Photos of a Police Operation in Rocinha

There was a pretty intense invasion of the favela by the police a few weeks ago, just before I arrived. They tell me that's why it's been so quiet at night and I've been able to sleep. See? There's always a bright side.

Here's the pictures from a newspaper story about it:

http://oglobo.globo.com/rio/fotogaleria/2008/6060/

Image 6 is Rua do Valao, where the institute I volunteer with is located, Image 9 is my street, Image 12 is pretty much the most ironic image ever, and Image 13 is where I buy my groceries.

Places

There are some places you go that occupy in your mind a role normally reserved for people. They excite you, they listen, they care about you, they speak. You miss them when you're away, and you suspect that somehow they miss you too.

It's impossible to pin down what gives such places their character. It's not just the people, the sounds, the setting sun over a perfect horizon. And yet, it is all those things. Again, like people, there isn't one single thing that makes them what they are. Their mystery and therefore their beauty are rooted in their indivisibility. Despite their precariousness, they possess an enduring and exquisite wholeness.

I think that when you find such a place, it is because you see yourself in it, or at least you see what you would like to be, or what you fear to be. Maybe you see your inconsistencies, your eccentricities, your logic, or lack of it. That's how you know instantly when you've found one: in a way, you've been there all along. Such places feel like they were made with you in mind, like they've been waiting for you, like they have a mission for you.

You never know what to expect in this city. You see the worst and best of humanity, each trying to forget the other exists, and they both wake up every morning surprised, even shocked, that they are both part of the very same human. They struggle and they fight from sunrise to sundown, and end each night in an uneasy truce, after each realizes that it cannot destroy the other without destroying itself.

There is something deeply wrong about this city. It doesn't respect what important people in important places have decided life should be like. But there is also something deeply right. As if irony, although maybe not at the core of what it means to be human, is not that far off. As if secretly we crave chaos, thrive on disorder. As if contradictions and absurdities are what we really enjoy in the end, as much as we deny it.

What's remarkable about Rio is that it doesn't judge. It doesn't tell you how to live. It knows life doesn't fit neat categories, and so it doesn't try to make you fit them either. It mixes joy and pain, desperation and hope, depravity and sacrifice. It gets everything that is usually hidden beneath layers and layers of conventions and inhibitions and spills it out into the streets.

What you do from that point on is up to you. Run and hide? Take it like a man? Roll up the windows and crank the A/C? Those are all fine, just remember: when no one judges you, you have to judge yourself. It's always been true but only now do I realize: it is only me that has to live with my decisions. Who am I deciding to be?

Campeonato

We spent the afternoon today at the Quadra de Futebol (soccer court) Cachopa, which is just a couple minute walk from the i2i building. Myself and a few other volunteers watched a soccer tournament of boys and girls who participate in a non-profit next door called Estudio do Tio Lino (Uncle Lino's Studio). There they are provided the materials to express themselves through art, with Tio Lino's encouragement and support.

The court itself is an irregularly shaped space at the intersection of three narrow alleyways, a busy crossroads of people and vehicles buzzing with energy, movement, and, at least on this day, excitement. The steps on either side of the court were filled with kids of all ages like bleachers, while an apparently impromptu band led the pre-game festivities with a deep oil-drum bass and high paint-can snare. The doorways and windows filled slowly with spectators, while the golden champion's cup to be awarded before the day's end kept silent watch from a table on the sidelines.

The tournament started with some pushing and shoving - the normal tussle which always leads after a while to the formation of teams. The court was cleared, the whistle blown, and the tournament was underway. Pairs of boys and girls fought it out goal by goal, foul by foul, with Tio Lino himself serving as referee.

But if you think this game was in any way your typical suburban soccer match, you're dead wrong.

At one point one of the many spectators crowded around the goal (a decorated, overturned wooden box) discreetly assisted one of the goals with an outstretched leg, leading to protests from the opposing team. This boy received a red card for his troubles, despite his insistence that it was, in fact, someone else that had committed the act.

A few minutes later, a group of boys stumbled out of the alley into the middle of the court, unwittingly interrupting gameplay and earning themselves a kind of group red card in the process. Tio Lino wielded that card mercilessly, and the heartbroken expression of those players that received it was a testament to just how powerful it was.

More than once, a motorcycle came barreling through the court, with no more warning than a short honk and the engine's rumble. It was Tio Lino's rather astute custom to whistle and direct the motorcycle to the opposite end of the court, maintaining at least a little the illusion that he was in control of the intersection-turned-sports arena.

Other intruders required a little more work. A man dragging a 20 foot bundle of rebar required a couple players to lift and rotate his cargo around the sharp corners on all sides of the quadra, while a small yappy dog who began to nip at the heels of the players and bark at the ref's sharp whistle needed to be chased from the court, after receiving his red card of course.

Some of the fouls did actually occur within gameplay, as players pushed, elbowed, kneed, shoved, and kicked each other off the road to victory. These players, however, usually received yellow cards, since at least their transgressions occurred within the rules of the game itself.

In the end, no one was spared: even the band received a red card when they insisted on celebrating not only every goal, but every foul, out, shot, and attempt with deafening blows on their various makeshift instruments.

The tournament was concluded with Ayo, a British volunteer with i2i, presenting the champion's cup to the winning team, a pair of 10 year-olds who ran off into the distance to chants of "Ele e campeao, ele e campeao..." "He is the champion."

Two get the cup but, in the end, it feels like everyone wins.