The Parque Lage in Rio de Janeiro is an old mansion from the 1800’s that’s been turned into a visual arts school. It sits at the foot of Corcavado, with the iconic statue of the Christ at its peak. Below, lies the Botanical Gardens, rich with mystery and the voice of nature. I was excited to go back… but this time at night.

                                                        

Within five minutes of hatching our plan to sneak in to the Parque Lage, our crew had grown from three to ten, accumulating a few near-strangers from our hostel. We filled an entire collectivo van and made a beeline for our destination. For weeks our hostel veranda had been transformed into an office and every waking moment was devoted either to the harbor or our computers, connecting worlds to create a new one in FlutuArte.

So I was excited to take a night away from our work for a clandestine mission and explore the unknown.

Our van zoomed along the dark streets of Rio under the canopy of massive trees, roots dangling like giant dreadlocks from their sturdy branches. Suddenly we slammed to a stop in front of the old stone wall of Parque Lage. We piled out and waited for a lull in the traffic so we could make our move. One by one our group disappeared from the street as we took turns leaping over the wall. Once over we were instantly transported into a secret garden. I felt a flood of excitement and childlike glee that I felt had been missing lately. I could feel my heart jump at the sound of small twigs snapping under our feet. I could hear my breath, heavy amongst the sounds of jungle as we walked along the cobbled paths in the dark as quietly as ten people could.

No one knew what to expect. Were the grounds of Parque Lage posted with guards? What could happen if they discovered us? Our wide eyes danced with shadows and silhouettes as we were guided by our knowledgeable friend Perola. Her unfaltering stride made it clear she knew her way around the gardens. She and I clutched each others hands as we marched boldly in the direction of the abandoned castle that I had recently visited during the day. Perola knew the way to the top.

Stars shimmered in the night sky and the statue of the Christ glowed like a ghost far above us on the top of the inky black mountain of Corcavado. Century old imperial palm trees hovered over us as we climbed up a steep pile of stones and over a barricade, hugging the side of the old castle turret climbing higher and higher until we made it to the circular roof where the ten of us sat in a close circle on the inside of the castle cornice.

I lit a single candle in the center of the tower on a beautiful old tile made of stone inlay and we all fell silent. We invited the sounds of the jungle to fill our ears and we listened as they became intricate, revealing the cries of wild monkeys, the songs of birds, frogs, insects and dark utterances of the unknown.

Then I made a sound. A long round shape of sound and Perola joined in. Soon the circle was chanting together in unison and we all dissolved into the harmonies, ten friends connected by a weave of hands, hearts and voices. Perola guided us to listen to the sounds, to feel the wind, to become part of the nature around us and I fell into stars and carbon dust. Our singing ended, silence fell once again and time reappeared. We were faced with our next set of choices. Should we move on to the waterfalls, stay here on the top of the castle, or head back home?

To be continued…