Green, Brick Houses, Earthy Colors, Up and Down Streets, Climbs, Descents, Lush Trees, Thousand Branches Entwined, Too Many Electrical Wires Hooked to a Single Pole That Seems Like It’s About to Burst from So Much Electric Load. The Uber takes Bea, Chiara, and me from Guarulhos Airport to a house lost among the labyrinthine curves of São Paulo’s Vila Madalena neighborhood, the largest city in Brazil and Latin America. It drops us off in front of a metal gate that, due to its small dimensions, resembles the house of the seven dwarfs. The bars of the gate are camouflaged by a sea of lucky bracelets of all colors with the motto: Lembrança do Senhor do Bonfim da Bahia. Pink, yellow, green, blue, orange, red, and white cover the entrance door with that curious phrase that I can’t quite understand but which attracts good vibes and keeps evil at bay.
São Paulo is the fourth largest and most populous city in the world, a giant with a thousand arms and legs that stretches across the southeast of Brazil and is home to 22.6 million people, which is more than 7 times the population of Madrid. After spending a few days visiting this grandiose metropolis, we venture to rent a car and while we are stuck in the chaos of the Marginal Pinheiros highway, I see from the window one of the largest favelas in the world: Paraisópolis. This ironic name is the place where more than 100,000 people live among shacks and shanties. The border between poverty and luxury is some lavish buildings that lack neither swimming pools nor tennis courts. Not everything is soccer, samba, sun, and beach in Brazil, it is also inequality, and the favelas are the clear example.
We head towards Ubatuba in Parati and enjoy the vegetation of the Atlantic Forest where lush and radiant green is the protagonist throughout the journey. We live in a wooden cabin in the middle of the jungle for a few days where the alarm clock is a hoarse crow, our pet is a hairy spider and a centipede. We go to Ilha Grande, the paradise of lovers of Havaianas flip-flops and sarongs. And as we return on a boat with salt scales on our skin after spending the day playing the guitar in Lagoa Verde, we return to Angra dos Reis from where we go to Rio de Janeiro.
I read the notification on my phone, message from Pablo Vinicius: “We are meeting at Praça Ailton Rosa in Rocinha at 11:30 am.” A motorcyclist awaits us to take us up to the top of Rocinha, the largest favela in Rio de Janeiro. We cross the entrance border into the favela with Pablo Vinicius’s blessing, yet our faces still draw attention from those we encounter. Their gazes hold hard stories. Pablo Vinicius, a tall young man, his white empire t-shirt contrasting against his muscular arms and mulatto skin, serves as our passport in and out of the comunidade. His broad nose, slanted eyes, and curly hair bun fit the perfect Brazilian features. His welcome carries a tremendous excitement to show us his daily life within his neighborhood, where he has lived and grown up all his life.
“For me, it’s a great pride to be a favela boy, born and raised within this community. That’s why I feel I have a commitment to ensure that the young people of Rocinha have new and better opportunities.”
Our expressions and body language prompt Pablo to tell us, “Right now, you’re safer here than anywhere else in Brazil. It’s even more dangerous to walk around Ipanema or Copacabana than to be in this favela. Here, tourists are ‘untouchable.'”
“Why can’t we be robbed here?”
“It’s simple, those who steal are killed.”
“Seriously?”
“For economic interests. Tourists are welcomed with a red carpet if you have permission from someone inside the community because you help tourist guides, local businesses, or bars with the money you spend. If tourists stopped coming, this favela would be much more dangerous than it is now.”
“So, can we take out our phones and cameras safely?”
“No problem, just stop taking photos at some specific points when I tell you.”
I wonder in my head, what could be the reason he doesn’t want us to take photos at certain points during the favela tour?
“In the favelas, the State is weak and life is strong,” says Paulo Lins, the author of “City of God,” who warns that those born in a favela already have in their DNA a tough and resistant skin capable of overcoming whatever comes their way. Pablo says that being a Brazilian funk MC, soccer player, or drug trafficker for the Comando Vermelho are not the only paths to freedom for those born here. He himself is a good example that everything depends on the power of the choices one makes. He has his profile on TripAdvisor to guide in Rocinha, which is one of his major sources of income. He is an actor and has played roles as a character in drug trafficking gangs in various films. He is also a coordinator of a foundation for children with few resources and disabilities, and participates in the capoeira school that helps children from Rocinha to start in this typical Afro-Brazilian martial art, acrobatic dance, and body expression. Additionally, he has a talent for singing and playing the berimbau, a musical bow with a resonance box. He plays it every day as an orange sunset falls over the labyrinthine and chaotic streets of Rocinha, contrasting with the luxurious beachfront buildings that denote the great inequality of conditions and opportunities that exists in Brazil. The social elevator is non-existent.
In the favelas, houses are built with bricks, stolen or rescued materials. Some defy the steep terrain and stand on top of rocks or stones, hoping not to collapse. Some of the most precarious stairs are made of dirt bags. The water supply comes from rain and is collected in blue barrels found on the roof of every house. There are no good sewer systems, so it may be common for people to get sick due to poor hygiene or drinking contaminated water. The inner streets have no names or numbers, they are dark tunnels where it’s very easy to get lost, so there is no “home delivery” system. There are public mailboxes distributed near the Church of Rocinha, one for each block of houses, those on the left and those on the right, and each sector has a community mailbox where letters or online orders are left. The Rocinha and Vidigal favelas have one of the most exclusive and luxurious neighborhoods in Rio de Janeiro as their companion: Gávea. From the top of Rocinha, you can see one of the elite schools in this neighborhood where parents pay a disproportionate fee in exchange for security and bulletproof glass. Looking from the mountain to the left and then to the right is the definition of an unequal country; the gap is staggering.
All the favelas in Brazil are a legal void that does not exist for the government. For Bolsonaro or Lula da Silva, the inhabitants of the favela have been and are a translucent glass to whom extending a helping hand is denied. Whoever is born poor, dies poor. The houses that crumble among the labyrinthine streets, the smell of the mountains of garbage in every corner, the humidity of the clogged pipes, the stolen light or the barrels on every rooftop that collect rainwater is the reality of those who live in this community. Buying a house in a favela costs approximately 20,000 euros, but even so, many cannot afford it, therefore, seeing people living on the streets of the big Brazilian cities like abandoned dogs is more than common.
We descend along Estrada Da Gávea, the main street of Rocinha which coincides with the name of the luxurious neighborhood on the other side of the mountain, but one has nothing to do with the other. We venture into the labyrinthine streets of steep climbs and descents. The reddish earth tile steps dance at almost every step and dodging the tangle of cables, called spaghetti, that steal electricity is quite a challenge considering that we are on a slope. I look up and see some shoes tied to the electrical cable with a knot, a sign that this small square is a strategic point for those seeking to buy and sell drugs. Many of Rocinha’s walls make it clear who is in charge: Comando Vermelho. “Luckily they have no competition, otherwise, hearing shots or finding dead bodies on the street would be the daily life of the inhabitants of this community. Right now, living in Rocinha is safe and quiet. I ask you to stop recording or taking photos on this stretch of street, otherwise we could have serious problems,” Pablo warns us seriously.
We enter again the dark labyrinth that the streets of Rocinha harbor and find the kings of the favela with their large drug stall between one of the streets. The bundles of white cocaine are distributed along the table to be weighed while two orangutans with machine guns watch over everything being under control. Meanwhile, a mother with her young daughter comes out of the house to take down the clothes they have drying, some older men laugh and play dominoes on the stairs of their house, a slightly open door reveals the living room of a house and we hear a television whose only viewer is a cat sleeping on the sofa. Weighing the cocaine bundles, taking down the clothes, playing dominoes, or living off local businesses such as hardware stores, fruit shops, clothing stores, or hairdressers are various options, but for many, as Paulo Lins says, “in the city of the gods, hell is the shortest path to freedom.”
We arrive where we started, in the square at the entrance of Rocinha, and say goodbye to Pablo in the midst of the chaos of the market. We are caught by the smell of meat from the street stalls serving feijoada, the noise of cars and motorcycles is constant, and we are left dizzy among so many green and yellow shirts proudly displaying the 5 stars. It is noticeable in the air that the 2022 World Cup is about to start, hope is in the air, and it seems like Pelé is eager to come out of his grave to win the sixth star.
I think about everything we’ve seen and what Pablo has told us; my perspective on life inside a favela has changed after being there for a few hours. In the morning, as we approached Rocinha to take this tour, it felt like we were going bungee jumping without a rope, but it turned out to be a safe place where most humble people work in local businesses to make a living, although some are involved in drug trafficking. Favelas are not all violence as we had stereotyped in our minds; there are also good people who dedicate themselves to helping others like Pablo with his foundation, and it’s a breeding ground for many artistic disciplines. We turn around to wave goodbye to Pablo one last time; we see him disappearing into the noise of people in the crowded market and the smoke from the feijoada. I know we’ll see him again soon.
In Rocinha, there’s a party every Friday. The events in this favela have city names; I guess in the Paris one, singles will be looking for love, while in the Moscow one, things worthy of Putin’s psychopathic caliber must happen. From Friday on, Rocinha is filled with the booming sound of funk carioca, a mix of American funk influence that originated in Florida in the eighties along with charismatic Brazilian sounds. Favela music is a dynamite explosion that no one can stand still to, not even the two mountains enclosing Rocinha in a cage of rocks and greenery, Pedra Dois Hermãos and Morro Cochrane, dance every night along with the community’s over 200,000 inhabitants. We ride on mototaxis; at night, the favela changes, the humble and hardworking people are no longer selling anything in their street stalls. Showers, stairs, or flowerpots no longer hang from the shops. The hustle and bustle continue, but the tangle of electrical cables that covers the streets like a canopy is no longer as evident, just like the garbage piles on the streets. Black covers the precariousness everywhere. We pass several music bars where the sounds of carioca music resonate at full volume, and with the wind on my face, I look up and see all the houses on top of the mountain. It seems like everyone is getting ready to go to the party, even Christ the Redeemer, who, stunned from up there, watches all the misfortunes happening in his city without doing anything.
The streets are illuminated by motorcycles speeding up and down and the streetlights on the main street. The cocktail bars are all full of people with a caipirinha or caipiroska in hand. We get off the motorcycle at the bar where Pablo’s friends are waiting for us. He introduces us to Henrique, his best friend and a graduate as a math teacher for children aged 6 to 9. He must be one of the few Rocinha residents who have been able to pursue higher education, and as we dance with them down the street accompanied by the funky music that is the national anthem of the communities, I take the opportunity to chat with him. I approach to speak to him thanks to the A1 Portuguese course I took at the University of Barcelona, which I think will help him understand me perfectly.
“Henrique, do young boys from the favelas usually study like you did?”
“Nowadays it’s a bit easier than before.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The government has announced financial aid as an incentive for students who complete each year of high school, as well as a bonus for young people who graduate and finish their studies. In total, each student receives around 9 thousand reais.”
“And is it easy to go to college?”
“In public universities, there are also various aids and scholarships. It’s still a difficult hurdle to be able to attend college for someone born in a favela, but the opportunity can also arise occasionally.”
We leave the others dancing and sit on the curb of the street, so maybe I can concentrate a little more to understand him. Speaking Portuguese and understanding it isn’t as easy as I thought.
“You speak more like a kind of invented Portuguese, don’t you?”
“Actually, I make up half of the words; I speak more like Portuñol.'”
We both laugh. I like this guy, and I feel like I can ask him all the questions I have.
“What’s the easiest way out for a young person from a favela?”
“Working is the easiest way out. In Rocinha, the vast majority work in common places with low wages, in shops, or restaurants.”
“And drug trafficking?”
“Studies aren’t an easy path, but neither is drug trafficking. Among the 200,000 people in Rocinha, 1% are drug traffickers. It’s not easy to get into or continue down this path.”
I mentally distance myself from this conversation and remember what we saw this morning; I had the feeling that what he was saying might not be entirely true.
“But this morning we saw a scene related to drug trafficking.”
“Of course, let’s not forget that they’re the ones in charge here, even if they’re few.”
“However few they may be, drugs and violence are present. How does that affect the residents of Rocinha?”
“In a way, violence ends up being under control because punishments for crimes, in general, are very strict, since drug traffickers are interested in maintaining peace within the community. Drugs are bad everywhere, and here is no different, but it doesn’t reach the level to be considered an epidemic.”
I take one last sip of my caipirinha, refreshing with its blend of sour and sweet flavors, thanks to the lime and sugar that mix perfectly with the cachaça. Now only ice remains. I glance at Henrique, and we both get up simultaneously to go look for the rest of the group. In the distance, I see my friends with their jaws dropping at the dance moves of Pablo and his friends. It seems like they had a choreography prepared because they dance samba in sync with every step, accompanied by the rhythms of funk carioca coming from the bar.
Favelas are a breeding ground for creativity, whether it’s capoeira like what Pablo and Enrique do, samba, movies, or graffiti, and especially funky music. It’s where most MCs or DJs are born, producing their songs and adding voices, sounds, and rhythms that could make even the dead dance. Many have been able to save their lives thanks to music, like MC Kevin or Chris, MC Kevinho, MC Teuzin, or even girls who are true international stars like Ludmilla, who came from the city of Duque de Caixas in the state of Rio de Janeiro, governed by the former drug trafficker Fernandinho Beira-Mar, also known as “The Emperor of Rio de Janeiro” for being the leader of the Red Command. Another clear example is singer Anita, who managed to leave the favela of Honório Gurgel in Rio de Janeiro because she began singing in the church of Santa Luzia, and little by little, fighting for her dreams, she is now the best-known Brazilian artist worldwide. Funk carioca is much more than music. It’s an identity lifestyle of the favela, a form of communication as protest, and a means of empowerment to represent an entire community that goes unnoticed in the eyes of those in power. Pablo and Henrique are proud to be favela boys who earn their living in a lawful and honest manner. They are a clear example that with attitude, effort, and above all, education, one can succeed, and that those who give up quickly end up on the side of drugs and violence.
We enter the dark and damp alleyways between Rua Dionéia and Estrada Da Gávea, my sense of direction completely lost among the streets going up and down, but Pablo guides us to the party following the strident music reverberating between the bare bricks of the houses. Before entering the Moscow party, everyone warns us that it’s forbidden to take out our phones to take photos or videos. If we do and run into trouble, they won’t be able to help us. I think back to the last time Pablo said that phrase and what we saw afterward. I can’t hide my nervousness and fear; I feel my skin crawling behind my neck and arms.
In the communities, there’s a palpable sense of unity and brotherhood among the people who live there. The common feeling of making it through no matter what unites the entire favela population under the same goal. There are internal rules that no one has written or spoken about, but that everyone knows. The drug lords have control over everything—who comes and goes, what is said and left unsaid, or which parts are shown to tourists to convey the best part of this story. Even Pablo or Henrique have to be careful at these parties, not only because of the rain of bullets that usually happens after 5 in the morning when the party has exceeded the limit of exuberance, but also because a wrong look at a girl they consider “theirs” or just talking to her can cause conflict. Guys at a favela party have less function than a mobile phone in water. Looking, smiling, or talking to the wrong girl can bring serious problems if she turns out to be a “narco girl.”
A circus tent covers the large square in the middle of the alleys of Rocinha where the party is held. We enter and look to the right, I suppose that’s the boss of the Comando Vermelho. He’s seated and surrounded by thugs with machine guns and bulletproof vests. We enter with our lifelines, Pablo and Henrique, and he nods okay for us to enter, but I can’t stop looking at his AK-47. The entire square is surrounded by speakers that would deafen even the rats hiding among the garbage in the favela; the “tuk tak ta turu tak” of the funk takes over the entire crowd of girls who move legs, hips, and butts unconsciously. Guys in a favela have no other function than to flaunt their guns and machine guns like peacocks. Some even dress up more, with vests and bullet belts hanging from their shoulders. The gun in a favela is a sign of respect and power, but the rule also says that whoever is armed at a party cannot consume alcohol or drugs. All this scene around me, worthy of a movie, makes me start to doubt Henrique’s words; that the difficult way out is not narcotrafficking begins to unravel. Half of the party shows off weapons in support of the Comando Vermelho, and there are armed guards in every corner of the streets leading to or from the party. The big fish are scared.
The enormous gold chains of the two guards in the bathroom blind me; I try to dodge the crowd of people lining up to go to the bathroom, which is simply a hole in the ground with a bucket. We are the center of attention at the party, white and stick-thin girls, without those stunning curves or outfits and glitter worthy of Carnival, and it’s only October. There’s tension on the dance floor because guys armed keep passing by constantly. Their scanner-like glances watch over everyone in that square dancing, person by person, but they especially watch us, who are the easy targets and the ones who are least welcome at this party. I’m in shock at seeing this whole scene organized by the drug lords of Rocinha; I even see children aged between 10 and 14 walking barefoot at this party and carrying a machine gun. I take out my phone with fear of being called out, but I just want to know what time it is. It’s 4 in the morning; this is no place for a child, let alone having a gun in hand.
I guess this is the other side of life in a favela, and the situation of Pablo or Henrique is a privilege that few must have in Rocinha. They earn 150 reais (30 euros) per person from the tours they organize for curious tourists who want to visit a favela. Henrique has higher education in mathematics and can work as a primary school teacher, and Pablo speaks four languages (Portuguese, Spanish, English, and French). Additionally, they are coordinators of a children’s foundation and participate in capoeira events. The favela is a place to let imagination flow and create art, whether in musical form or sport. Before setting foot in Rocinha, I thought it was suicide to visit a favela as a tourist, but the truth is that it’s a very safe place where outsiders are taken care of to ensure nothing happens to them, thus fostering this business that helps so many young people have a dignified job. I think Pablo and Henrique are exceptions to the rule because, although there are local businesses, education aids, or opportunities in the tourism sector, the power lies with the Comando Vermelho, and many, even if they are not directly involved in the drug trade, are their accomplices, protectors, and henchmen. Guns and drugs are part of daily life in Rocinha, and although it’s not easy to enter the business, the fact that young people see large amounts of money and ostentation in the form of gold and diamond jewelry may be more appealing than a math book.
In this bipolar favela, you can see small children with machine guns as well as guys who have managed to get ahead through effort. Luxurious buildings with architecture that defies the laws of gravity, and houses piled on top of each other with stolen electricity and garbage everywhere. Brazil is a country of contrasts. Poverty merges with luxury and money thanks to football, which brings together people from all social strata; it’s a moment when all inequalities are erased and everyone is equated equally. The Maracanã stadium makes all the inhabitants of Rio equal for a moment; in the end, everyone, with more or fewer opportunities, ends up shouting ‘goal’ with the Flamengo jersey.
The curiosity to enter a dangerous or forbidden place is what attracts many Europeans and Americans to visit a favela. The intention and purpose of visiting a place like this are marked by each individual, but it’s essential to consider that favela tours are of great economic help so that people can eat and cover all kinds of basic needs to live. Each person decides if their visit to Rocinha should be a “romanticization” of poverty or a cultural immersion to learn from them. Being a tourist who acts as if a favela were a zoo or being a traveler who wants to soak up its essence is a decision that is up to each one, and this doesn’t require effort or studies.