarkable people that live day-to-day in conditions much harsher than most of the developed world. Rather, it’s easier to get more likes and more views by posing for a tone-deaf photo in front of the family-stacked homes or by using the streets as a setting to shoot an edgy YouTube video as if inside a dark tourism amusement park.

Was there a bit of vitriol behind those words? Probably. Are all depictions of favelas as dangerous areas wrong? Of course not. Is the best way to gauge these formerly-temporary neighborhoods in a fair context by understanding how they formed and how they operate today? Absolutely.

In Rio de Janeiro, the first favela formed on a hill near the city’s center known as Providencia. Following the abolition of slavery in Brazil at the tail-end of the 19th century, thousands of migrant workers converged on the cities of Brazil in search of formal employment and new beginnings. Similar to the United States, the abolition of slavery was a far cry from social equality in Brazil. As more and more people concentrated in the city of Rio, thus arose an evident and immediate problem: there wasn’t nearly enough room for everyone.

Many of these migrants were those that had come to Rio to receive compensation for their involvement in the Canudos War to the north of the nation. Having been denied that payment and, for lack of other options as the state did not grant any sort of land to the formerly-enslaved communities, the new Rio residents spread to the steep hillsides that overlooked the established city below and formed their own settlement: a favela, named after the favela plants many soldiers lived among during the war.

As with any settlement not formally overseen by a nation’s government, the favelas formed across the city of Rio and its other cities, expanding naturally and growing into mazes only navigable by foot and by one that has traveled the same route over and over. Not recognized for years by the government, basic utilities such as water and electricity were in the hands of its residents, making way for some truly impressive achievements of community planning by those with no former experience.

In these communities, police presence is sporadic, at best, and has left the door open for criminal organizations to grow if unchecked. Today, this much is true in terms of the danger. There exist certain favelas in Rio that should be rightfully avoided as they do serve as central hubs for these organizations to operate with little intervention. On the other hand, many favelas in Rio serve as central hubs, not for crime, but for art, cultural heritage, and innovation. Street murals, museums, and community-betterment projects are not uncommon in these neighborhoods as the residents have come together to improve living conditions to the best of their abilities in their collective home.

In visiting other iterations of informal settlements across Latin America, the parallels can be fascinating. Latin America tends to follow a trend of relegating its ignored citizens to the least accessible parts of the city. This trend is present in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where Villa 31, an underserved neighborhood, is physically cut off from the rest city by the Retiro train station railroad tracks. In Guayaquil, Ecuador, there also exist now-concrete hillsides, filled with those that have managed to make permanent residence on the port city’s rolling landscape despite any formal infrastructure or direction from the municipal government.

In Medellín, Colombia, the parallels are even further evident as migration and topography played a large part in the formation of the barrios that dot its valley walls. Once home to the “most deadly neighborhood in the world” due to its exuberant homicide rate in the 1980s and 90s, Comuna 13 surged into notoriety on a global level. Many assume Pablo Escobar was the main catalyst for this title, but he was just a drop in the well of Comuna 13’s violent history.

Similar to the Brazilian favelas in origin, Comuna 13, along with many other informal communities, sprouted around Medellín’s Aburrá Valley in the mid-1950s as immigration to Colombia’s industrial city accelerated. The city, not anticipating an influx as large and as rapid as it was receiving, had no formal way to house these new residents, so migrants took to the valley hills and built their own neighborhoods. Effectively cut off from the city center below by the steep hills it was built on, self-policing groups formed to govern Comuna 13. As there wasn’t much of a unified community structure, these informal government groups clashed violently with each other in the barrio.

As Escobar rose to power, the Medellín cartel did, indeed, seize control in Comuna 13 as it was advantageously positioned around the western roads into the city, meaning complete control of arms and contraband into and out of the valley. The drug kingpin was the figurehead of the neighborhood in global media until gunned down in December 1993. Although the Medellín cartel dissolved along with Escobar’s defeat, cutting the head of the snake did little in the face of violence in Comuna 13.

Without a central cartel controlling the region, smaller groups banded together attempting to conquer Comuna 13. Aided by guerrilla groups from the left and right sides of the Colombian political spectrum, the FARC, ENF, and paramilitary groups continued to clash for supremacy in Comuna 13 - always at the expense of its humble inhabitants. That was until 2002.

In 2002, the Medellín authorities initiated a series of military operations to “pacify” Comuna 13, both, according to the community’s residents, failed and did more harm than good. For the next year and a half, the residents of Comuna 13 lived in even further fear of catching a stray bullet from shootouts between sides than the days before. As one operation failed for the government, another began. This one, still under heavy scrutiny by those in the community and others outside of it, consisted of simply disappearing suspected members of the paramilitary, guerrilla, and informal gangs in the neighborhood. No traces, no certificate of death. The majority are still formally “missing” today.

Despite its past, Comuna 13 today is an emblem of transformation and improvements in image, safety, and community not just in Medellín, but in Colombia as a whole. Once the most deadly neighborhood in the world, Comuna 13 hosts more tourism than any other region in the city today. Street art along its walls reminds those of the hell experienced in the community, still very fresh and real in the memory of Comuna 13’s residents. Like the rest of the city, Comuna 13 has managed to turn the page from perceptions of danger into something more symbolic of the rapidly-growing valley city.

Whether it be a favela or a villa, Comuna 13 or Providencia, these once-informal settlements are now fixed and essential parts of Latin America’s cities. There’s nothing wrong with being aware of the still-active dangers associated with today. In any case, waltzing uninformed into certain areas of any large metro area is hardly advisable whether in Brazil, the United States, Germany, Singapore, or anywhere else in the world. But to use these humble neighborhoods - teeming with culture, history, and hard-working people alike - as backdrops for a “World’s Most Dangerous ____” YouTube series or a “look at me being edgy” Instagram post only serves to exacerbate the distorted perceptions these places already carry. Not to mention, the people that reside in these communities already have enough responsibilities without a GoPro being shoved in their faces by a tourist.

A Story About a Beach

In the age of travel media, many of us only see pictures of empty beaches and uncrowded holy sights. These images and marketing fodder serve to form unrealistic expectations of what a certain destination will be like upon arrival. Pristine, untouched, quiet.

I’m no outlier in this as I’ve repeatedly reset expectations for finding that one, remote beach like in the movies. You know the one - it’s the same island paradise the thieves escape to at the end of any heist film. Funny enough, upon actually discovering what I perceived to be that coastal paradise one day in Brazil, I was soon after reality-checked:

Postulations on Traveling Long-Term

Slow travel is, indeed, great for sightseeing, but it may be even better for observing human behaviors - especially those in the sea of liminality. I kept having a few themes resurface over the last few months, so here are my brief, amateur thoughts, expansions, and philosophies on the effects of long-term travel:

If you enjoyed this edition, be sure to share it with someone. My goal is to have this newsletter reach those interested in traveling unconventionally and long-term, without requiring much cash. Or, at the very least, be an entertaining narrative of times on the road in South America. Either works for me.

Until next time,

Sources

1. Slavery in Brazil

2. Favelas in Rio de Janeiro, Past and Present

3. On the Origin of ‘Favela’

4. Cómo la Crisis en Argentina Cambió la Vida en Villa 31…