Crespucolo

Crespucolo was introduced to me at the beach. The word is used as a term describing the time after sunset and just before twilight. It is a time when the sun leaves the day to the evening. The sky reflects its light on the plazas, porticos and the still waters off the beach. And so much more.

 I also like to think of crespucolo as an attitude that is singularly carioca. The concept itself is something learned over a lifetime. It is like a persistent errant trickster who flaunts the rules and someone who cannot keep promises. 

There are people who are ardent watchers of crespucolo. They watch it unfold and yield its secret across a pallet rich in yellow, gold and pink purple sky, with a flash of indigo and red for the Carnaval effect. Each scene is a unique brush stroke within a delicate touch. There is nothing habitual or learned or sponsored.There is never any hurry.

I watch and wrap my feet in the sand, still warm. I let a cold wave wash the feet that brought me here. I start to leave and am told I am going too soon. I am pulled back by a hand. She shakes her head and tells me it would be a pity to leave so early. I would miss the final act and the encore. It is never the same.

There is something to be said about the waiting in anticipation and pausing for a final glimpse of the day. True to its promise I was surprised. I allowed myself to enjoy the significance of being a watcher, and now I am a temporary member of a club of people who strive to bring richer values to the canvas of life.

The scene continues to play out through the stages. I hear secondary sounds emerging from the night. I long for another moment like the last, but it is gone. I will come back someday with a strong sense that I have been away too long.

A Perfect Storm Threatens to Kill A Lagoon in Rio

At the beginning of autumn in the southern hemisphere, I walk with minha querida hand in hand around the Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas in Zona Sul. The Lagoa is a constant source of inspiration since my arrival. Its mirror-like calm offers solitude amongst so much noise. The placid water stills the frenzy of the cars crowding the streets. 

Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas

When the Portuguese arrived in the late 1500s, the local Tamoios called the lagoa Piraguá (motionless water). Later, the Portuguese landowners attempted to farm sugar cane on its banks with help from the tribes. Legend tells us that the farmers insisted on converting the natives to Christianity and making the natives wear clothing. They preferred not to and left. In any event, the farms never took root.

In the 1600s the lagoon earned its present name with the marriage of a local bride to a cavalry officer, Rodrigo de Freitas. Presumably the dashing young captain walked hand in hand with his intended on moonlit nights.

 photo by Delma Godoy 
gassa e logoa

Today, the lagoon serves as a focal point and forms the nexus of several rivers flowing from surrounding underground rivers fed from giant waterfalls in the hills. From the lagoon water spills out past Ipanema to the open sea.

On all sides of its 8k circumference, the lagoon supports a vast recreational community in one of the most densely packed cities on the planet. Each day thousands of runners, walkers, bikers and those on a promenade use every inch of the space. There are private nautical clubs, sports courts and an array of cafes, along with a busy heliport. Since Christmas 1995, a monumental illuminated Christmas tree floats across the mirror d'água, drawing thousands of spectators each night during Christmas.

What many paintings and tourist photographs do not capture is the severe stagnation and pollution below the water line. 

This is a longstanding problem. In 1922, it took the Centenary of the Independence to stir enough local interest to renew the lagoon and solve the problem. Inevitably, the lagoon was rebuilt but then it became severely polluted once again over the decades of government negligence. In the 1960s  a favela grew up along its banks until a fire destroyed it.  Developers moved in with landfill and began to build new luxury apartments and roads.

More construction is set to take place now that the lagoon is expected to become a jewel in the crown during the Summer Games in 2016. This is good news for the private clubs that have established themselves on the lagoon, including the Flamengo Club, the Brazilian Jockey Club, the Garden of Alah and the Naval Club on the island of the Piraquê.

Though a fisherman's colony barely survives near the edges - creating an illusion that all is well in the water -  the lagoon is a victim of chronic toxic waste.

Soon after Carnaval 2010, the lagoon began to smell badly. Days later, scores of boats appeared on the water with city workers pulling out 500-800 tons of dead fish. Early reports from the wildlife managers of the lagoon suggested that too much seaweed had robbed the water of oxygen during a period of high temperatures.

After this event, the water of the lagoon overrode its banks during the Easter floods, killing more fish and waterfowl. The lagoon could not revive itself. Nature had been overcome by seepage from old pipes pushing more contaminants into the sludge of the lagoon. The private clubs, restaurants and concessionaires have all contributed by dumping pesticides and other chemicals to keep their grasses and bushes green and bugs at a distance from humans. All it took, perhaps, was a record four degree rise in temperatures over the summer to set off the chain reaction.

The question to ponder for many who frequent the lagoon today: Would you let your child swim in the same water that killed thousands of fish? Would you eat a fish from the lagoon? If not, why should a bird expect to survive here?

 photo by Delma Godoy  

As I walk around the lagoon I see fewer waterfowl lining the docks. There are fewer flights of ducks and hawks. Only the scavenger birds fly now.  If you hear the call of a heron, count yourself lucky. When the fish and birds are gone, you are the only one left on the food chain.

Secondary Sounds

In Rio, I listen to a rich tapestry of sounds, most of them unfamiliar. One night, walking near a wild congress of waterfowl calling to each other I felt privy to an on-going ritual, a private conversation among the invisible life in the trees and grasses. I imagine that the gassa calls from its perch each night from the dense brush surrounding the lagoa. This is as close as I get to a perfectly natural nocturna, just twenty meters away from the rush-hour noise.

In the morning I listen to the birds chirping outside the kitchen loft. Children arrive early down the street for a long day at school, most of it spent singing and laughing by the sounds of it.

On important holidays and days following large storms, the streets are quiet. Whenever Batafogo or Flamengo is playing there is an eerie stillness in the street until a team scores, then the noise shakes our house from a cheering chorus of fans.

One of the most interesting sounds I’ve heard is that of a flying insect who sings her death song shortly before she ends her short life with a sound much like feedback from a musical amplifier. On one occasion I was at an outdoor restaurant overlooking a vast nature reserve. Looking for the source of this sound I looked to my right and immediately saw a four-foot lizard walking out of the bushes with something in its powerful jaws. It looked at me like I was on the menu and then turned back into the brush while all those the piercing insects continued their song of life and death.

Other sounds are more familiar, like a samba drum practice band in a park or a solitary bossa nova being played from a beginning guitar player and occasionally African singing from a nearby club. At night, these sounds are mixed with the incessant yelling from the indoor futbol players next door who kick their soccer balls against a concrete wall. Caught in between these sounds I try to find my way to sleep.

Then there is the sound of waves crashing, mixed with the murmurs from hundreds of casual conversations in a language I do not understand. There is serendipity in the voices of vendors calling to us with a fresh batch of their tasty treats. This is all possible because of a ban on loud music on the beach. Here, there is a serenity only a beach lover would appreciate.

With so many people living cheek by jowl, there is a significant noise problem in Rio. There are several noise hot-lines which register complaints, mostly about late-night clubs that stay open well past midnight. The police say they are powerless to control noise without laws that are enforceable. But really all anyone can do is to relish the silence between the notes and remember to praise silence where it exists – while focusing on the secondary sounds, the ones that seem less like noise.

All photos by Delma Godoy

March 31 - A Day Remembered

Tanks roll in military rule.

March 31 is a rueful date in Brasil’s history. On that day in 1964 people disappeared, civil liberties were suspended, hard-won freedoms were lost overnight. In what was supposed to be a temporary transition the military coup turned into two decades of oppression.

Teachers were hauled away, while actors and poets went into exile. Students who had pushed hard for social reforms were tortured and killed. Their textbooks were heavily edited to support revisionist histories. Film makers and writers had to be clever to make sure their work got past the censors and still had relevance.


A million people march for democracy in 1968

Not surprisingly, the poorest suffered the worst, with nearly 50 percent of the population living in the favelas on less than a dollar a day. The slums quickly spread across the large cities, while foreign multinationals profited from Brasil’s rapidly expanding economy. Education was limited to the privileged, while babies borne by the poor seldom lived to five years of age.

While the US and many nations in Europe had 200 to 500 years to develop their political systems, Brasil has had just 23 years of democracy.


Students push for a new democracy in 1987

A month ago 150,000 people in Rio gathered in a driving rainstorm to protest a proposed government policy. In October they vote in their country’s most important presidential election. Brasilians are moving at light-speed to a future no one would have predicted forty-six years ago.

An Hour of Perception

As the Hour of the Planet approaches I lay on a small pier watching the southern stars with my companion. On most nights the stars steal the show, but tonight they hide behind small clouds that look like poodles.

Directly above, a 90 percent gibbous waxing moon casts her spell on the water, which ripples from a welcome breeze.

The placid water holds the reflection of lights across the lagoon. The restaurants are full of people talking. Traffic horns and sounds of bossa-nova waft in and out of range. The herons call to each in the dark. Life goes on.

The Christ on the promontory turns off for 60 minutes. The breeze blows out our candle.


Photo by Delma Godoy

A Foreign Body in a Brasilian Odyssey

In my short time in Rio de Janeiro I have enough information to sum up my feelings in the words of French poet Charles Baudelaire.

"That which is not slightly distorted lacks sensible appeal from which it follows that irregularity-- that is to say, the unexpected, surprise and astonishment-- is an essential part and characteristic of beauty."

Comparisons dominate my thoughts. Today, for example, the temperature is 38° C compared to the minus 5C I could be experiencing in the Rockies. People here tell me it is probably ten degrees hotter than what the tourist propagandists put on road signs and official weather reports. So the people talk about “feels like” temperature, which gives me pause, because I am often standing in a stagnant pool of my own sweat. Throughout the day I am either running in and out of a cold shower or swimming in the ocean. My beach clothes are strewn on the veranda to dry out near the red Bougainvillea. I remind myself that most of North America is under the grip of an arctic winter as major cities are shut down due to ice and snow. Snow drifts abound on the dunes of the North Carolina coast. However, in Vancouver, British Columbia, host of the 2010 Winter Olympics, and my home for the past 20 years, the region is enjoying an early spring and trees are budding. Trucks are going to bring snow to the events.

Brazil has been awarded the World Cup in 2014 and Rio, a city of six million, will host the final games. In 2016 Rio will host the Olympics. These are tourist facts only and they will soon fade once one sees the beaches, which host some 2.5 million on a stretch of beach 25 miles long. Most of the beach comprises pristine pearl-white ankle-deep sand washed by waves of warm aquamarine water. It’s hard not to be astonished when you first dive into a wave. Then there is sunset at the close of the day when the locals and tourists wait for crespuscolo, the time following sunset. The sky becomes a palette of colors to be thrown on a canvas by an artist gone mad.

I am but a casual observer, arriving in Rio de Janeiro with more baggage than I needed. I am learning the customs, struggling with a new language and enjoying the life of a temporary Carioca.

With the last of the day’s light I look up to the Corcovado on the mountain above. At night the Christ figure is lit from all angles, his arms spread in a welcoming gesture and expansive against a clear sky. I remind myself I am willing to sweat to enjoy the life of a tourist who is looking for blessings.