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.       

Escaping the Big City

            Tucked way back in the country side and nestled between rolling hills, the town of Pouso Alegre, Minas Gerais is taken right out fairy tales and movies.  Cool air whistles through narrow cobblestone streets as children ride their bikes through patches of shade bestowed to them by puffy white clouds above.  Old men sit at plastic tables on street corner bars sipping beers from tiny glass cups; their younger counterparts, cigarettes tucked behind ears, shoot pool on dimly lit tables inside.  Ostensibly content with watching life move on by, most of them pay no attention to anything in particular.  They certainly do not seem concerned with the gringo and his camera. 

A quaint little town hidden in a valley.

          This tiny town is where I decided to spend my long weekend away from the noise and bustle of Sao Paulo.  As much as I love big cities and often feel my best while navigating through the sprawl of buildings and hecticness that they can present; it is nice from time to time to get away.  There are moments when the smog and grime can get to one and I had an itch creeping up my back, notifying me that such a time had arrived.  Luckily for me, Brazil celebrates the Christian holiday Corpus Christi and if you are not joining the millions parading in the streets, you are hopping on the fastest way out of town.  The fastest way for me and my companions came in the form of a little Volkswagen Gol, driven by Rodrigo Porcionato. 

                To avoid the traffic of the city we decided to depart late on Wednesday night.  This would cut down the commute out of the metropolis from five to three hours; I have been told that two of those five hours are usually spent shuffling in the audacious traffic.  My roommate Ive, her boyfriend Ricardo, Rodrigo and myself hit the road at midnight to commence our flight from the city to Ricardo’s birthplace Pouso Alegre.  After moving out of the endless sea of buildings we entered the country side, rifling through dark and lonely highways in the black two door compact.  I must confess, I do not remember most of the ride.  Occasionally I would be jostled awake to observe Rodrigo gunning past a tractor-trailer, wait till we were safely past and then allow myself to nod off again. 

                At about four in the morning we arrived at Ricardo’s family’s home, the crisp night air and foggy street simultaneously waking and disorienting me.  After the car was backed into the garage, I simply called it a night and passed out in a bed already made for me; Brazilian hospitality at its finest.

                Chatter coming from the kitchen, sunlight and the promising smell of coffee aroused me in the late morning.  I made my way downstairs to join the chorus of voices.  Of course, I was the last to rise and tried to pass it off as if I had been up and ready for hours; after a lot of practice I have gotten pretty decent at that.  I found out that morning that food and drinks are sweet in Minas Gerais, also, they love their cheese.  Breakfast consisted of black sugary coffee, bread smeared with cream cheese and a wheel of delicious white, soft cheese that had a taste similar to mozzarella.  It was difficult not to return back for seconds numerous times.

Pouso Alegre after a hike up one of the hills.  Click for larger image

A family goes to fill their drinking water jugs.

Ricardo offered to show me around the town after breakfast and we set off on a stroll up and down the hills of his hometown.  The township is built in traditional Spanish colonial fashion.  Slender brick avenues are designed for one way automobile passage but two often squeeze by, colonial style houses with red tiled roofs line hills in all directions and the town center has a magnificent old church and plaza where people gather to drink, eat and play.  In some ways the town’s residents live like they did in the times of old by going to local water fountains to fill jugs of drinkable water for their families.  Pouso Alegre even possesses a tiny zoo.  I cannot say many good things about that though; the only animals they have are two lions separated in two tiny cages.  I felt bad for the great cats; yawning in boredom as a young child roared at them a mere two meters away.  I gave him my best “Cut that crap out” look and debated throwing him over the fence; surely the lions would still remember what to do.    

Modern apartment buildings are steadily rising.

 Like the rest of Brazil, the town is growing and expanding its boundary’s.  A few large apartment buildings that look relatively new dot the horizon; during our first walk Ricardo stretched his hand out and waved it in an arch over the town.  “Ten years ago, all of these houses were trees,” he said.  Many new homes can be seen being built on land recently cleared of the old giants; new mortar being laid down before their stumps can be fully removed.  According to Pouso Alegre’s government run website, the town’s population has increased by almost 35,000 residents in the past twenty years.  Approximately 130,000 people reside in the township now.  Despite the obvious modernization though, the place still retains its small town charm that makes it a little jewel in an emergent country.

                I wore out the proceeding days wandering the tiny streets, kicking back beer and whiskey with Ricardo’s hospitable father and chowing down on great cuts of meat and cheese.  It is tough to be me.  Friday night we were treated to Ricardo’s band, “Show Brega’s,” concert.  This was a gig unlike any other I have ever seen before and one I highly doubt I will witness again.  I was told that there would be covers of American music and poorly dressed band members, so I was mightily intrigued prior to heading to the show.  A group of us went down to the town center to wait in line at the pink colonial theater about an hour before it was scheduled to begin.

Rodrigo chilling with the traditional salt, orange and beer.  Squeeze the orange, spread the salt and drink the beer.

                Close to the start of the performance the line had grown and snaked around the entire block.  When the doors opened the group of us streamed into the theater and split up, myself heading for the balcony and Ive making for the front row, I was amazed at the amount of people who were coming in.  “How could all these people fit into this building?” I wondered.

The mob pushed in with little problem; taking plastic chairs and placing them on stair cases, crowding around balconies and putting children on laps.  As the crowd settled down as best they could the band members began to come out one by one to the call of the hidden announcer. Ricardo was first but, when he came out he was unrecognizable. 

He wore a bright red jumpsuit that glittered in the spotlights, his chest hair puffed out of a long slit bearing his entire torso and a newly grown afro bounced unnaturally on his head.  He sat down at his drum set and adjusted his gigantic sunglasses.  More members came out next; two guitarists wearing similar outfits as Ricardo, four back-up singers in suits and trench coats, two sexy female dancers in leopard print tights and finally the lead singer.  He must have wanted the most attention because he came out skipping, hollering in PortuEnglish and spinning in circles so to reveal to everyone his ass-less cowboy chaps.  The crowd went nuts; Rocky Horror Picture Show, eat your heart out. 

For the next two hours I was treated to a mix of traditional Brazilian music, constant outfit changes, horrendous, unsynchronized dancing and a few classic American covers; The Village People’s “YMCA” was pretty well done but, Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” had me hollering and singing along.  In true Brazilian fashion we stayed out late after the performance sipping beers and one-upping each other’s favorite parts of the show.  Eventually we called it a night as the birds began to chirp singling the next day was about to begin.

Saturday was my first time experiencing a true Brazilian BBQ.  Instead of waking up to coffee and cheese I arose to the smell of burning coal and the distinct sound of opening beer cans.  Replacing the usual hamburgers and hotdogs I am accustomed too was an entire leg of pork, a bursting bucket of sausage links and varying cuts of meat sliced on a wooden cutting board.  I was informed that this was the only way to do BBQ; after having the meat quite literally melt in my mouth, I am inclined to agree. 

Ricardo's father, "Bigode" (Mustache), preparing for the BBQ

By mid afternoon the house was filled with friends and relatives of all ages.  It was not long before babies were crying, uncles and cousins were loudly joking, slapping each other on the back whilst children wearing sly smirks attempted to discreetly set off fireworks in the driveway.  The grill, never absent of red meat, crackled and wheezed into the evening and as day turned to dusk and dusk gave way to night the party only slowed to allow people to procure more beer.

I played a traditional Brazilian card game called Truco on a large drum; its bass echoing as we threw our cards down on it in rowdy fashion.  Truco is played two vs two and after every round a team can gain one point or three, depending on if they can call the other team’s bluff.  I wish I could explain the rules better but, after multiple rounds I am still slightly unclear on how I lost so many times.  Aces are high, sometimes, as are sevens, sometimes; jacks can beat kings and I do not know what else.  What I do know though is that when you call someone’s bluff you have to yell “TRUUUUUUCOOOOOOO!!” at them; I excel at that part.  Winners play the next in line round robin style and after a few games the decisive champs were Ricardo’s brother Leandro and his fiancé Natalia.  I taught the Brazilians some American drinking games as well. 

Beer Pong makes it south of the border.

They were not big fans of Beer Pong, which can best be described as basketball with ping pong balls but, they excelled at Flip Cup.  Whereas Beer Pong is played with two teams of two, Flip Cup is more akin to a drinking relay race with as many people playing as a table can fit.  Many beers were tossed back to the chant of “Toma, Toma, Toma.” (Drink, Drink, Drink) as uncles, aunts and nephews all took part in the game.  The night ended in a foot race down the street in which I lost ten Reals.  I blame the beer for making me forget that soccer is such a big deal down here…

Alas, there is only so much country side I can take.  Cheese and coffee are grand but, I missed Sao Paulo’s high pitched moto horns and the screeching squeal of truck brakes in the morning.  My escape from the big city came to an end on a lazy Sunday afternoon watching movies and interviewing the local Gypsies.  They are an interesting band of wanderers but, that story will have to wait till next time. 

Waiting in the rain, 2 AM

The joys of traveling

AFTER THE FACT- We did not quite make it back in a timely fashion due to Rodrigo's little Volkswagen not being able to cope.  A 200 kilometer journey ended after 150 km when smoke gusted from the hood blurring our vision.  We faltered to a stop and waited for the first tow truck; the VW Gol not even giving the slightest inclination of coming back to life.  The truck arrived at about 4:30 AM and dragged us half a km to a gas station.  He pulled us over to the side of the parking lot and proceeded to tell us it would cost R$400 for him to take us the remaining 50 kilometers. We opted to wait for another truck in the parking lot of the gas station till about 8 AM; other garages would begin to open up for the day then.  At nine another one arrived and towed us the rest of the way back to Sao Paulo in stop and go traffic; a fitting welcome back to the big city.