The following weekend I found myself once again bouncing around in the back of a pick-up truck. We climbed the winding roads through the fields thick with dense green vegetation. The chuchu (a strange green watery vegetable which tastes something like a potato) were almost ready for harvesting and the air was rich with the scent of bananas. I really couldn’t understand why my girlfriend had opted for the air-conditioned interior of the truck – to miss the wind in her hair and the smells of a dozen fruits surely was a crime.
On our way to the highest point in Ceara, the appropriately named Pica Alta, we passed through villages that hardly seemed touched by these first few days of the new millennium. Young children played carelessly in the street, gaudily dressed women chatted amiably with friends as they returned from market and old men swung in their hammocks.
I leaped from the truck when we stopped for a young mother to amble across the street and dived into a one room lean-to bar for a beer. In the dim light I could see strips of meat hung curing over the bar (the fantastic carne do sol) and two wizened locals, fresh from a hard day in the fields, were nursing small dirty glasses of sugar cane rum.
“Two beers,” I smiled at the barman in my best text-book Portuguese, “and make sure they are icy icy cold.” He grinned and invited me to linger and chat. It was a tempting offer, a bar, the sound of mosquitoes and a genial host, but the sun was setting and I had a sunset to see.
Sitting alone on the peak I let the mist roll around me. The sun slid below the horizon draining the colour from the sky. I was alone with my thoughts, or at least I thought I was until the largest (or if I am honest, the only) tarantula I have ever seen in the wild crawled across my boot. Although it was an undeniably beautiful animal I suffer from a compulsive urge to run screaming from even the smallest spider, let alone this plate-sized monster which was currently inspecting my shoe with grim determination.
Unable to even scream I sat shivering, hoping that it wasn’t as mean or as hungry as it looked. Eventually, after it had completed its inspection and left me alone and my breathing had finally returned to normal, the stars had come out. We drove back through the now deserted villages, the streets were empty but when we stopped to ask for directions we could hear the unmistakable sounds of beer glasses clinking together.
The night was thick with the light of fireflies as we made our way back to the farm where my travels had begun. A fire burned to welcome us home. Such a starry night, the smell and sounds of the forest and the gentle murmuring of the maid as she bustled around serving drinks seemed idyllic.
It was hard for me to equate this with the suffering that had shaped this land. I didn’t know how to feel. Relieved that the past is now little more than a fading memory, or anxious for the future. I sipped my beer and tried to find the Southern Cross,
which like the answer to many of Brazil’s enigmas, still eludes me.
About the Author
The author grew up in London but left at the first opportunity. He currently lives and works on the NE coast of Brazil. He has travelled extensively, and currently divides his time between his office and the local travel agents trying to sniff out cheap deals to little known, and exotic places. He loves to hear from readers and enjoys spending a significant amount of his working day reading and replying to emails: philip@dem.ufc.br.
Read all four articles about Thinking About the Past
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
