The Pantanal, and a Little Carnaval

« Return to Brazil

Another Turn at Returning

There are many things I am learning about Brazil, this being my third visit, and now that I am in a relationship with a Brazilian bombshell. Brazilians like meat. Brazilians like the beach. Brazilians like bending the rules so much that they eventually snap back and become rules again. Brazilians like football. Brazilians like drinking caprinhas and exceptionally cold beer. Brazilians can spot each other in a crowd of Latin Americans. And Brazilians like where their country is heading, because they are proud, so very proud, of the country and culture. This is the story about my month escaping the northern hemisphere winter blues for the second year in a row in Brazil. There’s a lot of Rio (where above mentioned bombshell was born and raised), a foray into the world’s largest wetland, a road trip up the coast, and Carnaval, the granddaddy Brazilian experience I’ve somehow avoided in the past. Herewith be the Modern Gonzo, edited for space and the few drops of mental energy I have left on this flight.

Week One

The heat. O.M.Godfrey! So hot, and sticky, my sweat is sweating, and it’s 2am in the morning. Ana’s parents live in a penthouse a block away from the Copacabana, the most famous neighbourhood in the country.
Early morning, groggy jetlagged, I watch an old lady in the apartment block opposite the street pray to the glow of the sunrise. That’s why I love Brazil. You can catch moments of humanity at all hours of the day. Downstairs are the fruit juice stores, freshly squeezing a bunch of tropical fruits you won’t find anywhere else, for the price of bottled tap water back home. Cold, freshly squeezed watermelon should start every day. There’s an adjustment period to consider when travelling from cold, timid Canada to hot, rowdy Brazil. Everything just seems too crazy, at first. How do people drive like this? How is it possible to sit on a beach when the sun could fry an egg on your head? How is that girl keeping her breasts from exploding out of that thread of a bikini? One thing for sure: Brazil is BOOMING! Much has been written about the importance of the BRIC economies for the future. Brazil, Russia, India China. China is where everything is made, India is where everything will be serviced, Russia is where everything will be owned by the same three people, and Brazil is where everything will be bought. BOOMING! The air-conditioned malls of the satellite city of Barra (pronounced Ba-ha) are jammed, and prices ain’t cheap. New, compact cars are everywhere, darting between each other, and the occasional brave pedestrian. Benefitting from its massive natural resources, 192 million inhabitants, and a welcome stretch of political stability, Brazil has finally awakened. By the end of this decade, I expect the entire planet is going to feel its morning stretches. China will give the world its product, India its market and Russia its power, but Brazil will unleash its culture. And trust me, we all need a little bit of green, blue and gold to break the damp, gray fraidy-cat, over hyped, paranoid media mess that has become North America’s cultural legacy. In Brazil, people dance in the streets! In Brazil, people sleep late and drink early! In Brazil, people sing and screw and celebrate! They just don’t cut down the tree because there’s a chance a bad apple might grow on it (a favourite pastime in Canada). Their tree is fertilized by passion and violence and beauty and laughter. Who wouldn’t want a bite out of that?

Rio has a population of 12 million people, but Rio, as cariocas keep reminding me, is not Brazil. It is its own microcosm, just as Sao Paulo and Salvador and Florianopolis are theirs. A 90-minute drive towards the mountains of Teresopolis, where Ana’s sister lives, reveals another Brazil. Cooler, quieter, safe as houses. The family are celebrating her sister’s birthday. Drinks flow, meat cooks over coals. Uncle Luis is smoking as he waxes on about the beauty of Argentina (blasphemy!), little Natalia is playing Wii upstairs. It’s a recognizable family scene, except everyone is staying up late, laughing and talking, on a weeknight. My Portuguese is finally getting somewhere, because I can understand the gist of conversation. With the tone and passion of a political/religious debate, I hear the kibitzing centred around apples, or shopping, or weather. Portuguese is a courtly language, versed in the art of conversation. We ask for ketchup. They ask for ketchup, which reminds them of a time that reminds them of another time, and before you know it, it’s 45 minutes later and the ketchup has yet to be handed over. I am the gringo. I sit and observe, smile and learn. Every night, Ana’s dad tunes into the country’s most popular novella, the short-lived soap operas that define the country’s zeitgeist. There’s a lot of close ups, tears, passionate embraces, arguments, and helicopter shots of Rio, where novellas they are mostly set. The music repeats every night on cue. Within a week, I hear the same music in stores. One of the key motifs in the drama is a woman singing Foreigner’s I Want To Know What Love Is. I want to know how its possible to have inserted more cheese into the cheesiest song ever. But then again, Brazilians eat pao do queijo, a sort of puff pastry injected with hot cheese. They know how to make good soap operas.

Gonzo Gallery for The Pantanal, and a Little Carnaval

view full gallery

Tweet