Violence in the Northeast


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South America » Brazil » Pernambuco » Serra Talhada
November 30th 2006
Published: November 30th 2006
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The Northeast of Brazil is known for it´s beaches - white sand, swaying coconut palms, blue-green water, massive dunes, giant capital cities of festivals and sleeping fishing villages. But this is merely the crust. The mass of the Northeast begins only a few hundred kilometers inland; as you pass, the vibrant green of the coastal strip fades, the rolling hills transformed into rocky crags. In places, the horizon stretches indefinitely, a flat landscape of twisted shrub and cacti in wide variety. There is little water here. Occassionally one sees a small lake or a muddy puddle. More often it is only the memory of water - a dry river or creekbed of red earth. It´s hot and dry, literally an oven. My mouth is sticky and my throat cracks. My nose is dry and my eyes are dusty. Shade is a respite from the heat, and comes only in the form of clouds that scatter over the plain.

The land is mostly vacant of habitation, aside from the cities or towns, as people cluster together like a colony on a strange planet. Of the residences passed on the highway, half are occupied - shabby construction with fences of twisted sticks planted in the ground and strung together with wire - the rest, abandoned. The latter are of unknown age, crumbling open concrete constructions, roofs long gone, the only marker faded paint advertising their former life. Entire towns have given up - here, a church, a few markets, and a few houses. Deeper into the brush a crumbling smokestack rises forlorny, silent.

But we are soon arriving, as I spot the giant serra, a monster tsunami of rock that looks as though it is about to engulf the tiny city below. I am arriving in Serra Talhada, a city of 80,000, deep in the interior of the state of Pernambuco. I have spent a week in Caruaru with an outstanding group of people but have left to continue my journey. Arriving in the bus station in Arcoverde, sans destination is strangely a breath a fresh air; I ask the ticket seller which buses they have that go "in this general direction." But in the end, I clamor into a informal bus, a private van, after giving the guy a good look and figuring he wont dump me in the desert. As we are arriving in the city I know nothing about, I believe that I hear a conversation regarding Lampião.

Some background: Lampião was a famous cangaceiro (bandit) of the Northeast. Born at the turn of the century in Pernambuco, he was drawn into a family conflict over grazing land and after his father was killed, vowed revenge. At the age of 18, he joined the group of cangaceiros and quickly rose to lead them. Rumoured at one time to have 500 people, they ravaged through the sertão - until finally being apprehended, killed, and beheaded in 1938. Lampião is a well known figure in Brazil (and his partner, Maria Bonita) and is sometimes celebrated as hero, sometimes villified as psychopath.

I probe them to explain again and find that one of the women in the van is a niece (or grand-niece) of the anti-hero. I am floored, until I arrive in the city and discover it is his birthplace (actually, his birthplace is 40km away and today houses a very modest museum. I visit anyways, cutting through the sertão on the back of a motorcycle at high speeds ((keeping my life but losing my glasses which fall and are smashed by a car)).

Serra Talhada is quiet and exceptionally hot, but surprising friendly. There is a violence here, however. It is the same violence that created the feud that gave birth to Lampião; the violence between families. As I travel the town, everyone has a story - be it a land dispute, a daughter disgraced - that bore a cycle of venegance. Although things are quieter and have been for the past 15 years, many have been killed for cause of this. Sometimes a grandson is dispatched years later, the only culpability, bearing the family name. As I sit in a restaurant bearing photos of Lampião, the owner tells me of an old man next door whose five cousins were gunned down, their house set afire. And so the blood is still fresh. Some refuse to enter the public museum and when the city attempted to build a statue of the cangaceiro an old enemy vowed to put a bullet in the man who plants the statue. Today the plaza sits empty.

Pernambuco has a reputation as the most violent state in Brazil, Caruaru, the most violent of the interior. For good reason. In the week I spend there, two people are killed in the middle of the day - dispatched by a phantom motorcyclist who strikes in two seperate locations in town. The death toll for the year is at 100 when I arrive. And one night in Caruaru is like any other - and we meet up for coffee and go to the fair for lunch, and go to the bar, and go to Hayanna´s house, and listen to music, and go the theater, and go to a show - and as we leave to buy wine and continue drinking until the early morning, somebody gets shot.

My memories are hazy until the moment I hear the gunshot - two cracks that I immediately imagine are firecrackers, until I see everyone anxiously staring into the dark. The green vested security man at the CompraBem supermarket is uneasy, perhaps scared. And then I see a figure, staggering slowly from a far road, down a dark embankment. The first thing I lose is my Portuguese, and I find myself speaking English, denial of some sort and a perverse excitement of the unreal. Closer, he appears drunk, and is bleeding - a bullet has ripped through his upper left thigh, his jeans red with blood. He staggers or is helped to a bench. A trail of spilled blood, small puddles, mix with the dark rainwater. He says something about his motorcycle - perhaps he´s been robbed? A crowd gathers. A man is holding him, trying to keep him still. Someone is calling an ambulance on the phone (they are busy right now, it´s gonna be awhile). The people orbit him, some talking; but mostly quiet, watching, some distant. I´m trying to explain what to do - make a bandage, apply pressure, remove his t-shirt: - You, go grab a towel! - They won´t give a towel... - Then i´ll pay for it! Incredulous, I burst into the supermarket, on a mission. And in the sterile fluourescent light I see my friends standing in line, the checkers systematically scanning items. Business continues. They look at my terrified face, and I look at their calmness. And I don´t buy a towel, and they tell me "let´s go." As shocked as am by the event, as catatonic and transfixed I am by the event, they are calm and it quickly passes. A friend tells me that my reaction is amazing, and he truly wishes that he could share it.

Perhaps the violence here is a reaction. Perhaps people live as a part of the land, and when geography is violent perhaps it is borne in actions.

Today, deep in the sertão, an old woman, dark, but darker still by the desert sun shuffles down the side of the road, dressed in white, a bundle of sticks weighing on her head. A mule lies still, sleeping or dying, or both. And vultures slowly ascend on giant black wings, clearing the path as we blast past over the hot asphalt.

photos, captions

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30th November 2006

Vultures
Vultures spend an amazing amount of their time in desolate places. Indeed, I believe that Brazil is rare in that the vultures there are likely to reside in cities. In the nothern end of their range here in the United States, Turkey Vultures are never seen in urban areas. They float above the landscape waiting for the smell of rotting flesh--a deer killed by vengeful teens and left to die, a snake hit by a car, the remains of my chicken slaughter. Maybe a dead body. They see a lot of territory, migrating between North and South America annually. They probably expend the least amount of energy of any animal to do so. They observe, patiently, sniffing all the time, coasting on diurnal wind currents, waiting for the faintest hint of death. They rarely flap. Some consider them ominous signs of impending doom, some consider them just plain goofy. Whatever they portend, make no mistake about it: They will eat you when you die. So stay safe out there, and keep one ace for comfort: If you get shot and die in the desert, the vulture who eats you will probably get lead poisoning. In the mean time they'll keep clearing your path where ever you may travel. Enjoy it while it lasts.
30th November 2006

wow..
I am one of Mark's friends and have been following your entries off and on since the beginning of your travels.. Your writing is captivating... please continue to stay safe! ( and find a way to get a new camera!!.. ;))

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