Tiradentes & Bichinho

This will be my last video for this trip.  Thanks to everyone who has read and/or watched along.  Until next time...

As I wrote earlier, in the 1700s, to expedite the looting from Brazil of gold, diamonds, gems, sugar, coffee, etc., the Portuguese Crown had a road built from the mountains of Diamantina [Gia mon cheena] in the north to the port of Paraty [Para chee], near Rio, in the south.  Along the Estrada Real, the Royal Road, a lot of tiny towns sprung up, places where the armed convoys of the Crown could rest their horses and mules and re-supply themselves for the next leg of their journey.  When ties between Brazil and mainland Portugal were eventually severed, the Estrada Real, essentially, stopped being used.  Many of the towns continued to exist, but given how remote they were, did so almost entirely without contact with the outside world.  Today, life in many of these little hamlets remains largely unchanged from the way people there lived hundreds of years ago. 

Two such towns Lu and I visited were Tiradentes [Cheer ah den chess] and its neighbor Bichinho [Be sheen u].  Tucked away in the mountains about midway between Rio and Belo Horizonte, these towns have a very unique and inspiring story.   As recently as thirty years ago, these towns, like many along the Estrada Real, were severely impoverished.  The people were largely uneducated and they had little or no work.  Then an industrious young man from Sao Paulo who knew a bit about woodwork and craft making, moved to Bichinho and offered to teach his skills to anyone interested.  Naturally, people lined up.  In time, as the art got better and better, it started to sell, and the guy began to pay his interns for the work they did.  When students completed their internship, instead of binding their hands with copyrights to his designs or non-competition agreements, the guy encouraged and even helped them go into business for themselves.   

Today, thirty years later, the internship program is still going strong and a second generation of town’s people is going through it.  Tiradentes, with its beautiful historic buildings that now house craft shops, a couple of gourmet restaurants and charming pousadas, has become an increasingly popular weekend-getaway destination for people from Rio and Belo.  Next door, in the lesser-known and less commercialized (if you can even use that word) Bichinho, is where most of the artisans who sell their work in the shops of Tiradentes live and work.  Lu and I both fell in love with Bichinho.  The buildings are humbler and the restaurants and pousadas aren’t as fancy, but the place absolutely abounds with creativity.  Thamar, a retired lawyer friend of the Barbosa’s who recently moved to Bichinho with her son and ailing husband, laughed and said, “I can’t get anyone to help clear my yard because everyone’s in their studio making art!” 

Imagine that. 

 

Bahia, Brazil

We took a ferry from Salvador to the island, Ilha de Tinhare (don’t bother, there’s no translation) to a secluded little village called, Morro de Sao Paulo (St. Paul’s Mountain). The weather was terrible and the sea was rough.  We weren’t in any danger but Lu and her family were pretty traumatized.  We sat in the stern of the thirty-odd foot catamaran beneath a canopy that was open at the sides.  The passengers on the port side opted to have a canvas flap lowered.  It was a mistake as the enclosure caused a number of them to get seasick.  One poor bastard spent the whole two-hour crossing in the head.  If that wasn’t bad enough, about midway into the trip one of the engines conked out.  The captain powered down and a couple of crewmen scrambled below deck to fix it.  There was a lot of clanking and shouting as we drifted in a hard, hard rain.  Ten minutes later, the guy on deck signaled the captain and, a moment later, the engine fired back to life.

We labored on for another forty-five minutes before we finally spotted land.  The sea calmed as we entered the harbor and soon we pulled up to a narrow, concrete dock and tied off.  A stream of young men in bright yellow tee shirts crowded onto the boat and started asking everyone if they would like help with their luggage.  There are no cars or roads in Morro Sao Paulo, only footpaths.  To get anywhere, you have to walk, and our hotel was a pretty good distance. 

If the strategy of the yellow shirts was to overwhelm and disorient the ferry passengers so they could bilk them for a high fee than they did an excellent job.  I was furious.  The boat ride had been bad enough, but to now have to deal with this flock of pestering sea gulls was too much.  I wanted to hit someone. 

We made it ashore but the chaos continued.  There were people and luggage everywhere.  Lu and her father were having a heated argument with one of the yellow shirts, letting lose, I assumed, about the lack of precaution on the passage over.  The guy was all smiles and island charm but they were having none of it.  In the midst of this our luggage suddenly materialized from below deck and was passed from one yellow shirt to another over the heads of the crowd and finally dumped onto two wheelbarrows and tied down with rope.  (All transport of goods in this town is done via wheelbarrow.)  I clung to my laptop and camera and pushed through the crowd and up the steep, steep landing.  Lu joined me.  Her anger gone she was all laughter and smiles.  The argument with the yellow shirt had not been about the trip over.  Lu and her father had been haggling for a price to have our bags brought to the hotel.

“His starting price was a total rip off,” Lu said.

“Did you get him down?”

“Are you kidding?” she laughed.  “When it’s me and my father together, no one stands a chance.  You should see us at the gem shows.  We’re notorious.”

We followed the wheelbarrows along a soggy sand path through a row of little bars, tour guide offices and souvenir shops.  Between two shops I caught a glimpse of the ocean.  Off an outcropping of rocks a perfect, head-high wave broke right.  A surfer ripped it to shreds.

“Holy shit!” I shouted.  “Lu!  They’ve got surf here!”  I ran ahead to a better vantage.  Four waves came in one after the other.  There were only five guys out. 

When we planned this trip and it had been decided that Lu’s family would join us for this portion, I decided that I wasn’t going to make a big deal about surfing.  If it was easy to make happen, fine.  If not, I wouldn’t push it.  Two days ago, after flying into Salvador, the eight of us drove in a van out of the city to a beautiful whale and sea turtle sanctuary called, Praia do Forte (Fortress Beach).  In between bursts of warm rain and sun, we spent the day swimming, eating (fresh caught and grilled needle nose fish (fried), shrimp, whole fish, and lobster) and going for walks.  On one such walk, Lu and I happened upon a group of guys surfing.  The waves were okay-ish.  I longed to go in, but to make it happen would have been a logistical nightmare.  I needed to rent a board, which meant driving back to town.  Then what to do with the rest of the family while we were gone?  How long would it take?  How would we get the board back when the van was filled with people? Etc.  Still, it felt weird to watch waves and not at least make an effort to go in.  But now, at Morro Sao Paulo, I realized that once we got everyone checked into the pousada, the logistics would become simple: this is your room, that’s the ocean, eat when you’re hungry, sleep when you’re tired. Ciao!

Lu caught up and I told her the plan.  “I’m going surfing.  Right now.”

The guy unloaded the wheelbarrow at the front desk of Pousada da Torre.  The place, built of palm wood and white ceramic tiles, was lovely, and right on the beach.  Along the entry there was a pool, hot tub and sauna on one side and a glassed-in restaurant and bar on the other.  Our room was a slate and thatch roofed bungalow that was all but swallowed by jungle foliage.  Very charming and very private.

“The place is great,” I said, and dropped our bags.  “Let’s go!”

Beneath a palm tree with a poorly painted sign that reads, “Surf School” I rented a 6’ 2” jalopy from a totally drunk guy whose eyes were as red as his sun burn.  Through Lu the guy congratulated me for choosing the board I had.  It was made by a local shaper but to the exact specs of the board Kelly Slater used when he won the Masters.  "It’s the best board we’ve got," he said.  The guy was so blatantly full of shit that Lu and I couldn’t help but laugh.

Lu and the guy agreed on a price (half-day free!), but when we went to pay he told us that the shop was closed and that we should just pay him tomorrow.  We thanked him and started to leave.  As we walked away the guy shouted after us that the shop owner was in the water and that if he gave me a hard time about taking one of his boards, I should just tell him that he, slurred, inaudible name, said it was okay.  I looked at Lu.  “And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” 

It was just before dark when I paddled out.  The water was warm and clean and easily washed away the stress of the day.  The vibe among the surfers was relaxed.  They were all friends and there were waves enough for everyone.  I said hello to a couple of guys and they said hi back.  One asked where I was from and when I told him he said, “Ah! California! Is very nice surfing there.” 

I hung back through the first set.  Three guys took off on as many waves and I paddled out to where they were.  A guy shouted, “Amigo!” and hurriedly paddled over.  He pointed at the board and said something incomprehensible.  The shop owner I presumed.  He seemed pissed.  I smiled, apologized and said that I didn’t understand Portuguese.  He pointed at the board again and repeated what he said.  I pointed towards shore and made like I was drunk.  The shop owner roared with laughter.  He got it.  He gave me the thumbs up and paddled off.  A couple of minutes later, another set came through.  I paddled over the first wave and took the second. 

Regina's Farm

The night we arrived at Regina’s [Hey-dg-ee-na] farm a few miles outside of Curvelo it was close to ten-thirty.  We were over two hours late.  Road construction beside a bridge had brought traffic to a standstill.  As night fell we sat motionless amidst a mile-long line of rumbling tractor-trailers.

Up until then the drive had been fun.  Eduardo drove and played one great Brazilian CD after another.  (We won’t discuss Mamma Mia or that Italian woman who, from the back seat where I was sitting with Lu and Anna, sounded in every song like she was being murdered.)  Ailson [Eye-eel-son], Eduardo’s boyfriend, rode shotgun.  Just about every time we hit a bump the little GPS navigation system that was suctioned to the windshield would jump free and try to makes its escape.  Ailson caught and returned the unhappy digital map every time. 

As time wore on and it became clear that no one would be moving anytime soon, the big trucks turned their engines off.   The rural darkness and silence were sudden and complete.  A few of the drivers climbed down from their rigs to stretch their legs and smoke.  Men carrying bags of cashews or oranges on their heads materialized out of the darkness and made the rounds between the stopped vehicles.  In our car we listened in rapt silence as Gilberto Gil did a beautiful, almost mournful, call and response with his audience.  At some point I fell asleep.

At the turn off onto the dirt road to the farm we met Anna’s husband Mauricio.  He had come from work in the opposite direction.  I met Mauricio briefly one night at a bar the week we first arrived.  Lu and Eduardo had told me that he was an agricultural engineer but neither knew exactly what that meant.  Mauricio is a big guy with dark features, a determined manner and madman’s smile.  Anna is tiny by his side.  She too is dark featured, with beautiful black hair to the middle of her back and big eyes that always have a spark of mischief about them. 

It was dark and the dirt road was thick with dust but eventually, with watery eyes and gritty teeth, we made it to Regina’s.  It being as late as it was I expected everyone to be in bed and the place to be quiet.  However, the moment we pulled into the drive a swarm of dogs and people descended on us from the house in a cacophony of warm welcome.  The party was just getting started. 

From behind the crowd I heard Regina before I saw her.  I daresay we all did.  Regina’s voice was songbird sweet but man was it loud.  “LUUUUUUU!” she cried. “LUUUUUUUUU!” Regina came from the house.  She was short and stout and dressed in a pink tracksuit.  She had curly, shoulder-length blond hair that bounced with attitude when she walked and she wore hip, square-framed eyeglasses.  Regina threw her arms around Luciana.  An embrace long in coming, neither woman rushed to end it.  Meanwhile, Regina’s husband, Cabral [Cah-brow], a portly man in his mid-fifties wearing (despite it being freezing) khaki shorts, Havaiana flip-flops and a canary yellow Polo sweatshirt shook my hand and gave me a big bear hug.  Then he pushed me back to arms distance and, with a hand on my shoulder, made several important sounding pronouncements. 

“Obrigado,” I said.  “But I don’t speak Portuguese.” 

Cabral laughed and then kept right on talking.  He would delight in doing this to me all weekend.

Behind Cabral stood two boys in pajamas, Jose and Paulo Eduardo.  Jose, Cabral’s fourteen year-old son, was tall and lanky with black hair and a sheepish smile.  Paulo Eduardo was Jose’s friend.  Two years younger and considerably shorter than Jose, Paulo had intelligent brown eyes and longish hair that poked out at odd angles from under the backward baseball cap he wore.  I shook hands with both boys.   Jose smiled and mumbled, “Tudo bem?” [Too-do beng] How’s it going? All is well? 

“JAY-CK!” shouted Regina.  “JAY-CK!”  The crowd parted as the hostess made her way to me and gave me a hug.  Up close Regina’s soulful brown eyes belied a depth and sensitivity that her blustery demeanor was designed to hide.  It suddenly made sense to me how this fiery little woman could run a 170,000-acre eucalyptus tree farm and at the same time keep her household so full of joy and love.

Regina laid a hand on my shoulder and addressed the crowd.  “JAY-CK,” she said. “Tell me.  Do you like duck?”  The question was a test.  How I answered would seal my fate.  The crowd grew hushed.  All eyes were on me.  “Do you like wild duck?” Regina added for emphasis.  

I put my hand over the hand Regina had on my shoulder and, as if in a bad Shakespearean production (of which I have considerable experience), looked out over the crowd and announced,  “Regina, I love wild duck!”

Everyone cheered.  I passed the test.

As the group made their way along the deck of the house, past the bonfire, to the out-building behind that served as a kitchen, I stopped to greet the two rather fierce looking Bordeaux dogs (French Mastiff) who, along with a small, snouty Shar Pei, had been the first to arrive at the gate when we pulled in.  The two dogs with their over-sized heads, wrinkled faces and sleek brown coats were easily a hundred and some pounds apiece.  Unsure how friendly they were I approached with caution.  The dogs pretended not to notice me.  When I was close enough I knelt down and held out my hand for them to sniff.  One dog jumped backwards and took off around the side of the house while the other fell to the ground, rolled over and licked my hand. 

The Shar Pei with the red painted toenails was named Valentina.  “She is my baby,” said Regina while the dog gnawed on her arm.  The Bordeauxs were Raquel [Ha-kell] (the one with the under bite) and Juliana [dgu-lee-ah-na] (the one that took off).  Regina laughed.  “They are named after my sisters.”  There was another dog on the property but we hadn’t met him yet.  “He is a terrible little dog,” said Regina, with a mock-scowl.  “Him we call Mauricinho [Mau-ree-see-nyo].  After my brother!”  Regina roared.  

The kitchen was a simple tiled room with a small cooking area, two eating tables, a couch and four leather chairs.  There was a pantry through one door and, through another, the small bedroom and bath that the boys shared.  The windows along the front were mesh metal grates.  Lu said, “To keep the really big bugs out.”  The bonfire was right outside but did little to heat the room. 

From a big pot atop the curiously small propane stove, the duck soup was ladled into bowls and passed around.  Gina and her husband Alexandre poured red wine and Skol beer for those who wanted it.  A collection of empty bottles was begun on the windowsill above the sink.  The soup was hot and delicious and, indeed, tasted wild.  I went for seconds but Lu stayed me with a gentle hand on my arm.  “Be careful,” she whispered.  “There is more to come.”

I looked at my watch.  It was close to midnight. 

“Duck risotto with kumquats and pistachios,” she said.  “You ain’t in Kansas anymore my love.” 

She was right.  Paulo, a ripped gym rat with a mercurial charm, was at the stove sautéing onions while Ailson cored the kumquats next to the sink.  Will these people ever go to bed? I wondered. 

Regina must have caught the stunned look on my face because right on cue she asked if I wanted a drink.  “Do you like caipirinha? [ki-pee-ree-nya]” she asked.  By the arch in her eyebrow it was plain this was another test.  Caipirinha is a traditional Brazilian cocktail made with crushed fresh fruit, a lot of sugar and cachaca [ka-sha-sa], a powerful alcohol made from sugarcane.  Depending on the brand, cachaca can either be a smooth liquor one sips or an acid one uses to kill demons in exorcisms.  

I tell Regina that caipirinhas tend to be too sweet for me and that I prefer cachaca by itself.  Her eyes lit up.  “Oh,” she says.  “Then you have to try the cachaca my father makes.  It is the best!”   

Regina opened a cabinet near the sink and started rummaging around the floor of it.  She pulled out an old bucket, a dustpan and several rusted cans of cleaning solvent.  Then, biting her tongue, she reached as far into the back of the space that she could.  “Got it!” she said.  And then out she came with a massive jug of her old man’s moonshine.

The really fine cachacas have no after taste when they go down, they are smooth and don’t burn.  This cachaca wasn’t one of those.  It wasn’t even close.  But nor was it that bad.  For homemade hooch, I had to admit, the stuff was pretty good.  And when my vision returned and I could again make out which one was Regina, I told her so.

The risotto was well worth the wait, but when it was finished, I casually backed out the door and snuck off to bed.

The next morning after breakfast we all drove into town.  Lu and I rode with Cabral, Regina and Valentina in their tiny Fiat.  On either side of the dirt road the magnificent eucalyptus trees ran in straight columns all the way to the horizon.  Regina explained that the farm belonged to her father.  No one in the family lived on the property full-time anymore but just used it as we were doing now for weekend getaways.  In addition to the farm, Regina’s father owned an iron ore processing plant.  The eucalyptus was used as charcoal in the blast furnaces.  The trees were ideal because of how fast and easy they were to grow.  A stand of trees that was easily seventy feet tall took just seven years to grow.  Regina said they were ready to be harvested.

It being daylight now, once we left the towering tree-fields of the farm, I was able to see that the surrounding countryside was very flat and arid.  It seemed more like we were driving across some African plain than it did a part of Brazil.  Alexandre (Paulo’s partner, not Anna’s husband) would tell me later that this cerrado [say-ha-doe], savannah, was actually typical of central Brazil, that it began here in Curvelo and continued all the way east until it met the Amazon.  “Is very interesting,” he said.  


The town of Curvelo seemed to materialize straight out of the ground.  It was bigger than I'd anticipated, with wide streets and lots of tiny shops (only the church steeple rose above two stories).  The world is so big, I thought.  I wanted to grab the people I saw and ask, “Who are you?" and "Who do you think will win American Idol?”  Cabral, a seed farmer himself and lifelong inhabitant of Curvelo, sort of took care of that for me.  As we ambled through town he rolled down his window and whistled and waved to a few of his friends.

Dedo de Gente, Finger of the People, was a little shop across the street from the church in the town square that Regina wanted us to see.  All across Brazil extreme poverty is rampant.  There is nowhere you don’t encounter it.  In the cities the favelas pour right down the hillsides into the streets.  In the rural countryside, it is simply how most people live.  Dedo de Gente takes kids ages sixteen and up and teaches them a trade.  The only condition for membership is that the kids stay in school.  The work they learn ranges from making preserves and doing needlepoint, to making exquisite wood furniture and sculpture.  It was this last that I found to be the most impressive.  Using junk metal and other found objects, the kids had made these unbelievable sculptures depicting the people in their community and aspects of daily life.  A woman made of oilcans and funnels fed chickens made out of discarded machine cogs.  There was a steam train, owls with bicycle gears for eyes, and cows being tended by a field hand wearing a straw hat.  Through a wood gate next door to the shop was a courtyard where they kept pieces that were too large to keep inside.  The pieces included two six-foot angels made entirely of wire that held potted blue flowers in their hands; a life-size horse and a gigantic bull—replete with built-to-scale testicles!  Further in back were the metalwork shop and a large cache of scrap.  A few of the boys in leather smocks took a break from their machines to talk to us about their work.  Their enthusiasm and pride were palpable.

Paulo and Alexandre bought several pieces.  Lu and I bought just one: a metal napkin holder, the top of which has a man in a hat standing in a canoe and rowing it with a pole.   

Back at the farm by midmorning we all gathered around the two tables under the gazebo near the pool and prepared ourselves for the day’s main activity: the eating of a lamb.  Cabral and Alexandre (Paulo’s) did their part by reading the paper.  Jose and Paulo Eduardo did theirs by hanging out in the hammock and playing cards.  Mauricio lit the grill while Anna and Gina served Skol.  Eduardo washed and cut fruit for caipirinhas and Lu went to the garden to pick basil.  Ever the gourmet, she had had a caipirinha in Morro de Sao Paul that was made with kiwi, pineapple and, oddly, basil.  She loved it and wanted to try and make one for the others.  Regina and Paulo worked in the kitchen to ready the meats.  In time they brought the two marinated hind legs down and Mauricio placed them on a rack above the hot coals.  Closer to the flame he placed two large cuts of local beef and a ring of sausage that had been made by Regina’s brother.   

In Brazil a barbecue is an all day, all night affair.  Food is prepared in small portions and served in a gloriously never-ending flow.  Countless times throughout the day I would look up to find Mauricio, dressed only in speedos and smiling like a madman with his knife blade pointed at someone to try a piece of whatever was on the end of it.  Because I wasn’t from Brazil and he wanted to ensure that my experience here was as authentic as possible, he seemed particularly determined to have me try his cooking.  Once, when I was in the chicken coop at the back of the property trying to film a group of just-settled chicks, Mauricio threw open the door and, blade in hand, marched right in.  The chicks went ape shit and started chirping and running around, well, like chickens.  Mauricio was oblivious. “Try this,” he said. “It’s good, right?”

Late that evening we had lamb ragu over pasta.  The next day, after a leisurely breakfast, we all went for a long walk through the beautiful eucalyptus fields.  Mauricio kicked over several termite towers to show me how a certain breed of wood ant takes them over.  Mauricio explained his work to me but I too had trouble understanding it.  Essentially he is involved in sustainable farming.  The group walked out past the long abandoned pigpen.  At a small house next door we met the woman who makes the delicious guava paste and doce de leite.  

Jose and Paulo Eduardo were waiting for Cabral in his truck.  Apparently the old man had dispatched the boys to ride ahead on their bikes and return to pick him up.  As they pulled away, Valentina was up front in the passenger seat and Cabral was in back trying to make himself comfortable on the wheel well.  It sprinkled rain but then stopped after a few minutes. 

Back at the farm we ate lamb chops with polenta, then later, before we left for home, pork with rice.   

Driving The Estrada Real

In the 17th century, diamonds, gold and gems were discovered in the Brazilian state of Minas Gerais.  In order to export these goods as quickly and safely as possible, the Portuguese Crown ordered the building of a road from the mines of Diamantina in the north to the port of Paraty near Rio in the south.  The Estrada Real (Royal Road), winds up over mountains and crosses near-desert cerrados (savannas) and rain forests.  In the remote and largely isolated villages one encounters along the road, life remains little changed from the way it has been lived for hundreds of years.


Today, Lu's friend Adriana took us for a long and thrilling off-road adventure.  


 

The Baptism That Almost Wasn't

It was the day of Xande’s [Shun-gee] baptism and we had just arrived at the country house.  Nothing was ready.  Lu went into the kitchen and took over.  She put Mariana and me on the flowers and her father on chopping garlic while she and Dalva started to brown the chicken.  The kitchen was tiny and there was barely room enough for the two women to stand side by side.  A mound of chicken sat on a platter next to the sink and a giant pot sat on the stove.  “Look at this thing,” said Lu about the stove, scornfully.  It too was tiny, like something out of a doll's house.  “This is never going to work.”  


Later, on a brief break, I was standing with Marcelo, Lu’s younger brother, next to the pool.  In his mid-thirties with clear blue eyes and an easy manner, Marcelo is the Barbosa family member I know the least.  He and his wife, Fernanda, live to the north in Brasilia, the country’s capital.  The two of them aren’t in the family’s gem business and so don’t travel to the states as often as the others.

So there we were beside the pool, and just like guys do when they don’t know each other well but want to get started on the right foot, Marcelo and I began to share about our respective injuries.  I tell him about the slipped disc in my lower back and he tells me about the herniated disc he’s got in his neck.  Mine came from surfing, his from six-years as a national Judo and Thai kick-boxing champion.

What?  Excuse me? 

Marcelo, it turns out, has had an entire previous life as a professional athlete.  In short, the guy basically spent his teens and early twenties beating the crap out of people and winning trophies all over Brazil and Thailand.  Even more impressive perhaps than his accomplishments was how unaffected he was by the whole thing.  There was zero boast or challenge in the way he spoke about himself.  It was all just something he'd done.  

I could never do that, I thought.  If I were a Judo expert, I would make damn sure people knew about it.  I would have my titles emblazoned on my bath towels and I would refuse to acknowledge anyone unless they first addressed me as Judo Jack or Mr. Thai Box Champion Hannibal. 

The flowers arranged and the table set, the guests began to arrive.  The place was a buzz with Portuguese.  With still some time left, I slipped away to one of the back bedrooms for a quick nap.  We were out late last night with Beth, Veronica, Cintia and her husband Dalton, and I hadn’t slept very well.  We had gone to this family-style pizza place where white-aproned waiters flew around the room with trays of freshly baked, thin-crust pizza that they served dim sum style.  It was all you could eat and I’m afraid I did.  As much as I packed away, however, it was nothing compared to what Dalton ate.  Originally from Lithuania he was hands-down one of the largest human beings I have ever met.  Not in height or magnanimity necessarily, but in width and sheer brawn.  The guy was a massive, eastern European-Brazilian monster who didn’t speak a word of English.  After hello and a handshake that felt like a catcher’s mitt filled with rocks, he didn’t even try to communicate with me.  He didn’t care.  The man was there to eat, not make small talk with some guy he was never going to see again.  I liked Dalton immediately. 

At the end of the night, I pushed down a final slice of chocolate pizza followed by another two of banana, chocolate and cinnamon (I kid you not) and then tapped out.  Dalton kept going.  He wasn’t even on dessert yet.  The waiters were pissed because, even though it was all you could eat, the guy was pummeling their profit margin.  A half-slice of pizza disappearing into Dalton’s mouth looked as insignificant as a bi-plane going into King Kong’s.  An eight-ounce glass of beer looked like he was doing a shot.  And on and on and on it went.  Just watching him made me want to barf. 

“If a fight breaks out,” I said to Veronica, “I don’t care whose fault it is.  We’re taking Dalton’s side.”

I returned to the party dressed and refreshed and ready for another couple of hours of polite head nodding and incomprehension.  Actually, Lu’s family and a lot of the guests speak excellent English but would pretend like they didn't when I was around.  Oh, I was onto them all right.  

On the back deck I found Lu standing atop the wood-burning stove.  Still in her sneakers, sweats and tank top, she was straddling the giant pot of chicken and stirring it with an over-sized wooden spoon.  My heart filled to bursting, I grabbed my camera and thought, If anyone ever wants to know why I married this woman, let them see this.

Lu said that the kitchen stove wasn’t cutting it so she and Dalva had moved the whole operation outside.  “I love that about Dalva,” Lu would tell me later.  “She’s up for anything.”  

Lunch came off perfectly.  Lu’s Moroccan chicken was fall on the ground amazing, as were the salads, sausage, beans and mushroom tortellini.  Dessert and coffee were served and Uruguay, in the world cup match for third place, went up one against Germany.  All was well in the world. 

It was time now for the Baptism and everyone headed to their cars for the short journey to the chapel in town.  Amidst all the high-spirited commotion, Xande, dressed in white dress shirt and pants, tucked his little body in deep beneath the serving counter and announced he wasn't going.  

Can’t say we didn’t see that one coming.  Last week when his grandfather tried to explain to Xande what a baptism was, the little boy heard him out, thought for a moment and then exclaimed, “No one is going to pour water on my head!” 

Eduardo smiled sweetly and shrugged.  “What can you do?”

To be fair, Xande is six and just old enough to know that this big gathering of grown ups was all about him.  That’s a lot of pressure on a kid.  Also, from what I can tell, the Barbosa’s aren’t exactly the most observant Catholics in South America.  Nothing wrong with that except that it probably means that poor Xande has only been inside that chapel in town a few times; say 6 Christmas’s, 6 Easters and maybe 3 or 4 inspired Sundays at most.  And, lest we forget, churches are creepy places.  Even without the priests.  (Had to get that in there.)  So no wonder the kid balked.  It must have seemed to him like he was going to his execution.

Be that as it may, Grandma Ligia was determined this baptism was going to happen.  (Or there just might be an execution).  Immediately, a crack team of expert negotiators comprised of Xande’s favorite aunties and uncles, descended around the counter and, with their voices set to smooth jazz, they tried to reason the boy into coming out.  That went precisely nowhere.  Xande is a crafty little bugger and the moment he realized they wanted him to do something, he became stubborn as a mule.

The clock ticking and the peace process in shambles, Ligia pulled the negotiators out and sent them into town.  That was a scene.  Five adults, myself included, our asses totally handed to us by this child, walking away in disgrace yet trying to play it off like we were leaving of our own accord.  “All right, Xande.  We’ll be on our way then.  Join us…you know, if you want.” 

Ligia was down but she wasn't out.  She still had one card to play.  Dalva.  The one woman Xande can never refuse.  The two women regarded one another with a steely intensity as they passed.  It was game on.  Lu laughed.  “Oh, he’s toast now,” she said.

The baptism guests were strewn about the chapel steps and grounds in various states of boredom and repose.  They looked like the cast and crew of a film awaiting the arrival of a temperamental star.  People smoked, paced, checked their watches and sighed.  There was a lot of sighing.  Someone headed to the bar at the foot of the hill to check the score.  Germany was up.  Bad omen.   I made use of the time by running around and shooting coverage.   The light was brilliant.  The rooftop cross in silhouette against the clouds was amazing.  Worse case scenario, I figured, was that a few of us would come back tomorrow and do Xande’s bit as an insert. 

The inside of the chapel was spare and still.  A few guests seated amidst the makeshift pews of creaky wooden chairs prayed or simply sat in quiet contemplation.  Two women from town made last minute adjustments to the flowers on the altar.  The priest, a middle-aged man with a young, fleshy face and receding black hair, sat in his white frock and green vestment off to the side in a chair against the wall, his hands folded neatly on his lap.  He’s been through this before, I thought.  Xande is going to be fine.

The silver Honda arrived and the crowd on the steps tossed cigarettes and scattered.  The negotiators descended on the car to sing their praises of Xande but were just as quickly sent away by Ligia and Dalva.  We weren't out of the woods yet.  Everyone moved inside the chapel and took their seats.  A few minutes later, Xande, hand in hand with Lu and Marcelo, his loving (and beaming) Godparents, appeared in the doorway at the back.  No one dared breathe.  A lifetime passed as the trio made the long walk to the altar.  The priest, towering above Xande, opened his arms in welcome.  Then, in a moment that can only be described as miraculous, Xande let go of Lu's and Marcelo’s hands, stepped forward and was enveloped in the gentle man’s warm embrace and flowing robes.  The crowed burst into cheers and applause.  Houston we are a go!  

 

Grab Your Hat and Coati

On a hike in the mountains above the city we followed a small winding stream through the woods.  Beneath an outcropping of rocks was a large swatch of bright orange mud.  Lu told me it was iron, naturally occurring rust.     
 

At a picnic site beside the stream, a rustling in the woods was followed by the emergence of what looked like a possum wearing a raccoon coat.  It was a coati, Brazil's version of the anteater. 

 
Not sure if the thing was friend or foe I suggested we keep our distance.  “But it’s so cute,” said Lu.  She then bent down and called to it.  The coati waddled right up to her.  It wasn’t afraid at all.  It was bored.  While Lu took its picture the animal performed its, “I’m a cute starving forest animal so feed me or I will die” routine.  It was terrible.  The moves were all there, i.e., the head lowered in submission, big saucer eyes and paws outstretched in a gesture of seeking alms, but there wasn’t any feeling in it.  The coati was just going through the motions, phoning it in like a tired old hooker.  I had to resist giving her notes and having her try it again. 

 

The moment the coati realized she wasn’t getting anywhere with us, or anything from us, she dropped the act and sauntered on.  


A few moments later, a whole slew of coatis emerged from the underbrush.  There were twenty-one in all.  I learned later that packs of this size are typical and that they are comprised entirely of females and their young.  Males, apparently, are only tolerated during the breeding season, and once the deed is done, the females turn hostile and run them off.   When I related this fact to Lu she laughed a little longer and harder than was warranted.  Just saying.

 


The coati fanned out and overran the picnic area.  A couple came close and gave a sniff but mostly they just ignored us.  They climbed on top of the tables and even on top of a boarded up maintenance hut that was there.  Two worked together to turn over a log and than lapped up the bugs underneath.  

 




A bunch of coati climbed down inside a small, metal garbage can.  Another, walked along its rim but then lost her footing, fell inside and landed with a loud bang.  The coati inside panicked and began to hurl themselves out of the trash.  They looked like fat, fur-covered bottle rockets.

Lili's Grocery & Monkeys

        On Saturday, Lu and I, before going to lunch with Eduardo and Adriana, went for a short walk around the neighborhood.  Since our arrival Lu has produced bag after bag of clothing that she left behind when she moved to the states.  It has been an on-going fashion show.  On our walk she wore a favorite pair of long lost Nike’s.  A few hundred yards from the house one of the soles unfurled like the tongue of an exhausted dog and fell almost completely off.  So much for our walk.  At least that’s one pair of shoes I won’t have to carry back to the US.  

Eduardo picked us up in his sporty black Peugeot and took us for a brief walk around the park in front of the old Palace and government center.  Two rows of palm trees lined a center walkway between the Palace at one end and a row of fountains at the other.  Purple Ipe (e-pay) trees were scattered throughout.  

Most of the historic buildings surrounding the square had scaffolding in front of them and were being converted into different museums and cultural centers.  In front of one of the buildings, some sort of Portuguese-Spanish celebration, replete with marching band, Virgin Mary statue and brightly dressed dancing girls with castanets was going on.  

Eduardo explained that the entire government has been relocated to a massive new building out by the airport.  Touted as another architectural triumph by the 103 year-old Oscar Niemeyer [Oss-ca Ne-ah-my-ah], the city workers cried bullshit and said that the place was in the middle of nowhere and that it was an eyesore.  We saw the complex when we arrived.  The city workers are right.  

Mercearia do Lili [Mer-say-ah-ree-ah doe Lee-lee] or Lili’s Grocery, is another no-frills street-side bar.   The place used to be much smaller but expanded when the drug and alcohol rehab center next door went out of business.  Lu’s friends insisted we meet there because Lili’s owner, the mercurial Dias [de-us] with his shock of white hair and bushy mustache (a dead ringer for John de Poo), will only serve the fried pigskins to Luciana.  They are not on the menu and should anyone ask for them Dias will deny their existence.  Legend has it that the old proprietor even turned Luciana’s mother down when she tried to order them!  

Dias greeted us all and then dashed off to the kitchen.  Moments later, a big, cold bottle of beer materialized along with a passion fruit caipirinha made especially for Lu.  A little while later, out came a tiny pan of bite-sized chunks of fried ham and fat-laced pig skins.  My arteries threatened to walk but my taste buds told them to man-up and shamed them into staying.      

Reni [hen-ee] and Adriana arrived and we shared a cutting board of beef with grilled onions and mandioca, and then another of chicken, ham and parmigian.  Simple, inexpensive bar food that to my mind was just as good as anything one could hope to find at more expensive restaurants.      

Adriana and Eduardo are surgeons and Reni is a cancer specialist.  When not working they are intrepid world travelers.  Adriana was just back from Croatia.  She told a funny story about walking down the street of Zadar, a small, beach-side village on the Adriatic.  A beautiful Spanish woman walking in the opposite direction put her hand over the cell phone she was talking on and mouthed the words, “What is the name of this place?”

“Zadar,” said Adriana. 

“No, no,” said the woman.  “What’s the other name?”

“Croatia?”          

The woman nodded her thanks and moved on. 
 
Later in the day Mariana picked Lu and me up and drove us out to their parent’s house in Casa Branca (white house), a tiny village about thirty minutes outside of Belo.  To get there we drove atop a mountain range that offered spectacular views of the surrounding countryside.  Belo Horizonte is the capital of the Brazilian state Minas Gerais [mee-nus dger-ay].  While Belo is mostly a manufacturing center (Fiat, Mercedes), the surrounding area is known for its coffee (which I am drinking at this very moment), milk, cattle, hydroelectric and, of course, gem and ore mining.  As we made our way the radio we were listening to suddenly went haywire.  Lu explained that there was so much iron in the ground around us that it messed with radio and cell phone signals.  It was a weird experience.  The landscape, while already beautiful, suddenly seemed alive.  It was all very Close Encounters. 

The air at the country house was crisp and cold and we had just enough time to drop our bags, throw our jackets on and head out the door to the Festa Junina (June Festival) celebration.  Essentially the inverse of a European midsummer festival, Festa Junina gives thanks for the summer rains that have just ended and the dryer winter months that are now to follow.  Typically a rural celebration, people dress in overalls and straw hats, they square dance, have a bon fire and eat traditional country foods that everyone prepares.  Associated as well with the Catholic saint, St. John, the festival also celebrates matrimony with a mock hillbilly-style wedding.  This was appropriate, as the festival happened to fall on Lu and my second wedding anniversary.   

 After an hour or so of eating too much and watching some ten-year old boys play hide-and-seek in the dark, Lu, Xande and I walked home along the dark and tranquil country road.  The stars and Milky Way were bright overhead except where the silhouette of the mountains blotted them out.  As we walked, Xande and I taught each other words in our respective English and Portuguese and made fun of one another’s terrible pronunciation.  At one point Lu commented about how dark it was but Xande, who is five, told her not to worry because he had special superman vision and knew exactly where we were.  Then, as if to prove his point, he spied a bizarre, hawk-like bird perched on a fence post a few feet in front of us.  The bird was about the size of a softball but had a long tail that hung in a loop beneath it.  As we neared, it gave a high-pitched cry, flew up in a circle in front of us and then landed on the post again.  I think it was trying to divert us from its mate or nest.  I tried to take a picture but it was too dark.  The bird made another couple of loops and then took off. 

The next morning Lu and I went for a walk.  She brought a banana along and, just like she does with the squirrels back home, she fed the Marmoset monkeys.  About the size of a small cat, they have long, stripped tails, expressive faces and a blondish star shape above the eyes.  Not exactly the whiz kids of the primates they are nonetheless highly social and fun to watch.  The way they ran and soared among the trees was really cool.  (Way cooler than squirrels!)  One came with her babies.  They looked like Twinkees with tails.  

At first the monkeys would only take the banana if Lu left it on a branch and then moved away.  But then Lu’s charm (and their greed) got the better of them and they would scramble down, sometimes two at a time and eat out of her hand.  The conversation among the monkeys too afraid to come down from the trees was hilarious.  There seemed to be a whole world going on up there complete with jokes, dares, put downs, admonishments and advice. 

When we first arrived the day before, I was standing outside next to the pool when a pride of four fully-grown feral cats sauntered out of a tree and then vanished into a bush.  I turned to Mariana. “So, how many cats does your mother have here?”

“Six,” she said, clearly guessing. 

Ligia had just then stepped outside.  “No, no,” she said.  “I have eleven.” 

Right on cue my eyes started to puff and the damns inside my nose opened to full.  I had known that Ligia had allowed the cat that gave birth in the crawl space above the pool house to remain, but I didn’t know that she had also allowed all the her offspring and a few friends from college to remain as well.  It was a rough night.