Two Sides Of Brasil

I decided to do an English picnic for my older students on our last day, as my friend Graham was making a timely entry onto the stage for the last act in my Brasilian novela and had agreed to bring the food over. My students aren't the most reliable bunch and I knew some wouldn't turn up, so I was bound to have leftovers. I made more than I needed, though, as I'd had a thought.

Only four students did actually turn up, of which one immediately went off to hospital. Yes, ha ha, but no, this had nothing to do with my picnic... They were a little tongue-tied due to the presence of a large blond stranger in their midst, but I'd printed a few questions about their future as a conversation subject. One of the boys claimed he wanted to marry and have children, so I asked if he'd share the housework. He shook his head and I asked the girls if they’d make their future husbands help. They laughed and said, no, they'd have a maid. Thus spake middle-class Brazil.

They gamely tried all the food, but naturally there was a large amount left over. This suited me fine, though, as I was planning to take it into the nearby favela and do a second little festinha for the kids there. Having said our goodbyes, Graham and I grabbed the bags and some extra food, stuffed all our valuables into various sweaty hiding-places, and set off.

He knew about my plan and was up for coming along, but I did have a moment's misgiving about dragging him along on a whim of mine to a potentially nasty and dangerous experience. I raised the subject with him, but he has a fairly similar attitude to me on these things and was well aware of the potential dangers, so we carried on anyway.

Actually walking into the favela, though, I was mainly nervous about the gesture being taken the wrong way, despite knowing from experience that food offered to poor people here will be accepted without question. Even so, I didn't bother with the slightly unnerving little cluster of young men at the entrance, but continued down the dirt lane to where some children were playing. I called them over and explained that I was an English teacher, I'd had a little party for my students but had too much food and did they want some. 'We want', they said, with that irresistible Portuguese syntax.

Feeling like a total weirdo (as indeed I probably looked), I found a convenient concrete space and started unwrapping the plates. They stood watching, rather bemused, but luckily Graham thought to start offering packets of crisps round in the meantime, which were eagerly accepted. The Bakewell tarts went fairly quickly, but we really had to encourage them at first; I was surprised by how diffident they were, even when there was quite a little crowd. When there were new arrivals, we always had to actually pick up a plate and offering it to them, or they'd have just stood and watched. It was only a bit later, going home on the bus, that the contrast with my nine-year-old, middle-class pupils occurred to me. They would have shoved me and each other out of the way to get to the food.

I'd have loved to photograph them, but didn't want to do a big poverty-tourism thing; however, when they’d finished eating and we were about to go, I asked if I could take a photo and they agreed happily, calling out 'Photo!' to the ones who were drifiting away, who came back too.

I promised to bring them prints of this one (below), and as we walked away, we passed the group of young men again. One of them was still eating a sandwich. 'Obrigado', he called. ''Nada', I said, and we went to get the bus.