Fio Dental - Chapter 8: Diamantina

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Not as spiffy as Tiradentes, but cozier than Ouro Prêto, Diamantina’s location in Minas’ outback has its benefits. It is a five-hour ride into the highlands north of Belo Horizonte. The only way to continue on the track of common destinations throughout Brazil is to double back to Minas’ capital. The coach cuts through semicircular mountains of pointy, barren rock face. Minas’ interior remoteness resembles a cross between western Nebraska and County Galway. Wind and water have eroded the reddened iron-rich earth to create formations not unlike the Badlands of South Dakota. The relative wealth of Minas Gerais has dissipated; life arduous here. Common comforts for those living in the countryside are fewer. Public transportation allows people to go to market, see loved ones, and get to class. Without the Belo Horizonte-Diamantina bus, thousands would be stranded. Every few kilometers a passenger pulls on a cord to signal the driver to stop. The cord runs from front to rear above the seats alongside the window. A few people step off the bus with torn cardboard boxes or plastic bags overladen with fresh produce. As the bus pulls away, they take to a perpendicular dirt road on foot and start into the empty distance. Where they go electrical lines do not follow.
Very little time is needed to realize that its off-the-beaten-path location makes Diamantina one of the best kept secrets from foreign tourism. Built on slopes modeled after the Olympic Downhill, it marks the point of origin of the Estrada Real, a road built by slaves in order to transport the mineral wealth of Brazil’s interior for shipment to Lisbon. It is colonial in every aspect right down to the wrought iron gates on overhanging balconies and pavilions that host a Saturday artisans’ market. Distance between homes across the slender stone streets is no more than two arms’ lengths in places. If a kitchen fire were to go out of control, it would be better to just get some sticks and break open a bag of marshmallows. No fire truck or crew of men could gain access. Storefronts are well cared for. Clerks scrub and mop the exterior sidewalk every morning before opening, an exercise in futility once the first wave of customers arrive. Back at my guesthouse, the scene I enjoy from the porch opens up on the Largo de Rosário, a tranquil square at the base of which is a church by the same name. Perfect in its presentation and classic decay of brilliantly white buildings with stone foundations, it has already prolonged my stay an extra day.

When not asleep in my room, I take refuge at the Café A Biúca. From one of its outdoor tables, a portion of the cathedral comes into view. A Biúca is the focal point for pharmacy, orthodontics, and university students of agronomy. No sooner than I am seated does a waiter place next to me a chilled beer, and an accompanying glass. So tiny is the receptacle if it had a top, it would serve better as a sippy cup for toddlers. Of course, I do not care; I drink out of it anyway.
“Portuguese! You’re back!” The same dayshift waiter greets me with a hello and hands me the local newspaper, Estado de Minas.
“I have told you before, I am not Portuguese. I am American. Get it? A-mer-i-can!” I rant at him in English to no avail. Only when I show him my passport does he quiet down. Even then, I am the Portuguese visitor in town because of my accent. It is settled and there is no way I can change this.

Scenarios at Biúca vary greatly. Aspiring pharmacists drop in between classes. It is effortless to spot them; they wear jackets with their field of study in semicircular lettering on the back. One reads Farmácia, for example. One pair of professors invited me to their table, the younger rather eager to practice his English, of which I have heard very little while in Brazil. He insisted I speak only English with him. It was a ploy more to impress his colleagues than for him to improve his grammar. A heavier-set elder colleague sat down a half hour later. We introduced each other. Having been to States once, he wondered aloud, “Do you know Massachusetts?” He had no idea where among the 50 states I was from.
“Yes, rather well.”
“I was in Framingham.” OK, this got my attention. I immediately started to throw him roads, route numbers, malls, restaurants, and even Framingham State College. Was he familiar with the exit numbers on the Mass Pike? “It was many years ago. You know Framingham?”
“My father is from the next town.” I thought this a noteworthy coincidence.
“Wellesley?” he tried.
“No, Natick.” Nothing registered. I could have very well said Boise. Still, I dropped my head smiling to ponder the chances of this happening.

I grabbed my beer and, unnoticed to anyone, took a seat in the bright sunshine radiating from above the cathedral. Winter temperatures in the shade had tumbled into the low seventies. Elderly women were now searching in their bags for that important extra layer of warmth. A Biúca is ideal for people watching. But that does not mean that the people whom you watch are ideal. A very attractive teen mulatto girl sat directly diagonal from my table. She is holding hands with a man twice my age. OK, I say, a loving uncle-niece situation. The wrinkled-faced man with oversized plastic-framed glasses plays with her long, uncombed hair of orange highlights. They are sharing a drink and exchange very few words. Just then, his hand slides deeper into her crotch and he holds it there, much to his delight. The teen winces ever so slightly, then resumes her original expression. Helpless to do anything about this revolting scene, I keep close watch without being detected and I wonder: Does she owe him? Is her family in debt to him? She feigns a smile at the jokes he tells an acquaintance who has briefly joined them at the table. All the while, his hand has not moved from her inner thighs. The forlorn girl’s eyes and mine meet, which startles me into looking askew in hopes that she did not notice my observant intrusion. Our eyes meet again and we stare at each other. I offer her a look of, Why? So pretty, she could have anyone she wants. The removal of her light coat only confirms that. Her satin top is at best skimpy and leaves very little to the imagination. Head to toe, she is gorgeous. I do not smile. But neither do I scowl at her. Her company gives her four 50 reais notes to pay the bar staff, a considerable amount, as there is no way they could have consumed that amount in drink. Ah, she must be working. Just then, she stood up and purposefully made her way towards me. As the girl passes me to go inside her curvy hip brushes up against my shoulder, as I am seated. This is no accident. She has plenty of room to go around. Not really sure of what to make of the situation, I brush it off. Upon her return, the man gets up to leave, his hand around her shoulder. The girl took a deep drag from a cigarette. She looked back at me. They were soon gone.
I have heard more disturbing stories about travel through Southeast Asia and from a local restaurateur that prostitutes have made their way into Diamantina’s outskirts in recent years. It is a veritable industry in Brazil’s Northeast. Yet, my first encounter with it left me certain that Diamantina’s locale is a world away from Victorian England.

“CPF? What the hell is a CPF?” Having reached the final stages of booking on an online flight for Monday, I could not breech this last barrier the airline required of me to receive a confirmation number. Gol Airlines is the direct result of Brazil’s failing flagship, Varig. Borrowed, if not stolen from the American model of Southwest, or the U.K.’s Ryannair, it is a low-cost carrier known as an air taxi to Brazilians. Keen to giving it a try since I first heard about it months back, its online booking system is not set up for foreign travelers. The CPF is the Brazilian equivalent of an American’s Social Security Number. Even with my credit card details approved, Gol and I would have to wait another time for our first date.
“By the way” the young guy behind the desk said, “we do have a travel agency in town. Do you want to try that?”
I indicated in the positive and he proceeded to escort me to the agency, the entire two doors down the street. It was instantly apparent as to why he made the effort and it wasn’t out of pure courtesy. The youthful woman behind the desk was none too difficult to look at. If only she could do her job. This was asking way too much.
My escort from the Internet café finished up by earnestly explaining my simple situation to the agent in about ten minutes. She eventually shooed him away and I, for reasons still unknown, gave her a recap of what he had already heard from my café friend, including the rigmarole with Gol online, minus the invitation to have drinks with her after work.
She was alone in a sterile, half-furnished, half occupied eggshell white office. The only evidence of an office setting was a computer on which she dedicated most of her time on MSN Messenger, a printer, telephone, and fax machines. No posters hung from the walls enticing clients to view Paris from atop the Eiffel Tower or trek through Macchu Picchu. Her dark skin starkly contrasted with the light background.
“I can book a flight for you on Gol.” She tapped at some keys as if to appear searching for something. Damned if I could tell what. It would only be a matter of time her system would crash with twelve different applications open on Microsoft 2000. “You will pay with a credit card?” You bet. No way will I give cash to a travel agent in a town where no one can make change for a ten real note at nine in the morning.
“Yes, please. Visa.” She frowned. I drop my face to the desk. Here we go. I could not tell if this was the truth, or it would have cost her more time away from the captivating chat she was having online with her girlfriend.
“Oh, Gol does not take Visa.” Wait a minute. Haven’t you seen the commercial? ‘Visa, it’s everywhere you want to be’. No, she hadn’t seen it. And Visa may be everywhere, but not in Diamantina. Now irritated, I knew the competing airlines were more expensive. Twenty-four straight hours in a bus through Brazil’s version of Saskatchewan, I thought. Could that get any worse? Yes, sure. The driver might put on reruns of Touched by An Angel for the trip without any eject button on my seat. “I’ll see what else is possible. Where do you want to go?”
I was ready to impress. “CNF to SSA, please.” She turned to me. Her neck contorted like that of a swan, mouth opened enough for a fourth grader to use as a target for spitballs, and her eyebrows assumed right angles. This was travel agent airport code talk for Belo Horizonte to Salvador. The look on her face persisted. Did I tell her heated rocks bloom in my bed’s opulent moonlight in March? No. “Uh, Belo Horizonte to Salvador.” All of sudden, she recommenced typing. Good, I thought. She had at least heard of these two cities, and not just in high school geography class.
Endless switches among windows for TAM and Varig, she found me a flight on the day requested, CNF to SSA. The price did not make me squirm, either. As she went through the confirmation process, she had contacted her boss, probably on a beach somewhere in Rio, in order to confirm every individual step. Minutes turned right away into months. Watching her enter my credit card details in the system actually caused me physical pain. Next step? Yep, Instant Messenger to the boss to be sure. If she could not book a flight by herself, what, in fact could she do beyond turning the lights on and directing me to the men’s room? By this time, I had given up. “Dear? Tell you what. I will go to lunch and come back this afternoon.” Or should it be next week? “Is that OK?”
“Yes, I’ll be working on your reservation.” Thing is, I am sure she would do so for the entire time I was gone.
After a lengthy meal at Casa Velha, I returned to the young pretty typing out my itinerary manually in Microsoft Word. She then faxed it to her boss’ beach chair on Ipanema. My head jerked with the motion of the paper sliding through the slim machine, its best days long past. Winter was slowly changing into spring when the confirmation had passed all the way through and fell to the floor. “Good!” she piped up. Now all we have to do is wait for my boss to give the OK. She’ll fax it right back.” Instead of blowing my top, I just smiled and marveled at the inefficiency of it all.
The whole process took her three hours. She attended to no other client at any point. Asked if she had ever encountered a difficult customer, she thought seriously. “Yes! One time a man wanted to fly to Switzerland and -” Someone had to call the police before he choked her, I’m certain.
I shook her hand thanking her as she handed me the envelope. I studied it carefully. I saw a confirmation number and flight details. It looked OK. However, I could only play the scene in my head for Monday morning at the TAM check-in desk in Belo Horizonte. “I’m sorry, Mr. Incorvati, but we d-”

You know the saying. In England they drive on the left and in the U.S. they drive on the right. Let me tell you now that in Brazil it makes very little difference. Of the numerous traits the Brazilians inherited from their Portuguese colonizers, one was the fear they instill in the general public when behind the wheel of a motor vehicle. And if there is one thing worse than a Brazilian driver, it is one learning to drive. A few doors down from my guesthouse is a driving school. Clearly marked on the front walls are all the signposts and traffic signs with which a hopeful homicidal maniac should become familiar before legally becoming a menace to the public and some stray trash cans. Please allow me to offer you a guide to Brazilian signposts:

1. Pare. These letters are white and the background is a red octagon. We read Stop. A Brazilian can roll through this sign as long as he or she looks both ways and deep down inside really thinks no other car, or animated object, is in the area.
2. An encircled ‘E’ with a slash through it. In the world of the mentally balanced, No Parking. In Brazil? Estacionamento Proibido indeed means the same thing, no parking. It applies to everyone - but you.
3. Green traffic light. If at an intersection with a crosswalk, continue through at MACH 4. Do not apply brakes for any reason or your license will be revoked. Pedestrians are fair game in a crosswalk when you have the green light. If you hit one carrying groceries back to her family, the groceries are yours as a reward.
4. Yellow Traffic Light. Same as green, but you don’t get to keep the groceries.
5. Red light. Pretend you are drag racing. Rev engine while engaging the clutch. Scout out a potential elderly victim crossing the street whose pelvis you’re about to crack. This is your big chance. Do not pass the light, as it must remain in the field of vision at all times. Position your vehicle at your leisure and at any angle so that no other car behind you will be able to surge ahead when green.
6. Two cars, side by side, encircled with a slash through them. In other words, No Passing for motorists interested in not seeing this year’s Christmas in a full body cast. This is the ultimate adrenaline rush for a Brazilian and best appreciated when seated next to the driver or right in back of him on a motor coach. When blindly passing a cement truck at dusk, headlights off, on a precipice mysteriously lacking any guardrail, ignore the sudden vacuum of oxygen in your vehicle caused by the communal gasp of the passengers. As you take notice of the wrecked, rusted burned out frames of other coaches and crumpled Fiats in the valley below, rest assured that your Auto Escola properly prepared you for all road conditions.
7. An upside down white triangle, framed in red. We see ‘Yield’. Brazilian men see observing this traffic requirement as a precursor to castration. Be a man. Ignore merging traffic. Look straight ahead. The canister of touch up paint is in the glove compartment. That what it’s there for anyway.

“Give me bread for the poor…and I will fill you with grace.” - Saint Anthony

Diamantina’s Hospital de Nossa Senhora da Saúde welcomes visitors into its waiting room with hovering flies, flat metal folding chairs, and a staff protected from the sick by iron bars through a narrow window. The room is unlit and unventilated. Looks of desperation and resignation cover the faces of hopeful patients and family members alike, the most determined of which throw elbows at each other at the reception window to vie for the attention of someone - anyone. I just sit and watch. A woman escorts her invalid mother forty yards to the entrance over Diamantina’s cobbled streets. There are no wheelchairs. How they both did not trip over each other remains an open question. In the rear of the building, exposed oxygen tanks sit next to a cracked foundation. Newborn baby screams fill the air from open screenless windows. The triage unit is worse than the set of M*A*S*H*. Peering further into the other units is pointless. I have seen this before. And it gets worse the further you go into the hospital.

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Photos

Classic Minas Gerais
Center of Diamantina...

Local Hospital
Better Outiside than in...

Diamantina
Very hard not to like this place...

One of My Favorites
From near my pension...