Why I travel

A loud thud vibrated through my rain soaked head. The customs agent had just stamped my passport with a visa extension. My life in Rio de Janeiro was going to continue, officially—the Brazilian government had just granted me three more months in their country. My journey to the visa-renewal office had begun at four that morning. It was on the outskirts of the city and getting there took all morning. I knew that I was cutting time dangerously close, and starting early was my only chance. I’d been teaching English as a second language and wasn’t ready to leave. Rio had lit an unquenchable curiosity inside me. An agonizing pre-dawn bus journey was worth the opportunity to lengthen my time with the city; I wanted to know it intimately.

Feeling a rush of accomplishment having been successful with the morning’s mission, I strolled down the hall of the government office to catch the bus back to the inner city. I stopped for a moment realizing that my passport was still in hand. I went to the bathroom to conceal it safely. I’d been in the city long enough to know that carrying valuables in plain sight was out of the question. I went to hide it on my body in the privacy of a bathroom stall. This felt oddly criminal. Despite being the owner of this passport, a perfectly legal government document, finding a quiet space to conceal it made me feel a mysterious sense of guilt. Admiring the little blue booklet, I began flipping through its pages; a collage of stamps told the tale of my life’s travels. A sturdy cover protected the delicate pages. I fondled the stamp-free pages with the deepest desire to fill them. Studying each stamp, I reminisced about all that I’d gained from time abroad. Travel had always been my greatest teacher. I promised myself to fill each page. Those empty pages held everything. It was my book of possibilities. With care, I stuffed it in my underwear.

It was already ten o’clock and I had just an hour before my next class.  I laughed wondering if I was really going to go about my day with my beloved passport in the most delicate of all places. There was a miserable rain swallowing the city that day. Travel was more eventful than usual and my apartment was on the other side of town.  I begrudgingly made the decision to return my passport all the way home, knowing that this could make me late to class. Once I reached my apartment, I hid the small blue booklet in the only safe option—a nook in the ceiling.

As I rode the bus to class I daydreamed about all that I may accomplish with three months in Brazil. I’d wanted this for so long. Throughout university I shot the same question to every serious traveler crossing my path: ‘what’s your favorite place?’ “Rio” came up so often that I instinctually began planning. I knew that I had to go someday, and the conclusion of my bachelor’s degree was the ideal opportunity to explore an exotic place. It was everything that I could want, a tropical coastal city dotted with mountains. Staying in the U.S. and weathering The Recession was my unappealing alternative. Without knowing a soul, I arrived in Rio with few expectations. I’d told friends that the sweet serenade of Portuguese and the city’s easy access to rock climbing was my main attraction, but deep down I knew that affable ambiance wasn’t the only thing that lured me in. I wanted a challenge; to prove that I could keep all the promises I’d made to myself. Finding a way to live rather than visit Rio was the test I’d chosen. Luckily, I found a job quickly. It allowed me to explore the metropolitan area via teaching my native tongue to young professionals.

My class schedule took me through five distinct neighborhoods. I was learning the sights, sounds, and souls of each. Poor communities, favelas, are intermittently located throughout the city’s affluent neighborhoods. Favelas contrast poverty with wealth in the midst of dramatic thumb-shaped granite cliffs. Classes were in students’ homes and offices. Captaining the throws of public transportation became the most exciting part of my life as I ventured to class each day. Entertainment came with each purchase of a bus or subway ticket. Any journey had the potential for love, comedy, and action. To truly know Rio one must learn its public transportation. Buses are its lifeblood. These brightly painted machines crisscross all people and places. Cariocas—residents of Rio—fascinated me. I learned something every time I left my apartment, and that that’s precisely why I had to stay longer.

On this particular day the city felt uncharacteristically austere. Torrential rain had disfigured the face of Rio’s streets, for once the city felt eerily abandoned. The usual street performers had vanished and gutters flooded with water cascading down subway stairs like an unruly passenger. Carioca’s charisma had washed away. The importance of my day’s mission to the passport-renewal office had made it easy to forget the rain that morning, but as the day wore on the rain began to seep into my mood. I was late to class, but in Rio, punctuality isn’t persistent and rarely expected. The bus to my last class passed the botanical garden—an elegant display of plants and colonial architecture. En route on a clear day Christ the Redeemer’s silhouette could commonly be seen, but today clouds hid him. As we entered the Botafogo neighborhood, I looked for the comforting sight of the beach. The sailboats reminded me of my childhood. Like the statue, the weather hid the boats too.

I’d been wet and cold all day, and began to doze. The sound of the door squealing shut woke me as the bus pulled away from Botafogo beach. Suddenly I heard “pssst” from a figure across the aisle. Without even looking, I waved my hand dismissively. I thought it would show a confident disinterest to potentially mischievous passengers. What could a stranger have to say that I wanted to hear right now? It was too late, too dark and too nasty of a day to talk. I tried to pretend that this wasn’t happening, and perhaps the person would lose interest. Again, ‘pssst, hey’ the stranger hissed. I waved him off. My stomach turned with fear. Still I refused to look, hoping that he would leave me alone. Then came an entirely different sound

‘teenk, teenk,’ followed by a louder—‘hey.’

The distinct sound of metal-on-metal pulled my gaze to face him. My eyes twitched, not wanting to see what was in front of me. His intentions were clear. The barrel of a revolver was staring at me. Petrified, I began emptying my pockets. Before I could finish, I stopped, noticing that he appeared to have forgotten me for a brief moment. He was wiping the sweat from his face while pointing the gun at me with his other hand. He began whispering once again, but not to me this time, rather his gun. I thought I was hallucinating. The bus’s pale blue lights flickered with each bump of the road. My eyes were blinking feverishly trying to make sense of what was across from me. His pistol, just inches away from his face, stayed fixed at me. Feverishly, he continued whispering to it as if it were a living being that was there to somehow guide him. A fear coursed through me when I realized how much he was shaking, even more than me. The robbery had paused because of this conversation that he was ceremoniously having with his gun.  A bump of the road jolted him out of the trance. After struggling to cock the gun with both thumbs, he jumped in the seat behind me, holding the gun to the back of my head as the other hand rifled through my jacket. From the reflection in the window I watched my fear filled face. There was nothing to do but wait. As the bus hit bumps the barrel tapped against my skull.

He had my wallet and driver’s license—the only identification on me. If this ended poorly how would they know who I was? All I could think to say in my broken Portuguese was ‘everything is chill.’ I repeated it like a mantra as I rocked to the whim of the bus. Suddenly, he barked ‘go forward.’ He searched my bag as I went to the front of the bus. I found a seat and immediately tried to warn the two passengers at the front without alerting the thief. But like me just minutes earlier; they ignored my strange and foreign whispers. I felt invisible, now I was the weird character trying to get the attention of other passengers, yet I kept trying, repeating ‘off bus.’ My desperation grew with every utterance; ‘O-F-F B-U-S-S.’ I knew I had failed when I heard his footsteps approaching. He pointed the pistol at the other two passengers.  They threw their wallets to him with a mysterious air of calm. By now the bus driver and ticket attendant had noticed what was unfolding. They were powerless; the man with the gun had taken control.  ‘Stop bus,’ he yelled. The door opened, and he escaped into the storm.

We all stared at each other without saying a word for quite some time. A passenger punching the seat in front of him finally broke the silence. Suddenly everyone began talking at the same time. The bus driver sat pondering while everyone argued whether we should or shouldn’t go to the police. My fellow passengers were adamantly opposed, claiming that the police wouldn’t help. Frustrated, the driver and ticket attendant stated their case, citing that ‘if my boss finds out I didn’t report this, I’ll lose my job.’ The decision was made.

As the glass doors of the police station opened I was struck by the smell of cigarettes, sweat, and grease. A young man was being dragged in cuffed and screaming. His back was stained with a pattern mirroring the distinct cobble stone design lining Ipanema beach. I was shocked, yet pleased that I recognized such a peculiarity of the city.  We were eventually waved over by a detective wearing jeans and a classic faded Bermuda shirt. I couldn’t tell if he was drenched from rain or perspiration; the humidity in the station made it hard to breathe. The detective sat us in orange plastic chairs facing his desk and handed me a binder brimming with mug shots. I flipped through with a rapacious curiosity. The faces of criminals was disturbing and fascinating all at once. A monochrome character halted my skim. The person’s face and clothes were covered in blood. With trepidation I asked, ‘what happened?’ The detective casually exhaled smoke saying, ‘he gave us problems.’

In half Portuguese and English I recounted my story to the detective. He would periodically raise his eyebrows and puff his cheeks trying to hide his amusement as he typed. I was too exhausted to be insulted. After reading the whole affair back to me, he banged the Enter key and paused, eyeing me while he ashed his cigarette. I’d never met such a suave lawman, I thought. ‘Crazy night for you?’ he chuckled. I soaked up what he said as I leaned back in my chair. I felt a sense of calm in the knowledge that it was over. I nodded in agreement. The detective was calm. He must’ve seen countless cases that were far worse than mine. My night felt less significant with every breath that I took, each one coming easier than the last.

The detective presented the report to me as if I’d won a prize. I thought I saw a mild grin on his face as he accompanied me to the exit. Peering out of the half opened door we could see that it was still raining. ‘Do you have any friends or family in the city?’ he asked. ‘Only a few friends, but they lived on the other side of the city,’ I answered. I wondered if he would offer me a ride home. I was disappointed when all he had to offer was advice. ‘Be careful getting home’ as he closed the door leaving me alone in the street. I walked out into the night feeling numb. My possessions were gone, but I was intact. I relinquished myself to the torrential downpour by unbuttoning my shirt. It wasn’t keeping me dry anymore. Throwing it over my shoulder like a wet corpse, I looked around to get my bearings. I still had a trek back to the apartment ahead of me. Turning to peer at the police station, I wondered if a ride would miraculously be offered at the last minute. My eyes landed on the blue paint of the station—‘my passport’ I thought, remembering that it was safe. I closed my eyes and lifted my head to the sky in thanks. Dropping it at home had allowed it to escape an untimely departure from me. The morning I’d spent in a visa office was feeling like a lifetime ago. The numbness drained as water ran down my head.  A strange since of satisfaction began to warm my body as I began walking. The realization that I’d gained more than I’d lost that day warmed me with each step. Three more months in Brazil was the fruit of my effort, and most importantly, experience. I’d been robbed, yet was okay. The prospect of filling those blank pages in my passport felt even more possible as I pushed through the storm toward home.