Fran Bryson - In Brazil

IN BRAZIL

Fran Bryson lives on Flinders Island, largest of the Furneaux islands, in the treacherous waters of Bass Strait in Southeastern Australia. When not travelling and writing about travel, she reviews events for the local publication Island News , and works as an occasional grape picker and tour guide. For some years one of Australias leading literary agents, Fran is not related to Bill Bryson, although her parents are indeed authors. In Brazil is her first book, and some supplementary travel information can be found on her website: www.franbryson.com

Scribe Publications
>1820 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia
2 John St, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom

First published by Scribe 2016

Copyright Fran Bryson 2016

Nick Cave, Into My Arms, reproduced with kind permission from the author and Muse, London.

While every care has been taken to trace and acknowledge copyright, we tender apologies for any accidental infringement where copyright has proved untraceable and we welcome information that would redress the situation.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Cover image: Capoeira on the beach, iStock_000021130388

CIP data records for this title are available from the National Library of Australia and the British Library

9781925321142 (Australian edition)
9781925228373 (UK edition)
9781925307405 (e-book)

scribepublications.com.au
scribepublications.co.uk

For my parents,

with love and gratitude

Into my arms, O Lord

Into my arms

Nick Cave

Contents

Belm, Par

Unio dos Palmares, Alagoas

Cachoeira, Bahia

Salvador, Bahia

Canudos, Bahia

Nova Jerusalm, Pernambuco

INTERLUDE: : OLINDA, PERNAMBUCO

The Central West

Braslia, Distrito Federal

Vale do Amanhecer, Distrito Federal

Pirenpolis, Gois

Abadinia, Gois

INTERLUDE: : OLINDA, PERNAMBUCO 143

The Southeast

Aparecida do Norte, So Paulo

Estrada Real, Minas Gerais

Petrpolis, Rio de Janeiro

Uberaba, Minas Gerais

Avenida Presidente Vargas, Rio de Janeiro

INTERLUDE: : RIO DE JANEIRO

Back to the North and the Northeast

Salvador, Bahia

Piranhas, Alagoas

Juazeiro do Norte, Cear

Salvador, Bahia

Xapuri, Acre

Cu do Mapi, Amazonas

O Samb dromo, Rio de Janeiro

Prologue

At certain periods it becomes the dearest ambition of a man to keep a faithful record of his performances in a book; and he dashes at this work with an enthusiasm that imposes on him the notion that keeping a journal is the veriest pastime in the world, and the pleasantest.

Mark Twain

On the nights that the wolf does appear, he always waits for dark.

The Pousada Santurio de Caraa was originally a monastery. I found it on one of my early trips to Brazil. It is a fine example of the blending of the religious and secular, so typically Brazilian. In my life in Australia, monasteries were as was religion itself cloistered away. Religion was mysterious, elusive, a bit like the wolf.

The sanctuary offered by the church today is still good for the soul: guests can go bushwalking and witness the occasional appearance of the maned wolves, which sometimes take their supper on the church steps. Each night I join the other guests, most of them members of Brazils fast-growing bourgeoisie, all sitting on garden chairs around the terrace edge as we chat, sipping rough claret and hoping for an encounter with the wild.

The old church spire soaring over the trees is visible from almost any point on the property. Some of the stone buildings go back two hundred and fifty years not a lot of time by Brazilian standards, but long enough to tell some of the countrys plethora of stories. In 1968, fire gutted the four-storey sandstone library, and hundreds of books were lost. A dozen columns remain, and wall damage has been repaired with smoked glass. The modern is braided with the old.

The monks quarters offer visitors basic accommodation, with hot water and electric lighting. The rooms are spotless, and have wooden floors have been worn by years of trailing robes. Typical Brazilian fare is offered as part of the package: chicken and pork; beans and rice; potatoes mashed, or chopped into soggy fries. Lunch is dinner reheated. Each morning, I clumsily rap the edge of a butter knife against the shells to spill my breakfast eggs straight onto the ancient wood-stoked grill.

Mass is offered several times a week by Father Marcos. Hes a sporty-looking twenty-eight-year-old who schmoozes like a presidential candidate. A gaggle of guests attend him like courtiers. I am introduced to each group proudly as an estrangeira , as if I am the priests first foreign guest. And perhaps I am. Father Marcos is the one hundred and eightieth padre at Caraa, although hes probably the first to wear jeans. His brief (which he admits one night after he thinks I have drunk too much red wine) is to make money for the church.

Each evening, Father Marcos brings a tray of bones onto the church terrace, and we gather in hope that the wolves will come. Scraping the tray along the tiles with his foot, his call echoes across the steppe. In concert with the vegetation across these hills, the wolves are delicate, not bulky, and often elusive. The fact that they have not become extinct in Brazil is due more to good luck than good management. My sudden desire to see one comes with a pang of surprise.

But we wait, and we refill our glasses, and as the hour grows later a curious hollow forms inside me as the possibility that the wolf may not arrive becomes a probability. We are unable, Padre Marcos says with a laugh, to offer refunds if the show is cancelled. My hand grips the wine glass with more force than necessary. The idea of the wolf is so tantalising. Seeing such a creature seems, for some reason I cant quite fathom, necessary. Suddenly, it is a life goal I hadnt realised I had.

Then from the darkness theres a movement. It snags my attention. The Brazilians raise their cameras, and I feel like shouting, Stop dont frighten it away!

But I dont. I am the stranger here.

A snout appears over the lowest step. Guara , the priest greets him (it looks to be a him). Will he come up or disappear back into the shadows? He glides up one step, two; stops. Taking the last three steps as one, he lands on the tiles in front of the church, bright eyes hooded and alert. Guara , the priest says again. It is the ndio word for red. But his colour is lost in the staccato burst of camera flashes.

The wolf gazes upon the priest with something approaching disdain. His muscles are taut, ready to bear him away at a moments notice. Sitting still, I find myself praying that the Brazilians will not scare him away. A dozen or more swirl around him, taking photos; a few look ready to spring towards him. But, to my relief, he seems as used to the barrage of flashes as a modern-day prince.

He steps with guarded care but shows no fear. Four graceful paces, and his snout hovers over the battered metal tray. Choosing a bone as long as his foreleg, he lifts it with expert, gentle jaws. He is beautiful. With front legs jointed low, he moves like a dancer.

For a time, the wolf lets temptation override caution, and the sound of crunching bone bounces off the old stone walls like rifle cracks. The wolfs jaw junctions close to his skull, providing leverage. I can feel the power in his bite.