By Jeff Bradley

Monday, October 27, 2008

The concrete staircase winds its way up the hill to the heavens. Every 15 steps or so, there's a turn. At every turn, a landing leads to several small, boxlike dwellings fashioned mostly from concrete and tin. Crude plumbing and electric wires pieced together with tattered strips of tape run exposed up the steps. The walls are covered with graffiti, the ground littered with empty beer bottles. But heaven awaits at the end of the climb, which is why so many calloused bare feet endure the journe ...

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