Dia das Crianças, Porto Alegre
Brazil...strange and beautiful. the first thing you notice is the smell. Meat, shit, sweat. The air is heavy here, at times, thick with moisture and dirt and sound and yes, sex. But the beauty of this country is either brilliant or muted. Brilliant, as in the myriad of fresh fruits and vegetables of the public market, or in the smiles of the children of the church-turned-dance school in the favela, or muted, as in the quiet sadness of the man with his four emaciated, sleeping dogs lying down amid the bustle of my city's central square.
Sometimes it is ugly as well, particularly here in Porto Alegre. On days when the sun fails to break through the clouds, and the gritty reality of decaying concrete and inadequate garbage collection presents itself with unabashed certitude, yes, this city can be called feio, dégeulasse, sad, angry, alive. In stark contrast to the Disneyesque beauty of downtown Belo Horizonte, the centre of this city is a violent mishmash of grace and anger, desire and desperation. Rows of delicate colonial architecture, like the candy-coloured neighbourhoods of children's novels, frame a game pantomime of ordinary workers and beggars hustling to earn their daily Reais.
There are so many products available here, it is overwhelming. Farmacias stock hundreds of boxes of women's hair colour; the chain store Lojas Americanas (literally,"American Stores") carries everything from Barbie dolls to incredibly overpriced home electronics (A basic Sony digital camera goes for more than $800 Réais...the average Brazilian makes less than that a month); and the local supermarket has an entire aisle dedicated solely to cookies. In the streets, hawkers sell indigenous jewelry, sandals, toys, pirated DVDs, brassieres, electronics, gold, barbequed meat, sunglasses, fake rats, dreams. I begin to wonder what development has really brought to this region, supposedly the richest in Brazil.
Here in Rio Grande do Sul the regional symbol of the 'solo gaúcho' is everywhere. The Gaúcho is essentially a cowboy, typically costumed in tall boots, billowed pants, a beret, scarf and often a moustache. He lives in the serra, or plains of the southern and eastern parts of the state, tending cattle and/or farms with his family. Often he can be found in bars that don't close, buying drinks for foreign nationals (ahem) and stamping one booted foot in regional pride. The other symbol indicative of this region, dependably omnipresent, is maté. Often we see people walking about parks with their thermos of hot water and their ceramic pots of maté, drinking this concoction (chimarrão) for two or three hours.
For the next week and a half the Feira do Livro (Book Festival) takes place in Porto Alegre. The feira includes author and academic talks, live musical performances, kiosk upon kiosk of booksellers, and a free film festival. I attended my first Portuguese movie tonight, alone. (That should probably read, I went to my first movie alone, which happened to be in Portuguese.) Titled Achados e Perdidos, it was a well-rendered, passionate and sombre tale of death and love in Rio. When the movie ended, and I exited the theatre, it was raining. Magically, the few street merchants scattered along the Rua das Andradas were selling umbrellas.
