The lines to buy
Metro tickets were impossibly long. It was not, I thought, an accident that the
increased demand for public transportation to get to Rio`s biggest protest in a
generation had not been anticipated. The unusual presence of Military Police at
the station entrances gave an unmasked vision of the hooded cowards that would
be waiting a few hours hence. I walked towards downtown, eventually entering
the metro in Catete.
My fellow passengers
were dressed for a walk in the park, not a military confrontation. They carried
poster-sized banners, handbags, cell phones. One of the better posters read “Se
Pelé é Rei, eu sou jacobino” (If Pelé is King, then I´m a Jacobian). Coming
from the zona sul, the attitude was light, festive, but different from
Carnaval. There were small groups of friends, couples and individuals – mostly in
their late teens, twenties and thirties heading to Candelaria to start the long
march to the Prefeitura.
A carnaval-style
sound car led the way, with chants blasting over the throbbing mass. This gave
the procession a familiar air, but there was no dancing, no gyrating and
skimpily clad women to ogle. The sound car moved slowly as a human tide rose
behind it.
Several
political parties (or unions) had their banners out: UNE, CTB, AMES, PSB, PSTU, ANEL. Compared to the march
of 100,000 on Monday, this showed a jockeying for position among vested
political interests, exactly what the majority of the protesters don`t want. Later,
I heard that the CUT and PSTU groups had their banners shredded. The ANEL
banner was prescient (At least on the night): “Isso aqui vai virar a Turquia” (This here will
become Turkey).
In the middle of
a crowd it is impossible to determine its dimensions. In order to get some
perspective, I ran forward to overpass that links the Prefeitura building with
the Cidade Nova metro. I arrived to find the metro access doors closed. 150
people, journalists and photographers, PM and Metro security were inside. 5
minutes later the journalists were gone.
Looking back
towards Candelaria, some 3km distant, a human wave rolled. Directly below me,
the vanguard had arrived and was dancing underneath the overpass. The Maraca é
Nosso flag whipped through the air as the songs and rhythms from the x-Maracanã
made protesters jump and chant as if they were watching a game unfold. Hundreds had pushed forward towards the front
of the Prefeitura building (aka Piranhão, or big brothel). The mass of the
protest was still coming but had slowed. Fireworks. Bap bap bap, boom. Cheers.
Military helicopters swooped. Jeers.
Bap, bap, bap,
Boom. Cheers. Elderly people huffed up the stairs to get into the metro.
Security told them it was impossible. Como
pode? We heard that BOPE was going to enter the station. Bap bap, Boom. Cheers.
Journalists climbed up for a better angle. The stairs were crowded in order to
see the impure spectacle. Below, the growing chorus bellowed stadium chants. The most popular “Não
vai ter Copa! Não vai ter Copa! “
History stretched,
ran here and there. 500,000? 600,000? During Carnaval, O Bobo inflates counts.
There was light conversation in an atmosphere of civic solidarity and pride.
Boom. Boom.
Crack crack crack. No cheers. The air filled with tear gas as people sprinted
towards the oncoming hundreds of thousands. I was stuck on the stairs, with my
back protected and seemingly out of the line of fire coming from city hall.
Crack crack crack. More gas canisters flew into the streets, chasing those who
are already running. Brave young lads picked them up and threw them back or
kicked them in the canal. Someone with his face covered smashed the bus stop. I
can`t decide if that is a satisfying sound.
Minutes extended
as I judged a good time to run in front of the rubber bullets and tear gas
canisters to get away from city hall and back towards the crowd. More gas flowed
through and we choked and coughed and
spit and cried. I try not to rub my eyes, sprayed some vinegar on my mask and rode
out the wave of pain. Three guys with medic coats came up and offered a spray
of milk of magnesia - a base substance
to rub around the eyes. I felt horribly for these people with me on the
platform. They were all overweight and scared and in the right place with a
wrong government.
The front of the
crowd was chased away and in their place came the tough young guys with masks
and muscles to throw things back at the PM. More bombs, more smoke, more anger,
more vandalism. I decided to run for it as a rainstorm of tear gas canisters falls
from the top of buildings, or helicopters, or who knows where. Blinded again, I
ran towards the crowd retreating along Presidente Vargas. A small group sprinted
down a side street and was confronted by shock troops. They retreatd around a corner, but they were prepared with Molotov
cocktails and bombs. One cocktail exploded in someone`s hand, catching his hair
on fire. Será que valeu a pena?
Caught between
two side streets where the shock troops laid down constant tear gas and
percussion grenades, we were pressed from behind by the PM which had been
systematically following the salvos and establishing the new front. Again, I
timed a run and was again caught in a world of tear gas. We were up against the
Canal do Mangue, a putrid, open sewer that would eat through a tennis shoe
faster than a taser. The PM continued launching gas into the slow moving crowd. Como pode?
For an hour we
were pushed back with gas and bombs and bullets. The crowd walked quicker, with
small groups occasionally running to get out of the way of falling canisters. When
they fell at my feet again I was blinded, but not as much as the person to my
left. I wrapped my arm around him leading him forward as quickly as possible.
He was helpless. I was not much better. Minutes later the torment passed and we
were again walking with the masses, beating a new path to the state legislature
building. The beer vendors were out. Antartica has never tasted so good.
Near the
intersection of Rio Branco, it seemed that the crowd had moved on. Explosions
and sirens punctuated an eerie silence. The scene was one of Holywoodian destruction.
The PM was 100 yards distant. The menacing force stood shadowed by clouds of
tear gas and black smoke, the red lights of their trucks making scary shadows.
Dozens of people sat down in the street. My friend and I joined them. BBC Radio
called me for a live interview. The number grew to two hundred people, legs
crossed, V signs raised.
The PM attacked
from two sides: bombs, gas, bullets. Blindness, searing lungs and a full sprint
into the side streets while trying to talk on the phone. I don`t know if the
BBC aired the interview. I blindly jumped over broken trees, cobblestones and shredded
metal while running forward, trying to explain what was going on. Bombs
exploded all around and more canisters rained down. There were no machos here,
just people running for safety.
I ended up on Rio Branco heading towards Praça
Mauá. The vandalism was out of control, universally undertaken by young men
with their faces covered. Then again in front of the Museu da Amanha, another
attack from the police that sent us running yet again.
It was a long
walk to the metro. PM roamed the streets like rabid dogs, guns pointed in
everyone`s faces. Worse, they threw
tear gas into restaurants. These are the same tactics employed in Turkey. Solidarity!
For my usual
trenchant analysis you can find links to the million interviews on the media
page. And if anyone heard that BBC interview, please send it along.
My banner
choices of the day: Chega de Bullying; Mais Amor Menos Paes; Desigualdade
social é uma violência estrutural
[p.s. I had it easy]