RIO DE JANEIRO — A thousand metaphysical miles from the well-heeled Olympic zone, a couple of activists and I entered the Favela do Mandela, a ramshackle collection of brick-and-tar-paper buildings. We walked a narrow road ringed by wary-eyed young men, which led to a narrower one, which led to a five-foot-wide alleyway. We found the home of 64-year-old Marie Auxiliadora.
With blond hair brushed back, she was a diminutive eruption of joy. She apologized for her modest home, scrubbed and packed with crucifixes and plastic flowers and pastel curtains. She wore a sun dress and pink flip-flops. Although morning gunfire had earlier forced her to hide in her bedroom, she insisted hers had been a good life.