Caught between two ends of the curved bow, the string of the berimbau clattered loudly, resonating across the flat open space of the hall. Two hands, fluttering to attention, wrap a worn silence into measured song, breaking the cords of the instrument into a steady rise and fall. With feet placed firmly on the ground the teacher sat at mid center, his white pants and loose green shirt fluttering in the mountain wind. Smiling slyly, a song breaks free from his lips, sailing quickly into an ocean of student voices that add weight to his cry.
“Vou dizer a meu senhor, que a manteiga derramou.”
"A manteiga não é minha, a manteiga é de Ioio”.
With a slight nod of his head, other instruments – an agogo, atabaque, and pandeiros – join the fray, rasping, drumming, and gonging to an unhurried beat.
“Vou dizer a meu senhor, que a manteiga derramou.”
"A manteiga do patrão, caiu no chão e derramou.”
Music well in time, the bateria pushing a dynamic energy, two players join the circle crouching beneath the seat of the teachers lead berimbau. All in place and the roda now formed, the capoeiristas breath in the music, listening to the beat that would signal the opening of their play. Respeito, responsabilidade, segurança, malícia, liberdade—a handshake passes between them speaking of such things. Eyes now locked, they begin to move. To dance. An evasion, a kick, a volley slipping between them. One sequence leads to another, as they stand, and dip, and sway.
The chorus builds and is filled again.
“Vou dizer a meu senhor, que a manteiga derramou.”
“A manteiga não é minha, a manteiga derramou.”
Striking to the lean of a different beat, the match soon slows, and the berimbau signals the end of the game. Propelled by the magic of structure without form, a catalyst born of oppression on the back of a stolen kingdom, a child born to an old world and matured in the new, two players once again take center stage. The teacher smiles, the wind blows, and the dance is lived again.
* * *
This past weekend marked a fun little jaunt for the Capoeira gang, heading up to the mountains for some delicious r & r. A few weeks back, after a busy sweat session in the basement of the CU economics building, flyers of a rather adventurous nature were passed around the room, inviting the willing out to the Flying X ranch in Wyoming. Alex, the blonde haired blue eyed patron of the trip, whose mom held a part in the 40 square mile estate, seemed happy to share in the natural wonder of her long time vacationary abode, welcoming friends and family to join the ride. Three weeks later, after a number of “bless me, my head hurts”-inhuman-but-blissfully-fun practice sessions, the gang found its way to Alex’s place, all quivering and ready to go. After a mother goose rattle snake and trash pickup talk by Alex’s mom, we piled into our vehicles, heading out towards the immense open greenery of northeastern Colorado.
The drive north toward the table top mesas of southern Wyoming was full of interesting sites, not excluding….snow fences!....buffalo statues!...cow pies!...and oh yes, a town called Chugwater (water not included). Michael, Shem, Mrs. Tiitola and I (coolest last name ever), blasted out some Aphex on the stereo, and made contorted faces when the rest of our cohorts drove by. If there is one thing this trip has taught me, it is that we are wise and mature beyond our years.
In little over 2hrs time, we found ourselves amidst the mountain badlands, awe struck by the natural vicissitudes of the sky (i.e. it got rainy, and then unrainy right quick). As it turns out, the topography of Flying X looks exceptionally like the weathered rock bulbouses of the Wichita Mountains. Taking the long windy dirt road up to the central site, one gathers the impression of an age and size long warn by the ravages of time, like the emaciated skeleton of a dinosaur once ribbed in muscle and flesh—now only a pile of ash and bone. Douglas fir and field grasses spread out across the flatter plains, and free roaming horses wandered their open space. It was on first impression a utopia, but an empty kind, devoid of the greater flocks of our bipedal kind.
Only staying one night, it was in our best interest to make good use of our time. A well isolated camping spot was chosen about a mile an a half from the ranch compound. After tents were set, the ever entertaining side that is David mischievously broke out some juggling gear; fire staff and poi included. What followed was an impromptu renaissance faire—an out of place juggle standoff where the unskilled animated the inanimate, hoping to avoid sharp accidents to the face. Add to the mix some beer lubricant, and lot’s of horse manure on the ground, and one has the makings of a good time!
But anyway…
Later in the evening, after a ruff and tumble climb up the nearest mountain, we settled back into our social selves looking for dinner and entertainment at the main cabin. Boasting a large square footage of grill space by the outside patio, we chucked some meat on the fire, drank some margarita mix, and dutifully stuffed ourselves with chips and dip. Not intending to settle on being square, bottles of beer and vodka were produced, the mood changing from dinner nicety to all out war. The downstairs game room was invaded, and many a high moment lived fighting for the ping pong or foosball dynasty.
After that bit of fun, after deciding it was time to do what it is that we do, we headed back up to the patio for a solid round of jogando Capoeira. I learned the important lesson that, as a martial art, Capoeira is one of the few that can be played funny on the rumy. Slight intoxication actually helped loosen up my game, allowing for a more liberated if not less calculated movement (which is good when one is too novice to actually calculate). After many beautiful games, the night turned into a free for all of sex, drugs, and rock & roll…actually no, but we did play some pool volleyball and do a little congo drumming back at camp. Come on people, we’re not that interesting.
The following day followed the first, with lots of beautiful weather and fun activates. A large contingent of the group opted to stay at camp, while the others ventured off on a horseback ride around the property. Those with hangovers nursed them, and those without guiltlessly traversed the cool mountain air. When all was said and done, the group rolled out of camp around 3:30, leaving not a trace or scratch of the overnight stay.
So it was with but a wave that Flying X passed behind us, a pleasant memory on life’s great horizon…how’s that for an ending???
Many thanks Alex!
(Horse Manure Campsite)
(Eamon's t-shirt says it all)
(How do you spell cheers in Finnish?)
(Crew climb)
(Not at the top and already elated)
(Happy with her mountain)
(Last year, Everest. This year, the world!)
(King of the mountain anyone?)
(Where's Waldo?)
more pics later....
(Beer pong with some girl. I swept the match with a last cup slam on the final play.)
(It ain't easy bein' cheesy.)
(This is my drunk face.)
(Checked out Garden of the God's on the following day. The weather was perfect, calm cool seventies. The place was absolutely stunning, with large granite and limestone rock formations pushing up from a seeming nowhere. All very cool.)
(Little did he know that the rock was just seconds from tumbling.)
(Like I said, from out of nowhere.)
(This was supposed to be one of those impressive climbing pics, but my photographer accidently caught the edge of the floor.)
(Check out the yarn ball I'm arm rolling around my shoulder. The crowd was impressed by that one.)
