The land of contrasts

by Anna Papaioannou (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Brazil

The sun stands mercilessly over the gray buildings, the humidity mixed with an exhaust odor makes me sick. I ascend the stairs. Narrow streets, with women on the left and right chitchatting loudly. They hang their white sheets along the narrow streets, bringing to my nose an unexpected redolence of freshness, as if they do not belong to the filthiness of Rocinha. I laugh noiselessly and bring to mind moments of carelessness with friends back home. I am asking myself “if I were a youngster living in Rocinha, would I ever have these experiences?”. Here, it feels that time flows faster, and chasteness falls away rapidly, rushing people to live on the edge, always following the cruel norms of Rocinha. I am lost in my thoughts, but a sonorous blast makes me snap back to reality. The sound comes from the opposite side of the skid row, where there is a white church, the first one of Rocinha. Locals call it the St Mary’s Church for Journeys. Luana, an elderly lady, standing in the Fifth Street, has already narrated me the story of Rocinha. Indeed, the roads of the favela have no name; nothing seems to be defined here anywise, even laws have no place here. Luana's words come to my mind: “Rocinha is my home, but every moment is a struggle with the unexpected, the violence, the wilderness”. Out of the blue, five boys are hightailing, passing next to me. They look around 18 years old, but a younger boy stands among them. I puzzle over his age; he may not be older than 12. I pull off at the pathway. I start eavesdropping on their conversations and spectating their actions, trying to be as unnoticed as possible. One of the boys is tall, brawny and sun-kissed, wearing a sleeveless black blouse, shorts and flip-flops. He looks scruffy and dirty. He gives instructions to the other boys. After two minutes, three of the boys scurry in different directions and dissipate behind the houses. The tall boy now stands with the youngest boy of the gang. They seem to disagree, and the tall boy is scolding, shaking his hands jerkily. Doing an abrupt movement, he pulls out a knife from his pants. The other boy, steps back, nods obediently and vanishes away. I can’t stop shaking. I peek in boy's direction when I realize that he is gone. Suddenly, a man opens the door behind me. He has a long beard and tattoos all over his body. “What are you doing here?” he asks me. “I got lost; I am trying to find my way back to the bus stop” I reply. "It's not a safe place for tourists here; you'd better leave soon," he responds and slopes away. I stay still for a few minutes. I eventually decide to carry on. I am reaching to an open space, located at the highest point of the slope; you could name it the “square” of the favela. The view makes me stop and gaze. The sea peacefully extends beneath the favela, as if it is marking the beginning of a new world. I lose myself in thoughts when a timeworn poster on my left catches my eye. White background, bold blue letters that form the words “Bed and Breakfast” and a picture of a newlywed couple, smiling and holding two glasses of champagne in their hands. “Who would ever choose to visit this place, being a newlywed couple?” I wonder. However, I soon realize how much the Westerners love to observe the “bizarre” people, who unreasonably deviated from the reality of the western world. I contemplate the affluent neighborhoods of São Conrado west of Rocinha, packed with shopping malls and golf courses for the well-endowed; and then at the east, the neighborhood of Gávea, with the bohemian atmosphere and the feeling of intellectuality in every corner. “And Rocinha?” -I am thinking- “trapped and doomed in the middle of two worlds”. I need to find my way back; it is already dusk. Questions are turning over my mind, but I know I won’t find the answers. In the land of contrasts -Brazil- answers cannot always be found.