Channelling the Cane Spirits

Friday 14.09.07

My Spanish school played host to a party at night, kicking off with the usual drinking and socialising, and typically for Latin America, the meat took centre stage, but Sopa Paraguaya (not a soup at all) featured as a traditional side dish. Within a short space of time the party cranked up a couple of octaves as the harp player came out and the Paraguayan folkloric dancing began. In a flurry of whip-cracking, toe tapping and whirling, the dancers mesmerised the audience, as the harp player strummed his instrument like a lead guitarist at a rock concert. Soon came the grand finale , a female dancer balancing imitation bottles on her head - ten to be exact - while all the while spinning and stepping with the greatest poise.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sopa_paraguaya

I ambled downhill toward the river to play football in a park with one of my fellow students, Isabel and Gerardo her surrogate brother. I found myself staring at the Palacio de Gobierno, an imposing white building guarded by soldiers carrying assault rifles, and poignantly noted this action could have had one shot during the reign of José Gaspar Rodríguez de Francia, El Supremo from 1814-1840. We soon discovered the football field, while not on palace turf, was perhaps a little too close for the soldiers' comfort and we were told to vacate. We couldn't help but feel we were being picked on, because some suspicious-looking children frolicking on a playground the same distance away were still there when we departed.

On the other side, practically in the shadow of the huge edifice and hidden amongst trees was a cluster of low buildings. It was almost like a tiny village, down an embankment at water level, with a dilapidated fishing boat moored out the back. What a poignant portrayal of Paraguay lay here, the Governor's palace, complete with trimmed grass, immaculate garden, parade ground and its naval frigate parked on the river, and the exact opposite parodied next door.

After the obligatory morning/afternoon/evening Tereré session(s), we took a prowl around the inner south western suburbs near Isabel and Gerardo's house at night. We snuck into the local cemetery - an activity which I always enjoy; and while creeping around the graves, discovered that despite some being lavishly decorated with bathroom tiles and glass windows, all were nameless. Plenty of final resting places were that no more as many open graves attested, the former occupants having apparently been exhumed to be used for medical studies in Universities.

On Sunday afternoon, Marite and Juan Carlos took me and another student to Cerro Lambaré, a hill not far from the cemetery, towering over a marshland/floodplain next to the river. From the vantage point of the monument atop the volcanic mound, i noted with a little shock and interest at the amount of people that had set up their homes in this place out of necessity, possibly aware that at any moment the meagre amount they do have could be washed away. Towering over this too, was a stepped pyramid of rubbish, and we could see people sifting through the choice bits on top. Over the millennia, many ancient cultures world-wide have chosen the stepped pyramid as their ultimate show of affection for their God(s). It's difficult to say whether discarded food waste, polystyrene and a million other nasties would have quite the same effect on these deities as gold, jade or sacrifice might, but who am I to comment on the fickle whims of such beings?

It was a complete reversal of fortunes (quite literally) when we arrived at the Yacht & Golf Club, slightly south of Cerro Lambaré. The most exclusive and expensive club in Asunción was playing host to a powerboat regatta (of all incredulous things one never expects to see in the second poorest country in South America). Not long after we arrived one of the races began, accompanied by a high-pitched roar from the highly-tuned outboards. Within a short space of time, their hulls were lifting almost completely out of the water, and what followed was a dozen or so laps of the facing section of the river. The chequered flag was waved, and after a number of minutes, the boats lined up and it started all over again. Once finished, everyone began to pack up and leave to return to their palatial residences, safe in the knowledge their actions had all but confirmed the Grand Canyon-like divide between rich and poor in this country.

Saturday 01.09.07

Marité and Juan Carlos woke me up a lot earlier than i would have hoped; i had only returned from the previous night's drinking foray a few hours before. As we headed in the car to the rowing club, I realised what misconceptions i had had of Paraguay before arriving. My expectations were of a country like Guatemala, given I'd heard the chief language was Guaraní - the native tongue of the indigenous groups, but in fact Spanish is now spoken far wider throughout the country. The capital's full name is Nuestra Señora Santa María de la Asunción, and official nickname is the 'Mother of Cities', having been the primary city in the area from which expeditions left to found other cities, such as Buenos Aires.

There is a significant German influence in the country. A substantial population of German-speaking Mennonites live in the country's northwest, while following the Second World War, Paraguay became a haven for Nazis. German people have continued to flock to the country in peaceful times ever since, while Alfredo Stroessner, the infamous dictator of Paraguay from 1954-1989 had a German father. Government officials (and their well-off cronies) drive around in flashy Mercedes Benz's, while the taxis of Asunción are antique models from the same maker.

There also exists a serious class divide between whites and those with more indigenous blood. The two groups do share common ground in their almost unanimous mistrust of the government, well known as being one of the most corrupt in the world. Despite the class divide and that not as many people fluently speak Guaraní (the most incredibly nasal language i have ever heard) as in times past, the people of Paraguay still have strong ties to the language and folklore of the indigenous groups. Paraguay remains a strongly religious country, but worship is divided between Catholicism, the Evangelical and Pentecostal churches and various other interpretations of essentially the same thing.

I've been fortunate with my timing and choice of Spanish school. My family, living only three doors down from where i study and a ten minute walk from the centre of town, is a perfect example of what I have been discussing. My surrogate parents are retired, own a large house and a Mercedes (though an ancient model), and employ an girl to cook and clean for six days a week. Every day, she makes my bed for me and amongst many other things, mops the patio which hardly gets used. She earns about ₲350,000 per month, which is around AUS$80. My surrogate father, Juan Carlos is a strong-willed, likeable chap whose grandfather founded the first football team in Paraguay as well as the rowing club - Club Deportivo de Puerto Sajonia, which has now become a huge, multi-sport complex on the Rio Paraguay.

Five of us crossed in a boat to a large island owned by the club in the middle of the river to cook a Parilla (barbecue) for several hours during the day. The Rio Paraguay, one of the major transport thoroughfares in the country is unfortunately not the cleanest river in the world. Its banks are lined with rubbish at the high-water mark and old rusted hulks sit high and dry on the shores in front of Asunción. Much to the surprise of all of us on the boat, the captain decided it was indeed drinkable, and he scooped some up into his cup as we crossed back. Paraguay is a considerably laid-back country, a place to sit and watch the world go by while sharing Tereré. It has to be said that this is perhaps the national pastime, people carry around their jugs and cups with them to social occasions and work; the park benches are reclined as to induce some find of pleasant slumber, and there is even a type of plant which grows as it floats lazily down the river.

One of the greatest differences between Latin America and western countries is that of the lowest-class worker. In the various countries of this region it presents itself differently, but often involves back-breaking and thankless labour. In Guatemala, it is not uncommon to see men, aged from very young to very old, doubled over hauling large quantities of wood on their backs. In São Paulo, men drag gigantic carts laden with cardboard and other recyclables they have collected along the traffic lanes, and in Rio I observed others sifting through trash for discarded copper wire to re-coil for use again.

Begging also is an activity seen less in developed countries, and it seems to be always worse in the touristy places. It is almost non-existent in Asunicón, a place that sees fewer tourists than most capital cities in the region. This rings especially true for Salvador in Brasil - a city that revived itself through tourism, and one has to wonder whether some of the beggars in a place like that are just too lazy to work, as they often were on the Caribbean coast of Central America. One of the most heart-wrenching situations is refusing to give money to a mother with a child on the premise that it possibly was the tourist dollar that put them there together in the first place.

Tuesday 28.08.07

There was something instantly likeable about this place, beyond the classic Latin American grid-patterned streets. Asunción, i quickly discovered, has a small-town feel, a closeness which one wouldn't expect to find in a country's capital. Despite a metropolitan area containing 1.6 million people, policemen still whistle and gesture traffic through intersections surrounding the Plaza de los Heroes in the centre of town, while gardeners water the grass in the parks from hoses. I made my first million today (albeit in Guaranís out of the ATM), signed up for a Spanish course to start the following day, and even found a local family to live with, three doors down from the school.

The thought struck me at night that i hadn't seen any homeless people yet in the city, but while investigating an old tram permanently marooned on a median strip, I saw little campfires in Plaza Uruguaya, across from my hotel. Had these people been here the whole time and I had never noticed? Who were they? It wouldn't be long before I found out....

Once I had checked out of the hotel on Wednesday morning, I set off to investigate the plaza. There appeared to be a camp set up semi-permanently in the park, mostly black plastic sheets stretched over ropes tied between trees. Around little campfires, obscured by the smoky haze, sat indigenous people, while their children and skinny dogs ran about. I soon found out, whilst sharing Tereré, that the indigenous people had been there for 5-6 months. Apparently the government had kicked them off their homeland and failed to live up to a promise of allotting them a new place and teaching them farming skills. Now they subsist in the middle of the city, around 200 here and more in another park, living off handouts from outreach groups, with no end to the problem in sight.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terer%C3%A9

I began studying Spanish in class for four hours a day and moved in to my new house with my surrogate family. Mis padres Marité and Juan Carlos are both retired, while mi hermano Enrique is studying at University. Eating traditional meals every day has been great for the most part. Dulce de Leche, a favourite dessert in Latin America, was as delicious to try as Mondongo was not. The latter, served in a kind of stew at lunchtime on Friday smelled horrible, and the taste was barely better. As I worked out ways of telling Marité, while slowly digesting piece after piece of what was obviously cow stomach, she confessed to me both her and Enrique didn't particularly like it either. Later that night after class was finished, I had a chance to go out with my new local friends, and with free alcohol on offer, who was i to refuse?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dulce_de_leche

Sunday 05.08.07

Salvador is home to many churches, many of them designed in the Baroque fashion, which was very popular at the time of building. The churches, usually ornate on the outside, contain even more detailed structures on their often-gilded interior. We visited two of Salvador's most famous churches today. The first, Igreja da Ordem Terciera de São Francisco, has a beautiful sandstone façade. Igreja Nossa Senhor do Bonfim, a church with an impressive gilded interior stands north of the city centre, the most famous in Salvador for its ability to heal invalids and the sick. In an antechamber off to the side of the hall is a shrine of sorts dedicated to the healed ones, apparently numbering in their hundreds. From the roof hangs more than a hundred plastic body parts and the walls are covered in photos.

Out on the street about midnight, a middle-aged man tows a bag of empty cans. Desperate with hunger, he loiters outside a restaurant begging for the people inside to give him money. The manager confronts him and forces him away, while a policeman hearing the commotion watches the pair from a distance. The defeated beggar slumps against a wall on the opposite side of the road and begins to cry; the manager turns on his heels to return to work. A few minutes pass, and a wandering pastry salesman approaches and offers bread for free to the starving man. The man hungrily takes a couple of rolls, and the salesman walks away. What must it be like to have nothing, to be desperate, destitute or derelict? How must a person feel not knowing when they will next eat? Shelter, another of humanity's basic needs, is also taken completely for granted. Buildings cease being a sanctuary to the homeless, and become a barrier between them and society, a barrier that becomes higher, wider and thicker with time and neglect.

Northeastern Brasil is home to many unique dishes, among them Carne do Sol (meat of the Sun) - dried and salted beef; Acaraje - fritters made from brown beans and shrimp fried in palm oil (served by women in Bahian dress); and Moqueca - a Bahian seafood stew containing coconut milk and palm oil.

I spent a decent amount of my time in Salvador up rickety flights of stairs trying to find a decent Candomblé ceremony to attend. Finally, on Tuesday night i was picked up in a van and taken to a Terreiro in a poorer neighbourhood. On the way we learned how the ritual worked. The particular ceremony we were attending was in celebration of the Orixá of nature and the forest. The religion of Candomblé came across with the African slaves, and is distantly related to Voodoo. The Orixás are the spirits, or saints of the religion, based on the archetypes, and part of the ritual involves going into a trance to invoke the Orixá.

The Terreiro was simple, indistinguishable from the concrete dwellings that surrounded it, and the ceremony conducted in the front room. Several people were dancing in a circle, while others were drumming or singing. Most were wearing white. Little by little, the dancing and singing became more intense and after a while, a few members stumbled, caught in a trance by the hypnotic music. Presently a figure previously sitting in the corner on a throne of sorts got up and started singing and staggering around. This was the Babalorixá, in this case the father of the household. The ritual was only just beginning.

The entranced members retired, and during a short break, the floor was covered in leaves. They returned having dressed up a little in what appeared to be women's clothing, while wielding leafy branches and smoking cigars to ward off the bad spirits. The Babalorixá took centre stage, and singing and rhythmical drumming filled the room. We clapped our hands to the music as it rose and fell in tone, while increasing steadily in tempo. It was intoxicating, the atmosphere thick with emotion and cigar-smoke, singing, laughing and drumming into an incredible crescendo. Nothing seemed to exist beyond the immediate space, while the Babalorixá pulled out some wild dance moves, the likes of which haven't been seen since the heydays of Rave. Now the old man retired into another room, and the next entranced member stepped up for the same ritual. Soon, i was invited into another room to be granted 3 wishes and blessed by the Babalorixá, which involved being brushed by a leafy branch and a popcorn shower.

Back in the Pelourinho, a street festival held every Terça-Feira (Tuesday) was in full swing. The ever-present drums of the Pelourinho were even more frantic than usual. There was a hedonistic edge to it all, and of course the beggars and thieves were making the most of the situation. Police were stationed everywhere as usual, but now wearing helmets for protection. The Caipirinhas were to once again prove my undoing, possibly because my Chakras were now aligned to the spirits, but probably because each plastic cup-full was about 60% cane spirit, 40% lime and sugar.

Capoeira is another of Bahia's many charms, invented by African slaves for self-defence. Disguised within dance, Capoeira survived through the times of slavery despite prohibition, and finally in the 1930's developed into the form seen today, usually performed in a circle of drummers, strummers and clappers. Singing also accompanies the music, and the strumming refers to the playing of a one-string instrument called a Berimbau, which has the appearance of a coconut stuck to an archery bow. Wednesday night i left Salvador behind, on a plane to São Paulo, the second largest city in Latin America and by my reckoning, the 5th largest in the world.

Monday 30.07.07

We left off last time, with the cash problem still not corrected, and as i found out on this day, even more stress was ahead of me. The flow chart below better describes the week's predicament than any descriptive writing. Emotionally drained by the end of the day, i caught up with friends for a few drinks.

Canned drinks in Brasil are nothing if not entertaining. There is always some element of mystery involved in cracking one open. Canned beer always seems to taste terrible here, and sometimes the cans are kept so cold that one finds chunks of ice floating in the beverage. Stranger still are some liquids that are chosen to be can-worthy (clearly a dubious title). The strongest Cachaça, Pitu can be purchased in this way. Another oddity is Chopp & Vinho, a bizarre mix of beer and wine in a purple can, which i was a little too afraid to try.

My friends pulled up in a dune buggy in the morning, and i jumped on the back for a ride up to the dunes to the north of Natal. The shortest route for now is to take a ferry across the Rio Potengi, but a huge bridge is currently under construction to connect the city to the so far mostly unspoiled northern region. But before the place becomes a popular area to raise a family, before big business moves in with apartment blocks and restaurants, and hopefully long before the prostitutes flock to the tourist boom, let's go to a simpler time, a time where raw petrol-driven buggies raced across the sand, and the air and water were clean: Tuesday July 31, 2007....

Now across the other side of the river, the buggies roared into life toward the dunes, except for ours, which was broken down by the side of the road. After some unnecessary parts were jettisoned, and all of us pushed the thing some distance along the road, it stirred, sputtered and then started, and soon we were accelerating northward as if the very passage of time was too slow to catch us. Between the dunes of Genipabu we raced, into high banked turns, almost vertical plunges and plenty of sideways drift. It was all done in a fashion the locals call Com Emoção (with emotion), to a soundtrack of gangster rap and reggae. It is worth noting at this point that Brasilian pronunciation of such English terms ends up sounding like Hippy Hoppy, Haggy or Hock & Holl.

The dunes themselves sit on top of a reservoir, which can be seen from time to time in the form of freshwater lakes here and there. One of the lakes we visited has chairs and tables set up in the shallows, while another sees people plunge into its depths from atop a dune by way of zip line and water slide, Com Emoção if you please. All over the area, via the coastal buggy route, river crossings by pole barge were necessary, sort of like gondolas of the wild west. After a late seafood lunch, we persuaded the driver to take us further north, to the place where Brasil's coastline turns from north to west. The coast up in this region has a more remote feel to it, of windswept palms swaying together, sleepy white-washed towns and miles and miles of empty beach.

I embarked on the final leg of my cash transfer on Wednesday, sitting frustrated in the bank for some time, watching a female security guard idly playing with the handgun bullets holstered in her belt. Brasil itself is drowning in bureaucracy, from medical insurance hassles, to the difficulty of purchasing airline tickets without consulting an agent; and even such simple things as banking or buying a drink at the bar are tediously time-consuming. The protocol for many bars is to decide what to drink, buy a ticket for the chosen beverage, and then proceed to the bar to redeem the ticket, sometimes at the other end of the venue. I have seen small green grocers with 15 employees, and service stations with 12 people standing around the pumps. It is this 'due process' that can make Brasil an expensive and sometimes frustrating place to be.

This lack of efficiency can be translated in other means, as the recent air crash in São Paulo may attest. An Airbus A320, with a long list of problems, was cleared to land with only one thrust reverser operational, onto a short, badly-surfaced runway in the rain. Upon landing, either the speed brake system completely failed, or the throttle was jammed, and the aircraft ploughed into an inappropriately placed multi-story building at the end of the runway. This tragedy, the worst in Brasilian history, only a year after another airliner vanished without a trace into the Amazon, could have been completely avoided.

This brings me to my final point, that being the fate of the cities of Northeastern Brasil. Development and tourism are not terrible things, especially when the whole community can grow and profit from them, but there is a distinct lack of responsibility for development in this region. It is not the multi-storey apartment blocks popping up all over Ponta Negra, amazingly constructed of just bricks and concrete, nor is it the bridge facilitating expansion into the northern regions, but prostitution that is strangling the cities. It distances the locals from the tourists and drives out the families. I hear prostitution has all but claimed Fortaleza's appeal, and all of Natal will fall shortly if action is not taken. Praia dos Artistas, as the name suggests, was once a bohemian beach hang-out when Ponta Negra was just a fishing village. The three main beaches in Natal, including Artistas, slowly fell to sex tourism, until Ponta Negra was the only place for everyone else. Now it too is suffocating, and the local government is either too lazy or itself asphyxiating in bureaucracy to lift a finger. I left Natal on Wednesday night, to return by air to Salvador, where i was soon to find my battle with the buck had only just begun.