The Sad Truth. . .Favelas in Salvador de Bahia

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The Sad Truth. . .Favelas in Salvador de Bahia

So, today was a gray and wet day . . . which on the beach means there isn't much to do. Bobby, my Brazilian boyfriend-at the time, wanted to go to a favela called Susuranna, to pick up his nephew and show him the beach. His nephew had never been to the beach before. For those who don't know, a favela is an area where people have built houses on government land to combat homelessness. The rule is that if the person resides in their home for five years they can claim it as their own. Favelas pop up all over the mountainside, and many of these homes are built in a day. Built brick by brick, the mortar hastily applied, the windows glass-less, they seem a quick refuge from a thunderstorm, but for most this is where they live and die.

Inside, it is rarely more than one room, but some have built a concrete wall separating the space. The floors are usually concrete as well, but some are even dry earth, or covered with linoleum, its corners curled. I have visited homes of some of the children in the programs, and the furniture is sparse, but the rooms are clean and well swept. Even Bobby's house, which is in a favela in Barra (the neighborhood I am staying in), is clean and sparkling with a comfy sofa and a few plastic chairs for guests.

So, Bobby and I take the bus to Susuranna and it's raining the whole time. I am willing it to stop as I am wearing a thin t-shirt and long skirt and don't want to catch a cold. Bobby's in a tank and jeans, but he was smart enough to bring his jacket. We arrive 40 minutes later and the rain is pouring. I seriously didn't want to leave the bus, but take it back home and curl up in bed but I've come this far and Bobby really wanted to introduce me to his family, so I reluctantly leave the dry shelter of the bus. Bobby gave me his jacket (chivalry isn't dead), but we still waited under the bus stop shelter until the rain let up a bit.

It eased just a little and we began a brisk walk toward the favelas. Soon we hear his name being shouted from across the street, and we look and there's a very light compexioned "Latina" looking woman of about 30-odd years smiling in the doorway. My sister,” Bobby says, and we go to say hello. She was having drinks with a few friends. Two young boys walk by and Bobby shouts to one. "My nephew,” he explains, although clearly not the son of the sister sitting with us. After they finished their drinks, we walked up ahead together, and entered the favelas.

We ascend concrete steps, and uphill paths in a labyrinth of stone and mud. The rain is really coming down, but everyone seems cheerful, so I try to shed my miserableness, blow the water off the tip of my nose, and continue walking. After going uphill a bit, we encounter steps, going down, which we take and stop at the first door. This door is made of just a wooden slab. The small window to the right is covered by a t-shirt. Bobby knocks, and we are told to enter. It's the house of his brother. His brother, just 32 years old, was playing soccer with friends one day when he just collapsed and suffered what I can only describe as a stroke. (Remember, I'm translating from Portuguese) It happened six months ago, and now he is paralyzed on his right side and cannot speak. What's worse, he has four beautiful children, and is now out of work. Bobby bought him some shoes, because he didn't have any.

The children, three girls and a boy, were so adorable They were completely intrigued by me, and sat in the corner whispering and talking about me, taking turns looking at me, and giggling. The girls were ages 10, 9, and eight, while the little boy, was six. I soon find out that he was whispering to his sisters that he thought I was pretty. He had a toothless grin, having lost his incisors, and long pretty eyelashes. He had a huge red spot on his eye from scratching his cornea or breaking a few capillaries, but beautiful nonetheless. The girls, resembled their mother, with curly hair, and tall, lithe bodies, and girlish giggles as they asked me everything from why I wore a head wrap, to did my tongue ring hurt, to teaching them a few words in English. Everyone had learned to count to five before it was time for me to leave. I gave everyone a kiss, and followed Bobby out the door.

"I thought we were taking Zoy with us," I ask Bobby, remembering the name he told me before we left Barra.
"That's Zoy, too, but there's another Zoy, son of my other brother," he replies.
"How many brothers and sisters do you have?," I ask incredulously. I only know of his mom's three boys, all which live with her in Barra. I did know that Bobby has a different dad than the other two, although ironically enough, he is the middle child. I assume his mom and dad's affair to have been very brief.
"I have nine brothers and sisters here," he says. Nine!!

We walk with Bobby’s sister to another house which I assume is her own. She gives me a towel to dry off as I am pretty drenched by now. I then meet two other sisters, none of which even slightly resemble one another, and am also shown a photo of two brothers, one of which was killed by gang violence. Everyone was sitting on the covered veranda and one of Bobby's sisters, who is a massive 250 lbs., was getting her hair braided in waist length extensions. Her laugh was a loud cackle, and broke through the dreary day, creating an amiable atmosphere. After passing some time there, we finally head toward his other brother’s house to fetch Zoy.

We had to walk down more stairs, and through mud trenches where my Havaiana-clad feet sank 3 inches with each step. I was cold and wanted to take a hot shower and relax, but I chided myself for acting so snobbish, as this is a daily reality for so many people. As if reading my mind, Bobby turns and says, "This is a favela; you're looking at the reality of Brazil,” as we pass another muddy trench full of garbage. The water had practically flooded this part and there was a brown river flowing through with several beautiful tropical birds flying about. We approach a makeshift shack, literally just a few wooden slats overlapping each other under a tin roof, and surrounded by debris. Bobby says, "Stay here,” as the walk across the muddy embankment was slippery and dangerous. I see a few heads pop up over the wooden slats, and a few smiles greet me. My eyes are half shut from the blowing rain, and my smile resembles a cringe, but they say hello and tell me to come in. Where is the door? I had been looking around and had not seen which way bobby entered. The wall facing me certainly had no opening besides where the wall did not meet the roof, and the kids were peeking at me through that. "Bobby, where's the door?," I shout. "Over there,” was his reply, which made me wanna hit him with a rock. "Over Where?" , I ask, gripping what’s left of my patience. He finally comes from around the corner and says, "Here,” and I follow him inside.

Oh my God. If I thought the other conditions were bad, I wasn't prepared for this. The front room was just bare earth and a little carpet which was soaked from the rain. The walls were pieces of old, splintered wood, one timbered slab overlapping the next. It was dark, dreary, and depressing. The eldest girl, Leticia, offered me a chair, it's woven seat, unwoven to the point of looking like a birthing chair. I thanked her for her kind hospitality and perched precariously on the edge. Bobby called me from the other room, and I followed him through a thin sheet, separating one room from the next.

This room had a loveseat sofa, with the foam almost completely exposed, and the springs and wood frames poking the children in their rears. There were five kids in total, ages ranging from 6-12, 4 of them perched in front of a 5" B/W portable TV, its screen barely visible through the static. But what else is there to do on a rainy day here? The kids were nice, Leticia was full of personality and beautiful smiles, and little Amanda was more shy but curious about me. The three boys 11, 10, and seven were really laid back, but as soon as they found out Zoy, the youngest(7) was coming with us to stay on the beach, they started to cry. I felt really bad, but I didn’t have enough money to take everyone back on the bus. Besides, Bobby only mentioned taking Zoy with us, so I followed his lead. The girls were laid-back, but the boys took it hard and tears streamed down caramel faces as their mom dug through a pile of clothes in a drawer-less bureau, searching for ones that would fit her youngest son.

Soon it was time to go. Bobby was already outdoors with Zoy, and his mom showed me photos of her kids before she got the bed, which the whole family shared, including Bobby's brother. They'd just received the bed, but it was obviously left behind as trash, as all it was exposed foam, picked through and dingy, and barely covered with a sheet. The photos showed her, along with her five children, all sleeping on the floor. In this room, she was able to find a piece of linoleum to cover the ground, and the difference was remarkable. She was asking me if I knew how to write, because unfortunately, like many other Brazilians, she couldn't. She wanted to tell the story of her conditions to send to a program in Sao Paulo which could assist her in furniture and food for her brood. Just on the other side of the "river", there were brand-new houses built, and Bobby said the government is finally doing something about the millions of people who live in these conditions and are building houses for them. But no one is inhabiting them yet, so it's kinda difficult to see houses right across the way, while your family sleeps on the floor. I told her I couldn't write Portugese well enough but I would look up the right words to explain the condition. I asked Bobby at the station and he said he would do it when we took Zoy back home.

One day later . . .

Its still gray, although the rain has stopped. Zoy is still with us and Bobby loves doting on him. He's had ice cream, chicken burgers, and last night we went to a restaurant. He also didn't own any flip flops so I got him a pair with a Spiderman design and he was ecstatic. He also asked me for my cropped camouflage jacket, which matches Bobby's T-shirt, so they look like brothers walking down the street. Well, brothers in America. Here, they look like father and son.

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Comments

[Deena]

Wow every time Bobby's family members change!

[Twohues]

Bobby?
WoW, you know Bobby, too?