Clothing in the Backlands

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I'm in a city called Caruaru, slightly into the interior of Pernambuco. The coast here is beautiful; green, rolling hills, cane and coconuts swaying in the breeze. It's only a short trip inland before everything turns brown, rocky. But this isn't the sertão, yet. That doesn't truly begin until Arcoverde, further interior still.

The city survives on clothing.

Yesterday was the day of the Tuesday street fair, and epic weekly event that the city lives and survives on. The night before, there was an energy in the streets of anticipation. Push carts lined the sidewalks and sleeping bodies lined the carts. The market commences at 3am Tuesday until about noon, but it doesn't really get busy until about 6am. The vendors have come from all the surrounding towns; most of the clothing they are selling is manufactured in their own owns. Money is pooled together and the equipment purchased to churn out cheap knockoff clothing. Anything you could possibly imagine. The buyers come from any of the next states, as far as 8 hours away in large buses; buying large quantities that they will take back and sell in their cities.

The market is massive - the stalls are covered in metal sheeting and form aisles. And at any point, you look as far as you can see in any direction and see more market. People push past with large sacks full of clothing, jotting notes and prices down with pad and pen; men shout a warning and barrel past with huge push carts piled impossibly high with disembodied torsos of mannequins. The sellers are not aggressive, there are enough buyers for everybody. Which is impressive considering the size of the fair. I walk for two hours within the maze, lost, at times walking in one direction for 30 minutes without stop and without end. I try to imagine if all these clothes had people, and I fail, concluding that the shirts, hats, belts, dresses, exceeds the number of living human population.

I am in a strange hotel, at the top floor of 5 flights of stairs. My room is dark and has a window that will not open. Particulary interesting is the dark doorway, barred by a strong wooden gate, waist high, that I quickly realize is an elevator shaft dropping six stories to behind the reception desk.

However, I've met some people and I may be able to locate some free accomadation (what began in Olinda - I saw some lost Brazilians at a bus stop and offered some advice, and we ended up going to terça negra together, a festival of afro-brazilian culture on tuesday nights in Recife. They were students performing a political theater piece. We parted after two days. I called after a few days to get an email address, and one of the woman told me that she too was traveling to Caruaru, and we could meet in another town, although I had no idea how to arrive. At the same bus stop, leaving Olinda, a caprinha vendor and I begin talking; he is from the same town, and tells me of a private taxi that is traveling there. So I arrive, meet with my friend, and go to Caruaru. She is a member of Movimento Sem Terra, the landless rural workers movement, and I visit the local office. I meet a friend who sells clothing. My friend leaves. Having nothing to do the next day, I pass by the store of said woman with the clothing store. She invites to have her friends show me around. So last night I end up a bar with some musicians, a member of Sem Terra, a German working with a NGO, and various others, who have, in turn, offered to show me around the city). I am asked sometimes: how do you know said person, or how do you arrive in places without knowing anyone. I live through coincidence.

In a quick summation; I spent a week in Larenjeiras in Sergipe, traveled to Alagoas and night in Penedo and a small fishing village near the Rio São Francisco, onto the capital city of Maceio, leaving the next day for Recife, one night in the Boa Viagem, one night in Porta das Galinhas that I hitched a ride with a fellow traveler, and a week in a rented house in Olinda.

Olinda/Recife, a few days ago:

The time of this writing finds the author high up on the northeastern coast of Brazil; a city called Olinda - more or less the historic center - which is now a "suburb" of Recife, a booming urban mess. Recife and the rest of the northeastern capitals are drastically different from the South. Crowds fill the streets as vendors hawk pirated CDs, food, bootleg clothing. Public bus drivers jerk the busses like a cart driven by oxen, as if they are intentionally trying to kill their passengers. And apparently the city is incredibly difficult to navigate or the people who live here don´t know anything - asking for directions is often met with a disdainful shrug to why you would have the audacity to assume Recifeans would know the way around their city.



Olinda however is an escape from the jungle of the city. Here the buildings are colorful, restored to their colonial glory. The cobblestone streets are safe; the shops are artsy, bohemian. Frentic drum cores pound out African rhythms almost every night - walking without destination, just follow the music. Perhaps the reminder of the poverty in Brazil is the number of pestering guides who are rumoured to be in greater number than the tourists. I´ve taken to telling them that I live here in Olinda, I don´t possibly need a guide. But hungry people are dedicated.
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I'm in a travel-funk, and perhaps that's why I haven't written much. The impact of the traveler is minimal. I would like to "be" someplace and "live" somewhere - the exact routine that I fought so hard to free myself from in my past life. Perhaps there is lesson here about the grass being greener, or maybe seven months out of your world (or even 3 months away from friends) is a long time.

But for now I continue onward, through the sertão, and to the sea, Fortaleza...

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Comments

[J. Greathouse]

Up north
Hey Chris, nice to see you are doing well in the north east... I know that now you are able to see how different and interesting Brazil can be... Here are some updates from your friends in Belo: - Rainha and Raquel got married last weekend, they are on their honeymoon this week in Porto de Galinhas (I see you were just there). - Carlos and Erika got engaged, they will get married on August 4th. They asked my Dad to be the "pastor" to marry them. - I'm up in Porto de Trombetas (that mine I went before) in the middle of the Amazon in the state of Pará. I'm staying here at least till the 14th of december. Hope you are able to find a nice place for your parents to stay in Fortaleza. Later...