Gypsies of Minas Gerais

I have heard it said that wealth is the supreme source of all happiness.  That one cannot be pleased with their life if they do not possess money in their bank account and cash in their wallet.  As Rodrigo and I carefully walked towards the shoddy tents and the laughing children, playing with their torn kites in the afternoon breeze, I could not disagree more with that statement.  These people we were approaching clearly had nothing yet the sound of thoughtless laughter filled the air. When we began to skirt the parameters of the camp, a few people, their hair in tangled messes with dirt smearing their faces, began to poke their heads out from under their tent’s frayed flaps to eye my translator and I.  The children moved a little closer to us, revealing tattooed hands and wary expressions.  I felt bad for Rodrigo; he had listened to all the horror stories of the gypsies as I had the days before and must have been as apprehensive as I was approaching these peculiar people.  “Don’t have anything in your pockets.” “You have to be cleverer than them.” “Are you really taking your camera?”  Bet your ass I was taking my camera. 

The gypsy band first caught my eye when I was receiving a tour of Pouso Alegre, Menas Gerias, although it was not the people who initially grabbed my attention.  It was their clothes hanging dispassionately on a thin rope underneath a beaten up billboard right beside the road; an old woman tending to a pair of socks as speeding cars kicked up dirt and gravel only feet away from her.  I inquired to who they were and was greeted by laughs. “Those are the gypsies,” my guides informed me.  Immediately intrigued, I wanted to know more about them and made it my business to go down to their field and speak with them.  I fell asleep that night wondering, “What makes someone want to live in tattered tents with no running water or electricity?”  A few days later I found myself frantically thinking of ways to explain my inquisitiveness whilst stepping closer and closer to their encampment; hoping that they would be receptive to me. 

Maria the gypsy leader, Age 59

As Rodrigo and I tip-toed around half eaten fruit and discarded clothing, we asked one adolescent girl where we could find the leader, or someone to speak with about what they were doing there.  She led us into the encampment and searched around for the chief, a woman named Maria.  The encampment was not very large and we shortly arrived at a dirt stained yellow tent, the muddy floor carpeted by two sheet less mattresses with their stuffing coming out.  Maria was there with another woman who was holding a tiny child no more than two years old.  They must not get many visitors for they were as hesitant to speak with us as we were with them.  We explained we were just curious people who wanted to know more about what they were doing in a field away from the rest of the city and people.  I played the, “I am an American,” card and their wariness took a back seat to curiosity.  It is good to know that one still works once in a while for the better.

Maria, the chief by age, told us how she had been a gypsy for all of her 59 years; nomadically moving via busses and cars from one encampment to another for as long as she could remember.  At the time, she had been staying at that encampment for three months.  The time a gypsy of this tribe stays in one location varies greatly, we were told.  It could be a week or months, trading amongst themselves or with businesses in the area to obtain food and clothing, before moving to another encampment.  The woman with the child, Elaina, claimed that she most often only stayed in a place for ten to 30 days.  Another gypsy I spoke with, a man with piercings in his ears, bright rubies on his fingers and a toothless grin, told us that sometimes he moves every 24 hours.  Occasionally his travels take him as far as to Paraguay or Bolivia, other times only 40 km to another town in the Brazilian state of Minas Gerias.  “We are like birds.  We take pleasure in traveling to new places,” he said showing his few blackened teeth. 

A relatively large tent for the camp we visited

Not all bands and people though are of the same tribe.  Maria, with clear contempt in her voice, told us of another tribe of wealthier gypsies on the other side of the town.  The group that we talked to is forbidden from visiting or associating with this richer tribe.  The other tribe’s tents are larger; they have refrigerators and electricity, according to the gypsies we talked with.  Maria wanted to know if we had gypsies in the United States, I attempted to explain to her what a trailer park is.  Surely the beggars in front of the local 7-11 cannot be considered gypsies. 

We talked for a few more moments and I asked them if they wanted to know anything about me or my culture.  They did not seem all that interested and I was okay with that.  We exchanged some more friendly words and asked them if we could come back later in the evening to speak with them some more and take pictures. (I had embarrassingly and irritably left my memory card in my backpack back in the house)

                Rodrigo and I returned later in the evening, this time bringing along our friend Ive who had grown curious as Rodrigo and I related what we had learned over lunch.  The women took kindly to Ive and after they got over the initial nervousness that strangers carry with them, Ive was being ushered into tents to view traditional dresses.  Flowing dresses of sky blues and deep purples were held up for her to touch and examine as little girls with colorful make up and glittering nose rings danced circles around our growing group of bystanders.  The adolescent boys listened to our conversation and chewed on long strands of straw, occasionally making a joke amongst themselves and laughing full heartedly.  We continued our interview from earlier, asking similar questions to new members of the band while attempting to delve a little deeper into their culture.

The gypsies were vague on what and how they teach their young; very few of the people at the camp could read, certainly they could not write.  An older man who travels from location to location and teaches the children about the culture through reading palms and reciting stories was not present at the time, we were told.  One of the adolescent boys that had joined our growing group of admirers wore a cross around his neck.  I asked him why he wore it, was he a Christian, where did he learn about the religion?  He simply shrugged and told us it was what his grandfather had taught him. 

Men showing off their ink, Age 30 and 14

Their gypsy culture is preserved through arranged marriages as well; the members never marrying outside of the tribe.  Parents speak with other parents and arrange the fates of their children’s love life when they are as young as eight years old.  By the time the children are 12 to 13 they are married.  An unsettling fact we learned was that if a wife is unfaithful to her husband, gypsy law gives him permission to punish her by death.  

One thing most of the gypsies had in common was a tattooed small ring of dots on their hand between the index finger and thumb.  These are added to tribe members when they are five or six years old by other family members that know the practice.  Tattoos in general were popular among everyone in the tribe.  Some people sport tattoos that covered their entire arms, some have tattoos on their necks and one young boy of 12 even showed me his bicep with the word “Liberdade” (Liberty) inked onto it.

Gypsy girl giving the symbol for peace and love, age 11

Are the gypsies happy though, is this all they wish for in their lives?  I think so.  As they started their camp fires to cook their dinner; adult men and adolescents smiled and worked together, women folded clothes and tended to the babies as children chased each other through the field laughing and shouting.  They seemed to be content with their lot in life, despite living in obvious poverty.  Not to say that they are a group of people without hardships but, how much do theirs differ from ours?  What makes the gypsies happy is not how much money they have in their bank account.  I doubt they even have bank accounts.  What matters most to them is that they have their freedom and culture; that is their source of happiness.