Rio de Janeiro is a city made for cinema. First shot of Copacabana, second of the Pao de Açucar. A third of Christ Redeemer, arms outstretched in a forgiving motion. For efficiency, why not combine the last two? For the confident, slip a shot of Rocinha to show some consciousness that Cobacabana is not a general representation of Rio (make it a drone shot, no need to get into details). Rio has a face predestined for the catwalks, a body designed for the small surfaces of postcards.
I do not claim any of what follows is fact, it is a mix of personal observation and patchwork of numerous conversations. It paints my view of one facet of Rio’s famous, photogenic, dreamlike streets.
Favelas appeared progressively during the past century, starting in the early 1900s. Rio was then a large city with precarious infrastructure, narrow roads and packed neighborhoods. The rustic sanitary system made its crammed streets a paradise for various sicknesses and small mammals. The president decided something was to be done, Brazil’s capital deserved better, a makeover, a re-styling to fit society’s expectations. For inspiration, he turned to Paris, a faraway city that had restructured its center to fit the needs of a modern world. Apparently, you can relocate the poor, build avenues and squares where they had built their homes. You can cut through neighborhoods in straight lines, because that is what it means to transition in the twentieth century. So began the exodus within the city itself: thousands of domestic immigrants forced to relocate in the outskirts. Thousands more rejoined the city from the countryside with the promise of a better life.
The favelas were ripe to spawn, a logical consequence of wanting to drive through the center in modern cars. Shanties appeared. Entire self-built neighborhoods were born where the government has very little influence. A Paris of the tropics, they said.
My pousada is in a favela. Favela Pereira da Silva. There is no government supervision here, no minimal salary, no social aide, no restrictions either. People are encouraged to express themselves freely, without the support or pressure from the state. Some do so with art and social projects, others express their greed and attraction to violence. Most discussions portray favelas nurturing both.
Street art in Pereira puts the Rio MOMA to shame. Music plays in every corner, loud enough to cover the laughter of ever-present bands of young men or boys. They know the setting is unsettling and greet me long before I pass them with a reassuring “todo bem?” to signal it is safe. Gunshots used to be a common tune in these streets a few years ago, now I am assured it is a rare thing: Pereira has opened to tourism, it has an image to maintain. The local law, ratified, endorsed and applied by the local boss is respected, by fear of what disobedience entails. I am told multiple times that I am safer within this neighborhood than in the streets, even in the drug addict and five-star hotel infested center of town.
Some other favelas, though, range far down the spectrum that transitions from art towards violence. Within a very clear border, a golden prison, absolute immunity are words with meaning for some. Police patrols the outskirts but rarely adventures inside. It is a fascinating world, a reality living amidst the post-card front of Brazil’s second historical capital. It is one in which it is hard to know what is normal and what is alarming; a setting that illustrates what people can get used to. There is a general trivialization of violence I do not want to take part in. Weapons of war are weapons of crime here.
An image describes my impression of a favela perfectly. I am walking back from a trail up a small mountain to get a view of the center of town. I meet a few tourists; it is a common route. The trail starts in a favela, one that neither has a bad reputation, nor is known to be thriving with artists. The trail leads out of the jungles straight in a schoolyard. I go from opaque nature to bare concrete within seconds. Speakers are playing Funk, children are playing football, both at a deafening volume. Walls are covered in rainbow graffiti; a police car is lazily driving by. I nod toward the dozen young men sitting on the side of the concrete football field. They nod in return, continue laughing loudly, flirting with the young women facing them and commenting the children’s game. They must be at most twenty years old, relaxed, enjoying the afternoon sun with cold beer.
Nobody acknowledges that every one of them has an automatic machine gun lazily laying across their knees.
Far and high on his hill, Christ Redeemer observe it all. I cannot decide if he is necessary or out of touch.
