Crackland Part One

In Sao Paulo’s Luz Station District we walked beside the central landmark, an early twentieth century train station. In English this place would be called the Station of Light, but it’s only a dim beacon across the street a bar nicknamed Hell.  From there is a place that breathes earthly torment, an address that compresses into one city block, a great mass of souls resigned to the industry of self-disintegration. On a winter’s night in August, I was introduced to Crackland.

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The walk from the Brothers house was not a mile from the station. Our group was mixed with six hooded brothers, our plain clothed lay associates, and in full habit Sister Damiana. This street mission requires a show of force, because it is not safe to walk the streets at night in this area of high rise favelas and wanton crime. We are armed with an overflowing shopping cart of small crusty buttered baguettes in plastic bags and jugs of hot tea and drinking water. The cart that we orbit is pushed steadily by Br. Raleb, it is our security and our distribution center. In mid-block the station building ends and we look across the street at the bright and crowded bar. A live band plays and it seems like a happening place. Brother Gabriel turns to me and says, “That is Hell.”

“It’s not very imposing.” I half spoke to myself. Brother turned back to acknowledge me as we walked further.

“You see this building?” He points.

“Yes.” I looked up at the five story white building just a few building fronts from the bar.  The rooms all had red curtains mostly closed with the lights inside shining through. It was odd to see so much bright color with most of the neighborhood dark and locked up for the night.

“The prostitutes live there.”

We continue to the corner of the block. I turned and took a second look at the bar and then the apartment building we slowly passed. Hell was place to procure drugs, sex, and a number of things left to the imagination. The bar is acts as a flame and the prostitutes gather in and around the front of the building and on down to the end of the block.  I could now see the women moving indirectly and walking nowhere, many with a slight downhill stagger. Several of women at the end of the block walked to our cart, the brothers talked warmly to them as we poured tea and gave each a bag of bread. Lighters flickered in the recesses of the building fronts. A few others came up to the cart and were welcomed. One woman in the group became irritated waiting to be given food and raised her voice in confrontation. I drew into the group a bit. A short sure eyed young man named Br. Haniel drifted in front of the irate woman and gave calming assertions with light words and his direct glaze. He remained unflappable and gently stoic as the tension dissipated. His habit was faded to gray without adornments, but well cut; it made me think of an officer in the Napoleonic times. He had a peacefully knowing smile, coco colored skin, and a sparse beard with thin mustache of his age.     

We walled on for ten minutes and came to a cross street. A Military Police vehicle that looked like a cross between a hummer and a SUV drove up and parked on the sidewalk. We had to navigate around it onto a street of light but steady flowing traffic. We lifted the shopping cart off the curb and made no advance or acknowledgement to the authorities. The military police are their own entity separate from the outward armed forces, trained and maintained by the under the Brazilian Government. Local or metro police other operate in large cities, and there are federal police as well. The Brothers eluded that we were not welcome to be here. The police are not in favor of the Fraternity’s presence in these depressed areas. The police seem to act with certain interests that the poor are infringing upon. In Rio and Sao Paulo they are moving the homeless in an effort to clean the areas for the upcoming world events like the World Cup of Soccer and the Olympics.    

We arrive at our turn off and I saw the military police parked on the closed off street, which is the mouth to Crackland. Their lights flash and bounce off the buildings as we walk down the throat. I am walking beside Br. Agnus who is the scout of this team. He has a triangle face accented with a pointy goatee and wild darting eyes. He paces, buzzing next to you one moment and then he is a half a block ahead; the only things that move faster in Brazil are the mosquitos. He seems to be oblivious that I spoke little or no Portuguese, but still he spoke to me quickly and directly. I think in our bursts of conversation he convinced me that I understood him perfectly. I still think that might be true.  

 We meet a couple homeless men huddled in their blankets for the night. Once again we stop and talk as friends to our sons on the street as items from the cart are unloaded.

A thought crossed my mind, “This is all to Crackland?!” It echoed in my head. I am blessed to be helping with all I had – which at the time seemed very little. But, I gave into the selfish impatience of wanting to be shocked or surprised; but why?

As the conversations in Portuguese continued, I handed out tea in clear plastic cups. “Hot,” I warned.

I wanted to help in a big way, to purify a river, to save a village, and to collect grand stories to maybe pad my ego. For all the rivers to be filtered there stands thousands in solitude waiting for one touch or one act of kindness. I remembered the eager presence the Sisters of the Poor of Jesus in my home town. In Kansas City we drove to those tucked away under bridges or hidden off the streets and brought food, clothes, coffee, and a few sacks of toiletries.  We also were there to talk and pray with those who would like to; not to force an agenda – just to be. The sisters’ real gift was to look at man or woman in the eyes with no judgment and great care. It seemed to move the sons and daughters to tears and most of the time a smile.  A smile on the street would stay with me for days, but how quickly I sometimes forgot.

I was challenged that moment in Brazil to remember that I was there to meet one person at a time. The rest would happen as the spirit revealed it. Although I was unaware that around the corner was of heart of this cold and dark place; a place to test my glib little thought about surprise.