Favela Tour
It may sound odd, but one of the things to do when visiting Rio de Janeiro is to take a tour of the favelas (slums). I mean, who ever heard of visiting LA and taking a tour of East LA and Watts? But while it doesn’t depict the normally glamorous picture most would have of Rio, it definitely illustrates the most realistic. And I must admit, it was the most interesting and eye-opening part of my trip.
We scheduled a tour of the favela on a cloudy Friday morning. The tour began after a scary and windy ride on a motorbike up the mountainside, as we got dropped off just outside the entrance to the favela. At one time, people could drive down the road that leads into the favela, but now it is only big enough for pedestrians. And it doesn’t help that people keep building farther and farther into the road. At one point, our tour guide, Marcio, stopped to show us a house that jutted out into the road about five feet.
“Two weeks ago, this wasn’t here,” Marcio said, putting his hand on the wall of what is now a kitchen.
Our tour begins as we are told not to take photographs of the men guarding the entrance of the favela with machine guns. Our guide says that no one will try to steal from us or hurt us, but because of the drug rings, photos should not be taken when we see men with machine guns. I become a little nervous, as I have my camera out with no bag for it and fear that they may mistakenly think I am secretly taking photos.
Keeping guard with machine guns is the lowest-level position a person could have in the drug rings. When the police come, they set off smoke signals as a warning to the drug dealers, and may even start shooting at the police. Even at this low position, a boy could make as much as R$400 per month, a high salary compared to the average Carioca (native of Rio de Janeiro) salary of R$250 per month.
As we walk into the favela, it becomes quickly apparent that it is a complex web of houses and stores. Steps lead both above and below the pathway we are following – I wonder how anyone knows their address or how to locate someone. Or even how they manage to get the mail.
“If the kids ask you for money, don’t give it to them,” says Marcio. He’s trying to teach the children not to beg for money, but to sell something instead. Two young boys are selling small wooden picture frames for one Real (the equivalent of about 27 cents) each. But before letting anyone in our tour group purchase a frame, Marcio asks the boys why they aren’t in school. They respond that they are going in the afternoon and Marcio chooses to believe them, explaining, “See, it is better for them to sell something, but they make one or two Reais for it and they don’t go to school, and that is not good. But they say they are going in the afternoon, so it is okay for you to buy.”
The Rocinha favela is the biggest favela in Rio de Janeiro. Favela, which is a shanty town, derives its names from the favel tree. Using the wood from the favel tree, the poor would illegally build shelters, which grew into towns known as favelas. Rocinha stretches above the hills that border Rio and into the Tijuca National Park. It is now too large for the government to eliminate and it is estimated that as many as one in four Cariocas lives in a favela.
We continue on the footpath and Marcio notes the electrical wires running above our heads. “Some people pay for electricity, but much of it is stolen,” he says. He later shows us a meter reading “00001.” It is quite clear that this meter will never change. I am also beginning to think that the possibility of being electrocuted in Brazil is rather high.
There are several stops along our tour, including an art studio, a music stop, a bakery, and even a day care center run by an NGO. We also stop several times to speak with the locals, and everyone is incredibly friendly and excited to see us. I am constantly amazed at the happiness the community exudes although they live in such abject poverty.
Upon our descent through the favela, there is an uncovered sewage system running beside the footpath. At many points, I am walking along a wet pathway, afraid of slipping, and with the increasing sentiment that I am walking on human excrement. Around me, children run barefoot up and down the path.
“This is a big source of disease in the favela,” Marcio remarks about the sewage system. Many kids play just inches away from the waste. The kids seem to be everywhere, full of energy and curiosity. They shout, “Photo! Photo!” and love when they can see their pictures instantly on a digital camera. They seem to be completely unaware that their life shouldn’t have to be lived in these types of conditions. One of them asks our guide about the Japanese couple in the back. I have to laugh about being assumed to be Japanese wherever I travel. It seems that the stereotype of the Japanese tourist is as well-traveled as the Japanese tourist itself.
And just like that, we’re told not to take any photos as we approach a man with a machine guy flanked by two young boys. Afterwards, one of our group members asks Marcio if he knows the man with the machine gun.
“No,” says Marcio. “That was the first time I have seen him.” He then goes on to explain that he thinks the man with the machine gun had an argument with a young girl in a pink tank top who rushed by as we approached, clutching her cheek. “He probably hit her, and then he turned to me and asked if we were going to take photos.” After telling the man no, the young boys, who Marcio knows, confirmed that we would not take any photos and told the man to relax.
Then we walked back to our van, past the road where the drug deals occur, and back to the luxurious side of Rio. And above all this, on what could be the most beautiful property in the world on the hill overlooking Rio de Janeiro, life in the favela continues to be a mixture of happiness and struggle.
We scheduled a tour of the favela on a cloudy Friday morning. The tour began after a scary and windy ride on a motorbike up the mountainside, as we got dropped off just outside the entrance to the favela. At one time, people could drive down the road that leads into the favela, but now it is only big enough for pedestrians. And it doesn’t help that people keep building farther and farther into the road. At one point, our tour guide, Marcio, stopped to show us a house that jutted out into the road about five feet.
“Two weeks ago, this wasn’t here,” Marcio said, putting his hand on the wall of what is now a kitchen.
Our tour begins as we are told not to take photographs of the men guarding the entrance of the favela with machine guns. Our guide says that no one will try to steal from us or hurt us, but because of the drug rings, photos should not be taken when we see men with machine guns. I become a little nervous, as I have my camera out with no bag for it and fear that they may mistakenly think I am secretly taking photos.
Keeping guard with machine guns is the lowest-level position a person could have in the drug rings. When the police come, they set off smoke signals as a warning to the drug dealers, and may even start shooting at the police. Even at this low position, a boy could make as much as R$400 per month, a high salary compared to the average Carioca (native of Rio de Janeiro) salary of R$250 per month.
As we walk into the favela, it becomes quickly apparent that it is a complex web of houses and stores. Steps lead both above and below the pathway we are following – I wonder how anyone knows their address or how to locate someone. Or even how they manage to get the mail.
“If the kids ask you for money, don’t give it to them,” says Marcio. He’s trying to teach the children not to beg for money, but to sell something instead. Two young boys are selling small wooden picture frames for one Real (the equivalent of about 27 cents) each. But before letting anyone in our tour group purchase a frame, Marcio asks the boys why they aren’t in school. They respond that they are going in the afternoon and Marcio chooses to believe them, explaining, “See, it is better for them to sell something, but they make one or two Reais for it and they don’t go to school, and that is not good. But they say they are going in the afternoon, so it is okay for you to buy.”
The Rocinha favela is the biggest favela in Rio de Janeiro. Favela, which is a shanty town, derives its names from the favel tree. Using the wood from the favel tree, the poor would illegally build shelters, which grew into towns known as favelas. Rocinha stretches above the hills that border Rio and into the Tijuca National Park. It is now too large for the government to eliminate and it is estimated that as many as one in four Cariocas lives in a favela.
We continue on the footpath and Marcio notes the electrical wires running above our heads. “Some people pay for electricity, but much of it is stolen,” he says. He later shows us a meter reading “00001.” It is quite clear that this meter will never change. I am also beginning to think that the possibility of being electrocuted in Brazil is rather high.
There are several stops along our tour, including an art studio, a music stop, a bakery, and even a day care center run by an NGO. We also stop several times to speak with the locals, and everyone is incredibly friendly and excited to see us. I am constantly amazed at the happiness the community exudes although they live in such abject poverty.
Upon our descent through the favela, there is an uncovered sewage system running beside the footpath. At many points, I am walking along a wet pathway, afraid of slipping, and with the increasing sentiment that I am walking on human excrement. Around me, children run barefoot up and down the path.
“This is a big source of disease in the favela,” Marcio remarks about the sewage system. Many kids play just inches away from the waste. The kids seem to be everywhere, full of energy and curiosity. They shout, “Photo! Photo!” and love when they can see their pictures instantly on a digital camera. They seem to be completely unaware that their life shouldn’t have to be lived in these types of conditions. One of them asks our guide about the Japanese couple in the back. I have to laugh about being assumed to be Japanese wherever I travel. It seems that the stereotype of the Japanese tourist is as well-traveled as the Japanese tourist itself.
And just like that, we’re told not to take any photos as we approach a man with a machine guy flanked by two young boys. Afterwards, one of our group members asks Marcio if he knows the man with the machine gun.
“No,” says Marcio. “That was the first time I have seen him.” He then goes on to explain that he thinks the man with the machine gun had an argument with a young girl in a pink tank top who rushed by as we approached, clutching her cheek. “He probably hit her, and then he turned to me and asked if we were going to take photos.” After telling the man no, the young boys, who Marcio knows, confirmed that we would not take any photos and told the man to relax.
Then we walked back to our van, past the road where the drug deals occur, and back to the luxurious side of Rio. And above all this, on what could be the most beautiful property in the world on the hill overlooking Rio de Janeiro, life in the favela continues to be a mixture of happiness and struggle.
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