Ordem e progresso
Trip Start
May 23, 2005
1
5
36
Trip End
Mar 25, 2006
Sao paulo,
Brazil
Thursday, June 9, 2005
Ordem E Progresso
As I failed to allude to before, a night out in Brazil is not to be taken lightly. Paulistas think nothing of a night lasting 'til 2 or 3 (or sunrise), regardless of which day it be. For this reason, up through almost two weeks into my stay in São Paulo, I had been very careful about going out on the weekdays, for fear of being stuck in a situation where I had to go straight from the bars and clubs to the hospital (to work, viz.). But there came a day this week (Wednesday, it happened to be) where the idea of staying in was just not feasible any longer. You see, Brazil had a World Cup qualifying match against despised rival Argentina. If you know anything about futebol then you know this game was not to be missed. One of my new friends from the medical school, which is across the street from the hospital where I work, generously picked me up and drove me to somewhere deep into a São Paulo suburb to a birthday party which was taking place at a sports bar. The entire place was packed full of thirsty Paulistas, each of whom paid about 8 dollars for all you can drink chopps, which are the equivalent of tap beer. With so many eager fans awaiting such a nerve-racking game, the beer could not be poured and brought to the tables fast enough, and chants demanding "Cerveja!" began ringing in from all sides of the room even before the kickoff, and continued throughout the game.
Manic Depression's A Frustrating Mess
Now, I only know of two possible outcomes as a result of this kind of accelerated alcohol consumption and sport fanaticism: One possibility is that Brazil wins, and in delight every one drinks their fill and then some, and all go home drunk, belligerent and happy. The other scenario is that - God help us - Brazil loses, everyone drinks heavily in sorrow, and all go home wasted, belligerent and depressed. Unfortunately, tragedy in the form of magnificent Argentinean playmaking, struck midway through minute six of the game. From the moment Argentina scored their first goal, not thirty seconds went by the rest of the game where someone in the bar was not screaming a string of curse words at the giant projector screen, and/or beer and other objects were not being hurled across the room. When halftime rolled around, Argentina had a healthy 3-0 lead, and the outcome of the match was all but sealed, as was the fate of the evening's emotional state for the patrons of the establishment. By the end of the game, most were ready to leave, but a few stragglers stayed around drinking until the bar decided they had completed their part of the contract and kicked everyone out. I was almost glad when the bar shutdown. Looking at my watch for the first time that night in the well-lit, windowless bar, I had no idea how 2:15 am had come so quickly, especially surrounded in such a depressing ambience. But the night's action was just beginning for some.
Houston, We've Got Segue
My medical student friend, Renata, was again generous enough to make the long drive back to my side of town to drop me off. We both felt the burden of being required to be at our respective places of business bright and early, so she sped across town to get me to my living situation. When we arrived on my street - which is a narrow, one-way affair, dimly lit, and not a major boulevard by any means, but in a generally safe part of town - around 2:30 am, there were only a couple of silhouettes on the street. These were likely city workers who were setting up for the street market which takes place on my street on Thursday mornings. A half a block up we pulled into a spot across the street from my apartment complex, not more than 10 meters from the gate. For what could've been no more than 2 minutes we sat in the car (which was still running) reviewing some plans for the next day (we were going to practice some Portuguese at a café during lunch). Just as I reached for the handle to open the door, an imposing shadow appeared on Renata's side of the car. While we had been talking, a tall, thick man with dark clothes on had snuck right up to the side of the car without us noticing. Now he was pressed up against the side of the car, reaching for something in his coat. Oh, FUCK ME!! I can't believe it's actually happening!!
I Know This Is A Car, But My Name Isn't "Jack"
A tsunami of adrenaline instantly flooded my body, making me extremely nauseous, hyper-alert, and turning the next 5 seconds into an eternity (see the relativity of time paragraph in my previous entry). One of the most common forcible crimes in Sao Paulo is car-jacking. Especially at night, when a car is stopped at a red light or in a deserted neighborhood, thieves with guns have been known to pounce. There are also reports of robbers walking right up to a car in broad daylight with traffic and taking possession of a vehicle. The really sickening stories I had heard - I remembered as I looked across the car toward the man whose only visible parts were his torso, stomach, and hand, in which he now wielded a pistol which he tapped impatiently on the driver's side window three times - were stories about desperate criminals using force to take a vehicle, whether force was required or not. Force that goes by the name of 'fatal gunshot wound to the head.' In fact, the problem has gotten so bad in Sao Paulo that the police have even begun encouraging drivers not to stop at red lights after dark, only to yield to cross-traffic and keep moving. I was told by everyone to watch out for this kind of thing, to never sit in your car, and to always be ready to hand over your things. Never bring anything out of your house you aren't prepared to lose, locals said. But just earlier that day I had commented to myself how I hadn't seen any crime, violent or other, since I had moved to Sao Paulo. I was feeling safer and more comfortable in the city I had lived in for 10 days. And since I was hanging out with locals what could possibly go wrong?.............
Wieners Don't Use Drugs
The eerie sound of the tapping of the pistol on the window will haunt me for a time to come. Now, I have had my share of brushes with weapons and violent criminals, mostly in the form of idiots with knives. And usually at least a significant proportion of the incident was caused by my carelessness. I have been threatened with a knife (my own) by police officers (I thought police were supposed to prevent violent crime) at night on a beach in Mexico; I have had a switchblade pulled on me by a drug dealer/bum in the early morning while trying to check into a hotel in the red light district in Amsterdam ; and one time, in a moment of brilliant stupidity, I antagonized some Moroccan hash dealers into pulling their blades out on me in Spain(What's with drug dealers and knives? They are giving a useful tool a bad name.). I have been pushed, pulled, kicked, punched, tossed, and shoved around by many of the disgruntled citizens of this world. But none of these incidences had a profound effect on me after the fact. Maybe because - more than likely - I was able to avoid being stabbed to death in those situations. But dear Allah, there is nothing more humbling or terrifying than having a potentially loaded gun drawn and pointed directly at your face. You have no control over your destiny at that point. One tiny finger movement by the assailant - not an ounce of forethought or a semblance of appreciation for life required - and your new bed is a puffy cloud.
I'm Gonna Cock My Glok And Pop 'Til They All Drop
I thought we were done for, or at least about to lose all our belongings and a car (I hadn't been home yet from work so I had all my gear with me, including my 24-hour old cell phone). Renata, whose brain is at all times moving faster than the speed of light, was on autopilot. In a split second she flew into action. Without thinking she looked to make sure the door was locked. [We were lucky because the doors had automatically locked and the windows were up. If the robber had any easy way to open the door he already would have. Likewise, had I already stepped out of the car, I would have been the lone victim of whatever crime was about to occur.] Neither of us had formulated a plan in the less than one second that had passed since he rapped the gun on the window. But just then, unconsciously, and in a moment of sheer panic and terror, Renata threw the car into gear and sunk the gas petal. And we screeched off, away from the probably surprised attacker. Now we were really in trouble, according to Brazilian carjack etiquette. I was having mixed emotions as she pulled away, nearly rear ending a line of parked cars, swerving into the middle of the street and running a stoplight at a busy intersection at the end of my street doing about 30 mph. On one hand - as I tucked my head down as far as I could in between my legs in case bullets came flying through the back window - I was beginning to think we might make it out of there alive, because the crook had had plenty of opportunity to shoot us right through the driver's side window if he had really wanted to take the car. But on the other hand, Renata had just broken Brazil Crime Rule #1: If someone comes up to you and crams a piece up in yo' dome, you damn well give them what they want. That is, unless you value you car over your life. So fifty yards up the street I was still flinching, waiting for a hail of bullets to come ripping through the car's interior.
Please Postpone My Appointment With Dr. Death In The Skull Garden
Two blocks up now, I was starting to gain some composure. But Renata was still in her frenzy, running red lights, screaming through major intersections of which the cars coming across them had green lights. The danger of a fatal sideswipe was now much greater in my mind than the risk that the robber was a former sniper and could, or would, shoot us from half a mile away. I did my best to calm down the driver but she could do nothing but scream, weep, swerve, and check herself for gunshot wounds. Apparently, though, her behavior wasn't uncalled for, because it turns out she knew something I didn't. She knew of several people who had lost their car this way. And a few, including one of her good friends, who had lost their lives. Supposedly this kind of event is one of the most common manifestations of homicide in Brazil. It's how people die, especially when they try to escape. Many of the locals who I have told this story to have shaken their heads, crossed their chests with a catholic cross and said, "You are lucky." "Lucky? But we got messed with," I want to say. But apparently, as these kinds of things often times go, and by the unintelligent way we responded to the threat, by many accounts, we should both be taking our respective dirt naps in the skull garden right about now. So I guess we are lucky. Welcome to Brazil. Welcome to life. Let's go get an ice cream bar.
