The above pictures were taken after a recent conflict outside of a favela. Immediately after the fire was put out, favela residents were cutting and pulling the metal from the remains.
We’ve got to lean on the door harder, and if we keep leaning in a very, very connected way, then that door is going to open further – Lt Gen Sir Michael Rose, British SAS, UN Bosnian Operations
I’m restless. I like challenges, changes. I look for trouble, it’s true. Because in trouble you find truth and reality – Sergio Vieira de Mello
I am sometimes almost terrified at the scope of the demands made upon me, at the perfection of self-abandonment required of me, yet outside of such absoluteness can be no salvation – George MacDonald
I’m restless. I like challenges, changes. I look for trouble, it’s true. Because in trouble you find truth and reality – Sergio Vieira de Mello
I walked through the market in downtown Rio, searching the maze of streets and alleyways for equipment. I needed thick rope for climbing, and more iron bars. A few missteps and redirections led me to the naval district. Entering a supply warehouse I met Fernando, a middle-aged man with glasses, the manager of this old depot that sold anchors, rope, and iron. Fernando was intrigued but couldn’t give me any parts. He spoke of a boat cemetery in Caju, and I left for it. I arrived at the bus stop, waiting for bus number 201 to Caju, imagining all the metal scraps I could scrounge once I got inside an old ship. A van drove by, the driver yelling for Caju, I signaled him to stop. The door opened by a lever the driver had specially welded, and I crawled past an old man to sit behind the driver. The van was a relic of the past, its insides gutted, every piece rusted and barely holding on, its passengers more used to driving in ancient hulks than the air-conditioned luxury buses that serviced the wealthy neighborhoods, the van’s destination, the favela Caju. I explained where I needed to go, the driver a little confused but eager to help, the passengers curious about the ventures of this stranger to their neighborhood. The drive took 20 minutes as the highway hugged the bay of Rio, the destination always in sight as it sprawled with massive ships, cranes, and warehouses. I was definitely outside of my comfort zone again, but it felt strangely good to be back.
Caju appeared as a wasteland, one dusty street separating the favela from the immense marine industry. The Caju favela architecture was standard, but its location was not. Normally in Rio the favelas are in the hills, but here it was flat, like a Mexican desert town, abandoned and on its own. The view to the marine industry was blocked by a two-story wall, each company having their own gigantic door, swinging inward, allowing the trucks passage, and I was lucky to catch a glimpse inside. The image was surreal, in an instant I saw the massive skeleton of a once Titanic size ship, covered with workers like ants, tearing off the remaining bones, as another thousand workers scurried, carrying the iron bars to the trucks. There was something naturally evil about this place.
It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon, the air was thick and heavy, the type of air that caused time to slow down, and the sun, the sun and dirt made everything too bright. The driver was twenty-five years old and named Dennis. He lived in Caju, and he knew the dangers. If he left me here alone, it would have been bad. He liked my story so he decided to help me out. After dropping off the remaining passengers we searched for access to any abandoned ships. We reached the edge of town and saw three huge ships, large ships even from this distance, laying in the mudflats, unnaturally canting at slight angles as if preparing to fall at any moment, but having not moved in decades, resting. We drove towards them, leaving the main road for two dirt tire lanes overgrown by grass.
A two-story home came into view as we approached, the ships massive outlines getting larger in our view. The home looked vacated, the fence that ran along the road had a doorway that we entered, leading us into the yard that was dried mud with occasional grassy patches. The sun was hard and there was no wind, you could feel the weight of the silence as heat. Our attention turned to two ducks who waddled their way to a dirty puddle. We called out for someone, the noise feeling too loud, thunderous yet hopeless in this place that wreaked of lethargy. We stood, and we could hear our breathing, then we heard a window slide open from the second story, an old man leaned out. He looked as if we had woken him from a twenty-year sleep. He made his way downstairs and to the back door, then walked slowly down the backyard steps, every move with slow purpose, his face was lined with wrinkles and his beard long and unkempt, the spitting image of Tom Hanks’s character in Cast Away. He acted as if he had not seen a human in years. The conversation was slow, the pauses long, taking time to catch your breath from the unbearable heat. I pointed to the ships in the mud and told him my intentions. He said that I could not go there, a man owned them and was going to sell the metal for money. We thanked him and returned to the van.
I asked Dennis to help me find a bus back to the city. When we arrived the bus stop in Caju, I gave him the equivalent of $3 US dollars. I told him it was for the extra gas he used to help me out, but we both knew that was a lie, I paid him for being on the good side, I paid him for keeping me alive.
I am sometimes almost terrified at the scope of the demands made upon me, at the perfection of self-abandonment required of me, yet outside of such absoluteness can be no salvation – George MacDonald
Camp Barrett in Quantico has been the training ground for countless Marine Officers. The area is immense, steep hills and river valleys, impossibly dense foliage and open, grassy, clearings make it ideal for dealing tough lessons to lieutenants. Each season is harsh, but then it was summer, sweat-soaked camouflage blouses from brutal humidity quickly becoming the enemy at night, the relatively cooler night temperatures making the change dramatic. I was acting platoon commander for tomorrow’s attack. I prepared a recon brief and gathered my team, the senior captains watching, grading our every action. We left at 1600 to scout the enemy’s position, taking three other Marines and leaving the platoon behind to rest, giving them word that we would return no later than 2000.
We walked silently, tracing hills and valleys, slowing and compressing our formation in the thick brush, accelerating and expanding in the open areas. The late afternoon heat was beginning to ease, the sun behind thin cirrus clouds, lowering under the steep hills. The enemy’s likely position was halfway down a thickly forested valley, but on a rise that tried to be a hill, with two water washes on each side. We arrived on the adjacent rise and three hundred meters from the anticipated enemy position. With visibility limited to 20 yards, we were in no position to gain any real intelligence. I took one other lieutenant with me to scout the enemy lines.
We had little time to conduct the final, most important portion of our recon. The travel took longer than expected and we needed to return as soon as possible. If we returned late, the platoon would send out a search party for us, causing much confusion the night before an attack, and we still needed to brief. I found an enemy gun position, confirming the enemy’s basic location but still lacking any substantial intelligence. I wanted to know what was on the other side of this rise. Was the terrain better? Did the enemy position extend over two rises? How many gun positions did they have? I returned to the recon team, and I had a decision to make. Accept a late return to the platoon and conduct a more in depth reconnaissance, or return now, rationalizing that I knew all I really needed to know, and ensuring a smooth operation. I took the recon team back. This was a mistake.
I briefed the squad leaders at sunrise. I led the platoon to the attack position, put them on line, and they attacked through ridiculously thick brush, each Marine barely able to see his nearest buddy, climbing over and crawling under fallen trees, and blindly shooting at the enemy’s gun positions. We took the position, but not without heavy losses.
A thorough debrief concluded with one sharp lesson.
The terrain on the other side of the rise was much less dense, and also less steep. An attack from the other side would have saved lives. The senior captain hammered me for not staying committed to my recon mission, for letting a small problem deter me from achieving the overall goal.
The problem above is more complex than it seems. There are several seemingly small issues at play here, and when presented together at the time of the required decision, they sum to a greater total.
I lacked the understanding that every tough decision will always cost something. The choice, with its intent on keeping everything status quo, resulted from the misguided notion to keep everything operating smoothly, vice going for the kill and accepting consequences.
The decision also goes back to The Hustler by Tevis, and defines the choice of a loser. By rationalizing the reason to return, I had a built-in excuse for failure. I had essentially lost the battle before it began. The underlying causes of such subconscious decisions are beyond the scope of this writing, but the reader will be sure to point out man’s hesitancy to completely expose himself, thus the failure point to closely to his own self. This self-protection is the ultimate vanity, and is the root of infinite problems on every scale.
