This article is dedicated to my friend Kay,
Wind blowing our hair, the night coolness washing away the heat of the day, we held on tightly as the battered old Chevy pickup dodged and bounced through the maze of speed bumps and pot-holes in the granite cobblestoned streets.
Roaring up a steep hill to a little shop in the old part of Olinda, we backed up to the door and jumped out to begin our work for the night.
A bushel of rolls from a bakery down the street, three gallons of sweet coffee and two large gunny sacks of 2 liter soda bottles with the tops cut off began our load along with a couple of old wooden chairs and a battered sign wired to the tailgate announcing “Ministerio do Sopa, um ministerio da Casa de Meu Pai”
Back in our places in the back of the old truck we did a roller-coaster descent back down to the beachfront and bounced into the parking lot of a little restaurant.
I am a large man by any standard, and especially here in the Northeast of Brazil where people tend to be rather small I always draw comments. Tonight was no different, but tonight my size and strength were welcomed as I helped to hoist a full 30 gallon container of hot soup into the back of the old truck and slide it forward to the front of the bed between the two old chairs.
It wedged tightly into place and it was obvious this was a method developed by past practice.
The regulars took their place, Klebber, the owner of the truck and the official “head” of the ministry is a sign contractor in the area. Leda is the owner of a small shop in Olinda and coordinates the food and clothing contributions. Tonight she rode in the front with Klebber in the navigator’s seat.
Wita and Pretinha took the chairs on either side of the kettle and Leide, Sandra and I took the open areas in the rear of the truck between the crate of rolls, the coffee jug and the bags of containers.
More on each of these people later as we cruise the streets of Olinda. But now, the old truck roars to life and takes a left turn onto the main street of Olinda. It is after Ten pm and almost all the businesses were closed for day.
Olinda is an old town. As often happens with old towns, the new town offered all the attractions and the money and affluence drifted there, leaving the old town to suffer the deterioration that comes to places that no longer offer any political or financial leverage.
Here and there are beautiful buildings with well maintained facades, but they are sandwiched between old, tired, dirty buildings and the hustle of people trying to make a living where it isn’t easy to live.
We cruise slowly down the street watching under the awnings of the businesses for the clusters of the cacadores who shelter there for the night. A few blocks later we see our first and we pull over.
“Sopa,” someone shouts and the cluster of men under the awning slowly roll off their cardboard pallets, rub the sleep out of their eyes and drift over to the truck.
We hand each of them a liter and a half of hot vegetable soup, two or three rolls and a cup of hot coffee, even carrying some of it over to the ones who are so tired or high on glue to come to the truck.
Most are grateful, most express their thanks and visit for a moment before finding a place to sit and eat. Occasionally someone will grumble because their soup wasn’t the flavor they were expecting, but hey, even the best restaurant have a disgruntled customer every now and then.
The cacadores (meaning “hunters”) are a special breed of the homeless. They make their living by sifting through the garbage and collecting everything that can be recycled, then selling it for whatever they can get.
Many of them have large hand carts made from old car axles and some even sleep in or under the carts. Far from being lazy, many of these men work 10 or 12 hours a day and make 10 or 15 dollars for their efforts. You can see them everywhere during the day and while many of them have homes in the favelas, the ones we visit this night are homeless and sleeping in the business district because of the safety it offers.
Many of them are suffering the effects of the glue bottles they sniff as a numbing drug against the hunger, but we aren’t here to judge, or to fix or to give advice. Tonight, it is enough to give them an old plastic bottle full of soup and let them know someone cares.
We continue down the streets watching the parking lots and sidewalks as cars and busses pass us, honking at our slow pace. Occasionally someone shouts something and Pretinha will shout back with the Brazilian equivelant of “Praise the Lord” or wave at them and sing a verse of a song.
Pretinha is in her twenties, a small, very dark skinned afro-brazilian with a heart for the Lord as big as the truck we are riding in. Her songs, her laughter are the highlight and the accent of this trip as she serves the soup and there’s no doubt who’s in charge when someone attempts to get an extra helping of food.
As the night goes on, we’ve made one pass through town on the main thoroughfare, we’ve stopped for a 2 liter of Guaranha and a short break at the 24 hour supermarket and now we are working our way back to the other side of town.
Tonight the numbers have been small, Wita tells us that it runs in cycles and the past few weeks have been rather slow. No one knows why, but sooner or later it will change again and there will be more.
Wita is Leda’s son. He limps from a birth defect, but that hasn’t slowed his faith any. He is a cornerstone of the church he attends and any time there is work to be done, he will be there.
He is in his twenties with a big smile and infectious laugh, and his place tonight is dipping soup out of the big kettle into the plastic bottles and reminding all of us that we have to sit down in the bed instead of up on the side of the truck. A ticket here is outrageously expensive and even though Klebber is an ex-police officer, the risk isn’t worth it.
We sit.
The truck winds its way out of the business district into some of the parks where we find a couple of families who welcome us with waves of excitement. They dig plastic containers out of an old shopping bag and crowd around the truck waiting for their turn. Here we see children and women and the bottles are handed out with more in them, the rolls are handed out in threes instead of twos and the coffee cups are full.
Around the corner find another group of cacadores and in this group is a man/woman couple. She is a little slow waking up so he nudges her with his foot and she tells him in no uncertain terms what she thinks of his foot in her side. Waving her arm and making a “whooshing” sound at him translates in English to “who do you think you are, old man…” and with that, she comes over to the truck. Leda greets her and by their conversation it’s evident that the woman and her man are regulars of the soup run.
Our last stop is a business square in the oldest part of Olinda. There is an old park there, and a lagoon that joins four of the old canals. In centuries past, freight was transferred from the docks inland by a series of canals that form a net over much of the city and are still full of water today. They are mostly sewage tainted and houses are built right up to the edge of many, so any romantic notions of gondolas being poled up the waterways are quickly dispelled by the aroma of floating garbage. The remains of an age gone by remain however and there is a crumbling gazebo and a little park with stone benches and cobblestone pavement built around the lagoon, and the park is surrounded by old shops and lottery kiosks and vacant buildings.
It was here that we met the street kids. As they crowded around the truck, it became quickly apparent that this was a different crowd than any we had seen tonight. There was an attitude of pushing and demanding. Leda warned us earlier that we would have to watch here because many of the people who came would take their food, hide it and make another trip through the line.
The smell of glue permeated the air and the vacant eyes of many demonstrated why. Glue is the drug of availability here. It is cheap, it is readily available, there are no laws against it, and a tube of glue inside a soda bottle brings a sense of relief from the hunger that is so pervasive on the street.
Some here are actually homeless, but many who have homes and families choose the street to escape the violence and insecurity they face in those homes.
We watched as part of the street culture was acted out before us, Two of the older boys got into a disagreement over who should be served first and after some words and a little pushing, they pulled shivs (sharpened steel rods) and began to circle and threaten one another.
After a few tense moments, one backed away and allowed the other to take the place they were arguing over, but interestingly enough no one else seemed to pay any attention beyond staying out of striking distance.
Tonight we fed nearly thirty people in this group, ranging from men in their twenties to girls as young as 6 or 7. These were children of some of the older ones and were as thrilled as if it were Christmas when Leda opened a box of clothes and sandals and began matching sizes and handing out something to each one.
We visited, we blessed each one, and after a while we swept the remnants of our food together and headed back to the little shop on the hill to unload.
Singing, sitting up on the sides of the truck, (it was now late enough that there was little danger of being ticketed..) and holding on the the roll bar as Klebber drove under low-hanging trees or hit speed-bumps at full speed to shake us up a little, we made our way there and as the truck was emptied and swept, Klebber crossed the street and returned with another bottle of Guaranha, a big lump of bologna and some crackers.
We stood together, we ate and laughed and tried to communicate because Sandra and I still speak very little Portuguese and no one else there could speak English.
We finally came together in a circle and prayed for all we had served throughout the night, and back into the truck one last time, we headed to our homes.
Both of us, Sandra and I together are completely hooked. This was one of the most memorable nights of our lives, and we are waiting with anticipation for the next run.
