ABSTRACT
There is nothing about the journey to the city of São Paulo that prepares one for the reality. If you arrive by jet at Viracopos airport, a strip of tarmac in a hot emptiness, there is a small terminal building suited to the occasional comings and goings of a sleepy provincial town. As likely as not, no other plane will land or take off while you are there. Mountains rim a distant skyline, and red dust blows down the tarmac edge. A taxi driver, most probably of Japanese stock, is ready to carry you the forty-five miles to the city centre, and on the way you may start to discover why São Paulo’s international airport is out in the sticks.
