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.