The Rio Summer

I’m woken by a woman knocking and ploughing into the room. I’ve just started dozing after having a bad case of stomach cramps and sickness, and she’s pulling my hostel windows shut. I moan and she says something in Portuguese and gives me a thumbs up. I have no idea what she said.

I’m just dozing off again when it hits. Straight away it’s a solid stream of rain, battering the windows and the roof. It’s loud. This is Rio summer, apparently. Good thing I wasn’t well enough for the beach this afternoon.

Later I’m woken again by my room mate coming in, who is drenched. More drenched than the word drenched could even describe. She make a puddle on the floor as her entire body drips. She points out to me the incessant wail of what could be a warning siren the following Portuguese tannoy that sounds like a dire warning even though I can’t understand it. It’s on repeat, and though we don’t speak any of the language, we’re pretty sure it’s telling people to watch out for the floods. My roomie tells of puddles the height of your calf. It’s rained nearly everyday so far, sometimes heavily. Never this torrential.

When the sun is out, or even when there’s light cloud cover, Rio is stunning. Up on Sugarloaf Mountain, the city below was drenched in the sun’s rays, not the sky’s tears, and Christo Redentor poked his head out of the clouds, misty and mysterious. In the Babilonia community the sun douses the local football pitch come basketball court as kids play football in flip flops, or even barefoot. Hardier than the best Premier League professionals.

As I lie in my bunk listening to the thunder, I recall greeting Teams GB and Egypt at 9pm at night in the pouring rain. My roommate was playing beach games in the rain because the young people here wanted to keep going. A little bit of rain doesn’t dampen the spirit of the Street Child Games.