"There was enough left over for everyone"

By Eduardo Guimarães, from Citizenship Blog

Yesterday (June 17.6th) I was at the São Paulo protest against public transport fares, at Largo da Batata, in the western part of the city. I arrived at 16 pm and stayed among the protesters until around 19 pm, when I undertook an epic journey to get back home.

Driving down Cardeal Arcoverde Street, I followed the procession of young people that stretched for blocks. All heading in the same direction, all with the same contrite and determined look on their faces.

I found a parking lot strategically located just over a block from the square. "It closes at 20 pm," the valet, cashier, and probably everyone else on that open lot, with its dirt floor converted into a parking lot, told me.

On Brigadeiro Faria Lima Avenue, a few hundred meters from the Largo, people were no longer walking on the sidewalks, but in the middle of the street. The occasional car would pass, dodging the pedestrians, who now owned the road, as if the drivers were apologizing for being where they shouldn't be.

In the distance, large white and red flags rose from a mass of people that impressed me because it was so large an hour before the scheduled start of the demonstration. On the white flags were the letters UJS (or something similar) and on the red ones, PSTU.

Now there were less than a hundred meters left to reach the crowd. A beautiful and clearly university-educated youth. Ages ranging from 15 to 30 years old at most. Here and there, some mature people. Ladies with blonde hair, gray-haired men, all with a prosperous appearance.

Shopkeepers were closing their doors and workers from the area hurried past. They seemed frightened. Some commented that they didn't know how they would get home, but nobody paid any attention to them – except for this writer.

A large, silvery, brand-new car, whose make I didn't bother to check, gets out. A burly man with gray hair, wearing dress pants and a dress shirt with the collar button undone, revealing a loose tie.

Suddenly, the vehicle is surrounded by a group of three girls and five boys. The man circles the vehicle and, with the trunk already open, takes out several paintings, each about 40 centimeters wide and almost a meter long.

The wooden frames covered with high-quality graphic material mention "corruption".

The driver in the suit says something to the group of young people and drives off.

I reach the edge of the crowd. Fences about 1.5 meters high separate the far end of the Largo sidewalk from the road for cars. I take advantage of a nearby metal post to climb onto them, holding onto it, in order to get a better view of the crowd and take pictures.

A group of young people passed by me saying that what they did to Globo reporter Caco Barcelos, who was supposedly a "good guy," was "a dirty trick." I decided to follow them to hear more, being careful not to be noticed.

I find out that the reporter was expelled from the demonstration and that there was a group that intended to prevent anyone from Globo from working, because the network "ruins the image" of the protest.

I noticed that the PSTU flags had disappeared. I asked a girl if she saw where they went, and she explained that those who were carrying them had been persuaded not to display them.

I pay closer attention and see, about 50 meters away, a single red flag, but a small one. Looking closer, I realize it's from the Workers' Party (PT). I decide to go see who's carrying it.

Upon arriving, there were no longer one flag, but two. Modest in size compared to the others. One was held by a short, young Black woman who looked around in fear. The other was held by a blond boy with long hair and glasses. He also seemed tense.

We started talking to the two of them, and soon after, federal deputy Paulo Teixeira, from the PT party in São Paulo, appeared with two other people. I learned that other parliamentarians, from various parties, went to the protest in order to "guarantee the rights of the demonstrators."

At that moment, with the arrival of the congressman, the people around him began to chant a refrain against party flags. Something like "No party, no party."

The two young men remained impassive with their flags. Unlike those carrying the PSTU flags, they were not convinced. They were booed. But they remained impassive in the mission they had set for themselves.

The shouting grows louder, but the two young people remain firm. A crowd gathers around us. I hear curses. I ask the young woman and her companion to lower their banners. The young man complies, but the young woman does not.

Shoving and insults begin. I hear someone say, "You leftist blogger, son of a bitch."

Someone snatches the flag from the girl's hand and pushes her; she falls, her companion reacts, there are kicks, more swearing. Those opposed to the flags are an overwhelming majority – or rather, they are all of them.

In the pushing and shoving, I am separated from the Workers' Party congressman and his group. And from the two valiant standard-bearers.

At that moment, a huge number of people – it seemed to me like hundreds – began to chant: “Hey, PT, go fuck yourself!!”

I tried to film it, I think I did, but when I got home I realized the pushing and shoving had interrupted the video, in which all you can hear is “Hey, PT, go tom (…)”.

Everything can be seen in the video at the end of the text.

I hear someone mentioning a "PT blogger" and realize it's time for a strategic retreat. I plunge into the crowd until I reach the street, which I cross. From there, I decide to observe everything from a distance.

It's getting dark and I see smoke and colorful lights in the middle of the crowd. They look like fireworks or something similar, but I can't be sure.

I hear more chants against the PT (Workers' Party). I risk getting closer and a tall, white woman, appearing to be in her early thirties, is giving a speech against the "mensaleiros" (those involved in the Mensalão corruption scandal) and says that "The PT really deserves to be screwed."

I decide to leave. I walk around the demonstration. A much smaller group, about ten people, chants "The people aren't stupid, down with Globo network".

I walk around the demonstration a little further and see more movement. And they're shouting "No violence, no violence." I realize there's a physical confrontation happening.

I approach a much larger group where, in the middle, I see signs on which I can only read "Alckmin" and "PM" because of the pushing and shoving. There seems to be disagreement there as well.

I decide it's time to go. As I return to the parking lot, I see the workers passing close to the wall, walking quickly. Women in skirts and long hair, holding hands with children, their eyes on the ground.

A thin man, around forty years old, wearing a cap, a worn beige wool sweater, trousers stained with paint and everything else imaginable, carries a backpack in a hurry. I decide to try to talk to him.

I say that I am a journalist and ask if we could talk. I ask if he came to participate in the demonstration.

No, sir, that has nothing to do with me.

I insist. What does he think of all this? He gets nervous. He says he doesn't know anything, especially how he's going to get home to Ferraz de Vasconcelos.

The pedestrian walkways above the avenue are crowded with workers rushing by. They look like robots. They don't even look to the sides, and nobody looks at them. Some are sitting, others standing at the bus stops. Their gazes lost in space.

I return to the parking lot, realize I won't be able to continue on Faria Lima, turn right, make the wrong choice, and end up, once again, in Largo da Batata, now impassable.

Cars, buses, trucks, and even a legion of motorcycles were stopped, trapped between protesters in front, behind, and to the sides.

I hear an ambulance siren. Cars start driving onto the sidewalks, doing everything they can to make way. The ambulance only manages to reach the protesters and stops. Some move out of the way, but most don't care at all.

A man in his sixties, with a woman of roughly the same age in the passenger seat, gets out of the car and starts cursing the protesters, mentioning the ambulance. A strong young man approaches, defiantly, but is dissuaded by other protesters.

I manage to reach the Marginal Pinheiros highway, which is completely stopped. It's already past eight o'clock at night. I start trying to cut through side streets, speeding down empty avenues, and end up in Alto da Lapa.

I'm trying to get my bearings, as I don't know the area well. I use my phone's GPS, but the battery dies.

I stop at a gas station. Three attendants are chatting with a man, roughly in his fifties, who owns a brand-new black Pajero, which is being filled to the brim.

I stop the car at the gas station, ask them to fill up, and request to charge my cell phone for a bit. They promptly comply. I say it will take a while. They tell me that "there's no point in rushing today."

We started talking. The subject, of course, was the chaos in the city. The Pajero driver has a Northeastern accent. He's very angry with the police. He curses them with every name imaginable. He talks about the photo of the Folha reporter with her eye smashed by a rubber bullet.

The gas station attendants just look on, smiling, but don't offer any opinions. As if they were in a class, trying to learn something – perhaps what "cool" people like me and my new friend from the Northeast hope to hear from them when asked about the subject.

I ask how to get out of there, and my immediate options, according to the gas station attendants, are Lapa or going back to Largo da Batata.

The Pajero driver says he'll help me, that he knows how to cut through to Cerro Corá. From there I can take the Rebouças highway, he says, to get back to the Paulista region, where I live.

– Come after me. I'll escort you there. When I turn on my hazard lights, I'll turn left and you turn right. Keep going uphill, but stay to your left. You'll end up at Cerro Corá. From there, you can ask for directions.

I explain that I can manage from there.

I follow him until he performs the agreed-upon maneuver. I honk, he honks back, and we each go about our own business.

I'm surprised by Heitor Penteado and Rebouças. It feels like I'm there on a Sunday at seven in the morning. Empty. You don't see a soul on the streets. No people, no cars, buses, motorcycles, nothing.

It's almost 21 PM. Two hours to get there.

I hear on CBN radio that there are already protesters on Paulista Avenue. I decide to go back via Rebouças Avenue to Oscar Freire Street, make a U-turn, and take it towards Paraíso.

Everything is empty. Frighteningly empty.

I keep listening to the radio that plays – or, as they say, "switches" – the news. Now they're saying that protesters are marching past Globo, on Berrini Avenue. And that many others are heading to the Palácio dos Bandeirantes (Governor's Palace).

My wife calls me on my newly charged cell phone, worried. Calmed down, she reports that Jornal Nacional said Globo was insulted for the protest.

PT, Alckmin, Globo…

I think that's what happened when the media routinely delegitimizes politics and power, and its critics encourage distrust in it. Everyone suffered the consequences. Thinking about it, it was even predictable.