The first time I went there, I had never heard of Curitiba. I had no idea that its bus system was the best on Earth or that a
municipal shepherd and his flock of 30 sheep trimmed the grass in its vast parks. It was just a midsize Brazilian city where an
airline schedule forced me to spend the night midway through a long South American reporting trip. I reached my hotel, took a nap,
and then went out in the early evening for a walk--warily, because I had just come from crime-soaked Rio.
But the street in front of the hotel was cobbled, closed to cars, and strung with lights. It opened onto another such street, which
in turn opened into a broad and leafy plaza, with more shop-lined streets stretching off in all directions. Though the night was
frosty-Brazil stretches well south of the tropics, and Curitiba is in the mountains-people strolled and shopped, butcher to baker to
bookstore. There were almost no cars, but at one of the squares, a steady line of buses rolled off, full, every few seconds. I
walked for an hour, and then another. I felt my shoulders, hunched from the tension of Rio (and probably New York as well)
straightening. Though I flew out the next day as scheduled, I never forgot the city.
From time to time over the next few years, I would see Curitiba mentioned in planning magazines or come across a short newspaper
account of it winning various awards from the United Nations. Its success seemed demographically unlikely. For one thing, it's
relatively poor - average per capita (cash) income is about $2,500. Worse, a flood of displaced peasants has tripled its population
to a million and a half in the last 25 years. It should resemble a small-scale version of urban nightmares like São Paulo or Mexico
City. But I knew from my evening's stroll it wasn't like that, and I wondered why.
Maybe an effort to convince myself that a decay in public life was not inevitable was why I went back to Curitiba to spend some real
time, to see if its charms extended beyond the lovely downtown. For a month, my wife and baby and I lived in a small apartment near
the city center. Morning after morning I interviewed cops, merchants, urban foresters, civil engineers, novelists, planners; in the
afternoons, we pushed the stroller across the town, learning the city's rhythms and habits. And we decided, with great delight, that
Curitiba is among the world's great cities.
Not for its physical location; there are no beaches, no broad bridge-spanned rivers. Not in terms of culture or glamour; it's a
fairly provincial place. But measured for "livability," I have never been any place like it. In a recent survey, 60 percent of New
Yorkers wanted to leave their rich and cosmopolitan city; 99 percent of Curitibans told pollsters that they were happy with their
town; and 70 percent of the residents of São Paulo said they thought life would be better in Curitiba.
This city has slums: some of the same shantytown favelas that dominate most Third World cities have sprouted on the edge of town as
the population has rocketed. But even they are different, hopeful in palpable ways. They are clean, for instance-under a city
program, a slumdweller who collects a sack of garbage gets a sack of food from the city in return. And Curitiba is the classic
example of decent lives helping produce a decent environment. Because of its fine transit system, and because its inhabitants are
attracted toward the city center instead of repelled out to a sprawl of suburbs, Curitibans use 25 percent less fuel per capita than
other Brazilians, even though they are actually more likely to own cars.
Curitiba started out as a backwater town, a good stopover on the way to São Paulo. By 1940, there were 125,000 residents. By 1950,
the number had jumped to 180,000, and by 1960, doubled to 361,000-the explosive, confident growth that marked the entire country was
underway in Curitiba as well. And with many of the same effects: traffic downtown started to snarl, and the air was growing thick
with exhaust. It was clear that the time had come to plan, and, as in almost every other city, planning meant planning for
The official scheme called for widening the main streets of the city to add more lanes-which would have meant knocking down the
turn-of-the-century buildings that lined the downtown-and for building an overpass that would link two of the city's main squares by
going over the top of Rua Quinze de Novembro, the main shopping street. But resistance to the plan was unexpectedly fierce.
Opposition was centered in the architecture and planning departments of the local branch of the federal university, and the loudest
voice belonged to Jaime Lerner.
Jaime Lerner is a chubby man with a large, friendly, and open face. He looks like Norm, the guy at the end of the bar in "Cheers."
He also looks silly stuffed into a suit; so even though he's been mayor of Curitiba on and off for the last two decades, he normally
wears a polo shirt. In the late 1960s, however, he was just a young planner and architect who had grown up in the city, working in
his Polish father's dry goods store. And he organized the drive against the overpass, out of what might almost be called nostalgia.
"They were trying to throw away the story of the city," he recalls.
It was a good thing that Jaime Lerner had grown up loving the mix of people in Curitiba. Because through a chain of political
flukes, Lerner found himself the mayor of Curitiba at the age of 33. All of a sudden, his friends and colleagues were pulling their
plans out of the cupboards. All of a sudden, they were going to get their chance to remake Curitiba-not for cars, but for people.
And so the story of Curitiba begins with its central street, Rua Quinze-the one that the old plan wanted to obliterate with an
overpass. Lerner insisted instead that it should become a pedestrian mall, an emblem of his drive for a human-scale city. "I knew
we'd have a big fight," he says. "I had no way to convince the store-owners a pedestrian mall would be good for them, because there
was no other pedestrian mall in Brazil. But I knew if they had a chance to actually see it, everyone would love it."
To prevent opposition, he planned carefully. "I told my staff, 'This is like war.' My secretary of public works said the job would
take two months. I got him down to one month. Maybe one week, he said, but that's final. I said, 'Let's start Friday night, and we
have to finish by Monday morning.'" And they did-jackhammering the pavement, putting down cobblestones, erecting streetlights and
kiosks, and putting in tens of thousands of flowers.
"It was a horrible risk-he could easily have been fired," said Oswaldo Alves, who helped with the work. But by midday Monday, the
same storeowners who had been threatening legal action were petitioning the mayor to extend the mall. The next weekend, when
offended members of the local automobile club threatened to "reclaim" the street by driving their cars down it, Lerner didn't call
out the police. Instead, he had city workers lay down strips of paper the length of the mall. When the auto club arrived, its
members found dozens of children sitting in the former street painting pictures. The transformation of Curitiba had begun.
Cheapness is one of the three cardinal dictates of Curitiban planning. Many of the city's buildings are "recycled." The planning
headquarters is in an old furniture factory; the gunpowder depot became a furniture factory; a glue plant was turned into the
children's center. An old trolley stationed on the Rua Quinze has become a free babysitting center where shoppers can park their
kids for a few hours. The city's parks provide the best example of brilliance on the cheap. When Lerner took office for the first
time in 1971, the only park in Curitiba was smack downtown - the Passeio Publico, a cozy zoo and playground with a moat for
paddleboats and a canopy of old and beautiful ipé trees, which blossom blue in the spring. "In that first term, we wanted to develop
a lot of squares and plazas," recalls Alves. "We picked one plot, we built a lot of walls, and we planted a lot of trees. And then
we realized this was very expensive."
At the same time, as luck would have it, most Brazilian cities were installing elaborate flood-control projects. Curitiba had
federal money to "channelize" the five rivers flowing through town, putting them in concrete viaducts so that they wouldn't flood
the city with every heavy summer rain and endanger the buildings starting to spring up in the floodplain.
"The bankers wanted all the rivers enclosed," says Alves; instead, city hall took the same loan and spent it - on land. At a number
of sites throughout the city, engineers built small dams and backed up the rivers into lakes. Each of these became the center of a
park; and if the rains were heavy, the lake might rise a foot or two-perhaps the jogging track would get a little soggy or the duck
in the big new zoo would find itself swimming a few feet higher than usual. "Every river has a right to overflow," insists parks
chief Nicolau Klupel.
Mostly because of its flood-control scheme, in 20 years-even as it tripled in population-the city went from two square feet of green
area per inhabitant to more than 150 square feet per inhabitant. The official literature always points out, with understandable
pride, that this figure is four times the World Health Organization standard of 12 square meters. From every single window in
Curitiba, I could see as much green as I could concrete. And green begets green; land values around the new parks have risen
sharply, and with them tax revenues.
Though the population continues to grow steadily, it's indeed possible that Curitiba may have broken the back of its social
problems. Since many of the people in the favelas have been evicted from their homes in the countryside, a house is an urgent need.
Not just a shelter-a house they own, on a lot they own.
Consider housing. Until the mid-1980s, COHAB, Curitiba's public housing program, was fairly standard. It built more units per capita
than any other Brazilian city and did a good job of scattering them around in small pockets so they blended in with neighborhoods.
But the main source of funding, the national housing bank, collapsed in 1985. At the same time, the demand for housing skyrocketed
as the countryside poured into the favelas. Abandoning the policy of small, scattered sites, the city bought one of the few large
plots of land left within its limits, a swath of farmland bounded by several rivers called Novo Bairro, or New Neighborhood.
We stood on a rise in Novo Bairro and watched as bulldozers scraped and contoured the hills. This cleared field would soon be home
to 50,000 families, perhaps 200,000 people. Small houses crept like a tidemark across the land. The city was not building the
homes-the new landowners were, sometimes with the aid of a city mortgage on a small pile of bricks and windows. Every third house
seemed to be doubling as a building supply store; and everywhere, people plastered, framed, roofed.
"Sixty percent of the lower-income people are involved in the construction industry anyhow," says one COHAB executive. "They know
how to build." And here is the moving part: With your plot of land comes not only a deed and a pair of trees (one fruit bearing and
one ornamental), but also an hour downtown with an architect. "The person explains what's important to him-a big window out front,
or room in the kitchen. They tell how many kids they have, and so on. And then we help draw up a plan," says one architect, who has
more than 3,000 of "his" homes scattered around the city.
"Most people can only afford to build one room at a time, so we also show them the logical order to go in," another designer
At the moment, in the center of Novo Bairro, COHAB is building "Technology Street," an avenue of 24 homes, each built using some
different construction technique-bamboo covered with plaster, say-so that people can get ideas for the kind of house they might
want. The houses are all smaller than most Americans would want to live in, but they all say something about the people who built
them. "It's a house built out of love," says the housing chief. "And because of that, people won't leave it behind. They're going to
consolidate their lives there, become part of the city."
One of the first structures to go up at Novo Bairro was a glass tube bus station, linking this enclave to the rest of the city.
"Integration" is a word one hears constantly from official Curitiba, another of its mantras. It means knitting together the entire
city-rich, poor, and in-between-culturally and economically and physically. Hitoshi Nakamura is the city parks commissioner and one
of Lerner's longtime collaborators. "We have to have communication with the people of the slums," he said one day as we were talking
about the problems posed by settlers invading fragile bottomlands along the rivers. "If we don't, if they start to feel like
falvelados, then they will go against the city....If we give them attention, they don't feel abandoned. They feel like citizens."
To learn from Curitiba, the rest of the world would have to break some longstanding habits. And the hardest habit to break, in fact,
may be what Lerner calls the "syndrome of tragedy, of feeling like we're terminal patients." Many cities have "a lot of people who
are specialists in proving change is not possible. What I try to explain to them when I go visit is that it takes the same energy to
say why something can't be done as to figure out how to do it."
Excerpted from The Impossible Will Take a Little While: A Citizen's Guide to Hope in a Time of Fear, edited by Paul Rogat Loeb,
which won the Nautilus Award for best social change book of last year and was named the #3 political book by the History Channel and
The American Book Association. See www.theimpossible.org
Bill McKibben's books include Hope, Human & Wild (Little Brown 1995, Ruminator Books, 1997), from which this was adapted, Enough:
Staying Human in an Engineered Age (Times Books, 2003), and Wandering Home : A Long Walk Across America's Most Hopeful Landscape(Crown Journeys 2005).