Fio Dental - Chapter 3: Tiradentes

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The echoing sound from an approaching galloping horse splits the tranquil night air in Tiradentes. I doubt there is a more striking sensation than the thundering clap of iron horseshoes fiercely striking hard slabs of red and grey cobblestones. The riderless animal disappears ahead into the mist as quickly as it approached, leaving in its wake only a fading echo. Tiradentes is a carefully preserved, colorful, and bumpy colonial showpiece of Minas Gerais that not only lives up to, but surpasses expectations. It is concealed among craggy hilltops often enveloped in morning clouds. Its perfectly situated churches framed by flowering trees and courtyards create a supremely blissful scene. There is no need to explore further; the setting has already delivered its full impact.
I casually dismiss the art emporiums, French restaurants, boutiques, and horse-and-buggy tours. Even they cannot destroy Tiradentes’ splendor. The smell of smoky firewood fills the air and blue plumes rise above the orange tile roofs of individual homes. Downwind, white specks of ash gently float to the ground in what will certainly be the closest thing these residents will ever come to seeing snowfall. Unlike elsewhere, the streets are not of round, bubbly stone. Rather, there are cut in slabs, almost tablets, set well above the foundation of the road. When walking over them, the soles of my shoes absorb every pleasurable edge and indentation. Young children play in the walled yard of the primary school two blocks above the Largo do Forro. Their shouts of “Gol!” seep through the gated barricades and locked front door. If it weren’t for the handful of classrooms, you’d think it had been modeled after the schoolhouse in Little House on The Prairie. Through the single window, I can see handwritten placards of the numbers one though one hundred, the alphabet, the multiplication tables, and a wall map of Brazil. The six-year olds dart around there desks until it is time for class to begin. Then, a feigned sense of order takes over. The only person missing here is Miss Beetle. Disliking Tiradentes’ deliberate pace, picturesque squares, and bright doorways would require overtly trying to be miserable.

My accommodations have certainly improved since São Paulo. The Pousada Tiradentes may be on the cheaper end, but it sparkles, charms, and is cozy. Fifty yards from the bus station, I can even forgive the roaring coaches, which shake the foundation of my baby bear bed. The night chill has driven the mosquitoes away. The inn is connected to an Italian restaurant where I have shared dinner with a computer technician from Brasília, Frida. We got off the bus together from São João and circled around town until once again meeting up at the pousada’s reception and decided to have dinner at the adjacent eatery. The speed of the service could be measured with a sundial. I actually aged and developed osteoporosis awaiting the first course. Why? The hostess, an Italian immigrant in her 60’s decided to tell Frida and me how her family arrived in Minas, that her son should never have married that good-for-nothing bloodsucking so-and-so, and what kind of organic wheat her linguini is made from. What we did not know at the time was that the hostess was also the waitress and kitchen staff. “Well,” she stated, “I’ll get back to the kitchen and start growing the lettuce for your salad.” - or something like that.
Frida told me that years back, she studied for a year at a high school in Fremont, California. Very proud of her English, Frida felt it necessary to interpret for me, Portuguese to English, every last detail. Even the densest provincial farmhand can figure out the word café and pasta com salada. “That is the salt.” She pointed to the collection of white granular material near the pepper shaker. “And vinho means wine. We have white, red, and a wine called Vinho Verde, which is….blah, blah, blah.” Frida worked for two years in East Timor for the United Nations. I found this the perfect opportunity to tell her what a useless organization it was and how it should be immediately disbanded, but I was too hungry and the tomato plants for our salads hadn’t sprouted yet.

Célio is an aspiring filmmaker in his late 20’s from Belo Horizonte. The typically creative, anti-establishment, granola type who drinks and smokes too much, he functions in a world of his own imagination. He also desperately needs to see a barber. A family of sparrows could nest in those entangled curls. Like Frida, he shared the evening connection from São João, saw me and asked me where I was from. His words were like a remote dialect of Hindi to me. He transferred into English instantaneously and from then on we got along great. He has come to Tiradentes to do research for an independent film, as he intends to win a contest to jumpstart his career. Determined, he does wonders with a digital camera and has stockpiled thirty gigabytes of various still frames, snapshots, and other photographic art. He can take up to three hundred photos in a single day, his subjects being architecture, people, nature, or machinery. We instinctively share the same fascination of language. Having traveled, Célio glowingly spoke of his time in Cologne, but spoke in German while doing so. Then, he told me how he moved to Havana to study film; the words came out in Spanish. Of being in the United Kingdom, well, that was in English. Of Belo Horizonte, he seamlessly went back into Portuguese. Célio never bothered to ask me if I fathomed any of his stories. Somehow, he knew I would. He doesn’t get the chance everyday to express himself so profusely (neither do I!) and he wasn’t about to let this chance pass him by. Outside linguistic acumen, I have very little in common with this jovial character.

“Hey!” My mind was occupied with extemporaneous thoughts of which restaurant I would select for dinner. “We’re having a bonfire tonight. Be back here, OK?” A bundled up woman with wavy salt-and-pepper hair in scarf and gloves (the temperature had dipped well below 65°F) struggled between stacking the kindling in the middle of the Largo do Ô and balancing the cigarette in her mouth.
“Sure! Thanks!” I turned my back and leaned into the steep hill in front of me, still set on trampling about every street in town. I thought the offer worthwhile to consider. I had no plans to speak of and did not need another evening at a café table sipping Chopps in front of a TV screen. She did not know me from any other stranger, but her invitation was wholehearted. This act of warmth to newly-arrived guests is a foreign concept to most New Englanders.

An hour before dinner, I stopped at a restaurant, ordered a cola, with the intent to rush off to the bathroom. Disaster was averted. While making silly notations in my notebook, Célio strolled by, camera in hand. His arms were extended and twisted at an angle as he peeked through the rear screen and then the viewfinder. “Célio!”, I cried. “Wanna drink?” In he came for a mineral water. Soon thereafter we found ourselves in an Internet café where he proudly showed off his expansive online portfolio of photographs. While only mildly interested in the diverse collection of images, I ceded Célio the stage, as he eagerly clicked from image to image explaining how to attain such results through shutter speed, motioning the camera while clicking the shutter, adjusting the flash, and on and on. It got to be as exciting as listening to William F. Buckley lecturing about Constitutional theory.

The Instituto Cultural Biblioteca de Ô, straddles the corner of the square by the same single-lettered name. In recognition of the patron saint São Pedro, it hosted a public reception attended by a small gathering of people rather familiar with each other. With a population of around 5,000, residents of Tiradentes have little choice but to know one another. The library’s front lobby is an exhibition hall of historic photos of Minas Gerais, some lithographs, and a hall of framed confusing oil landscapes on canvas in all likelihood painted by an elephant. As couples and young children continued to file in, I took a seat at a picnic table by a wood stove and was warmly welcomed and served canjica, a warm, milk-based sweet soup. Nuts and cinnamon are added in order to speed up dental decomposition. To drink? A quentão, a warm cachaça based elixir that fires up the esophagus.
Rogério popped his head through the door with a toddler. The little girl separated herself and went into the kitchen, as one of the ladies asked if anyone wanted to help make popcorn.
“Your girl?” I broke the ice.
“No, no. She belongs to a friend of mine.” Though Rogério is black and the girl’s skin a much lighter hue, it was not an unusual question. Brazilians have over seventeen different words to identify skin color, as they are of every intermixed background, from Northern European to West African.
Rogério projects an unpretentious yet confident look. He wears a black beret and black rimmed glasses. His demeanor is soft, which reflects the tone of his speech. He stared at me for an uncomfortable three seconds or so. “Italian? From Argentina?” I rejected his guesses. After his fifth attempt he gave up. Upon realizing my nationality, he employed his over-enunciated and methodical Queen’s English with me. Rogério, who likes to be called Roger, was born in São Paulo and moved to Tiradentes as a child. He makes a name for himself with his guitar on weekends in Tiradentes’ restaurants and pubs. Ten minutes into our conversation, he stepped out and I turned to a nearby gal.
“He is going to get his guitarra?”
“No, she smiled and happily corrected me. No, he will fetch his violão.” The word for guitar in Portuguese.
The guests filtered out to the square and seated themselves in a semicircle around the fire. From that point forward, I uttered nothing. Rogério and two women played local folks songs to the entrancement of the others, who joined in. A lovely twenty-something woman whose stunning physical beauty matched her voice took Rogério’s guitar and performed two ballads. All the time, I sat in silence, stared at the sparks and embers, and cruised into lost thought. Both harmony and melody filled the square, only interrupted by the stuttering crackling of the fire. A small sliver of moon appeared above the library.

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Photos

Rua Direita
Early morning calm...

Colonial Masterpiece
A bit too well preserved?

Guitar Ballads
Everyone is invited...

Brazil...
or Portugal?