Dimitri South America

By Louis

Last week I walked down to the cafe to get a caffeinated drink. It was 7am on New Years Days; I hadn’t slept. This was when I met Paolo again.

Paolo calls himself ‘O Rato’. We were first introduced at a favela funk rave that morning. He grew up in Babilônia. Thirteen years ago he moved to Miami. At the time he was 25.

Paolo offered to help me order. The cafe did not have any Red Bull left. We left instead with Brazilian beers. My offer to sit and watch the sunset received a counter: “You must see the favela Louis”.

Paolo introduced me to Tomajeit and Havteem. These boys are lookouts for the local gang. Dimitri made prior mention that the Glock they carry is worth more than their yearly wage.

Tomajeit was reluctant to look at me. His pistol never left his lap. Havteem stared deep into my eyes. He gripped my hand like some sort of ladder to prosperity.

Paolo pulled me out of earshot. “You have to see both sides of the favela.” We walked away. We walked to Babilônia.

“Have you ever fired a gun before?”
“Only a .22 rifle.” I replied.

The lookouts at the first checkpoint raised their eyes. “Paolo. You’re not meant to bring Americans.

Weed, cocaine, what do you want?” We were close to the stash.

Paolo reassured him. “He’s my friend. He doesn’t have a camera.”

Pedro smiled and looked away from his giant M16.

And there it was, around the corner and up a small flight of stairs. The heart of darkness. A seething mass of local women, dancing. Some I had seen at the party earlier. Many men with M16s stood guard.

“Let him hold the gun Leandro.”

My trigger discipline was immaculate, if I may say so. Paolo took four photos. Leandro told me to put my left hand on the barrel. It didn’t get scolded, despite the heat of the day. He said something into his Bluetooth headset. He extended the stock into the pit of my shoulder.

A can was produced and I lined up the sights. The dancers didn’t even stop when I fired the gun. My shoulder hurt a little but it was otherwise unremarkable.

Gabriel is the lookout outside our hostel. On NYE Paolo also introduced me to him.

“Can you get me a hamburger?” he asked me on Thursday. When I returned it was clear he wasn’t just preoccupied: he wanted me to pay for the damn thing. The next day I fetched some water for him. He also wanted my final slices of bread. Yesterday another resident called Mass replaced me as waterboy. “Gabriel,

my food is on Copacabana” I explained to him today.

Paolo hasn’t been seen for a week. We think he went back to his work in Miami. One day I will get those photos. He knew many members of both local gangs. It surprised me. This was because I thought he had been working in Miami for 13 years. Maybe he knew them from work.

Happy holidays to Janet, Joseph, Jen, Karen and everyone in Wanaka.Leia mais