First Week in Rocinha

The word Rocinha posted on the dashboard of the crowded van made my heart rise up into my throat.  The van screeched to a halt in response to my thumb.  The boy who worked the door was also the fee collector.  He let me in and I sat close to the driver, limiting the amount of passengers that heard my accent, as I told him in Portuguese to drop me off at the entrance to Rocinha.  While sitting in the van I pretended to be calm, I also pretended not to acknowledge that I could feel my heart beating loudly and rapidly.  I thought about the night before, meeting two Brazilian flight attendants at the nightclub, and how they made me promise not to go to Rocinha.  One of them, buried her face in her hands as I told her, and then hugged me.  I was nervous, actually.. scared, for the very first time in my life.  Night combat missions in Iraq did not touch this. 

 

I arrived five days ago.  As in standard American fashion I set about quickly to check off items on my task list.  Arrive hostel, check-in, contact institute, unpack, work on setting up my phone, get internet access, create a sense of normalcy.  I remember feeling that I wanted for things get going already.  Now, after 5 days my brain has begun its adjustment to a new sense of time, one much less precise. 

 

Existential Anxiety – I recently read Viktor Frankl’s book, “Man’s Search for Meaning.”  I found it to be perhaps my most preferred model on existence.  In this book, the author, a psychiatrist who spent time in Auschwitz as a prisoner, describes man’s constant battle to resolve the meaning of life.  I must admit that I have been mentally battling a serious bout of existential anxiety, summed up in layman’s as “what the f… am I doing here… why did I leave such a perfect life…  what’s wrong with me that would make me do this…”  The anxiety would come in waves, at their peak I confess I am close to packing my bags and catching a taxi direct to the airport. 

 

I met the volunteer coordinator, a Brazilian named Rogerio under the bridge outside of Rocinha.  It was raining and the place smelled of fresh urine.  I recognized Rogerio, a 30ish guy with a light beard, as the guy walking directly toward me with a large grin on his face.  He shook my hand, and we rapidly began our walk into Rocinha.  I wore my sunglasses, as not to admit my eyes were blue, and constantly scanning.  My first time in I did not see the cocaine stand.  In aviation language this is called sensory overload.  I had too much information coming in from all my senses, that I would miss things such as a group of 6 young hoods next to a table full of cocaine packets, busy talking rapidly on their military grade radios.  The hoods can deal in the open because this is Rocinha.  The police do not come here. 

 

The second time I came to Rocinha was my first day of official work.  I was escorted for the last time, next time I would be on my own.  Better believe I memorized markings that corresponded to my turns.  To stop and look confused would not be acceptable. 

 

Isabella, one of the English teachers, was sick on Tuesday.  Rogerio asked me to take the class for her.  My brain very rapidly wondered where my lesson plan was, have I practiced it, and where are the class materials.  There would be none of these.  At 3 minutes til class I ran out of my boxing lesson, two blocks away from the institute, but within the favela.  I had just enjoyed two hours of boxing training with some children, and a few adults. 

 

The training room was a concrete block building, spartan-like, and about 50 ft by 40 ft.  I was surprised when upon entering the training room Rogerio asked me to warm-up the children up and do some exercises.  My brain very rapidly looked for my warm-up card and my exercise card.  There would be none of these.  I did not pass on this opportunity and relied on past experience to stretch and exercise the children.  Alternating the stretch counts between English and Portuguese kept the children on their toes.  A blue-eyed, blond stranger leading their class kept them amused.  A few of the children wore little more than a tattered shirt, and dirty, frequently worn shorts.  Only two of them actually had shoes.  With proper authority I was mostly able to keep them in line.  Encouraging them to repeat loudly after my calls. 

 

Breathing heavily and sweating profusely I walked quickly to English class.  As I entered the institute I gathered up the students, seven girls, and we headed upstairs.  I took 2 minutes to wash my hands and face before I met them in the third floor classroom.  I walked up to the head of the class and looked for a dry erase marker to use for the board.  I was very fortunate to find one, that barely worked.  I wrote my name on the board and quickly went into a session on introducing yourself in English.  The seven girls, ages nine to twelve, were not shy about talking to me in Portuguese and even less shy about yelling, hitting each other playfully, and moving about freely during my, albeit weak instruction.  I spent most of the hour trying to get them to focus on one thing.  More than once I experienced a wave of panic of “I have nothing else to do or say!  What else can I do?”  The hour felt like an eternity.  When I dismissed them, I told myself that no matter what happens, I will never let them see me lose my calm.

 

I spent the day Wednesday inside Rocinha at the institute.  I prepared a list of items I would need to begin building a homemade gym.  Iron bars, PVC piping, 2x4s, old tires with rims, buckets, concrete, duct tape, and rope were all on my list.  Rogerio and I took a walk around Rocinha, talking to shop owners about prices for some of these items.  We were lucky to find some PVC piping and a set of old tires and rims in a junkyard.  Sometimes during this task my brain would speak out of turn.  “What are you doing in one of the world’s most dangerous places, in a junkyard, scavenging for iron, pipe, and tires.”  As I was carrying two tires and one rim through Rocinha, I glanced downward and to my right to see an old man, probably seventy years old.  He had on a tattered, thin, blue shirt.  His beard was long, down to his chest, and was silver and white.  He was busy scraping cocaine off of an aluminum square tile about the size of a paper napkin, onto a cotton and green bandana lying neatly on the pavement.  We arrived back to the institute, filthy and sweaty, with some initial equipment.  My next task, find a guy in Rocinha who can weld…