A marijuana-sweat stew boils in the walls. It’s 11am. The sun drags on the earth’s belt. Only now are the sounds of life emerging -- cheap TV’s and radios pump the western world through bad reception and small speakers. Dylan’s universal words blare in mono over the boom-crash absurdities of Saturday morning cartoons.

Stoves burn, breakfast sizzles. Rat meat cooks, a favorite of Lucho - ‘the crazy man’ - who’s dark, grease-speckled gut makes way between stove and window where he taunts a group of boys on the corner below. They curse back.

In all directions, stacked and jammed, are brick cubes. In between, confused and empty roads widen and narrow.

The boys stand, half naked, holding lighters and roman candles. Their eyes are tired. Their allegiance is strong.

At the cough of a distant engine, they tighten their grips and straighten their spines. Dust rises around the bend -- the restless clouding of some unseen menace. It’s coming for them. They hold their flames steady, warming their fuses.

A white van rockets up the street. The boys take action.

Chubby tourists sit in pairs, buckled in, their sweaty fingers tight on camera triggers. The guide upfront narrates through the rattled air. These streets are vacant, he explains with the novelty whisper of a safari guide, because these people are nocturnal. A half truth -- within the hour the streets will be full. For now, he ushers in the rare treat of life. Cameras cocked, they prepare for an authentic moment of the third world. They get it.

Four boys -- aged 8 to 12 -- wearing nothing but swim shorts, fight with fire and explosives in their skinny, fierce hands -- their young faces fit for men at war. One squeezes the other at the neck. Muscles twitch and spasm.

The tourists drive on, overcome with a somber pity of this savage land. The acid of vomit deep in their throats, the novelty of people in boxes seems lost. They long for little plastic swords through lemon.

The guide of this non-refundable tour reminds them that this place, like any slum or shanty town, is prone to desperation and violence. This is a place of extremes, where the poles of love and hate lustfully tango -- limbs tied. People here will kill to survive. Even for sport -- even the children.

This is Rochina.

Of the hundreds of favelas that halo and house 1/5 of Rio de Janeiro, Rochina is the largest.

They have a McDonalds.

Stuck into a lazy slope of jungle, it is home to the cities poorest and darkest -- the eyesore legacy of Brazil’s vast racial and economic gaps. Shunned from standard living and work, these people are left with only scraps for housing and underground industry for jobs (selling guns and drugs). Many in Rochina are wanted men and cannot leave, bringing violence and a militant order to the unnumbered streets of a harmless people.  Read More...