Gwennie's Girl Page 29

  As she cleared customs and walked into the crowded arrivals hall, she scanned the signs for her name. There it was. She had been told she would be met but it was always a relief to find someone waiting with her name even when it was misspelt on a grubby piece of paper. There were two people, a man and a woman.

  Again, Lizzie was pleased. She sometimes wondered about how risky it probably was that she arrived in a strange place and went with whoever knew her name. Silly to worry, of course, but it felt better when there was a woman. Very silly to be comforted by that come to think about it. What difference did it make?

  They greeted each other, Lizzie’s luggage was taken, she changed some money, and they walked across the parking area to a van. The man in the scarf seemed to have disappeared. This was Lizzie’s first trip to Brazil so she was eager to see the city. In the distance, towers disappeared into the pollution and everywhere there were people and cars and people and cars and noise and movement. Even driving through the city the contrast between old Europe and modern Sao Paulo were evident. There were expensive shops, expensive cars and expensively dressed, well-coiffured men and women. There were beggars, street vendors, and there was poverty. There were lots and lots of churches.

  Lizzie was staying at a small conference centre for three days while she met representatives of the Movement for Street Boys and Girls, welfare workers, documentalists and human rights activists, who knew she was coming and were eager to give her information. She met an American couple, both photographers, who were also staying at the centre which obviously doubled as low cost accommodation or hostel for a variety of guests. Lizzie worked hard for the first two days, interviewing, asking questions, gathering data and documents, hearing some horror stories and, once again, learning to admire the people who kept on trying to make things better against incredible odds and power structures.

  On the last day, before she was due to set out to see for herself the conditions around the country, she was taken downtown by the two photographers who had pretty well finished and were packing to go home. That was when Lizzie saw the kids trying to wash in a fountain outside massive, gilded churches and when she watched the kids scramble for food and survival in a fierce and frightening world.

  Lizzie was due to spend the next couple of weeks in and out of favelas (the crowded slum areas), but this was her initial contact. It was a long and dispiriting day despite the cheeky grins and offers to “show her a good time”. Late in the afternoon, they headed back to the centre, and the driver asked if they could stop at what was a large shopping mall so they agreed to wander around and wait for him for an hour.

  Inside the complex of shops, he pointed to a bench where they could meet then disappeared, and Lizzie spent the hour checking prices and stock in the shops. When she arrived back at the bench, the two others were waiting but there was no sign of the driver. They chatted easily as the crowd moved past and around them. Lizzie was vaguely aware of a tripod and a camera shooting the shoppers and just assumed it must be for some promotional work or advertising or Pop Vox to gather public opinion on something or other until one of her companions stood and walked away from the bench.

  When he came back, he whispered, ‘Lizzie, move onto the other bench.’ She looked at him for an explanation, received none and moved across to the other side of the open area. He walked away again. The driver was still nowhere to be seen. When the American returned, he sat down and leant his head forward over his knees so he was looking at his feet.

  ‘It seems to be you, Lizzie,’ he said.

  ‘What seems to be me?’

  ‘It’s you they’re shooting. Any idea why?’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Those guys over there with the camera. They are not taking the crowd. They’re not taking us. They’re taking you. Any ideas?’

  Lizzie looked over and felt as though she must be looking straight into the camera. It certainly seemed to be pointing directly at her. ‘I haven’t a clue,’ she said. ‘Maybe I just look foreign.’ She turned her back on the prying lens. It was the second time in the past few days she had felt uncomfortably scrutinised.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said her companion.

  They walked away towards the exit and stood out of sight of the camera where they could watch the bench. It was a few minutes later that the driver returned, apologising profusely for being late.

  Lizzie was expecting to go to Nova Iguacu the next morning, a place known for its violence. That night, the two Americans came to Lizzie’s room armed with a bottle of local spirits and some lemon cordial. ‘Couldn’t find lemons,’ the woman grinned, ‘and you’ll have to settle for paper cups. Not elegant but I tell you, babe, it’ll warm your toes.’

  They sat on the narrow bed and talked until the bottle was empty and they were full. ‘You take care, now,’ they were still calling as they tottered down the dimly lit corridor, and Lizzie closed the door just before she hit the bed.

  She was packed and waiting at the door at six thirty next day. A driver appeared and gave her a plane ticket. ‘What’s this?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘Your plans have changed, Miss. You go to Goiania.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now. I take you to the airport.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. Why Goiania? Who’s at Goiania? I was told I was going to Nova Iguacu.’

  The driver’s English seemed exhausted. He just repeated. ‘Plans are changed. You go to Goiania. I take you to the airport.’ Then he opened the ticket folder and gave Lizzie a scrap of paper. ‘You meet Benne.’

  The name was written on the scrap. Nothing else. No telephone number, no address. The ticket was in her name. The destination was Goiania. The only telephone number she had in Sao Paulo was for the office where there would be no one at this time of the morning. The flight was due to leave at 8:10. ‘Come. We go now,’ the driver insisted. Lizzie delved into her camera case, found a pen, scribbled a note to the Americans, ran to their door and pushed it under, hoping they would, at least, tell her Sao Paulo contacts what happened. Of course, they had made the arrangements but, just in case…

  The van tore through the early morning traffic, and Lizzie arrived at the airport in time to be hustled onto the plane. She was off to Goiania of which she knew nothing, to meet Benne of whom she knew nothing. She found Goiania in the airline magazine map. It was a long way from Nova Iguacu, reasonably close to Brazilia from the look of things. She took a breath and decided she might as well relax because there was nothing she could do now except to follow instructions. When she finally arrived at the shabby airport, she claimed her bag and looked around. When the other passengers had gradually disappeared with families or friends or in rattly looking taxis a man entered, stood for a moment looking around, then approached her.

  ‘You are Lizzie?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You are Lizzie?’ he repeated with a frown.

  ‘You go first, my friend. Who are you?’

  The frown was replaced with a smile. ‘I am Benne.’

  ‘Then, I am Lizzie.’

  They shook hands, and he took her bag and headed to a car waiting by the door.

  Benne was an organiser with the “Movement for Street Boys and Girls”, and for the next couple of days, he took Lizzie to meet and talk with many street kids. He would stop and wait while Lizzie watched what was happening in the sad and despair-laden lanes. He interpreted for her conversations but most importantly, he vouched for her with the kids so they were prepared to talk.

  When he said, ‘No photos. It is too dangerous for them,’ Lizzie acquiesced knowing that the police and the drug gangs were vicious and seemed to act with impunity. They went out onto the streets at night, and Lizzie was very pleased to have Benne’s escort—and that of the other young men who were always close by. What Lizzie saw and heard would stay with her for a long, long time.

  I cried a lot,’ the little girl said. She was talking about being 3–4 months pregnant and losing her baby after police b
eat and kicked her. ‘I’ve heard that some girls make them mad deliberately, so that they get an abortion. I don’t know about that—I was trying to protect myself… The baby would have been more than a year old now.’ She was fourteen.

  ‘I’d give this new president time just in case he’s honest,’ another said. She was responding to a question about what she would do if she were already a solicitor. ’But he probably won’t make any difference, so I’d make a law that police weren’t allowed on the streets—especially at night. That’s when they think they have more power.’ She was fourteen too.

  A teenager asked, ‘Whose fault is it that we have these violent men?’ How do you answer that Lizzie? He was eighteen talking politics, ‘The Movement is power. It is talking about things like being in the bottom of a hole and sniffing glue to forget you’re on the bottom and then doing something about it so you don’t stay on the bottom.’

  His companion was fifteen, talking about the statutes relating to children in the new constitution about to go before the Brazilian Congress. ‘Us!’ she said. ‘We shall have to make it better. We are making this law—that’s why it will be a real law not just something on a piece of paper. This law will be different. We all went to meetings and called out what we wanted in it. This law will be a real law.’

  Another angry kid was fourteen. ‘They shouldn’t have the right to just walk into people’s houses and just shoot them—shoot kids—take them out in the middle of the night and just shoot them—and know that they will get away with it. It’s not just. It shouldn’t happen.’

  What sort of ugly fantasy was this? It was no fantasy. But it was ugly. It was the reality of life for millions of children in Brazil in a world of violence that attacked them on all levels, kids struggling for their own survival and their struggle was becoming as organised and structured as the attack. They had their own Movement and, with dignity and desperate urgency, they were “taking on” the systems and the people who were their enemies. They needed and deserved immediate international support, and all Lizzie could do was help the level of that violence be documented. Planned and organised extermination of children and adolescents existed. It had been reported that bands of exterminators, quasi police/military groups, often financed by small businesses, sought to kill off any child or adolescent who was deemed “delinquent” claiming this would protect society from more adult criminals. It was difficult to imagine any more criminal adults than the exterminators. Conservative and incomplete surveys give the figure of at least one death squad murder per day, but indications were that the figure was probably five or even ten times that estimate.

  Lizzie saw a video interview with a woman who spoke of how a gang of exterminators broke into her room and took her son—telling the boy and his mother he was going to be shot. The mother’s face was quite impassive as she described the scene until slowly it began to collapse and crumble as she said, ‘I feel so ashamed. He was my son—he looked at me and I should have been able to help him—and I could do nothing—and they took him. He was my son. I feel so ashamed.’ And she cried.

  Sao Paulo had a central square where Lizzie saw child prostitutes and beggars. She noticed particularly the pretty, little five-year-old with dark curls and dirty clothing who walked on her knees which were bleeding from the asphalt. She walked on her knees because her legs were twisted up behind her and her little feet were clawed together. There was a small boy perhaps a year or two older dancing along through the crowd. His trousers were too small; he was barefooted and scantily dressed. But he was hugging something to himself with glee and jigging from one foot to the other. As Lizzie watched, he found a tree and sat with his back to it, looked around, then opened his hands. He had a wooden skewer with two tiny, dirty-looking pieces of meat on it. He ate them with relish.

  These were some of the children in the central square of Sao Paulo. This was the square where the local authorities had agreed to change the water in the fountain more often, because it was the only place the children could bathe. This was the square in front of the steps to a beautiful gilded cathedral. They were street children because their families could not provide them with minimum basic needs. Some went “home” to sleep. Some slept under garbage. Some worked from the age of eight. Some knew only work. Violence against children and adolescents seemed so frighteningly part of community life as Lizzie heard of one man running for council election on the basis that he was a known efficient exterminator, and all the while bureaucrats haggled about how many millions of them fit various definitions and churches preached of the poor always being with us.

  In Goiania, Lizzie was staying at another tiny and decidedly disreputable looking hotel, but there were security grills on the windows here and a solid lock on her door. The first night, there was shouting and screaming from the empty lot that was used as a car park but Lizzie could see nothing through the darkness from her window, and she decided not to go out and see what was happening.

  This is when you know you are not a journalist, she said to herself as she cowered in her bed and waited for the commotion to stop. From what she had seen and heard, there was no point calling the police—they were more dangerous than the ordinary criminals.

  The second night, as he was leaving, Benne said, ‘You have a ticket for tomorrow, Lizzie?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘the flight is to Sao Paulo. It leaves at nine o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the plane,’ said Benne. ‘I shall drive you to Brazilia. Check out at nine and I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘Brazilia? What’s at Brazilia?’ Lizzie had the feeling she had had this sort of conversation another time.

  ‘Elegant buildings surrounded by Favelas. You’ll see, Lizzie. It will be worthwhile.’

  ‘OK. You’re the boss, Benne,’ Lizzie shrugged. ‘I’ll see you at nine o’clock.’

  ‘Nine o’clock. Sleep well.’

  By nine o’clock, Lizzie had checked out. When there was no sign of Benne, she sat in the tiny space in front of what passed as a Reception Desk and waited. And waited. And waited. Ten o’clock. No Benne. Eleven o’clock. No Benne. Twelve o’clock. No Benne. Lizzie was beginning to realise that her plane was long gone, she spoke no Portuguese, she was in a place where she had no contacts (Benne had given no telephone number, no address) and, if she were not careful, she could very easily start to panic.

  Twelve fifteen. A police car went slowly by with four uniformed cops who all seemed to be checking the hotel.

  Twelve twenty. The same car cruised by again.

  Twelve twenty-five. The car stopped and the cops got out. They were all wearing guns. Two stayed by the car looking into the hotel. Two sauntered in and propped themselves against the reception desk looking at Lizzie. They continued looking while they asked the clerk some questions. He answered and pointed to the clock and to Lizzie.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, they both unclipped the black leather holsters at their belts and took out their guns, held them nonchalantly while they continued looking at Lizzie. Then they straightened and took the four strides that brought them right in front of her. The legs of one were touching her knees as they stood, guns in hand, looking down at her. Even if Lizzie’s legs would have held her, she could not stand up without pushing against him. She could feel the sweat breaking out all over her body, and her heart was pumping in over time. She lifted her eyes and it seemed a long way up to the unsmiling faces, past the guns and the heavy hands that held them.

  For what seemed incredibly long minutes, she could hear only her breathing and the distant traffic. Nothing in the tiny place moved. All was silent and all was still. This was physical fear such as Lizzie had only nibbled in all her own experiences with violence. She waited and sweated in the silence. And the stillness. She seemed the only one breathing. It was a long, long moment. Then, without a word, one turned away. Slowly, the other followed. They said something to the immobilised clerk and walked out the door into the sunshine that was in the street and on the po
lice car and the two other cops. Lizzie and the clerk watched as it slowly pulled away, made a U-turn and slid out of sight.

  Lizzie didn’t exhale until another fifteen minutes went by, and there was no further sign of it. Then she was torn between anger and panic. Where the hell was Benne? Had something happened to him? Had he forgotten her? Bullshit. Had he abandoned her? Why did he tell her to let that plane go? What the fuck was she going to do, now? She knew this clerk didn’t speak English. Where the fuck should she start?

  One-fifteen. She had not made any decision.

  One-thirty. Benne walked through the door.

  ‘Where the hell have you been? What happened? Is something wrong? Are you OK? Do you know what time it is? You said nine o’clock. What’s happening? The police were here.’

  ‘Lizzie, let’s go. I have a car outside.’

  ‘But what is going on, Benne? Where have…?’

  He cut her short, ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  He picked up her bag took her hand and led her outside where there was a pick-up truck by the kerb loaded with furniture and household goods—a mattress, some chairs, a rolled carpet, boxes, bags were tied down but still looked as though, at any minute, something would fall off. There was a man sitting in the front passenger seat.

  ‘This is my cousin. He will go with us to Brazilia.’ Benne opened the door; the man got out and waited courteously for Lizzie to slide in next to the driver’s seat.

  OK, Lizzie, calm yourself and think about what you are doing before you do it. You know it’s likely that no one in the world knows you are here. There is no record, no plane ticket even. You have known Benne for two days and really, no one has vouched for him except kids on the streets—and he was interpreting. Think girl, think. You will drive away with two men. You have absolutely no idea who this other guy is or what he does. You only have Benne’s assurances, and Benne told you not to take the plane, to check out at nine o’clock. What about those cops? What the fuck is going on here!