The Red Letter Day

MD volunteer John Parsons was moved to write about his trip to Brazil where he met some of the children and adults on the "bottom of the heap"

'Don't take pictures from the front,' my Team Leader, a soft-spoken retired banker, advised. 'Some of these people are on the run from the police, or drug-pushers.' I looked at a large group of unshaven faces and the provocatively dressed ladies of the night with their crimson lipstick.

The team of which I was a member was helping staff at a feeding centre for homeless people in the down-town area of a city in south Brazil. The tantalising smells of food drifted through the kitchen door.

What made me leave a comfortable life in Devon for the far reaches of South America, to a land better known for its esoteric Indian tribes, the Amazonian rain forest, scarlet macaws and Rio's colourful carnivals?

I had a gap in my diary and felt strongly that I should serve those less fortunate than myself in a developing country. And here I was, one of a team of nine excited volunteers, sent by the British charity Mission Direct.

Raving to go, we would assist an indigenous organisation, Open Hands, in the construction of basic housing in the town of Campo Largo.

Our project partner was a short, well-built man of sixty-two years, with unlimited energy. His catchphrase seemed to be 'Good, good.'

Samuel's vision was to erect fifty houses to alleviate poverty-stricken families in the favelas - shanty towns. Local government had endorsed the undertaking by supplying the land and utilities free of charge.

So far Open Hands had almost completed a whole road of single storey houses in primrose, peacock-blue and terracotta. Each dwelling consisted of a lounge-diner, two bedrooms and a bathroom.

Keyed up with excitement, on most days I found myself humming away as I varnished wooden ceilings, painted metal windows and doors in sienna brown. The temperature was lower than anticipated and insects seemed to leave us alone

I heard laughter as my colleagues levelled the ground for concrete floors, formed chain gangs to transfer bricks from the access road to the work areas.

Terry, a retired industrial engraver from St. Albans with sparkling eyes and a jack-the-lad smile became a dab hand at laying tiles. Deborah's deadpan expression belied a sharp sense of humour. She had swapped her lawyer's office for the repetitious job of grouting tiles, while a CID officer noted for his bulging biceps laid bricks in the burning sun.

Towards the end of the second week our excitement level grew. We were to visit the family who would live in the house we had completed. Sildney and Joselli were of medium height, quietly spoken and shabbily dressed. They lived with their family of three in a makeshift shack, on a hillside prone to flooding and landslips.

The children nervously flocked around their mother's legs as the team trooped into their cramped home. Daylight was visible through the sagging timber walls, making it a cold, damp place in winter. It was hardly a suitable environment for rearing youngsters. I empathised with their plight.

Sildney was unemployed, but Joselli worked in a ceramics factory earning sufficient to pay the peppercorn rent on the new property. The family embraced the concept of community spirit and would be role models in their new area, it was hoped. Before we left, the family was presented with a food hamper.

Open Hands puts community relations high on their list of priorities. Many families from the favelas have no knowledge of personal hygiene, social care or the value of education. The charity organises classes to address these issues.

Thankfully the team's programme wasn't all graft. Our expectancy rose as the time to support local community organisations neared, an orphanage, a drug-rehabilitation centre, day-care classes where women suffering from physical abuse, depression or the loss a loved one worked thought their trauma with art and craft.

One of the most moving experiences – some would say shocking – came in the second week when the team entered a children's shanty town day-care centre. The youngsters had dark mysterious eyes and innocent smiles.

Some of my colleagues were visibly shocked at the deprivation 'Never again will I take decent roads, utilities or a free health service for granted,' one earnestly said.

In his introductory talk the Director, a sturdy chap clad in a white dust coat, said his staff taught ethical standards, Biblical principles and reinforced the children's education. In a quieter moment he recalled several tragic stories.

Apparently a nine-year old lad and his grandmother were collecting plastic bottles for recycling when they stumbled upon a black plastic bag. They opened it. Inside was a mutilated male body. How would a British child react to this horror? I questioned.

The lad recounted the story in the centre, next day. A second lad interrupted. He had also seen a body on the street, and yet another told of a body being found on a nearby railway line.

'Was it an accident?' asked a teacher.

'No,' insisted the boy, 'My friends say he was placed there to make it look like an accident.'

What an appalling environment in which to rear kids! After hearing these macabre stories we redoubled our efforts to re-house those living in crime-ridden ghettoes.

The team organised games for the eager children, answered questions about life in England. 'They will talk about your visit for weeks,' remarked the Director. 'This is a red-letter day in their lives.'

Well-wishers in England had donated clothing to the home. We were thrilled to bring a little joy into the hard life of these unfortunate kids. Their behaviour was exemplary. I was deeply impressed. I, too, would be talking of this visit for weeks.

'Will you come back to Brazil?' asked Andre, our debonair liaison officer, as the project came to a close.

'I can't truthfully answer,' I said. 'However, this project has reinforced my conviction that I should continue to serve the marginalised people of the world for the foreseeable future.

My colleagues smiled and nodded their agreement.