A Den of Thieves

2-18-06

I learned a very important lesson this last week—one that I dare not forget as Salvador approaches its season of madness. Soon, hundreds of thousands of people will take to the streets, yearning to brush of their inhibitions, their constraints of everyday life. For a week and a half, all business will come to a grinding halt, as people come together to celebrate the largest most extravagant party in the world. I went to the festa Itapua last week, and experienced but a little taste of this unbound alegria. With danger, drama, and adventura, it’s a story worthy of a least one good telling. Please excuse the grammatical errors and lack of flow. I really didn’t have much time to work on it, and even had to skip my homework for a couple of nights to get it done.


* * *


Tap, tap, tap. The sound was faint, almost inaudible. Leo sat typing furiously away on his laptop, lost to his thoughts, his work, in the corner of his host family room. Hunched over a small glass topped desk, little beyond his own deliberation registered in his head.

Knock, knock, knock. Sullen and ignored, the sound came again, this time more insistent. More out of instinct than a willful desire to know who was rapping, Leo slowly moved his head toward the sound.

“Quem é?” he yelled, perhaps a little rougher than intended.

“Ninginha. Posso entrar?” The voice was muffled behind a heavy wood door, but carried just far enough to justify the interruption.

“Pode, clado!” he replied, now fully in the room and away from his thoughts.

Slowly, the thinly framed twenty seven year old maid popped her head in door—the rest of her scurried in after. She greeted the estrangeiro with a smile, not in the least bit apologetic for having interrupted his work. She wore short cutoffs and a red bikini top, clearly not the typical work day uniform.

“Voce quer sair para a festa?” she said, her smile widening.

He looked at her and paused. God, he thought, how many parties can a single town have. The last few weeks had been a madhouse of revelry for the young tourist, looking to study and live in Brazil. Each time his head obstinately gravitated toward a pillow, some grandeous festa or back alley party was declared. The smallest sign, providential or not, could spark these events. If your cat died, good, throw a party. Find a six pack of Skol hiding in the back of your refrigerator, fine, throw another. This was Brazil, and Salvador moreover, where social-celebrations were simply a way of life.

“Errr…uh…talvez…uh…maybe” he replied, staring up at the ceiling. “Qual festa é?”

“Festa Itapua” she said curtly. He thought about it for a second. It didn’t ring a bell.

He stared at her, back at his work, then back at her once more. Ah, what the hell, he thought, life’s short and opportunity doesn’t come a knockin’ everyday.

“Sim, estou vou” he answered, giving her the obligatory thumbs up, registering in the affirmative. She laughed quickly, turned on her heals, and ran out the door, happy to have enlisted a companion.

Within minutes, after a quick change of clothes and shower, they were both on their way out the door. Leo assumed his favored party dress: low hanging board shorts with a side pocket for cash, a sleeveless tee, and sandals. The only jewelry he wore was a tightly bound silver chain hooked around is neck. It was common for Brazilian men sport these, even in the best of crowds, so little worry was afforded.

As they began to head out the door Ninginha started singing, her sandals wrapped against the pavement in time. Very typical of Bahiana, she knew a host of popular tunes—the present day classics, sung at all hours throughout the city. Afrodisiaco, Ivete, Timbilada, there wasn’t a moment where some stereo, speaker, or passerby celebrated these artists and their showcase tunes. At the larger festas, giant semi-trucks called trio elétricos – rigged with thousands of watts of sound equipment and a band on top – would parade down the street, playing these and other favorites at extremely high volumes. A bloco would follow behind, where paying customers would dance and sing, secured behind a roped off area as the semi crept along. Those outside of the roped area were known as pipoca, or popcorn, jammed as it were in the thousands, struggling to catch a glimpse of the band and its followers.

Ninginha and Leo, wide-eyed and energetic, climbed on the bus that would take them to Itapua. Stepping onto the large vehicle, paying the 1.70 centavos, squeezing through turn-style—this routine proved common and casual for them both, despite the precarious rollercoaster ride promised ahead. Before long, the bus began to creep behind a long line of traffic as it neared the festival site. Eager to head into the mix, Leo grabbed Ninginha’s hand and led her off the bus onto the sidewalk beside the road. She motioned to a street vendor, where she bought chicklets and cigarettes for the walk ahead.

“Vai em frente” she said, pointing towards the beachside avenue and the large mass of people gyrating beside. The road extended far beyond her outstretched arm, farther than the eye could see. Trio elétricos paraded amidst a swirling throng of people dancing, singing, giving themselves to the gods of passion and revelry. Ninginha tapped the wide eyed gringo on the shoulder, laughed, and then began to maker her way into the crowd.

Walking along the beach front, their rubber sandals trampled through pools of water, trash, and an incalculable number of feet. Bloco groups danced far ahead, swirling like a mass of stirred up confetti. Accustomed to the monotony of smaller places, Leo marveled at the diversity of the humans twirling before him. They reminded him of points of light in a large galaxy, each star, each person revealing its own unique shape and brilliance within a greater pattern.

Making his way around street vendors and dançarinos, Leo’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sharp pain to his backside. Turning his head, he caught a glimpse of a smiling girl standing behind him, brandishing her hand in front of her like an impromptu weapon. He returned the smile, surprised by the random pinch, and continued on his way. Before long, his thoughts and progress were yet again interrupted by a pinch to his bottom. Two pinches turned into three, and three into ten—each by a separate woman. What the hell is going on, he thought, taken aback by the unabashedly forward behavior. I’ve never seen anything like this, even at other festas.

Clued into the strangeness of it all, Leo’s eyes began to focus more acutely. Looking at the crowd, it suddenly dawned on him that he was the only light skinned person there—the only tourist, gringo, non-resident and non-Brazilian. Everyone around him was dark or tan, a testament to the cities ill repute as the largest slave port in Brazil. With blue eyes, highlighted hair, and fairer skin, he stood out as an irregularity, an abnormality, a point of exoticism for the darker ladies of the crowd.

Well that explains the nips, he surmised.

Walking further down the street, Leo and Ninginha had to take more care as they picked their way along. The great stands of people became thicker and thicker, until all but standing room was allowed. Holding a hand, shoulder, or anything to keep from being separated, they slowly continued onward, sometimes stopping for minutes in places where the cross traffic became to busy.

“Vai em frente!” Ninginha yelled, urging Leo onward, raising her sing song voice in an attempt to somehow be heard over the din of the music.

“Praonde!?” he replied. There was nowhere to go.

Just as the crowd began to gain further weight, things started to get crazy. Fights began to break out in random areas, over a push, a hard look, whatever. People were getting hit in the face with full beer cans chucked randomly into the crowd. As soon as violence erupted, the surrounding group of people would move desperately to get out of the way, pushing, shoving, and kicking their way forward. Lines of military police wearing camo and carrying thick black nightsticks shoved their way toward each fight, often breaking it up with a hard and swift justice of their own. Thieves, combatants, and bystanders caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, were aggressively pulled away, bloodied by their own exchanges or their run in with the cops.

The festas music rose, the crowd sang louder, everyone seemed to become increasingly agitated. Fiercely shoved from side to side, Leo began to get scared. He knew this wasn’t safe, wasn’t normal. He knew he had to get out of there.

Looking desperately around, he realized that the only exit was past a large trio electrico moving slowly down the street. People were jumping and slamming into one another next to it, their screams drown out by the large speakers below the band. They truly did look like popcorn as the Brazilian word described.

Grabbing Ninginha’s hand and shoving her face into his chest, Leo tried earnestly to move his way through the crowd. Another fight broke out beside them and they were both almost knocked down. In a place like this, getting thrown to the ground could be the end. Adrenaline pumped through Leo’s veins as he pulled her onward.

As they neared the side of the semi-trailer, Leo began to feel hands searching forcefully around his clothes. One in particular, thrust from behind, tried to open the zipper pocket of his shorts. With all his might he grabbed the hand and squeezed, hoping the pain and his knowledge of it would deter the crime. The hand retracted and Leo turned around, trying to find his assailant. A thousand faces stared blankly at him.

Looking ahead, he could see the end of the route just steps away. The crowd thinned there, offering a potential escape. Out of the blue, a strong hand grabbed his necklace from behind, pulling his head sharply backward. Leo turned around, ready for a fight, but again was met by a sea of innocent faces. Turning around one last time, the hand quickly found him. With one violent tug, his neck was squeezed inward, and he could feel the necklace break away. Acting instinctively, he grabbed the silver chain and lunged forward, breaking contact with the thief from behind. Eyes open and enraged, he turned around to meet the assailant. He followed the hand this time, and was ready to take someone down. Just as he began to move, a sharp crack broke his concentration. To his utter surprise, a police line was right behind him. A jet black bludgeon quickly descended, finding the man before he did.

The man’s face broke open, and blood flew everywhere. His tough visage quickly turned from resolve to terror, as he was grabbed around the neck and dragged away. Wasting no more time, Leo seized Ninginha’s hand and pulled her away from the sweat of the crowd. He shoved the broken necklace into his pocket, and quickly got the hell out of there.

Away from the danger and noise, sitting himself next a well lit restaurant, he began to settle down. Ninginha took a slow drag on a half crushed cigarette and laughed at him.

“Porque voce é muito nervoso?” she asked.

“Porque?” his brow furled. This had to be the most ridiculous question in the world.

“Esta é normal”, she calmly said, “e Carnaval é pior.”

Carnival is worse, he thought, she must be joking!

Before he had a chance to answer, she grabbed his hand and began to move away. But two eye winks later, they were yet again on a city bus, hoping for safe passage through the sprawl of the city. Leo felt a bit tired, but was happy to have lived through the experience. Later that night, he learned from a Brazilian friend that most locals heartily avoid festa Itapua. “It has a reputation for petty crime and violence”, his friend had flatly stated, “and at least a handful of people die there every year.”

Wiping the sweat of his brow, once again animated and smiling, Leo took the info in with a shrug. What better way, he thought, to witness the madness and unabashed foolery of some human beings. And in the least, he surmised, it all had the makings of a good story.


* * *

When I left the festival that night, with my energy drained from the stress and the movement, I was a bit disgusted with the hostility and bloodshed. Actually, I was more disgusted with the empathy towards these things than with the things themselves. For Ninginha to see the thievery and violence as normal and customary spoke volumes to me. Yes, people were drinking. Yes, some criminality was to be expected, but in such extremes? Was this part and parcel to the more destructive elements pervading Brazilian culture, inhibiting its movement and progression into the Ordem e Progresso that the flag so optimistically promised?

I didn’t have answers to these things, only more questions.

Traveling home on the bus, feeling more comfortable as I put distance between myself and Itapua, I experienced yet another episode that was so characteristically Brazilian. Just as we pulled away from the festival site, two musicians entered the bus—one carrying some kind of mandolin and the other a drum. Before a word passed between them, they gave their audience a sly smile. The mandolin was strummed, the drum beaten, and lively song began to issue from both of their mouths. Niginha immediately took up their cry, beating her feet against the metal baseboards of the bus in time with the music. Two girls behind me joined in the singing, then three others, then four. Before I knew it the whole bus began to play.

Whatever negative emotions remained after the festival melted swiftly away. I began to beat an empty beer can against the seat in front of me, amazed at how happy everyone seemed. Here was a group of complete strangers, united by a singular desire—to sing and be joyful, to join in songs born to the city, known exclusively by its residents.

As I continued to sing, I was overwhelmed by a feeling that this was Brazil—mixed and proud. A society of bottled violence and alegria, where happiness and despair, poverty and riches could live side by side. This feeling lasted but a moment, yet somehow, I knew I would find it again. I knew I would find more textures of this strange and beautiful land.

Tasting it once, my eyes were now open, and I knew more would come to me.