“Careful. Watch the pockets. Money,” says the little girl to my mother while she points at my mom’s pants. In her stunted English, the girl is telling her to keep her money close. In a favela, you never know.
My mother smiled and then she followed our local guide through the narrow alleys, looking for a bathroom. While we were waiting for her, the owner of the house came to greet us, gesticulating to make us understand not every corner of the favela was as safe. He stretched his arm behind us, nodding with his head and repeating “no”. The area was off limits. Over the black roofs, we saw the hope of the ocean. Behind us, the colored houses of the Pelourinho greeted tourists. Almost another city. In front of us, the downhill leaded to the newer part of the city, where the streets looked empty after the rain.
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