Getting
Shot At
March 5, 2005 - 3 AM
I ducked
for cover sorta slowly, not really instinctively. After the shots and
a few screams, the gang's car squealed its tires and rounded the corner
in my direction, then roared past. I just sorta squatted there behind
a parked car.
Not exactly 007 stuff, huh? I didn't even get a good look at
'em - I was crouching Carl hidden by car. Just another experience to add
to the list.
I'm not sure what to liken it to. It's a little bit Queens, a little bit
South Central. In the summer of ´98 I lived in Carson, CA, neighbor of
Compton and home to do-badders and gangstas. But I never actually witnessed
a shooting - just a few cops speeding here and there, as well as 6" thick
bullet-proof glass at the Domino's pick-up window. In Porto Alegre, however,
I only had to wait two months to live the rap music video version of a
real live shooting - all of the excitement, a little of the perverse thrill,
and none of the sad consequences of actually getting shot.
So, what happened exactly, you ask? Not too much, really. Alessandra and
I had gone out with a few old friends of hers to a (great, by the way)
barzinho called Bongo and were dancing the night away to a mix of funk
flava jammed by a 3-man band, fronted by a James Blake / Lenny Kravitz
look-alike. One of Alessandra's hot friends wanted to head out, so I offered
to take her for a ride (home, gutterhead).
Returning to the bar after dropping her off, 6 or 7 shots rang out like
a bell about 100 meters down the road at a bar spilling into the street
with people. A few obligatory screams later (not by me, bastard), I was
following suit and ducking behind my makeshift shield, a cheap-looking
Ford or something. Not really my choice of life-saving device, but it
worked out okay. Alive and kickin´, baby!
The best part was the response from the girls upon my return. A simple
acknowledgment was all I got - no “Really? Right here?” - just some slow
nods of the head, some shakes of disapproval, and then they got back to
their business at hand - more dancing.
As I found out later, this stuff is relatively commonplace. They tell
me not to wear decent clothes to soccer games, appear as a native though
clearly my gait and dress betrays me. Don't take the bus by yourself at
night, they say - Brazil is perigoso. Dangerous.
The movie City of God showed Rio at its worst, but I dismissed
its violent imagery when I saw it in the theaters - In my 3 visits to
Brazil I had never seen anything alarming. But I now realize that the
talk is not just talk. Cases in point: My friend in São Paulo got his
Land Rover stolen, bought another car, and got that stolen too. He drives
a beat-up Jeep Wrangler now. My cousin had a gun pointed at her in the
passenger seat of a Nissan, and the car was swiftly handed over to the
firearm-wielding stranger - no questions asked! Another cousin almost
was kidnapped, but her fiancé managed to talk the gunman into just taking
the car.
This stuff happens more often than I guess I'd like to know.
To be clear, I still have not been the victim of anything more than a
anti-American joke or a little aggressive panhandling, and until I am,
I'll continue singing the praises of this land of the free though imperiled.
But I am keen to zip up my shorts pockets and take only the money I need,
take my watch off when I don't need to impress the ladies (with my ability
to tell the time in Portuguese as well as the watch's sleek contours),
and recognize when a brush of the backside is a “bad touch” - lest would-be
thieves catch me (so to speak) with my pants down.
But I also wonder what will happen the next time Fitty's posse rounds
the corner pumping out rounds. What if I'm with one of my cousins or new
friends? Will I duck first, then pull them down with me? (Aren't you
supposed to secure your mask first, then help others?) What if we
only have a motorcycle to hide behind? What's better in that case - the
spoked wheels or the solid but fuel-filled tank? Most important: Are these
really the questions I should be asking on my supposed sabbatical?
Not exactly your picture of paradise, and not exactly a glowing endorsement
of this country I call home. But really, friends, come to Brazil - where
else can you learn to samba by dodging bullets?
Carl
Winter is a Taiwan-born Brazilian/American dual-citizen, living in Brazil
for the first time at the age of 28. The posted stories, pictures, and
digit$ are meant to give an indication of the daily fabric of Brazil —
from an outsider's inside perspective.
If you are planning a trip to Brazil, or just want to say hi, email him
here.
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