Four favelas, three days, two bubbles, one night...

(Sorry for the delay in posting. As you'll see, I had a lot of material to put together).


I remember telling a friend that I would be going to Bolivia, which, depending on the count, is either the poorest or second poorest country in South America. He responded, quite hilariously, "Damn, Kev, you really love poverty." He's right (at least in certain ways…). And Brazil has been quite the paramour.

I have spent a fair portion of three of the last seven days in favelas. These neighborhoods loom as caricature, almost as "the ghetto" does in our U.S. context: It's a place you generally don't go unless you have to; they are wretched places of misery and violence; bad people, or trapped people, live there; buildings are unfinished, unsound, and ugly. One can almost imagine a young child being persuaded to act right by a threat of getting dropped off in the middle of the favela and being left to find his way home--it's like a deadly and magical forest, the haunts of ghouls and beasts.

This caricature obscures the very real daily life of millions of people who come and go and live and die and lust and love and cry and laugh. Life may be as ordinary and as predictable as the dualities I used in the last sentence. People persist.

Nonetheless, I am interested to see what becomes normal, acceptable, and unremarkable. It is the clash between normalities that reveals particular ways of life to be produced and mutable, not natural or inevitable. Things can go other ways.

So, what sense have I of what is normal in the favelas? Not much. Parts of three days isn't a whole lot of time to get a sense of anything. But, I'll relay my impressions and perhaps reveal something in so doing.

Two of the three visits were daytime visits. We had destinations and guides and scheduled stops. The first daytime visit was to an organization called Acao Comunitaria (literally, Community Action). This serves as a neighborhood center for youths and adults. Young girls learn ballet. Older boys break dance. Teenagers while away time on computers. Adult women design clothes and learn the skills needed to sell them. Kids can head to the small library to do research. Kids of all ages learn capoeira (the Brazilian dance/martial art). Folks know one another. It's a friendly place.

Acao Comunitaria is a bit of an island in the favela. The front entrance gate is locked and opened only when someone known is coming in or going out. The police, who will randomly raid the favelas with guns blazing (it's war…), do not conduct raids there. The drug corporations do not interfere with their activities. More "reputable" corporations and foundations sponsor it. The computers came courtesy of Canada, the classroom a gift from Coke. The government chips in some. In the view of all, the organization is well-respected. The staff, the volunteers, and the participants all love it. The scene is filled with teasing and easy laughter. Here, a Child is tended.

But, if it is an island, it is only a short swim from the mainland. Money is tough. As always seems to be the case for grassroots sorts of non-profits, funding is never stable or secure. The staff is constantly writing grants. In lean years, certain programs have to be cut and fewer folks served. More dramatically, many of the kids who've at some point been part of Acao Comunitaria have died in the drug-related violence. When this happens, the center closes for a day or two for mourning and recuperation. It then opens it doors again and the tide rises and currents sweep out to sea those who fish for hope or happiness.

The second daytime visit was led by a kindly and talkative man who worked for a company imaginatively called "Favela Tours." This company was founded in 1992 by an Argentinian who had come to Rio and lived in the favelas for some time. The company builds relationships with certain favelas to make it safe for guided tours. Part of the proceeds from the tours helps to support a local community center, similar in substance to, but much, much smaller than, Acao Comunitaria. Our group of 18 hopped into two separate vans. The kindly man used a microphone and fed us all sorts of information that would be interesting to a "socially conscious" tourist. We heard of the education system, the migration to the cities, the mandatory voting provisions, the attempts at affirmative action, urban growth control, expanding infrastructure to favelas, the history of the drug corporations, the projects of the new mayor, and the gap between rich and poor.

We went first to one of the smaller favelas in Rio. Villa Canoas has been touted as a "model" of favela development. It started when workers at the local golf course grew tired of commuting so far every day and decided to live closer to work. They picked a plot of land that happened to be right across the street from nice homes with plant-covered walls too high to see over (I don't know how they managed to hold onto that land…it wasn't "bought" through proper channels). A street--not even a very big one--is all that separates the people who work at the golf club and live in the favela from the people who belong to the golf club and wish the favela weren't there (you know, property values). No drugs are sold in this favela because the drug corporations have not allowed it. They want buyers to go to a different, more-fortified favela nearby. The only violence here is petty crime.

We were planning to stop at the company-sponsored community center, but another tour group was there. So, we went up the hill a bit, got out, and bought a refreshing beverage from a local bar-tender. Then, we wound our way through the interior of the favela. At their widest, the streets in this favela accommodate two adults side-by-side. A surprising courtyard held an old slide and just enough room to draw in chalk boxes for a skipping game. There's always enough room for dog crap. There's no discernable plan to the layout. This is a place that is not meant for outsiders, instead founded on a knowledge that immediately marks a person as a neighbor or as a stranger. Everyone greeted our guide with smiles--the little girls threw in some kisses for good measure. Space is tight. Buildings grow up, designed and built by the hands of residents who work in the construction industry. Some of the stucco exteriors were adorned with shards of glass and tile reclaimed from the local trash dump and arranged into comely mosaics. As the tour guide pointed out, himself engaged in the battle against caricature, the residents lack neither intelligence or skill.

We saw some things that led some of my classmates to wonder what is so bad about favela life. Some homes had satellite dishes. One man was smoking weed while sitting in front of a 30-inch flat-screen TV in a nicely furnished interior. One woman who had walked by had gone to college. It apparently shocked some people that poverty can have its luxuries, that it is not wrought wholly of deprivation.

Though they didn't mention their surprise until well after the guide had left us back in Copacabana, the guide gave us some information that explains the variation when I piece it together. Buying a nice TV is a much less costly proposition than buying a good education. And, the difference between living in a favela and living in non-favela housing is a significant. So, people may not have enough money to move out, but some may be able to save enough make their favela home nice. Thus, there is a realm of consumables that are available to favela residents. Other consumables, those that tend to be more empowering (education) or safer (non-favela neighborhoods), are largely out of reach. Just because favela life can be decent does not mean that people wouldn't move out if given the opportunity. Nor, I suspect, does it mean that my classmates would be willing to live there.

We eventually ended up at the company-sponsored community center. A sympathetic Italian-descended family had given money to build and run the center. Other local businesses now help out. The center was nice. We bought some handicrafts. One of my classmates played soccer with some of the kids. There were computers. Having wrapped up our tour of the "nice" favela, we were to head off to Rocinha, the biggest favela in Rio.

Rocinha houses anywhere between 60,000 and 100,000 people. It is a city within a city, governed by rules that are partly shaped by resident organizations and partly by the drug corporations who control the favela. During the rainy season, flash floods and hill slides cause destruction and some death. On this day, police had started a major operation in the favela. Helicopters were flying above. The entrance was barricaded, so we could not go in as had been hoped for and planned (the company does not give refunds if it is unable to take a group into Rocinha…the consumer assumes the risk of a police operation because it happens so often). We watched from afar, on a walkway constructed to allow residents to cross over the busy street. The walkway, fashioned from metal lattice scaffolding, swayed with the weight of its human burden. Yes, the people who later said that favela life wasn't so bad were here. I don't know if they were paying attention.

Now, finally to the part that will be the most frightening. Mothers and grandparents and aunts may wish to stop reading here…………………

So, I was out at a three-stoy club last Friday night with about 40 other Americans from the program. The ground-floor restaurant-style area was crowned by two floors of music. On the second floor was a live band playing "pagode," a type of Brazilian music. On the third floor was a DJ spinning mostly American music, r&b, hip hop, techno, and the like. The Americans grew tired of the live band and went upstairs for the familiar. I stayed on the second floor. Within five minutes, I was in a half-English, half-Portuguese conversation with a group of six young Brazilian guys in their early twenties. After some nice conversation and laughs, they invited me out to a party on Saturday night. This sort of party is called "Baile Funk" (pronounced buy-lee fun-kee) and it was to take place in the birthplace of Brazilian funk music--the favelas of Rio.

Well, I was a little mistrustful at first, as I didn't know why these guys were being so friendly. But, after hanging out for a while, I figured I could trust them. I left the club with an address and a phone number to call the next day to work out all the details.

Now, favelas are places to which non-residents rarely go. In fact, the only non-residents who go regularly into the favelas are wealthy folks who want to buy drugs, the police who seek to raid them, and do-gooders who work there. Gringos (which here just means non-Brazilians) don't go there. So, knowing that I could go where no gringo has gone before (I know that's probably not totally true, but let me have my drama…), I resolved to go. I called up my buddy Will, who was born in Brazil, raised in the U.S., and speaks Portuguese . We recruited two other cool, low-key folks from our program so that we could fill a cab. The few others we did invite didn't want to go--the one or two people who would have gone weren't enough to fill a second cab. Word slowly spread through the program what we were doing, and almost everyone thought it crazy. That just made us more excited. So, after paying a visit to the American party of the night and leaving a rough sense of our destination with a trusted friend who was staying behind, we left.

The cab ride took us through some rough areas--the border streets of favelas--but dropped us off on a well-lighted strip of restaurants and shops. Nothing scary. My Brazilian buddies from the club met us there and walked with us up the hill (remember, favelas are often built on the hillsides). We met up with some more of their friends in a big apartment complex. Then, we walked to the far end of the apartment complex and encountered a high wall with a white door in it. We went through and walked into a noticeably different world.

The buildings were light brownish bricks covered in places by stucco. Tagging marks were everywhere. Motor scooters whizzed by, honking horns to order the pedestrians out of the way (there's no pedestrian right of way here). People were kickin' it on the sidewalks outside of the many small bars and fried fish joints. Street vendors were hawking salty pastries, beer, liquor, and cakes, with nearly every inch of each side of the street occupied. I didn't see my first gun for at least five minutes. I wouldn't see my last gun until hopping in the cab at about 4:30 a.m.

Walking up the hill a little ways, we arrived at the party spot. One "dance floor" was a courtyard, probably used during the day for blacktop soccer matches. The other "dance floor" was just up the hill where the road turns in switchback style. Here, I saw a wall of speakers, at least 15 feet high and 30 feet wide. The speakers were hooked up to the nearest light pole. This was not the first thing that would make me think that here I was to see something like the early days of Hip Hop.

The girls were gorgeous, but strictly off limits. My Brazilian friends and guides told us that guys do not dance with girls they do not know. This reserve is needed to avoid beef with potential boyfriends.

People had fun in different ways. Some drank beer and whatever liquor was being poured. Clouds of weed smoke hung in the air. Some people had droplet bottles and were putting a few drips of god-knows-what into Red Bull (Oma and Grandpa, Red Bull is just a non-alcoholic energy drink that can be bought from any grocery or convenience store). For my part, I didn't do anything more experimental than try mixing some Red Bull into my beer. Save your taste buds the adventure.

All this drinking makes a person have to pee. The guys went into a little shack and pee'd on walls, which had a two-inch "trough" at the bottom. I didn't give much thought to what the girls did.

So, the night went on, the music picked up, the throngs poured in. A woman hanging her laundry out watched from a rooftop just a bit up the hill. There were at least 300 more feet of favela-laden hillside above us--we entered only the bottom portion. The longer the night went on--meaning the more intoxicating substances folks had consumed--the more guns came out. I saw assault rifles, machine guns, single-barreled shotguns, double-barreled shotguns, chrome plated pistols, and ordinary black pistols. We must have left too early to see the rocket launchers.

At first, we'd see only the occasional dude walking around with a gun in hand. By the end of the night, small columns of armed men would parade around rhythmically in semi-formed lines with their guns raised in the air or hung off their shoulders. The size of your gun appeared to be connected to your status. One of my Brazilian friends saw one of his friends there. The new dude came over and let my friend hold his pistol. My friend proudly put it in pocket and tucked his shirt just right so that onlookers could see the gun tucked into his waist. Gun ownership is illegal in Brazil. But these folks obviously have a firm belief in their right to bear arms.

Here, massive armament made some sense, as it did for the Cold War containment strategy. The great minds figured out that if everyone has enough firepower to blow everyone else up (at least in terms of nuclear war), nobody will use it. So it went here. I felt perfectly safe the entire night. In fact, I perceived fewer strange stares in the favela than I do riding the metro or walking along the beach.

Now on to the dancing. I didn't do much of it, but many of the guys don't. Baile funk is mostly about the girls dancing provocatively. The music is drum heavy. The thump aids the sense of trance.

Entranced and enchanted, I had a wonderful night. Part of it was the fun atmosphere. Part of it was the sense that we did something that few others do. This was exotic to me, but to my Brazilian friends, to the people who live here, this was a normal Saturday night.