|That's a favela|
I follow her out. When the slum master beckons, you follow.
I was lead to a computer screen with a spreadsheet program being worked on, presumably by the slum master. The computer screen is an odd thing that rises out of the slums, like how a single bright neon billboard that advertises the best of what capitalism offers will look like in the hill favela in Brazil. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I stared at the screen and was curious what she is doing on an excel spreadsheet. The slum master working on an excel spreadsheet is like putting nutella on rice. Or steamed oranges. Two ordinary things combined in a weird and unconventional manner.
She beamed brightly while pointing out the rows and columns of the spreadsheet. She's showing me the expenses she had for the day, for the past few days this week. She proudly exclaimed that she had not been spending a lot of money this day, except for the lunch that she had. Rows of itemized spending is keyed in neatly, with the right end of the row accompanied by the dollar equivalent of the spending. Daily recording of expenses, hmm...
I gave her the thumbs up. If I am a tree of happiness, a few fruits ripened that very moment. If my life is a movie, this is where the camera pans in slowly in a anticlockwise manner, with me in the center rising vertically upwards, until the camera zooms in on my face. As the heroic music plays on, the beginnings of a smile dawns on my face.
And yet no camera can capture the beams of pride that emanates out of me.