There are times in life when I feel directed—when if feels as if a great hand has just dropped from the sky, grabbed my chin, and boomed, “Hey, hey, looky here.” These moments are rare, are different from the countless mundane episodes that saturate our lives. Somehow they spark, they bristle, and on some conscious level feel predetermined.
This is how I felt when I met Denis—one of the more interesting human beings to crash headlong into my life.
It was a sunny day. The sea journeying next to Ondina beach shone with personality—a proud display of refracted light—bending, dancing, diving through the water.
The nature in which I first met him can only be described in quiet whispers of humility. Rounding the bend of the Ondina beach I found him prostrated—kneeling over a concrete block picking up dog shit. In any other land, this elderly man, with his nose pointed to the floor, would strike me as marginal—someone who carried little favor in the stratum of society. But this was Brazil, the northeast, Bahia, a land covered in trash, in bottles, in objects once loved and now abandoned. In a land where stewardship seems unknown, where personal waste becomes “that other person’s problem”, any man picking up dog shit displays education, a prince among the poor.
Denis was 60, smiling, was getting on in years but not without a certain level of charm. His hair was cropped short and brilliant white. Three silver earrings graced each of his ears. With a full beard, some aging tattoos, and a pair of pleasant blue eyes, he struck me as a philosopher—a Plato, an Aristotle, or even a Merlin perhaps who casts spells on into his later years.
As any noteworthy magician should, Denis was surrounded by other worldly companions. DoDo, his night watchmen greeted us with throaty growls at the door. From the depths of the inner sanctum, the dog pulled his way towards the front portal, a being half in this world and half out. His hind legs were deformed, hanging uselessly behind him. Managing to somehow shirk past this sentient being, I entered Denis’ playground. His house, built into the side of a cliff face, and facing the glory of the Bahian sea, was also something of a marvel. “It took me 15 years to build,” he said, “and is the fifth house I have tried to assemble on this block.”
Constructed on three levels, with intricate draining systems running here and about, the place was built like a fortress, and clearly designed to fight the sea. Standing on the first balcony, it was obvious as to why—the primary wall was but a stones throw away from the sea break. The entire house was lined in dark grey tile, and the beams three and four feet in diameter built of solid rock. As I stood contemplating this marvel, a three legged white cat seemed to appear from no where, jumping onto a wooden statue that rested inches from my head. I leaped back, startled by another personality in this age old cavern of mysteries.
This is how I felt when I met Denis—one of the more interesting human beings to crash headlong into my life.
It was a sunny day. The sea journeying next to Ondina beach shone with personality—a proud display of refracted light—bending, dancing, diving through the water.
The nature in which I first met him can only be described in quiet whispers of humility. Rounding the bend of the Ondina beach I found him prostrated—kneeling over a concrete block picking up dog shit. In any other land, this elderly man, with his nose pointed to the floor, would strike me as marginal—someone who carried little favor in the stratum of society. But this was Brazil, the northeast, Bahia, a land covered in trash, in bottles, in objects once loved and now abandoned. In a land where stewardship seems unknown, where personal waste becomes “that other person’s problem”, any man picking up dog shit displays education, a prince among the poor.
Denis was 60, smiling, was getting on in years but not without a certain level of charm. His hair was cropped short and brilliant white. Three silver earrings graced each of his ears. With a full beard, some aging tattoos, and a pair of pleasant blue eyes, he struck me as a philosopher—a Plato, an Aristotle, or even a Merlin perhaps who casts spells on into his later years.
As any noteworthy magician should, Denis was surrounded by other worldly companions. DoDo, his night watchmen greeted us with throaty growls at the door. From the depths of the inner sanctum, the dog pulled his way towards the front portal, a being half in this world and half out. His hind legs were deformed, hanging uselessly behind him. Managing to somehow shirk past this sentient being, I entered Denis’ playground. His house, built into the side of a cliff face, and facing the glory of the Bahian sea, was also something of a marvel. “It took me 15 years to build,” he said, “and is the fifth house I have tried to assemble on this block.”
Constructed on three levels, with intricate draining systems running here and about, the place was built like a fortress, and clearly designed to fight the sea. Standing on the first balcony, it was obvious as to why—the primary wall was but a stones throw away from the sea break. The entire house was lined in dark grey tile, and the beams three and four feet in diameter built of solid rock. As I stood contemplating this marvel, a three legged white cat seemed to appear from no where, jumping onto a wooden statue that rested inches from my head. I leaped back, startled by another personality in this age old cavern of mysteries.
* * *
I will stop here. I could continue, and for many pages I think. I stumbled onto Denis’ place by chance, when I strolled around the neighborhood looking for a new apartment. My American roommate James unexpectedly jumped ship, and I was left contemplating a doubled rent and solitary living.
I will stop here. I could continue, and for many pages I think. I stumbled onto Denis’ place by chance, when I strolled around the neighborhood looking for a new apartment. My American roommate James unexpectedly jumped ship, and I was left contemplating a doubled rent and solitary living.
Denis was a character that I found entirely fascinating. Perhaps I saw a little bit of me in him, his adventurous spirit, and life in Brazil. Denis is from Ireland originally, and came to the States in the 60’s. His story is a whirlwind of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, of living life on full throttle. I have returned to his house two times now and have sat for hours listening to him talk. He is foremost a bohemian intellectual. He has written six books, all of which he gave to me upon arrival. In his earlier years, he became one of the foremost English teachers in Bahia and in Brazil. He was a Robin Hood of sorts, teaching very wealthy and influential people, and giving back to his city by offering free English classes to street kids, prostitutes, and the working poor. He wrote one little book called English in the Night, in which he translates useful phrases such as “Fucky Fucky”, and “Quanto é uma rapidinha”—how much is a quicky? Another book he gave me is a publication of 1,300 love letters he received in his life time, “A biography”, it lists, “of 2,600 hands”.
His house is a testament to his personality. It’s just really fricken interesting. It is built at the base of this little secluded hill in the middle of the city. When I say that it is on the water, it is reallllly on the water, and is one of the most beautiful spots I have ever seen. The house is quality work, an architectural marvel built entirely out of stone. Denis lived on that street for over 30 years, I think it was. The street faces the sea, and the houses built there must withstand a constant barrage of salt and storm. Living there for so many years, Denis would build one house and then watch it crumble, build one and watch it fall. Over time, he figured out ways to preserve his structures, and then finally committed his efforts to building his masterpiece. Exploring the house, there is clearly a lot of thought and sweat that went into it, with rooms built at strange levels, windows at odd angles, crazy little techniques to keep out the sea.
Now, here’s the crazy part. I kind of don’t want to write this lest the word gets out, but Denis is selling the place for a measly R$250,000. That’s $130,000 for a custom 3 story stonework structure on the beach. He is doing this only because of his back, which he broke in a bar fight when he was 23. The injury has finally taken hold, and he can’t traverse the many steps built into the structure. The place is really amazing, and is well suited to become a pousada (hotel) on the water, a getaway in the city, the adventure hotel that I dreamed of opening. Right next door, there is a huge hotel going up, which will bring development and money to the area. I think that the place will only go up from here, and that his house, be it a restaurant, hotel, or personal home, will only increase in value.
There are of course many challenges with living so close to the sea. The salt eats away everything, and special care must be taken with electronics and with monthly maintenance on the place. It wouldn’t be so great as a getaway home, unless someone could be hired to come in and clean while the family was away. Then there are the storms, which at times produce waves that come over the wall. The place is built to defend this, but there is still a threat of one big tsunami that will come and wipe everything away.
Nonetheless, If I was to stay in Bahia, what a crazy pad it would be. So cheap if only I had the cash!!! Pocket change for the wealthy and a universe away from me. Arghhh. Denis has offered to sell me a floor for $50,000, and in turn I simply nod my head and wish it was somehow possible.
Anyway, life continues here. I have decided to stay in my hole in the wall apartment, to live the bachelor life and fix up the place for my own. Now that I have more space, I am putting in a indoor hammock, fixing up a little grill, painting the walls and pretty much just dousing the place with my own creativity.
For those abroad, know that you have a place to stay when you visit (the hammock is really quite large and comfortable when you get down to it). Capoeira schools are near for my warrior friends, and a trip to the beach just a stones throw away. My interactions with Denis are only further inspiring me to write a book, but now I’m thinking of non-fiction. Picture my own personal tale sprinkled with interviews and interactions of crazy personalities from all over Bahia—a picture of this land printed by, for, and about the people.
As for the rest, we shall see. My first teaching sessions are coming up at ACBEU. Friends are coming to vist. My birthday is approaching. Until then, lets throw are material constraints aside, forget about the future, think fondly on the past, and go have some churrasco.
His house is a testament to his personality. It’s just really fricken interesting. It is built at the base of this little secluded hill in the middle of the city. When I say that it is on the water, it is reallllly on the water, and is one of the most beautiful spots I have ever seen. The house is quality work, an architectural marvel built entirely out of stone. Denis lived on that street for over 30 years, I think it was. The street faces the sea, and the houses built there must withstand a constant barrage of salt and storm. Living there for so many years, Denis would build one house and then watch it crumble, build one and watch it fall. Over time, he figured out ways to preserve his structures, and then finally committed his efforts to building his masterpiece. Exploring the house, there is clearly a lot of thought and sweat that went into it, with rooms built at strange levels, windows at odd angles, crazy little techniques to keep out the sea.
Now, here’s the crazy part. I kind of don’t want to write this lest the word gets out, but Denis is selling the place for a measly R$250,000. That’s $130,000 for a custom 3 story stonework structure on the beach. He is doing this only because of his back, which he broke in a bar fight when he was 23. The injury has finally taken hold, and he can’t traverse the many steps built into the structure. The place is really amazing, and is well suited to become a pousada (hotel) on the water, a getaway in the city, the adventure hotel that I dreamed of opening. Right next door, there is a huge hotel going up, which will bring development and money to the area. I think that the place will only go up from here, and that his house, be it a restaurant, hotel, or personal home, will only increase in value.
There are of course many challenges with living so close to the sea. The salt eats away everything, and special care must be taken with electronics and with monthly maintenance on the place. It wouldn’t be so great as a getaway home, unless someone could be hired to come in and clean while the family was away. Then there are the storms, which at times produce waves that come over the wall. The place is built to defend this, but there is still a threat of one big tsunami that will come and wipe everything away.
Nonetheless, If I was to stay in Bahia, what a crazy pad it would be. So cheap if only I had the cash!!! Pocket change for the wealthy and a universe away from me. Arghhh. Denis has offered to sell me a floor for $50,000, and in turn I simply nod my head and wish it was somehow possible.
Anyway, life continues here. I have decided to stay in my hole in the wall apartment, to live the bachelor life and fix up the place for my own. Now that I have more space, I am putting in a indoor hammock, fixing up a little grill, painting the walls and pretty much just dousing the place with my own creativity.
For those abroad, know that you have a place to stay when you visit (the hammock is really quite large and comfortable when you get down to it). Capoeira schools are near for my warrior friends, and a trip to the beach just a stones throw away. My interactions with Denis are only further inspiring me to write a book, but now I’m thinking of non-fiction. Picture my own personal tale sprinkled with interviews and interactions of crazy personalities from all over Bahia—a picture of this land printed by, for, and about the people.
As for the rest, we shall see. My first teaching sessions are coming up at ACBEU. Friends are coming to vist. My birthday is approaching. Until then, lets throw are material constraints aside, forget about the future, think fondly on the past, and go have some churrasco.
The portal.
Front Yard South Atlantic
Three legged apparition.
Stonework.
Drainage systems.
The wizard and his two legged dog.
My new grill. Beat that suckers.
Jellyfish wounds. Hazard of swimming at night.
Pimping my light fixtures.
4 comments:
This guy was Gustavo's idol (as in the English teacher he wanted to be) back in the early ACBEU days, or so he says. He has fathered a ridiculous amount of children in this city (Denis, not Gustavo.... at least I don't think). Don't know if he ever got to meet him though. Maybe bring him to the next BBQ?
I like that cat.
Always fascinating to meet a kindred spirit in an older body.
Writing character sketches is a good way to get started on a body of work. But I think you, as well as I, would profit exponentially by being in a workshop environment. I have been trying to figure out for myself how to get into a poetry and fiction writing class/workshop. Especially for people like us who have the creativity but need the discipline and the good critiques... let me know how you fare on that, and I'll do the same. Maybe Denis has some insight on that.
One cannot move into a Jorge Amado novel overnight; it just doesn't happen that way. The comfort and the solidity of all of the characters requires time spent in various mundanities.
Unless,
of course,
you have 150,000 bucks to blow, apparently...
I wonder if you could get a loan back in the states to start a hostel? Hmm...
sounds like you are kepping life interesting at least... sorry it has been a while since I have been online, but I am glad to see that things are looking up for you!!
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