One way, please

“Why would they name their home after someone they hated so much?”

As we arrived at the Vidigal favela in Rio de Janeiro, I posed the question to Matheus, an Elvis Presley-loving local I’d befriended who was playing the role of tour guide.

“Soon,” Matheus smirked. “I’ll tell you soon.”

In the two days that I’d known him, I’d learned to place complete faith in Matheus and his seemingly permanent toothy grin. But as we surveyed the winding mountainside road that led to a place once heralded for its lawlessness, I couldn’t help but feel a tad apprehensive.

“Trust me”, reassured Matheus. “It’ll be fine.”

And trust him I do, because I’m soon on a motorcycle, speeding up an impossibly narrow streetscape, dodging herds of schoolchildren, wandering dogs and everything else brave enough to dart across the bumpy road.

It doesn’t sound safe, and it isn’t for the most part, but the higher we climb the more picturesque our view of the Atlantic is. The ocean hides behind clusters of trees and Lego houses that elbow each other for room. Along the way, there’s a stream of supermarkets and bars, populated with old men in singlets playing cards and smoking cigars.

Finally, we arrive at our destination near the peak: the home of Matheus’ friend Pablo, who I’m promised makes the world’s greatest charcoal chicken. Pablo welcomes us into his home and out on the balcony, which keeps sentry over Rio below and the water beyond.

“This… this is special,” I say to Matheus and Pablo. “How could anyone not be blown away by all of this?”

“A-ha!” gasped Matheus. “Now I’ll tell you why Vidigal is Vidigal!”

Chicken wing in one hand, frosted beer in the other, Matheus launched into the tale of Miguel Nunes Vidigal – a ruthless, hard-nosed police commander during the 1800s.

Although despised by the people for his brutality, Vidigal was a personal favourite of the king, and was given the land we now know as Vidigal for his unwavering service.

But Vidigal wasn’t the slightest bit interested in owning this wondrous slice of coastline, instead electing to return to his native Portugal. Soon after, the people he had terrorised for so many years saw it fit to bestow him the honour of naming rights.

“I don’t get it,” I said to Matheus. “Why would they name the favela after Vidigal?”

“Why?” Matheus laughed.

“So that no matter where Vidigal went, the favela would always be part of his soul.”

Matheus raised his beer to the sky and smiled.

“Whether he liked it or not.”