Authentic insight or voyeurism? My struggle with slum tourism

As the sun set between the “two brothers” mountains overlooking Rio’s de Janeiro’s Ipanema beach, it illuminated the primary colours of the favela that sprawls down to the sea, making the tightly stacked small houses resemble a rainbow model village set into the mountainside.

Sugar from my luminous pink caipirinha crunched between my teeth and, gulping down the generous cachaça, I turned to my sunbathing, smoking travel buddy and said: “I think I want to go to one”, nodding in the favela’s direction, where a million tiny windows refracted the sun’s sparkle back onto the sea.

Frivolous as the scene sounds, so began days of vacillation. How do we navigate the ethics and safety of whether to tour a Brazilian favela – an impoverished neighbourhood with high population density and low-quality housing?

The holiday had been luxurious enough and, given warnings about violent robberies in Rio, we’d wisely stuck to the safer parts.

While being sensible, we’d also been beach bums; total tourists. I craved a deeper connection with this extraordinary, wildly undulating, world-wonder hosting, diverse city of 13.8 million people.

After reading as much as I could on the subject, I learnt just how thorny, divisive and nuanced it is.

First, I realised I had to access my own reasons for wanting to book such a tour, and see if they stacked up with my principles.

It boiled down to the very core of why I travel. Many do so because, understandably, they want relaxing familiarity, ease and convenience to help them de-stress. I often want the opposite: difference, the opportunity to learn and grow, de-familiarity and the gnarly parts that make for good stories by getting me out of my comfort zone and teaching me something surprising.

I don’t just want to see polished, gentrified barrios created for the tourist gaze, or I’d just go to Santorini every year. I want to see real authentic life in all its human forms. I didn’t want to be squeamish or turn away from the problems, inequalities and rawness of the country I was visiting. Yet I wanted to see such sights respectfully if that was possible.

Then, though, come the tougher questions. How much of this is driven by white Western guilt and my own need to check my privilege? Does my need for authenticity trump the inhabitants’ right to privacy from voyeurism? Would they welcome the opportunity to share their community and culture, or feel like they’re the subjects of poverty tourism?

In our group, one British man, very discreetly, stood back from touring inside a shanty house, finding it “awkward and intrusive”, he later told me.

Semantics play a role here too; the argot of favela feels exotically mellifluous. Brazilian beach-sellers commodify and glamourise the favela: beautiful multicoloured artworks of mosaic-like mini-houses are printed on the towels and paintings they hawk along Copacabana and Ipanema beaches. In reality, that beautiful one I eyed at sunset is too dangerous for non-locals; some favelas are run by organised criminal groups like drug traffickers. Tourists should only tour Rio’s largest and safest favela: Rocinha favela.

In other countries, such improvised neighbourhoods have less flattering names which hammer home the more brutal reality: slums, ghettoes, shanty towns, townships or, in Buenos Aires, ‘villas’ (pronounced, in Argentine Spanish, as ‘visha’). It’s short for “villa miseria” – “misery village”.

Another consideration before booking was my late Gran. She lived in a UK council housing estate – sometimes colloquially called “sink estates”. I’d have felt very uncomfortable if commercial tours were organised for groups of international visitors to peek through her net curtains and see “how Britain’s great unwashed” lived.

Travel writer Becki Enright, whose Borders of Adventure blog has helped me navigate such issues, advised: “Research where your money’s going. Is the tour run directly by people at the favela community, or are your funds being swallowed up by a third party with no transparency on how much is passed onto the people you’re visiting?” She told me this is called “tourism leakage” – and I didn’t want to add to that flood.

Hollie Youlden from youth travel agency Kilroy, which runs favela tours in Rio via a local operator, said such tours should place an emphasis on “dignity and community”. That means they’re led by locals, celebrate culture and create employment opportunities for the community (via the paid tours and crafts on sale during visits).

“We’d consider the ‘right reasons’ to visit to be a sincere interest in learning more about social issues and ways they can help as a tourist,” she told me.

Even if money was going to the community, the white saviourism made me cringe; I couldn’t decide if it was helpful, exploitative or if I was overthinking it. My travel buddy decided it was the latter. So, we booked a hyper-local, “free” Rocinha Favela Local Tour run by Luis, who lives in the favela, via GuruWalk. The expectation is you tip at the end and we did – handsomely. Rocinha was about 30 minutes in a cab from Ipanema beach.

Having read and procrastinated so much, I set some of my own rules of respect: no photos (even though Luis assured us they’d be fine and others on the tour did), and certainly no selfies; the idea of a “favela selfie” felt grotesque.

Our chatty guide Luis assuaged many of my concerns. He wants to give these tours, not least because they’re his income. He emphasised Rocinha’s uniqueness in its relative safety for tourists, how its inhabitants take pride in showing their way of life, and they encourage more eyes on their problems from richer Westerners who may be able to help. Many, though, didn’t need helping or saving: their community may be cramped, but it’s tight-knit and, largely, self-sufficient. There’s a communal culture: thousands of overhead wires above intricate winding narrow alleyways represent the sharing of electricity to minimise costs.

The most surprising thing I learnt was that this favela’s gang leaders will “beat up” anyone displaying racist or misogynist behaviour. Woke vigilantism.

Never wander into a slum alone without a guide; which is exactly what I inadvertently did on a long walk recently in Buenos Aires: I found myself in the middle of Villa 31, one of the city’s largest slums, book-ended by some of its most exclusive suburbs, separated, literally, by railway tracks.

While not set on a hillside, which gives Rio’s favela vistas a dramatic edge, Villa 31 has similar characteristics in its colourful houses, manifold overhead wires and bustling puddly narrow streets. I was so struck by the vibrancy, colour and tumult, I doubled back upon my return journey. Locals later told me this was a “stupid gringo mistake” and I was lucky to leave with all my possessions. Curiosity got the better of me, I’ll admit. I was asked for money, offered drugs, followed, pointed at and barked at by unleashed dogs outside tiny shanty houses and makeshift shops. It was enlivening. It was idiotic.

Pre-pandemic, you could properly tour “the other side of the tracks” via Ajayu Turismo Comunitario, a neighbourhood tourism agency. You could “try peanut soup while listening to a traditional guitar from Peru or Bolivia, accompanied by their typical dances”. The tours aimed to break down prejudices and give visibility to Villa 31 and its inhabitants at a time of gentrification and pressure to relocate, with some houses being demolished.

However, by 2021, the agency reported that not a single foreign tourist had joined; most visitors were from the wealthy surrounding neighbourhoods who wanted to see inside safely. Today, no such tours exist. My Buenos Aires-based Spanish teacher, Guillermo, says that’s a good thing. “If you want to see inside, you should volunteer for charity on an ongoing basis,” he said.

Elsewhere in South America, precaution is wise. Medellin is a prime example: the Colombian city transformed from murder capital of the world to digital nomad haven in the last decade, but tensions exist. Last year, locals put up posters reading: “Digital nomads, temporary colonizers” and “Gentrifyer: GO HOME”. Yet the same city advertises actual “slum tours” of Comuna 13, the only one safe enough to visit, high in the mountains – accessible by cable car and then the tallest outdoor escalator in the western hemisphere.

Treading the fine line, it’s important to listen to the diversity of opinion of residents. Steve Williams is a freelance journalist from Nairobi, Kenya – home to the “biggest slum” in Africa. While many Kibera slum tours exist online, he calls them “highly unethical and plain evil”. “Humans aren’t animals to be ogled like they’re in a zoo. Anybody who participates should reassess his moral outlook and priorities,” he said.

When I visited Soweto in Johannesburg in 2011, the decision was made for me: I attended a tour of the famous Soweto (its name is a syllabic abbreviation for South Western Townships) as part of a delegation run by Action for Southern Africa for charity workers in the field. You’re missing out if you don’t visit via a reputable tour company. I learnt much about apartheid, resistance and the community that sprung from such inequality, and I’ve carried it with me ever since. I seek out the Soweto gospel choir wherever I am in the world. Their harmonies remind me of such cherished memories, and the possibility of overcoming government-sanctioned oppression through solidarity.

In our group, one British man, very discreetly, stood back from touring inside a shanty house, finding it “awkward and intrusive”, he later told me (I was the only one who noticed).

It’s a good guiding principle: discreetly follow your own etiquette – even if that means sometimes stepping back.

The writer travelled at his own expense.