A Walk Home

Hastily written as I fall to sleep…

It’s around nine o’clock. I exit the barred entryway of the internet café. I spent the last few minutes scanning photo’s of my time in Europe last summer. My head still sways with the green pastures of Switzerland, with the cows, and chocolate, the family and friends and stunning beauty of the place. My exit into the street is a time warp, a transport into chaos and all of the frenzy that surrounds Campo Grande square.

I start my thirty minute track home. My legs are tired from repeatedly climbing the favela hill. I have resolved to avoid busses to save a bit of money, and my feet are starting to feel it. I walk and my sandals clap. I pass coconut water vendors, meat sizzling on little makeshift grills. The rich our out walking their pure breed dogs. Street kids wearing shirts emblazoned with “security” scream at passing cars, trying desperately to direct people to park in an effort earn a little bit of change.

I walk fast and hurry towards Largo Victoria. In the span of 30 minutes, I have been asked for money four times, including one favela acquaintance who pleads for me to give him some water. As I near the square, I see about 20 people standing next to a city bus that is stopped dead in the middle of the street. There is a police car parked nearby that is flashing its lights. Suddenly, as I near the square, one of the young kids from the favela grabs my arm. He tells me in an excited voice to follow him, that he wants me to get closer to what appears to be an accident. I ask him what happened, and he tells me that the bus hit a motorcyclist, that he went under. He points to his leg and says “Nao existe mais”, it doesn’t exist anymore. I tell him that I drive a motorcycle and don’t want to see what happened. This is the 6th accident involving a motorcycle that I have seen in the last 8 months, including a string of incidents where drivers were decapitated by fallen clothes lines.

As I quicken my step towards Vila, a ball welling up in my throat, I pass the church at the top of the hill. As I go by, I catch a glimpse of a beautiful bride dressed in white entering into the church. It is a beautiful sight, and I give thanks to this country for the reminding me that there is life, there is death, and they do exist.

I descend the hill in the dark. Kids line the concrete steps, chatting about the accident and how they won’t sleep tonight. I enter the entryway towards my house, a tight alley submerged between the hastily constructed brick buildings. Halfway through, I am surprised to find a number of the Vila men propped under a small light working on a house. I quickly launch into the story about the accident, hoping to avoid the harsh looks that the Vila men often give me (hi, I’m a friendly social gringo). Alex, a pseudo-Rastafarian and long term resident whose father founded the neighborhood, welcomes me to the circle. When I arrived here a few weeks back, I knew Alex was my “in”. He had a good energy about him, and I could tell that he was highly respected in the Vila. He tells me in a booming voice that I am his brother, that no one will mess with me here, and that we are village neighbors. The men eye me cautiously, and I can tell that his words have had an effect.

I awkwardly sign off with a “boa noite”, making my way down the tight corridor and finally arrive at home. I situate myself down stairs, open my bedroom windows, and relax to the sound of the waves. I can’t help but think…Brazil…here you are. What more lessons do you have to offer me?