Those women dressed in tight clothes are now sambaing,
vigorously. The whole place has the rhythm. I had to
get up and bust some kind of a move. I am enveloped
with the palpable rhythm. I think I got a sympathetic
nod from a local girl, as if to say "foreigner, huh?"

Darrell Westmoreland

Minha querida (my darling), Rosana, is from Recife. We married there, early September 2001. We had a family ceremony, not officially recognized by the U.S. nor Brazil. Our plan was to go for a short honeymoon, return to Recife, and have a civil wedding ceremony in Camaragibe township the following week. The civil ceremony would make our marriage legal in the eyes of both countries. We traveled to Porto de Galinhas on the southern Pernambuco coast for our abbreviated honeymoon.

What a delight to the senses Porto de Galinhas was: fishermen working the reefs from their jangadas, tourists eating the day's catch al fresco, friendly vendors traversing the beach selling anything you may need, blue waters, blue skies—just what a doctor might prescribe. Rosana and I sat under a rented parasol and had fresh oysters, fried manioc, roasted and candied cashews, and plenty of those ubiquitous cervejas (beers). We swam at leisure. She bought hand crafted jewelry from a local Rastafarian artisan—I bought some cashew fruit preserves that are still stowed away somewhere in our refrigerator. Two repentistas came by and sang congratulations to Rosana for trapping her "Italiano." Rosana, vigilant in matters concerning pechinchar (to haggle), got the repentistas fee of dez reais down to cinco reais. Me, I got to spend the rest of the day experiencing the world through newfound "Italiano" sensibilities.

Nightlife in Porto de Galinhas was fun. One restaurant we happened upon had a musical revue with a trio nordestino and folclórico dancing. The audience was encouraged to participate in the comedy and dances. The place was packed by show time. I was amazed. I thought it strange that there were this many people attending on a Monday night but, then, this is Brazil. North American rules don't apply, here.

We wanted to check out more venues but ran out of time. As far as small beach towns go, Porto de Galinhas is my favorite. I noticed some new housing tracts going up along the city's periphery and loud beach buggies ripping up and down the streets but these were trivialities. This little town with its checkered history is haven to fishermen, artisans, farmers, vendors and visitors alike. I hope to return to its beautiful waters, and soon.

A Big Problem

When the towers went down in New York, Tuesday, September 11, 2001, we were getting ready for our trip back to Recife. The television kept playing and replaying those surreal videotapes while we waited for our ride. I thought, what a harsh return to reality. Osama bin Laden declaring war on American terra firma. Crap, I was still having trouble accepting the conniving Republican Party cabal that had placed George W. Bush in the White House. Now this! I fancy myself as knowing a thing or two about a thing or two and I told Rosana "You and your family look Arabic—getting your visa is gonna be a lot more trouble, now." Though jesting, I was letting her know that I was in over my head with this whole visa thing.

The U.S. Consulate in Recife closed the following day, Wednesday. They reopened Thursday afternoon, but only for Americans. Rosana was told they were closed. Long story short—things got confusing—I wound up flying back to the U.S. Rosana's visa was very much up in the air.

Six weeks roll by and Rosana is expecting. I know that she will not be able to take the long flight to the U.S. if she is too far along. From this point on, getting Rosana's visa consumes all my thoughts. I get nowhere with the Consulate Office in Recife and local Immigration. I make contact with an assistant to my local congressman who happens to have experience in immigration issues. I am told that the Consulate Office in Rio de Janeiro can process Rosana's visa much quicker than anything that we were currently working on. Hallelujah—I had a game plan.

I make arrangements to fly down to Rio during the Thanksgiving holidays. Rosana makes arrangements to stay with relatives in Niterói prior to my arrival. Rosana was born in Niterói, the city across the bay from Rio. Though a resident of Recife, her family considers her Carioca. Her trip to Rio will not be a major deal. Me, I only know about Rio from what I read. Most of what's printed here in the U.S. is sensationalist stuff about car-jackings and death or dismemberment to gringos who wander into the favelas. I only know for sure that Rio is huge. Rosana's cousin, from Niterói, recommends a hotel in Centro (downtown), instead, I opt for a hotel package deal in Copacabana with a tour of Sugar-Loaf included. I know that the beach of Copacabana is clean compared to Centro or Botafogo beaches. I am wanting a little beach time and downtown seems overwhelming to this Rio novice.

Getting Acquainted

My connecting flight from São Paulo to Rio had lots of people of different nationalities on board. It was crowded. I must have gotten booked on a commuter run. I don't remember if I needed to go to the restroom or not but it would have been impossible. The guy in the middle seat was larger than the seat space allotted. It looked like everyone else on board was in a similar situation because everyone met or exceeded their quota of carry-on luggage. Thank goodness it was a short trip.

The first couple of days were overcast. Summer season was still a couple of weeks away. Sugar Loaf was clouded over. It took a couple of days to realize that Cristo Redentor of Corcovado was overlooking our hotel. Once the clouds cleared, I came to realize that ole Christ was there overlooking every vista in Rio proper. He was an awesome sight with those purple lights glowing after nightfall. Those of us with a Christian upbringing are taught that Jesus is up in heaven watching over us at all times. Rio has proof that the omnipotent one watches over us—and it's set in stone, as it were.

The water at Praia de Copacabana was a little too cold to be comfortable. It reminded me of the Pacific waters on California beaches. Copacabana especially reminded me of Santa Monica with the climate, pedestrian activities and restaurants. Comparisons between the two end there, however. Copacabana is better suited for nightlife activities than a mere Santa Monica. With this broad mix of things to do and see, Rosana and I made numerous strolls along the avenues. There were late night flea markets, restaurants with exotic cuisines, little delis with delicious fast foods, and music to accommodate many different tastes.

Cariocas behave like big city dwellers the world over. They have an attitude toward those who don't know the big city's quirky rules. One night while Rosana and I were walking, I overheard a couple of black Americanos talking tough and retaliatory towards some unknown foes that had vanquished them from the big dance hall near the beach. The retaliatory talk included catching them mo-fos and doing who knows what all kind of mayhem.

Though half listening to Rosana's soft conversation, I was keenly interested in hearing the two scared Americanos. Those two didn't have a clue there was another Americano within fifty miles. They were talking tough to cover up their feeling of isolation in this Portuguese speaking universe. I didn't have much sympathy for them. What were these two ner'do-wells doing causing trouble in my town. Okay, so technically, it's not my town but my wife and her cousins are from Niterói and they all like me. I had quickly developed simpatia for Rio.

Rosana decided she needed some live music one evening. I poured over my guidebooks and found that bossa-nova and piano-bar style jazz were to be had. Rosana thought she could roust up something different. Nobody in the hotel seemed to know the local music scene and they offered no help. I secretly wanted to find some pagode but I knew that it was available mostly on weekends. We decided to venture out and see what we could find.

We came to a fruit juice stand and Rosana made inquiries about the music scene. Remember my statement about Cariocas? A couple of customers at the stand seemed to genuinely want to resolve our question, but the guy working there asked Rosana where she was from. She naïvely stated she was from Recife. Big mistake—he laughed her off and said that maybe she could find a forró or something in Niterói. I was wishing I knew enough Portuguese to exchange insults with the dude but Rosana said let's go.

I had remembered a French restaurant from our previous forays. I persuaded Rosana that this was where we needed to go. When we got there, we found that there was an accordionist and piano player providing the evening's entertainment. The duo played a lot of fun euro-tunes. People were singing along, waxing nostalgic and near to tears reminiscing about Paris. Hell, I was reminiscing about Paris and I've never even been there. This turned into a fun little outing. I wanted to go back and tell that guy at the juice stand that we had managed in spite of his sarcasm, but Rosana said forget about it.

Please note that I am a little sour on the whole fruit juice experience in Rio. It is much different than in the Northeast. On the first morning we had our café da manhã (breakfast) at the hotel, I went for the pink colored fruit juice thinking it was suco de goiba (guava juice). I was mistaken. It was watermelon juice—and warm at that, dammit! I practically spat up. Dang, where was all the sucos de caju, graviola, acerola, goiaba, or mangaba? The street vendors here charged twice as much for smaller cocos gelados (cold coconuts) and caldo de cana (sugarcane juice) was nonexistent. I made a mental note: these Cariocas in Rio don't have a great variety of juices and they don't care. I believe that they associate the exotic sucos with their hick cousins from the Northeast. It shows more worldliness and sophistication to drink plain old orange juice.

Ah, Música

Without doubt, Rio has the natural wonders that tourists love. We did our package tour of historic Rio and then up Pão de Açúcar (Sugar Loaf). Later in the week, we went on one of those day-trip, party boats which depart daily from Angra dos Reis. On the trip down to Angra dos Reis, there were three fellows from Germany whom our omnibus driver squeezed into a backseat that was designed for children.

I felt sorry for them but my back was out. I was in pain. Rosana used her pregnancy to get us a seat in the front of the vehicle. The drive down was impressive. The forest along the coastline is nearly pristine. When we are finally on the boat, we meet some nice people from Argentina. All-in-all a very pleasant day, except for my back pain and several of us nearly drowning in the current alongside the boat. That's a whole other story.

Rosana was sleeping a lot due to her pregnancy. She napped every afternoon in our hotel room when we didn't have a sight-seeing trip scheduled. One day while she napped, I thought I would visit a music store that I had caught a glimpse of earlier. I was looking for Bezerra da Silva CDs. I found them and whole lot more. There was a selection of all the regional music styles of Brazil. I scored stuff I had never seen in other music stores. I wound up making a couple of fruitful trips to this location.

Rosana's cousin had made a suggestion early in the week about us all going to an escola de samba rehearsal Friday night. I was immediately pumped. He asked if this event would be too "touristy" for us. Rosana acted like it was no big deal. I was like a kid who was promised a new bicycle for Christmas. I persuaded her that it was a big deal for this Americano. She let me know that the rehearsal would go into the early hours of the morning. I pleaded with her to give up a little sleep so that I could see what this escola de samba phenomenon was all about. She relented.

I was anxious all day Friday thinking that we wouldn't get to Niterói on time. When we get there, we spend all the early evening meeting her friends and family. Being a gringo that married into the family makes me a bit of a curiosity. Some just want to see what I look like. It is getting late. Her cousin arrives. I think, now, we are on our way. When it finally seems we are ready to go, we stop in and say hello to more people. Hell, when are we leaving? I was frantic, like a kid waiting for Christmas morning that just won't come. Rosana wasn't concerned about the time. After thinking about it, maybe I'd better take my cue from her. She's not concerned. I'm not concerned. After all, she knows much more about this Carnaval process than I do. By-the-way, I am currently working on my anal-retentive time conscientiousness. It's one of many gringo hang-ups I have.

Niterói is a big place. There are a lot of people living there. Once we hit the road, I'm a bit overwhelmed by the distance we start covering. The cousin is a carnavalista. He makes it to many of the rehearsals and stays up till the wee hours drinking cervejas and having a good time with friends during Carnaval season. All the while, I'm thinking—not a bad life-style. We begin switching back on streets and heading up seemingly anonymous dirt roads. A feeling begins growing in me. I sense that I am in for something special.

We arrive at the bairro public hall. By now, it is well after 9:00 p.m. We inquire as to when the performance begins—a half hour, give or take a half hour, is what we learn. A small bar next door is filling up with people. We duck in for drinks. I notice all the women coming into the bar are dressed in skintight clothing. Fortunately, near all of them looked good in their tight clothes. I'm not the best conversationalist in Portuguese but me and the cousin manage to communicate. He and Rosana then discuss the merits of frevo versus samba, or maracatu versus samba, or forró versus samba. See the direction the conversation went? When in Rio, samba is king.

There were several sergeant-at-arms type fellows working the door at the public hall. Their bright red jackets announced Porto da Pedra, Escola de Samba of Niterói. They are nice and tell us to have our cameras ready. Tonight, the fantasias make their debut at this rehearsal. Huh—what are fantasias? Once in, the interior of the hall reminded me of a high school cafeteria/auditorium/gymnasium sort of place. When I went to get us some food and drink, I discovered that refreshments were purchased from vendors behind tiny openings in the wall. I could only theorize that the reason to have these tiny openings is to foil armed robbery. Hmm.

Members of the bateria (percussion group) were finding their places. A master-of-ceremonies begins some pre-show patter at the microphone. Everything he says is at the top of his voice. The amplifiers are turned up to eleven, or more. After he makes numerous pronouncements and congratulations, the bateria takes its cue. The bateria doesn't need amplifiers. They blow the roof off the place with 30 non-stop minutes of percussion. The amount of sound produced is a force to be reckoned with. I imagine, over time, the walls of this place will lose structural integrity from the sheer force of so much sound—oh well.

Those women that were dressed in tight clothes are now sambaing, vigorously. Rosana is up, showing her moves. The whole place has the rhythm. The omnibus ride to Angra dos Reis the day before had aggravated my back, but damn, I had to get up and bust some kind of a move. The pain medication I had taken was coursing weakly through my system. I think those little brown Brazilian pain pills contain codeine. I am enveloped with the palpable rhythm. I manage a few restricted moves. I think I got a sympathetic nod from a local girl, as if to say "foreigner, huh?"

Prior to that night, I didn't know the components that make up an escola de samba. I recognized the porta bandeiras (flag bearers) and Baianas. That was all. I got a first rate lesson that night. As each platoon of participants entered, a cheer erupted. The hall had seemed large and full of space when we first arrived. By the time all the dancers had entered, spectators were at arms-length from the dancers. Space was tight. Sound was coursing around and through the dancers and spectators like a tornado through a trailer park or waves breaking over an exposed reef. I lost track of time.

Fantasyland

Finally, the music stops. My ears continue popping and whirring. It was going on 2:00 am. I realized that the music had gone non-stop for an hour or was it over two hours? I was experiencing a high from the music, the pain pills, and the cervejas. The fantasias were announced. The place seemed to settle down a little. I learned that the fantasias were elaborate costumes worn mostly by gay men from the community. When I say elaborate costumes, I mean that they are probably 10 or 12 feet high.

These costumes require a heavy rectangular frame underneath, with four wheels that roll freely and turn at will, and provide space for walking. I could see the fellows underneath the costumes sweated profusely pushing and pulling this tremendous weight, around. The sergeant-at-arms guys let us take all the pictures we wanted. It still amazes me how much love the fantasia wearers have for Carnaval to carry such a costume into a Carnaval competition.

We retreat to a little refreshment stand outside the hall. There is a gathering of Porto da Pedra ex-pats and locals who are sharing drinks and the good vibe everyone is feeling, now. It is nearly 3:00 am. Where did the time go? Everyone is so mellow at this little gathering. It was as if each person there was giving off friendly vibrations from what they had just heard inside the hall. The night sky sure seemed peaceful right then.

I envy the people of Rio. Rehearsals are commonplace in the weeks leading up to Carnaval. The rest of the world marvels as Rio sambas through Carnaval week, but samba doesn't stop on Ash Wednesday. Pagodes go on year round. All the samba schools perform on various holidays, and I have found that Brazil has plenty of holidays. The cousin told me that Niterói has its own escola de samba contest after Carnaval. Yep, those of us not living in Rio are cheated of a brilliant spectacle that defies mere Americano description. If you infer from my tale that Rio is a musical wonder of the modern world, then you have understood me.

Whew

Our trip to Rio was successful. Rosana got her visa, soon after. I went to Carnaval in Recife for 2002 where Rosana awaited me. While en-route, I had a layover in Rio. The cousin took me to see pre-Carnaval preparations going on in the streets outside the Sambódromo (Sambadrome). What a task the laborers had putting those floats together there on the streets. We saw some guys nearly crushed by a mountainous gorilla they were mounting on a float. I wanted to stay for the evening's show, but my plane would not wait. I cut it so close that I was sweating it out wondering if I was going to catch my plane at all. I made it, with minutes to spare. The airport was operating on Carnaval time, too.

On the following weekend after Carnaval, I saw on television that Porto da Pedra placed 17^th or 18^th out of 20 contestants for 2002. Neguinho openly wept when Mangueira squeaked by Beija-Flor on points. I totally understood his passion. We visited the doctor's office for a sonogram, later in the week in Recife. While we listened to the rhythmic, amplified heartbeat coming from Rosana's belly, my mother-in-law, or sogra, in her dry northeastern fashion stated—"hmm...escola de samba." Even the somber doctor laughed.

Rosana returned with me after Carnaval. Her and I now have a little Brasileira princess named Melanie.

Darrell Westmoreland is a minor, municipal bureaucrat by profession, a quasi-professional musician, and a fancier of the written word. He can be emailed at westmor1@juno.com  

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