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By the time the taxi had completed three circuits around a series of turnoffs between Olinda and Recife, the French couple pinned into the rear seats by excessive baggage finally decided to forego the bus station. Our driver had offered to take us directly north for two hours for a fare comparable to a bus trip. The French couple would stop at the beach in Jacumã, and I would go on to João Pessoa. Soon thereafter we deduced through his reckless driving that his doctor had given him only three months to live. That was four years ago. As we progressed northward a few miles outside of Olinda, we became the unsuspecting participants in a game of motor chicken. Ours, as with the oncoming traffic, was a single lane in most spots. As we progressed, it became only a matter of time, until driver and passengers were inhaling the charcoal fumes of a maintenance-neglected flatbed truck crawling uphill. When the coast was temporarily clear, the driver swerved out into the opposing lane, dropped the wobbly sedan into second gear and floored the accelerator. Over the crest of the hill appeared a white mid sized car moving towards us at a good
Professional House Guest
My "home" while in town...clip. Undaunted, the driver called upon all three squirrels under the hood to give it their all. We were not going to make it. Nor did we have time to brake and slide in behind the flatbed. The driver flashed the taxi’s headlights to signal the oncoming car to move over, which for some mysterious reason, it did. It had full right to it own lane, not having committed a dozen moving violations as had our driver. The French and I held our breaths, envisioning a peaceful burial sight on a hill of daisies, as both driver’s side mirrors crossed each other within inches of making contact.
The three of us exhaled and took our pulse. This was a common driving technique in Brazil. Our driver never flinched, never squeezed the poorly aligned steering wheel tighter, or spoke a word. The French lady made it clear in her own language that the driver could repeat his suicide attempt, but without us in the car. He got the point, expressing this by a simple shrug of the shoulders. When I turned around to check on her, her eyes were still wide open, mouth oval shaped (I could see her uvula), and
Colonial core
Did not have to share with others... eyebrows above the bangs of her hair. She had not let go of the backpack she was hugging for dear life. Driving at night in Martha’s Vineyard after a date with Ted Kennedy seemed a safer proposition. Without warning, the short scruffy fellow behind the wheel pulled out a black, horn rimmed pair of eye glasses and placed them on his face. The frames were too big and slid down the bridge of his nose. The three of us were stunned. Only I in the front seat could notice that the thickness of his lenses was that of Coca-Cola bottles. The rest of the way, he tempered his aggression to simply speeding around sharp turns as the wheels let out a high pitched screech.
Accustomed to sour first impressions of Brazilian cities, I arrived in João Pessoa extremely unprepared for what I found. Where did the trash go all of a sudden? I am not talking about the lone sandwich wrapper or crumbling cement pieces alongside the highway. I mean heaping piles of rotting trash I have seen throughout Brazil, and for that matter the rest of Latin America. Its absence left me perplexed. Was this Brazil? Paraíba’s state
Conservation
Hatchlings waddle to the sea... capital hugs a clean semicircular bay in which visitors and residents swim, surf, and parasail. Motorists signal to each other with the thumbs up as opposed to the middle digit and flow through downtown unimpeded by congestion. Many cars are parked next to empty spaces beachside in the Tambaú region of town. More like a big neighborhood than a section of a city, Tambaú’s beach huts, artisan’s market, and food stands blend in perfectly in a low stress, unintimidating, and surprisingly noise free environment. The sense of calm is the opposite of the perilous conditions in Recife and Salvador. Though not perfect, João Pessoa knows little of the senseless violence and criminal elements that taint cities to the south. A community under control, few armed guards circulate in public. The upscale neighborhood of Intermares anchors a far end, from which the view of João Pessoa’s polished skyline is clear, unbroken, and doesn’t appear to be on the brink of structural failure. To maintain its visual appeal, high rise apartments and office buildings are forbidden within three blocks of the beach. Nighttime welcomes hundreds of young, smartly dressed men arm in arm with gorgeous young ladies in a series of streets
Catamaran
Sand bar in the bay... filled with restaurants from cheap to posh, and bars blaring a wide variety beats and melodies. Upon an initial orientation, unheralded João Pessoa shockingly holds its own among bulkier and better known rivals in Brazil’s Northeast.
“Not even once”. Gareth Butcher’s answer came forth without hesitation. An Englishman from Brighton now living here, he does not question his safety in João Pessoa’s streets, even at night. “When I interviewed for jobs in São Paulo, I looked around and said to my wife that if the job had to be there, I would rather just go back to London. João Pessoa has an ideal quality of life.” A wealth of random information and general interest about the local area, Gareth has seamlessly assimilated into the city’s social scene. The language has long since posed him no obstacles. While he pointed out to me the two men casting fishing nets by hand in the bay, he also brought up a tidbit about the coconut palms, “See all these palm trees? None of them are native to Brazil.” Odd. They shaded our heads along the sidewalk. Palm trees number in the thousands throughout João Pessoa. Gareth continued: “Theory has it that they
Back to Shore
The tide is approaching... were brought over by the Portuguese or the seeds floated here from Africa.” The Ponta do Seixas marks the most eastern point of land in the Western Hemisphere. Africa’s is at its closest to the Americas at João Pessoa.
Gareth got me to thinking aloud and reminiscing. “When I was seventeen, I said, “I saw my very first palm tree.” At least it was not on television or a postcard. “I was so fascinated by it and the dates that fell from its heights that I actually went up and petted its trunk in pure fascination. Today it is still my favorite tree and I take special notice when one, or hundreds, come into view. And the same with an orange tree, Gareth! Until seventeen, oranges came in boxes marked ‘Florida’s Own’ or in three packs wrapped in plastic at Stop & Shop.”
“Then you should see the fruit here!” I knew where he was going. I had already come across fruit in Brazil far more exotic than a navel orange or even passion fruit. In fact, Northeast Brazil boasts of fruit much of which have no English equivalent. He and his wife, Luciana, run an export firm out of an office in the downtown area. Both were educated in the United States and started their careers in the United States. Luciana, a swimming champion at Central Connecticut State University and native of João Pessoa, kept reminding me for the past two weeks: “You’ll be surprised when you get here, Rich. People come to João Pessoa just to get away from the madness of bigger cities.” I dismissed her at first. With little of monumental or natural significance, my attitude has done a complete 180°. Never having developed into a blip on the radar screen during my research months before departing for Brazil, I will toil hard to find a reason to leave.
Retired from professional soccer in the United States and having trained with a club briefly in Brazil, the sport still remains Gareth’s passion. He is the perfect candidate for public office except he possesses a nasty habit of being honest all the time. Well built with wavy red hair and a goatee for the moment, it is easy to respect him, as he is a man of principles: faith, family, community, and a sense of virtue guide him. Extremely approachable, it is practically impossible to walk around downtown João Pessoa without stopping every forty yards or so. He sincerely greets others with a large smile, does not permit minor irritations to annoy him, and has adapted to the ebbs and flows of life in Paraíba. Yet, he is not oblivious to the difficulties around him. Any chance he gets, he tries to encompass his business to help those in need.
One afternoon on the beach, we both took notice at the spectacular exhibitions of flashy moves and triple fakes performed by ordinary men, many with nothing better to do with their afternoons. “Gareth, you know that if our national team could comb this beach and pluck five players at random, we could have advanced to the World Cup quarterfinals. The talent is endless and untapped. Is it no wonder that Brazil is still the premier selection in the entire world?”
“Coming from England, in my eyes, it is a far deeper issue, Rich. England, with all its resources, its league, and its infrastructure, will never reach the success of Brazil.” OK, he got my attention and I took the bait.
“Why not? Can England not put a world class team on the pitch?”
“Of course, as we did this year. But in Brazil, it is a question of culture. Brazil’s approach to the game and that of England could not be more different. And in that difference lies why Brazil will always be among the elite in the world.” Gareth went on to account for his theory. Brazil considers o jogo bonito as an art and it embraces multiple aspects of the nation’s culture and psyche. On the other hand, England when faced with international competition, approaches a critical match much the same as war. Brazilians express themselves through dance and music, two elements whose pageantry is a hallmark of Brazilian soccer. Brazilian players take pride in extravagant moves to sidestep defenders and even sending the ball through a defender’s legs to confuse and disorient him.
By nature, the English, while technically precise, are a reserved bunch. Such trickery, malice however unintentional, is perceived as showing off. It is not very British to make your opposition look bad unnecessarily. Players who bring such flair to England are quickly brought back in line by suffering high tackles, elbows to the face, and other effective techniques of dissuasion. Consequently, creative play in England is rare and defensive, whereas in Brazil it is celebrated. In a tournament like the World Cup, a defensive attitude will not result in victory.
I pressed on with Gareth. He had already climbed out of his hammock chair, come to his feet and faced me from ten feet away as I was curled up on the leather sofa. As he spoke, he was totally engrossed in the one topic that stirs up an inner zeal like no other. His eyes peered into mine as if I were a student being lectured by a university professor. Only a chalkboard behind him with X’s and O’s would have made the scene more complete. I commented, “I find the Brazilian public to be unreasonable in their expectations. Nothing short of a championship is acceptable. But in England -”
“This is not England, Rich!” Football is not just a game. It gels the country together. The English have other things to live for: jobs, family, careers, holidays, and so on.”
“And Brazil?”
“Brazil? Football brings an identity. It bolsters an image of a people so poor they have absolutely nothing else of significance in their lives.” I immediately recalled being sternly told to leave the table during Brazil’s World Cup loss to France while in Tiradentes. Gareth’s words rang very true.
A stiff breeze blows straight in off the beach at Intermares’ now abandoned and dark beach. Only the crashing foam can be seen as it disperses over empty sand. João Pessoa’s vivid skyline twinkles in silhouette. Early Saturday evening in suburban Intermares is family time. Only three hours before, a crowd gathered at a nearby beach to watch an age-old spectacle of nature take place with the help of some foresight, the heart of a local bar owner, a determined biologist, and a selfless team of volunteers. A circle of onlookers peered over the shoulders in front of them as Rita, mouth into loudspeaker, shushed the eager crowd a second time (Why insist on quiet with a loudspeaker?) Most, as did I, ignored the environmental awareness speech, which something like: how the eighteen various species of sea turtles are endangered, drown in industrial fishing nets, and how evil humans were at fault. Mystifyingly enough, one in every one hundred survive to reproduce on the very same beach of their birth. I hardly doubt that homo sapiens make a huge dent in percentages that you wouldn’t even bet on in Las Vegas. The feeble black plastic barriers already pushed aside, Rita inserted her right hand deep into the sand and twisted her wrists around. In only a few seconds up came the first of a little more than ninety newly hatched sea turtles, much to the predictable ooh’s and aah’s of the bystanders. The chief biologist completed the excavation and plucked out the last little reptile and placed it and the others in a white plastic box the USPS would use to collect mail in an office. This delivery, however, was going ocean freight. Her staff of students groomed the beach with two-by-fours and then cordoned off the sand to give the contestants a clear path to a rude introduction into the open Atlantic. Ever so gently, Rita tipped the box forward and the mound of flailing flippers attached to coin sized shells came tumbling out, most upside down. The forces of nature and instincts of survival taking over, the turtles fought to lie flat on their bellies. Not having been born at night on this beach where the street lights would divert them from the shore to certain death, they began their march to the water. It is a rude and turbulent introduction to a hostile, submerged world full of danger. In the matter of minutes, the last hatchling had disappeared into the waves. The brief show was over, the crowd applauded and dispersed.
More than a handful of days in João Pessoa leave one in a state of blissful comfort, the kind you feel when easing into a well-used leather recliner. It is not fair to say there is nothing to do here. In fact, I have not encountered a hint of boredom. Rather, João Pessoa prides itself on a low impact way of life. A triple-tiered artisan’s market of over seventy stands sells handicrafts, trinkets, portraits, and common items. It is an unimaginative market for the unimaginative shopper. This terraced ice cube tray on its side can eliminate half your Christmas shopping list, particularly for those whom you either do not want to buy anything but must, and have no idea what to get. I am talking about the types of articles that would best be placed on the walls of in a bachelor’s condominium to break the monotony of eggshell white. T-shirts abound, as do handmade chess sets, which are the perfect gift to pick up for someone who has never played, knows nothing about the game, and gets easily confused when trying to master Go Fish.
My hosts have made themselves available to take me anywhere almost on a whim. It is one of the benefits of being a houseguest without having to do very much clean up. Luciana and I go back eight years, but only by a fanciful shot in the dark did I decide to look her up while in Brazil. It is with her husband Gareth, and little Lucas that I stay. It is a huge improvement over night after night in one pousada after another. Their four-bedroom, four bath, fashionable yet modestly furnished flat in suburban Intermares has a splendid view of the bay and its beaches. Its unhindered panorama of sparkling downtown João Pessoa extends each visit onto either sixth-floor balcony. When looking down, unfortunately, the Avenida Oceano Índico has never been paved, forcing new model sedans to swerve around valleys of potholes that become the size of recreation lakes during rainstorms. Some precision blasting to join a few of the standing bodies of water could only do the street some good. I have been assigned my own room, through which I have exclusive access to one of the balconies. With a house staff of two to take care of cooking, cleaning, and looking after the toddler, both Luciana and Gareth will have to go to great lengths to have me leave. Blaring R. Kelly through the stereo might do it. If it weren’t for the fact I enjoy exploring João Pessoa so much, the endless episodes of Barney would have me in a taxi bound for the bus station.
As a self-appointed professional houseguest, I do my best to pull my own weight. My pack and clothing are neatly arranged, mostly under the bed. Over the weekend, house staff away, I do the dishes. Please and thank you precede or follow every gesture of help or act of kindness. However, not all has gone smoothly. Unaccustomed to house staff waiting on me, I became entangled in a small controversy over laundry that needed to be done by hand. The family washing machine being at the repair shop for the fourth time, Luciana arranged staff to wash a load of my pungent clothes by hand for a small fee. Given the laborious effort involved, I saw no problem in making for the help. Short of the exact amount, I mentioned to the slender lady that I would make up the difference as soon as I could, thinking it better to pay up as much as I could so as not to have anyone think I had forgotten. The amount was minimal to me, but not to her.
“Rich, you need to know something about your laundry” said Luciana as she approached me in the afternoon.
“What’s the matter?”, I inquired.
“A misunderstanding, I believe. Betania was confused with how you paid her.”
“Yes, I didn’t have all the money, so I -”
“Yes, yes, I know. It is not what you said, but how you said it, Rich.” You told Betania that you’d make up the difference by giving her a few coins when you could.”
“Well, yeah. Tomorrow, I will have collected enough in coins to -”
“See, that’s the thing. She interpreted your comment and simply not making up the difference and tossing her a few odd pieces of change.”
No, that’s not what I meant. That’s not my style at all. “No! I definitely meant - ”
“I know. It’s all sorted out.”
“Tell her I’m sorry. Was it what I said in Portuguese?”
Luciana smiled back. “No, not at all. It was how you said it.”
“Oops. I’ll talk to her and apologize.”
“No need. It is not a problem. Everything is OK.”
Unlike her husband, Luciana has very much been a complete surprise to me. Eight years of obscurity and a history of strong and at times opposing personalities in the office environment made me unsure of what to expect when making the attempt to contact her out of the blue. Would we be at odds? Would my visit be unwelcome or would I be an annoyance? My memory of her was that of a bright, beautiful, ambitious, yet rather privileged woman whose social status and creature the comforts with which she was raised would never, ever be at risk. While I still believe this to be true, conversations with her years back led me to incorrectly conclude that she lived in a bubble or state of denial about her own country. Her comments at times were in regards to international journeys, personal tastes and influential social contacts. Extremely likeable and never impolite or unpleasant, I was convinced that she must have been in denial. I thought her to be a bit snobbish with respect to what I saw was misplaced pride in a country whose socio-economic strife, uncertainty, and injustice I consider to be disgraceful.
No, my take on her was wrong. Though certainly entrenched in and reaping the lifestyle benefits of João Pessoa’s upper middle class, Luciana displays an unquestioned generosity towards others. Never rude to those less fortunate, it is she, not I that will offer a tip of one real to a parking attendant who has done very little to earn it. Honestly, this is far more than I would do, as I do not care to be followed and made to feel guilt-ridden over pocket change. In spite of being on vacation and while still managing a growing business, she has found the time to advise me, sit down with me, introduce me to her friends and family, and take me wherever I fancy. I have enjoyed her classiness in spite of her own menacing agenda of balancing young child, professorship at a university, and any other unforeseen bumps in the road. In return, she has asked nothing of me and has maintained a sparkling demeanor.
Effectively unknown outside Paraíba, Areia Vermelha appears on postcards, tourism brochures, and its eye-catching image highlights every tour operator’s display panel. A sand bar tucked inside jagged coral reef no more than a mile of the coast from suburban Cabedelo, it becomes exposed as waterlogged land at low tide. Catamarans transport eager sun seekers to the amorphous circle of sand to enjoy the tidal pools of marine life, tepid waist-deep waters for swimming or snorkeling, and refreshments. In pure capitalist style, vendors arrive on small fishing craft with tables, chairs, canopies, and coolers full of soft drinks, beer, and liquor to do business with those in search of a few hours of relaxation. Essentially, there is little to do on Areia Vermelha, and that is precisely the point. Areia Vermelha has the same rate of productivity you’d find in a beehive at the north pole.
Walter, captain of the Sinfonia catamaran, assured me that upon weighing anchor he would stay so that I could store my daypack aboard, safely out of sight. “OK, all right. I’ll be right here. No problem.” He, like all others, gave me the thumbs up sign to circle around the sand bar in absolute ease. I jumped off the craft into the lukewarm ankle deep sea and started off to explore the plot of sand no more than a few football fields in size. No sooner had I reached the far end where Paulistas hobbled over sharp coral with camcorder in one hand and child in the other, did I turn around to see that…Where did he go? Gone quicker than a Democrat can raise my taxes. Puttering back to shore was the Sinfonia only to be replaced by the Beethoven, its partner piloted by Walter’s son. Only thing is Walter had my bag and never bothered to switch it with his son while the two passed each other in the channel. Of course not…that would have made sense. His son arrived with the thumbs up for me and a smile designed for people like me who are prone to occasional periods of unhappiness, unlike Brazilians who spend their entire lives on a beach.
“You’re Walter’s son, right?”
He shook my hand. I checked him out from head to toe: sun hat, fanny pack, a ripped pair of sandals, and no more than a maximum thirty word vocabulary, he could not have come face to face with any stress in years. “That’s me!”
“Will I ever see him again? He has my bag aboard in the hold.” In which is my money, passport, bank card, notebook….you know, nothing serious.
“Oh, he’ll be right back. He has to pick up more passengers.” Right then and there, there was no point in arguing. Just let it go, Rich.
Any beach in Brazil is a showpiece for the country’s natural flair for sexuality. Curvy young women prance around in bikinis more or less painted on, and poorly at that. Men enjoy parading around in spandex as opposed a larger garment with more material. Still, there comes a point when aesthetics should be legislated. Québécois living in South Florida, listen up: Women, if while in a bikini a molting elephant seal finds you arousing, it is time to consider other options for swimwear. Men, if you could pass for an aged walrus in horizontal striped shorts, only your whiskers are longer and tusks not as white, stop wearing your shorts three sizes too small.
I offered a bag of cashews to a family from São Paulo. Of course, Walter’s son paid for me because my cash was in transit over the bay somewhere. This got me an invitation to join them (my ulterior motive) in order to take refuge from the stinging sun. They were together on vacation. One daughter lives in Rio, the mother has moved to João Pessoa, and the rest are back in the urban black hole that is South America’s largest city. As with every Brazilian so far, none could guess my home country on the first try. This group did little more than keep me from acquiring second degree burns on my body and keeping my beer cup properly full. The son across from me, about my age, chugged away.
“In this heat, it is best to drink water, juice, but beer can be rather risky.”, I mentioned. He paid me no attention and finished the can in one swig.
The only person at our table not under shade was an older lady. Dark-skinned, body wrinkled from age and tedious labor, and surprisingly quiet, she sat inconspicuously in her plastic chair and seeped closer to the ground as the tide sucked its legs deeper into the sand. She spoke only when spoken to, arranged bags, covered the back of a spoiled eight-year old brat, and cleared the table for more food and drinks. Ahh, house staff with the family on vacation. This woman looked despondent, as if she were the family hand baggage that got stored in the overhead compartment during the flight. She scampered about to satisfy their every request, however petty. Her masters could not have treated her in a more rude, insensitive, and condescending manner. The Eloi and Morlocks lived in better harmony. Each time she returned to her chair, she was the only one in the stinging sunshine. Only at the point she became medium rare and ready to topple over due to heat stroke did the thirty-one year-old daughter pipe up. “Alícia, you really should come sit over here.” Gee, thanks for your concern. We’ll all remember that around her hospital bed. Of course, this convenient comment arrived as crowds were packing up and heading for the catamarans. The tide was quickly coming in. The São Paulo family climbed aboard their ride home. Alícia in tow hauled several bags over her shoulder.
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