City of Fear

Not quite ready for a day on the sand, I found my way to the Jardim Botanico located in an upscale Rio neighborhood of the same name. Protecting something like 6500 species of Atlantic rainforest trees and plants on its 370 acres, it is listed as one of the finest botanical gardens on the continent. The trees absorbed much of the city noise. Trading the crush of people and traffic on the street for the stillness and quiet on the garden’s gravel pathways felt like dampening sound with earmuffs. The thick canopy of trees filtered the warm drizzle and sunlight, but couldn’t keep out the heat and humidity. My clothes stuck to me like skin.
I recognized many of the plants, but most of the birds were new to me. Flitting through the trees, perched on a branch, or pecking at the ground, they displayed themselves large and small with rainbow crests, collars and tailfeathers, and wore specialized beaks for crushing, poking or digging. I scrutinized trees for their glossy leaves and frightful thorns, and followed columns of elegant, buttressed trunks to the sky. Graceful bromeliads clung to branches and filled gaps, supporting a prolific soup of insects at their core where rainwater gathered.
Several greenhouses hosted the rare and wonderful. Complex orchids shamelessly exposed their conspicuous organs. Frightful cactus stood thorny and erect or were forced into tormented kinks and curves. Carnivorous plants waited patient and hungry, gaping wide for a careless insect. I wandered the paths admiring the fantastic botany for what seemed like hours, and finally stopped to rest on a wooden bench. Lulled into complacency by it all, mopping sweat from my brow and taking in the profound serenity, I heard a heavy rustle in the distance. Probably nothing more than a palm frond hitting the ground, but in my reverie it shattered the air like a gunshot. Looking around and seeing no one, a familiar prickly fear sprouted in me as I realized that I was quite alone in this place surrounded by teeming masses of the disadvantaged. Sudden awareness of vulnerability in a far-away place has surfaced many times in my travels, and although there was no imminent threat, that lovely forest suddenly felt like a trap. Prophetically, as it turned out, I imagined myself at the wrong end of a weapon – surrounded by favela kids, relieved of my possessions and left for dead. As paranoid as that may sound, I have heard more unlikely tales.

Once, on a holiday trip to Cuzco, Peru, my La Paz friend Chad chose to heed the warnings in the guidebooks and take the group tour. Yet, momentarily alone as he stood outside the Church of Santo Domingo in broad daylight to take a photo – he was grabbed from behind and forced into unconsciousness by the criminal’s choke-hold. He came around some time later to find he had been relieved of all his belongings including the clothes he was wearing.

I found my way out of the botanical gardens and quickly joined the throng on the street – ironically, for my own safety. I was robbed at knifepoint less than 24 hours later.