I have been pondering, over the past week, on the mass shooting in Arizona recently, when a man named Jared Loughner opened fire with a semi-automatic weapon outside a Safeways supermarket, hitting 19 people and killing six. Naturally there have been enormous outpourings of grief for the victims, who included a nine-year-old girl, as well as instant and vicious political sniping, mostly from the left, accusing the right of inciting violence through political rhetoric. The Major and I first heard the news in Detroit airport, where we landed after an 11-hour flight from Chicago. A marked contrast to the hustle and bustle of Sao Paulo international airport, our first thoughts were of how civilised a country America was, until we heard about Loughner's rampage, and Sarah Palin's crosshair targeting of key Democrats on her website, and instant political vitriol immediately spewing forth.
I still do not understand, however, how a country which is supposedly the world's leading superpower can still allow its states to licence guns so freely. The Second Amendment is one thing: I don't agree with it, but can understand the history behind it, and why people support the right to bear arms. What I cannot understand it why this right is not accompanied by the most stringent regulations. Guns are designed to kill: surely to own a gun, one should be subject to the most rigorous checks to ensure the maximum safety in doing so? Arizona passed a law last year which allowed people to carry concealed weapons without a permit - why, in heaven's name? Why does one need to carry a concealed weapon in the first place? And why should one be allowed to carry an automatic weapon capable of firing off multiple rounds in one go?
It reminded me of when I was in Arizona over the summer, as part of the Ford Fiesta world tour. My first tour activity took place at Scottsdale Gun Club, America's largest public indoor shooting range. I'd literally just got off the plane, it was about 7.30am, and I was being handed an array of lethal weapons to fire. They included a Smith & Wesson 500, a Heckler & Koch MP5, an old-school AK 47 and a full-on, military-style M249 SAW, which came with a belt of bullets and which you had to lie down on the ground to fire. I hated it. The adrenaline that surged through my body made me feel sick; I hated the smell and the kick of the gun against my shoulder and the fact that the targets we were shooting were shaped like people. Even more disturbing was, when we had all had a go, the way the gun club staff enthusiastically took up position to blast off the rounds that we hadn't finished. They took such pleasure in it.
But I could see how that could happen. I could see how the adrenaline could become addictive, how hitting the bullseye could be a thrill, how it could make you feel really hard, and cool. Which is what makes me even more worried: if we, as human beings, have the capacity to enjoy shooting things so much, surely we should be saved from ourselves when it comes to regulating our ability to do so? Perhaps I will be derided as a namby-pamby, nanny-state fan who could be accused of not taking ones' rights seriously, but it's not me I'm worried about - it's all those nutters out there who can, because of these so-called rights, get their hands on a gun and use it on real live people. What about those people's own rights to life? Oh dear, it all gets a bit complicated, but I guess Time magazine summed it up best: surely something is awry when we live in a place where you can't take a bottle of shampoo in your bag on a plane, but you can quite easily buy a gun and use it to go and kill someone.
Tuesday 18 January 2011
Wednesday 5 January 2011
Rich v Poor in Rio
Yesterday I met a man called Rambo who lives in a cave. Well, I said I met him, I really just said hello and shook his hand.
The Major and I were on a tour of a favela in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. These unplanned sprawls of habitation are greatly feared in big Brazilian cities, because they are controlled by drug lords, they are where the poor people live, and they have bad and scary reputations - go into a favela and you won't come out alive, etc.
Except it turns out they're not all like that. Certainly the one we were in wasn't. It is called Rochinha, and is home to the largest number of favela dwellers in Rio - 300,000 people packed into 54,000 houses, some little more than shacks, perched on a hillside overlooking (of course) one of the most expensive pieces of Rio real estate. We spent about three hours walking around it with our guide, a half Brazilian, half American man who was born and raised in the favela and loves it with all his heart, so much so that he has tattoos of it all over his body.
It was most enlightening. Like any good tourist, we had bought the Lonely Planet guide to South America before embarking on our month-long trip around Argentina and Brazil, and had been warned to keep our valuables closely about us while in Rio and to never ever venture unaccompanied into a favela. But actually, all the people we met were lovely - friendly individuals, all of whom loved living in this close-knit community where people look out for one another and know each other by name. To be sure, we spotted occasional shadowy figures patrolling balconies - the drug boys who were keeping lookout from their patch, but according to our guide, the live and let live mentality of Rochinha means that, as long as people don't steal, kill or abuse, everyone will be fine. And it seemed that this was the case. We met one man, a German, who has lived there for 12 years, and never locks his house or his car. And of course we met Rambo, a rugged hairy type who lives on the edge of the favela in his cave on the hillside, and prefers to keep it simple.
It's not all idyllic of course. By and large, people live in favelas because they can't afford to live anywhere else - they are the maids, the housekeepers, the cleaners for the rich, earning R700-ish a month - a fairly pitiful sum and certainly not enough to rent a house in a proper planned area of the city. As our guide pointed out, if you tore down the favelas, Rio would grind to a halt, because the people who live here are the ones who keep everything ticking. The educational prospects are poor there, the majority of children don't end up at university and sadly, many of them turn to the drugs trade because they can earn more that way - although, thanks to an informal agreement with the police, it means they can never then leave the favela, because once they do they will be arrested.
It made us both think. Of how lucky we are to have enough money to go on adventurous holidays, to live in a nice house, to drive a nice car, to be able to educate our children well. But also of, how in many ways, we are spiritually the poorer for it - we don't have the same relationship with our neighbours, we get hung up on our possessions and whether we have the latest clothes and whether our thighs are too fat. For a brief moment, the Major and I contemplated coming there to live for a while, to engage with the people around us, to learn the language, to see if we could get by. But then we returned to our cosy little guesthouse perched in pretty Santa Teresa with lovely houses all around and weakly, foolishly agreed that we might not be able to manage it after all. A shaming thought, especially after meeting Rambo.
The Major and I were on a tour of a favela in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. These unplanned sprawls of habitation are greatly feared in big Brazilian cities, because they are controlled by drug lords, they are where the poor people live, and they have bad and scary reputations - go into a favela and you won't come out alive, etc.
Except it turns out they're not all like that. Certainly the one we were in wasn't. It is called Rochinha, and is home to the largest number of favela dwellers in Rio - 300,000 people packed into 54,000 houses, some little more than shacks, perched on a hillside overlooking (of course) one of the most expensive pieces of Rio real estate. We spent about three hours walking around it with our guide, a half Brazilian, half American man who was born and raised in the favela and loves it with all his heart, so much so that he has tattoos of it all over his body.
It was most enlightening. Like any good tourist, we had bought the Lonely Planet guide to South America before embarking on our month-long trip around Argentina and Brazil, and had been warned to keep our valuables closely about us while in Rio and to never ever venture unaccompanied into a favela. But actually, all the people we met were lovely - friendly individuals, all of whom loved living in this close-knit community where people look out for one another and know each other by name. To be sure, we spotted occasional shadowy figures patrolling balconies - the drug boys who were keeping lookout from their patch, but according to our guide, the live and let live mentality of Rochinha means that, as long as people don't steal, kill or abuse, everyone will be fine. And it seemed that this was the case. We met one man, a German, who has lived there for 12 years, and never locks his house or his car. And of course we met Rambo, a rugged hairy type who lives on the edge of the favela in his cave on the hillside, and prefers to keep it simple.
It's not all idyllic of course. By and large, people live in favelas because they can't afford to live anywhere else - they are the maids, the housekeepers, the cleaners for the rich, earning R700-ish a month - a fairly pitiful sum and certainly not enough to rent a house in a proper planned area of the city. As our guide pointed out, if you tore down the favelas, Rio would grind to a halt, because the people who live here are the ones who keep everything ticking. The educational prospects are poor there, the majority of children don't end up at university and sadly, many of them turn to the drugs trade because they can earn more that way - although, thanks to an informal agreement with the police, it means they can never then leave the favela, because once they do they will be arrested.
It made us both think. Of how lucky we are to have enough money to go on adventurous holidays, to live in a nice house, to drive a nice car, to be able to educate our children well. But also of, how in many ways, we are spiritually the poorer for it - we don't have the same relationship with our neighbours, we get hung up on our possessions and whether we have the latest clothes and whether our thighs are too fat. For a brief moment, the Major and I contemplated coming there to live for a while, to engage with the people around us, to learn the language, to see if we could get by. But then we returned to our cosy little guesthouse perched in pretty Santa Teresa with lovely houses all around and weakly, foolishly agreed that we might not be able to manage it after all. A shaming thought, especially after meeting Rambo.
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