Leo and I are off to visit the in-laws in Jauru, Mato Grosso (http://www.jauru.mt.gov.br/) for the Easter holiday. His family doesn't have internet, so I probably won't post until we get back on April 7th.
Happy Easter!
30.3.10
Capão
On Friday afternoon, we drove to the district of Capão. On the way, we saw a seriema, the only living relative of the prehistoric “terror bird” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phorusrhacidae).
Capão was absolutely the most interesting stop we made. Rogerio’s unusual mission was to try to convince the locals to seek recognition as quilombolos – descendents of escaped slaves. Quilombola communities have special protections from the federal government that could frustrate approval of the dam.
We were told that the folks of Capão keep mainly to themselves and that we would need someone to make introductions for us, so we stopped at the house of the former school superintendant, the elderly aunt of one of our allies in Gloria.
We arrived at her very traditional home – complete with a wood-burning stove and several hammocks – and were offered coffee and a history of the area. Her family used to own the neighboring fazenda, which no longer exists as a single entity. In her words, it was a sort of “natural land reform,” everything broken up or sold off in bits and pieces. Most of the land now belongs to the residents of Capão.
They area is steeped in slave history. Aside from the many fazendas in the region, the area was a stop along the road to and from the colonial mining town of Diamantina. Legend has it that slaves who escaped from neighboring fazendas or en route to Diamantina would seek refuge in Capão, which at the time was thickly wooded and is still hard to get to.
The superintendent’s father told stories of being raised by, in his words, “a slave” named Raquel – the name he gave to one of his daughters in her honor. Given the superintendant’s age and the late date at which slavery officially ended in Brazil (there are areas of the country where slavery still persists to this day), the story is actually plausible.
For her part, the superintendent said that residents talked about a slave past, and she remembers from her own childhood the unusual manner in which they spoke and dressed, indeed reminiscent of Brazilian slave communities. These days, outsiders have married into the town, changing slightly its character and traditions, but the superintendent swore that Capão was absolutely a quilombo.
“But you have to explain to them exactly what ‘quilombolo’ is,” she stressed, “because if you say that ‘to be quilombolo is to be black,’ they’ll tell you ‘I’m not black.’ I had a girl who worked for me who insisted she wasn’t black, but she was just as black as that one—” she pointed to her gardener.
I can’t imagine why they might object…
Race relations in Brazil are very different from the US… so much so that it’s impossible to understand from within the American racial paradigm. There are many similarities and many differences. All I can think to say about it is that, while America suffers from “hard” racism, Brazil has an equally robust “soft” racism that is omnipresent, closer to the surface, but considerably less explosive… perhaps if only because it’s hard to draw a black/white line here; most folks have a little of everything; however, everyone we met in Capão, aside from the superintendent and school director, are what all Brazilians can agree is absolutely “black” and therefore suffer a considerable amount of closer-to-American-style racism.
The superintendent took us into the center of town. I’ve never seen any place like it. The only buildings are a school, a church, a dance hall, and about 15 botecos (bars), which remain closed during the day while the residents work or tend to their homes. Everyone has built their houses a considerable distance away, along the banks of the Rio Paraúna – this stretch of which looks likely to be flooded by the dam as well.
The superintendent made a tasteless remark about the number of bars and said, “you’ll never meet a lazier set of people. They do not like to work on Monday.”
“If it’s really a quilombo,” Rodrigo pointed out, “the community has done enough free work to earn an extra day off, don’t you think?”
We visited first the house of the local association president, who – driving the town ambulance – was on his way to a meeting in another city. Rogerio made a quick pitch and the president readily agreed; “there’s no way that this isn’t a quilombo,” he said and promised to raise the issue at the next associating meeting.
The director of the school was our next stop. She married into the town and seemed sympathetic but suggested that the best approach would be going door-to-door and explaining the recognition process to the residents. She agreed that there would be some reticence to identifying as quilombolos, but she didn’t think that it would be an impossible task. Rogerio suggested bringing a youth singing group/Manuelzão nucleus from a quilombo closer to Belo Horizonte, “they’re proud to be quilombolos,” he said, “they aren’t shy about looking you in the eye and saying ‘I’m black.’ It could set a good example, and they put on a great show.”
The director was also very excited about the Manuelzão project; she’d been contacted recently about setting up a nucleus in Capão. Erick, the aquaculture fazendeiro from Gloria, suggested that he could help mentor them in that process as well.
Rogerio and Erick left terribly pleased with themselves, promising to bring a quilombolo expert to meet with residents. If the community decides to pursue recognition, it could go a long way toward thwarting the dam.
The superintendent's kitchen.
Inside the house.
The front porch.
One of the superintendent's chickens. She had the fattest chickens I've ever seen!
Capão was absolutely the most interesting stop we made. Rogerio’s unusual mission was to try to convince the locals to seek recognition as quilombolos – descendents of escaped slaves. Quilombola communities have special protections from the federal government that could frustrate approval of the dam.
We were told that the folks of Capão keep mainly to themselves and that we would need someone to make introductions for us, so we stopped at the house of the former school superintendant, the elderly aunt of one of our allies in Gloria.
We arrived at her very traditional home – complete with a wood-burning stove and several hammocks – and were offered coffee and a history of the area. Her family used to own the neighboring fazenda, which no longer exists as a single entity. In her words, it was a sort of “natural land reform,” everything broken up or sold off in bits and pieces. Most of the land now belongs to the residents of Capão.
They area is steeped in slave history. Aside from the many fazendas in the region, the area was a stop along the road to and from the colonial mining town of Diamantina. Legend has it that slaves who escaped from neighboring fazendas or en route to Diamantina would seek refuge in Capão, which at the time was thickly wooded and is still hard to get to.
The superintendent’s father told stories of being raised by, in his words, “a slave” named Raquel – the name he gave to one of his daughters in her honor. Given the superintendant’s age and the late date at which slavery officially ended in Brazil (there are areas of the country where slavery still persists to this day), the story is actually plausible.
For her part, the superintendent said that residents talked about a slave past, and she remembers from her own childhood the unusual manner in which they spoke and dressed, indeed reminiscent of Brazilian slave communities. These days, outsiders have married into the town, changing slightly its character and traditions, but the superintendent swore that Capão was absolutely a quilombo.
“But you have to explain to them exactly what ‘quilombolo’ is,” she stressed, “because if you say that ‘to be quilombolo is to be black,’ they’ll tell you ‘I’m not black.’ I had a girl who worked for me who insisted she wasn’t black, but she was just as black as that one—” she pointed to her gardener.
I can’t imagine why they might object…
Race relations in Brazil are very different from the US… so much so that it’s impossible to understand from within the American racial paradigm. There are many similarities and many differences. All I can think to say about it is that, while America suffers from “hard” racism, Brazil has an equally robust “soft” racism that is omnipresent, closer to the surface, but considerably less explosive… perhaps if only because it’s hard to draw a black/white line here; most folks have a little of everything; however, everyone we met in Capão, aside from the superintendent and school director, are what all Brazilians can agree is absolutely “black” and therefore suffer a considerable amount of closer-to-American-style racism.
The superintendent took us into the center of town. I’ve never seen any place like it. The only buildings are a school, a church, a dance hall, and about 15 botecos (bars), which remain closed during the day while the residents work or tend to their homes. Everyone has built their houses a considerable distance away, along the banks of the Rio Paraúna – this stretch of which looks likely to be flooded by the dam as well.
The superintendent made a tasteless remark about the number of bars and said, “you’ll never meet a lazier set of people. They do not like to work on Monday.”
“If it’s really a quilombo,” Rodrigo pointed out, “the community has done enough free work to earn an extra day off, don’t you think?”
We visited first the house of the local association president, who – driving the town ambulance – was on his way to a meeting in another city. Rogerio made a quick pitch and the president readily agreed; “there’s no way that this isn’t a quilombo,” he said and promised to raise the issue at the next associating meeting.
The director of the school was our next stop. She married into the town and seemed sympathetic but suggested that the best approach would be going door-to-door and explaining the recognition process to the residents. She agreed that there would be some reticence to identifying as quilombolos, but she didn’t think that it would be an impossible task. Rogerio suggested bringing a youth singing group/Manuelzão nucleus from a quilombo closer to Belo Horizonte, “they’re proud to be quilombolos,” he said, “they aren’t shy about looking you in the eye and saying ‘I’m black.’ It could set a good example, and they put on a great show.”
The director was also very excited about the Manuelzão project; she’d been contacted recently about setting up a nucleus in Capão. Erick, the aquaculture fazendeiro from Gloria, suggested that he could help mentor them in that process as well.
Rogerio and Erick left terribly pleased with themselves, promising to bring a quilombolo expert to meet with residents. If the community decides to pursue recognition, it could go a long way toward thwarting the dam.
The superintendent's kitchen.
Inside the house.
The front porch.
One of the superintendent's chickens. She had the fattest chickens I've ever seen!
More pictures of Capão
Down by the river.
Down by the river.
One of the old houses in Capão... almost all of them have been torn down to make way for new homes.
All of the buildings in the background are botecos.
The church in Capão.
On the way to Presidente Kubitschek
I took these on the way to Presidente Kubitschek from the car, so they really didn't come out great, but just to give you an idea of how beautiful Minas is...
All of the rocks in the area point west!
Arriving in Presidente Kubitschek.
All of the rocks in the area point west!
Arriving in Presidente Kubitschek.
Presidente Kubitschek and Datas
Friday morning, we drove to the town of Presidente Kubitschek for a meeting of the Rio Paraúna subcommittee where Rogerio also made his pitch. Presidente Kubitschek is absolutely adorable and completely spotless. Incredibly, they’ve got a sewage treatment plant (“we’re upstream from everyone, so we want to make sure we give everyone downstream good quality water,” was their obvious but unusual reasoning) and are starting a recycling service along with their trash pickup.
Returning, we stopped in the town of Datas. Rodrigo found an artists’ cooperative, where he was told that there was a meeting of all of the artists (they were having a quality control discussion with the local priest, who seemed to have some role in overseeing the cooperative). Rogerio had to be literally restrained from barging in and sitting down. He almost gained entrance when he mentioned that he’d brought an American, but instead settled for extracting a promise from the artist minding the shop that Datas would assist with the festival in Gloria.
The church in Datas.
Presidente Kubitschek.
The church in Presidente Kubitschek.
The meeting of the Rio Paraúna subcommittee.
Returning, we stopped in the town of Datas. Rodrigo found an artists’ cooperative, where he was told that there was a meeting of all of the artists (they were having a quality control discussion with the local priest, who seemed to have some role in overseeing the cooperative). Rogerio had to be literally restrained from barging in and sitting down. He almost gained entrance when he mentioned that he’d brought an American, but instead settled for extracting a promise from the artist minding the shop that Datas would assist with the festival in Gloria.
The church in Datas.
Presidente Kubitschek.
The church in Presidente Kubitschek.
The meeting of the Rio Paraúna subcommittee.
The President of Pocoes
On Thursday afternoon, we went in search of one of the city councilors, who Saulo, a local fazendeiro, told us is “as slippery as soap.” He’d agreed to a meeting at 5 pm, but when we arrived at his house, we were told that he’d “just left” for a meeting an hour or so away. Rogerio huffed and grumbled, and one of the young men there, glancing at the “federal government use only” decal on our car, offered to try to track him down.
Lucky for us, the councilor has not yet left the region. He’d stopped at a tiny gathering of houses that makes up the district of Pocões, which will likely end up under water as well. He was at the house of the president of the local “association,” and the wife of the president agreed to keep the councilor there until we arrived.
When we arrived, Rogerio (who can be a bit “cara de pau,” or shameless) addressed the councilor with a hearty “you forgot our meeting! I changed around my whole schedule because you said that it had to be at 5 pm!” He backed the pleading councilor into the president’s house saying “I can’t believe you forgot us! I even brought an American!”
We were offered the perfunctory coffee and snacks, and Rogerio set about to abusing the councilor while the wife of the president fretted over me, deeply concerned that I would die of starvation right before her eyes if I didn’t eat her bread and rolls.
I was completely captivated by the president. A tiny man with the urgent, brassy voice of a trumpet, he cried “they’re going to flood us! We’ve worked for 23 years to set up our flour cooperative! And now that we’ve got it built, they’re going to put us under water!” His comrade, hat completely worn through at the front by countless how-dos, stood beside him, nodding silently.
A whopping 50% of the manioc flour used in Minas – and they use a heck of a lot – comes from elsewhere. The association worked to create a cooperative of farmers and millers to produce small batches for local consumption. They are mere months from beginning production. The cruelty and unfairness of their little mill being destroyed to irrigate unsustainable agribusiness in the northeast didn’t even seem to dawn on the president; he showed no signs of rage at such profound injustice, just solemn, humble, devastatingly intimate grief.
As we were leaving, Rogerio, who never took his eye off of the festival in Gloria, asked “who is the master of the folia here?”
“I am,” said the president.
“We will need you in Gloria!” Rogerio proclaimed.
The association in Pocoes... from left to right: the city councilor, the president, me, the president's wife, the president's silent friend, and a teacher/Manuelzao member from Gloria.
The manioc plant... only months from opening!
Lucky for us, the councilor has not yet left the region. He’d stopped at a tiny gathering of houses that makes up the district of Pocões, which will likely end up under water as well. He was at the house of the president of the local “association,” and the wife of the president agreed to keep the councilor there until we arrived.
When we arrived, Rogerio (who can be a bit “cara de pau,” or shameless) addressed the councilor with a hearty “you forgot our meeting! I changed around my whole schedule because you said that it had to be at 5 pm!” He backed the pleading councilor into the president’s house saying “I can’t believe you forgot us! I even brought an American!”
We were offered the perfunctory coffee and snacks, and Rogerio set about to abusing the councilor while the wife of the president fretted over me, deeply concerned that I would die of starvation right before her eyes if I didn’t eat her bread and rolls.
I was completely captivated by the president. A tiny man with the urgent, brassy voice of a trumpet, he cried “they’re going to flood us! We’ve worked for 23 years to set up our flour cooperative! And now that we’ve got it built, they’re going to put us under water!” His comrade, hat completely worn through at the front by countless how-dos, stood beside him, nodding silently.
A whopping 50% of the manioc flour used in Minas – and they use a heck of a lot – comes from elsewhere. The association worked to create a cooperative of farmers and millers to produce small batches for local consumption. They are mere months from beginning production. The cruelty and unfairness of their little mill being destroyed to irrigate unsustainable agribusiness in the northeast didn’t even seem to dawn on the president; he showed no signs of rage at such profound injustice, just solemn, humble, devastatingly intimate grief.
As we were leaving, Rogerio, who never took his eye off of the festival in Gloria, asked “who is the master of the folia here?”
“I am,” said the president.
“We will need you in Gloria!” Rogerio proclaimed.
The association in Pocoes... from left to right: the city councilor, the president, me, the president's wife, the president's silent friend, and a teacher/Manuelzao member from Gloria.
The manioc plant... only months from opening!
28.3.10
The Rio das Velhas
The Rio das Velhas, swollen from rains upstream. If the dam were to be approved, all of this would become a stinking lake.
A retiree angling for dourado.
More pictures of Gloria
Local youths under the mango trees outside the bakery.
A farmer tending to his fields.
The doctor demonstrating his serenatas.
Mayor Pedro Chaves, who seemed to like me – a lot… so much so, in fact, that Rogerio began to refer to him as the “prefeito abraçador” (the hugging mayor).
Damn the dam!
On Thursday, I woke up bright and early to meet up with Rogerio, the President of the Rio das Velhas Basin Committee and a coordinator with the Manuelzão Project, and Thais, one of the Manuelzão public relations interns. I hadn’t the slightest idea where we were going – only that it was the region that would be affected by a dam proposed by the federal government and that we would be gone until Saturday. The good folks of Manuelzão don’t fully explain things to me or give me prior warning (I was offered a spot on the excursion only the day before), but I am awfully fond of surprises…
Leo, of course, was not particularly excited about the idea of me going into the “woods” with “strange people” (his words), but last time I did such a thing with the Manuelzão folks, I ended up at that party in Novo Horizonte, which was an amazing experience! And that is why, at 8 am, I climbed into a UFMG station wagon and went barreling 3 ½ hours north to Nossa Senhora da Gloria, an 800-person district that makes up part of the 3000-person “municipality” of Santo Hipolito.
Nossa Senhora da Gloria is about to become Atlantis.
I like President Lula, but if he has one crackpot idea, it’s the “transposition” of the São Francisco River, which begins in Minas and winds its way northeast – collecting the waters of 8% of Brazil’s territory before emptying into the Atlantic Ocean via the state of Sergipe. Lula’s government inherited a half-baked plan to re-route “1%” of the São Francisco’s flow via an enormous canal to the drought-prone interior of Brazil’s Northeast, which sounds lovely until you realize that the water won’t serve poor subsistence farmers (whose woes are seasonal and can be effectively addressed with local water storage efforts) but big agribusiness (who are growing water-intensive crops where they don’t belong). Next, the canal passes conspicuously close to – and through – various indigenous and “quilombola” communities (“quilombolos” are descendents of escaped slaves), which promises nothing more than disruption in culturally sensitive, protected areas. Moreover, the river orthodoxy these days basically anywhere is that out-of-basin transfers are not only environmentally harmful but socially problematic as well – a sure bet when it comes to creating animosity among water users. Finally, the São Francisco is predicted to be severely impacted by global warming and will likely have no water to spare after meeting the needs of environmental processes and current users.
Unfortunately, Lula’s government is stuck on this idea like flies on you-know-what, and since the plight of the northeast is largely a function of seasons, the government’s current proposal is to use the state of Minas Gerais as a “storage tank” for the dry season in the northeast. That is why they are pushing for the construction of 5 dams across several tributaries of the São Francisco.
One of those tributaries is the Rio das Velhas, the river in which the Manuelzão Project is most heavily involved. The proposed dam would flood the areas surrounding Santo Hipolito – and the entire district of Nossa Senhora da Gloria. Aside from drowning a perfectly adorable collection of historical small towns that sprung up along the route to the colonial mining city of Diamantina, the dam would submerge the region’s most fertile farmlands (the floodplain of the Rio das Velhas) as well as the local cachaça factory (which provides 500 jobs).
The dam itself would produce only small amounts of electricity because its function would be almost exclusively to store water, and since the proposed dam lies downstream from the largest metropolitan area of the state and the most heavily mined regions, all of filth and sewage from upstream would come to rest in the reservoir. Aside from creating a public health hazard, the levels of nutrients in the waters would provoke algae blooms, killing any fish that could potentially survive in a reservoir (the most lucrative and culturally important species, like dourado and surubim, depend on river-like conditions and would therefore not do well in a reservoir of any sort).
The locals have been told that they can open up tourist resorts along the banks of the reservoir, but I have a hard time believing that American or European tourists would like to Jet Ski around in a lifeless septic tank. Moreover, the level of the reservoir would not remain constant; in the dry season, its waters will be needed downstream, and all that would remain at these “tourist resorts” would be stinking mudflats.
Thankfully, the dam is on hold for now since the current state government is forcefully against it (and reasonably receptive to the Manuelzão Project); however, the pause is a strategic one: with upcoming elections in Minas, the federal government is banking on the cooperation of the next governor.
Without firm governmental allies, the Manuelzão Project is desperately trying to mobilize the locals against the dam. Once a month, Rogerio heads to the region, where he has become known as “the dam man.”
“I can’t tell you whether or not there’ll be a dam,” he says to the worried residents, “but we have to do everything we can to make the process difficult for them! If you don’t say ‘you can’t!’ to the government, they’ll think they can! They’ll think that you’re in favor or the dam!”
To the sleepy local politicians he says, “if you don’t administrate things yourself, someone else will come in and administrate for you – and you won’t like the results.”
His efforts are beginning to pay off. Whether or not the local officials are responding, the residents seem more hopeful – and more vigilant.
Recently, the local commander of the Military Police retired his post. On his last day, he went to see the proposed dam site. Within minutes, the phones at the Manuelzão Project were ringing: “the police are here!” the residents reported.
Rogerio called the police to see why exactly they were so interested in the dam site. The major explained that the commander wanted to see it before he retired and then confided in Rogerio, “if I were you, I’d blow the whole thing up!”
Twelve years after the official end of the dictatorship, the left is still jumpy. “I didn’t know if he was testing me,” said Rogerio, “so I told him that we’re not doing things that way – yet…”
Rogerio has been winning over the locals through a drinks-based diplomacy. During the day, it is customary to offer guests cafezinho (strong and syrupy-sweet Brazilian coffee) and a snack, so every house we stopped at, we had to have at least one cup (and I had to explain gluten intolerance so that the local housewives didn’t think I was snubbing their cakes; the region is now equally well-informed on celiac disease as they are on dams). The intense caffeine high proved crucial to the next stage of the diplomatic mission: staying up until the predawn hours (“madrugada”) drinking beer and local moonshine (everyone, it seems, makes their own cachaça) and discussing Rogerio’s grand plan for frustrating the dam.
All of the tiny towns of the interior have an annual, week-long party. Gloria’s party is in August and in years past would draw revelers from across the region; however, the district has sunken into a powerful melancholy since the dam was proposed.
“Why even have a party?” one resident asked Rogerio. “All of this will be underwater.”
All the more reason to have a party, Rogerio decided. Most of his efforts now are focused on making Gloria, once again, famous for its festival. The traditions that once sustained the week-long revelry have been slowly dying; the religious Folia has petered out, there crafts and songs have been forgotten, and local good-for-nothings prowl the parties, carrying knives and threatening the women.
“If that’s how it’s going to be,” Rogerio admonished, “there’s nothing worth saving here.”
Several beers and shots of cachaça into our first night, Rogerio made his proposal: the basin committee and Manuelzão would help Gloria make the party the best in recent memory if the residents were willing to work for it, resurrecting the lost traditions. At first they waffled; everyone is so busy with their own lives, they said, but eventually, euphoric with alcohol and the possibility of saving their city, each person offered something. The doctor – who spoke with the cadence of Foghorn Leghorn and the tenor of Sylvester Stallone – offered to teach “serenatas,” love songs traditionally sung under the windows of the town’s eligible bachelorettes. Erick, the local aquaculture “fazendeiro,” expressed a certain interest in reviving traditional crafts, like drum and jewelry making. The director of the school suggested that she could partner with one of the parents who hoped to begin a theater troupe. The effort would begin with partnerships with surrounding towns who had managed to keep their customs alive.
The next morning, which was miraculously devoid of hangovers, the work began. As I waited by the car, I overheard Erick strike up a conversation with a woman waiting at the town’s only bus stop, all gussied up for a trip to the nearest “city,” where her daughter would be getting her braces tightened. When Erick mentioned crafts, she made a small, delighted noise and began to talk about how much she enjoys making jewelry out of nuts, seeds, and coconut husks. “Hold the bus!” she proclaimed to her daughter, and turning to Erick she said, “come with me! I’ll show you what I’ve made!” The two trudged off to her house.
I sat in the sunlight, enjoying “rush hour.” The roosters, up since 5 am, continued to reprimand the late sleepers and dozens of hens paraded their peeping broods through the street. At about 6:45, the cachaça factory’s bus stopped to pick up dozens of waiting workers and then went rumbling down the road, kicking up dust. Across the street, a leafy little tree was aflutter with activity, branches heavy with parakeets, parrotlets, and sunny-colored finches like a noisy crop of jewel-toned fruits. Piping hot pão de queijo in hand, I thought about how lamentable it would be to lose this sleepy little corner of Minas.
This is the old church in Gloria.
This is the new church. If the dam is built, its steeples and the smokestacks of the cachaça factory would be the only remnants of Gloria visible above the waters.
A quiet little street with the “garbage truck” – the tractor – and the cachaça depository.
This is where the annual festival is held.
One of the little dogs escaping from the restaurant where we stayed.
Leo, of course, was not particularly excited about the idea of me going into the “woods” with “strange people” (his words), but last time I did such a thing with the Manuelzão folks, I ended up at that party in Novo Horizonte, which was an amazing experience! And that is why, at 8 am, I climbed into a UFMG station wagon and went barreling 3 ½ hours north to Nossa Senhora da Gloria, an 800-person district that makes up part of the 3000-person “municipality” of Santo Hipolito.
Nossa Senhora da Gloria is about to become Atlantis.
I like President Lula, but if he has one crackpot idea, it’s the “transposition” of the São Francisco River, which begins in Minas and winds its way northeast – collecting the waters of 8% of Brazil’s territory before emptying into the Atlantic Ocean via the state of Sergipe. Lula’s government inherited a half-baked plan to re-route “1%” of the São Francisco’s flow via an enormous canal to the drought-prone interior of Brazil’s Northeast, which sounds lovely until you realize that the water won’t serve poor subsistence farmers (whose woes are seasonal and can be effectively addressed with local water storage efforts) but big agribusiness (who are growing water-intensive crops where they don’t belong). Next, the canal passes conspicuously close to – and through – various indigenous and “quilombola” communities (“quilombolos” are descendents of escaped slaves), which promises nothing more than disruption in culturally sensitive, protected areas. Moreover, the river orthodoxy these days basically anywhere is that out-of-basin transfers are not only environmentally harmful but socially problematic as well – a sure bet when it comes to creating animosity among water users. Finally, the São Francisco is predicted to be severely impacted by global warming and will likely have no water to spare after meeting the needs of environmental processes and current users.
Unfortunately, Lula’s government is stuck on this idea like flies on you-know-what, and since the plight of the northeast is largely a function of seasons, the government’s current proposal is to use the state of Minas Gerais as a “storage tank” for the dry season in the northeast. That is why they are pushing for the construction of 5 dams across several tributaries of the São Francisco.
One of those tributaries is the Rio das Velhas, the river in which the Manuelzão Project is most heavily involved. The proposed dam would flood the areas surrounding Santo Hipolito – and the entire district of Nossa Senhora da Gloria. Aside from drowning a perfectly adorable collection of historical small towns that sprung up along the route to the colonial mining city of Diamantina, the dam would submerge the region’s most fertile farmlands (the floodplain of the Rio das Velhas) as well as the local cachaça factory (which provides 500 jobs).
The dam itself would produce only small amounts of electricity because its function would be almost exclusively to store water, and since the proposed dam lies downstream from the largest metropolitan area of the state and the most heavily mined regions, all of filth and sewage from upstream would come to rest in the reservoir. Aside from creating a public health hazard, the levels of nutrients in the waters would provoke algae blooms, killing any fish that could potentially survive in a reservoir (the most lucrative and culturally important species, like dourado and surubim, depend on river-like conditions and would therefore not do well in a reservoir of any sort).
The locals have been told that they can open up tourist resorts along the banks of the reservoir, but I have a hard time believing that American or European tourists would like to Jet Ski around in a lifeless septic tank. Moreover, the level of the reservoir would not remain constant; in the dry season, its waters will be needed downstream, and all that would remain at these “tourist resorts” would be stinking mudflats.
Thankfully, the dam is on hold for now since the current state government is forcefully against it (and reasonably receptive to the Manuelzão Project); however, the pause is a strategic one: with upcoming elections in Minas, the federal government is banking on the cooperation of the next governor.
Without firm governmental allies, the Manuelzão Project is desperately trying to mobilize the locals against the dam. Once a month, Rogerio heads to the region, where he has become known as “the dam man.”
“I can’t tell you whether or not there’ll be a dam,” he says to the worried residents, “but we have to do everything we can to make the process difficult for them! If you don’t say ‘you can’t!’ to the government, they’ll think they can! They’ll think that you’re in favor or the dam!”
To the sleepy local politicians he says, “if you don’t administrate things yourself, someone else will come in and administrate for you – and you won’t like the results.”
His efforts are beginning to pay off. Whether or not the local officials are responding, the residents seem more hopeful – and more vigilant.
Recently, the local commander of the Military Police retired his post. On his last day, he went to see the proposed dam site. Within minutes, the phones at the Manuelzão Project were ringing: “the police are here!” the residents reported.
Rogerio called the police to see why exactly they were so interested in the dam site. The major explained that the commander wanted to see it before he retired and then confided in Rogerio, “if I were you, I’d blow the whole thing up!”
Twelve years after the official end of the dictatorship, the left is still jumpy. “I didn’t know if he was testing me,” said Rogerio, “so I told him that we’re not doing things that way – yet…”
Rogerio has been winning over the locals through a drinks-based diplomacy. During the day, it is customary to offer guests cafezinho (strong and syrupy-sweet Brazilian coffee) and a snack, so every house we stopped at, we had to have at least one cup (and I had to explain gluten intolerance so that the local housewives didn’t think I was snubbing their cakes; the region is now equally well-informed on celiac disease as they are on dams). The intense caffeine high proved crucial to the next stage of the diplomatic mission: staying up until the predawn hours (“madrugada”) drinking beer and local moonshine (everyone, it seems, makes their own cachaça) and discussing Rogerio’s grand plan for frustrating the dam.
All of the tiny towns of the interior have an annual, week-long party. Gloria’s party is in August and in years past would draw revelers from across the region; however, the district has sunken into a powerful melancholy since the dam was proposed.
“Why even have a party?” one resident asked Rogerio. “All of this will be underwater.”
All the more reason to have a party, Rogerio decided. Most of his efforts now are focused on making Gloria, once again, famous for its festival. The traditions that once sustained the week-long revelry have been slowly dying; the religious Folia has petered out, there crafts and songs have been forgotten, and local good-for-nothings prowl the parties, carrying knives and threatening the women.
“If that’s how it’s going to be,” Rogerio admonished, “there’s nothing worth saving here.”
Several beers and shots of cachaça into our first night, Rogerio made his proposal: the basin committee and Manuelzão would help Gloria make the party the best in recent memory if the residents were willing to work for it, resurrecting the lost traditions. At first they waffled; everyone is so busy with their own lives, they said, but eventually, euphoric with alcohol and the possibility of saving their city, each person offered something. The doctor – who spoke with the cadence of Foghorn Leghorn and the tenor of Sylvester Stallone – offered to teach “serenatas,” love songs traditionally sung under the windows of the town’s eligible bachelorettes. Erick, the local aquaculture “fazendeiro,” expressed a certain interest in reviving traditional crafts, like drum and jewelry making. The director of the school suggested that she could partner with one of the parents who hoped to begin a theater troupe. The effort would begin with partnerships with surrounding towns who had managed to keep their customs alive.
The next morning, which was miraculously devoid of hangovers, the work began. As I waited by the car, I overheard Erick strike up a conversation with a woman waiting at the town’s only bus stop, all gussied up for a trip to the nearest “city,” where her daughter would be getting her braces tightened. When Erick mentioned crafts, she made a small, delighted noise and began to talk about how much she enjoys making jewelry out of nuts, seeds, and coconut husks. “Hold the bus!” she proclaimed to her daughter, and turning to Erick she said, “come with me! I’ll show you what I’ve made!” The two trudged off to her house.
I sat in the sunlight, enjoying “rush hour.” The roosters, up since 5 am, continued to reprimand the late sleepers and dozens of hens paraded their peeping broods through the street. At about 6:45, the cachaça factory’s bus stopped to pick up dozens of waiting workers and then went rumbling down the road, kicking up dust. Across the street, a leafy little tree was aflutter with activity, branches heavy with parakeets, parrotlets, and sunny-colored finches like a noisy crop of jewel-toned fruits. Piping hot pão de queijo in hand, I thought about how lamentable it would be to lose this sleepy little corner of Minas.
This is the old church in Gloria.
This is the new church. If the dam is built, its steeples and the smokestacks of the cachaça factory would be the only remnants of Gloria visible above the waters.
A quiet little street with the “garbage truck” – the tractor – and the cachaça depository.
This is where the annual festival is held.
One of the little dogs escaping from the restaurant where we stayed.
27.3.10
24.3.10
My Prison Sentence
When we lived in France about 13 years ago, my father taught me everything I've ever needed to know about bureaucracy.
The trick, he told me, was to be assisted by a middle-aged French lady and charm the heck out of her. He would bust out his best French, which was -- at least back then -- pitiably bungled but admirably exuberant. The thrust of his whole shtick was the glory of the French Republic and his joy at being assisted by such a celestial creature. All of this he managed to convey through limited vocabulary, muddled syntax, and a slew of gestures that he believed to be characteristically French, such as raising his shoulders up to his earlobes and sticking out his bottom lip as he huffed, puffed, and gesticulated. Incredibly, it was foolproof. My father is a genius.
Brazilian bureaucracy works in much the same way. There may be a form and a stamp for everything imaginable, but it has a very human element if approached just right...
I went to the Federal Police today. Anyone with a visa other than a tourist visa has to register with them within 30 days of arriving in Brazil. My 30 days are up on Friday, so I thought I ought to get a move on... I took just about every document on which my name had ever been written since you never know what in the world you'll be asked to provide by a disgruntled Brazilian bureaucrat.
I arrived at around 12:45 -- which was courageously late in the day given that they close at 4 pm and other Fulbrighters had shared stories of waiting 4, 5, or 6 hours to register. When I registered last time I was in Rio, I waited for more than 4 hours.
Of course, at 12:45, the Foreigners' Section of the Federal Police is closed for lunch. I went and had myself a glass of cupuacu juice (a perky, tart relative of cacau that I think should be made into an ice cream flavor). I went back at 1:15 and sat down in the vacant foreigners' waiting area. Five or six others arrived shortly thereafter, and one of them sat down next to me. He introduced himself as Cabaneco, and we quickly fell into the usual expat conversation: he's from Guinea-Bissau and is here studying law; I'm from the U.S. and am here studying water... We got on famously, and were soon -- as they say here -- "childhood friends."
At exactly 1:30, a trim man in his 50s sat down behind the Foreigners' Section desk and called me over.
"Good luck!" I called to Cabaneco as I took a seat.
"You look like you're having fun," said the man behind the desk, whose name I later learned was Mauro.
"I am!" I confirmed in enthusiastic Portuguese.
Mauro smiled. "Just because you're sitting here with me?" he teased.
"It's a great pleasure," I told him, with jovial sincerity.
He smiled wider. I was not in the least bit worried about spending 4 hours waiting.
Mauro took my passport, a few copies, two photos, and my visa application -- basically the minimum required documents, thank goodness -- and chatted with me as I filled out the application. Like my father taught me, I was sure to earnestly praise Brazil and mineiros and to chastely flirt with Mauro. By this time, another two officers had sat down to attend to other foreigners, and Mauro introduced me to the young man working beside him (who was supposed to be assisting a distressed-looking Brazilian woman chaperoning two pink and confused Australians).
"You see how happy she is," Mauro exclaimed, "if only everyone who came in here was like that..."
"Where are you from?" the young man asked, leaving off with his charge to chat with me, too.
"The United States," I told him.
"But she's married to a Brazilian," interrupted Mauro. "Can you believe that she's married? She looks so young!"
"Too bad!" said the young man, "we missed our chance! So will you stay here?"
"Yes, where are you living now?" Mauro asked, "where's 'home.'"
"We're sort of stateless," I admitted -- something you should never tell an immigration officer when you've got a temporary visa, "We won't go back the the US, but I am hoping to start my Master's in Canada in September."
"You should stay here!" Mauro burst out, "to do research, you need a student visa, but after your research, you should get permanent residency!" (Can you imagine an American immigration officer saying any of this?)
I was in-and-out in 30 minutes, temporary ID tag in hand.
"Keep the original with you," Mauro advised, "if you run into a real jerk of a police officer who wants to give you a hard time, a copy won't do."
As I was leaving, I saw Cabaneco.
"Did you get it?" he asked.
"Got it!" I said.
We talked briefly about the city and resolved to keep in touch. I opened my purse to scribble down my email address and pulled out a pen that I had inadvertently taken from the Federal Police!
"Oh no!" I joked, "I've stolen their pen!"
"You'll be arrested!" he teased.
I took a taxi back to my apartment, and as I arrived at the door, my phone rang. It was Joanna, the so-much-more-than-a-secretary from the Manuelzao Project.
"Corin," she said, "the Federal Police called; you have to go back."
Oh great. Whatever it was, it would probably require paperwork, notaries, and a commitment of time and Reais that I wasn't too eager to make.
As an expert worrywart, I spent the entire trip back to the police station wondering whether my exit had been properly recorded last time I was in Brazil or perhaps whether they'd want to see my old ID tag (which I'd had the unusual foresight to keep). Too much time thinking about the American immigration system makes you crazy
like that.
When I arrived, Mauro waved me into the back door, and I sat down with a bespectacled officer.
The officer looked at me once and burst out laughing.
"Relax!" he said. "You're not under arrest!"
"We just wanted to see you again!" Mauro teased, coming over to pat me on the back.
"Hey!" said the younger officer, abandoning the Frenchman before him, "you're back!"
"The problem is quite simple," the bespectacled officer said, "your mother's middle name on your application from two years ago is 'Renee' but this application says 'Rene.'" (Oddly enough, my mother's middle name is actually Rene -- the French masculine version.) "Unfortunately, we can't change it in the system here; it has to go through Brasilia, and for that, you just need to get a form from the American Consulate and mail it to Brasilia. The Consulate knows which one it is; they do it all of the time. It'll be a little more paperwork," he looked at me sympathetically, "but you could always make a vacation out of it! Go to Rio, go to the consulate, spend some time on the beach..."
The business done, he seemed ready to converse, "are you a doctor?"
"Huh?" I asked, and then remembered that my papers said I was at the UFMG medical school, "no, no! I'm working with the Manuelzao Project!"
His eyes brightened, "do you think they'll clean up the river enough for us to swim?"
I told him just how impressed I was with the project, especially the mobilization aspects. He nodded and said that he'd seen a report on environmentally sustainable maple syrup harvesting in the US and hoped that Brazil would soon have more technological answers to environmental problems. I remain impressed that everyone I talk to in this city knows what the Manuelzao Project is and what they're trying to achieve.
"One more thing," said the bespectacled officer as we finished up, "when your visa runs out in January, if you want to stay, just come back in and we'll renew it for you." He nodded at me, and I wished that the US could take a few pages out of the Brazilian playbook.
"Poor thing!" Mauro exclaimed, wandering back over, "did you think you were under arrest?"
"Well, I did steal your pen..." I told him, recounting the story of finding it in my purse. He and the bespectacled officer could hardly contain themselves.
"How many years in prison for stealing from the Federal Police?" Mauro howled.
"At least two!" the bespectacled officer laughed, waving his pen at me. "You're under arrest!"
"But I can return it!" I joked, pulling it out of my purse and foisting it at Mauro.
The bespectacled officer's eyes widened at the sight of the pen, and he laughed even harder.
"No, no," said Mauro, pushing it back toward me, "keep it! Keep it as a memento!"
I promised to cherish it forever.
The trick, he told me, was to be assisted by a middle-aged French lady and charm the heck out of her. He would bust out his best French, which was -- at least back then -- pitiably bungled but admirably exuberant. The thrust of his whole shtick was the glory of the French Republic and his joy at being assisted by such a celestial creature. All of this he managed to convey through limited vocabulary, muddled syntax, and a slew of gestures that he believed to be characteristically French, such as raising his shoulders up to his earlobes and sticking out his bottom lip as he huffed, puffed, and gesticulated. Incredibly, it was foolproof. My father is a genius.
Brazilian bureaucracy works in much the same way. There may be a form and a stamp for everything imaginable, but it has a very human element if approached just right...
I went to the Federal Police today. Anyone with a visa other than a tourist visa has to register with them within 30 days of arriving in Brazil. My 30 days are up on Friday, so I thought I ought to get a move on... I took just about every document on which my name had ever been written since you never know what in the world you'll be asked to provide by a disgruntled Brazilian bureaucrat.
I arrived at around 12:45 -- which was courageously late in the day given that they close at 4 pm and other Fulbrighters had shared stories of waiting 4, 5, or 6 hours to register. When I registered last time I was in Rio, I waited for more than 4 hours.
Of course, at 12:45, the Foreigners' Section of the Federal Police is closed for lunch. I went and had myself a glass of cupuacu juice (a perky, tart relative of cacau that I think should be made into an ice cream flavor). I went back at 1:15 and sat down in the vacant foreigners' waiting area. Five or six others arrived shortly thereafter, and one of them sat down next to me. He introduced himself as Cabaneco, and we quickly fell into the usual expat conversation: he's from Guinea-Bissau and is here studying law; I'm from the U.S. and am here studying water... We got on famously, and were soon -- as they say here -- "childhood friends."
At exactly 1:30, a trim man in his 50s sat down behind the Foreigners' Section desk and called me over.
"Good luck!" I called to Cabaneco as I took a seat.
"You look like you're having fun," said the man behind the desk, whose name I later learned was Mauro.
"I am!" I confirmed in enthusiastic Portuguese.
Mauro smiled. "Just because you're sitting here with me?" he teased.
"It's a great pleasure," I told him, with jovial sincerity.
He smiled wider. I was not in the least bit worried about spending 4 hours waiting.
Mauro took my passport, a few copies, two photos, and my visa application -- basically the minimum required documents, thank goodness -- and chatted with me as I filled out the application. Like my father taught me, I was sure to earnestly praise Brazil and mineiros and to chastely flirt with Mauro. By this time, another two officers had sat down to attend to other foreigners, and Mauro introduced me to the young man working beside him (who was supposed to be assisting a distressed-looking Brazilian woman chaperoning two pink and confused Australians).
"You see how happy she is," Mauro exclaimed, "if only everyone who came in here was like that..."
"Where are you from?" the young man asked, leaving off with his charge to chat with me, too.
"The United States," I told him.
"But she's married to a Brazilian," interrupted Mauro. "Can you believe that she's married? She looks so young!"
"Too bad!" said the young man, "we missed our chance! So will you stay here?"
"Yes, where are you living now?" Mauro asked, "where's 'home.'"
"We're sort of stateless," I admitted -- something you should never tell an immigration officer when you've got a temporary visa, "We won't go back the the US, but I am hoping to start my Master's in Canada in September."
"You should stay here!" Mauro burst out, "to do research, you need a student visa, but after your research, you should get permanent residency!" (Can you imagine an American immigration officer saying any of this?)
I was in-and-out in 30 minutes, temporary ID tag in hand.
"Keep the original with you," Mauro advised, "if you run into a real jerk of a police officer who wants to give you a hard time, a copy won't do."
As I was leaving, I saw Cabaneco.
"Did you get it?" he asked.
"Got it!" I said.
We talked briefly about the city and resolved to keep in touch. I opened my purse to scribble down my email address and pulled out a pen that I had inadvertently taken from the Federal Police!
"Oh no!" I joked, "I've stolen their pen!"
"You'll be arrested!" he teased.
I took a taxi back to my apartment, and as I arrived at the door, my phone rang. It was Joanna, the so-much-more-than-a-secretary from the Manuelzao Project.
"Corin," she said, "the Federal Police called; you have to go back."
Oh great. Whatever it was, it would probably require paperwork, notaries, and a commitment of time and Reais that I wasn't too eager to make.
As an expert worrywart, I spent the entire trip back to the police station wondering whether my exit had been properly recorded last time I was in Brazil or perhaps whether they'd want to see my old ID tag (which I'd had the unusual foresight to keep). Too much time thinking about the American immigration system makes you crazy
like that.
When I arrived, Mauro waved me into the back door, and I sat down with a bespectacled officer.
The officer looked at me once and burst out laughing.
"Relax!" he said. "You're not under arrest!"
"We just wanted to see you again!" Mauro teased, coming over to pat me on the back.
"Hey!" said the younger officer, abandoning the Frenchman before him, "you're back!"
"The problem is quite simple," the bespectacled officer said, "your mother's middle name on your application from two years ago is 'Renee' but this application says 'Rene.'" (Oddly enough, my mother's middle name is actually Rene -- the French masculine version.) "Unfortunately, we can't change it in the system here; it has to go through Brasilia, and for that, you just need to get a form from the American Consulate and mail it to Brasilia. The Consulate knows which one it is; they do it all of the time. It'll be a little more paperwork," he looked at me sympathetically, "but you could always make a vacation out of it! Go to Rio, go to the consulate, spend some time on the beach..."
The business done, he seemed ready to converse, "are you a doctor?"
"Huh?" I asked, and then remembered that my papers said I was at the UFMG medical school, "no, no! I'm working with the Manuelzao Project!"
His eyes brightened, "do you think they'll clean up the river enough for us to swim?"
I told him just how impressed I was with the project, especially the mobilization aspects. He nodded and said that he'd seen a report on environmentally sustainable maple syrup harvesting in the US and hoped that Brazil would soon have more technological answers to environmental problems. I remain impressed that everyone I talk to in this city knows what the Manuelzao Project is and what they're trying to achieve.
"One more thing," said the bespectacled officer as we finished up, "when your visa runs out in January, if you want to stay, just come back in and we'll renew it for you." He nodded at me, and I wished that the US could take a few pages out of the Brazilian playbook.
"Poor thing!" Mauro exclaimed, wandering back over, "did you think you were under arrest?"
"Well, I did steal your pen..." I told him, recounting the story of finding it in my purse. He and the bespectacled officer could hardly contain themselves.
"How many years in prison for stealing from the Federal Police?" Mauro howled.
"At least two!" the bespectacled officer laughed, waving his pen at me. "You're under arrest!"
"But I can return it!" I joked, pulling it out of my purse and foisting it at Mauro.
The bespectacled officer's eyes widened at the sight of the pen, and he laughed even harder.
"No, no," said Mauro, pushing it back toward me, "keep it! Keep it as a memento!"
I promised to cherish it forever.
21.3.10
A wonderful weekend...
The fazenda was absolutely stunning!
This is the fishing hole at the fazenda.
This is a particularly lovely view from the fazenda.
This is the fishing hole at the fazenda.
This is a particularly lovely view from the fazenda.
Fazenda
Senhor Teica's brother works at the fazenda down the road from his cabin. We went there to do some fishing at a seasonal fishing hole (the fish don't get very big; they only have the wet season in which to grow, but they're supposedly delightful fried up... not that I could tell you, since I still can't eat anything except bananas, potatoes, and white rice)!
We caught a lot of fish... but with fish that small, you need a lot of fish!
In the US, we call this a sensitive plant. When you touch it, its leaves close up! It was everywhere around the pond!
More sensitive plant... it was almost as much fun as fishing!
I thought that this tree was awfully pretty, and it smelled wonderful.
This is Senhor Teica's trusty "kombi" underneath that wonderfully perfumed tree in front of his brother's house.
We caught a lot of fish... but with fish that small, you need a lot of fish!
In the US, we call this a sensitive plant. When you touch it, its leaves close up! It was everywhere around the pond!
More sensitive plant... it was almost as much fun as fishing!
I thought that this tree was awfully pretty, and it smelled wonderful.
This is Senhor Teica's trusty "kombi" underneath that wonderfully perfumed tree in front of his brother's house.
Critters!
These are "lava pe" ants. They're viciously protective of their ant hills, and they have awful bites!
This is my furry hobbit foot after one "lava pe" got stuck under the strap of my flip-flops. I don't recommend getting friendly with these little buggers.
Ever since I've known Leo, I've known about "frango caipira" -- the tough, skinny yard birds of Brazil. Leo swears that they are the tastiest chickens out there and has been craving one for the last 6 years.
Geese and guinea fowl at the fazenda down the road.
Lambs at the fazenda.
More country pictures...
This is the pod of the annatto plant. The seeds are used as a spice/coloring in many Latin American foods... and by my sister and me as war paint in Costa Rica... Good times.
This flower will eventually produce a loofah. Loofahs are actually from a cucumber-like vine. Freaky, huh?
This is the only picture I got of this butterfly... soon after I took it, it opened its wings to reveal a iridescent blue! In this picture, it's resting on a stalk of sugar cane.
Bananas. Awesome.
Peanuts!
Country mouse
We spent the weekend with Dona Rosa and Senhor Teica at the "sitio" -- their country cabin an hour outside of the city. It was a total blast, and I found a new favorite dessert: homegrown bananas grilled in their skins... they tasted like pudding. Delicious.
I have to post the pictures 5 at a time because blogspot is being obnoxious tonight...
This is the house.
This is the view.
Leo helped Senhor Teica with his job (recycling car oil) in the shack out back.
They have several coffee plants. Coffee berries (not quite ripe) have a delicious berry/green pepper flavor... unusual but very yummy.
This is a jabuticaba berry -- something I've wanted to try ever since I used it as an incorrect translation for "blackberry" in my very first Portuguese paper several years ago! It's sweet and creamy with a firm, tart, and piney-tasting skin... they're not quite in season, but we found a few!
I have to post the pictures 5 at a time because blogspot is being obnoxious tonight...
This is the house.
This is the view.
Leo helped Senhor Teica with his job (recycling car oil) in the shack out back.
They have several coffee plants. Coffee berries (not quite ripe) have a delicious berry/green pepper flavor... unusual but very yummy.
This is a jabuticaba berry -- something I've wanted to try ever since I used it as an incorrect translation for "blackberry" in my very first Portuguese paper several years ago! It's sweet and creamy with a firm, tart, and piney-tasting skin... they're not quite in season, but we found a few!
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