Belonging and Escaping

It is Sunday, July 21, 2024. I am awake at 9 a.m., greeted by the sun and blue skies of Rio de Janeiro when I pull my shades up. I eat my breakfast, shower, and get some deliverables done. I put on my swim trunks, cut-off, and sandals. I load up on sunscreen. I pack a towel in my string bag. I put my phone and house keys in my safety fanny pack, concealed under my shirt, and then I am out the door. In the elevator ride down eight flights to the lobby of my building, I receive a Google calendar notification on my phone that reads: Beach: 9:30 am-5 p.m.

The beach is the most democratic place in Rio. No matter where you come from, the color of your skin, or who you are in life, you belong to the beach and the beach belongs to you. The beach is also the social hub in Rio. Anything you can think of, you could do at the beach. Dance at a music festival? Easy. Have fine dining with a beautiful view? No question. Keep attending your favorite pickleball class? Don’t worry at all.

It is about a five-minute walk in totality to the boardwalk of Leblon Beach, Avenida Delfim Moreira, from my house. On the way, I am surrounded by nature infused with the city. The streets are alive with the chatter of bicycle bell rings, people walking their dogs, and calm automotive traffic. Above, the canopy of tall rainforest trees stretches across the street, their leaves whispering in the soft breeze and providing a cooling shade. As I walk, I catch glimpses of the Common Marmoset monkeys darting between branches and street signs, their curious eyes following my movements.

I reach the boardwalk and make my version of “El Camino” down Avenida Delfim Moreira. Imagining a life without the beach in Rio de Janeiro is hard. The sun wraps its golden arms around me, coconut palm trees line the boardwalk, people who look like they were carved from marble are in every direction, and I can feel the salt in the air, a reminder of the vast, mighty expanse of water just steps away.

But as soon as I step down from the boardwalk and my feet kiss the warm sand, only one thought is on my mind: Altinha.

Altinha is a staple of Brazilian beach activities. Any beach you visit in Brazil you are guaranteed to find a group of people playing this game. The game’s rules are as follows: A group of people (usually four, could be more/less) have to juggle a soccer ball between themselves for as long as possible without letting it drop. You can use any part of your body to juggle the ball except your hands. The game is hackey sack with a soccer ball.

The key to being a master of Altinha is the touch on the ball. You are supposed to touch the ball in a way that adds the most height to its trajectory to the other person (which makes sense as the game’s objective is to keep the ball in the air as long as possible). This was hard for me, a soccer player, to adjust to. In soccer, you touch the ball to control it, to keep it close to your body. In Altinha, you do the opposite. When learning to play, I frequently was told the phrase, “não dominar a bola,” which translates to “do not dominate the ball.”

Eventually, I got the hang of things and became an Altinha addict. I loved the game for a few reasons. Firstly, it was a great way to practice my touch and learn skills for my upcoming season. Constant repetition of touching the ball allowed me to perfect my touch, and there was no shortage of Brazilian flair to add to my arsenal after every Altinha game. Secondly, playing Altinha was a way to relax and forget about the rest of the world around me. All I had to focus on was keeping a soccer ball up in the air. Of course, the surrounding beautiful beach only added to the tranquility of the experience. Lastly, Altinha has the ability to unite people from all over the world. I met so many people from different places while playing the game, so I always looked forward to playing as I knew I would meet more people and learn more about the world.

It does not take long for me to stumble upon my first game of Altinha. It is a group of five people: an adult Colombian man, two Brazilian teenage boys, a Brazilian teenage girl, and a little Brazilian boy. I say, “Posso jogar?” or “Can I play?” And they say, “Pode,” which means “You can.”

We play for an hour. We show off our cool skills. The kids teach me their Brazilian flair, like passing the ball with your bum. We laugh. We shout. We enthrall ourselves in the activity. Throughout the game, we exchange details about ourselves, learning more about the other player.

I learned that the Brazilians are from somewhere other than close by. They are from Nilopolis, 28 miles away. But I am not surprised. I was expecting this.

Most people I played Altinha with took a different path to Leblon beach than my leisurely walk.  Their day began before dawn, often at 6 a.m.  When they awoke, the sun did not rise to greet them. Instead, only the blackness of night and their neighborhood’s dense surroundings offered. Their journey started with a long bus ride to the nearest train station. They board their bus (with no air conditioning) as the sun rises. With no shade provided by tall buildings or a rainforest canopy, the heat from the sun permeates through the bus and feels more like an oppressive shackle than a warm embrace. ​​The bus rattles along uneven roads, filled with the sounds of cramped city life—honking horns, shouting vendors, the constant engine hum – and the smell of burning tires and open-air sewage. It takes 30 minutes to reach their metro station, where the heat inside is stifling, the air thick and still. There is no scent of salt to remind them of their destination, only the smell of sweat and the distant scent of the origin. Descending back into the darkness they awoke in, their train journey runs underground, hidden from the beautiful nature of the Tijuca Rainforest they pass under. After an hour and a half, at 10 a.m., they arrived at Leblon Beach.

I always wondered why these people go through all this trouble to come to Leblon Beach. Isn’t there a better pastime to play near where they live? Even if there are no beaches near their homes, why not just go to a closer beach, an hour away instead of four hours away? When I came back home, the answer came to me. Because playing Altinha on Leblon beach was an escape.

These were the same people who got up at 4 a.m every weekday to get ready to work in Zona Sul (as a delivery boy, as a maid, office cleaner, etc). They came from large families where they were either the primary breadwinners or there was a lot of pressure to put food on the table. Since their jobs were low-paying, they routinely had to work overtime or another job simultaneously.

Additionally, crime is everywhere in their neighborhoods, and there is a lot of manipulation. Drug movers plague their safety, government officials’ corruption diverts public funds into private pockets, and policemen who are meant to protect the citizens control the drug trade and local businesses. In short, these people don’t have control over their lives. They have no autonomy.

The appeal of Leblon Beach makes much sense after taking this into account. It is a fantasy land where joy, passion, and, most importantly, free will reign supreme. A place removed from their rigid schedules or from the ruthless order of local militia. And the rules of Altinha are juxtaposed perfectly with the reality of their situation. Just like their lives, there is no control. “Não dominar,” as I would commonly hear. Perhaps subconsciously, the game of Altinha allows them to have joy in their situation by relating it to a game they love. To visualize the heights that they can reach, free from constraint.

As I write about this experience, I am again reminded of the democracy of the beach. Regardless of how we got there, the sand beneath our feet was the same. The game of Altinha was a common language that united us all. And it was a powerful reminder and visualization of life.