Favelas and Ecstasy

It was Thursday night, the beginning of another weekend for me (as I don't work on Fridays!) We started off drinking whiskey and coke in Samba Villa. I - unlike my self-promise - had entered into a discussion on the military occupation of Palestine with an Israeli. Ashton is 21 and fresh out of the army. I was fairly tipsy by this point and was being particularly contemptuous. We didn't really progress very deep into discussion and the topic ended after I remarked 'the difference between you and me is: I hate the disgusting by the atrocities committed by the foreign military interventions of my government, where's you deny them,' he seemed shocked that I could denounce my own government, obviously having been trained in his conscripted military service to be 100% patriotic. 'You can think for yourself, you know?' I said with an authoritative tone. I think this hit a spot and he didn't reply, he just faintly nodded. Once we got off this subject, we actually got on really well and discussed music and his passed occupation of bar manager. He had some great ideas for what we should do with our new venture. His taste in music was slightly different to mine, him being into hard techno or 'psy-trance' as it's known. I asked if he liked Drum & Bass and although he hadn't heard much of it he said he did. I told him I knew a good club where he could experience proper DnB. So we agreed to head to Botafogo to a club called Casa de Martiz, for - as far as I know - Rio's only Drum & Bass night. We discussed getting some little ones for the night's festivities and then got on to the debate of who should go to the favela to score them. Joe said it was about time I went alone as I'd never done so before 'I think it's about time ya gat ya stripes, Nik' He challenged in his Boston accent. 'Fuck it, I'll go,' I agreed. I had to go home to change anyway and it was kind of on the way.

Off I skipped, to the neighbouring town of Gloria home of Favela Santa Amaru. I had been there a couple of times previously but only with other people and never actually up to the boca - 'boca' being Portuguese for 'mouth.' The boca is where the actual trafficking takes place. I'm not certain how it got this name but my theory is the mouth being the way in which the favela communicates with the outside world: drugs.

The streets along the way were full of old men selling brikabrak on the side of the pavement, I wondered how these people earned any money from this; the goods were old, seemingly useless and some even broken. When I finally got there, I noticed a police station sitting across the road from the entrance. 'Great,' I murmured. Surprisingly, I felt no fear. Maybe it was the alcohol supressing my nerves, or maybe because I have become so familiar with favelas over the past few months and now believe myself to have a good understanding of how they work.

Santa Amaru is, like all favelas, is on a big hill. Ironically, they say that if global warming continues at its current rate, the slums' residents will be the only inhabits left in southern Brazil.

The entrance was met with a huge flight of stairs and I mean huge. I began my assent. I could see a couple of guys in white shirts walking up ahead of me which gave me second thoughts, 'white shirt in favelas?' It didn't seem right. I stopped and a teenage boy came dashing down the stairs passed me, he said something as he was passing, which I didn't understand. I remember thinking 'is he warning me of trouble ahead?' Another guy passed me climbing up and I decided this meant it was obviously safe, sort of. I followed him up and soon we were deep inside the favela. Suddenly numerous voices coming from the pitch black darkness which lay ahead, started shouting at us 'levante sua camisa' 'levante sua camisa' meaning lift up your shirt. We did so and continued again, more shouting began, this time 'vire!' 'vire!' 'vire!' I momentarily didn't understand what they meant until one of them, visible by this point and holding a handgun pointed straight at me, started indicating that I turn around. I did so. 'phew' I thought and shouted back 'ta bom?' He replied 'passe' and as I passed he turned to me and asked 'Sâo louco broda?' 'Nâo, eu gringo, amigo!' I replied and he turned to his mate as if to say 'oh now I get it' They then ushered me on and as I walked past I heard faint laughter behind me. I continued up the hundreds of dark stairs that lay ahead and passed another guard sitting at the foot of another flight, he sat on a stool playing with his gun, which I remember glancing down at as I walked by. He can't have older than sixteen. Finally, I reached a bar and asked one of the staff 'onde fica é a boca?' The man didn't say a word, just walked passed me and led me through the alleyways ahead. I was finally there: the boca. About 6 guys each heavily armed including one carrying an AK-47 were surrounding a table. On the table sat a fuck off bag of money and numerous bags of drugs. 'Você tem, Ecstacy?' I asked in my best Carioca accent. 'Tem. Quantos?' He replied. 'Quato custo, para uma?' I aksed. 'Vinte' (20) I then asked how much for 10 and he replied 200. I was in no position to bargain so replied 'bem' and handed over the cash. He carefully counted out ten pills each wrapped in pink plastic and advised me to wrap them up. I thanked the trafficantes and was soon on my way. Bloody nice blokes, I thought.

When I was nearing the bottom, I took a 2 Real note and wrapped all ten pills as tight as possible. If I was caught by the police with these, I would have to pay dearly, 'perish the thought,' I thought. I took the package and placed it firmly in between my bum cheeks: the safest place possible. The walk home was aided by adrenaline. That was certainly an experience to remember. It was like being in a scene from City of God. I laughed to myself, for surviving it.

The truth is: the boca is a protected and highly secure business, it's function is not to kill people; these kids aren't murderers, most of them are just guys with no hope or future, who need money to feed themselves and their families. Most of them have no legal documents and thus no chance of getting a job. The favela provides an income and their work is surviving the police and/or rival gang invasions. Most of the trafficantes are dead by the time they reach their mid-twenties. Once in never out.

When I got back, Joe was excited to see me and firmly shook my hand to congratulate my experience. I distributed the goods adding an extra 5 Reals on each for my troubles, and we had another drink before heading to the club.

Me, Shelley, Joãn, Ashton and Ashton's Israeli friend flagged a sherbet to the Casa de Martiz club and were entertained along the way by the cabby's insane driving; screeching round corners and running red lights. I requested some funke to be played and the cabby seemed very much to like this idea. I love it. It is so fucking gully. One popular tune that is played everywhere at the moment includes the lyrics that roughly translated mean 'pull that girl close, pull her, pull her, pull her, rub her, fuck her, fuck' and 'prosti, prosti, prosti - tute, prosti, prosti, prosti - tute' When we arrived, we jumped out and the cabby wheel span off. Joãn negotiated our entry price down to 12 Reals from 16 and managed to gain free entry for himself. I think he blagged that he brought us all on a tour from the hostel. Ashton and I had already dropped ours and were coming up in the queue. They were strong. We were soon inside brocking out to some heavy DnB. I don't think Ashton was very familiar with these rushes as whenever I saw him, he would tell me he was falling in love with me and give me a big wet smacker! He also told me how amazing and special I was and that he believed I would be rich, famous and very happy in life. Joãn had never done ecstasy before and was off his face; he was absolutely loving it but looked slightly disturbing. Zack soon turned up at the club and I handed him a couple of jubes. Shelley had been abstaining but eventually got on it too. We were all soon smashed and danced night away. After the club closed we all went back to Samba Villa to meet Joe and continue the debauchery, this time in the form of sniffed up poker. The party continued till about 4pm the following day when I finally went home to bed. Or at least that was the plan. There was no hope of sleeping, I was wired to the moon. Shelley came to see me and we both lay in my bed unable to wind down. Eventually after getting up and walking around, sitting down, laying down and then repeating the process countless times, we agreed to go for a walk. We ended up back at Samba Villa where we found Zack in a similar state. Zack and I had been invited to a party by Anna, a beautiful translation student who works on reception in Samba Villa. We accepted the invitation. The party would be in Petropolis in a mansion on a mountain. Anna told me it would be cold (by Brazilian standards, probably British summer temperatures) and advised me to go home and put some trousers on. I did and returned shortly. Although, by this time, I was completely shattered having not slept for about 30 hours! I decided not to go and sat down chatting to Elvis and Anna for about an hour. Elvis is bloody mad but very likable. I think he and I shocked Anna with our completely random and insane rhetoric, which, from what I remember included he and I describing a past of growing up together in a forest where we were reared by wolves and eventually earnt our fortune through hunting reindeer for their precious antlers, which we ground down to make an aphrodisiac paste we then sold to China for vast quantities of cash. Surprisingly, after all this nonsense she agreed to meet me for a drink and to get to know each other after work the following Monday. She is fucking hot.

It was about 8pm and I left to go and reattempt sleep, this time successfully until 3am when I went out again in search of food; something I had forgotten to do all of Friday - oops.