Wednesday, March 4, 2009

São Paolo, Brazil

Being Robbed at Gunpoint in Brazil

Bossa Nova and Barbeque

We left Arraial yesterday, running with our tails between our legs. Although this past week has not been kind to us, I hope that when we look back on our stay in Brazil we remember the fun times—sliding down stone chutes into the rivers of the Chapada Diamantina, moonlit strolls on the beach in Caraiva, sand castle competitions on Praia dos Pescadores, riding bikes to Praia Pitinga each weekend to snorkel, slow sipping frosty caipirinhas by the mirror waters at Praia do Espelho, boogie boarding, feasting on grilled fish with rice and beans in the white wicker sofas at our favorite beach bar on Mucugue. Right now we’re just glad to be safe in São Paolo and leaving for North Africa in the morning.

On Friday night while I was at my last guitar lesson with Neto, two young men in masks broke into our home in Arraial. One held Jason and the kids at gunpoint in the bedroom while the other ransacked the house. They waved their pistols brazenly at each in turn—even little Cruz—while Jason tried to keep everyone calm. We had just packed in preparation for our flight to São Paolo, so our backpacks and valuables were all conveniently lined up by the front door. The thieves got away with the entire loot: both laptops, the iPod, speakers, eReader, video camera, cash we had just withdrawn for the trip, even our stinking travel-sized cribbage board. Everything but the camera and audio recorder, which I had taken with me to my guitar lesson with Neto. It was all just stuff, though. We’re feeling very fortunate that no one was hurt.

The moto-taxi brought me home from my lesson just minutes after the thieves had run out the door. I probably passed them on my way up the street. I returned home to a family in shock. Our landlord, Marco had just arrived at the back door, along with a few concerned neighbors who began percolating into the yard after hearing the commotion. Marco was frazzled at the news that his property had been raided, and he transformed instantly from our comical antagonist to our biggest supporter, holding our hands through the ensuing rigmarole. First, he called the police department who claimed they would dispatch officers to inspect the crime scene. Three officers did arrive moments later, surprisingly, but rather than inspect, a more appropriate verb for their actions might be to amble. Or perhaps to saunter. After sauntering around a bit, like a road crew on coffee break, the head honcho asked Jason a few vague questions, mostly regarding the value of the loot that the thieves had made off with. Then, without bothering to jot down any details, Officer Honcho dismissed the whole affair as just another on today’s list of robberies. He glanced toward Jason while suggesting “they probably weren’t even real guns,” and bid us “welcome to Brazil” on his way out the door.

I managed to convince Officer Honcho to at least accompany me to the dark park across from the house before he left. One off the neighbors, who had an infant affixed to her hip, claimed to have seen the thieves take off on motorcycles, and I was holding out hope that just maybe they had left behind something that wouldn’t fit on their bikes. Officer Honcho and his underlings reluctantly ambled along behind me to the park, since they had nothing better to do until the next robbery. None of them was equipped with a flashlight, however, and it was evident that they had no intention whatsoever of doing any inspecting or detecting or looking for clues, or whatever it is one might expect inspectors to do. They did humor me, though, by standing around and chatting while Bella and I searched the bushes and trash heaps with our head lamps. Nothing.

When Officer Honcho and his cronies had gone, Marco offered to take Jason to the station in the morning to file a report, though none of us held out any hope that the stolen items would turn up. Then he retreated to his casita, leaving us alone with the kids. Little Cruz had fallen peacefully asleep within minutes of the thieves’ departure, but Bella and Cyrus were visibly shaken. We kept them up into the wee hours talking over what had happened and trying to gauge how they were doing. The next morning, they seemed to have already put it all behind them. In fact, they’re all handling it so gracefully that it’s almost scary. We continue trying to talk it over with them, but they don’t seem to be interested in dwelling on it. I’m not sure whether we should keep bringing it up to check in on how they’re feeling, which Grandma Norma might recommend, or just laugh and make light of the whole situation while we’re sweeping it under the rug, which is how my family would probably address it. (After all, we pride ourselves in putting the fun in dysfunctional.)

At bedtime on the night after the robbery, I began Cruz’s nighttime ritual with a few songs on the guitar, the same way I had done a hundred nights before. After a few moments of strumming, however, he looked at me thoughtfully and asked whether I might like for him to tell me a story instead. I lowered my guitar and said “Yes, I want you to tell me the story of what happened in our house last night when I was at my lesson.” He started to tell me about two “bad guys” who ran into the house with guns and were “being really mean.” After a few moments, though, he stopped and said, “Actually, what I really wanted to tell you is a story about these two mice. Do you want to hear that? At the end it’s super funny!”

Cyrus broke my heart the day after the robbery when he wanted to put a quick note on the website to let his young followers know that we may not be posting again for a while since we no longer had computers. He didn’t want to include any details about the robbery though, he said, since he didn’t want to “scare any kids who might be reading it.” It gave me the chills—what the hell are we are exposing our kids to? Is this harebrained trip our own special form of child abuse? Will our children be reclined on leather sofas a couple decades down the road, recounting this horror story to their therapists? I wish Grandma were still here so she could whip out a can of her psychotherapy whoop-ass and tell us whether the kids are really okay. Or whether maybe this time we’ve really damaged them for life.

Throughout the robbery, as every possible ending to the nightmare was rushing through Jason’s head, he forced himself to keep a calm demeanor, as much for the sake of the children as for the thieves who really seemed to be getting off on the power trip. Meanwhile, I was a few miles away thinking how lucky I was to be having the most amazing Bossa Nova experience. I couldn’t wait to get home to tell Jason about my lesson, and then to write my final travelogue from Arraial. Here is what I had intended to say…

I could see into Neto’s living room window as I dismounted from the moto-taxi, carefully avoiding the fresh mud puddles. I paid the three dollar fare to my driver and entered through the wooden gate, tiptoeing toward Neto’s two-room, cinderblock house. I could see that he wasn’t alone. Clearly, he had forgotten my guitar lesson again—the third time this week—but at least this time he was at home. He sat in his Speedo on the couch, which was the only piece of furniture in the place other than the wooden chair I generally used during our lessons. He was laughing with his seventeen-year-old son and some curly-haired guy I had never met. Pot smoke rose between the three of them, and I wavered for a few seconds trying to decide whether I should beat a silent retreat before they noticed me. Neto caught site of me through the window and jumped up, clearly a bit surprised to see me. He swung open his screen door and smiled, “Entre, por favor!” Embarrassed, I began to apologize for the imposition, but he interrupted me in Portuguese: “No problem! My friends are musicians too. We’ll all play music together.”

Neto ushered me into the center of the smoky circle where I took a seat awkwardly on the wooden chair. Curly grabbed Neto’s guitar and began to play some of the sweetest Bossa Nova I’ve ever heard. It was obvious that there was no way I was going to be able to keep up with this jam, so I handed my borrowed guitar to Neto and sat back in awe as a serious Bossa Nova session broke out. These guys were incredible—their fingers flew up and down the arm of the guitar, hitting all the discordant harmonies common to the genre, but so new to me. I was awestruck and feeling blessed to be having the chance to sit in this circle and witness. I wish Pa could have been there. Eventually, Neto persuaded me to accompany them with one of the four simple rifts that I had been practicing for a month. They patiently waited as I fumbled through the transitions, trying to keep up. On a couple occasions, Neto even shot a glance of pride at Curly when I hit a difficult scale.

I was definitely riding a high on the back of my moto-taxi heading home that night, even enjoying the wind that was drying out my contacts. That is, until Cyrus ran out to greet me, asking whether I had seen any guys with guns running from the house on my way in. My Bossa Nova bubble burst immediately.

We’re far away from Arraial today—trying to enjoy São Paolo, which is also known as Sampa or Cidadeda Garoa (City of Drizzle). They say it’s the fourth largest city in the world, and over 10 million paulistanos (which is how residents refer to themselves) call the city home. We’ve rented a small flat and have spent the past couple days exploring the megalopolis. The city has a surprising number of green areas and shady cobblestone parks for being a concrete jungle that houses such a huge mass of civilization. We are mostly on foot, happily avoiding the city’s infamous traffic jams, which they say can stretch over a hundred miles. Jason says that São Paolo has the largest fleet of private helicopters of any city in the world; apparently, they are used like taxis by rich folk who can afford to commute by hovering over the mess.

With the help of Naomi, a long-time translation colleague who has come to our rescue, we’re reacquiring all of the computers and necessities we’ll need before setting off on the next phase of our adventure. The Portuguese keyboards on the laptops will take a little getting used to, but they’ll have to do.

For now, we’re off to enjoy our last meal in Brazil. Jason caught wind of a killer churrasqueria in our neighborhood, so that’s where we’re heading. Churrasco is the Portuguese term for a barbecue, and it’s a yummy Brazilian tradition of overindulgence. A churrasqueria is basically a steakhouse that serves a variety of grilled meats, pork, sausage and chicken, along with absolutely nothing vegetal that I’m aware of. Well-dressed waiters stroll between tables with succulent skewers, maniacally slicing meats right onto your plate until you’re rendered unable to move and defenseless. Then, just when you’re too comatose to protest, they slap you with a bill based on the total weight of carnage you’ve consumed. It’ll be an expensive night, for sure, but since we’ll be in a Muslim country tomorrow, this will be our last chance to eat pork for a few months, and we plan to fully indulge.

Tomorrow morning we fly to Tunisia. Our last week in Brazil has been a real downer, to be sure. Looking on the bright side, though, most of the apprehension that Jason and I have been feeling over the past few weeks concerning the next chapter of the journey—our first time in Africa; Americans in a Muslim country—seems to have melted away. At this point, we’re just relieved to be going.