Never Stop Walking_A Memoir of Finding Home Across the World

by Christina Rickardsson

  I smile and point to things I recognize and things that, though they have been hidden away and forgotten, are now suddenly there in my head. We pass a police car, and I react immediately. I tell Rivia I don’t like it. Some scars run way too deep.

  We drive into the concrete city, and I see so many buildings with graffiti tags—none in color, just black spray-painted tags everywhere. It’s unbelievably ugly, and I feel a disappointment that I try to hide. The city feels ugly and grimy and harsh. I don’t want to see this. What if I’ve gotten so used to Swedish life that I can no longer face this? But the farther into the city the taxi brings us, the better it feels. The gloomy suburbs are replaced by a more charming downtown. After almost an hour’s drive, we reach the hotel. We climb out of the taxi. Though it’s sunny, the day is not as hot as I expected.

  We leave our luggage with the front desk and go to breakfast. We each take a plate and start helping ourselves to bread, fruit, and pastries. Rivia points to some small, round rolls and tells me I have to taste them. I look at the balls and feel like I recognize them. Rivia says they’re pão de queijo, cheese puffs. I take three of them and some mango and papaya. We sit down. The cheese puffs are amazing! I know that I ate them when I was little; I don’t know when exactly, but I remember the taste. My mouth recognizes the taste. I go get more cheese puffs. It feels like I’m trying to eat Brazil.

  An hour later, Rivia and I step out of the elevator and into the hotel lobby. After a long shower, I feel like a new person, and we decide to go see a little of São Paulo. We go to a famous park called Ibirapuera. We wander around and buy coconut water, and I feel a bit tipsy. I recognize the plants, palms, smells, and the language. The sun is warm in a familiar way, and even though I don’t understand what the people around me are saying, the language is familiar.

  It doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes for me to find a tree and start climbing. I discover quickly that my jeans are way too tight for tree climbing, so I just sit in the tree for a while, until we see some guards heading toward us. I climb down, and we keep wandering.

  We find two big walls of graffiti art that vastly surpass most of what we saw earlier. We take a picture of ourselves there and roam onward, stopping at a stand to buy candy. Rivia tells me which ones are her favorites. Some of them I recognize; others I don’t. Later in the evening, we go out for a nice dinner, and then go to bed.

  Tired and with a thousand new impressions and feelings, I lie down in my hotel bed and have a hard time falling asleep. The sounds of the city and the traffic outside come right through the walls. It hits me as I lie there that my home in Umeå is quiet and comfortable. Maybe the snowplow comes through once during the night. But here, there’s always someone awake.

  My Best Friend Saves My Life

  SÃO PAULO, 1980S

  I don’t remember the whole thing. I just remember that Camile and I had decided to sleep in one of the nicer neighborhoods that bordered on the poorer part of the city. The day had been a day like all the others, which meant a constant struggle to find food. We had run around on the streets, begging for money, and had stolen wallets and all sorts of things from people’s pockets. Every now and then, someone would notice us, and all we could do was run as fast as we could. We had various hiding spots prepared, and there was always a rendezvous point where we would find each other if we got separated. And we always had a strategy, like when we were picking pockets: If the person notices you but doesn’t manage to grab you—run! In the rare event that the person grabs your arm and has a hold on you—bite them on the hand or kick them in the shin! Once you get free—run for your life! The person you hurt will be really mad. If someone does nab you and you’re totally trapped, there’s not much you can do. Just try to hit as hard as you can, kick, bite, scratch. If it’s a man, try to kick him between the legs. If you do manage to get free—run like you’ve never run before!

  There was one more alternative when you got caught, and that was when there were two or more of you working together. The others could step in and distract the person while you got free and then, yet again, you would run for your life.

  Our day had consisted of the usual, nothing special. We fought together, and we laughed together. As usual, like sisters, we split everything we managed to get, and we tried to steer clear of grown-ups, street kids who were older than us, and anyone in a gang. But even if a gang consisted of children younger than us, both Camile and I had learned the hard way that if there were enough of them, they could easily hurt us. We stood no chance against ten determined kids all working together, kids who had learned to kick, scratch, and bite. So, we steered clear.

  As street kids, it wasn’t hard to remain invisible. Most people pretended they didn’t see us. The only time they actually saw us was when we were standing right in front of them and begging, when we tugged on their clothes and asked as nicely as we could for change to get some food: “Please, sir, could you spare any change for some food? I haven’t eaten in several days.” Or, “Please, beautiful lady, we’re hungry children.” It rarely worked. But we called out kind words to anyone who did give us a bit of money, saying that we hoped a saint would preserve them or something like that. To those who didn’t give us anything, who pushed us away, or hit us, we screamed a litany of curse words. We used the very worst words we knew, and believe me, we knew a lot.

  That was what we did every day. And just about every day, people called us rats. Every time they did, we tuned them out and pretended not to hear. I don’t know what was worse, being spit on and pushed away, or being totally ignored. If someone spit on us, at least they saw us, and that was confirmation of our existence. Being totally ignored was like not existing at all, as if you weren’t a human among other humans.

  There were those who didn’t give us any money but still took the time to see us, say hi, give us a nice smile. That took the chill off. We street children rarely received love from outside, but we gave one another warmth—we danced and laughed—because despite everything, we were kids, and we longed for the opportunity to play and laugh from the heart.

  Rarely in Sweden have I felt that same true, genuine, wonderful laughter bubbling up inside me. In Brazil, the raw intensity of my feelings, the pain and the joy, was so much greater. When I was happy as a child in Brazil, my sense of joy was so much stronger and could be elicited by little things, like getting to eat a real meal or ice cream. And the pain . . . it could feel bottomless.

  We’d come into the nicer neighborhood, when we saw a man standing outside a shop. Camile pretended to bump into him, and he chewed her out. She stood nicely and took the scolding. He told her to keep her eyes open and pay attention to what was going on around her. Camile played a little shy and modest and said she was so terribly sorry. Meanwhile, I plunged my hand into his right back pocket and stole his wallet. The man went into the shop. When he got up to the cash register and reached to take out his wallet, at first he looked confused. His hands started searching in all his pockets. Then he realized his wallet was gone. He looked irritated at first, then angry.

  Camile and I were standing outside the window, looking in. He was the one who should keep his eyes open! We laughed until our bellies ached. As soon as he saw us, we ran as hard as we could away from there. When we felt like we were far enough away that we wouldn’t be caught, we sat down on a bench and opened the wallet. There were a few bills and coins. We took them and discarded the wallet. We went into a restaurant and bought two big skewers of meat that had been dipped in this amazingly good sauce. I had never tasted anything so good.

  We had a little money left over, so we each bought an icepop from a nice man. He had a white pushcart with two big narrow wheels in the front and two long sticks for handles at the back that allowed him to roll his cart where he wanted. The icepops were super tasty and cold, which was great, because it had been an unbelievably hot day. I bought a pinkish-orangish one, and Camile bought a yellow one. Hers tasted like mango and mine, papaya. Of course, I thought hers tas
ted better than mine; she laughed at me and traded hers for mine. The icepops were cylindrical. Someone had poured juice into plastic tubes, and it was like sucking on frozen water that tasted like juice. If you sucked super hard on it, the color would disappear from the part of the ice you’d sucked on, and only a section of white crystalline ice would remain, which tasted like water. But it was so good. We played and had a great time. Toward the end of the day, we were both exhausted from all the fun we’d had, from the heat, and from having run so much. Maybe that was one reason one of us didn’t manage to get away.

  I have been so mad at Camile for not running faster, for not being speedier. I know it doesn’t make sense to be mad at her for that. What happened certainly wasn’t her fault or mine, but I was the one who ran faster, and I was the one who survived.

  As our day wound down and night approached, it was time for Camile and me to find someplace to sleep. We knew the risk of sleeping in the nicer neighborhoods, but we took it since things were really rough in the favela right then, more so than usual. Sometimes we wandered into the nicer neighborhoods at nighttime, never that far in, but far enough to be able to spy on the rich people through their windows. We would climb over walls and fences, and one time we were chased by two big dogs. Camile and I just barely managed to climb over a metal fence with barbed wire. I could feel the breath from one of the dogs on my bare foot, and my foot was spared by only a few inches.

  One night, Camile and I crawled on our knees up to a beautiful white house and peeked in a window. We saw a room that took our breath away. It was a pink room overflowing with dolls and toys. The room had a white bed, and the bed was covered with stuffed animals. A girl, a white girl, was lying in the bed, sleeping. She looked so peaceful there, and jealousy and longing welled up in me. A lamp was on next to her bed, and the door to her room was ajar.

  This night, however, when we ran for our lives, wasn’t one of those when Camile and I were curious enough about rich people to peek in their windows. Although we did decide to sleep where we didn’t really belong. It was a warm night, so warm that we didn’t hold each other the way we usually did. I can’t say what time it was, because I didn’t have a watch; even if I had had one, I wouldn’t have known how to read it.

  Our days usually consisted of the same routine. It got light out, you woke up with your tummy rumbling, and then the shops opened. Some people were walking around, others were driving cars, some were on their way to work, others didn’t know where they were going. In the slum, there were always some women standing around doing laundry, some children running around, a few tough guys strutting by, some babies crying, someone laughing, and someone sitting in the sun, leaning against their shack. Makeshift fireplaces emitted smoke, and you could smell the scent of spices in the air. Colorful clothes hung drying on lines here and there, and soccer balls were always whizzing by. There were tons of children, children everywhere. Sometimes it felt like there were only children and no adults. Later in the day, bellies grew hungry again, and people moved a little slower, a little more tiredly. Night came and it got dark, and people lay down to sleep wherever they found a spot, where they hoped they’d be relatively safe. In the nicer neighborhoods, there would be fewer people on the move, but we didn’t belong there.

  I don’t know how long Camile and I had been asleep when I woke up with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had heard something. I gave Camile a little nudge to wake her up. She looked at me, and I moved my finger to my lips to tell her to be quiet. She understood right away and sat up. I pointed to my ear to indicate to her that I’d heard something, and then I pointed to the corner of the building. Camile looked worried and tense. I think my fear had worn off on her. We looked at each other and tried to make sense of what I’d heard. It didn’t take long before we heard voices. There were some men talking. We didn’t hear that much of their conversation, but the way they were talking—their tone and hard laughter—told us all we needed to know. We needed to get out of there, and fast. It was highly likely that the men were clearing the neighborhood of “rats.”

  Camile and I peeked around the corner to see how our chances looked. We saw kids standing in a row. And the instant our little heads appeared around the corner, one of the men spotted us.

  “Looky there! We’ve got a few more. Run over there and get ’em!” said the man who’d spotted us.

  “Run, Christiana, run!” I heard Camile yell to me.

  “Get ’em!” was the last thing I heard before we were running full out, as hard as we could.

  Camile kept yelling for me to run. I was scared and ran for my life. The terror and panic in Camile’s voice scared me even more, and it was hard to think straight. Fear had almost completely taken over. I cast one last glance backward and saw that Camile had wound up a little behind me. I slowed down so she could catch up, but when she noticed, she yelled at me to run faster, to keep running. I yelled back that she had to run faster. I picked up my pace again, and I saw the men getting closer and closer to Camile. There was sheer terror in her eyes. I had no idea where I was running. I came to a low wall and jumped up so my hands got a firm hold on the top edge of the wall. As I pulled myself up with my hands, I scrabbled up with my bare feet. It vaguely registered with me that both my arms and legs were getting scraped, but I couldn’t feel it. Quick as a flash, I got up onto the wall and turned around to hold my hand down for Camile. She wasn’t far behind. I saw her running toward me, and I saw that the two men were gaining on her. I screamed for her to run faster, and I saw the panic in her eyes when she realized she wasn’t going to make it. The men nabbed her, and Camile screamed and writhed, struggling to get free.

  I was about to jump back down and help her, the way we always did, when she yelled for me to run.

  One of the men came at me, and I didn’t know what to do. Camile yelled again, “Run!”

  Without thinking, without having actively made any decision, I turned and ran. I heard the man who was holding Camile yell to the other man, “To hell with her.” I ran and kept running until my brain had calmed down a little and I could start to think again.

  I discovered that I wasn’t being chased anymore and stopped. My heart was pounding hard. It felt like it was in my mouth and not in my chest. I was gasping for breath, and my feet were killing me. I looked down at my legs and saw that my shins and knees were covered with scrapes, but I couldn’t feel any pain. What should I do? I had to get back to Camile. I had to help her! I slowly started making my way back between the buildings, trying to remember which way I’d run, so I could try to take a different route back. Eventually I heard some children crying plaintively. I heard the men talking again, and knew I was close. A terrible, nasty sense of nausea rose from my stomach. I took a deep breath and carefully peeked around the corner. Five or six children stood lined up. A dark van was parked near them, and there were three men. I remember that I saw an older boy, around ten or twelve years old, holding a little girl’s hand. They both looked terrified. The girl was crying. Camile was standing next to the girl. She looked scared, too. She kept looking around, as if searching for something, someone. She looked so small and frightened.

  I had never thought of Camile as small or fearful. She was Camile—cleverer than I was at everything, smarter, and better all around. It was weird to see her looking so vulnerable, so little. It hit me that what she kept looking around for was me. She was waiting for me to help her.

  The men stood with their backs to me, and I dared to peek out a little farther. Camile turned her head my way, and our eyes met. I didn’t know what to do, so I started looking around to see whether I could find anything that might help. What, I didn’t know. If I jumped one of the men, maybe the rest of the kids could take the other two men down? But the men were armed, and I’d never be able to take down one of the men on my own. It would take at least five to ten kids to take one of those men out of commission. I was starting to panic again. I looked at Camile. I’m sure she understood what I was thinking,
because she slowly and cautiously shook her head as her eyes said, Don’t do anything stupid.

  The men moved away from the children a little. Some of the kids cried; some screamed. Camile just stood there, her eyes incredibly sad and frightened, but there was something about the look in her eyes. Maybe I was too young then to put words to what it was, but there was no mistaking the emotion. She smiled a slight smile that was for me, and then I remember everything clearly and in slow motion. I watched how something strange happened to her forehead. I remember that as her body fell to the ground in the most bizarre way, my right hand flew up and covered my mouth, and my scream stuck in my throat. The last thing I heard was the gunshot. It felt like an eternity before Camile’s body hit the ground. As I looked at my friend’s lifeless body lying about eighty feet in front of me, I heard more gunshots. Instinctively I turned and started running.

  I ran. I ran as hard as I could. I ran so my feet, knees, and lungs ached. I cried. I cried so much. The tears stopped me from seeing where I was going, but my body kept moving, turning left and then right, proceeding straight ahead. During this possessed and rapid flight, I saw Camile’s body collapsing. I saw her face. I saw her smile. I saw how she took a deep breath, and before she had time to exhale, I saw her body collapse. I ran into someone. I ran into something. I heard someone yelling at me in irritation. I just ran, ran far away from the men, from Camile’s body, from everything. My body had taken over. I was on autopilot. I couldn’t think what to do, didn’t know where I was going. All I saw was Camile, collapsing to the ground again and again.