Three Little Gems

Three passionate voices. Dedicated to my neighbour

Bubba goes to the fair

Bubba: “Ok, I think I get it now. I come out of the house and go to Sabará, there I turn right, cross the road and take the first road to the left and that’s the fair?“

Nujor: “Yeah, just make sure you go to the people on the right-hand side to have your pastel, not the left-hand side. The people on the left-hand side will start hassling you, calling your attention to them, like they do in Morocco or Brick Lane“

Bubba: “Oh, ok, so because they are so loud, I should ignore them and go to the people on the left“

Nujor: “Yeah, that’s right. Well, at least that’s what I always do“

Lanja: “Nujor takes the side of the weak and the oppressed“

Bubba: “Oh, and where can I find an ATM near here?“

Nujor: “On Sócrates. After your pastel you keep walking until the end of Sócrates…“

Bubba: “Ah! The fair’s on Sócrates?“

Lanja: “No, the road the fair is on leads onto Sócrates“

Bubba walked out of the house, to loud fucken’ barks from Nujor’s crazy fucken’ homosexual dog, and made his way, panting, up-hill to Avenida Nossa Senhora do Sabará. He smelled the familiar smell of toasted ham and cheese sandwiches being cooked at Bienal, the padaria on the left, mixed with the sweet smell of coconut bread and super-sugary coffee. He turned right onto Sabará. The air was polluted as the sun was struggling to shine through the clouds and the smog of Zona Sul of São Paulo. Housewives and maids were out shopping and gossiping. Just the way Bubba likes it…

The people on the left didn’t even look at Bubba as he sneaked a peak at them on his way straight to the friendlier looking people on the right. “Um de pizza, um de frango com catupiry, e um caldo de cana“, he said, in his gringo accent. “Com limão?“, asked the nice lady. “Huh?“. “Do you want lemon in your sugarcane juice?“, asked the lady, in Portuguese, of course. “Ok“, said Bubba. “Would you like to take a seat?“, she asked and Bubba said “yes” and just stood there. “Well, take a seat then…“, she said and pointed to the plastic chairs and metallic tables next to her deep fryer… “Gringo estúpido“, she thought, and smiled to herself…

Soon the pasteis and caldo de cana were brought over. They were delicious. Just the way Bubba had expected. He had had it described to him many times by his drinking buddies all over the world: “You haven’t lived if you haven’t had pastel and caldo de cana in a fair in São Paulo, man!“, was a typical line he would hear on a drunken’ Wednesday night in any Irish pub in New York… And here he was, finally sampling it.

He was also very careful to not get burned. Another drinking buddy, this one he had met in a strip joint in Singapore, had told him how when he first tried pastel, he bit straight into it and got burned on his lips, then turned the pastel around, bit into it again, and got burned again! So Bubba was careful when eating the pasteis. Oh yeah, and he added a little bit of cachaça to his caldo de cana. That’s something that no fucken’ drunk Dutch guy had ever told him to do, it was all his own idea.

He sat sipping his improvised cocktail while thinking how clever he had been. A bit like fried chicken breast with a sliced egg on top. Two different food products from pretty much the same source. A bit like publishing a bunch of academic papers based on ONE idea. That’s not something that Bubba would’ve thought of though, but does it really matter, for the purposes of our story and Bubba’s adventures in São Paulo?

There wasn’t much else happening in the fair. A couple of fruit stalls and one or two people selling made-in-china plastic shite. So, he sat a bit, enjoyed the food and the drink and headed back to Nujor and Lanja’s. Walking back, down Pajaú, minding his own business, a tennis ball fell out of the sky and almost hit Bubba on the head. Bubba picked it up and walked a bit, looking for an opening among the trees to throw it back into the tennis court. As he threw it, a middle-aged woman walking just ahead of him started talking.

Lady: “You should’ve given me the ball. I would’ve taken it home to my dog, ha ha, he he. They’re rich, they’ve got enough balls…“

Bubba: “Oh. You should’ve told me…“

Lady: “They have enough balls. BLOODY RICH BASTARDS. You know how many balls fall here? They don’t even come to pick them up… they’ve got so many.“

Bubba: “Well, you should’ve told me before…“

The lady shows Bubba a bag of some powdery stuff: “you know how much I paid for this? 7 reais, for fucken’ flour! My master is gonna have a heartattack…“

Bubba: “That’s expensive“

Lady: “7 FUCKEN’ REAIS! Fuck me!“

Bubba got back to Nujor and Lanja’s house, stuck his head up above the garage door just to piss the fucken’ dog off and then walked in through the front door to watch the maid do her stuff: pick up each item on the bookshelf, remove dust, place back in original position, repeat for next item until there are no more or it’s 6 o’clock: time to go home and do same in own house…

Águas de Julho

É pau, é pedra, é o fim do caminho
o pão de açucar, o cristo que foi mijar
é a opera do bubba é a vida é o sol
é uma lancha no rio, é uma ave no chão
é a mãe da super luiza é a julia é a luiza

é o chico buarque, o luiz melodia, o djavan e o vinicius
o penedo, o fio maravilha, açerola, e truta viva
uma trilha no mato, a bolsa de valores
um gringo chato, são as dores, são as flores
poa, itapemirim, galeto e samba
laura, carlão, sandalias melissa e guimba
rio de janeiro, flamenco, cariocas
cuia e chimarrão é um lanche na esquina

São o oscar niemeyer, o william e a susi
a ana e a lisa, a sofia e a julia
o maneca, a cally e a lancha na quaiba
são são paulo com transito, e sistema de transporte
junior e juliana, luca nano e melissa
tomas e priscilla andre e a dentista
a daiza e o osasco, a ponte la no morumbi
o irmão do evaldo, é a nação zumbi

o renatão e o artur, a angela e o mingo,
a isabella a giovanna, cizo, alcione e flavio
a alzira a alaide, a antonietta a mimi
centro cultural santander, caminho no parcão
e por favor nunca mais habib´s
é o brique e o acarajé, carlos, doug, adam e açai
é a gorda e a seca la no zaffari

é o sol no caixeiros viagantes, é a elis regina
é o chico buarque, é o chico é o chico
é uma ave no céu, uma ave no chão
a cachoeira de deus, uma borboleta na mão

a bethania, e os ramalhos, e um baile de funk, é o creu é o creu
é um coco gelado, saudade e saude
ronaldinho gaucho, é verdade é verdade
uma agua gelada, guarana, fanta da uva
caipirinha, cachaça, picanha e costelão
são tres corações de frango, chocolate do gramado
chocolate do penedo, jiu-jitsu, capoeira
é o menino vadio, a marizete e a jazz
embromation, enrrolation, bossa nova em cartaz
ecohostel, curitiba, fatima, tiago e vinicius
é muita cafeina, é a banda do marcus

é o verissimo no sebo, e umas artes da morte,
o djavan, o corinthians, o flamengo e a flu
uma banana na cachoeira, umas fotos tiradas
pão de queijo, mamão, e umas velhas piradas
um velhinho safado, acarajé no brique
pastel na feira, caldo de cana
a indra e a chirsten, debora, tim, jonathan
um cigarro avulso, uma skol ou polar
ciclovias na curitiba, uma itaipava no ar
são as aguas de março fechando o verão
é a promesa de vida no teu coração
é pau é pedra…

The wheels on the bus…

… go round and round…

I’m getting ready for a 18 hour bus trip, Sao Paulo to Porto Alegre. I love it. Not as much as the train, but the next best thing. I’ve even booked a seat in the front. Cama executiva.

Sao Paulo’s been great. Different, but as I expected, since my friends here are all married with children, so, much more of a family environment for me. The pizza last night was great. It’s a close call between Buenos Aires pizza and Sao Paulo. Brazil maybe just edges it because of Catupiry, Glorious Catupiry. And also ‘coz it’s the most recent one I had. And even though I ate loads, I didn’t feel like shit, as I would if I had had a Domino’s in London. I’m gonna puke just at the thought of that pizza… just a second…

We might go check out the new big bookstore, Livraria Cultura, just off of Paulista, before I catch my bus. But, more about food: went to the Mercado Publico, near Rua 25 de Marco, in downtown the other day and had a mortadella sandwich. Yeah, I know, it sounds boring, but it was amazing! Sao Paulo is still all about food for me, from the first day I came here in 1992 and a friend took us to Bar das Putas, which I’m still confused as to whether it’s the same as Sujinho, which is now a chain of restaurants, also in downtown Sao Paulo, to filet de Moraes (which I didn’t get a chance to have this time), to great Japanese food and of course Brazilian standards, like the feijoada with farofa and couve I had on Sunday and the tastiest rice, beans and abobora I had at my friends house. Mmmm…

São Paulo

I’ve been in São Paulo for 3 days now and will stay about 3 more. It’s been great catching up with old friends. I’ll write more when I’m back in Porto Alegre next week, as well as about the Argentina trip.

For now all I can say is that São Paulo has changed quite a bit since I last spent any reasonable amount of time here. It’s cleaner with less visual polution and seems to have less dirt on the streets. It has some impressive new architecture (mainly in the Morumbi area from what I’ve managed to see) and is a bit easier to get around than I remember. No, the traffic is worse, but the train system seems to be easier to navigate than I thought. The food is still great, the people are friendly though working all the time, the winter isn’t much of a winter by european standards and it’s fucken’ huge. Whereas in London I usually still think of anywhere as being an hour away, here it’s more like one and a half to two hours away.

Bubba’s fine – keeping a low profile. São Paulo has the ability to make anyone feel small and insignificant, but I bet that if HE stayed here, in about a year he’d have regained his usual swagger.

Argentina

60 mins Portugal-Turkey 0-0 Off to Buenos Aires with a friend tomorrow. Probably a week there and a week travelling towards Patagonia. Will see how far into Patagonia, hopefully until Bariloche at least. Then off to São Paulo on the 26th of June. Not sure after that where, but maybe Rio, maybe Parati or Ubatuba, almost definitely Floripa, and then back to Porto Alegre.

67 mins Portugal-Turkey 1-0 Didn’t have any alcohol for 106 days but had a glass of champagne yesterday and then some white wine sangria. Couldn’t refuse, would be too rude. Was at the home of one of my new friends parents house. A great older couple. They were drinking & smoking intellectuals & artists. I said no thank you to the red wine, but had to have some of the champagne when it was put in front of me. How could I refuse? Teatotal day count: 1.

86 mins Portugal-Turkey 1-0 Maybe I go to Salta. That sounds nice and a friend who went travelling to Argentina recently said she liked it there, if I remember correctly. The Brazilian commentators are great. Very passionate. “Grita Filipão”, “keep on shouting, big Phil”…

93 mins Portugal-Turkey 2-0 It’s all over.

Folgado, eu?

I’ve got some great friends. Some older, some newer. I’m going to the Catholic University today, with one of my very new friends who teaches there. I might try to meet someone from the Computer Science dept (Informatica), but will probably just have lunch and a wander. Apparently the food there is great. It’s one of those eat as much as you like buffets for around £2.

Had a problem with a cheeky bastard on the plane and was almost arrested, but luckily I had the back up of a bunch of people (fleeting friends) who had witnessed it. To summarise: shitty plane (TAM), limited leg room, he was in front of me and immediately as he sat put his chair all the way back and sometimes I would move and slightly touch his chair. I’m sure his girlfriend had something to do with it (concierge psychology). He was constantly pandering to her whims. She wasn’t even pretty. About 20 mins before landing he decided to say to me: “voçê é muito folgado“, which I now understand as “you’re taking the piss”. I asked him why and he just kept repeating “çê é folgado“. “What does it mean exactly“, I asked in Portuguese, “‘coz I ain’t doin’ anything on purpose“ and “I’m not from here so I don’t understand exactly what it means“. This triggered a response along the lines of “…I don’t know what it’s like in your country…“ (“no seu pais“) to me. I was starting to not feel welcome. A bit like the last time I went to Greece, but that, like this, was just a few isolated incidents with some assholes, similar to this one, but I won’t go into any details now, to spare some of my oldest friends any embarassment

So I stared at him, while his head was turned profile to me and said, in English, “go fuck yourself“. “O qué“, he asked (“what!?“), so I repeated it for him: “go FUCK yourself“. And then things turned extremely comical, although I was quite worked up at the time and was even shaking when the plane was landing… He said he was gonna tell the stewardess. “Go on“, I said, “good“. A few minutes later he told a passing stewardess that I was “muito folgado“. She turned to me and asked me if I can hear what the gentleman is saying. I said that yes, the reason he is saying these things is because I may have touched his seat when I dared to move a bit on this 13 hour flight from Milan to São Paulo. She just smiled and left.

When we finally landed, he made a move as quickly as he could, with his little bitch of a girlfriend to the left and front of the plane. I stood where I was, but forgot my book (“The Torso“) in the seat pouch. So a lady sitting behind me pointed it out to me and then we started chatting. She explained that folgado means someone who takes up a lot of space, relaxed and sort of spread out. Ah, it’s not so bad I thought. Then others joined in, saying that that guy was the real folgado.

While queueing at passport control, the cheeky bastard who was quite a bit in front of me, told the security guard something, then turned around and pointed at me, and said, “that’s him“. The security dude was ridiculous. The questions came thick and fast: “Do you speak Portuguese?“, “Give me your passport“, “What is the purpose of your visit to Brazil?“, “Where are you going to stay?“, (answer: “Porto Alegre“), “What’s the address?” , (answer: “aaaaah…, rua vinte quatro de …“), “The NEIGHBORHOOD!?“, (answer: “Moinhos” (the poshest part of town, like saying Chelsea in London). That calmed him down a bit and we all took a deep breath.

Two ladies who had been sitting to my right and were now just in front of me in the queue, took the opportunity to get involved and help me out. They told the security nazi that I was reading my book through the whole trip and that, if anything, the people behind me kept disturbing me rather than I disturbing that guy… They said that that cheeky bastard was the real folgado. Security dude asked them if they were Brazilian, they said yes, he thanked them, gave me back my passport, I told him the same thing I had told the stewardess and he said: “Ok sir, sorry, welcome to Brazil“.

They kept me at passport control longer than usual, claiming that there was someone else with a similar name who had recently entered the country… etc. Bullshit. Then I had to step into this weird machine that blows some air while you stand there. Very very strange. After I finally got into Brazil proper it was hilarious to see cheeky bastard struggling to collect two trolleys full of baggage at the reclaim, while the girlfriend was nowhere to be seen.

The flight from Milano had been delayed by a couple of hours, so I missed my connection to Porto Alegre, together with a bunch of other people going to a bunch of other parts of the country. They put us up in a posh hotel. So posh, that when I came down for breakfast with my flip-flops on I got some strange looks. Flip flops are frowned upon in Brazil, funny that, given that havaianas are one of their biggest fashion exports. One of my friends here in Porto Alegre got told off at the school she works in for wearing them and now they have even introduced a bye law sort of thing that’s banned them, by law.

I hooked up with some of my oldest friends in São Paulo. It was great to see them. The two things everyone is talking about in Brazil at the moment are Cirque du Soleil and the story of a couple who allegedly killed their child by throwing her from a window in São Paulo.

Apparently anyone’s who’s anyone in São Paulo and Porto Alegre and will go see Cirque du Soleil despite, or maybe because of the price of the tickets (200 to 400 reais = £63 – £126). As for the other story, the most interesting fact for the contributors to this blog is that the husband, having a university education, goes to a special all comforts prison, whereas the wife goes to a common prison with drug addicts, prostitutes etc. The class system is alive and kicking in Brazil and whether you’ve got your flip-flops on when you go see Cirque du Soleil doesn’t really matter, as long as you’ve got a university education.

Went to the swimming pool yesterday. I used a friends card to get in, no problem, but on the way out I got some terrible stares. I think they’re on to me. The pool was nice. Outdoor, heated. Most of the lanes were taken by the swim team, but I had a lane entirely to myself for most of the time. But, I kept thinking, “what do I say“, if someone asks questions about my membership. The card clearly states that it’s non-transferable and I don’t look that much like my friend. Do I say it’s my card, and risk being banned and possibly getting my friend and his wife into trouble, or do I say it’s my friends and I thought I could use it, and act like I don’t speak the language and possibly get my friend and her husband into trouble… etc.

So I’ve decided to play it safe and go there with my not so old, but older than new friend and pay for a months membership, if they’ll take me as a guest. When I was last here they said that it can be done and it’ll cost 150 reais (~ £47 today, but maybe £50 tomorrow), alot of money but at least I won’t be plagued by doubts of whether I am folgado or not.