Fio Dental - Chapter 4: São João del Rei

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A 19th-century steam engine company operates a scenic tourist line of old passenger carriages between Tiradentes and São João del Rei. Called the Maria Fumaça (Smoking Mary), it epitomizes everything I set out to avoid while abroad. It costs over triple the bus fare, but in return it is supposed to bring visitors back to the classic age of South American train travel. A real-life manifestation of a little boy’s model train set in the basement, it is outfitted with a black and red locomotive with oversized cowkicker, and archaic brick station. It even has the functioning turntable. Imaginarium’s Thomas The Train could not do better. As the locomotive slows into the station, the cold steam from a side duct chills my bare ankles. The railway staff shoves the concrete turntable on which sits the detached locomotive by sheer brute strength. There is no mechanized equipment to perform the task. It is then coupled to the front carriage. “Cute”, “quaint”, and “captivating” come to mind in the eyes of the eagerly awaiting, camera-toting families all too excited to board. This is a big deal to them. On the other hand, I can think of the situation as tacky, tasteless, and artificial. The irony of it all is I sincerely enjoyed chugging through the countryside in the rickety and unstable carriages, in spite of inhaling a disproportional amount of the locomotive’s particle smoke and cinder debris. My face remained firmly stuck outside the window the entire time.
São João del Rei’s contentious association between old and new leaves one to ask why anyone would want to go there if already entranced by Tiradentes’ eternal charm. São João’s modern commercial center and colonial quarter coexist side by side and are best identified by the odors that flow above street level: roasted garlic and incense on one side, and diesel fumes haphazardly infused with fermenting trash on the other. A quick twenty-five minute circular sweep of the upper town and a cluster of snapshots, I made my way back to a bus stop to inquire how to get back to Tiradentes. Besides being a transport hub, São João amounts to a monumental waste of time.
Please select language. The screen goes momentarily blank and my options appear in front of me; a single line….Portuguese, only. With a few coins not amounting to one real left in the pockets of my cargo shorts, I resigned myself to the local lingo. I press the corresponding button. Please Insert Card. OK, fair enough. I look precariously behind me and to the side of the bank lobby. I am alone. I want to be sure. A sense of relief comes over me when I see an armed guard staring at me from inside the bank offices. Please wait as our system contacts your bank. Fine. As I watch the sun set and feel my beard grow, finally a change in the screen: We cannot process your request. Please try again. Huh? Try again? Why? So, like a fool, I do. Card goes in. Portuguese. I wait an eternity as the Bank of Agricultural Farmer’s Union of Cowherders attempts to say hello to Bank of America’s interface somewhere on the Eastern seaboard. A primordial fear envelopes me. Will the machine eat my card? Will I go destitute in São João and take refuge in a cinder block shack for the night or even the next week? No! Next screen: Please enter your password. Alright! Mine is a six-digit code. Upon entering the fifth, the machine is programmed for only four, the screen goes blank and my card is once again refused.
Hmmmm. What if I reduce the code to the last four digits? I go back for more psychological punishment. This time, I follow the same steps, enter only four numbers and voilà!: Please select an amount. Awesome! I try for $300 USD. We’re sorry, you’re request cannot be processed. Funds unavailable. Unavailable? B-But….I stormed out of the lobby. Good thing the guard was there. I would have taken a baseball bat to that ATM if I could have.

Hobbling to a seat across the aisle from me, Roberto gingerly placed his sore body into the bare metal chair. Just before the driver turned on the bus engine, he took note of my helping the ticket attendant with her English homework. Raring to converse, off he went in disorganized English. A nomadic singer in his mid 50’s, Roberto has come to Tiradentes from Bahia state to peddle his CD. Desperate for sales, it was clear success had been eluding him. He had ready many non-pirated copies of his CD in a torn case and one in his Discman. He involuntarily handed me his headset. I played along placing the headset over my ears. I found his music a worthwhile purchase, but declined as I detest being unabashedly approached and pressured, however innocently, to buy anything. “But please, Richard, I am but a poor singer.” It was true. He carries a small backpack that Woodstock would wear when embarking on an adventure from Snoopy’s doghouse. Unshaven and physically broken, Roberto is tragic figure in soiled and worn clothing. Aside me sat the private chew toy of a hungry family of polar bears. The bus pulled away from São João.
“Ah, but I am a poor writer, Roberto!” It was the only witty retort I could come up with on the spot. And not a bit of it was true. I am not poor, not even close. He knew it. And I knew that he knew it. An uncomfortable silence settled between us. Roberto, undaunted, broke it.
“You know, I sing Bob Dylan songs.” Great, I thought. I’d rather place my face in the rear of a jet engine than be subjected to the shrieking and whining of a man who has no voice to speak of.
“Oh, wonderful. Just…uh, the best. You know anything else?”
“Yeah” he pondered. “Cat Stevens.” He paused. With no prodding, he started slowly, but in perfect pitch, intonating the lyrics of Father and Son. If you do not know the song, it is very moving, a brilliant piece of music. “It’s not time to make a change…”
“Just sit down, and take it slowly. You’re still young….” I joined in. I do not know what possessed me, as my singing makes the angels cry.
Roberto and I rose as one in the bus aisle and sang Father and Son as a duet. There we were, two men who never met and would never see each other again profoundly connecting. Every word was flawless. We didn’t miss a one, not even cadence. And I stayed away from the extreme lift in octaves that Roberto effortlessly handles all the time. We rocked in unison together and finished error free. “And I know I have to go away.” We smiled, proud of our accomplishment, shook hands to the passengers’ applause, and waved at them. Applause came even from the driver. Conclusion? While the bus was in motion his hands were detached from the steering wheel.
We both took our seats and the bus stopped at Tiradentes. On the platform, we shook hands again and parted in different directions.
I never bought his CD. It is my first regret since leaving the States.

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Photos

Toy Train Ride
I learned to like this after a while...

Better Than The Bus
Sharing with Japanese tourists...

Make No Mistake
The World Cup is here....