Holy crap.
It began when a girl invited us to a street party at a favela. She was an American college student studying Latin American music and was invited by one of her connections, one who lives in a favela. Let’s call him Christopher. And let’s call her Laila, because, well that’s her real name.
Even though we knew well what favelas were, we decided to attend for the sake of doing as the locals do. I comforted myself by noticing that many local hotels were advertising similar favela funk parties…so how dangerous could they be if entire groups of tourists were attending?
Apparently there was a slight difference. Some favelas are “pacified”, meaning that there is a strong police and military presence enforcing peace and the law — some have even made the news very recently. The vast majority (there are >600 favelas in Rio) are unpacified, and thus keeping the peace is left unto to the favelas themselves. The hotel-organized parties were at the few pacified favelas. The one we’d be going to, however, was not. I comforted myself by believing that it’d be unlikely for anyone to harass two American tourists. I also deemed Christopher as somehwat trustworthy if Laila trusted him, and Laila herself she was American, and a student at a semi-reputable American college no less.
That night at 10pm we met Laila, who took us to meet Christopher and another guy. Christopher was British and living and working here as a photojournalist, and the other was a local who lives in a nearby favela. The commute involed a subway ride to the end of the line, a long trek through what appeared to be an uninhabited neighborhood, and the eventual arrival at the outskirts of the favela. Then Christopher delivered terrible news when he said photos were strictly forbidden.
Streets slowly transformed into small, dark alleyways, which then became narrower and narrower. The buildings were small units the size of sheds, each two stories high and with no room between it and the neighboring unit. Streetlights disappeared and were replaced by random strings of blinking Christmas lights (probably there all year), over bar-covered windows. And every telephone pole contained masses of tangled wires knotted together and running across the alley, just 10 feet above our heads. Every minute a young kid whizzed by on a motorbike, and very few people were walking around. It seemed like the “projects” back home, but everything was smashed much closer together.
We finally reached the entrance to our destination. A large wall blocked the rest of the alley, except it didn’t fully reach the other side thus creating a door-sized passage to what lay beyond. At this entrance were two young guys: a friendly-looking grinning one was standing and the other was sitting and holding a large, clear plastic bag filled with money. Christopher handed a wad of cash to him and the standing guy invited us in. As I went in to shake his hand I noticed he was wearing a backpack…and a large machine gun. I took my hand back, soiled my pants just a little, and kept walking.
As an unpacified favela, police don’t even bother intruding. Not only are there not enough officers, but the alleys are too narrow for the police cars and too maze-like for non-residents to navigate. Thus there are designated people in the favela who carry the guns and maintain security. At this point we were notified of a few ground rules:
1) Do not fight. Girls who do get their hair and eyebrows chopped off on the spot; guys get beaten with wooden sticks until the sticks break.
2) If you want to hit on a girl, first ask if she has a boyfriend. (And if she says no, make damn sure she’s not lying, because if she is you’ll soon see a red laser dot swirling around your chest.)
Newly educated, we walked in. The other side of the wall turned out to be a massive wall of speakers. Because it was only midnight and the party hadn’t yet started, we walked down the street to look around. Along the way I saw at least a dozen kids all with big guns resting on their back. Christopher identified the one we saw earlier as an AK-47. As the night went on, we’d see uzis, M16s, bazookas, and one called a FAL. I’d never heard of it so he told me a little about it. (Double checking things on Wikipedia this morning, it turns out he was right, down to the size of its shell (7.6mm)) Also, there was an occasional sniper on the roof. All the gun-toters looked very young and seemed way too happy to have a big gun.
Meanwhile Christopher, although responsibly looking out for us, was checking his phone every 15 minutes and then wandering off for a few minutes. We didn’t know what he was doing until we caught him in an alley handing over a small baggie of some drug in exchange for some cash…to someone who looked no older than 14. He made a lot of deals that night. The San Diegan in me hoped it was meth; unfortunately it was only marijuana.
Hours passed and the street packed with young people, the wall of speakers started to blast Brazilian funk that that blew painful sound waves through your clothes and ear drums (far louder than any bar/club I’ve ever been to), more young kids were buying drugs, and of course more grinning people walked by with guns bigger than they were.
Christopher luckily stayed close by us the whole time, which is what kept the locals from harassing us. Had he stepped away for awhile, the situation would have become grim. This was City of God meets Training Day meet Hostel. Why did I watch that movie before I left?
Despite all this craziness though, I actually felt very safe the entire night. At least for these six hours everyone in the favela was very well behaved, no fights broke out, and the gun obsessed didn’t abuse any of their powers. (Well except for the very end. As we were marching out, a group of machine gun-strapping motorbikers drove by us and one of their guns was shoved inches from Wilkie’s face. Also on the way out, one laughing idiot with a drink in one hand and a shiny silver weapon in the other spun around in a goofy fit and his AK-47 practically entered my nose. First, in our country drinking and gunning is frowned upon. Second, please get your fucking machine gun out of my face!)
We left safely and without any new holes in our body. Looking back, this was an eye-opening and enlighting experience for me and everyone. I’d never seen this many guns loose on the streets before, and the best part was that no organized tour could have provided such a raw look into true favela life.
I’m now looking forward to the next time someone points a gun to my face so I can finally say “Sorry, this isn’t the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at my face.”
