Six Degrees of Separação

South America » Brazil » Minas Gerais
September 21st 2006

Published: September 22nd 2006

Traveling without an itinerary is freeing. At the same time, it can be exceedingly difficult to buy your bus ticket without a destination.

I left the uninteresting town of Capelinha and headed to Turmalina, 40km north. The further I travel in this direction, the hotter it gets, and the city was toasty. I spent most of my time in the city sitting around the central plaza - which always contains at least 3 elderly men passing the time. One directed my to the Hotel Turmalina, an old building built behind a residence. Maria and her husband run the hotel. Maria is elderly, but sharp - her husband is a thin man with white hair, and suffers from Chagas disease he acquired as a younger man. A German/Italian NGO operates in the town, teaching agricultural alternatives, therefore everyone thought I was Italian. In my excursions about town, I heard of a resident that currently lives in Seattle, so I went to visit his father, the owner of a store (which contains just about everything). His son watned to work in the US, clandestine, as many Brazilians do (every Brazilian I know knows at least one person living illegally in the states), but rather then acquire a coyote in São Paulo (at the rate of R$30,000) he decided to go about it himself. He flew to Mexico, bribed his way out of the police, arrived at the border, and paid a coyote R$5,000 to ferry him across the border. He has worked in construction for 3 years now and sent enough money home to buy a lot of 80 homes. Shortly afterwards he realized I was an American, and appeared slightly discomforted. He plays accordian, and played some of the Sertanejo, the Brazilian country music, that he had previously recorded. One night, the city was plunged into darkness as a motorist crashed into the electrical post - I am told the loss of electricity is a common occurrence here, but as many in the region have grown up without the luxury, they are accostumed. They immediately lit candles and I spent the night in Maria´s home talking with her and the other guests.

Leaving Turmalina, I headed toward a small town, Leme do Prado. The countryside here is full of small rolling hills. Yet if you blur your eyes the landscape is flat, the hills all sitting at the same height, appearing as if the were cut out of a giant plain. Eucalyptus dot the landscape even outside of the large plantations - combined with the iron red earth, it resembles Australia. The short dark green shrubs are coffee, and sit in tight rows. All of the buildings here stucco, sometimes painted, thatched with red tile. Most do not have ceilings. When the sun sets, it drops into the horizon, a dry ocean.

In Leme do Prado, I met the bus driver and his wife and spent the evening in their home. Many of the stories bear a certain resemblance in this impoverished region. The people want an opportunity to earn money. In some cases they mine (such as the galimpos I met in Inhaí), which in turn kicks up dirt into the river, which settles downstream, widening and raising the river bed. In other cases they work for the plantations. The large coffee plantations dig canals into the river, diverting water for irrigation, leaving those downstream with less. The Eucalyptus requires less irrigation, as it finds water deep in the soil, adapted perferctly for the moist soil of Australia, but in this dry region of Brazil, slowly suck the water out of the ground (each adult tree pulling 60 liters/day - and there are millions of trees here, and have been for at least 30 years). Sometimes they hope that tourism will solve the problem; the influx of money from the centers of industry will trickle down to the poor communities. And sometimes they leave. In the region of Leme do Prado, 90%!o(MISSING)f the men have left for the south of Minas or São Paulo, where they cut cane for an impressive R$800 - 1000 per month - the work is brutal, but they can send money home. All of these options seem in some way unsustainable and require drastic wealth differences, for the people who work the coffee, the eucalyptus, the tourism, the cane are of a different class than the largest consumers.

The next morning I left for Lelivélda. A large hydroelectric dam had recently been built on the River Jequitinhonha at this location, and I traveled with the intention of seeing this. Arriving in the town, I discovered the dam was much further than I had anticipated. I wandered about the town, which (forgive me fine residents of Lelivélda) was nothing more than a pile of dust, and inquired about my onward travel. It seemed my map was no longer any good - as the dam had flooded the valley, some of the roads (and towns) no longer existed, or the ones that did were closed and required special authorization to travesse. I spent the day waiting for the construction workers from the dam to arrive for lunch, talking with João de Deus (the owner of the pousada) and exchanging guitar lessons with his son. When the workers finally arrived, I spoke with them about an opportunity to see the dam and/or cross to the other side, however, both were fruitless (I was given the number of an official from the hydroelectrical company, I called, confusion ensued, and I was disconnected).

Exasperated, I returned to the pousada, where a guest was checking out. I had hoped to either a.) see the dam or b.) cross to the other side to visit a city called Grão Mogol, however both were impossible (although I did entertain the idea of crossing the reservoir by canoe and hiking to the closest town). I told Jõao "I don´t think there´s any way I can get to Grão Mogol" (as the direct route was shut, the other routes would take some three days of buses to arrive). The guest said "Why, I´m going to Grão Mogol - and I'm driving over the dam." João suggested divine intervention as I left, reminded me of his name (John of God).

And the coincidences did indeed get a bit strange. The three in the truck were biologists from BH and students in the same class at the university as Robert (also, in the same class as the son of the bus driver I had met in Leme do Prado). They had also passed through Leme do Prado, and even rarer, Inhaí (a place that barely exists on a map, let alone on any travel itinerary). One of them had a sister living in Seattle, and had visited the Northwest a couple of times. We rocketed over the dam, through newly carved tunnels of red earth and over dark red dusty roads (stopping once to collect some giant rats they were collecting as part of their work) and onto Grão Mogol.

Grão Mogol is a city of rock. Giant boulders are strewn about the city, and find their way into everything. Houses built of stone, roads paved with rocks, yards and houses and walls built upon black monoliths. As usual, I spent time wandering about the city and met with the biologists for beer in the evening. In my wanderings, I once came very close to being attacked by dogs. As I approached one house at an end of the road, two ferocious beasts immediately began barking and running toward me. I attempted to a retreat, but they continued, baring teeth and closing the distance. Running would do no good, so I decided I would fight them. I lunged toward them and yelled, strangely enough, in Portuguese, and the hounds of hell retreated, terrified at my ridiculous hat and strange accent (later I learned these two same animals attacked a man from the water company and had to be beaten off with a giant stone). I hiked along one trail outside the city - one needs not wander far before disappearing entirely from all traces of civilization. It's dry, and the trail leads over rock (of course) and sand, passing cactus and desert shrubs, craggy twisted trees, shriveled as if trying to guard every last drop of sacred water. Although this is the beginning of wet season, and I was reminded of this as the storm commenced one evening, and as the rain continued throughout the night and into the next day. The biologists, leaving toward Montes Claros, offered me a ride - so I jumped at the opportunity to leave what was a torrential downpour that did not seem to be ending. Unfortunately, here in Montes Claros, the rain continues. The capital of Northern Minas, it´s the biggest city for miles, and I hope to find a bank here to withdrawal money; otherwise I will soon be washing dishes. From here, North to the Rio São Francisco, lifeblood of the Northeast, and Bahia!

photos here

Six Degrees of Separação

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