On gringos, comunidades, and NGOs

Francisca and her family moved to Rio from the Northeastern
state of Ceara when Francisca was a young girl.

All photos are my own, and were taken in Cantagalo in 2007 - prior to the installation of the UPP and the elevator.

After I graduated from college, I took an internship in Santiago, Chile, with the Latin American branch of Amnesty International. While fruitful and a decent resume-padder, ultimately the internship was not enough for me to put my roots down in Chile. The $80/month "stipend" had left me close to broke, my apartment was less than ideal, and I seemed to be having difficulty connecting with the Chileans. It was time to move on, I decided, and I was bringing my best friend with me.

Eventually, we settled in Rio de Janeiro, a place both of us had only known through the context of school-sponsored trips and personal vacations. The allure of pristine beaches, lively nightlife, and samba probably played a bigger role in our choice of Rio as a new home than did practical considerations such as cost of living. After spending two weeks as vagrants, moving from friends' apartments to hostels and back, it was clear that we needed to get serious about finding a permanent home.

After about a week of pouring through classified sections of local papers, Craigslist, and telephone-pole advertisements, we were thoroughly discouraged. As it turns out, Rio was not as cheap we had naively assumed. It appeared that finding an apartment that was both well-located and sensitive to the budgets of two recent college graduates might have been a pipe dream.

And then we saw it. "Ipanema, $600 (reais, about US$ 300 at the time), 3 bedrooms." It seemed to good to be true, but we decided it was worth a look. We bussed our broke selves on over to Ipanema and attempted to locate the road on which the advertised apartment was located. Our questionable Portuguese combined with what was likely veritable confusion about the whereabouts of the street resulted in what must have been a two-hour long sweep through the entirety of Ipanema. Ready to give up head "home" (to our hostel), we began the walk back to the bus stop. Then, by the grace of Iemanja, we noticed a narrow, cobblestone street snaking its way up a hillside just a few blocks from where we had gotten off the bus. We glanced again at the address of the apartment, scrawled on the back of my friend's hand: "162 St. Romain." We glanced back at the road. We began the climb.

The caveirao ("big skull) tank enters PPG. I snapped this
photo from our doorstep. Note the bullet holes in the window.
To my knowledge, no one was killed during this particular
shootout.

It rapidly became obvious that the apartment was not, in fact, located in Ipanema as advertised. It was in a comunidade, which we would later discover was the Pavao-Pavaozinho-Cantagalo complex. As Ipanema's high rises gave way to the humble brick homes that characterize hillside settlements in Rio, we became increasingly nervous. We even considered turning around and heading back down the hill. Only the combination of desperation, bankruptcy, and possibly idiocy allowed us to press on.

Eventually, we located the apartment (again, after asking several amused passer-bys in broken Portuguese). It wasn't exactly glamorous - no hot water, cold tile floors, and unfurnished to the extent that it lacked so much as a stove - but we decided it would do for now. Regarding the prospect of violence and drug trafficking, we agreed that, literally, we could not afford to let fear win out. We forked over our $300 real deposit to the dona, Francisca, went back to the hostel for our belongings, and moved ourselves in.

More roofless homes. Some are merely under construction,
while others will remain without a roof indefinitely.

And that is, in a nutshell, how we became accidental Janice Perlmans. We spent six months living, working, and playing in PPG (local speak for Pavao-Pavaozinho-Cantagalo). We became familiar (and often friendly) with the whole cast of comunidade characters: housewives, small-business owners, children, migrants, funkeiros, and of course, traficantes. We went to jiu-jitsu classes, bailes, and the homes of tios, primos, and other relatives whose relationship to Francisca I could never quite establish. After residents got over their initial doubts about having their lives interwoven with those of two gringas, we were welcomed into the community with open arms.

In general, I find that most gringos living in comunidades have had similar experiences. And like most gringos, my knee-jerk reaction was always to defend the comunidade when those living in the asfalto asked why I would live in a "dirty", "crime-ridden", and "poor" neighborhood. I believe that is this sort of ingrained response that, unfortunately, has lent many gringo accounts of comunidade life an unbalanced, glamorized bend. While it is true that my experience in PPG was largely positive, it is also true that, when asked, I omitted many details about the negative aspects of comunidade life.

Now that I have moved out of PPG, I feel less inclined to immediately go on the defensive about my time there. I think - and hope - that I am now able to reflect on my six months in the comunidade and produce a more realistic portrait of life in the informal settlements of Rio. The anecdotes that I previously failed to mention - dirty water, no water, gunfire, police invasions that prompted school closings, poverty, open sewage, and precarious construction - I can now speak about with far more candor.

Relatively sturdy, well-constructed homes on the
bottom 1/3 of the hill

Neglecting to mention that there continue to be many problems in the comunidades can have unintended consequences. I have met many gringos who have funneled their misguided good intentions into NGOs - either by volunteering, or starting their own - and indeed most larger NGOs in Rio have significant gringo presence on staff . While their work is noble, all too often these organizations focus exclusively on keeping comunidades untouched by the hands of the state on the grounds that comunidades are positive places, drug traffickers are merely community policemen, UPPs are 100% evil, forced evictions are abhorrent and comunidades should remain where they are, and so on and so forth. While I certainly have a very critical view of both evictions, anti-urban poor attitudes, UPPs, and top-down government-imposed "development" strategies for the comunidades, I find that this kind of "preservation of the status quo" mission is both deleterious and counterproductive. It has the negative effect of alienating those within the ranks of power who might otherwise become allies in reorienting urban development policy to focus on improving the lives of the poor and marginalized. Furthermore, failing to produce a well-articulated alternative to today's two most polemic issues - UPPs and evictions - is not going to win these NGOs the domestic and international support they need to truly influence policy . A group of idealists is not enough; NGOs must seek to engage engineers, politicians, architects, and lawyers - and not wayward gringos enticed by flowery mission statements (such as my 2007 self).

NGOs must recognize that the "status quo" in most comunidades is still far from acceptable. As an outsider looking in, it's easy to come away with the impression that comunidade life is both tolerable and defensible. While it is certainly true that most comunidade residents would overwhelming prefer to remain where they are, rarely will they fail to include the parenthetical remark that their neighborhoods are in dire need of schools, jobs, sewage treatment, health postos, and better security. Regarding this last item, it should be mentioned that most comunidade residents do not support drug trafficking; rather, they view it as a necessary evil. Therefore, vociferous condemnations of UPPs and evictions issued by NGOs that fail to propose viable alternatives waste time, alienate potential partners, and ultimately make few inroads toward their goal of helping those affected by anti-urban poor policies.

A home in a poorer area of Pavao. Note the wood-frame construction,
and makeshift walls using cardboard and other scrap material.

Regarding precariousness of construction, many NGOs fail to point out that while many of the more well-established residences do not pose a risk to their inhabitants, the same is not always true for newer homes. Erected on the topmost portion of steep hillsides by poorer residents, many of the newly-constructed homes lack roofs, windows and water supply, and are characterized by far shoddier construction; namely wood and mud instead of bricks and mortar. However, due to distance from access roads, relative obscurity, and the need to pass through checkpoints staffed by traficantes, these homes have likely never been seen by many NGO staffers. It is easy, then, for an NGO to adopt the view that all relocations predicated on the "risk" argument are unnecessary. The Serrana tragedy proves that this is simply not true; had risk been identified prior to the landslides and residents relocated to other areas, the biggest natural disaster in Brazilian history would have been avoided.

It is imperative, therefore, that NGOs seek to staff not only starry-eyed gringos with overly romanticized views of the comunidades, but also those with more practical experience in the field. It is a mistake to eschew technical expertise and legal counsel in favor of idealistic humanitarians, for fear the former might challenge the mission of the latter. To use the example of evictions once more, what government official is going to take an eviction condemnation from an NGO seriously without any first-hand scientific or legal evidence to substantiate the claim? What is the power of a handful of unempirical anecdotes from comunidade residents decrying the presence of the UPP in convincing Beltrame that his strategy is flawed?

It is for these reasons - and many others, which I won't get into now - that the dangers of the "gringo experience" in comunidades cannot be stressed enough. It is all too easy (and I have been guilty of this myself) to subscribe to a severely unbalanced view of realities Rio's informal settlements, transfer said view to one's work with local NGOs, and impart it on another gringo with rose-colored glasses. This is a toxic cycle that fails to achieve its objective, and ultimately may even work against it.

Some final words on the forced removal of Vila Autodromo (Part 6 of 6)

“Sweeping Dirt Under the Rug”

The consequences of forced evictions have been widely publicized. Amnesty International, UN-HABITAT, and the Coalition on Housing Rights and Evictions (COHRE) have all released numerous reports directly linking evictions to the replication of poverty.

Families rendered homeless by South African World Cup
evictions. Photo Credit: Reuters

In post-World Cup South Africa, evictees were stripped of their livelihoods and saddled with unemployment. In the case of Rio de Janeiro, a city which lists poverty eradication as one of its top goals, the evidence that forced removals promote the reproduction of poverty should be cause for concern. Instead, Paes’ short-sighted policies ignore the economic argument against razings and embrace removals and poorly- compensated relocations, despite the documented objections of the aforementioned international organizations. Residents refer to this untenable method of confronting poverty as an attempt to “esconder sujeira debaixo do tapete” (“sweep dirt under the rug”), an idiom tailor-made for describing the government’s efforts to obscure the unglamorous reality of poverty from the watchful gaze of FIFA, the IOC, and the media.

In cases where evictees are provided with subsidized Minha Casa Minha Vida housing, only the cost of monthly rent is assumed by the government. Evictees are expected to contribute a “symbolic fee” of $50 Brazilian reais per month toward the purchase of a home which, in many cases, is in inferior in quality to their previous residences. Of course, this fee does not include any additional monetary imposition placed upon residents by the militia in exchange for utility provision (in one case, reported to be in excess of $100 reais) and “protection¹.” When one considers the economic and social costs of relocating to a Minha Casa Minha Vida residence, it comes as little surprise that some residents have already sold their units and moved out. However, it has been anonymously reported that the militia also extort a 20% “sales tax” from any resident who wishes to vacate his or her apartment² With a lack of affordable housing options and little left in their pockets after effectively financing their own relocation, it is likely that those who abandon the apartments will either resettle in other informal settlements or create entirely new ones. Clearly, such a relocation strategy contributes to - rather than combats - poverty.

In one of the worst possible examples of the government’s failure to provide adequate housing options to its residents, 74 families were driven from their Minha Casa Minha Vida apartments in the West Zone of Rio by the militia, with the apparent aim of reselling the units and pocketing the profits. Where the 74 families rendered homeless by the militia have gone is unclear.

Fatal landslides in the Serrana Region. Photo credit: UOL

The Fallacious “Risk” Argument
While the government continues to carry out evictions predicated on the “environmental risk” clause, the 840 deaths caused by the recent landslides in Rio’s mountainous Serrana region call into question the true motives behind mega-event-related removals. The Serrana disaster was an instance of real, demonstrated environmental risk, and one that also could have been avoided had the government acknowledged the precarious location of the region’s hillside comunidades and provided safer housing options. That the government instead has chosen to allocate funds and resources to removing communities such as Vila Autodromo - which lies on flat and has not had a significant flood in residents’ memory - while simultaneously failing to take measures to prevent the biggest climate-related disaster in Brazilian history is an unconscionable hypocrisy.

A Final Word
Toward the end of my visit to Vila Autodromo, community leader Jane tells me that the residents are not categorically opposed to relocation, nor the mega-events that their city will host. Rather, she explains, they are against the municipal government’s top-down removal process that fails to consider the voices of the affected residents and manipulates the laws designed to protect them.

The stories relayed to me residents of several different communities facing removal corroborate Jane’s accusations. They include allegations of zero-notice removals, children forced to sign evictions papers when adults are absent, relocations to areas up to 50km away, verbal abuse and physical threats, and unfulfilled promises of compensation. As professor Christopher Gaffney explains, the mega-event preparation is “very authoritarian, top-down, with no public audiences, no democratic participation - and it’s going to change the city forever.”

For the Seu Franciscos of the city, it seems like the changes will be for the worse.

1. A resident of a Minha Casa Minha Vida apartment, who wished to remain anonymous, quoted a price of BRL $15/month for 

   the milicia's "security tax"

2. The same resident quoted the 20% “sales tax” figure in the same interview