Crackland Is My New Home

On Sunday night, three independent socialist movements occupied the old Santos Dumont hotel in downtown Sao Paulo. The MSTRC (Movimento dos Sem0-Teto da Região Central de São Paulo), the MMRC (Movimento de Moradia da Região Centro) and the MSTC (Movimento Sem-Teto do Centro). The Folha de São Paulo, in their printed version, says nearly 450 families invaded the building while their online version says 400.

I went there Monday night, late. The general assembly had just started. There were barely 200 people there. Perhaps many were out working? It is often the case that the movements overblow the situation to attract media attention and it's more often the case the media don' t bother checking it out. The same situation has been going on in the Prestes Maia 911 for over four years now. Supposedly 468 families have been there since the begining. A tremendous lie fed by both the MSTC and the media. Two hundred and fifty families is more like it.

Anyhow, it was the usual mess. No lights, no water, garbage piles, a burnt out car, food distribution and the heavy speech laid on by the leaders. Fight for your rights to live in a dignified home! Man, the more I look at all this the more political it gets. The movements aren't fighting to get these people homes, they use them for their political means. During the first three years of the occupation in the Prestes Maia, over 80% of the movement living in the building was working for city hall.

This occupation lies smack in the middle of Cracolandia (Crackland) a drug and junkied infested neighborhood. Right across the building is the beautiful Luz train station, completely renovated to its old colonial glory. The city keep promising to renovate the downtown area, but the more buildings get occupied the harder it gets. The people take these buildings because they have somethig solid to hold onto in the downtown area. Something that in one way or another belongs to them, even if its temporary. They know their lives are temporary and could end any second.

Some one hundred crack heads tried to become part of the occupation. They were all refused entry. No drugs and no alcohol is the norm. I have to go back and check it all out again. It's a weird place. It reminds me of the Carandiru prison. It too has a central patio, surrounded by the former hotel rooms, now someone's apartment and home.

Three for three

I've barely slept and I slept on the concrete floor. Vagner, took me out to check out the local discoteque, Samba Rock was the order. We decided not to go in, next week would be Funky, a hotter thrust of hips. The crowd was huge and the line must have gone down at least a kilometer. You could buy your entrance for US$7.00 but that didn't guarantee you were going to get in. It's full of young males here, probably six for every girl and you can practically smell the testosterone in the air. The girls are all out in threes, at a minimal. Some can barely keep their clothes on. It's not even hot out but in Brazil like in most of the tropics, showing flesh is a natural thing. How come the boys are wearing hoods then?

I've spotted a young couple making out. He's completely stoned, his eyes glowing like glass. She's in another state and adoring every bit of his kisses. His hands never leave her. They're making out right in front of Luis, a friend of Vagner, selling corn on the cob. Since we're all enjoying the view, I asked him how come he's not going in. He told me, as he pointed to the corn, someone's got to bring the money home. Are you married? I asked. No, no, no! How about a girlfriend? Yeah, the most beautiful girl in the world, he replied. Since I was out trying to get some research on sexuality I naturally asked him if he had sex with her. Luis was 19. He said no. I said, how come? It's too complicated he told me. Finding a place to do it is really hard out here. My house is always full and her's is impossible. Apparently they've been dating for a year and have been planning it since. I asked him if he was a virgin and he told me very quickly, no and I've only done it once. So, how was it? Very fast. I then asked him if he was planning to use a condom with his girlfriend. He paused to reflect and then said, most likely not. Why? I asked. Man, if you saw her, you'd know. She's beautiful! Any baby coming out of her would be fantastic. I then had to ask, how are you going to raise the child if your finding it so hard to make a living selling corn, have no place of your own and your girl is only 18? Ahhh, that's what out mother's are for. Irresponsible or ignorant?

I woke the next morning at 7:30 am. Vagner had to go study for his college admissions. I went round the bend in search of breakfast. I bumped into Cimar, Ze Foguete, some friends and three girls they were trying to get out into the bushes for sex. They'd all been out all night and were highly enebriated and high on coke, probably weed too. They were partying, like everyone likes to do. Recreation out here is hard to find, sex is easy to get but with little privacy, much less any intimacy, booze is around 24/7 and cheap but cocaine or crack is the word. Brazil is the second largest consumer of cocaine in the world. The drug comes through Peru, Bolivia and Colombia before it heads out to the US and Europe. Yet the dealers here don't seem to make a lot of money off of it. Some other big fish is making the money. Here, unfortunately, the dealers sell it and destroy the lives of the neighborhood as amateurs.

The girls are out dancing, strutting their stuff and the boys are out to please. Marlene is in the car, just where the boys want her to be. She's camera shy, but in the end loves the attention. I don't know what to think of it all. I know them. They're wasted, they're young and they all want action. Is it any different than the boys and girls in the upper class neighborhoods? Visually here it just looks more decadent. Yet, they certainly look more alive than the usual crowd in the discos downtown.

Cimar and Ze wanted me to join them. They told me if I wanted some dirty sexy pictures then I should go along for the ride, there would be plenty of panties to shoot. The other friends have gone. It's one girl to each man. The car has only enough gas to go there but not to come back. We're less than a kilometer away. Ze insists I come along so they can do the other girls. I tell him I'm not really interested. He gets a little pissed and calls Marta over to convince me. She approaches me half off her wits, looks me straight in the eyes with a big smile and her hands on my chest. What's the matter, don't you like me? Man!.... Sorry girl, it's none of that, your fine! I lie. I've just got business to do now.

What a lame excuse.

The Preacher and his Wife

The evangelist church of the Assembleia de Deus (Assembly of God), like the Igreja Universal (Universal Church) is scattered through out the periphery slums of São Paulo, in small warehouse like units on almost every block. Some are well established, housing up to 300 people while other smaller satellites have only begun. Each block is a potential target area.

Right on the end of the "Duas Pistas", a long double sided avenue dividing the Jardim Pantanal from the Jardim Helena, lies the Assembly of God. It's also a reunion point Thursdays through Sundays for the the youth to gather, drink, flirt, dance and do drugs. I visited an Assembly of God church on Sunday, amidst the youth gathered outside. With me was Santa, sister of Donizete (the alcoholic I've been photographing) and daughter of Dona Fatima.

The decoration is minimal, but I couldn't help noticing how the altar was red with a white back drop and blue curtain on top. It looked more like a Republican gathering. I was going to photograph the preacher under his permission. Then a guest preacher showed up with his wife. He saw me with the camera and asked me if I took pictures? I said yes. Then he asked me if I was a photographer. Again I said yes. I was afraid he would ask me if I take pictures with the camera. He wanted as he said, "...just take five professional photos. It's for my new CD." Adalberto Junior and his wife, tour the eastern periphery of São Paulo promoting their CD's. His are speeches. Her's are songs for and of Jesus.

Adalberto was an odd character and his wife, to be honest, spooked me. His wife began singing to promote her new CD, US$6.50. Adalberto's speecher were US$5.00. People barely carry a dollar around here. In the meantime Pastor João was busy working the music board and playing guitar and bass for the day. Something like his day off.

Evangelism may not be my cup of tea and the preachers often scream too much and say little. It becomes like a brainwash often, repetitive nonesense. They're not all like that, but for the most part they are hard to follow. However, religion, and pentecoastal for most part in these areas provides food (rice and beans) and hope among the chaos. A great part of the people here suffer from durg abuse, alcoholism, domestic violence, loss and unemployment. The state is absent in all these social problems, but the evangelists are there every night of the week.

Adalbarto might not have made a lot of sense. And he tried childlishly to manipulate the little crowd into buying his CD. Amen!! he shouted, those who want my CD say amen!! No one. He then proceeded to bless pastor João and asked for another amen! Amen everyone shouted. He blessed then churh and asked for another amen!! Amen they all repeated. He then said say amen! if you want my CD or my wife's. The room was silent.

They're poor but they're not stupid Adalberto. I'm going to follow him on tour in exchange for his pictures. Could be quite a show.

Back to a Nowhere Home

Miriam used to live in the occupied Prestes Maia 911 in downtown Sao Paulo. Her youngest daughter, aged two, developed an allergy so severe to mold in the building it scaled her skin. The doctor told her she had to move out of wherever she was living. Miriam works as a social assitant for an NGO helping homeless people get off the street. This same NGO helped her buy a one room cinder block house on the periphery slum Jardim Pantanal. Was this a coincidence? I finally found a tie to the Prestes Maia occupation and to the expanding periphery settlements.

She bought the house for US$2,500. She has a paper entitling her to the house but the land on which it stands is owned by someone else, so it's ok until the owner claims the land. In other words someone built a cinder block house on illegal land and sold it. For Miriam to keep her job she has to get her children back into school. Downtown they all went to school. It's full of schools out in the Jardim Pantanal but there are three times as many children. After two months in the periphery she found school for her two eldest. She was thinking of taking the youngest with her downtown, drop her off at the kindergarden and then go to work. She starts work at 7 am. This means she would have to leave home at 430 am walk to the train for 30 min, take a 1 hour train, take the subway to the kindergarden and then go to work. Her social counselor prohibited her from leaving her home with her child at such early hours.

Miriam had been working for the NGO St. Lucia, where she had a contract offer for $US350 but upon entry they reduced it to less than $US250. Then they fired her and she received a new job offer before moving out to the periphery. She couldn't take it because of the prohibition by her social counselor. However Miriam is absolutely sure she can get a new job if she moves back to the downtown area. That will take months Her husband, who beats her frequently, stayed in the Prestes Maia because someone obviously had to put food on the table. So the family has a home now, has poor schooling for the children and the parents are seperated for better or worse.

Out here in the periphery her children have nothing to do but hang around the mean streets. Downtown they had a park one block away. Downtown there was infrastructure, restaurants, supermarkets, public transport, etc. Here there is nothing, her home doesn't even have a bathroom and she'e living in dangerous part of the slum. She now believes in the MSTC (Movimento Sem Teto do Centro), even if its corrupted. The MSTC is a socialist movement occupying abandoned buildings downtown, in an attempt to get people off the street or those who can't afford a rent. Miriam knows that no matter what she's not staying here. She's going back to the MSTC and to another occupied building. And she's going back to fight, because she's living proof as she says that when city hall evicts the over 250 families in the Prestes Maia and spreads them out in to the periphery the will have nothing, once again.

Quarter 79 Grave 500

Maria Jose Ferreira, also known as Zeze, is probably one of the fiercest and strongest woman I have met. She often acts like my mother too, calling me up to see if I've eaten properly. I met her on the sixth floor of the Prestes Maia 911 building in downtown Sao Paulo. The building has been occupied for over four years and Zeze along with her son Jose Heron Ferreira were among the original 468 families who took over the abandoned building. Heron managed to move out and find a decent place to live in October of 2006 but was murdered on December 22, two months later for suspected organ trafficking. His partner and daughter survive him.

Heron was a freelancer, selling pirated DVD's in the Bras neighborhood from 4 to 8 am. Bras is tumultuous market district full of stores and itinerant merchants. He worked the night shift because it was easier to dodge the authorities and the already protesting established store merchants. Hundreds of thousands of people from the periphery arrive into Bras every morning by bus, train and subway to supply the freelancers.














It had taken Heron months to land a space out there and when he did, it was larger than he needed. According to Zeze, he began sharing it with an older man, Jeremiah Melekias, who had nothing. Little by little this elderly man began demanding more space until he began claiming it was his and acutally tried to kick Heron out. Obviously frictions began to surface. Jeremiahs drank a lot and would often harass the women in the area. Heron didn't like his manner and finally confronted him on December 22. Two hours later, with his back to Jeremiah, Heron would turn around and be stabbed in the heart by Jeremiah. Blood flowed quickly and with the aid of his partner he was put into a cab and taken to the Tatuape public hospital. A military police officer chased after saved Jeremiah's life, as a crowd tried to lynch him. Zeze would not arrive at the hospital until 10 am, since Heron's partner had called in saying it wasn't critical. (Above: Zeze holds a picture of her son's murderer, Jeremiah, who was released within a couple hours of his arrest due to lack of evidence, even after two witnesses came forward.)

When Zeze arrived and demanded to see her son, she discovered he wasn't registered in the hospital. She panicked after finding Heron's partner who told her he was in intensive care. "Why? You said he was alright, what's going on, where is my son?!" She found him in the emergency ward, sitting up and holding the wall. When he saw her he tried to stand up and reach her, naturally she moved closer, but was abruptly stopped by a medic.

The doctor came to her and told her it was serious and that she should be prepared for the worst. A total of four doctors would try to convince her it was serious, but none explained to her what was going on. The doctors kept repeating
they could not operate until they knew what was going on. At 2:40 pm, almost 9 hours after his arrival, Heron was being taken on a stretcher into surgery. Zeze recalls the time because he passed right in front of her. At 5pm Zeze was told he was dead.

She could not believe it. Distressed she recalls exiting the hospital ward into the waiting room. Almost immediately four women approached her asking her to donate her son's organs. They consistently pressured her about how her son's vital organs could benefit and save lives. By law in Brazil, it is prohibited to donate organs from a violent death. Zeze told me she immediately knew something was wrong, she could smell it, but it was not until she had calmed down several days later that she began to put the dots together.

It took the hospital another four hours to hand over the body and when they did they refused to let her see it. In fact the only one to see the body in the casket was her other son and he only saw the head because the casket was already sealed.














Three months later Zeze legally exhumed the body. This would be the first time a judicial order in the state of Sao Paulo would be excecuted to investigate an allegation of organ trafficking. Zeze would carefully bring in her own forensic scientist from Brasilia, Eduardo Reis from the Federal Police. By law the delegate of the county must attend the exhumation and bring its own forensic scientist.

We arrived at the Vila Formosa I cemetery. The exhumation was programmed for 9 am. The cemetery had received no official announcement. The delegate and her forensic team arrived an hour later and was completely surprised to see that the mother's victim had brought her own forensic scientist. The delegate immediately announced that no pictures or video could be taken. Zeze of course had her own judicial orders allowing her to film and shoot. The NGO, Contra o Trafego de Orgaos, led by sister Enilda dos Santos, had helped her through months of bureaucracy to obtain these permissions.














I admit I know little of forensic science, but what I saw that morning was incredibly absurd. The official forensic scientist began un-burying the corpse before the morgue vehicle arrived. He pulled the body out of the ground with no care at all as you can see in the pictures where he's practically crushing the skull. The exhumation was an official criminal investigation and this official had barely put on a pair gloves and was using no medical instruments. He began manipulating the evidence before our very eyes with a very large cooking knife. He stabbed the eye sockets twisting and turning and then calling out to the delegate so she could see that the corneas had not been removed. I was flabbergasted, can you tell really see this on a three month old corpse? Incredibly enough the forensic from Brasilia, Reis, demanded they stop. He went off to collect his full body medical suit and offered one to the Sao Paulo forensic, which of course he refused. This wacko actually wanted to do the autopsy right beside the grave. He wanted to open the body with a pair of household scissors, remove the visceras and take them down to the lab. What??? I mean of all the crazy things I have seen this was unbelievable, someone was deliberately trying to destroy evidence.














Eventually under Reis' protest and the threat to report this abnormality, the delegate and her crew abandoned the scene leaving the corpse under a threatening thunderstorm. They excused themselves claiming they could not wait all day for the morgue to arrive. Shouldn't the morgue have been their with them? This of course was further proof that they were attempting to tamper with the corpse. Legally you can't leave a body out in the open, Tthe cemetery wanted to re bury the body which legally then would require another judicial order for exhumation. Burying the body would also damage it further.

Eventually we stood our ground, protected the body, buried it with plastic and flowers as we waited another two hours for the morgue to arrive. The body has been analyzed by both forensic scientists and we are now awaiting for their report. Reis was unable to provide any information until that report is released in case it contradicts what he saw. He did tell me to stick around, because there would be a big surprise.

Between Jesus and the Vice

It's 7:30 in the afternoon on a Saturday. I haven't been back here in seven months. I know this exactly because Marussia is not pregnant anymore and her baby is only two weeks old. She's 19. Tete's bar has also just closed yesterday after arguing over the rent with Edson. She's moved the bar into a darker part of the slum. It's good for her, there's a lot more alcoholics there, including the seven men there now, all drunk, including her husband. Tete has a thick moustache and she works hard. She worked and made more money as a hairdresser when she had her own beauty salon in the neighborhood. It's dark in this bar, cramped and humid. She left the salon business because like her husband she got lost in the booze.

I move on to Gel's house. He's got a new home and now runs a small theatre company in the back. The house used to be a party salon so he now uses the space for the theater and rents it out for parties too. A rave is about to begin in a couple hours, this time the drug of choice will be ecstasy, not the usual coke and grass. It's a private party, so Gel will lock the door later in the night. No one gets in no one gets out! A young cross eyed samba singer has showed up in a skimpy little outfit. Gel's prey for the night. I'm in a t-shirt, jeans and sandles and feeling comfortable. She's complaining how hot it is. She's begging for the fire to be put out.

The police in the last two months have been hitting hard, cracking down on the noise pollution they say. The neighborhood knows they're cracking down on them and the little fun they have in their lives. This is the periphery of one of the largest cities in the world. Two thirds of a near twenty million population lives on the margins of the city. They occupy it and they live here because when they got here 15 years ago there was nothing but the bush and the Tiete river. It was easy then now it's overcrowded and dangerous.

The Pesquero, slang for a pick up bar, used to lie on the back of neighborhood on the river's edge. The community knows it belongs to the PCC (Primeiro Comando Capital), but it's owners and members are retired. Some weeks ago a young girl turned the mafia boss, Sergio, into the police. The PCC went out on a manhunt to kill her. They killed her alright but she was the wrong girl. The police, under pressure of the newly elected right wing government, cracked down on them. They've know of their activity for some time but the police here have to look the other way sometimes if they want to survive too. The Pesquero was a drug trafficking joint and the best place to pick girls, drunk, stoned and high on expressing their sexuality. Most people told me they shut the place down because the original land owner wanted his land back. Why? Who could benefit from building anything out here?

It's late, past midnight, and I'm searching for Bola, a University of Sao Paulo, social worker student. He lives in the local public library run by a Marxist cultural group. I'll be spending the night there. Bola is hanging out with Wagner and others watching a DVD. I sit in and watch his 56 year old father under a 100W light bulb fixing wrist watches. Tomorrow he'll head downtown to a local street fair. Soon after the movie's over a small rat climbs out the window. Wagner's father starts to train the dog again to learn how to hunt it down.

The next morning I've gone looking for Dona Fia. I bumped into her 44 year old son Donizete. It's almost 11:30 am and he's drunk, can barely speak and much less walk. We head back to his house. One of his younger nieces, Vanessa, has returned to the neighborhood. She used to be part of the PCC until her partners in crime were killed in front of her. Seven days earlier to their death they had robbed a car at gunpoint in the exact same place. Four evangelists were inside. The driver handed over the car and told the assailant that he was handing him over to God. The next time they tried to rob a car, the police were waiting for them. Vanessa managed to get away and soon afterwards became an evangelist.

Her younger brother Eduardo was at the house too. The family lives in adjacent concrete blocks. One each for three sisters, a tiny hole in the wall for Donizete while Dona Fia lives up stairs in a dark brick room. Eduardo had a near fatal motorcycle accident two years ago. He's blind in one eye and partially crippled on one leg. He too was reborn into the Pentacostal faith soon after. Today he's at the house because he's left the temple and some of its followers in brand new Fiat have shown up to try to get him back in. Vanessa told me he's gone back to drug trafficking. The PCC now uses him as a transporter.

Vanessa and him at are odds over family troubles. They love each other but can't resolve their differences as she tries to steer him away from where she almost died. The room becomes an hallucinatory half bible half psychological therapy talk, where only Jesus can provide the answer to the devil's acts here present. The world is coming to an end they keep repeating. Earthquakes, wars, global warming are all signs that Jesus is coming back. Vanessa cries in frustration too because upon her return to the neighborhood, within an hour, her cell phone has been robbed and she has been accused of stealing someones credit card to purchase it. The same people she says have her cell phone.

Saint Mathew is being read by the evangelist couple. The couple describes how they too survived a near death experience where killers came to their house in search of the husband. Jesus of course made sure they were saved. Donizete sits in a corner yelling, "It's all lies". His mother Dona Fia threatens him with a sandal. It all ends in a circle of prayer for the family, for Eduardo, for Vanessa, for Donizete and for the photographer who has joined them on this gathering under the word of Jesus.

Vanessa heads around the corner to the local bar. She's drinking beer with her cousin as her nine month old child sucks on dirty lollipop that has fallen to the ground more times than she has. She tells me she's coming back to the neighborhood as soon as she either leaves her husband or gets him off the drugs. Alex, is at the bar too. He's 21 yrs old. I haven't seen him in seven months and he looks as happy go lucky as ever.

Alex has three kids from three different women. None of them let him see his kids. He became an orphan shortly after his father brought home the AIDS virus to his mother. Alex says his father denied it until he died of AIDS too, shortly afterwards. His father engaged in prostitution regularly. His only family is his older sister, abandoned by her husband with seven children. The eldest seventeen. Alex's new girlfriend has gotten him a job at a chocolate factory where her father manages the place. He's optimistic. Fabiano, a friend of Gel's theatre company is hanging out with Alex at the house with his soon to be wife and her child. She got pregnant when she was 17. I ask them about Jacqueline and her sister Evelayne. I had been shooting Jacqueline shortly after she gave birth at 17. Alex could not recall. I could and how he had hit on both of them. When I showed him the pictures he remembered. He also remembered having slept with both of them.


Sex here is like a cigarette, you have so many of them you only remember those that burnt your fingers, or those you got pregnant. Condoms are so easily available it's not a question of sex education. The girls don't pressure the boys to use them because it's a good way to trap them or to get up on the social scale and pounce around saying your a mother now, an adult, somebody!

Life is short and feeling as much joy as possible is not a priority, it's a right you can't deny yourself here. I stayed on talking about sex and it's meaning. It's wild here, they say, I don't know what to tell you. They kept on drinking cheap wine, the "Nightrain" like stuff Guns N' Roses sings about during their junkie days in Los Angeles. It's well past 4 pm and I'm drunk. Time to get some lunch. I find David and Cimar smoking a joint in the corner. That's another story to tell, but like the local Hip Hop group Os Racionais says, "periferia é periferia... em qualquer lugar" (anywhere you go.. the periphery is the periphery).

Meta Sao Paulo

The UN estimates the city of Sao Paulo, Brazil will reach the 20 million population mark by the year 2035. As far as I know, we may already be there. In any case 70% of this population lives at least 2 hours from the downtown area or to available jobs and a developed infranstructure. They are scattered in what is known here as the "periferias" (periphery settlements) for a disappearing middle class and the lower classes. Like the picture below, they are poorly lit areas with little infrastructure and the urbanization here continues to expand outward. These areas are states withing states. The police and the residents here work under their own codes. I have come back to the "Jardim Pantanal" after a seven month absence and it is now that the dark stories as well the joys of living fast begin to surface.