Crackland Sao Paulo Part Two

I see Brother Agnus half a block down directing us. His sharp profile is unmistakable in the ambler lights of the intersection. He waves to the right and disappears into the corner. Brother Gabriel hands me a red thermal jug of tea, cha’ in Portuguese, and a sleeve of thin plastic cups. “You will give out tea, yes?” he awaits to make sure his English is correct, but to the task I am given the question is rhetorical.

“Yes, ch-aa.” I speak with an English ch sound.

“No, it is cha`, not Indian tea.” Brother elongates the sounds. “(Sh)-(ah).”

I repeat “Cha`, (sh-ah), cha`.” I look down at the long clear stack of cups in my left hand and think to ask if I have too many. Our conversation lasts till we reach the next street. I look at brother and trip on a short barricade jutting out from the curb. I hear the cart rattle and screak turning to face our new direction.

 The cart pauses for a faint moment; I hear the sound of the wind fluttering blankets, the broken street gravel grinning under shuffling feet and cardboard pads. Those as thin as paper drift with newspapers in the narrow center of the street. It is a wide space between the gated building fronts that face one another. The sidewalks are deep and from the curbs to the walls people camp three back. Those standing in the street swell in waves to choke off the walking path. I can’t tell if anyone is talking, but a notably muted murmur does ebb the noise floor.

Two lay associates push the people lightly back to make a path for the cart. An “excuse me” or “sorry” is not heeded or heard, our sons and daughters are floating in at some point of their high gone world of chemical euphoria. In varying degrees their awareness was either faint or confused. The closer to laying down the more inward they were. Those that stood were social, some mildly staggering, but still lucid. Hanging onto the curbs were those in transition, not quite ready stand and walk. It was clear to see those with history on this street, their clothes were dingy and the skin on their faces was drawn into the bones.

At this point I stayed close to the cart. Not from fear, there wasn’t time for that to come to mind. The cart was approached in a zombie like rush. We were never mobbed, but it was hectically orderly to hand out food and drink. We would stop, be encircled, distribute, move a few feet forward, and be surrounded again. All the brothers were absent, but Br. Gabriel. He stood next to me helping with cups and pushing me a long as I got hung up. Sister Damiana was short, but not wispy, she took charge, and that was evident to everyone on that street; it was her shopping cart. She would reorganize the cart quickly and still hand out bags to the nearest people. She didn’t smile that I saw, but smiles are not common here.     

I kept to the few words I knew, but still it was clear I was a foreigner. Even through the drug haze a curious Brazilian spirit would come out. It was one of the reasons brother pushed me along. I was having conversations with the son’s and, even with my poor language skills, we could greet each other. The phases I repeated Portuguese were simple.  In English they were:

Hi. How are you? Nice to meet you. Your name? Do you want bread? Water or tea? It’s hot, be careful. Bless you. And bless you. Tcha.

A few formulated further questions and the most common was where I was from. I could sense a spark for them to ask. In the street lamps’ reflection off their wide watery eyes I could feel a twinkle of connection. It never tired me.

“Where are you from?”

“The United States, Kansas City?”

“OH, Good!”

“And you?”

“Here.”  

***

Brother Gabriel directs me away from the group and we edge the crowd to reach the sidewalk. I can see the other brothers kneeling or crouching in conversations with the blanket wrapped men. There is an easiness and peace in their glaze, as if their eyes were listening. Even if a man or woman spoke in nonsense or confusion the brothers interaction was steadying. I broke my focus when Br. Gabriel waved me over. I handed out tea and sacks of bread that our party would run to us. To those lying against the wall I would declare “Cha`” and “Bread”, and an arm here or there would reach out. If their buddy was next to them, staring off into the distance, they would tap him and they too would raise their hand. I became familiar with a certain stare, blank and focused on something beyond, like blessed nothingness somewhere beyond them. Those that were unreachable would take no food or drink, and if there was enough, then something would be left for them when they awoke.

At my feet I noticed the blankets of those on the ground were stiff and unyielding. They would adjust to close one hole from the cold and wind and another space would open. They covered themselves in patchy gray and light blue industrial moving blankets that I image even new seem dirty. Tented below me, a man breaks down and re-assembles a crack pipe with military precision. In a minute he lays the parts on the cleanest part of a sheet, cleans out the blockages, and is flicking a lighter to it. For this second hand observer there is no smell or smoke to the crack. If there is, it must be very faint for the breeze to sweep it away undetected.

It hits me that I am alone from my group. I see no brothers, no lay associates, and no br. Gabriel. It was the first time I wasn’t helping someone or in a crowd. The first moment a hand wasn’t asking me for something. I felt dizzy to stand up straight. A whole city block swirled around me, as a density populated ecosystem. In the street it was a carnival of movement and next to the curb men sold and swapped items on a red carpet market. In sections on the ground were watches, clocks, rings, small appliances, and other items of small value; all part of the economy of this street.

A man in a loose black suit with hollow cheeks and slick jet black hair smiled at me.  I am not sure how he noticed me out of his completed negotiation on the red blanket. He walked two steps and reached out his hand. “You are American?” All the fear came into me. I heard all the people in the United States saying to me, “It’s dangerous to be an American in South America”.  The fear was a sign that the shock was fading.

“Nao (which is no),” I lied as I shook his hand, and positioned myself into the crowd. He remanded smiling as I glanced back at him through the bobbing heads. Then I dove into the flow of the street.

I return to my group that was in front of me now. A wolf grinning young man struts by with his arm around a girl dressed in a tight revealing red top and mid-thigh length skirt. She has a stern face and I notice that her pace is leading more then his arm is pushing. They walk fast through the crowd; I felt cold beyond the night air.    

 The food was low, the tea was gone, and all the jugs of water were running low. A black SUV trolled into the crowd and the street cleared. We all watched it drive by and I asked who it was. Some said, “That is the drug dealer.” The vehicle stopped and the windows opened as several approached. I could see the police lights faintly casting onto the buildings down the street.

This is a place that drugs are allowed, not that it‘s legal, but there is an understanding. Something so prevalent could not be denied, but it can be overlooked. For the government, it contains a social problem. The population of Crackland is easily controlled, because proximity to the drugs provides an invisible fence to keep them here. The police are to war with the drug dealers outside of here, but inside it symbiotic. In the modernizing of Brazil the priorities shuffle to what is shiny, the poor in sky scraper favelas and burnt out section of Sao Paulo are not a high priority.          

The Fraternity and a church group called Christland, to counter Crackland, are the few that offer support to those in this street. And even then, the brothers can only encourage, and plant in them the option for change. The brother offer rest, food, and a place to recover. The next step for the sons, if they choose, is the Fraternity’s Chacara or country house that operates outside the city to provide rehabilitation and peaceful space.

***

We walked out of Crackland onto a main street, light traffic passed us by and except for our party there was no one on the street. Our shopping cart was empty except for the drained red thermal containers. We walked back to the house and it was nearing 2:00 AM.

I thought of human beings with the spark of life turned down to a flicking pilot light. I imaged being able to wake them up with a kind and loving hug or touch. If only some affirmation of their worth could recover one man or one woman from their drug laced slumber. I remembered the look the brother induced in a few of the sons, to wake a part of them wanting to hear beyond the drugs and the reasons they needed those drugs.

I awoke at 4:30 in the morning to hear a knock at the front gate. I went to the door and could see a man standing beyond the locked gate. A short shadow emerged from the stairs going to brother sleeping quarters. It is Br. Haniel full dressed with the same sure smile.  He walks to the door and bids me to return to my room without a sound. His eyes show little fatigue as the street lights show his face in the open door. He walks to the gate and I remain in the long narrow hallway. The man outside sounds stressed and has a pleading low tone in his voice. The gate creeks open and the unlocked chain bangs on the metal. I walk quickly to my room and listen again. Two sets of feet walk into the house, and in a short time all is quiet.