We Never Stop at a Red Light Here

by Josefine Lunau (Denmark)

A leap into the unknown Brazil

Favela. Law of the jungle. Where it’s every man for himself. A place where authority’s rules don’t apply. A place where it’s less risky to run a red light than to stop. A place where people like us aren’t welcome. And yet I found myself here. A long way from civilized Copenhagen, walking through the streets of Natal. It might seem pretty harmless at first sight. White-sand beaches crowded with people. But this was nothing like Copacabana in Rio. My boyfriend had invited me to Brazil to meet his family. The first person I met was his uncle Marcel. This particular day Marcel wanted to show me his reality. He decided to take me for a ride through the favela. Marcel is in his mid-thirties and has been working as a policeman in Brazil for the last ten years. The police station sits on the edge of the most dangerous favela in Natal. For Marcel, hope is an illusion. Watching how Natal has evolved into one of the top ten most dangerous cities in the world has left its mark on him. “Tia” he calls me, handing over his daughter into my already squished lap in the backseat of the car. The expectation is that I will take good care of her. Luana is a six-month-old girl with the most stunning curls that encircle her innocent brown eyes, unaware of the reality she is growing up in. Marcel and I make momentary contact in the rearview mirror. I can see it in his eyes. Many years in the field as a policeman in Brazil has made its impressions. The ebbs and flows of his duty have correlated with the escalation of gang violence. He has seen too much. His world is no longer the same. A deep furrowed line protrudes from the middle of his eyebrows down to his nose. A physical representation of his heavy alcohol consumption and all the worries of what today may bring. Marcel shuts the car doors, locks the car from the inside and takes his arm over the safety belt, so he is fully mobile. Then he lays the gun in his lap. The smell in the car is overpowering and I can't define whether it's the windshield washer fluid or the can with Cachaca rum that he just opened. As we snake through the narrow roads of the favela, locals gather around, curious to see the uninvited guests. A black Land Rover with tinted windows was probably not the best decision, too eye-catching for a place like this. We have to keep moving. Stopping here would be too much of a risk of hijacking. I’m focusing on Luana curled up on the seat next to me whose naive look is easy to get distracted by. The grey mass of houses surrounding the road are colored by the metamorphosis of the late afternoon sky, blood orange to a striking red. It's easy to see who’s in charge here. The gang’s tags are everywhere, emphasizing that people like us aren’t welcome. “Gangues,” he says, as he points out a group of tattooed men standing in front of the local supermarket, describing how life in Brazil has changed since the gang conflicts started to increase. A year ago, one of his colleagues got called home from work. The neighbor alarmed the police, fearing the noises coming from the apartment. When he came home, his family was already rushed to the hospital. They were victims of a gang seeking revenge. Marcel takes a sip of the Cachaca, as the line between his brows is getting deeper. He looks back at his daughter with the fear in his eyes that his job might cause the same damage to his own family someday. The sun has now set behind the favela. “Vamos,” he says, accelerating to beat the red light out of the favela. We never stop at a red light here.