Leaving Rocinha

by Matthew Norman (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Brazil

The steel plunged into my cheek, pressing against the hollow of my wryly open mouth. My heart made a hasty voyage to join it. The driver, my friend Gabriel, tried to reason with the assailant, but I questioned whether we would get out alive. Rocinha, Rio de Janeiro’s and Latin America’s largest favela, often referred to as a 'city within a city’, is a prime location to enjoy one of Brazil’s lesser known musical offerings, baile funk, a favela street party characterised by the fusion of Miami bass and gangster rap. I had arranged to go with a friend to experience an evening of raucous dancing and caipirinha guzzling. We arrived at around 9pm, leaving the car a safe distance from the party. The ground vibrated beneath us as we walked towards the blistering ball of energy, strobe lights scanned the night’s sky in circular waves, illuminating the enormous crowd that throbbed to the backdrop of a dirty beat. The DJ paced the stage, belting sonorous tones into the mic, he was enveloped by a wall of bass that thundered from the towers of speakers either side of him. Funk is the pulsating blood in the veins of Rio, it plugs its listeners into a shared system of resistance. Young people from all around the state are brought together by dance at the bailes, forging connections through physical synchronicity, and the lyrics of funk rap are often a commentary on the social injustice of the current day, which solidifies the bond between all who attend. Baile funk is a protest from poverty, race, indignation and unavailable opportunity, it is the voice of the voiceless in Rio de Janeiro. At 1am, we, the crowd, were joined by several men with machine guns slung over their backs. I was aware this happened at bailes, but I turned to Gabriel “we’re safe here aren’t we?”, “yes we’re fine, but we should get going anyway” he replied. I ducked into the passenger's seat of the car, ignoring my seat belt. Gabriel twisted the motor into action, and we rolled down the dimly lit street in front of us. Being a foreigner in the largest favela in Latin America, I had sustained a modest level of nerves throughout the evening, and even now that we were making our way down the hillside, I still felt a lingering fear in my stomach. We drove along the narrow, cracked roads, flanked by rogue telephone wires and pastel-hued flats piled two or three high and coated in graffiti. We turned a corner, and ahead there stood three young boys on the roadside. Gabriel continued to roll down the street towards them, there was no room to turn back. One boy was smoking, and all of them had machine guns strapped to their shoulders. “Keep calm” said Gabriel as we neared the group, trying desperately to slither past while drawing the least attention. The smoking boy put out his cigarette, stepped in front of the car and raised his hand. My body froze in a paroxysm of fear, the second boy walked round to my side of the car, and the third to Gabriel’s. The boy in front signalled for us to wind our windows down. “Do it” said Gabriel, winding his window down in exasperation. The boy on my side tapped my window with the tip of his gun. I reached for the handle, and slowly wound the window down. A frantic sputtering of Portuguese flew out of Gabriel’s mouth as the boy at my window, black-eyed and scrawny, lifted his gun to my face. “Dinheiro” he said, staring intensely at me. “They want money, just give them what you have”, I reached into my pocket, grabbed the only cash I had left and as the gunboy lowered his weapon, I handed him the note. “Vai” said the slightly older boy stood in front, waving his hand in a dismissive motion. With an internal sigh of relief, we drove away. These were the actions of people who have been voiceless for too long. A forgotten underclass in an overpopulated fringe of mainstream society, lacking basic provisions and a good quality of life. How could I blame them?