Saturday, 6 December

The snack shop owner busily packed up my pastry and juice.  It was a busy and lucrative time of day for him.  The mid-day sun was bringing heat to the streets of Rocinha, and drying off the roads that are dirt and concrete.  As I readied to grab my lunch, I looked to my left and straight into the barrel of an M4 carbine rifle. 

 

Rocinha is a thriving community.  At any time of day or night, you can eat, shop, drink, surf the internet, or play pool.  Two banks are here, tapping into the buying power of Rocinha’s one hundred thousand residents.  Foreign volunteers often initially complain about the noise, and then find that after a month it becomes soothing.  There are a few main thoroughfares that wind without reason up the hill.

 

“The Italian” is a friend of the institute.   He is pictured above.  His real name is Luciano.  He lives in Rocinha next door to the institute and is a professional photographer.  During the day he enjoys hanging out and joking around with the directors and volunteers.  He enjoys any type of conversation, as long as it ends up busting someone’s balls.  I like him and trust him.  The Italian and I go out on daily excursions to find equipment for the gym.  He does not speak any English but we converse well together in Portuguese.  I tell him what I need, and he walks with me around Rocinha, searching for stuff.  He does a good job of bartering with the shop owners for a lower price. 

 

I found my welder.  His name is Joao and he is around sixty years old.  He is quiet and goes about his work in a funereal manner.  I measured the iron bar and marked exactly where I wanted the wheels to be welded.  He asked us to back up and face away from the welding torch.  We were in a small room, basement-like, halfway below the street.  Occasionally the sparks from the torch would singe the back of our legs.  OSHA would not be able to keep up with the safety violations that occur continually in Rocinha. 

 

The worker at the wood shop handed me a 2x3 piece of wood that I examined.  To measure the wood properly, I placed my pen and paper on the ground.  As the Italian and I were discussing proper lengths and marking the wood, several street children happened upon my pen and paper.  I watched them as they examined with intense curiosity, my pen, which was cheap by American standards, but had the appearance of high quality.  They also found the equivalent of 30 dollars I had, inside the folded piece of paper.  Upon finding this, they counted it and began dancing around with it.  The worker broke my gaze with a question, I answered it and I figured that the best thing to do about the children was nothing at all.  After completion of my task the children were gone, and I figured, so was my cash.  I was disappointed in myself to find that every dollar that I had was neatly placed back inside my paper, just as I left it. 

 

Isabella was sick again.  This time I had 20 minutes of preparation time for English class.  I drew up a schedule for our class on the whiteboard.  This time, I would not suffer from lack of things to teach.   The children like to play Simon Says.  I promised them that we would play at the end of class, hoping this token would keep them in their seats longer.  At the end of class the girls gathered around.  I began to play Simon Says, however, I quickly realized that I had forgotten how to play.  I kept saying Simon Says before each object, and this went on for about 3 minutes before the girls realized I did not know the rules.  During their explanation, I remember the exact moment when it all came back to me.  They also saw exactly when I figured it out, and quickly broke into the full chorus of “Hallelujah.”  I was told later that their singing was heard throughout the neighborhood. 

 

I walked out of Rocinha in the late afternoon.  Along one of the concrete walls lining the street, a tall, black 15-year old was looking down the street as he pressed his left shoulder against the wall.  He seemed to be looking for something but I couldn’t tell what it was.  The sling for his rifle was on his right shoulder and his right hand was on the grip.  I couldn’t make out the type of weapon, but it was long, black, and very modern.  Everyone on the street was still walking, going about their business as if nothing was happening.  I took comfort in knowing that if the hoods wanted me dead, I’d already be gone…

 

 

 

Saturday was the day of the big fight.  Rogerio would be competing for the first time.  The community center in Cantagalo would host the afternoon of boxing matches.  Cantagalo is another favela located very close to two wealthy neighborhoods, Copacabana and Ipanema.  It is much smaller than Rocinha, and more dangerous.  We met at the bottom of the hill and walked up as a group.  We were safe with several Brazilians escorting us.  The community center was a mass of concrete and had a view of the entire south zone of Rio de Janeiro.  The boxing room was hot.  On the walls were hundreds of photos of famous fighters that have visited here.  In boxing lore, this place was true tradition.  After Rogerio’s fight several of us needed to leave.  We left the building and began the long walk downhill through Cantagalo and to Copacabana.  As we left the center I looked back and realized that we were 5 deep with Americans and Europeans.  My pulse started to race as I saw several children dragging our formation, asking for money and calling us gringos.  This would not be the way to walk through Cantagalo.  The children would be flagging all the hoods that we were targets.  We quickened our pace and walked in silence and with purpose.  A turn came up and we did not know which direction to take.  When in doubt in a favela, always go downhill.  This ended up being the wrong decision, and we walked for what seemed like an eternity through a bad portion of the favela.  During the walk I promised myself that I would not be without a Brazilian escort in another favela.  In Rocinha, we are protected by the common knowledge of the institute, anywhere else, we weren’t. 

 

Marianne was a student from the University of North Carolina.  We took the bus from Ipanema to Rocinha last Saturday night.  Our goal was to make sushi for the two directors of the institute.  This would be my first time inside a Rocinha home.  It was ten pm and Rocinha was very much alive.  We walked in with Rogerio and went to a market to get some ice cream for the dessert.  Rogerio told us how to get to Danielle’s home via a series of back alleyways.  He needed a shower and said he would meet us there in a little while.  I was more than a little nervous proceeding as two gringos through Rocinha’s alleyways at night.  Bars, food shops, supply stores, and homes were spread randomly along our route.  A three-year-old girl pulled down her pants to pee in the alley, as her grandmother held her hand.  We turned the corner to a larger thoroughfare, and there was group of people outside of a street bar.  One middle-aged man was twirling around as he drunkenly danced and sang.  His head was tilted up to the sky and his eyes were closed.  He was overweight and his round belly barely allowed his bulletproof vest to fit.  The sling around his shoulder made is M-16 bounce randomly.  I swear I saw three grenades attached to his vest. 

 

It was a true pleasure to be welcomed into Danielle’s home.   Danielle is one of the volunteer coordinators at the institute.  He is very friendly and has a great laugh.  As we prepared the sushi, two cats were hovering around and made continuous attempts to capture our food.  Fighting them off was a constant struggle.  One of the cats displayed his distaste for me by defecating two inches from my foot. After dinner we enjoyed some Brazilian television.  We also experienced much pleasure watching a cat hunt for cockroaches. 

 

Marianne wanted to stay the night and sleep on the couch.  I wanted to return home so at two am I left Danielle’s.  It was raining as I left and proceeded for the walk out of Rocinha to catch a van.  Thank God for small blessings.  Rain would mean less people on the streets, making my exit safer.  Nearing the exit of the favela I heard the heavy beat of Samba drums.  The Rocinha Samba School was practicing in their warehouse at the bottom of the hill.  The sound was mesmerizing.  A van slowed down upon seeing me and the fee collector yelled “Copa”.  This was my van.  I instinctively opened the door and quickly sat down.  I was the only person in the van.  The driver and assistant were both up front, and clearly stoned out of their mind.  The drive from Rocinha to Ipanema winds along the coast, high above the water with a steep rocky ledge leading down to the ocean.  The road is narrow, curvy, with constant near misses expertly performed by its drivers.  The road was slick tonight, and my two men were having a great time in the front, laughing about what… I have no idea.  Halfway home we stopped at Vidigal, another favela en route.  We picked up four prostitutes on their way to begin the night shift in Copacabana. I exited the van in Ipanema and paid the fee collector, it was pouring rain and I was the only human in sight.  I thanked God to be alive, and walking safely in the rain. 

 

The Catholic Church in Leblon was full on Sunday morning.  I enjoyed the ritual of mass, as I have before in many foreign countries.  There is something very comforting about this.  The pews of this church were split into four columns, leaving five open pathways with which to proceed forward or backward during communion.   The two priests that were conferring the blessed host posted themselves in front, at the end of the two pathways, one column away from the walls of the church.  The middle pathway was not used.  As communion began I noticed that after each person received the host, they would make their way back to their seat using the same pathway from which they came, thus straining the free flow of traffic and creating chokepoints.  I set about proudly to demonstrate the most efficient way to conduct communion traffic.  After receiving the host, I proceeded to the outside pathway and made my way easily and expeditiously back to my seat.  I hope that the church may learn something from this proper demonstration.  

 

The Italian and I set about quickly on Tuesday morning.  We scavenged through the back alleyways of Rocinha to find strong buckets.   They had to be big enough to hold 5 large pieces of wood bolted together, then encased in concrete.  This would be my first attempt at building a bench and squat press.  (Thank you to Gunnery Sergeant Castro for the expert advice!) As we walked, one alleyway opened up into a square area no bigger than a family room.  The sun was angling in, and down on two boys sitting on a concrete abutment.  Wearing dirty swim shorts and barefoot, one of the boys was handing a burning joint to the other.  The sun caught the smoke just right, and it was a perfect image.  The boy receiving the joint had an M-16 casually lying on his right leg. 

 

The search for equipment continued, and Rogerio suggested we take motorcycle taxis over the hill, to a place where they were doing construction on the other side.  I don’t like motorcycles.  Young men, teenagers, drive motorcycle taxis through Rocinha. I watched Rogerio getting on the back of his, and repeated exactly what he did.  I held onto a rusted iron bar welded on to the rear portion of the bike.  I found that this grip, no matter how tightly I held it, would not ever prevent me from flying off of the bike.  We began our journey and I noted how calmly Rogerio was on his bike, with almost no concern for his grip.  The road through Rocinha winds up a hill like Lombard Street in San Francisco.  Only this road was very busy with motorcycles, taxis, and gigantic buses.  We had to lean in heavily at each turn, blindly hoping there wasn’t another car or bus coming down on the other side.  The road was so steep that a bus’s back end was caught on the ground, and it could not negotiate its way down.  My driver quickly skirted behind this bus, and we proceeded through the subsequent traffic jam.  I said three Hail Mary’s on the way up.  Tiny miracles were happening continuously as we were millimeters from head-on traffic at 40 miles per hour.  I actually closed my eyes during several near misses.  At the top of Rocinha I saw a perfect view of Christ the Redeemer Statue, the most popular tourist attraction in Rio and one of the seven man-made wonders of the world.  Framed in this view was a military helicopter hovering perfectly above us, and a telephone poll carrying the burden of a thousand power cables, all rigged by Rocinha residents tapping into power from the city.  The stealing of power through adhoc addition of random power cables to existing lines was commonplace.  The sight of a thousand mazelike cables going out in every direction was truly fascinating.  Heading down the backside of Rocinha we entered a wealthy neighborhood identified with large stone walls encased in thick ivy.  Before every turn at the bottom, another driver, heading in the opposite direction would give us a signal that the coast was clear.  This was done with a thumbs-up.  The Rocinha motorcycle taxis were not legally licensed drivers.  I noticed that we paid a little more than I expected for this ride.  This was a risk premium, for driving us outside of their territory, into the legal world. 

 

The boy with the M4 carbine rifle was in his teens.  His sling was loose, and the rifle lay lazily against his hip.  He did not seem to care that the weapon was pointing directly at my head, only inches away.  Proper weapons handling procedures include the most common rule: Never point your weapon at anything you don’t intend to shoot.  I thought briefly about giving the boy a period of instruction on the importance of these safety rules, but thought otherwise.