As I lie in bed the first sound I hear is the low hum of the air conditioning (a luxury I didn't expect to find in a favela but am very grateful for considering the 32degree heat today). Beyond that I hear the incessant dog barks and, tonight, the wails and clapping of the local churchgoers. The intermittent buzz of a phone receiving a message indicates the presence of wifi (another unanticipated luxury) as the sound of a fellow volunteers snores gradually fills the room.
A few hours ago the thumping bass of Brazilian funk music reverberated between the makeshift brick walls of the favela houses as I sunbathed on the roof of our beautiful, sticks-out-like-a-sore thumb house and watched the tiny little kites flutter above me (a now retired signalling system for the drug dealers who run the favela). Last night the sound of gunshots and fireworks, the new and less weather dependent signs that a meeting with the drug lord is taking place or that the police are coming, pierced the air that was otherwise filled with babies cries.. This is a place where man and beast, tourist, drug dealer and child live in a strange harmony. Funnily enough, despite the obvious criminal activity, as a tourist you are far safer here, where you are protected from the dealers guns by their aim to keep a low profile, than in Rio itself where tourists are targets for street muggings. Nevertheless, the contrast between the innocent little girl I was helping down the uneven steps from the playground and the gangster with a machine gun walking, impatiently, behind us was a stark and disconcerting one. The contrasts continue as brightly coloured walls of graffiti (decorated by a British guy and his enterprising art project) of words like 'esperanca' (hope) and 'paz' (peace) and the faces of Nelson Mandela and Muhammad Ali frustratingly juxtapose with the haphazard alleyway cement floors complete with potholes, dog dirt, a tangle of pipes and wires and the occasional tidal wave of waste water (Dad, your plumbing expertise are what's needed here).
The layout of the 75,000 inhabitant favela on a steep hillside and its aforementioned alleys make for a 'feel the burn' sensation like no other whilst lugging your backpack, supermarket shopping or daycare donations up the good 200 steps. Wafts of raw sewage, rotting garbage, garlic and weed alternate as you descend into the main town centre awash with bakeries, bars, beauty salons and even a gym. The abundance of street food stalls makes for a delicious snack to fuel your inevitable ascent, my favourites being churros (you know the long donuts filled with chocolate) and acai sorvete (a sorbet made from acai berries). The food at the daycare has also been worth the climb with big helpings of meat and veg served up for lunch with the staple rice and black beans. A few more oranges wouldn't have gone a miss considering the projectile snot emmisions from the majority of the daycare's children and the horrid cold that all the volunteers have developed accordingly. Their big brown eyes and cheeky personalities have just about let them off the hook for infecting me though. As much as I enjoy their company and the opportunity to immerse myself in Portuguese (and learn my colours, numbers and various silly songs) the volunteer project itself is annoyingly inefficient and unorganised with little schedule or direction of what we should be doing and no real interest in using the skills we could offer to enhance the childrens' experience. Only by chance did I get to teach an English lesson when the resident English teacher was away. For once I felt useful for my knowledge of teaching and my native language rather than for my ability to put on shoes, clean teeth and wipe bottoms.
In between daycare hours there has been plenty of siesta time to enjoy other things the favela had to offer; the breathtaking hike up Dois Irmaos (a double peaked mountain above with a stunning view of Rio) and the must-do Rio activity of hang gliding. Ofcourse I felt the need to run off a mountain and get a birds eye view of the favela I've called home for the last 2 weeks and get as close as I could to flying like a bird, coming in to land on the local football pitch otherwise known as the beach. Besides drugs the favelas of Brazil's biggest export is professional football players, with a rumoured 900 players a year emerging from favelas - a figure I can believe judging by the lively football pitches of Rocinha, day or night.
One final sound of the favela to mention is the imaginary 'Big Brother' Geordie voice over in my head as I compare sharing a 4 bed dorm with 6 girls - 2 of whom did not get along - with the reality TV show. . 'Day 4 in the Big Favela house - some of the girls are in the cramped bedroom struggling to find their clothes, the others are on the roof terrace having a heated debate about drugs.'
Despite the difficult living conditions and frustrations with my role at the daycare I have thoroughly enjoyed my time in the favela, being part of a poor, corrupt but on the whole happy community and meeting some inspirational locals and foreigners alike, working to improve the favela in whatever way they can.
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