Acknowledgments
Writing this memoir was not easy at first. Since the first week since I’ve known of this assignment, I had spent my time thinking about how unmemorable my life was. Then I remembered that this wasn’t necessarily true, and chose—let’s call it what it is—a traumatic experience (I will not be using this term again) to write about. It was more of a narration at first, a much-needed cathartic process. I remember crying while writing this, something I hadn’t done out of sadness in a very long time—maybe since the start of freshman year. The writing felt off, so I started to fine tune it, and when my peer reviewer, who I’m very thankful for, pointed out that I didn’t really go into depth about what had happened, and that my memoir felt a little unfocused, I started to question its integrity as a whole. I would eventually pick a lens through which I could see this chronicle and better write about it. I would also like to acknowledge my professor, Mary Kovaleski Byrnes, as she noted that this read like a piece about my relationship with my mother. I realized that I wasn’t ready to write about that, and that frankly I didn’t want to.
This memoir is about the city and the state of Rio de Janeiro, but really, it’s about the things that we want versus the things that we get. Thus, my last acknowledgement goes to my parents, who practically never said no to anything I wanted, except for the time I wanted to not move to Rio (and the time I wanted a functioning digital camera to take to college, but perhaps that’s a story for another memoir).
I don’t remember what car we drove then. It was likely the Volvo SUV, which was present in our lives for a very short time. Only four months, right before our monumental move to Singapore. Before this move I’d spent my life in my home city of BelĂ©m, and at the age of six, I moved to Rio de Janeiro. It was here that I would learn a lot about life, and would suffer a tragic accident that would sour most of my memories of it.
Regardless of statistics or numbers, Rio de Janeiro as a city still feels like the most crowded, dangerous and worthless city I’ve been in. Although it’s the very lifeblood of our country, I see nothing but the things I don’t want to become within the people I met there. Corruption, laziness, fear and hopelessness. I’m sure people have their reasons, but to me I see no logical explanation for being there unless you’re a tourist. Most of the food that’s attributed to being carioca is done better somewhere else in the country. SĂŁo Paulo is the bigger city economically, BrasĂlia has been the Capital since the 1950s, and although culturally it’s still relevant, anyone who’s name becomes remotely worth knowing, migrates to a suburb in a different state or chooses to live in another major city. What makes me most upset about Rio is all it could be; all it could present itself as. It could be the prettiest city in the world, it could be a safe city, it could be the best tourist destination—in Brazil or the world—but it’s not. Instead, it’s a terribly managed, precarious tourist trap that prides itself on the little things it manages to offer. Although I’d never stress this to my father, who is from Rio, or my mother, who has her own opinions on it, it was there that I unwantedly spent two-and-a-half years of my life.Â
How the state of Rio de Janeiro differs from the city is hard to tell. The state, which was named after the city, is the fourth smallest in the country. Cities that aren’t Rio all feel somewhat similar: beaches, hills, Portuguese sidewalks, a monument to some bandeirante who founded the city, a church and a town hall. The buildings are either old, falling apart from the heat and humidity or they’re still being built as part of an inevitable urban growth.  Â
We lived in Botafogo, right on the beachfront, in a pink, 10 story building. Tell any carioca, that I lived next to Escada Shopping and they’ll know what you’re talking about. The actual name of this mall was Botafogo Praia Shopping, however, due its height, and lack of elevators, it’s known as the “stairs mall”. I think that the people of Rio’s ability to rename something so that it’s more appealing, funny or offensive is a very redeemable quality of cariocas. Then again, it’s something that any Brazilian can do.
From our apartment we could see a small sliver of the PĂŁo de Açúcar mountain —hilariously translated to Sugarloaf mountain by google. Walking outside gave you a plain view of Christ’s open arms, the city’s postcard. This dream apartment in Rio was complemented by a property three hours away, in a resort near the city of Angra dos Reis.Â
Angra is a known tourist attraction for Brazilians, as people can hire speed boats to take them on a day long trip through the surrounding islands from there. Some are inhabited by resorts, restaurants, some are just lonely islands with slim patches of beach, and some are surrounded by coral reefs, and all kinds of wildlife. My favorite was the restaurant that served you in your boat. All you had to do was tune in to their radio frequency, order your food, give them some sort of location and 25 minutes later a raft would bring you anything from calamari to chicken parmigiana. The islands are all named but I always called them what we went there to do. If we were hungry we went to a hotel or a restaurant, if we wanted to snorkel we went to an island surrounded by sea life.
What I loved the most about Angra however, was the resort our apartment was located inside of. It was weird, owning an apartment that was also part of a hotel, but the private-ish beach, salt water pool, club house and selection of restaurants were never something I complained about. Later in my life, after my return to Brazil I found myself complaining about how coarse the sand was on that beach. I felt so stupid, so spoiled.Â
Angra was a nice city, it was smaller than Rio, less developed, less of everything really, but now it’s different. Then it contained a mall, a supermarket, some boat related stores and restaurants. In a lot of ways it was a traditional small Brazilian city, life was simple to those who lived there; those who visited were forced to slow down. Now it’s become a tourist-centric city. It’s accelerated to keep up with the constant stream of people coming in and out, and although I haven’t been there in a very long time, I fear that it may no longer be as relaxing as it once was.
The day of the explosion was like any other day we’d spent in Angra. We woke up early, had a nice breakfast in the freshness of our apartment, hearing the waves crash against the shore. You couldn’t hear that in Rio, the city was too loud. Even though it was less than 100 meters from the shoreline it felt like we were 10 kilometers away because of the roads that ran parallel to it. We packed our boat bags, snacks and drinks, the Orion branded towels. Orion was our boat, 28 feet long, white with a thick midnight blue line that sat right above the water level. We had wanted this weekend to be our sweet goodbye to our apartment and to Angra.Â
The marina felt the same, the boats going to and from the pier, or being raised to storage. The parking lot had the same damp and dark feeling it always had; the elevators smelled like salt water and rust. The only out of the ordinary thing that day was the explosion itself, and what ensued after. We stopped to fuel up before the trip, the shoreside Ipiranga-branded gas station was the same one we’ve always fueled up at. I remember watching ice melt under the sun, laying sprawled on the sofa, positioned right above the engine, my mother sitting next to me.
It’s hard to describe what happened next. For a moment I was deafened, thrown into the air. Unlike my mother, I was lucky to have been positioned in a way that made it so the engine cover, which doubled as a sofa, launched me into the ocean. My mother was launched up, and fell straight back down into the burning engine bay.Â
Not much goes through your brain at moments like these, maybe a lot of adrenaline and other biological chemicals that tell your body to survive. I cannot begin to wonder what my mother must have thought about at that moment.
 In the air I spun maybe three or four times, then took an unpleasurable dunk in the cold green-ish water. I could swim well, I always could. It was only when I looked up and saw the tower of smoke that I knew something was wrong. Seeing my mother walk out of the burning fire and into the gas station is something I’ll never forget. In the eight seconds it happened, I remember the boat driver arguing with my mom about who to help. I selfishly let him help me get out of the water first. Thankfully, my father was inside the gas station convenience store paying.
The worst moments of my life followed thereafter. We got a ride from the clerk at the gas station to a Basic Care Unit. The doctorless nurses were unsure of what to do to help my mother. Some of them wanted to throw cold water on her, while others wanted to cover her with saran wrap. I remember the chaos, and the dirty white anti-slip floor tiles. At some point, we got an ambulance ride to a bigger medical location. The details here are fuzzy. I remember stopping at the side of the road, in an open field waiting for a fire department helicopter to take my mother to a better hospital in Rio.
Somehow my father and I got back to our apartment. It was in the shower that I noticed the burned hairs on my leg and parts of my head. The hot water stung my skin, so I had to work up the courage to take a cold shower that afternoon. Still in shock, I finished packing my bag, and I was taken to the marina helipad. My dad had requested the company’s executive helicopter to transport us back to Rio, something he usually would not do, mostly because it was unnecessary. However, according to him, his boss was more than willing to do anything to help us at that time. The Viagra, promptly named for its blue color, and relatively small size, turned the three hour car ride into a 40 minute lift. On any other occasion, this would’ve been a very exciting moment for me, because like most eight-year-olds, I had never been inside a helicopter.Â
The fridge inside the craft was filled with cans of soft drinks and beer. There was not much to do aside from sip my Sprite. I didn’t have a smartphone, my Nintendo DSi was out of battery and since it was night time there was not much to see out the window. The seats were the same beige color of our car seats; they were more comfortable I think. Aside from the dampened noise of the rotor blade, the ride was quiet. The repetitiveness of my thoughts was only broken by the pilot announcing our descent into the hospital a few minutes before we landed.Â
The smell of the hospital room is now unforgettable, even more so than the smell of smoke. It’s the only smell I can actually recall from memory. I’m not sure what it was, but I think the combination of the cream used to protect my mothers skin, and the ever delightful hospital food were probably the main performers in the ensemble that still haunts my senses. I only walked into that room three or four times, each time the smell felt less present, but it always struck me. It wasn’t the traditional smell of a hospital, it was that but so much worse, like if an incense candle expired. Outside the hospital, there was a nice restaurant which offered some of the best popsicles I’d ever had. I remember the doctor. His last name was Pellon, and my father reassured my grandmother by telling her that he was the best burn specialist in Brazil, and one of the most qualified people in the world to treat my mother’s injuries. It reassured me too. Something my father’s words are often unable to do.Â
Before the move to Singapore I learned what had happened. There was likely a small leak in the fuel delivery system, which made it so fumes built up in the engine bay, and as soon as there was a spark, those fumes ignited. Some time later I would discover that this had happened to another boat of the same make and model. Our boat burned down and sank. I saw the image of the navy crane boat retrieving Orion’s carbonized, battered, and shrunken carcass. The best explanation I received as to how that happened was that even the most simple mechanical devices fail, and as they get more complex, they are more likely to do so.
My mother would eventually get better. Today the scars are barely visible, but her skin is still thin in some places around her arm and neck. All it took were some ridiculously expensive French pharmaceuticals, several procedures, a lot of sunscreen and UV protective clothing.Â
Rio still has that unpleasant salt water taste, with an added flavor of microorganisms—and now microplastics! Years later, living in SĂŁo Paulo, I apathetically watched through the news as the city turned into a war zone between drug lords and the military. Seeing tanks roam the streets, and once when visiting seeing a military outpost on the highway populated by hundreds of soldiers. Shortly before the Olympics, I took a ride on its new tram system, which was almost completely defunct before the COVID-19 pandemic. Every time I visited I felt less and less safe; even the thick bulletproof glass of the corporate provided car felt thin when leaving a garage or parking on the street. If there was ever any rivalry between the two cities, like Metropolis and Gotham city (or Boston and New York), I’d side with SĂŁo Paulo.Â
I can’t blame these things on the city or the state. Cities can’t do anything—they’re a representation of those who live in them. I’m sure that if Rio had a choice it wouldn’t suffer like this, it wouldn’t have given up the title of capital city, or suffered through the countless coups, revolutions and attacks that it did. When my uncle and grandfather passed away I chose not to visit the city. Partially due to the ongoing pandemic, partially because of the city itself, but I remember telling my father how dangerous it would be for him. My relationship with Rio still hasn’t healed. A very unpopular politician who currently holds the title of president of the Federative Republic of Brazil was given a start to his career in Rio.
As a high school student I read countless books narrating Rio as a paradisiacal city by Mário de Andrade, Machado de Assis and Carlos Drummond de Andrade (whose statue is constantly robbed of it’s glasses), yet I never saw any of the beauty they poetically wrote about. I wanted to believe that each visit would be better, and although there were enjoyable moments in these visits, they were either overshadowed by some tragedy, or by a sense of danger and worry. One day I would like to visit and experience the poetry that was written within the city, and one day I would like to rewrite the unwanted and salty past I’ve had with the Cidade Maravilhosa.
Works Cited
“Angra Dos Reis.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 3 Jan. 2022, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angra_dos_Reis.
“Carioca Definition & Meaning.” Merriam-Webster, Merriam-Webster, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/carioca.
“Rio De Janeiro.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 14 Feb. 2022, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rio_de_Janeiro.