Twenty Reais, 20 Minutes: A Night In Vila Mimosa

“When I die and meet God, I’ll say to Him: Lord, I have seen hell on Earth” Elizabeth, 52, a trader/shop-owner from Vila Mimosa.

The bar was empty that night. On the stairway, a young woman sprayed dry deodorant on her armpits, indifferent to the two or three lads who drank beer outside, sitting by an aluminum table. The sound of the neighbors was deafening. Overlapping, incomprehensible songs. Mrs. Beth snoozed on her stool behind the balcony, trying to make time go by faster. The working day would end in a few hours, as soon as the sun pointed her, once again, the way home.

A single whistle and her light sleep vanished. “Hi, can I help you?” Her kindness was surprising. “A beer, please” “Four Reais” “Pretty empty here today” “Yeah, the girls went to Renata’s, it’s her birthday.” Fifty two years old, the looks of a seventy year old, thin, not much taller than 1, 60 m. “How can you sleep with all this noise?” “I’m used to it, been here for seven years”.

The beat of the carioca funk music, on a pitch anticipating madness, is the soundtrack to one of the many corridors in Vila Mimosa, the oldest prostitution zone in Brazil. The colorful lights enhance the anguish some people carry, mixed to the relief and distraction of hundreds of others who circulate daily around the famous Ceará Street in the suburbs of Rio de Janeiro.

Through Front Door Only

On one side, two or three story houses are transformed into private clubs. On the ground floor, expensive drinks and cigarettes. Upstairs, the working place can be summarized by a cubicle with a bed enclosed by curtains. Half-naked young women lean against the gate, watching passer-bys and waiting for their approach. “Twenty Reais, twenty minutes, but only front door allowed.” The answer is automatic.

On the opposite sidewalk, shops multiply. The corridors connecting the bars seem creepy. A sign on the entrance reads “Vila Mimosa condemns the prostitution of children. People under 18 are not allowed”. Green vests worn by street peddlers say the same thing. Rules are followed severely. By the women.

There are no transvestites. Humble men quickly spend their hard earned pay over here “This is what it’s like at the beginning of the month. The streets get crowded; they receive their salaries and come straight here. Afterwards they have to find some way to make ends meet till the end of the month” says Dona Beth, sarcastically.

“do you want another one?” “Please” Cariocas can’t say no to a little chat. “So, seven years…” “Unfortunately” “Why?” “This is the end of the world. There’s nothing worse than this” “Well why then…” “No option”

Her husband was murdered. He was a cop. The pension never came. “While it doesn’t come I need these six hundred Reais”. Her son lives in Brasilia and has no suspicion whatsoever. “He thinks I’m a maid. Lord willing, I’ll get out of this before he ever finds out”.

I’ve Been To Hell On Earth

In the largest Catholic country in the world, they say He is Brazilian. Beth disagrees. “When I die and meet Him, I’ll say: Lord, I’ve been to hell on Earth. The other day one of the security guys who guard the door killed a boy because he was looking at one of his girls. He threw his body in the bushes. That’s an everyday thing here. ”

After taking a look around, she concludes “It could have been me”. She laughs dryly. “How old are you?” “That’s a secret” She laughs openly. “I’m fifty two” “You shouldn’t be here” “Neither should you”

Beth is no exception. Nor a unanimity. “Being here distracts me”, says Vanessa, who has worked in Villa Mimosa for nine years. She lives far away and can’t always go home. “I have to feed my daughter”. Freedom is attractive. “There’s no way I’ll work in Copacabana. You charge a hundred and get to keep only half of it. The rest goes to the owners. Here I charge twenty but I keep it all for myself and I can leave whenever I want”

For this reason it’s hard to tell how many professional are working there. Movement is constant, day and night. There’s no day off or holidays. “I think that ever since this place started there has always been someone fucking somewhere”

Escaping the war

Villa Mimosa is almost a hundred years old. It developed when husbandless women from Eastern Europe landed here in their escape from the First World War. The first working spot was the Zona do Mangue, close to the current Presidente Vargas Avenue, in downtown Rio. Hence the term Zona, (meaning zone) for whorehouses.

The Poles, as these early professionals were called, shared working space with the native girls over the years until they finally disappeared, chased from spot to spot as the town grew, modernized and expanded. They finally found shelter on poor tree-lined limits by the suburban railroad line where there was a vila (small group of adjoining houses). The name Vila Mimosa stuck. Mimosa meaning “sweet, dainty, delicate”.

The war was over, but not the escape. “It’s a job like any other. It’s tough for everybody out there”,Vanessa justifies herself. Vila Mimosa has become serious business. “Thirty four houses here are owned by the same man. That’s almost half of them”. After the relief comes the protest. “You’re asking too much already and I’m not making any money!”, she complains, reminding me of the value of time.

All of the Beths and Vanessas join with the Joanas, Patricias and Manoelas from Ceará Street. The machine can’t stop spinning, like the hands of a timeless clock. But the nights at Villa Mimosa still last longer than all the others.