The mysterious number 23

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Foremost. The other morning I lay dreaming. In the dream, I was traveling and reflecting on my experiences, transcribing my thoughts onto paper. Gradually, the sunlight filtering in through the mosquito netting draped over my bed and the ongoing calls of roosters brings me into consciousness. And I realize that reality is far stranger than anything I could have possibly dreamnt. My location, a small village of roughly 300 people called “23,” deep into a rural zone of southern Bahia.

How I arrived here. Wednesday morning, I awake in Manga, make a mad dash to the river bank to climb aboard a small vessel. The river is short here, and the crossing is quick. I spend the day exploring the nearby town of Matias Cardoso, which boasts the oldest church in Brazil, with 450 years, depending on who you talk to - a crumbling ruin of a church, more of the white plaster missing then that which is present, the cross atop, slightly crooked. The town sits along the river, but is kind of a dead end, most of the people working in the nearby banana plantations. Stopping in a supermarket, I attract the normal crowd of passerbys, shocked and perplexed at my presence in their town.

(a quick note: No one ever guesses I am American, some even think I’m Brazilian, albeit a very retarded language deficit Brazilian. More often my nationality is Italian, Portuguese, or (today) Argentinean (which in Brazil is kind of an insult). Afterwards follows the inevitable questions: How did you arrive from the states (car/plane)? How long was the journey? Is it cold there? You have a lot of jobs there? What type of food do you eat? Are you scared about the war (there is some confusion that Iraq war is also being fought in the United States)? Afterwards commences a conversation about their relatives living illegally in the United States and the Novela “America” about Brazilians living clandestine in Miami)

I catch a “car” to Malhada, across the border, into Bahia. The car is actually a large truck with a cage welded on to the back of it. A tarp is draped across the cage to protect us from the sun. The seats, a series of hard wooden planks. We only have 50km to travel; the fazendeiro from Salvador who is traveling estimates the trip at one hour. But the road is much worse then anticipated: dust, dirt, or sand, filled with giant potholes, we cling to the cage slamming against the seats for 3 hours. The road cuts through the Cerrado/Caatinga, passing beautiful country of practically nothing. Low trees and tall twisted bushes cling close to the ground; interspersed with the segmented alien cacti which in their upright straightness seem so out of place in all the torsion. At some point in the journey we change vehicles, and board into the back of a pickup. During this leg the sky grows dark, and it begins to rain - hard, heavy drops fall like stones, a torrent of water in this renowned dry region. We no longer have the protection of the overhead tarp. As we pass a house of dirt and sticks I ask one of the women if the houses ever fall over here because of the rain. She and her companion laugh, until they realize I’m serious. She explains “They would, but we never get enough rain.” A mixed blessing.

Exhausted, wet, and covered in dust, I sleep off the exhausting travel. The following day I traverse the river once again to Carinhanha. I spend the day wandering around the city, looking for a map of Bahia so I can plan a course. The only map I can find is a child’s puzzle of Brazil. I’m headed in the direction of Bom Jesus da Lapa, and I ask a woman at a Padaria if there are any places worth visiting in between. She tells me of a “Serra” (mountain range) close by with caves, and that I can find accommodation in “23.” Still not quite understanding the numbers, I head to the bus station, and find and board the bus, as it is just leaving.

The road is abysmal, but at least the company is friendly. One of the bus operators is quick to become my friend: his name is Aparecido (Appeared, a Catholic name), and after arriving he directs me to the pousada. I walk to the pousada amongst the gaping stares of the locals. Inevitably, I began talking to someone in passing, and soon a crowd has gathered. This repeats itself, ad infinitum. And through talking, the city reveals itself.

The city is called “23” or “Agrovilla 23” - and is one of a series of 23 Agricultural Projects created in the 1970’s in an effort of agrarian reform. Before this, the huge tracts of land were owned by 4 or 5 fazendeiros. All those who lived and worked the land were employees. Working conditions were bad and the there were no schools and no access to any health care. In the government resettlement (or settlement), the land was purchased from the landowners and redistributed amongst various families, each given a plot to work. Those who have been on the land for generations speak to it being another world today then in the past. Poverty exists here, in a level I’ve never seen. However, the people aren’t starving, which I would have to assume they were at one time.

Aperacido lives within 23 - a rustic house, dark, the broken door swinging from the hinges. But behind the house lies an impressive garden of Coconut, Manga, Acerola, Cashu, in addition to various other vegetables. But his family is originally from the nearby village of Capinão. One day we travel there by motorcycle. We lunch in his Aunt’s home. There is something unsettling in the manner everyone continues to stare at me, his teenage cousin who commences giggling whenever I look at her. It is as if I am famous here, a movie star. The flavor of the water in 23 is bad, apparently because of the presence of salt in the ground. Here in Capinão they implore I drink the water - it does taste better. It is pulled directly from the river or falls from the roof where it is collected in large buckets (I will be undergoing a full medical examination when I return to the United States). We stop for short visits at the homes of his other relatives. Tiny houses of dirt and sticks, the roofs tiled, but lacking ceilings, the floor a continuation of the hard earth in the yard. The children giggle and play barefoot as a chicken runs through the house. The uncle is missing most of his teeth; those remaining are grey and rotting, but he has a wide smile - his wife is soaping her hair, taking a bath with a bucket in the backyard.

During my stay I am often asked if I am French. With clarification, I discover some 5 years ago, a French caving team came to Agrovilla 23 and used it as a base camp to explore the nearby limestone caves. For some here, the world only extends to the nearby towns. I try to remember that some have never seen a 4 story building, a freeway, a football stadium. To them, I come from the same place as the French; that which is not “Here.” Television and commerce may have brought some aspects of globalization - many clothing is in English, a dilapidated Volkswagen sits in a front yard, Beyonce blast from a radio manufactured in China (or Paraguay). But much confusion exists: geography is impossible as I find when I try to explain the Pacific Ocean, Iraq, or what exactly is Chinese food (What is China?). Language is difficult as there is a different accent, but also because people can’t explain something in more than one way to a confused foreigner (in fact, many people refer to their language as Bahian or Brasiliero more often than Portuguese, and seemed perplexed that everyone in the United States speaks English). Birth control must not exist here - the Dona of the pousada has five children, and claims that she has a small family.

Regarding the caves - I did get a chance to visit them, albeit in the midday sun, riding a bicycle meant for a 10 year old girl, sans brake, over roads of sand and dust for an hour. Ten minutes into the journey I remember that the kids accompany me were from the country and raised for this (one of the 19 year olds works 11 hour days for $6 day, cutting trees and shoveling hot coal), and perhaps I’m not cut out for this. But I survive. The serra erupts out of the desert floor, dark craggy rocks, cactuses clinging to the sides, large trees dripping roots over the side, some dangling down 50 feet to the rock base. Using my small flashlight, the five of us explore only the beginning of the caves - the network stretches from kilometers, and with only one light it would easy to become hopelessly lost (not to mention the parasite carried by the mosquitoes, the bats and the elusive jaguar). The entrance is covered in petroglyphs, ancient orange-red painted figures of humanoid shapes, animals, and odd dotted geometric patterns, as well as the more recent names scratched into the rock by nearby villagers. There are no interpretive signs here, no guides, no safety net. One of the kids wants to explore a higher cave and begans to climb a vine, scaling the Serra. Considering the closest hospital is 200km away, I decline.

I left the town, 3 hours, and have arrived in Bom Jesus da Lapa, a Catholic tourist town, kind of like the Pope’s Disneyland. Here I await the arrival of a new camera (photos to come?) Perhaps I will leave converted.

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Comments

[big E (inok)]

holy sheit
holy crap, i had no idea that everything was on here, it sounds awesome and i don't think i know anyone who has experienced anything remotely close to what you're doing. i'm glad you are posting stuff on this journal, i'll keep reading through here, i'm glad you're alive and well!