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.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
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.
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.
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?
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!
Monday, July 12, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
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?”
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Brazil Loses & The Hills Burn
(DISCLAIMER: This entry is kind of blah and the accompanying video oddly somber (it's the music). I shot without thinking much about what I was documenting or how I would use it. I don’t want to overstay my welcome with these blog posts and videos. I realize your time (and patience) for appreciating a vacation you're not taking is limited. Nevertheless, here they are.)
I tried to create a family tree depicting Desiree’s family and what I had learned about each of her siblings while watching the Brazil vs. Netherlands game but it proved too overwhelming and I gave up. On the drive over the traffic was intense. The traffic is always intense here but today it was especially so with everyone trying to get somewhere to watch the big game. Everywhere people were blowing those infernal vuvuzelas and lighting firecrackers and M-80s. Fortunately we didn’t have far to go and Lu’s father, Eduardo, is a very aggressive driver. Lu hates it but I thought he did a great job. In back, Xande kept us entertained by singing songs in Italian, English and Portuguese. He's five. Whatever.
Desiree’s parents' house was palatial. To enter you walked through a gate at street level, down a flight of stairs and, essentially, into the hillside. The downstairs rooms were small and dark, but the ones at the back were lined with windows that overlooked the city and surrounding mountains. To the right of the front door was a large white spiral staircase with a Playboy mansion-style brass railing. As we said hello to Nathan and Edgad [ed-gar] we moved past into a tiny room beyond whose furniture had been arranged for the game. Lu and I were offered beer but opted for Mate soda. A plate with sliced sausage and olives was set on the orange footstool in front of us. The old TV with its blurry picture was hooked up to an even older looking tape cassette speaker system. The whole apparatus sat atop an ornate dark wood cabinet. Next to me was a mod 70s canvas chair and next to it was what looked like a really uncomfortable church pew. I felt bad for whoever was going to end up watching the game from that thing and wondered if it was there to encourage prayer. Subtle.
Desiree arrived with her husband and two-year old son, Gabriel. Lu and her old pal grabbed each other and screamed. I reached for my camera but then changed my mind. The Netherlands was all over Brazil’s goal and this was no time to fool around with photos. Brazil cleared the ball and I went into the foyer and said hello. Desiree’s husband had to work and ducked back out the door. Gabriel pointed to a bruise on his forehead and said something I didn’t understand. "That’s a beaut all right," I said. "How’d you do that?" Gabriel looked at me with a look that seemed to say, "I just told you I hit it on something." I went back to the game.
Desiree’s brother Nathan was home on holiday from Australia where he works as a graphic artist or mailman. (We’re not sure which). A couple of his large canvases hung in the house, one in the foyer when you first come in and one on the opposite side of the wall in the living room.
Nathan, like everyone we have met, was very nice and open. He spoke perfect English and was curious about what I thought about Brazil. It was clear by the way he spoke that he both loved and hated his native country. Nathan was quick to criticize the government, the economy, public education, etc., but had a deep love for his countrymen and culture. "We have a saying," he said. "Brazil is very bad, but it is good. The U.S. is very good, but is bad." I sort of got it.
Nathan was traveling with his thirteen-year old daughter, Veronica. Still knocked out from jetlag she was a little out of it. She wore a pink jumpsuit and spoke not a word of Portuguese. "Just like me!" I said. "Want to be friends?" Veronica blushed and with a charming Australian accent said, "Ye-ah… Aw-right."
It was great to have someone I didn’t need to use my hands to talk with. On holiday for a month, Veronica would miss two weeks of school. "Everything comes with a price," she said. Indeed.
Two of Desiree’s sisters, Bethsaba [betch-ay] (or Beth) and Cintia [cint-e-a], were at the house. Beth had straight blond hair, striking blue eyes and seemed dressed for the gym in purple windbreaker, black tights and running sneakers. Throughout the day she tried now and again to say something to me in English but it never worked. When Brazil finally lost she said something to which I responded by saying, "Yes, it is very sad." For clarity I made sure to over-enunciate while tracing an imaginary tear running down my face. Beth froze for a moment, smiled as one might to a mental patient, then turned and walked away.
Cintia, the baby of the family, had brown eyes and short bronze hair that she kept checking and teasing in the mirror above the buffet. Catching her at it Desiree said something that made everyone laugh. Cintia laughed too and then said in English that it was a new color for her and that she didn’t like it. Cintia lives in Sao Paulo where she teaches English and Portuguese at a local college. When Lu went off to catch up with Desiree, Cintia very graciously stepped in as my translator. Full of family gossip she dished it out with impunity in between and underneath what other people were saying. Because she did it in English and no one knew for certain what she was saying they looked to my reactions to figure out what she was revealing. It’s a good thing I will be starting grad school in the fall, I thought, because I am a terrible actor. Every time Cintia said something my eyes would bug out and I would look straight at the person. “You mean him!?”
After the game the family’s elderly mother insisted on making us lunch. Desiree laughed and said to Lu, “We may not have much, but we always have food.” We were all ushered into the dining room and in no time two huge bowls of pasta materialized along with a salad of sliced ice burg lettuce, tomatoes, olives, corn and peas. My plate loaded for the second time I vowed that after today I didn’t care whose feelings I hurt, I was going to start saying no to all of the food people keep offering. We’re just two days into this trip and already I can feel the pounds around my middle reuniting like long lost friends.
Then came dessert. Dulce de Leche, one with coconut, one with prune. Death by insulin.
“Veronica,” I called to the end of the table. “You ever have this stuff?”
Giggles, blush. She shook her head.
“Do you know what caramel candy’s are? The mushy, soft kind that come in a wrapper?”
“Ye-ah.”
“Imagine a bowl full of them,” I said, pointing. “That’s Dulce de Leche.”
Her eyes lit up.
At home later, Lu and I watched the sunset and then watched the brush fire into the night. I thought the whole city would go up in flames when Brazil lost, but people seemed to just go about their day. Later there was a huge street party somewhere in the distance. We couldn’t see it but heard the groovy, live music and cheering crowd into the night. We are without a car so couldn’t seek it out. It was just as well as we were both exhausted. We ordered Chinese food (bizarre) and called it a night.
I tried to create a family tree depicting Desiree’s family and what I had learned about each of her siblings while watching the Brazil vs. Netherlands game but it proved too overwhelming and I gave up. On the drive over the traffic was intense. The traffic is always intense here but today it was especially so with everyone trying to get somewhere to watch the big game. Everywhere people were blowing those infernal vuvuzelas and lighting firecrackers and M-80s. Fortunately we didn’t have far to go and Lu’s father, Eduardo, is a very aggressive driver. Lu hates it but I thought he did a great job. In back, Xande kept us entertained by singing songs in Italian, English and Portuguese. He's five. Whatever.
Desiree’s parents' house was palatial. To enter you walked through a gate at street level, down a flight of stairs and, essentially, into the hillside. The downstairs rooms were small and dark, but the ones at the back were lined with windows that overlooked the city and surrounding mountains. To the right of the front door was a large white spiral staircase with a Playboy mansion-style brass railing. As we said hello to Nathan and Edgad [ed-gar] we moved past into a tiny room beyond whose furniture had been arranged for the game. Lu and I were offered beer but opted for Mate soda. A plate with sliced sausage and olives was set on the orange footstool in front of us. The old TV with its blurry picture was hooked up to an even older looking tape cassette speaker system. The whole apparatus sat atop an ornate dark wood cabinet. Next to me was a mod 70s canvas chair and next to it was what looked like a really uncomfortable church pew. I felt bad for whoever was going to end up watching the game from that thing and wondered if it was there to encourage prayer. Subtle.
Desiree arrived with her husband and two-year old son, Gabriel. Lu and her old pal grabbed each other and screamed. I reached for my camera but then changed my mind. The Netherlands was all over Brazil’s goal and this was no time to fool around with photos. Brazil cleared the ball and I went into the foyer and said hello. Desiree’s husband had to work and ducked back out the door. Gabriel pointed to a bruise on his forehead and said something I didn’t understand. "That’s a beaut all right," I said. "How’d you do that?" Gabriel looked at me with a look that seemed to say, "I just told you I hit it on something." I went back to the game.
Desiree’s brother Nathan was home on holiday from Australia where he works as a graphic artist or mailman. (We’re not sure which). A couple of his large canvases hung in the house, one in the foyer when you first come in and one on the opposite side of the wall in the living room.
Nathan, like everyone we have met, was very nice and open. He spoke perfect English and was curious about what I thought about Brazil. It was clear by the way he spoke that he both loved and hated his native country. Nathan was quick to criticize the government, the economy, public education, etc., but had a deep love for his countrymen and culture. "We have a saying," he said. "Brazil is very bad, but it is good. The U.S. is very good, but is bad." I sort of got it.
Nathan was traveling with his thirteen-year old daughter, Veronica. Still knocked out from jetlag she was a little out of it. She wore a pink jumpsuit and spoke not a word of Portuguese. "Just like me!" I said. "Want to be friends?" Veronica blushed and with a charming Australian accent said, "Ye-ah… Aw-right."
It was great to have someone I didn’t need to use my hands to talk with. On holiday for a month, Veronica would miss two weeks of school. "Everything comes with a price," she said. Indeed.
Two of Desiree’s sisters, Bethsaba [betch-ay] (or Beth) and Cintia [cint-e-a], were at the house. Beth had straight blond hair, striking blue eyes and seemed dressed for the gym in purple windbreaker, black tights and running sneakers. Throughout the day she tried now and again to say something to me in English but it never worked. When Brazil finally lost she said something to which I responded by saying, "Yes, it is very sad." For clarity I made sure to over-enunciate while tracing an imaginary tear running down my face. Beth froze for a moment, smiled as one might to a mental patient, then turned and walked away.
Cintia, the baby of the family, had brown eyes and short bronze hair that she kept checking and teasing in the mirror above the buffet. Catching her at it Desiree said something that made everyone laugh. Cintia laughed too and then said in English that it was a new color for her and that she didn’t like it. Cintia lives in Sao Paulo where she teaches English and Portuguese at a local college. When Lu went off to catch up with Desiree, Cintia very graciously stepped in as my translator. Full of family gossip she dished it out with impunity in between and underneath what other people were saying. Because she did it in English and no one knew for certain what she was saying they looked to my reactions to figure out what she was revealing. It’s a good thing I will be starting grad school in the fall, I thought, because I am a terrible actor. Every time Cintia said something my eyes would bug out and I would look straight at the person. “You mean him!?”
After the game the family’s elderly mother insisted on making us lunch. Desiree laughed and said to Lu, “We may not have much, but we always have food.” We were all ushered into the dining room and in no time two huge bowls of pasta materialized along with a salad of sliced ice burg lettuce, tomatoes, olives, corn and peas. My plate loaded for the second time I vowed that after today I didn’t care whose feelings I hurt, I was going to start saying no to all of the food people keep offering. We’re just two days into this trip and already I can feel the pounds around my middle reuniting like long lost friends.
Then came dessert. Dulce de Leche, one with coconut, one with prune. Death by insulin.
“Veronica,” I called to the end of the table. “You ever have this stuff?”
Giggles, blush. She shook her head.
“Do you know what caramel candy’s are? The mushy, soft kind that come in a wrapper?”
“Ye-ah.”
“Imagine a bowl full of them,” I said, pointing. “That’s Dulce de Leche.”
Her eyes lit up.
At home later, Lu and I watched the sunset and then watched the brush fire into the night. I thought the whole city would go up in flames when Brazil lost, but people seemed to just go about their day. Later there was a huge street party somewhere in the distance. We couldn’t see it but heard the groovy, live music and cheering crowd into the night. We are without a car so couldn’t seek it out. It was just as well as we were both exhausted. We ordered Chinese food (bizarre) and called it a night.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Brazil: Day One
I am writing from the office of Lu's parent's apartment in Belo Horizonte, a city of 3 million that's a 45-minute flight inland from Rio. It is winter here and the sky over the city is cloudless, crisp and irrationally blue. From this height you might think you were in some quarter of San Francisco because of the way the city rises and falls with the surrounding topography before giving way to mountains in the east. Below, on street level, all similarities with the landmass to the north end. The roads are narrow and traffic rushes like water down an amusement park water slide. The cars are all tiny compacts. They look like toys, really fast toys driven by children with A.D.D. I keep waiting for one of them to flip off the track and go flying through a shop window. There's a spirit here that if such a thing did happen people would just push the guy back out and set him on his way again. Even crazier are the motorcyclists. They dart in and out of traffic with a suicidal mania reminiscent of flies around a sweaty cow's backside. The bikers are so loud, reckless and annoying that you have to remind yourself that it's an actual human being driving the thing and that you don't really want one of them to get taken out.
Lu's father came over this morning to gather some papers he needed. Eduardo was very apologetic for the intrusion but said his doctor changed his appointment to today because of the Brazil/Holland World Cup game tomorrow. A doctor Lu was supposed to see had just called and done the same thing. No one expected Brazil to make it this far. There is a funny attitude here of intense pride and hope for the team alongside the expectation that because it's Brazil they will undoubtedly blow it. Apparently, when they won the other day, an impromptu parade broke out that shut down one of the major streets for several hours.
Yesterday, Lu’s parents Eduardo and Ligia (Lee-dg-ea) met us at the airport and brought us home to drop our bags. Lu’s sister, Mariana, and her five-year old son, Xande (Tion-gee), arrived and we all walked to a restaurant around the corner for lunch. Back at the apartment I sunk into the couch with a book. After traveling for eighteen hours (7 hour layover in Miami plus a five and then eight hour flight) it felt really good to sit down. "We’re here," I said to Lu. "Not yet," she shot back. Maybe she was referring to the jet-lag and the time it would take to feel rested. No. Ten minutes later the manicurist arrived. Lu hugged and kissed her in the doorway then turned to me and said, "Now, I am home!"
Lu's father came over this morning to gather some papers he needed. Eduardo was very apologetic for the intrusion but said his doctor changed his appointment to today because of the Brazil/Holland World Cup game tomorrow. A doctor Lu was supposed to see had just called and done the same thing. No one expected Brazil to make it this far. There is a funny attitude here of intense pride and hope for the team alongside the expectation that because it's Brazil they will undoubtedly blow it. Apparently, when they won the other day, an impromptu parade broke out that shut down one of the major streets for several hours.
Yesterday, Lu’s parents Eduardo and Ligia (Lee-dg-ea) met us at the airport and brought us home to drop our bags. Lu’s sister, Mariana, and her five-year old son, Xande (Tion-gee), arrived and we all walked to a restaurant around the corner for lunch. Back at the apartment I sunk into the couch with a book. After traveling for eighteen hours (7 hour layover in Miami plus a five and then eight hour flight) it felt really good to sit down. "We’re here," I said to Lu. "Not yet," she shot back. Maybe she was referring to the jet-lag and the time it would take to feel rested. No. Ten minutes later the manicurist arrived. Lu hugged and kissed her in the doorway then turned to me and said, "Now, I am home!"
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