6

FANTASTICO!

In bookshop after bookshop, I comb through shelves hunting for information on Brazil, focussing mainly on Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paolo and Brasilia. Whilst sifting through literature I try to concentrate on these places but I also take in other South American cities such as Buenos Aires and Lima. It's all very scenic, but right now I am really fed up with endless pages about the Amazonian rainforest, or the samba schools about which a vast number of books have been published. I am sure a large area of rainforest has been felled in order to print them.

What I am looking for is a target, a skyscraper to climb. With its unstable economy, chaotic city planning and mediocre construction industry, Brazilian buildings are not the most photographed in the world, so it might seem inappropriate for me to show such an interest. The genesis of my ascents generally come about the same way — an image on television which snaps me out of my lethargy, resulting in me spending hours in bookshops trying to investigate the sense of pursuing an idealised project. If it looks good then I am on a plane and from that moment on there is little else.

But my sudden interest in Brazil has been sparked by an invitation to Rio de Janeiro by a Brazilian TV channel. It sounds like a great opportunity to personally acquaint myself with a fine Latin building, so here I am in the bookshop. I uncover nothing in the literature that appeals to me, so I decide to make my decision when I get there. The best buildings I can find so far are very boring, most of them average, drab or very ugly indeed. How can I climb something so lacking in passion, life or soul? My escalations should be a thing of beauty upon a thing of beauty. It is not worth risking my life for a boilerplate concrete box. The only clear and attractive challenge takes a human shape: the Christ of Corcovado, the famous statue dominating the bay of Rio. But, though I revel in climbing buildings, I have a problem with religious stuff. Having no particular religious conscience, these moods should not worry me, despite the omen in Milan. But I really do not want believers to be shocked. If a samba festival was organised in the heart of Notre Dame in Paris, there would be a wave of angry French voices shouting against such a 'heresy'. I am thus sceptical at the idea of honouring my commitment in such a quasi- blasphemous way.

Meanwhile things are in full swing with the media. TV Globo wants me, so they will have me. The primetime television show Fantastico is similar to our French programme Ushuaïa but it has a 45% market share, the world's biggest audience for such a programme. TV Globo wants me to enact a climb in Rio that can be broadcast live on Fantastico across Brazil. The channel has a devoutly religious audience with Catholicism at its core. So you will understand my hesitation to propose to the producer the escalation of the statue of Christ. It would be like suggesting to a Saudi channel the ascent of Mecca's Grand Mosque in front of hundreds of thousands of pilgrims.

Ten hours after leaving Charles de Gaulle International Airport our plane arrives in Rio de Janeiro under a low blanket of damp cloud. The city soaks in the greyness and mixes with the palette of the ocean. The climate catches me off guard. I thought I had left this weather in Paris! The sun is absent today and it is certainly not the carnival or bikini weather I had anticipated, but it doesn't matter. I would like to look around but orientation and exploration will have to wait for another day.

I jump into a taxi and head downtown to my accommodation, Hotel Everest. I wonder if it is coincidence or ifTV Globo's guys have chosen this hotel for its apt name, thinking it would please me. Three quarters of an hour passes and the taxi progresses from traffic jam to traffic jam, sinking into the heart of this damp and sooty concrete octopus. The driver must think I am a weirdo because I dash around the back of his car, jaw hanging loose, pressing my nose against the panes like an overexcited Jack Russell. I desperately look for inspiration but only find commonplace concrete blocks which never exceed a hundred metres. There is nothing spectacular or aesthetically distinguished, just endless shitty buildings which welcome me with nondescript faces under an anonymous sky.

Chewing my lip I pull in at the hotel, a magnificent five-star establishment, with no solution to my problem. My agent Julie organised the stay, made the contacts, signed contracts and she is waiting to greet me. I collapse on my bed while she presents me with the schedule of the week. The first piece of news is that the highest building in South America is the Edificio Italia. It is not in Rio but Sao Paolo and stands 160 metres high. The news is dispiriting, as this Edificio Italia is not really the dreamlike object I am looking for. The second item of information she has for me is that I am famous! I am suddenly a true star in Brazil, Fantastico having teased the country with tales of my previous escalations over three consecutive weekends. All the TV channels and magazines want a piece of Alain Robert! It is quite bewildering. She continues with more details and appointments but it is time for honesty. I interrupt her and crowbar out the crucial question which constricts my stomach.

"But what am I going to climb?"

Julie makes me understand that this is not her business, but she calls TV Globo to advance the scouting hours and ask them if they can find something really interesting, as climbing an ugly block does not interest us. We were doing a lot for the channel and we all know that if the story is successful then it could lead to more stories and opportunities. Certainly we will honour our agreement, but come on, there is a minimum to be respected.

I join Julie, Alexis the photographer working for Gamma, the cameraman, and a TV Globo journalist in a people carrier and we hit Rio. We pass through a hive of activity. The journalist takes me down several avenues and shows me various possibilities but nothing jumps out at me. Every time he turns a corner to reveal the next one, a pout of resentment congeals across my face. The journalist does not need me to explain my opinion. Nevertheless, he knows the city and does his best. It's not his fault that Brazil never built the Sears Tower. But we have to find something for me to get my fingers into. After a circuitous exploration of Rio it becomes clear that nothing is really good enough, but we come to agree that a glazed medium-sized structure, archaic and filthy, is the best option. Aesthetics cannot come into it in Rio so we have gone the other way. The batteredfaçade is dirty enough to be slippery, making it unpredictable and thus dangerous.

Not to be beaten by the other television channels who could easily scoop them, TV Globo prefers me to climb by night, lit only by a brilliant spotlight. A team of technicians will install camera positions and broadcasting and lighting equipment on the opposite building — by bribing the guards. In a country where corruption reigns, a few green notes can perform almost as many miracles as the Christ of Corcovado.

I leave everything up to the TV guys in the run-up to broadcast. Between two interviews for television news, I look around this city where exaggerated misery and luxury live together. Social disparities exist naturally in my country, but in Rio an elite minority live surrounded by an enormous majority incapable of earning a living. They cannot eat properly and countless masses live in shacks tacked together from broken ends of corrugated iron, without tap water or sewers. They no longer speak about social division in the big cities of Brazil but more about two worlds which many fear can never unite, just as two magnets inexorably repel each other.

The poverty is such that it is difficult to walk the streets of the city. My media overexposure makes me instantly familiar to the poor and the down-and-outs. As far as they are concerned, since I have been filling the airwaves, I must earn a lot of money. Wrong. Yes, I am on TV, but I am a rock climber, not a rock star... When I climb I get fined, I don't make money! Sure, I have a deal this time with a TV channel but it is not much, enough for my family until my next climb perhaps, but certainly not a big sum.

Legions of Cariocas — Rio natives — come up to me to ask for a small banknote, the classic exchange of small change for a dose of good conscience. My financial means are not unlimited, far from it. I pass in front of a church where thousands of wax candles burn outside on an immense steel sheet. A woman carrying a two-month-old baby begs me to help her. Sobbing, she tries to make me understand that her child suffers from malnutrition, that he needs milk, that I am his only chance. Quelle dommage! It is a distressing and heart-rending sight, but when people ask for your help all day long, you eventually have to protect yourself. I have no ambition to be a saint. Nevertheless in that momentary glance I can see genuine pain in her eyes and I decide to take her hand and bring her to the closest pharmacy. In two bags I put some powdered milk, nappies and other basic products. It has not cost me a lot, just a couple of reals and a little bit of time, but it makes me feel good! I know that from now on in Rio, a woman and her child know that Spiderman is a friend of their family.

To please, or to be pleased? The fact that I gave on some days a little respite to someone and, maybe, a little bit of hope, enriches me much more than a bunch of reals and centavos. Nevertheless, that little look in the eye, that humanity, is not always there. In New York one day near Exchange Park, a young guy asked me for five dollars in an extremely aggressive way. Without a doubt, this sum was for him to buy his dose of crack or heroin. Sponsorship of drug dealers is not my thing at all. I like speaking with people to whom I give a little bit of money, I like exchanging a little more than a scrap of paper with a curt nod of the head, but that day, no way. it was impossible to communicate. Although he was only in his twenties, he already lived on another planet, something like the one described in the Beatles song Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Without my five dollars, I was quite sure he was going to attack the first grandmother he would meet. So, even if it was only to prevent the next crime, I pressed the note into his hand while searching in his empty eyes.

Every man, woman and child ofthe streets has their own story. Some souls are lost to drugs, prostitution or crime, but others turn to enlightenment, religion or entertainment to help them cope. In a Parisian subway, while the city folk left their cosy homes to head to work, an old man begged. He sang, and beautifully so. His melodious voice spread through the crowded train as the song of a blackbird marks the arrival of spring. His face shone. His voice was strong, reassuring, moving. Repeatedly, I had got up to put some coins in his cap on the ground. And I observed how, as it is often said, people are afraid to meet the glance of the poor. They prefer to ignore it, to see nothing, because their eyes speak to us. I appreciated this old man's efforts and tried to lead by example. But nobody followed. He was nothing, his plight meant nothing. I found this mixture of contempt and indifference unbearable. I erupted. I berated the carriage for their stinginess and insensitivity. They raised eyes towards me, surprised, then began again to shrink behind newspapers and look at their shoes. This old tramp was a man, a man who had decided to try to bring joy to society as best he could rather than turn to criminal means of support, surely something to be admired. As much as society may try to overlook it, human pain and misery will exist anywhere, be it Paris, New York or Rio. None of us can save the world but likewise none of us has the right to ignore those who have had less luck. Do not forget that the wheel of fortune sometimes turns.

Twice in my life I had the occasion to beg, just to see what it was like. The first time was in Paris. For gloomy but now-forgotten reasons, my sister did not want me to stay at her place during my trips to the capital. The following day, I had to climb a building for a charitable event for homeless people, in partnership with the newspaper Le Réverbère. Naturally, I would have been able to settle down comfortably in the hotel, but I did not want to miss the occasion to share, on this December night, the life of those for whom I was going to climb. At the foot of my sister's building, my best friend Claude and I took two or three boxes and settled down. Automatically, as if it was a necessary prop, I held out my hand. The more I extended it, the less I seemed to exist. A rather curious paradox emerged: the more you appeal to others, the less you are helped. In the dark of night, when the cold intensified, I stripped off and sat bare-chested, just for a touch of provocation. Still no reaction. I had no idea the world could be so blind. Claude and I shrugged and eventually the numbers of pedestrians dwindled. We cannot claim we spent the most comfortable night of our lives there, but the next day I climbed with a new determination, my will multiplied.

My second stint as a beggar was in New York, on Manhattan between Broadway's neon and Times Square's huge advertisement hoardings. It was there that I saw him, a Navajo Indian asking for 30 dollars to join his tribe, in the west, on the other side of the continent. His incredible face was so tanned and lined that Hollywood's producers would quickly have cast him in the role of a wise elder. This man of more than 60 sat at the foot of a marble tower and waited for luck or whatever else to come his way. I approached, I discussed. I admire the Indians, the true forefathers of America. Those who had the luck to avoid the extermination of the pioneer days have come to build, astride girders of steel, the cities of their invaders. Native Americans have held a strange fascination for me since I heard about my prior lives from a medium in the alleys of Bangkok. I begged alongside this Navajo with little success in the heart of one of the most important business centres on the planet, surrounded by shops selling luxury goods to millionaire yuppies. But in two hours this man from another century was able to join his tribe.

Homelessness is one of the easiest miseries for society to alleviate, as at any given time the city teems with more shelter than kerbside. When I climbed in the Champs-Elysées it was partially to highlight the initiative of scores of long-empty flats being used to house the homeless, a rather obvious solution to what is after all an immoral problem.

On another trip to New York I got to practise what I preach. I was spending a few days in the Big Apple in the spring. On a random street I had met John, a homeless black guy in his forties, who would wander around reading the Bible to other homeless people. Three times we met and he read me some verses. We had discussed them, then each of us had returned to his everyday life, me in France, him on New York's pavements. At Thanksgiving at the end of November, I was again in the concrete maze of Manhattan. I was in transit for a few days after a little trip to Las Vegas where I had scaled the Luxor pyramid. One night, while the winter bore brutally down on the Eastern Seaboard, the apologetic desk clerk pulled me out of my sleep. Somebody was asking for me at the reception desk, at two o'clock in the morning. Half asleep, I threw on some clothes and headed down to see what the fuss was, and discovered John shivering in the lobby. I don't know how he had found me, though I guess he had probably read in the papers that I was in town and staying at this hotel. John was frozen. Famine tormented him and hypothermia constricted his face. In spite of the good relations I had established with the management of the hotel, John could not settle in the establishment. As the McDonald's on Times Square never closes its doors, we spent the rest of the night there as he scoffed no fewer than four Big Macs and swigged back two litres of watered-down but nevertheless hot coffee. In the early hours, when my eyes became bloodshot and bleary and I had difficulty propping up my eyelids, I left him with enough to stay a few more hours. When the shops opened I found a nearby sports store and browsed around inside. There was only one sarcophagus-like sleeping bag which could support a climber in extreme temperatures, and it was slightly torn. Citing its blemished state, I asked for a discount. The salesman seemed quite open to the idea. Patiently I explained to him the purpose of my purchase — John. The streets. The cold. The salesman's shocked outburst? "No way!"

I only understood later that it was an error to reveal my true intentions, because he may have gladly granted a discount to Spiderman, but cutting his profit margin for a simple tramp annoyed him. He was quite clearly offended. Sickness squeezed my throat as I bought the sleeping bag from this oaf but when I gave it to John, I received in exchange the same glance as the one from this Brazilian woman, a mixture of happiness and gratitude. From the snowdrifts of New York to sunny Rio, the poverty of some, and the absolute indifference of others, are the same.

Jogging in the morning on Copacabana Beach with the hot sun, fine white sand under my feet and a turquoise sea — this is more like the Brazil I had envisaged. What a unique stretch of sand this is. Holidaymakers and the homeless make for a kind of tourist paradise for people with social blinkers. In spite of the background of poverty and strife, everybody smiles. And all sorts — rich and poor, fat and thin, old and young — come towards me to ask for autographs, or simply cry out 'Homen aranha!'which means 'Spiderman!'

My word, I hadn't expected this on my morning jog at all. Julie was right, it seems like the whole of Brazil knew I was coming! There's a lot of flattering attention as I try to continue jogging. A few kilometres into my run I am joined by three cheeky kids from the nearby favela of Rossigna. They want to play with me on the beach. Why not? I am not too old to fool around on the sand. We muck about and have a fantastic time.

In the evening, having spent a good part of the day together, I invite them to a fancy restaurant. At first, the idea seems brilliant. The kids are as excited as if it were snowing in Rio, running in front of me trying to climb anything vertical. Suddenly, just for a blessed moment, time pauses. Life is absolutely beautiful in the sweetness of this winter evening, when the temperature does not fall below 28 degrees and I am Spiderman, a hero to little kids and the superhero of my own childhood. I enjoy the fantasy for a little while, then ground myself. Believing yourself to be someone you are not is an egotistical honey trap, a delusion, the same as forgetting the reality that this is a city which kills half a dozen street children each day. But I am enjoying the company of these mischievous monkeys and feel lucky to have lived such a day as this. Fortunately, I am of a simple nature, and this allows me to mix one day with the movers and shakers and the next day with the penniless urchins of the favelas.

The four of us arrive in front of the restaurant: a beautifulfaçade of stately stone, big glazed windows decorated with purple velvet curtains which, slightly parted, give a preview of beautiful raised tables laden with three glasses, three knives, three forks and all the other posh trimmings. Exactly the type of bullshit that rich people find compulsory. Three different forks for kids who have never used a single one? This extravagance might seem a bit stupid, as stupid perhaps as the aristocrats of 17th-century France who felt it equally essential to apply copious quantities of powder to their faces.

We enter and I smile and ask the waiter for a table for four. He looks at me as if I had ordered him to put a live lobster in his underpants. He is wearing a strange strangled expression, a painful face which evokes a misfiring contortion of comedy and tragedy. A few seconds of this face doesn't help anyone. Even the kids do not seem comfortable. As they have entered the establishment barefoot, I understand their reaction, but I explain to them that if they want I can also go barefoot. Immediately I see smiles in their eyes. For them, this truly is another world. But I also feel a little ashamed to have put them in this unpleasant situation.

I stick to my guns when looking at the waiter, holding his gaze as he almost implodes. This is not some members-only nightclub, just a fucking restaurant. The waiter is squirming but he cannot refuse, perhaps remembering that I had dinner here only yesterday evening with the top brass of TV Globo. He leads us in and we take our places at a round table.

I reflect and begin to understand. The problem is not really that they walk without shoes or money, but that they are favelados, they come from the slums. The kids, dwarfed by the embossed menus, peer over the top and tell me what they want. I flag over the waiter who, now trying hard, has stapled on a smile and stands attentively. I place the order and soon a sumptuous meal is served. My young friends' eyes widen in delight as the plates are laid before them. They pick up the alien knives and forks and make a fine effort to eat correctly and with dignity. Will they have the chance to eat dinner in a restaurant like this again one day? Probably not. I watch them finishing off the food, smiling so much. I am happy to have pleased them, and also happy to have broken a sort of taboo. But deep inside, I know that I can do little more for them. Nevertheless, a bond has formed between us and they eagerly await more from me. To be indifferent now would be difficult and would taint the whole experience. So the deal is on. I shall go to visit them in their favela.

I return alone to the hotel. Night has fallen on Rio. After sunset, the pavements empty, as if a curfew is decreed. I stroll down the darkened streets. Groups of people remain here and there, chatting, smoking cigarettes or wheeling and dealing. The noise of my cowboy boots resounds on the tarmac, amplified by the hard walls. This time tomorrow I shall be ready for battle, hanging onto my life by my fingers. An oily pock-marked guy in his forties approaches me from across the street.

"Maconia (marijuana)? Cocaine?"

The sale of drugs is severely punished in Brazil but the consumption seems to be enormous. A line of cocaine or a cigarette, there seems to be no difference. I smile and answer that I can get stoned or high on adrenaline. He does not understand and melts away. A Crocodile Dundee character from Europe walking around Rio late at night but refusing to buy drugs? He must be hiding something. As the guy walks off he mutters an inaudible sentence that does not need translation. I don't care, he will find plenty of other customers tonight. When I get back to the hotel, I ask Reception for my key.

"You have messages, sir," the desk clerk says, passing me two pieces of paper. They must be from Julie or the guys at TV Globo, worried that I have not returned to my hotel during the day. I tear open both scraps of paper. And guess what? Two girls want to visit me in my hotel room! Groupies? Amused, I crumple them and leave them with the receptionist. What a day. The clerk is worried to see the crumpled messages lying on the marble counter.

"Did you receive bad news, sir?" the clerk asks in a hesitating voice. I walk to the elevator and respond over my shoulder with a wave.

"On the contrary, the news was excellent!"

The following morning, after a series of interviews, I leave to do some shooting with Alexis and a cameraman. They will either use the material in the news broadcasts or, if need be, use it in edits after my ascent this evening. In the street, people call out to me. This sudden popularity amazes me. We get our shots but for two hours I am mobbed. I sign autographs on anything: books, diaries, family photos, visiting cards, scraps of worn paper, fragments of boxes found in dustbins. I even sign arms, backs, faces and cleavage. Ernesto, the cameraman, tells me that Brazilians are strong on keepsakes. They will keep these recollections stashed safely away in a drawer or a box amongst a pile of other signatures for their whole lives.

Time shoots by and already it is time to return to the hotel. As we head back I begin to retreat into myself. I need to isolate myself before climbing, concentrating on my task and my state of mind, whilst making a conscious effort to avoid external pressure. I take the elevator and lock myself away in my room. As much as I try to escape it, the prospect of being filmed live for millions of viewers can only put me under stress. People often wonder, what would happen if I did not feel well at the foot of the tower? Or if I suffered a bad day, as can happen to any sportsman? How about if it was this evening, live on air? Unlike most other sportsmen, a bad day at the races could be fatal for me. Every time I approach an ascent it is the same — my brains and innards begin turning in my head and in my stomach like they were in a washing machine. My state of mind before climbing must be similar to the stage fright of a rock star panicking before confronting thousands of expectant fans. Maybe this is the real reason why so many of those bands are as high as kites when they take to the stage. Sure, I am in the habit of facing pressure, but this evening, climbing by night and live on air, my heart drums so hard and fast it is as if I had taken a kilo of Rio's best cocaine.

Fifteen floors below, at the hotel lobby, a car from TV Globo pulls up. It's for me. It's time. They all know I am in my zone. Nobody speaks during the 15 minutes it takes to get to the building. Slowly I get ready, lace my slippers, and begin once again the eternal ritual so familiar and so important to rock climbers.

The car arrives at the scene and I cast my eyes upwards into the darkness. The production team scurries around. The countdown is well underway, the scene is set and the pieces are all in place. At a set time, the projectors dramatically ignite, revealing thefaçade in its entirety. This razzmatazz is like a boxing match — Robert versus Rio, David versus Goliath. The scene is great for the audience but does little for my frayed nerves. Adrenaline courses through me. The clock ticks. We are going to air within seconds. All eyes are on me as I sit in the car cocked like a pistol. I focus. I am ready.I watch for the signal... Now!

I burst out of the car and in haste launch myself at the tower and speed through the first movements. In seconds, the pavement fades away. I try to find a good rhythm, the method I will repeat right up to the summit. Suddenly, the technicians begin to yell and wave their arms frantically. They are telling me to get down again! My throat tightens. What's going on? Have the cops arrived already? I redo the movements back to front, and despite the confusion I try to retain my focus. Back on the ground, they indicate that we aren't ready, as the previous broadcast has not ended yet. I return to the car to isolate myself again, then someone comes and knocks at the window.

"Okay, okay! That's it, go quickly!"

I dart out again, a little disturbed and alarmed, and once more begin to climb. When I climb, I count only on myself. Reliance on others is something I must keep to a minimum. This time I decide I will leave the pavement in a blur, and nothing can stop me, not even a power cut. The technicians will have to be as effective as I am!

Once I am away I think ofnothing but the escalation. I lose my awareness of the ground crew and audience, and become absorbed and engulfed by the building. It is as if I am part of it. The brilliant spotlight accompanies my progress, like an enormous anti-aircraft searchlight tracing the path of an enemy bomber. The setting is not particularly discreet and starts to attract curious onlookers. They accumulate on the pavements, and soon cover the whole avenue.

Thirty minutes later, only two floors separate me from the summit. As usual, I sense the presence of the police. How many are there this time and how are they going to operate? I don't care, I have plenty of time to find out. I place one hand, then the other, on the low wall at the summit. This tower has not really given me any problems. It could become a classic climb if this sport attracts followers in Brazil!

I poke my head over the top, throw a heel over, and get both feet on the ground. A dozen policemen are waiting for me, not so calm at the sight of a guy clambering over the fafade. Every time I get to the top, no matter where I am, I see the same look in their faces. Handcuffs secure my wrists and the sober policemen take me down to the ground floor. The lift doors open and they take me outside.

On the flight of steps beyond the entrance, more than a thousand people applaud me. A thousand! I am tired by the exertion of the climb, from the released flood of adrenaline that accumulated in me during the day, but I am so happy to be warmly welcomed and appreciated by such a wonderful people. To stand there in the middle of such a scene is quite overwhelming and the emotion of this special moment chokes me. Frankly, I really do not remember if I cried or not. I didn't realise it then, but it was so crowded that evening that the police presence was more for my protection than my arrest. The people push in towards me and I almost drown in a sea of appreciation. If anything, dealing with the surging crowd is more hazardous than the escalation! It is quite difficult to explain unless you have been in the middle of something like this. But I now understand that the public can quickly become frenzied, hysterical, utterly crazed. I would like to find other words to describe the intensity of such an unbelievable moment. I can't.

The cops don't enjoy it as much as I do, that I can tell. After we have fought our way to the car, the convoy starts and tries to clear a passage through the massed crowd. On each side of the squad car, dozens of Brazilians stick their faces against the glass, tapping the rooftop of the car which resounds as if in a hailstorm. Revolving lights swirl, sirens wail, the crowd applauds. After a few hundred metres, peace returns. My head is still spinning as we pull into the police station. And here also, a new experience — a pair of slick lawyers from TV Globo are already here fussing around to bail me. For once I shall make only the briefest visit to the police station. I am in and out within minutes.

That evening, I am invited to a luxurious apartment with bay windows looking onto Copacabana Beach and Sugarloaf Mountain. This immense lounge is artistically decorated and every object within it is perfectly placed. A large number of people from high society are gathered. I just had the time to take a shower and here I am drinking flutes of champagne, speaking with two snappy dressers. One of them wants to sponsor me and the other worries about the management of my interests. I know these odious loud-mouthed types, typical salesmen who take me for an idiot and try to impress me with glitter and bullshit. Just for fun, and maybe also because of the champagne which my body is readily soaking up due to my earlier exertions, I play along with the conversation. I eventually tell them that now, because we are such good friends, it is okay — I shall go and climb the building where they work and will dedicate the ascent to them, to show my friendship. Have you ever seen somebody swallow an entire mouthful of champagne? It is particularly disturbing at this kind of party.

Enough is enough and I take off towards the buffet. The offerings? Ham, roast beef, smoked salmon, petits fours, cocaine. Cocaine? If somebody had not stuck his nose in the salad bowl, I would have sweetened my strawberries with the narcotic. I am way too naive! More snorting takes place amongst the party nibbles and clinking of glasses. I guess everyone needs some sort of stimulus to lift his mood but I shudder to think what I would be like on drugs — I am already considered unhinged enough without them.

The next day, Julie wakes me with a pile of newspapers. I monopolise the coverage as never before. Too bad: if I could read Portuguese, I could have stayed in bed all morning finding out how my escalation had been received. In spite of the TV channels which all now invite me on air, I choose to spend this one day far from lenses and microphones. A promise is a promise and my young friends from the favela of Rossigna are waiting for me.

Rossigna is a maze of muddy and stinking streets, sheet metal, stray animals and trash which shelters 300,000 inhabitants, and there are other such favelas in Rio. The taxi drops me at the entrance to the shanty town. The driver urges me not to venture in, certain that I will be molested. I give him a handful of notes and sink into this impoverished labyrinth. As if the inhabitants all had walkie-talkies, the news of my arrival quickly circulates. Rossigna is a big place and I wander around aimlessly. The area contains countless thousands of people, little or no infrastructure and certainly no tourist-friendly signposts. When my three friends had suggested meeting them there, they had simply told me: "Come to Rossigna, and you will be our guest," as if it was possible to say to someone that you'd have a meeting in Paris without specifying where or when. I was a bit sceptical but they had insisted.

I meander around, half-expecting to spend fruitless hours searching for them. Yet they find me within ten minutes! At first, a favela looks like a real shambles. But in fact communications are very well organised to defend against police raids, and also due to permanent gang wars and drug trafficking. Like princes in their palaces, the three kids lead me to a meeting with the leader of Rossigna, and a complete tour. As they proudly show me around their neighbourhood it starts to rain on Rio. The shanty town is filled with mud and pollution. And yet the happiness of these magnificent, ever-smiling people is contagious and heart-warming — even if it is necessary to press myself against the walls from time to time, to avoid a squall of gunfire not far off. I am told there is some disagreement going on, almost certainly drug-related. I can barely believe it as I have only heard machine-gun fire in movies. I should be terror-stricken, but my tour leaders seem mostly unconcerned, as if a neighbour had dropped a plate or something. Here, gunshots are a part of daily life, just like samba schools and football.

Our group stops in front of the highest building in the favela, only a dozen metres high and made from irregular red bricks. It looks like a mottled collection of rubble from demolished buildings stuck back together again. Okay guys, no need to say anything, I know what you want! Two hundred kids stare at me wide-eyed and expectant. Some of them have broken teeth due to extreme consumption of cocaine, others wear weapons slung over their shoulders. I pull off my waistcoat, remove a few loose bits of mortar, and then go up the broken wall as I would a cliff, climbing slowly to prolong the pleasure below. I whip up the crowd and they are in delirium, going absolutely wild, as if I had performed a miracle. When I eventually get back down they surge and engulf me. When I look back over all my climbs, all my achievements, this climb is maybe the most beautiful recollection of my life. The joy in bringing something special to these kids was a dream for them. But even more so for me.

The day begins to fade and a samba evening starts around a fire. The Cariocas are justifiably proud of their samba schools. Every year, the elaborate costumes take thousands of working hours to create, and the results are amazing. Sitting beside the town leader and my three friends, I admire the spectacle, dazzled. The dancers, almost naked and adorned only with vivid yellow feathers, approach, then take my hand and invite me to participate in this syncopated dance. I dance like a demon and enact an abominable mixture of samba and wayward French boogie. It's neither well choreographed nor attractive, but I really get into it. The samba allows for pure physical joy, like an escalation. Everybody claps their hands, whistles or dances to the primal beat. Bodies writhe and costumes glitter by the fire which crackles and lets fly airborne orange embers. Few people can party like the Brazilians! The hours pass and all too soon it is time to head back.

My friends transport me back to my hotel in one of the only functional cars in the favela. The lopsided box splutters and rattles back to the hotel in a noxious cloud of black diesel. The rust is so extensive it is impossible to guess what brand of car it once was. The vehicle judders and wheezes to a stop. On the steps outside my sparkling five-star hotel I feel shame; shame because of the insignificance I attach to this luxury. The people of Rossigna live a hard life but keep smiling through it all. They face utter poverty, the presence of death, disease, bullets flying from machine guns and pistols, and the scorn of society. In the middle of all this are kids just like these, who by the age of eight carry weapons almost as big as themselves. We stand for a while. This minute of farewell seems endless to me. Cariocas, this is just au revoir. One day I shall return to Brazil, to Rossigna and to my family there who have made me feel so very much at home.

The next day, the guys from TV Globo tease me with a little information. Apparently there is a very suitable building in Barra, a district of Rio. It is under construction and still unnamed, but I have to conquer it.

The cameras accompany me as usual, but today there is a police presence in the area. I take a sneaky look around and assess the incomplete tower and the cops on the ground. The building has no windows yet, but it looks okay and shouldn't pose too many problems. The site is not properly sealed off and I can see the bottom of the tower quite clearly as it is just a stone's throw from the road. Discreetly, I get ready in the car. I get past the slack gatekeeper and enter the premises, having only to walk about 50 metres before I can attack with my first movements. But already, policemen are pouring towards me like an army of angry ants. Naturally I break into a run. But within seconds I am away, off the ground, and the cops are floundering in my wake. They run in all directions to try to intercept me and cut off any escape. As the building is not yet finished, the work of the police is made much easier. With no window glass, the hollow building's inside is still largely outside. But who cares, let's go for it! Let's play a game of hide-and-seek, or rather policemen against thief, in three dimensions!

As I ascend, a head would pop out next to me and cry out as I passed by unperturbed. If I saw the cops above me, I would move across a few metres, then pass them, much to their annoyance. More running and yelling. More cat-and-mouse stuff. This game lasts until the eighth floor, where I finally surrender, totally encircled by angry cops.

They bring me down the stairwell but do so without having placed me in handcuffs. They lead me outside to the street, where their police cars await. But the street is filling with journalists and spectators. As we exit the construction site the crowd surrounds us and I am shoved through the hustle and bustle. I pick my moment and take advantage of the scrum to escape, slipping out of the grasp of the guards and cops. I slalom through the crowd as uniformed arms claw vainly at me. I emerge from between someone's legs and dash back, a cop and a guard in pursuit. By the time the others have realised what is going on, I have already climbed two floors. Below, the crowd applauds. A human chess game resumes on a gigantic vertical chessboard for all to see. If they move a pawn to the right, I move my madman to the left. I move diagonally, sideways, all over the place, confounding my inept and uncoordinated opponents. The crowd loves it! They cheer as if it were a live sports game.

At the 12th floor, the numerous opposition finally corner my solitary piece. Checkmate. I climb in and I am firmly seized. I find my opponents were not very sporting players. They certainly didn't like losing the first game! Too bad, everyone else had a good time. Handcuffs are firmly fastened behind me this time and they curse me in Portuguese which, I must say, does not have the required effect. The more they get excited, the more I laugh. I am led out again to wonderful support from the crowd. With the cuffs on there can be no third round of this entertaining game, no best out of three. It ends in a draw.

As I am pushed through the crowd I notice the lawyers from TV Globo are on hand to help me. But first, we go to the police station for mug shots, fingerprints and the usual questioning. My lawyers are armed with fat chequebooks and as they expected I am quickly released. As I make my exit I get a big surprise. Several hundred people amassed around the police station applaud me! It's only midday but it starts all over again: interviews, footage of this strange 'Connect Four' escalation on the television, and coverage in the newspapers.

Although the game was fun and the media response is overwhelmingly positive I regard the escalation as a failure in climbing terms. With coverage of me at saturation point, and my movements very limited, TV Globo and I decide to try elsewhere. We shall pay a courtesy visit to the Edificio Italia in Sao Paulo, a megalopolis of more than 20 million people.

I fly over to Sao Paulo expecting to leave the crowds behind. But as in Rio, my stellar popularity precedes me. This is really getting over the top. Sometimes, the police have to intervene to evacuate people massed around me, and even block off traffic! My arrival in Sao Paulo has not gone unnoticed and the rumour spreads that my presence has something to do with the Edificio Italia. The paparazzi follow me, trying to confirm the rumours, snapping me whenever I dare to stick my head out. This misplaced stardom amuses me on a personal level, but as a climber it is annoying. More discretion would have been nice. After my failure in Rio, my self-esteem dictates it is out of the question to fail here. But how am I going to take the guards by surprise? Just imagine what you would be thinking if you were the chief of security at the Edificio Italia — having seen all the fuss in Rio, and then seen my arrival in Sao Paulo heralded by paparazzi and gossip columnists speculating that I am here to scale your building. And even without the publicity, the building itself raises one or two problems for me. A circular terrace on the fourth floor will enormously help the security guards. If I get past them on the ground, they can easily pluck me from the terrace. The following morning, I learn an order is imposed on the guards and on the police to do just that. If they let me through and I climb the tower, they will lose their jobs. Brazil is not a country like France, where such a threat cannot be carried out without the employer being taken to court. I have to take this threat as serious. I have no alternative than to give up, not wishing to put any families in difficulty.

But I do not have to work too hard to find another objective, and instead I attack the Centro Cultural FIESP on Paulista Avenue. The escalation turns out to be very easy and the police are unable to prevent me from making the climb. Nearby, a TV Globo helicopter hovers in a stationary position. A cameraman is perched on the edge of the chopper filming me while other cameras, placed hastily on the building opposite, also record images for the evening news. At the summit the police pluck me like an apple from a tree, whisk me to the station and then let me rot for a night in custody.

From my perspective I am pleased to have achieved an escalation despite the huge media, police and security presence. For Julie and Alexis, their contract ends here and they must leave Sao Paulo. But I can look forward to at least another week of freedom before my appearance in front of the High Court of Justice.

And the trial is marvellous. As soon as I sit down, charges are immediately dismissed and I am completely free — free to scale the Vermont Hotel. I happen to be staying at the hotel at the moment, an attractive building of only a dozen floors. I have struck a deal with the hotel owner, for whom this is the chance of a lifetime, an unexpected and far-reaching advertisement. I enjoy a few comfortable days at the hotel and then, the day before my departure, I attack thefaçade of the Vermont. There is already a group assembled below, but when I take to the building, hundreds of additional onlookers immediately block the avenue.

I progress with relative ease but, to my surprise, cops start opening windows in an effort to catch me! A window opening, a frustrated cop and a startled climber — the scene draws laughter from the audience. But why are they here? I have obtained a licence this time. The hotel manager produces it in a flash. The cops fade away and I make it up to the tenth floor where, before reaching the summit, I must cross a doubtful and extremely fragile air-conditioning unit. There is no way around this thing, and it is the only grip I can use to make progress. Battered and decaying, it sags at a worrying angle. For almost half an hour, I rise and reinspect it and then retreat, hesitating on what action to take. Ten floors below me the crowd cheers and sings my name, helping to drive me on and find my way out of this maze. For my part their rousing support works. Maybe I am bound to their collective will, hypnotised by their chants. There are not many options. Either I climb down again, which technically is not difficult, or else I make movements which will allow me to recover my position — at the risk of leaving the side of the building together with the air-conditioning unit.

Every time I grab hold of the flimsy aluminium box, it creaks, folds and spills a sprinkle of dust. Finally, pushed by the crowd, I make my choice. The exit is upwards, where it has always been. Yet I am frightened to let this box take my whole weight. It feels like it was placed here by Pandora of Greek mythology — death, envy, greed, vanity, despair and violence lie within. Do I really dare lift its lid? When Pandora's box was opened, all the evils of the world flew out and wreaked havoc, but one thing was left inside: hope. I am not sure if this is a good or bad metaphor under the circumstances, and the legend is hardly reassuring, but while hope remains there is always a chance.

In an effort to make myself feel a little lighter, I hold my breath as I reach out. There is no way of knowing what will happen until I pull the trigger in this game of Russian roulette. I catch hold of both brackets and gently let my feet hang free. I then make two quick moves to put myself on top of it. With difficulty I surmount the rotten box. The hardest part is complete: the unit held. I now stand on top of it, but I am far from comfortable with my new location. The unit has given a little with my weight and seems to have sunk a little lower. I am 20 centimetres shy of the concrete ledge above me. In this hostile zone the concrete is smooth, without grips.

Marooned upon this degenerate pile of shit, I tentatively try to extend myself 20 centimetres. No, it's impossible. I have no other choice but to jump. But, to jump, it is necessary to be impulsive. This is really scary. To push against this unit could very well detach it, along with me. If it goes, I might make it, I might not. Furious, and disgusted at the idea of bringing down this fucking machine in the middle of an overcrowded avenue, I try my absolute best to measure my effort. It is a question of not pushing too hard because without a shadow of a doubt, if I do that, the unit is going to fall. On the other hand, I cannot push too gently, or I will land upon it again and that would definitely do it. I also don't want to loiter here as the bolts keeping the unit from falling may splinter at any time.

I peer around for grips once again, hoping one will materialise out of nowhere, but of course there are none. Slowly I empty my lungs. Then I take my leap of faith. time stops in mid-air. an eternity later, my fingers seize the ledge. Hanging like a stick of salami, I wait in terror for the deafening noise of aluminium against concrete. but nothing! In the street below, the crowd is roaring, completely hysterical! I yank myself up to the summit, saved. I have done it and my nightmares are swept away by the euphoria of relief. I thank my lucky stars that I hadn't caused a tragedy for anyone beneath me.

Although I control my movements, I have no knowledge of the quality of materials of or upon a structure, nor their premature wear. With binoculars of course I may study a building but I cannot tell the solidity of these elements. It is necessary to manage this problem, to properly select escalations to give the best chance of survival to myself and to those below. From now on I must count only on my muscles and the gristle of industrial steel or reinforced concrete.

I tremble as the tension accumulated over the last half-hour is unloaded in around 30 seconds. And, shaking upon the rooftop, I am surprised to be disturbed by the police. I have a licence and I can't understand what is going on. The hotel owner gets involved and I learn that although he gave me his permission, he did not apply officially. After a period of negotiations in Portuguese, all of which fly over my head, the misunderstanding is resolved and I can shoot off to the airport in time to catch my plane back to the greyness and anonymity of Paris.

By the time my feet touch the ground on the other side of the Atlantic, I am already missing Brazil. I can barely believe all the things that happened to me in the short time I spent in that awesome country. What can I say about such a place? Fantastico!