Favelas

This is one of those blog posts that I will politely ask my mother to not read. But I included it in my blog because it's important to share this publicly -- the favelas, or slums, are a reality for more than half the population of Rio de Janeiro. There are two very distinct versions of Brazil. It's impossible to understand how a country known for its numerous slums and poverty induced violence could appear so well off with such a strong currency, the Real. When buying groceries in the supermarket, the disparity becomes evident; it costs less than two dollars to buy enough basic foods to last a few nights (rice, chicken, vegetables), but public bus fares for one short ride across Center City cost about the same. The poor walk.

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At night, along with a Russian guy from Estonia, I convinced the bartender at our hostel, Doichino, to take us our to show us the real Rio de Janeiro. His home in the favela Ladeiras dos Tabajaras was scattered alongside the main winding road that traveled in the opposite direction from the beach. From atop the hill, the signature monument Christ the Redeemer protectively watched down upon us. In the cab ride over, Doichino very gravely warned us not to look directly at girls we didn't know or if we saw sketchy activities going down, to just walk by as if we noticed nothing.

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At first sight, the obvious slum icons jumped out at us. Some teenagers had machine guns strapped over their shoulders like they were backpacks for school. A few more carried handguns like they were ice cream cones. Prostitutes waited on street corners, keeping their small children company in between jobs. A ten year old neighbor of Doichino approached us begging for money. Tomas, the Estonian, reached toward his pocket before Doicho stopped him. Doicho grabbed the kid's hand, put it up to his nose to smell it, then scolded him for spending all his time smoking crack.

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We asked if the police ever came to the favelas. The narcotrafficos ruled the district and the favelas' residents resented the corrupt police. I thought back to the book, "Gang Leader for the Day." Gangs in the Chicago projects arose to fill the void that police and society often failed to otherwise provide. To calm us, Doicho asked if we ever got nervous when we saw police carrying similar weapons. "No." "Well, this isn't any different."

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As I began to relax and shed the situational overload, the favela was an incredibly welcoming community. I'm pretty sure a psychology class would relate this to the studies that witnesses to crimes out of fear often focused on the weapon used instead of the facial details of the assailants. I clearly had been guilty of the same. When I finally overcame my nervous glances toward the well lit central alley where kids sold drugs and played dice on the cement stairs, the night became real fun.

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We drank cheap beers with Doichino's friends and neighbors until four in the morning. Small corner stores transform into bars at night. Still looking like convenient stores, they simply turn on the lights over the front stoop, bring out small tables, and turn on the radio. For a small while we danced to the famous Brazilian Funk and Samba. We peered out over the entire city with an incredible view down the hill, as thousands of street and houselights blended in with the starry night. We sat on plastic lawn chairs, sharing stories, trying to somehow melt Spanish into Portuguese. Some people were clearly easier to communicate with than others. We met Washington Silva, the pride and joy of the small community, who everyone insisted was the biggest boxing trainer in the entire city. We began to confirm this as we constantly noticed the largest, muscular guys around wearing "Trenedor Washington Silva" boxing shorts. Another childhood friend of theirs, a proud prostitute, kept sneaking Mariah Carrey ballots onto the jukebox playlist in light of my persistent objections. She sang aloud to "My Hero" and "One Sweet Day" when she trotted back to her perch on the curb whenever a cab rolled by. Another friend of Doicho took me on a motorcycle ride around the rest of the barrio, and we got lost bar hopping down the hill for an hour. Old men stopped by our table to talk as they strolled by down the street. Young couples holding hands walked carelessly under the Christmas lights and streamers drooped over the street like poorly assembled telephone wires.

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Compared to Copacabana, the Miami looking section of town, this felt like the true Rio de Janeiro. Unlike the resort-like section of the city with all the hostels and restaurants, residents of the favela were some of the most welcoming people I have met in Brazil. After getting over the shock of seeing guns carried so freely and crack dealt so openly, the community really came alive. As we rode motorcycles back home, Tomas cried over to me from the back of his moto, "Welcome to Rio de Janeiro."

Favelas