I befriended a 10-year-old boy in Rio one summer. Rio was our last stop before returning to the states, and we had a little over a week to explore the city.  Our neat little hotel was close to Ipanema and even though it was posh by downtown Rio standards, it smelled less like raw sewage. We rode city buses to the zoo, to the dizzying heights of Mount Corcorvado, and to the museums of modern art. The overcrowded buses skirted the favellas, but I saw them through the windows, climbing Frankenstein streets like veins emptying into haphazard shantytowns. The favellas looked like massive hives made by drunken bees grabbing desperately to precipitous hillsides: plyboard and tin, one seemingly stacked on top of another, and there were millions of them.  The topmost of these were enveloped in a yellow haze of heat, flies, and airborne garbage. In the city itself, many of Rio’s indigent simply lived in cardboard boxes. Entire families slept in these moldy boxes, often outside of restaurants in the hopes of scavenging food from departing patrons. I gave these “stick people” as John called them, little bags of French fries, the bun from my burger, or even ketchup packets. John called the box dwellers “stick people” not only because they were usually emaciated, but also because one of them, a large-kneed black boy defending the honor of his sister who had been spotted talking to John, had actually chased him with a stick. Far above street level, 20 stories above the ground, the noise from private helicopters lifting off of the rooftops of swanky whitewashed apartment buildings competed with the screaming sirens below. The wealthy commuted this way, from rooftop to rooftop, safely untroubled by the stench and mayhem below.

Ivan had approached our café table under its bright Cinzano umbrella one sun-soaked afternoon on Ipanema. Even though he quickly realized that we would not be easy marks for trinket vending, he stuck around to practice English. He wore clothes that were too small, but I knew that his polished little hustle would take him far here, at least as far as it was possible for a favella kid to go. I saw him every morning digging through trashcans as I headed to the beach.

One evening we sat under our umbrella watching the purple clouds scud across the sky sipping cocktails as scantily-clad kids played  beach volleyball nearby. Ivan sat in his usual chair. “Those kids down the beach chased me with sticks last night,” said John.

“You must leave the beach by 10:00 pm,” said Ivan. “It is not safe after that.”

I had noticed that all of the tourists picked up stakes and retreated into exclusive condos or restaurants before this time. Ipanema was deserted by 10:30pm nightly. While I was far from fluent in Portuguese, I had gleaned enough from the newspaper to understand why. Photos of execution-style murders were common in the tabloid rags that passed for newspapers here, and a constant barrage of sirens shattered the air every night.

As it was already 9:45. I gathered my things. “I want another beer,” said David.

“You heard Ivan,” I said. “We’re going.” John and David laughed and seemed to sit deeper in their chairs. “Good night,” said John.

As he did every night we were there, Ivan walked me back to our hotel. I had at first been reticent about this, but he was so enthusiastic about trying new words in English that we built a nascent trust. He seemed to proud to be my little Boy Friday, puffing his chest as his five-foot frame pimp-walked next to the leggy blonde. I could not wrap my tongue around the Portuguese accent and he laughed in a disarmingly childlike way at my attempts to order food and ask directions. His laughter was incongruous because he seemed more like 20 than 10.

My sleep was interrupted by staccato banging at the hotel door that came from a strong fist. Maybe John and David had forgotten their keys. The hotel had security, of course. I was not worried about anyone coming in from the street. I jumped out of bed in my nightgown and opened the door. My heart skipped when two men in black clothes with slick oily hair looked at me from the bright hallway. One had on his sunglasses. Both had enormous shoulders that strained their jackets. The leader had a ponytail.

“We are police. We have your friends,” said the shorter one.

“What?”

The leader quickly flashed what looked like a dime store badge. My dreams fled and my nightgown suddenly felt too short and flimsy. These men were not like any police I had ever seen. They looked more like cheap pimps, but the big one opened his jacket enough for me to see his holstered AK47. They were now whatever they wanted to be.

“Where are they?” I asked. “What did they do?”

“We caught them with cocaine on the beach,” said the leader. My head spun. I remembered Midnight Express, knew how third world countries treated drug offenders. I also knew that neither David nor John touched drugs.  They were both veteran travelers who had been warned , though.  Ivan had warned us all.

“I want to see them,” I said. They remained in the hall while I dressed quickly. We took the elevator downstairs and walked out to the street where a long black sedan was parked. Its windows were tinted, but it was not a police vehicle. The ponytailed “officer” opened the back door. John and David were sitting in the back seat, handcuffed.  Both appeared ashen. “Saba, give them what they want,” said John, his face pale. David, true to form, was simply angry. “These fucking idiots set us up,” he said. “A kid ran up to John and put something in his shirt pocket. Before he even saw what it was, these guys were on us. They’re not police.” John’s face, though, was discolored along the jaw. “Give them what they want,” he repeated. “I don’t know what will happen.” The door slammed shut.

“We can take them to the police station, or release them for a fee,” said the ponytail. “How much money do you have?” I knew where David kept the cash. I was shaken, scared, and desperate. “I don’t know, maybe $500,” I said. David would later attack me for this. I should have lied, given a smaller amount. The men had escorted me back upstairs, and had entered the room with me. They had guns and I felt threatened. They could have easily found the money themselves, and I didn’t want them tearing though our things. David’s anger at me for what he considered my lack of savvy drove a wedge between us that never totally healed.

The front desk clerk even looked suspicious to me now, and I suspected he would get his cut. My hands were shaking as I produced the cash. I wanted them freed before I handed it over, and out on the street the larger of the two helped them out of the vehicle and unlocked the handcuffs. The “officers” got into the car and quickly drove off, leaving us on the street, seeming small and naïve. As they rubbed their wrists, I noticed Ivan across the street leaning on a telephone pole, a smile far beyond his years crawling across his brown face.