# 50 Exploring Diverse Lives at Legendary Copacabana Beach
On staying fit with sugar cane and other Brazilian contradictions
You wake up to the trumpet heralding dawn at the fort and rise like the Brazilian flag.
You pull on your wetsuit, take the elevator down, greet the fishermen, launch your surf board, and join your buddies on the waves.
Or you’re the fisherman, selling your catch of the night from your shaded stone slab before the Rio de Janeiro heat will spoil your goods.
You lace your sneakers and run on the pretty 4-km long promenade where the black-and-white mosaics undulate between your steps. On Sundays, when the beach road is blocked for cars, you run on the asphalt between the palms and fly like the helicopters overhead.
With a backdrop of jungly mountains, you take a yoga class on the sand or use the mini gyms that look like bus stops along the bay. You stretch your muscles, then roll them into your red Life Guard top and black swimsuit. You gaze at the waves that might devour a paddle boarder, wondering where the rip currents will appear that day.
Your first light snack is matte tea with gluten-free sweet or savory Globo biscuits.
You join a swimming race or pay someone to step into a transparent plastic ball to be tossed around in the breakers. Or you’re the tosser, pulling the plastic ball filled with excited screams through the surf and rolling it back up the beach.
You sit on the sand, letting the breeze stroke your skin until the tide comes up, the rest of Rio de Janeiro arrives, and every inch of the dry beach is taken up by umbrellas and folding chairs. Prop planes with commercial messages fly by to keep you from forgetting about that other world out there. In the distance, a tanker heads toward the open sea.
You zigzag the length of the wet beach and marvel at the general peace. There are no strict rules about how one should behave on the sand, yet everyone shares the limited space with good cheer. There are no jet skis, no fights.
You dodge the footballs that small groups of mostly young men are ankling, kneeing, heading, and chesting between them. Futevôlei is the name of their game and you play it with gusto.
Although you resist it as much as you can, your people watching turns into butt watching, since there is much to appreciate. You imagine what your own behind looks like in a Brazilian bikini. Going topless is not allowed on Copacabana Beach yet tops exist on a sliding scale.
You admire the beach’s diversity. How many skin tones? How many hairdos? How many snacks?
You eat grilled rubbery cheese on a stick and slurp up a frozen coconut. You eat a bowl of hot fresh corn with melted margarine. You eat a tapioca pancake that burns your mouth like a pizza Margherita.
You put on airs and enter the century-old Copacabana Palace, not because you belong there—you’re not Josephine Baker, Madonna, Princess Diana, or Walt Disney—but because the entire neighborhood grew from this place. You sooth yourself with the sun tan lotion the hotel provides for free next to the pool.
Back outside, a guy on a bicycle delivers huge plastic bags of ice cubes to the mobile bars selling sweet cocktails. Children body surf on the waves while life guards whistle.
You consider whether Copacabana beach, free as it is and so full of joy, can be considered an equalizer.
You enter the ocean and let the waves steal your cap.
Is it time yet for a caipirinha? The Brazilian national cocktail made from sugar cane liquor is ubiquitous, which means that history is ubiquitous, too. You cannot admire the beach’s diversity without thinking of the sugar cane plantations and the three-centuries-long cruel slave trade.
You briefly become the man who pulls his cauldron of steaming corn through the sand on his cart. The woman who braids other people’s hair with extensions. The man who sells empanadas from a heavy basket dangling from his arm. The woman who sells her açai smoothies topped with a festival of granola and condensed milk.
You don’t push your goods on anyone; you have plenty of customers waving you down and paying you digitally in PIX.
Each beach hut has its own musicians, and you try to name their styles. Is it Samba? Copacabana-born Bossa Nova? Or Funk Carioca? You dance a little, just to try it out, and feel the rhythms in your body. You imagine what this bay must be like during Carnaval or the Gay Pride Parade.
With the sun low on the horizon, you enter the military fort and watch the inner workings of the great cannons on top.
You wonder what the world would have looked like had gunpowder never been invented, and join the political rally on the promenade against the possible amnesty of a convicted former president.
You become a beach chair man, folding up your wares, tying them to your cart with rope, and pulling your cart like a mule toward your storage facility away from the shore.
You become a souvenir vendor, displaying your jewelry and bathing suits on the promenade, or protecting your pareos and paintings from the wind by weighing them down with coconuts. You collect everything you own within seconds when a certain warning call is issued and race off into the anonymity of the streets before the tourist police arrives.
After sunset, the crowds thin, then disappear. White vans arrive and from them jump people in orange suits. You take a rake and collect the debris on the sand. People have been fairly good about picking up after themselves, but plastic waste has blown away in the wind and beer bottles have been left behind like bad memories.
Floodlights illuminate the beach. You’ve heard that unsavory characters used to populate the promenade after dark. Now they stay hidden in the shadows of the high-rises along the shore, if they’re there at all.
You surrender to a caipirinha with some fried sardines on the side and listen to a saxophonist playing “The Girl from Ipanema” on repeat. You savor the irony; Ipanema is the neighboring bay.
What kind of lives might they be living over there?
I’m Claire Polders, a writer of fiction and nonfiction. Read about my books and more on my website www.clairepolders.com.
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Desk Journeys aka Reading Recommendations
For anyone interested in Brazilian politics, economy, and values, please read the NYT opinion article by current president Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva.
I believe this is a gift-share link so non-subscribers can read the article, too; please let me know if that’s not the case. The same is true for the articles about Globo biscuits and the Brazilian digital payment system PIX.
Author News
Just a reminder that Woman of the Hour: Fifty Tales of Longing and Rebellion, my debut story collection, can be found wherever you buy books. For my indie publisher and me it’s best if you order it directly from the press. You can also support local stores by getting it at bookshop.org. Other options: Amazon or Barnes&Noble.
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Time to Say Goodbye
Daniel and I are flying to Salvador tomorrow, known for its rich Afro-Brazilian culture.
We feel we’ve only scratched the surface of Rio de Janeiro and hope to return here in the years to come.
I’m still a bit on the sad side of things, but I’m giving it the time and space it needs. Thank you for all your messages.
All my best,
Claire
P.S. By liking, sharing, and commenting, you will draw more readers to my work. And I genuinely enjoy your feedback. I’m grateful for your support.
You have made Brazil come alive through its famous beach Claire. The waves look extremely high and fierce. Did you take the plunge? I read the article by da Silva. Mighty impressive 👏
I love Brazil! Everything is so LARGE there! And there's like this joie de vivre, things just seem bigger there, maybe they are. I loved Rio, bc of the crowds, the diversity, the differentness which you captured so well in this great post. I felt I was at Ipanema with you, and loving it. And a sunny day! When I was there rather often there would be clouds (I'd forgotten it's the country w/ the hugest rainforest in the world ): I guess). But when the sun was out - time for a caiparina, probably my fave cocktail over and above even margaritas! Have fun!!!!!