I stood in the filthy alleyway, balancing on a pair of rocks as the mixture of water and filth ran over the dirt ground like a stream. Some men stared, I felt their gaze as we passed through Rocinha favela in Rio De Janeiro. We were intruders in their territory, tourists poking our noses where they didn’t belong. We kept trekking through the twisting alleys, narrow enough that I could hold my arms out and push myself off the walls, trying not to fall into the sewage that now stained my faded Converse shoes. A group of three young teenage boys positioned themselves in the street on the top of a hill slightly above us. One of the boys had a machine gun strapped over his bare chest. They leaned over a railing and their eyes followed us as we walked by in a tight little group.

The favelas are…