Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [1]
dance lest we all fall down
Breaking Cycles of Poverty in Brazil and Beyond
This is a true story. Some names and incidents have been changed to protect the privacy of the people involved. Although some conversations are verbatim, taken from field notes, others have been constructed from memory. I have condensed various occurrences and occasionally shuffled the time line in order to create a more cohesive narrative.
The incidents and people in this book, however, are real. Likewise, the recording of the conversations and interactions reflect a reality that was sometimes painful for me to experience. I hope, through the words of this book, I have been able to convey some of the insights, struggles, and courage of these people I have been lucky enough to know.
2006
2006
Tropical nights fall quickly.
I stood alone on a curb in the city of Salvador da Bahia, Brazil. Rain, surprisingly cold against the warm night air, flattened my hair, soaked my scalp, and migrated through my shirt to the hollow of my spine. A man standing beneath the awning of a darkened store watched me. I had stayed too late at my appointment. Buses were no longer safe at this hour so I hailed a taxi.
The driver slowed, water spitting from beneath his wheels. He leaned over the passenger seat and opened the backseat door. I closed it gently so as not to batter the flimsy metal of his locally produced Brazilian car, then opened the front door and climbed in beside him. I checked him out: scruffy hair, gaunt cheekbones, a short beard. His long thin fingers lay lightly on the steering wheel. He took stock of my appearance: tall, white skin, light hair. A foreigner, or perhaps from Southern Brazil. Certainly middle-class. His eyes glinted, almost metallic in the dim reflection of the dashboard lights.
“Thanks,” I said in Portuguese. “What a downpour! It’s not supposed to rain like this in December.” The driver visibly relaxed at the sound and slang of my lower-class Portuguese.
“Tell me about it,” he said. “Bad for business, nobody’s out. The weather’s gone wacky lately, you can’t count on anything. Where you going?”
“Carlos Gomes, near Dois de Julho.”
“Right.” He turned onto a dark side street, a shortcut I also knew. I acknowledged his street savvy with a nod. He smiled.
“Look at this kitchen store,” I said. “About ten years ago it had only a few lights. Each year they keep adding more and more. Now it’s a wall of illumination, a blazing beacon.”
The driver glanced at the store and laughed. It occupied a corner lot. Row upon row of bright white lights fully covered one side. Fake green leaves, perhaps intended to represent ivy, were draped over one edge. These, in turn, were covered by a cascade of gold colored balls. At the front of the store, every limb of every bush was entwined with even more lights. As we passed, choral tones, seemingly varied renditions of Edelweiss, rang out at deafening decibels.
“Yes,” the driver said. “The city and companies invest a great deal in all these Christmas lights and decorations. They think then we poor people won’t notice the rotted walls they cloak, the decaying infrastructure. Personally, I think the money might be better spent on education and feeding people.”
I glanced at him. “That’s my thought,” I said, “but I don’t often hear people express it that eloquently.”
He shrugged and skillfully maneuvered the taxi through spray and heavy traffic. “It’s a fantasy set up to divert the population’s attention from the horrors of living here. They think the starving residents of the city won’t notice the darkness behind this blanket of light. The lights have no substance; they’re a flimsy