By Sandra and Bolaji Alonge
In March 2026, Eyes of Lagos Boy entered a new chapter in Brazil — a journey that quickly moved beyond travel into something more reflective, more layered, and at times unexpectedly personal. What began as movement across cities — from São Paulo to Salvador and Rio de Janeiro — became a process of looking more closely at the country’s cultural depth, its histories, and its contradictions.
Stories from Brazil emerged from this experience as a series that seeks to capture not only places, but perspectives — moments where culture, identity, and lived reality intersect in ways that resist simplification. If the first edition, set in Salvador, explored Brazil through connection — through dialogue, history, and shared identity — this second edition turns toward contrast, space, and the uneasy relationship between visibility and representation.
I had to visit the favela and experience how real people live here, the voices, the beauty, the everyday reality.” A month before our trip, I reached out to Rivaldo Narciso — a resident of Rocinha and a local tour operator — with a simple Instagram message. I wrote in English; he replied, politely, in Portuguese. He shared his program and rates for an experiential tour of his community. Different languages, same understanding — powered by technology, patience, and curiosity, we bridged the gap.
It is easy to talk about the power of the intern
et in abstract terms. But moments like this make it tangible — access, connection, and the ability to step into worlds that once felt distant.
By the time we arrived in Rio, the exchange had already turned into something real. A few final messages, and the visit was confirmed. What followed was not just a tour, but an entry point — guided by someone who lives the reality every day.
Perched high above the polished curves of Rio de Janeiro, Rocinha — the largest favela in Brazil — unfolds as a dense and complex urban landscape, rising in layered concrete along the hillside and overlooking one of the most photographed cities in the world. From a distance, it is cartoon-like — a compressed texture of structures — but entering it dissolves that illusion immediately.
You do not simply arrive in Rocinha; you climb into it. On the back of a motorbike taxi, navigating steep and narrow roads, the ascent is abrupt and physical. It pulls you into a different spatial logic, where the boundaries between private and public, home and street, infrastructure and improvisation are constantly shifting.
The word favela originates from a resilient plant that grows on rocky terrain in Brazil’s northeast, and the term was adopted in the late nineteenth century when soldiers returning from conflict settled informally on hillsides in Rio. But this was not the only force shaping these settlements. Following the abolition of slavery in 1888, formerly enslaved people were left without land, housing, or state support, forcing many to establish communities on marginal land. Over time, favela came to define entire neighborhoods shaped not only by geography, but by exclusion, adaptation, and survival outside formal urban planning.
Rocinha today reflects that history in built form — its density and verticality the result of decades of incremental construction, social organization, and persistence in the absence of systematic state provision.
Experiencing Rocinha through a guided tour introduces another layer — one that is structured, mediated, and increasingly shaped by global attention. The tour unfolds over several hours, combining motorbike transport with guided walking and curated stops that frame the favela through specific perspectives.
At designated viewpoints, the density of Rocinha gives way to expansive vistas of Rio — ocean, skyline, and hillside settlement coexisting in a single frame. The contrast is striking, almost too precise — a visual expression of inequality that requires no explanation.
Within this structure, certain moments stand out not only for their visual impact, but for what they represent. A capoeira performance, for instance, exists simultaneously as cultural expression and curated experience. Rooted in the history of enslaved Africans in Brazil, capoeira combines movement, music, and strategy — its martial elements historically disguised as dance as a means of survival and resistance.
In Rocinha, it remains a living tradition. But within the context of the tour, it also becomes part of a narrative presented to an external audience — raising subtle questions about context, intention, and interpretation.
The same applies to the now-signature drone footage that often concludes such visits — sweeping, cinematic images that circulate widely across social media. From above, Rocinha becomes visually compelling, almost abstract — a landscape that is easy to share, easier to admire, and dangerously easy to simplify.
The tour gives you access—but it also shapes what you see. Rocinha can feel engaging, even beautiful at times, challenging the usual stereotypes.
That tension sits at the heart of the debate around favela tourism. For some, it creates opportunity—generating income and offering a more nuanced view of communities often misrepresented. For others, it raises harder questions: whether it risks turning inequality into something visually appealing for an outside audience.
At its core, the debate is not only about tourism, but about power — about who is looking, who is being looked at, and how easily lived realities can be framed, aestheticised, and ultimately consumed.
The experience in Rocinha, however, complicates this narrative. Guided by a resident, structured around lived knowledge rather than spectacle, the tour felt grounded and respectful of the community. It did not attempt to sensationalize, but rather to create a point of entry — partial, inevitably, but anchored in a perspective from within.
If Salvador revealed Brazil through connection, Rocinha reveals it through contrast and in it, the complexity of the country becomes more visible — not less — demanding a way of seeing that goes beyond the image and lingers long after it.
This Easter weekend, If in Lagos, make sure to check out Fanti Lagos Festival, a grand Afro-Brazilian cultural celebration of heritage, music and dance.
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