September 1977

Perhaps Evaristo Gazzotti, one of the most important land owners in this district, will lend us a piece of land. My house is already full of used building materials: windows, doors, toilets, sinks, beams, etc. If it comes through, we want to build a youth center. Sometimes, when I have a headache for example, and I think of all I would like to do and if I will be able to do it and persevere, it all seems terribly murky. At my age men are at their best, but women are already going downhill. And when everything depends on one person it's very shaky. My situation recently became clear to me when we were with Everisto Gazzotti. Dr. Gazzotti behind his immense leather-trimmed desk; Peter Schmidt, owner of the Giroflex factory; Mr. Blaich, the imposing Waldorf School personality; Cido and Zéca - but the nucleus of it all was my own humble self.

If the Gazzotti land doesn't come through, we must think of something else. My house is simply to small to accommodate forty children every day. When, like now, it has rained for a week and everything is damp, the wash doesn't dry, the children bring in mud which sticks everywhere and it rained into the shed in the back, I could literally go crazy. There's so much land in Brazil and not even a little piece for us. Something must happen in any case. Boxes, cases, sacks, suitcases full of Christmas presents are everywhere. The products of the children's work that they will give their parents for Christmas (35 sewn pillows, calendars, Christmas stars, etc.) and the used clothing for Londrina -- it all winds up here. Where should we store the three sacks of oats, the two sacks of cookies, the five packets of chocolate pieces, the used clothing, the 15 pairs of sneakers, the 30 pajamas for outings, the five doors, three lattices, toilets, bidet, a truck-load of wood??

October 1977

Gazzotti gave permission. We are allowed to build. To work!

Today is Sunday. We have just come from our plot of land. Last Sunday we demolished the ruins of the house that stood on it. It sounds easy, but when four people shake a house wall until it finally falls over, it becomes quite strenuous under the Brazilian sun. The roof-truss hung awry from one wall. We pushed against it with beams for a long time before it condescended to fall. Our men all helped, but also many favela children. We saved the serviceable bricks and carried them to the back corner of the plot in order to build a wall there. I must have stooped a thousand times today to carry six, seven or eight bricks, covered with sweat and red as a beet. The children carry everything on their heads, the small ones one brick, the older ones more, or whole beams.

The following Sunday we began to build the wall. I never realized that it's such an art to set one brick onto another. I, at least, had to reset them every time. Last night I dreamed of bricks and walls. Gazzotti, who visited us yesterday in order to measure the plot, couldn't get over his surprise at so much enthusiasm for work for which no profit is expected.

January 1978

Disappointment. Anger. Gazzotti, or his mother, reneged on their promise and we are again without land. I was already suspicious, as he has been postponing the signing our contract for two months.

Now I'm going to see if we can get a piece of land from the prefecture. Running around - heat - running around - waiting - heat -, in this heat one is always in a better mood after a cool shower than after social work.

Excursion to Itatiaia

We've already had many outings with the favela children, of one day or of a week's duration, to the zoo and to the Butantan Snake Institute in Sao Paulo, and outside Sao Paulo to an orange fazenda, to the sitio Ens, to the reservoir, to the beach; but the most complicated outing was to the Itatiaia mountains, about 250 miles from Sao Paulo in the direction of Rio de Janeiro.

It began complicated. We wanted to go by train; Itatiaia has a train station but the trains don't stop there. However, from my school experience I knew that it's possible to get special permission from the Station-Master, who issues the corresponding instructions for the train to stop there. So I went to the main station and after asking around I finally found the right man and he promised me that the train would stop in Itatiaia.

We informed the parents what kind of trip it would be, with special emphasis on the fact that it would last a week. The mothers gave their permission, the fathers didn't, all the children wanted to come, even the five-year-olds. A lot of coming and going. But finally we had a group of fifteen children, boys and girls, between the ages of nine and fifteen.

Everyone was supposed to contribute food and they arrived with packages: rice, beans, cornmeal, sugar, salt, noodles. Cido and I went to buy the "rest": some meat, sausage, eggs, onions, potatoes, peas, flour, etc. Blaich gave us vegetables. We packed it all in two huge crates and some small boxes.

Second problem: how is all the baggage to get to the station? I called Seu Armando, who said he was willing to pick us up with his perua (Volkswagen mini-van).

At six o'clock in the morning the first children arrived. Seu Armando was supposed to come at seven. We placed everything on the porch: crates and boxes of food, fifteen plastic bags containing the children's belongings, two suitcases of toys and games, pajamas for all, rainwear, books, handicrafts tools, an armchair - an excursion of gypsies! But how was it all to fit along with seventeen people in a mini-van? I sent Cido and some of the children ahead in the city bus, the rest were packed into the van. "Kommt ein Wagen vollbeladen, voll mit Kind und Kegel!"

(A wagon comes fully loaded, full of bag and baggage.)

After snaking our way through the morning traffic, we arrived at the train station about an hour later. Now the heavy baggage had to be carried to the train -- we were soaked in sweat and exhausted after doing it. Everyone gaped at us, including the conductor. Just in case, I asked if the train would really stop in Itutaiai. "Ninguém deu ordem.": No one has given the order. In heaven's name, now we were in trouble. I wanted to see the Station Master, but he was still sleeping. Finally, at the last moment, the written order came. Relieved, we sat in the train, it departed, dragging itself slowly through the treeless suburbs: factories, favelas, desolate and seemingly without end.

Only after two hours ride did it become nicer as we came into the Vale do Paraiba, where green rice fields and vegetable gardens refreshed our eyes. What a relief to know that somewhere things are still planted.

The children made themselves at home: some knitted, some played, others ate oats. The trip took six hours and we arrived in Itatiaia at about one o'clock. The train entered the station whistling loudly, we jumped out with our baggage, waved and thanked them for the "extra service".

Third problem: we stood in the deserted station two miles away from the town and five miles from Matthias' house, which he had put at our disposal for the next five days. We put the children and the baggage under a generously shade-giving tree. Cido took care of the hungry children while I went down the long treeless road to the town to find a taxi there. After some bargaining, I found two which were willing to take us up the mountain. But what did we get ourselves into!? One of the drivers seemed to be more occupied contemplating his navel than with the numerous serpentine curves and chasms. I sweated blood as he sped so close to the chasms: the responsibility for the children and no insurance! Tá Louco. You're crazy!

Suddenly a huge boulder stood before us. It was too much. I ordered the children out of the car. The driver's pleas didn't change my mind, we continued on foot. He met us at Matthias' house, safe and sound and defending himself in front of the other driver. Well, we finally reached our destination. The little house was very nice and we accommodated ourselves right away. Some began to cook and finally we sat at a long table, said grace and attacked the food.

The next day we went walking, quite far, bringing groans from the children -- to the waterfall, Véu da Noiva, to Maromba and to Lago Azul, an ice-cold brook that bubbles down from a mountain and empties into a lake. We swam there and sprang into the freezing water. Little Solange was the bravest and at the end of the outing was given the title "A mais corajosa da água fria" (bravest in cold water). There was also a nice little museum with Itatiai's animal life. The insect section with wasp-combs that look like modern architecture astonished the children most.

In the evenings we played wink and mime, Poor Black Cat, and improvised a theatre. The nights were pitch black, without stars, so that you couldn't see a yard in front of you. The children almost died of fright when they had to step outside. Therefore we undertook night-marches or trials of courage. Only Zezê, Adivina and Solange were willing to walk down the mountain with me in the darkness.

Only when the children are with you like that 24 hours a day do you really get to know them. Especially their fear at night. Once I took one of the girls with me at night and we gave the boys a fright. They were already in bed and we knocked on the window from outside and made sinister noises. The giggling in the boys' room stopped abruptly, it was deathly still, then the whispers: o fantasma, the ghost, fica quieto, é o cao, o bicho: keep still, it's the monster, the devil! They trembled with fear and all eight jumped into Cido's bed, which luckily was only a mattress on the floor. Although they knew later that we were the ghost, they slept near Cido from then on and didn't want to extinguish the candle.

The two older boys wouldn't let the younger ones sleep one night and Cido sent them to the living-room. They didn't close their eyes once all night and whined. Oh, Ute, deixe a gente dormir no cuarto com os outros - let us sleep in the room with the others. We remained firm however, for after all they're fifteen years old and shouldn't be frightened by some shadows of trees that fall into the room.

During the day Cido taught the children many new dishes and they often baked bread. Whoever worked and helped best, or voluntarily cleaned the toilet or carried the food basket, got a star.

On the last day we distributed prizes: the bravest in the dark, the bravest in cold water, the most helpful, the best cook, etc.

That night was New Years Eve. We played until midnight. In honor of the year 1978 there was churrasco -- nine pounds of meat! At midnight we opened a bottle of champagne, the glass was solemnly passed around and all drank their sip of friendship.

Then we had to think about departure. The train would not stop in Itatiai on the way back, so we had to rent a mini-van and go to Resende. With a smaller load than on arrival we left, saying good-by to the mountains of Itatiaia. At the station in Resende we had a fright. The train was due to arrive in an hour-and-a-half but, we were told, it was already full because of the holidays. I stayed stubbornly in line. It turned out that there were twelve seats free. We alone needed more than that. So I left the line and we stood with children, plastic sacks and our pot of food (a mixture of noodles and beans which gradually fermented due to the heat). The train arrived with people hanging out of the doors and windows. I gathered the children and, although we had no tickets yet, we stormed through the gate and pushed our way into the train. Fortunately it was the same train we took coming, with the same crew. They offered us a place in the baggage car, which made us deliriously happy. Thus we rode comfortably sprawled on the floor toward Sao Paulo. It was pouring rain when we got out. This time there was no helpful Armando to pick us up. We ran soaking wet and loaded down (like migrants from the Northeast) with sacks and pots through the streets of Sao Paulo past the high-rises, crossing the wide avenues. A sack fell, Zezê bent to pick it up and his trousers split. Now he had to hold them as well. But finally we were all jammed into the city bus on our way to Vila das Belezas and Monte Azul. They were all anxious to know how things were at home and looked forward to seeing their families.

Recently a "lady" asked me: "And don't they feel too strongly the difference between this and their homes?" No, for they are happy to see their mothers and sisters and brothers again. They like to travel, but they look forward to the return just as every child does, whether they're returning to a palace or to a miserable hut.

Mirani

Early this morning I went to the favela to inform Pedrinho that we would be going to Volkswagen today where he was to apply for the three-year training course. Dr. Sauer, the President of the local company, had given instructions that "Dona Ute's children" could also do this training, which is otherwise reserved for relatives of the factory workers.

I slid down the steep muddy path to Pedrinho's house, expertly avoiding a pile of shit which lay in the middle of the path. As I'm on vacation, more time is available, so I stopped to chat with Mirani, Pedrinho's mother. The training takes three years, I told her. And what will we do with Pedrinho when we go back to Bahia? Are you going to move soon? Yes, probably next year when my husband gets his invalid's pension. Well, then he can live with us, like the other boys from Paraná.

Bahia and pension were now the catchwords. She told me about her life. "I was born in the roca, the interior of Bahia. My mother didn't let me go to school. She said that girls only wanted to learn to read and write in order to send love letters to boys. I was stubborn though, and learned it alone. Later I married my husband who brought six children into the marriage, who I raised."

Charming children, with a touch of Indio. "I always wanted to see Sao Paulo. Everyone talked about this wonder city. Then I became ill and we moved to Sao Paulo, because the doctors are better here. We had just enough money to pay the rent deposit and the first installments for two beds, a stove and a table. The room was abominable, it rained in, the neighbors were nasty to the children who I had to leave alone during the day because I went to work as a cleaning-woman".

"Then came the coldest winter I ever experienced. My lips were frozen blue. In the factory the other women asked me why I didn't put on a sweater. I said I wasn't cold, but my whole body was shivering".

"But I was so cold that I overcame my shame. 'I have no sweater, I've just come from the North.' The next day a woman brought me a flannel jacket. It was nice and warm, but as the children had nothing warm to wear I left it with them at home. Then some women workers got together and gave me five sweaters".

"One day I said to my husband, 'This can't go on. We're working to pay the rent and the installments and to buy rice and beans. I heard that one can live free on prefecture land' (I didn't yet know the word favela). Instead of continuing to pay rent, I got an advance from the firm, we bought old wood and found a small space in the favela Monte Azul. If we hadn't done that my children would still be in rags and we wouldn't have enough to eat".

"Two years later my husband was injured at work and declared unfit to work. His application for an invalid's pension is still pending in court. Since five years!" Adivina served us coffee. Nice.

"My husband would have given up long ago, but I kept at it. Why is there a court and justice? If we get the compensation, we will go back to Bahia and open a little store. I'm ashamed to live in the favela."

"You shouldn't be ashamed of that. You don't live here because you have committed a crime."

"No, but still...The good and the bad live here together, but the worst thing is that we are all so crammed together and the children see and experience everything. At Christmas four murderers were arrested and the policeman cried: "Yes, just look, you women and children, last night these men killed fourteen people with razors and robbed them." And they began to beat the defenseless men. The mother screamed, 'Let them go, oh, my children!' You hear it all in the whole favela."

I thought of the jails: twenty in a small cell. Four beds which they fight over. The strong terrorize the weak. Now and then the police come, pull one out, whip him and then throw him back into the cell, whether he is guilty or not. Many vegetate there so many years they forget that they are human beings.

Two hours later I left, climbed up the muddy hill, passed by our youth center and went home. One must do something for these people. I only hope that Pedrinho can learn a trade at Volkswagen and lead a life worthy of a human being. And that he doesn't forget that he was also poor as a child and helps others to pull themselves up.