Belem was now only a few hours away and I was beginning to feel a little tense. Would I find a city at war, people roaming the streets with stones and gun toting police, and more importantly, would I find a nice bar close to my hotel? I was less worried about the police than not finding a bar as I have a healthy respect for uniformed men with guns. Besides I had already witnessed my first shooting in Brazil, and didn’t think things could get much worse.
The shooting had happened outside my apartment building a few days before I left for Belem. It was close to midnight and I was leaning out my bedroom window watching the street below when a lone motorcyclist pulled up and emptied six shots into a guy on the other side of the street who crumpled in slow motion onto the street and began bleeding in a hideous manner which looked nothing like any film I have ever seen.
The motorcyclist sped off long before the police arrived leaving only a man dying on the street and six empty cartridge cases. The police arrived and calmly interviewed a few people, called an ambulance and flirted a little with some of the girls who had spilled out the nearby restaurants to watch. It was just another night in Brazil, but for me it changed a lot of my ideas and slowly over the next few days my confidence began to drain away.
I was therefore more than a little nervous of being alone in Belem. My guidebook didn’t actually say “come to Belem and die”, it stopped just short of that, but it has to be the second most paranoid piece of travel literature I have ever read (the first being anything by the tourist office in Salvador which has a unique sales pitch which is somewhere along the lines of “Salvador – a great place to get your throat cut”). My sense of dread increased as I wandered down the quiet side street to my hotel through piles of discarded hypodermic needles and the throb of construction workers sledgehammers. In a way, when I eventually found it, I was quite disappointed that the hotel had a roof and four walls. It seemed to spoil the mood somewhat.
No sooner, had I dropped my bag in reception of the quaint little hotel Le Massilia, the jovial French owner Franck bounded out, wrung my hand and welcomed me (in French) like a long lost brother. His enthusiasm was infectious (as was his accent) and he dragged me off to see my spotlessly clean room complete with hot shower, air conditioning and TV. The fridge, Franck was pleased to point out to me, was stocked with the finest French wines and vintage champagnes. “Zee English”, he smiled wiping a bottle of Krug lovingly, “zee are like the French you know, zee wine, zee moonlight, zee romance of the jungle”, and then noticing that I was actually alone, “never mind, I have a video of zee World Cup final instead if you are bored.”
Shortly, I was pounding the streets soaking up the late afternoon sun. No one bothered to give me a second look as I went striding round the city. It seemed calm, content and surprisingly clean. The streets bustled with markets, hawkers and colour. On one street corner a group of beautiful school girls stood gossiping about a forthcoming physics test, on another a beautiful Indian woman was showing her baby to some friends whilst the traffic police, in their worn combat boots and yellow hats, looked on peacefully. It seemed as far away from a centre of intrigue and chaos as I could have imagined. Everyone I spoke to, from the coconut seller, to the shopkeepers to the schoolgirls, seemed content and happy.
I jumped into a taxi to go to the old fort. I have never met a taxi driver anywhere in the world was does not have a strong political opinion and thought I could get some juicy political gossip whilst stuck in traffic.
“So, you want to go to the old town? It’s a bit passed its prime I am afraid.”
“Tell me about the people without land and their movement.”
“I guess, if they gave it a lick of paint it might be OK.”
“So, what do you think about the police and the troubles? What does it really mean?”
“You know, I think it’s terrible about the paint, it’s not even a big job…”
“And the political future for the region?”
At this the driver turned to face me, which was a little worrying as we were hurtling the wrong way down a one way street at the time, “Do you think red or green would look better for that building?”
I gave up…
Read all five parts of Talkin’ About a Revolution
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5