This will be your view she said pointing to the screen – dense white clouds and no sign of Christ!
I was in Rio de Janeiro for a couple of days during a comprehensive tour of Brazil. My first day was spent exploring the city, admiring vibrant stained glass streaking the Mayan-style pyramid cathedral. I witnessed eclectic fine art in its national museum, where classic oils contrasted with florescent mirrors of modern day. Then a steaming shrimp moqueca was savoured at a street stand, rubbing shoulders with the locals. Whereas a rich espresso was sipped at the elegant Confeitaria Colombo whose sinuous art nouveau transported me back in time.
This whistle-stop tour of the city was beneath azure skies and dazzling sunshine; just the type of weather one expects during a Brazilian springtime, leading one to complacently ignore meteorological forecasts – until good fortune changes …
I was awoken by explosive bangs and splitting cracks, like someone moving heavy furniture in the room above. But the subsequent resounding pitter-patter made me realise that I was in the midst of a thunderstorm – not the best conditions for visiting Christ. I grimaced despairingly as I looked at the rain-sodden tropical garden where I had eaten breakfast the previous day. The birdlike heliconias and droopy elephant ears were relishing the weather more than me. I munched crispy granola and sipped freshly squeezed juice in the sombre dining room, while contemplating the torrents, willing them to stop. The loquacious manager cheerfully predicted clear skies for that afternoon – most possibly out of sympathy when she discovered that this was my last opportunity to see the Redeeming Lord.
My boutique hotel was in the hilltop district of Santa Teresa, currently shrouded in ashen clouds. The area offered ‘a village-like vibe’ with its colonial mansions, now home to artists’ studios, restaurants or cocktail bars, interspersed with street art daubing the walls of the steep winding streets … All of which I was to discover whilst biding time, mackintosh-clad beneath a brolly, endeavouring to remain positive. As I sought shelter and sustenance in a quaint café, an empty tram morosely glided by, equally lamenting this inclement weather. The afternoon was upon us, but there was no sign of this incessant rain abating.
Or was there? Forever the optimist, a faint
glimmer of light beyond the grey haze convinced me to boldly venture to Corcovado mountain. First I had to find a taxi, which was
a rare commodity on this dismal day. After a wet twenty minutes, subjected to
incessant showers and tyre splashes, a familiar yellow vehicle came to my
rescue. The driver questioningly raised his eyebrows when I said ‘Cristo
Redentor por favor’ – either in response to my broken Portuguese or choice of
destination or both. Nevertheless he agreed to take a foolhardy tourist to the
sacred peak.
Despite his good intentions, the road up to the mountain was steeper and wetter than anticipated, making the wheels of the car whir in desperation then zigzag backwards in defeat. After a couple of attempts, the driver gave up his battle, with the parting words ‘Bus go to mountain’, as he deposited me at the nearby bus station. Yet, unbeknown to him, the buses had also ceased to operate on account of the weather.
Determined to carry out my mission, I had no choice but to bow my head against the deluge and make my way to the train. I carefully clambered the slippery slope that eventually led me to an empty station. Totally devoid of tourist queues, there was just a couple of idle staff in the ticket booth.
With a look of surprise and pity I was greeted by one of these uniformed ladies who, almost apologetically, proceeded to indicate the live videos of what I would see at the top of the mountain. Cloaked in white and hidden from view was the vista over Sugarloaf Mountain and Guanabara Bay; while Christ was equally nowhere to be seen. Like staking a bet, I dutifully paid the twenty-dollar fare then boarded the train, resolutely optimistic.
Once at the top, I climbed the steps to the foot of the Redeemer and stood there all alone, patiently waiting for him to emerge. A faint breeze shifted wisps of clouds, revealing part of the elongated statue with arms welcomingly outstretched. Then Christ’s gracious face was unveiled, displaying a tender gaze that seemed to acknowledge my unrelenting faith and courage in taking the risk against all odds.
