Ten Bandidos (1)

Salvador, Brazil 1994

Click on the (number) for the English Translation

“Armas não mata fome…” (2)

-grafitti on Unimar Supermarket, Săo Capelinha , Salvador, Bahia

The bus is progressing fast towards Ferra de Santana having made almost 1,600 kilometres from Rio de Janeiro. We are in the north eastern region of Brazil. It is around 3 a.m. Time of intense sleep. A period invariably and universally favoured by thieves. I am half asleep, half awake, enjoying the music of Olodum blaring loudly through the speakers when the vehicle halts abruptly. Lights come on. Three men in the vehicle stand up and issue a stern loud warning.

“Fica fria tudo mundo !”

“Esse é um assalto!”

“Levanta ! Levanta!” (3)

Several others outside are getting ready to get in some banging the windows forcing us all to wake up.

I know this is it. For the past six months almost 100 armed robberies on highways have been reported. An average of fifteen assaults on passengers every month. Two robberies per week. I have been hearing about it and today is my turn. No wonder I have been half-asleep; in anticipation. The Olodum tune is still reverberating through the bus speakers:

“Canta Canta Canta Salvador

Canta Canta Canta Meu Amor

Canta canta Olodum do Pelô” (4)

The song seems to be the only thing disobeying these individuals who are armed to the teeth. Surprisingly I am so cool, as I count seven of them outside – in three flashy cars – Volkswagen Santana, two red, one silver-grey. Each of them has hand grenades strapped around the waist and AK 47 submachine guns held at the ready. This is not a movie. Nor are we in Beirut or Somalia. And certainly not a dream. One woman keeps chanting a shrilly voice as if joining forces with the on going Olodum music.

“O meu Deus !” (5)

Yes, God should be with us

“Cale a sua boca buçeta!” (6)

One of the robbers is a woman. No not only her. Two more outside. We are being robbed by a mixed gender gang. I must say, scared and full of trepidation as I am, I find it interesting and amusing to hear my fellow female passenger silenced by another no-nonsense female robber.

But the sudden gun butting of a foreign looking man who dared curse one of them overshadows my amusement. Later I learn he is from Argentina. Afterwards he would boast he was the only one to dare challenge the power of the guns. He calls us all cowards. I haven’t heard what he said but he obviously challenged the power roving over our suspense filled dawn lives.

We are told to hand over a minimum of five thousand Cruzeiro notes (about two US dollars). I have experienced many robberies in my life but this is the first time I have had thieves telling you exactly how much they want you to give.

Am I part of a street show? They say they don’t want any bags, jewellery, documents, clothes. Just money. Two French tourists are picked by one of the men. Being white and foreign in Brazil is a disadvantage on such occasions

“Gringo! Da tudo ou vocês apanha!” (7)

The two fellows are spanked, I can see the taller one trying to hide his white waist belt, where he probably concealed his money. He probably wasn’t briefed on the highway robbery codes of Brazil. You hide most of your cash in a safe place and leave some for immediate emergency use. This means buying food, any other “general payments” that includes paying thieves. You don’t attempt to sneak and conceal your pouch in the midst of such seasoned money takers. One of the bandidos does not miss the move. Quick as flash he comes over.

“Não ! Não, vem ca Gringo!” (8)

The white money belt is taken away, full of traveller’s cheque, dollars and a couple of 50 thousand Cruzeiro notes. He is then fiercely slapped.

“Caralho!” (9)

I am at seat no. 19 near the window. I prefer the windows because most passengers do not observe the non-smoking rules. At times the air gets cold, drivers go so fast, and a passenger might complain.

Tonight I have had another minor problem. A really fat guy, three times my size, seated beside me is not only smoking, he is constantly farting, snores and has an acute body and mouth odour. In one way I prefer the cigarette fumes. Funny, how another man’s smell can make your life miserable. Not only the smell, being huge and fat he is taking all my seating space. I have been feeling squeezed and squashed to the window. Lack of room, shortage of air, has made this journey a misery. Used as I am to travelling and meeting all sorts of things I have been shouldering feelings of annoyance. No wonder I have been half sleeping. And no wonder this robbery sardonic as it may be, seems to offer a great welcoming break.

“Are you sick?” he had asked me once

“No I am just tired”

We sometimes say “no” with our mouths while meaning “yes” with our hearts. He is the sick man. I should tell him to pump the fat out of his huge pathetic stomach. Now a gun muzzle is pointed at us both. Noticing the huge belly the short man with a moustache and an AK-47 nudges the stomach aggressively.

“Tudo bem Faustão?” (10)

The robber’s allude to Faustão the popular TV presenter almost makes me laugh. Famous Faustão like my travelling companion here is also tall and fat.

“OK..” says my seat mate, scornfully.

Too scared to piss off the gangster’s insult he manages a nervous smile. Don’t we always say “yes” when we mean “no”? Then he hands over a couple of five thousand Cruzeiro notes. He is loaded.

Now comes my turn.

“Oi Djavan!” (11)

Are my dreadlocks like those of Brazil’s Stevie Wonder, Mr Djavan, the cool ballad singer going to help me? Waving my empty hands I say I don’t have a single penny. I quickly I add that I am a poor African that I will give him a beautiful expensive carving made from ebony, the pride of African sculpture.

That makes him laugh so much two others come asking what madness is goingon.

“Africano malandro, ha ha ha! Vou te contar!” (12) They are surrounding me as I quickly take out my passport. I say I am a refugee running away from the Rwanda civil war. One of them says they are not from immigration they want money not papers.

“Vamos ! Vamos! Vamo- embora malandro!” (13)

The “operation” has lasted a mere five minutes, from outside I sense their urgency. But Shorty won’t let me go. He wants my watch.

“Da Relogio Africano!” (14)

I say the watch is not working, it is a toy. I am pretending struggling to take it out of my wrist giving myself time.

“Vamo! Vamo!”

Shorty is pointing his gun at me undecided whether to shoot or take the watch.

“Deixe esse pobre Africano ai! Vamos sai daqui malandro!” (15)

I have never felt so good about the poverty in Africa. Normally being poor and from that continent is a permanently gnawing pain. However, the unwanted economic misery seems to have exported its hot sunshine of magic at the right time. They all run outside, to their cars.

In South America, speed and freedom is the gun.