Getting Shot At – Porto Alegre, Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil

Getting Shot At
Porto Alegre, Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil

Pool Pub: Common pasttime in the old Porto of Alegre

I ducked for cover sorta slowly, not really instinctively. After the shots and a few screams, the gang’s car squealed its tires and rounded the corner in my direction, then roared past. I just sorta squatted there behind a parked car.

Not exactly 007 stuff, huh? I didn’t even get a good look at ‘em – I was crouching Carl hidden by car. Just another experience to add to the list.

I’m not sure what to liken it to. It’s a little bit Queens, a little bit South Central. In the summer of ‘98 I lived in Carson, California, neighbor of Compton and home to do-badders and gangstas. But I never actually witnessed a shooting – just a few cops speeding here and there, as well as 6″ thick bullet-proof glass at the Domino’s pick-up window. In Porto Alegre, however, I only had to wait two months to experience the rap music video version of a real live shooting – all of the excitement, a little of the perverse thrill, and none of the sad consequences of actually getting shot.

So, what happened exactly, you ask? Not too much, really. Alessandra and I had gone out with a few old friends of hers to a (great, by the way) barzinho called Bongo and were dancing the night away to a mix of funk flava jammed by a 3-man band, fronted by a James Blake/Lenny Kravitz look-alike. One of Alessandra’s hot friends wanted to head out, so I offered to take her for a ride (home, gutterhead).

Returning to the bar after dropping her off, 6 or 7 shots rang out like a bell about 100 meters down the road at a bar spilling into the street with people. A few obligatory screams later (not by me, bastard), I was following suit and ducking behind my makeshift shield, a cheap-looking Ford or something. Not really my choice of life-saving device, but it worked out okay. Alive and kickin’, baby!

The best part was the response from the girls upon my return. A simple acknowledgment was all I got – no “Really? Right here?” – just some slow nods of the head, some shakes of disapproval, and then they got back to their business at hand – more dancing.

As I found out later, this stuff is relatively commonplace. They tell me not to wear decent clothes to soccer games, appear as a native, though clearly my gait and dress betrays me. Don’t take the bus by yourself at night, they say – Brazil is perigoso. Dangerous.

The movie City of God showed Rio at its worst, but I dismissed its violent imagery when I saw it in the theaters – in my 3 visits to Brazil I had never seen anything alarming. But I now realize that the talk is not just talk. Cases in point: My friend in São Paulo got his Land Rover stolen, bought another car, and got that stolen too. He drives a beat-up Jeep Wrangler now. My cousin had a gun pointed at her in the passenger seat of a Nissan, and the car was swiftly handed over to the firearm-wielding stranger – no questions asked! Another cousin almost was kidnapped, but her fiancé managed to talk the gunman into just taking the car.

This stuff happens more often than I guess I’d like to know.

Rotate! For all you guys out there, I rotated this pic so you don’t have to strain your neck to check out the hotties

To be clear, I still have not been the victim of anything more than a anti-American joke or a little aggressive panhandling, and until I am, I’ll continue singing the praises of this land of the free though imperiled. But I am keen to zip up my shorts pockets and take only the money I need, take my watch off when I don’t need to impress the ladies (with my ability to tell the time in Portuguese as well as the watch’s sleek contours), and recognize when a brush of the backside is a “bad touch” – lest would-be thieves catch me (so to speak) with my pants down.

But I also wonder what will happen the next time Fitty’s posse rounds the corner pumping out rounds. What if I’m with one of my cousins or new friends? Will I duck first, then pull them down with me? (Aren’t you supposed to secure your mask first, then help others?) What if we only have a motorcycle to hide behind? What’s better in that case – the spoked wheels or the solid but fuel-filled tank? Most important: Are these really the questions I should be asking on my supposed sabbatical?

Not exactly your picture of paradise, and not exactly a glowing endorsement of this country I call home. But really, friends, come to Brazil – where else can you learn to samba by dodging bullets?

---

Carl Winter is a Taiwan-born Brazilian/American dual-citizen, living in Brazil for the first time at the age of 28. The stories, pictures, and digits posted on his website are meant to give an indication of the daily fabric of Brazil � from an outsider’s inside perspective.