Strait

I look at the Strait. I'm imagining Magalhães with its beard flying with the Strait's strong wind while he looks at it, as I do now, with a curious look in his face, the curious look of the Portuguese of those times, who fearlessly sailed around the World. Looking for what? Fortune? Fame? Purely to overcome their own limits? I think they simply came because they had to. Magalhães came because he had a vision, because his instinct told him to come. And I think this especially because he refused to give up when the Portuguese King closed his doors to his ideas. Instead Magalhães looked for alternatives, knocking at the doors of his Spanish neighbors. He came because he had to. He didn't care about being mistaken, he knew being wrong was part of life, the act of living. And he came to give his name to the World, spoken nowadays in diverse ways and with pronunciations distinct from the correct Portuguese one, where difficult ães, ãos and ões abound, those sounds which non-Portuguese speaking noses can't pronounce properly. And he had to really want to come here... If it is difficult to be here today looking at the Strait in its cold wind, inside warm clothes of synthetic cloths that didn't exist back then, meters away from a warm and comfortable café... I imagine how much more difficult it was back then, with years spent on a boat too small for what it had inside and for the vastness of the sea outside its thin wooden walls, while meeting foreign and distant lands, with unknown climates, people, animals, plants. Death was the only certainty and glory nothing but a mere and distant possibility. But they came anyway, him, others, so many, discovering a World which had always existed but which they connected to the rest. I look at the rough Strait and ask myself where all the courage of those Portuguese has gone... Not the courage of conquering land, that doesn't matter, but the courage of conquering different worlds, those of their own fears, breaking their own barriers, overcoming the inertia so they can fight for their dreams. I look at the Strait and can't see that courage anymore... But I can see Magalhães and his courage makes me want to be like him. I look at the Strait and, gosh!, look how beautiful it is...











Punta Arenas, Chile, May 2009

Behold the end of the World!

The skies do not open so that flaming fires fall of off them. There are no dragons flying around either, spitting the fire that Magellan saw one day in the distance. Infinity does not open in deep cracks and craters in the ground, ready to swallow us, and the sound of strident trumpets does not echo in the skies to warn us the end is near. I cannot even see people running around, scared, terrified, lost or found. From the sky little white snowflakes is the only thing that falls and the white dragons I can see are indifferently pecking the water. The fire, long ago extinguished by greedy conquerors, exists only in the name of this land and in the memory of the indigenous that once lived here. Instead of deep craters huge mountains elevate in the skies, making us feel small, swallowed by its beauty. And the calm sound of the Earth rotating around its own axis and around the sun is all but deafening. My calm steps follow those of who surrounds me, showing the Apocalypse did not arrive yet, or just that the end of the World is all but ugly, being wonderfully beautiful instead. But, just in case, I grab myself, turn around, and continue. It may even be the end of the World, but it is not the end of my journey just yet. There's still a lot of ground to cover, I just need to turn around and go.









Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina, April 2009

Southbound Patagonia

My head is trembling against the window, while my eyes follow this continuous straight line that points to infinity, the infinite way South I can see in the horizon. Tomorrow arrives equal to the present, arid, flat, of all shades of yellow and brown, resembling a calm sea this boat with wheels sails while gently undulating. Only the sky cuts through this pastel polychromy, a sky of an intense blue where white clouds show up once in a while, frosting the sky with a low-hanging cotton candy, low enough to be reached by a small jump or by a children's dream. This monotony of an intense and flat beauty is broken here and there by a small elevation, by little houses that show up timidly, by an abrupt sea view that reminds us the one we are sailing is fake. Along the way I stop many times, for days, weeks, hours, slowly, in the laziness of being here. I stop in Viedma, doorway to this vastness, as well as Las Grutas, deserted beach of a summertime which has already ended. I take my time in Puerto Madryn, where the sea watches me, where animals come on vacation, where I know the last two penguins out of the hundreds that have already headed somewhere else, where the whales will arrive very soon. I fly through Comodoro, the place where all the winds meet in their way to the end of the World, where they will turn back to blow again throughout the Earth. My head trembles against the window. I see the sun go down, falling asleep, disappearing lazily, shutting my eyes together with his. I have no idea if the line will be there when I open them again, continuing straight and endless. Maybe a new horizon will arrive, but who cares anyway... I only know the line will continue, more or less straight, and I'll continue with it.















Somewhere in Patagonia, RN3, Argentina, April 2009

Felt a Tango

I walk down the street, watching the ground disappear under my feet, under each step, which I take slowly, languidly. This never-ending grey pavement flows continuous, endlessly, in a monotony broken only by a crossing street, an open whole in the ground, a kiosk, a terrace, by the many who cross my way making me zigzag every now and then. I'm walking and watching. I watch people, coffee houses, stores. I watch the sun going down in the distance, with its fading light, giving way for the night to arrive, little by little, only to keep on the mess that reigns during the day. I'm walking and looking at the horizon in front of me, at the end of this endless street of Buenos Aires, of this Buenos Aires of endless streets. I can't see pink palaces nor colourful tin-made houses. I can't see old buildings that line up continuously nor modern buildings in a port stolen from nature. I can't even see euphoric people making the stands tremble at the pace of emotion and goals, neither parks, large avenues, the river turned into sea, I can't see any of these things. The long hours spent walking are used to look at who's around, who passes by. Thinking, feeling. Feeling the thick air entering my nostrils, hearing the cars running in the streets, watching those who like myself walk continuously. I wonder what each passerby is thinking about, what each of them is feeling, but I immediately get lost in my own thoughts, in that smile that keeps coming to my mind, though I see it further and further away. I smile as well, thinking of friends, of how good it was to feel like family among them while sharing 'mates', 'asados', drinks, never-ending chats... But the same smile keeps coming to my mind, to remind me of other beautiful moments, lived now as well as before, lived in a heartbeat, which now slowly fade away, bringing the nostalgia of a present that rapidly turns into past, even though I kick and flounder. Instead I move on, walk through the night, kicking against the pavement, dancing with the unknown people that crosses my way, sharing with them this pavement, this city, this very moment. A distant and muffled sound drags my feet towards a music. I follow them. I let this sweet melody take control of me and the moment control my senses. My eyes dance in the feet and bodies that move slowly, passionately, twisting around each other, involving each other, falling in love with each other. I feel the sound with my fingertips and down my spine, through where slowly descends a tango that I taste with the nostalgia of a smile. I hear without knowing what I'm listening to, listening what I can't hear, listening to my heart instead that sings this way:

"Vos sos sonrisa en mi boca, la sonrisa que no está,
Vos sos la luz que ilumina mi Buenos Aires,
Sos la tristeza de un adiós que no quería,
El feo adiós de una sonrisa que se fue.

Sos el todo de una pasión, de un lindo sueño,
Vos sos un tango que bailó dentro de mi,
Sos ese tango que aun baila dentro de mi corazón,
Vos sos el tango que bailé pero se fue.

No te vayas de mi vida! Ya te fuiste...
No te olvides lo lindo que fue lo nuestro,
Ya me voy pero el dolor aquí se queda,
Porque tan solo tu sonrisa está en mi.

Vos sos el tango Argentino que bailó un Portugués,
Sos la nostalgia que cambió, vos sos saudade!
Serás, mi linda, para siempre una sonrisa,
Dulce pasión que me prendió a Buenos Aires."

My feet decide to move down the street once more and the pavement starts to unwind under them. The tenuous light follows the sound that is also fading, slowly, which I can hear further and further away, like a nostalgia that stays while I go away. I follow nothing but my own footsteps. Inside I am still dancing this tango that plays endlessly, although it is also fading away, little by little...

Buenos Aires, Argentina, April 2009

Any tale will do...

While looking at the amazing amount of water that falls continuously in front of me I start to wonder about how everything started. The Guarani Indians have their own explanation about the waterfalls formation in a beautiful tale, which I could just jot down here. But I decide to write my own instead. I close my eyes, feel the water sprinkles in my face and let my imagination flow down the falls...

"Once upon a time, back in the days when gods still wandered the Earth, there was a little river. Well, it was more like a little stream, winding down through tree roots and rocks, with no rush or destination, just flowing. Especially because what he really loved was to feel every turn of his way, every place he passed by, delighting himself with the different temperatures and tastes of every rock, tree, grain of soil, of each animal that drank from his water. In fact he was so happy that he started sighing of joy, especially when he passed by his favourite place, a place where a pink rock made him feel different, very happy, a happiness he could not describe. The rock also loved feeling the little stream pass by, letting herself get involved by him, delighted with the freshness that cut through the forests' strong heat. One day without knowing how they fell in love. The stream ran faster just to meet the rock that responded anxiously with a sweet chant, hoping the stream would never loose his way to her.
Some day a random god heard the chant while wandering the Earth's surface. He stopped, investigated where the chant came from and found the little pink rock. The chant was so beautiful that he fell in love instantly. From then on he started to come everyday to hear the rock, staying each day longer and longer. He spent so much time listening that he realized the little rock didn't sing to him, but that chant and sigh were the same, the result of a passion that was not his own. Blinded by envy, the god decided to pull out the rock to take her with him, so that she could be exclusively his forever. As soon as he did that the little rock started to cry, out of so much pain and sadness, as she didn't feel her loved stream pass by anymore. Crying, she begged to be returned to her original place, as she could no longer live away from her little stream. Hearing this, and bewildered by anger of jealousy, the god shouted: "So you don't want to be mine and live forever in the glory of my eternal company and beauty? Then you won't be with anyone else either!" And clenching his fist he punched the rock against the ground, sinking her in the huge crater he opened, hiding her forever from her loved little stream.

Seeing all happening in front of him and unable to do anything about it, the little stream shouted loudly, a deep roar of immense pain heard all-around the place. And he also started to cry, crying, more and more, unable to stop. Hearing the roar and the intense crying his brothers, cousins, neighbours, all came to see what was happening. When they arrived the stream noticed he was getting stronger and that if more streams joined him maybe they could together excavate the bottom and find his loved pink rock. So they all roared together and called more and more streams and rivers, growing its flow, which going vertiginously down the cliff started to excavate the rock bed bellow.
To this day the then little stream still flows continuously, using his and his brothers strength in his endless search for his loved one. No-one knows for sure if they already met, but some say theyalready did, living happily under the bed of the Iguaçu, hidden behind the falls, while the great water applauds endlessly the sweet chant of the two lovers.

Iguaçu Falls, Brazil/Argentina, March 2009

São Paulo

Here is the great São Paulo: building, after building, cement, more buildings, people, more people, too indifferent, running, in between the buildings, in between the cars, always running. I run also, not knowing why, without ever stopping. I see people, all over, from all over. I run and reach the park, where I finally breathe. I look the buildings reflected in the water and realize I don’t belong here... Instead I decide to move on, friends await for me, here and further away, still in São Paulo, but in the state’s countryside, on my way to Argentina that awaits for me as well. I stop for a while, to feel like home, then I move on. The road is calling for me again and I must go once more...

Presidente Prudente, Brazil, March 2009

"Olha que coisa mais linda..."

I sit here in the bus terminal, waiting. It is time to finally leave Rio de Janeiro, after three intense weeks... It is tough to leave this city behind... Very much! It is very difficult to leave behind friends, intense memories, so much joy, strong and varied emotions. It is very difficult to leave behind Carnival ‘blocos’ (blocks), samba circles, joyful ‘botecos’ (pubs), endless parties, unique landscapes, nature, beach, the city and its huge mess, countless smiles. Maybe it is complicated to leave the Redeemer’s arms because I feel home here... Or maybe just because the city’s charm is really huge, exciting, unique. But for now it is time to move on. Leave Rio to come back some day, maybe in a very short term, maybe only in the wings of dream and 'saudade'. But the desire to come back lives inside me, in a very intense way...







Once uppon a time in the ‘bloco’...

Noise. In crescendo, as the crowd gathers. From time to time a threat of samba in the warm up of a tambourine, cuíca or bass-drum, slowly, without any sort of rush. The hubbub keeps growing as everyone gets happier and happier. A rabbit arrives accompained by the bearded Snow-White. The seven dwarfs didn’t come, or maybe they’re just lost in the crowd. Further away a group of ballet dancers is finishing, or maybe starting, to practice their silly choreography. A Gnome and a Smurf join in, as well as many more... Meanwhile a manly female-nurse helps those in need while a Arab runs after Uncle Sam throwing his show at him. When the music finally starts the crowd is already a compact mass of people, a sort of zoo of which not only animals are a part of. At the first chords joy arrives and this block painted by Dalí starts to move, dancing and jumping tirelessly, singing in unison old musics that are part of my childhood’s Carnivals in Loulé. Here people also look at ZéZé’s wig and Chiquita also dresses in a banana peel, most probably after insisting that 'cachaça' is water, ending up as the catwalk’s only star. But there are also new rhythms, many new only to me. Suddenly a group of misses shows up to wave with their hairy arms at this mass of very warm people. To refresh them a occasional outflow of water is thrown out the window, while cold beer refreshes them on the inside. Looking at this mess of clothing and colour one feels like looking for Wally. Ah! There he is! Is he a she? I decide to rub my eyes and focus, so that I’m sure it is really Wally. Nope, the heat is not taking me to a desert of mirages. I do seem him right there... Well, instead of staring I decide to fix the mini-skirt, the ears and bow in my head and continue looking for Mickey once more, or maybe just for a can of beer, as the heat is strong and the ‘bloco’ doesn’t stop...


Foto: Erika Tambke






"Brilha Portela...
...das trevas renasce o amor..." Two hours passed by and here I am, seated, still awake, still hearing this samba, indifferent to the immense tiredness I’m feeling, unable to sleep. The 4 days without stopping, from Carnival block to Carnival block, with too little sleep and too much tiredness, can’t outweigh the emotion that keeps me awake. I was dancing samba in the World’s biggest stage for only 30 minutes but I did feel like a star, glowing very up in the sky. Maybe just because I was parading with a school with the same name as mine, repeated and sung to exhaustion during those 30 minutes that felt like 5. When I entered the avenue my name echoed loudly, sung in the hearts of the many that cheered with the vibrant and intense drumbeat, the allegories dancing in the feet of Rio’s most beautiful people, with the different wings like mine that danced running or ran dancing. I can only remember entering the avenue and seeing an immense light, smiles, people waving in the middle of the contagious joy that came down the stands. As the sound echoed I gained wings, starting to fly over the sambodromo, forgetting about who I was, feeling free like a falling star or a comet crossing the skies. The Portela shined up high, I didn’t shine as much as she did, but for those few moments I was also a start going down the avenue.

Foto: Erika Tambke



Rio de Janeiro, Brasil, Março 2009

Bus

I woke up sweating, soaked wet. My mouth is dry and my body feels numb. I can hardly feel anything from my waist down. My swollen legs are a reflection of too many hours semi-seated while heading South down this endless road. Destination this time: Carnival. The bus is asleep, snoring deeply, probably inebriated by the opaque stench that fills at least the back of the bus, where I sit. The loud motor roar, coming from underneath my seat, is not loud enough to suffocate the snore this half-person sitting next to me produces. Coiled like a baby, this XXS sized person has been sleeping for hours, lying down comfortably where I can hardly sit. A mix of hatred and desire to be as little as him invades my soul. The impetus of waking him up, out of pure evilness, does not flow into action and the intent to throw him out the window stumbles on the inexistence of the smallest of windows, through where he would certainly fit. Instead I decide to drink some water and lay on top the other buttock. There must certainly be a more comfortable position to lay down... There you go! Now I only have to ignore this awful odor and this sort of soup that soaks my clothes so I can relax and let my tiredness take me to Morpheus arms. I imagine myself as a sailor on Cabral’s carrack, the one that for the first time arrived to the port I just left a few hours ago, assured that what awaits for me at my destination compensates the discomfort of the journey. At least in the carrack I sail now the the scurvy exists only in the putrid stench and rats sleep coiled, snoring like babies...

BR101 somewhere between Porto Seguro and Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, February 2009

Earthquake

My plate, crammed with an abundant Moqueca, started to tremble. Just slightly in the beginning. Then increasing in intensity, at the pace the vibration that comes down the street penetrates the restaurant’s windows, walls and floor. My heart also starts to beat faster, following the rhythm that starts to take me over at the pace this earthquake’s intensity is magnified by the drums’ frenetic beat. I’m almost deaf. My untamed heart decides to leave my chest, flying around at its own will, following the beat that invaded him. The earthquake is no longer on the outside, it is now inside me. I can hear nothing but the Olodum, which makes me fly above my own self. I’m not sitting at the table anymore and the Moqueca is just a colorful dot hardly seen down there, in one of Salvador’s streets I fly over in the wings of this ‘alien’ beat. I fly away, looking at the blue sky reflected in this bay’s waters, the very same bay that embraces this city. I see streets crowded with color, baianas on street-corners selling acarajé, frantic capoeira circles, loads of people filling-up the Pelourinho. I can see boats arriving, an old slave boat coming from Africa, way too crowded with slaves. They seem lost, secluded from themselves, from their roots, with their eyes filled with fear and anger at the same time. They are taken to a market, chained to the walls, beaten, sold, their muscles stressed to inhuman limits... But they resist, they prevail, they have Africa inside their hearts, the strength and the will to survive, the rhythm that gives them life, which gives life to this city as well, to this country, today as always. The very same rhythm that now makes this earthquake alive, which I experience side by side with this Moqueca plate. The plate looks at me impassively while it gets colder, indifferent to this rhythm, the rhythm of which Salvador is made of. The drumbeats slowly fade away without ever leaving the room. Looks like the Olodum passed by but decided to stay inside me for ever.

Salvador, Brazil, February 2009