For the first time since my return to Brazil I write anything about it.
There’s a reason for that: my journey into Rocinha, the biggest favela in Brazil, where alleged 200.000 people live. I always wanted to walk inside a favela, but never had the chance. There are three main reasons for which middle class brazilian people go there: you are a journalist OR you are doing a volunteer work OR you are going to a baile funk (funk parties). In my case, it was a mix of them all. In fact, I was invited by an American girl who had an American friend living with her American boyfriend in Rocinha, where they research and volunteer in a primary school for the extremely poor kids of the place.
It was Sunday and they were giving sort of a lunch party, so they invited quite a few people. Their place was on the top of the mountain, which meant we had to hike all the way up. We start walking. After 5 minutes, our guide tell us that we should keep our heads down because just ahead where the drug dealers with their guns, like you see in movies and TV programs such as Ross Kemp’s. Tension gets high and we make up some conversation not to look too worried or even suspicious (never know the dealers’ mood when it rains). Yes, it was raining. And this made the hiking all the worse and the smell of dirty even stronger. I was definitely outside my bubble. The hiking is through narrow ways, to the point you have to stop if someone is coming down and vice-versa. Just a few locals actually say something to us, either as a joke or a flirt, the majority of them looking like they’re used to the foreigners’ presence in their mountain. As we pass, two teens whistle from their window to the very ginger Irish guy in the group, and a man walk passing risks a “Hi” (in English) to one of the girls. After thirty awkward minutes, we get to the house. There, a few people waited for us as they prepared the lunch. Introductions. Greetings. Smiles. Questions. A few seconds later I realized that, even though there were three more Brazilians among the fifteen gringos, I was the only one who didn’t live in that favela.
I went to the terrace to stay alone and appreciate the view, and couldn’t help but find pleasantly strange to be in a party with foreigners who spoke Portuguese and did something for that community. No doubt about it: there, the foreigner was me.
.
.
.
There’s a reason for that: my journey into Rocinha, the biggest favela in Brazil, where alleged 200.000 people live. I always wanted to walk inside a favela, but never had the chance. There are three main reasons for which middle class brazilian people go there: you are a journalist OR you are doing a volunteer work OR you are going to a baile funk (funk parties). In my case, it was a mix of them all. In fact, I was invited by an American girl who had an American friend living with her American boyfriend in Rocinha, where they research and volunteer in a primary school for the extremely poor kids of the place.
It was Sunday and they were giving sort of a lunch party, so they invited quite a few people. Their place was on the top of the mountain, which meant we had to hike all the way up. We start walking. After 5 minutes, our guide tell us that we should keep our heads down because just ahead where the drug dealers with their guns, like you see in movies and TV programs such as Ross Kemp’s. Tension gets high and we make up some conversation not to look too worried or even suspicious (never know the dealers’ mood when it rains). Yes, it was raining. And this made the hiking all the worse and the smell of dirty even stronger. I was definitely outside my bubble. The hiking is through narrow ways, to the point you have to stop if someone is coming down and vice-versa. Just a few locals actually say something to us, either as a joke or a flirt, the majority of them looking like they’re used to the foreigners’ presence in their mountain. As we pass, two teens whistle from their window to the very ginger Irish guy in the group, and a man walk passing risks a “Hi” (in English) to one of the girls. After thirty awkward minutes, we get to the house. There, a few people waited for us as they prepared the lunch. Introductions. Greetings. Smiles. Questions. A few seconds later I realized that, even though there were three more Brazilians among the fifteen gringos, I was the only one who didn’t live in that favela.
I went to the terrace to stay alone and appreciate the view, and couldn’t help but find pleasantly strange to be in a party with foreigners who spoke Portuguese and did something for that community. No doubt about it: there, the foreigner was me.
.
.
.
