At the crack of
dawn on August 29, 1993, the favela of Vigário Geral in Rio
de Janeiro was invaded by a group of heavily armed men. Four policemen had
been murdered in the area and somebody had to pay: Twenty one people, all
unrelated to the original crime, were slaughtered. Though nobody speaks about
the chacina (massacre) anymore, it remains a defining moment in the
community's history.
At sunrise on December
13, 2003, just over 10 years later, another group invaded the favela.
This time it wasn't off-duty police officers or a rival drug gang but something
altogether more unexpected: punks.
The `punx'
are here to celebrate Sobre as Ruínas do Capital (On
the Ruins of the Capital)—a two-day punk festival in Rio's
Zona Norte. But to look at the group—set on the roof of
an abandoned primary school in the Parque Proletário—you'd
think we were in 1980s Glasgow.
There's
hardly an un-pierced face in sight; drawing pins, nails and
even padlocks slung through all imaginable parts of the body.
Like their British counterparts, Vigário Geral's punks
sport 18-hole Doc Martin boots, Mohican haircuts and tattoos
calling for resistência and paz. They smoke
roll-up cigarettes and have Ramones patches sewn into their
torn jeans.
It's as if someone
had picked up an army-surplus store and hurled it at the outskirts of Rio.
It's certainly not what you would expect to find in Vigário Geral.
"Of course
the punk scene exists in Brazil," says actor Breno Moroni, after his
theatre workshop. "Even here." The London-trained street performer
is teaching the group to speak in public. Amongst his pupils are all sections
of Brazilian society: bearded philosophy students from Rio's Federal University,
sons and daughters of wealthy economists who live in Ipanema, unemployed young
men from the city's favelas—even a 16-year-old cross dresser from
Botafogo's Santa Marta slum, who declines his adjectives in the masculine
or feminine depending on his mood.
Inside the squat
graffiti is trailed across the walls; a poem has been painted onto the three
flights of stairs—a word for each step. "Death to civilization,"
is whitewashed onto one panel, on another hangs a poster with the simple,
unexplained, statement: "Lula and the CIA lie".
Outside the locals
look like a spaceship has landed. Further up the street, the congregants of
an Assembléia de Deus Evangelical Church watch dumbstruck as the punks
troop in and out of the building. Two suited pastors hover at the church's
entrance, ushering in their parishioners and casting the odd disapproving
glance down the street.
It's not surprising.
One of the punks has scrawled, "God doesn't exist" onto his bag.
Another 16-year-old from a nearby favela, sports a homemade T-shirt.
"No to alienation," it reads alongside a picture of a stick man
kicking an upturned church. His mother, I later discover, is a crente
(believer) from the Nova Vida evangelical church.
United
by Anarchy
Apart
from a shared contempt for Brazil's neo-Pentecostal churches,
the punks are united in another way: Anarquismo. The most recent
generation of obscurely dubbed Brazilian revolucionários
are in attendance. Downstairs there's the Environmental Revolutionary
Movement (MAR) from São Paulo, busy denouncing the evils
of contact lenses.
Then
there's the Collective of Libertarian Resistance—formerly,
I'm reliable informed, the Collective of Libertarian (Re)action—who
offer "a brief reflection on elections", whilst Sex
Pistols riffs are hammered out by a band next-door.
"One day it
is all going to change and I want to be here to see it," says 16-year-old
Júlio, purple turfs of hair swept forward over his ears. "People
will respect each other for what they are and this social exclusion will stop.
We have to see these changes in Brazil; this can't go on."
Another teenager
from the infamous Complexo da Maré favela agrees. "I want
to be around to see it," he says. "Or I at least want to have created
someone who is around to see it."
Others are not so
sure. "Politicians always go to the poor communities [before the elections]
and make lots of promises… But after the elections the mask comes down
again and the promises aren't fulfilled. The kind candidate who came to hug
everybody in the periferia never comes back," explain the Coletivo
de Resistência Libertária (CRL).
So
it is in Vigário Geral. As part of the project Favela-Bairro
(Slum-Borough) the local council has resurfaced roads, improved
lighting and put in place a sanitation system. Alongside a wave
of new immigrants attracted by low house prices in the wake
of the massacre, social workers such as Médicos sem Fronteiras
(MSF) have also moved into the area.
But the area's reputation
is inescapable. Relations between police and the public they are supposed
to protect are inevitably strained. Rates of violence are high, largely because
of the ongoing battle between the Comando Vermelho (Red Command) and the Terceiro
Comando (Third Command) from nearby favela Parada de Lucas for control
of the drugs trade.
Yet the area is
also known for its cultural wealth. The Grupo Cultural de AfroReggae is the
best example of this. AfroReggae was created after the 1993 killings, when
three friends decided to pioneer Afro-Brazilian dance and drumming classes
in the area as a way of drawing kids away from the drugs trade. Ten years
on Afro Reggae are one of Rio's most popular acts with some 500 members and
were the subject of a book, Da Favela para o Mundo (From the Favela
to the World), launched in September.
And then there are
the punks. The abandoned school, currently their home, is to
be reopened as a cultural centre in 2004. And the Anarco Punks
and Libertários—as they call themselves—hope
to secure a room in the building to continue their projects.
In the meantime, in Vigário Geral and other equally unlikely
parts of Rio and Brazil, Sid Vicious' tropical descendants march
on.
Some
of them hope to study Arts at Rio's top universities; others
have to beg the bus fare back home. Some set out intricate arguments
against the formation of the FTAA (Free Trade Area of the Americas)
whilst others are obviously less clued up on international politics.
"So, are there many anarchist governments in Europe?"
asks one.
It's a little seen
side of Brazil—supposedly the country of Carnaval and samba. But then
these guys like to keep a low profile. "Want to know more about the organization?"
wonders a leaflet handed out by the "Collective of Libertarian Resistance".
Write to their PO BOX, they suggest. "But for security reasons don't
mention the CRL on the envelope."
Tom Phillips is a
British journalist living in Rio de Janeiro. He writes for a variety of
publications on politics and current affairs, as well as various aspects
of the cultura brasileira. Tom can be reached on: tominrio@yahoo.co.uk
and his articles can also be found at: www.leedsstudent.org.uk
