cowboy viado and other obscenities

[ 02.02.05 ]

woken up and torn away this festive morning from my pranayama session by the massive base and insistent tingling da-da-da-da-da-da we've come to recognize as aratuba's answer to the morning player call. the song -- always a hit, always a reprise -- had been formally requested by the lusophonic faction of the gringo crew a mere 36 hours earlier, and played with few interruptions ever since. it's called "cowboy viado" (pronounced "cowboy viadu"), it's blasted out of the back of a silver hatchback fifteen meters away, and it's about 90 seconds long. never worry -- it's always on repeat.

the first half is a slow high male voice introducing and teasing the cowboy viado, which, though not in our dictionary, apparently means "gay cowboy". or, if you want to wrap yourself in yet another illusion of culture and resonance -- "midnight cowboy". the second half chants, over a deeply prostituted housy beat:
	ele senta (pause)
	ele senta (pause)
	ele senta (pause)
	ele senta (pause)
	ele senta no cavalho so para levantar o seu rabo

or

	he sits (pause)
	he sits (pause)
	he sits (pause)
	he sits (pause)
	he sits on his horse just to raise his asshole

which brings up all sorts of issues revolving the macho brazilian male's fascination with homosexual culture. always dancing in a bright tight Tsunga (some spandex between speedos and boxers), beer in hand, no women in sight. so there's that.

february is upon us. it's the last month. there has not been, nor is, nor will be, any repreive from the Madness. carnaval starts tomorrow. january was a blur of trips and homecomings, a dozen guests, huge dinners, occassional customers, immense quantities of fruit. i take solemn comfort, looking over the trailer park balcony, to know the compost, too, is drowning.

today, the 2nd of february, is the festival of Iemanja, the orixa (saintly goddess) of the ocean. Jorge Amado paints a lush swirling picture of drowned sailors vying to be her consorts, their starving widows cursing her power, her presence, her competition. But none too loudly. Today fishermen and wives drop sweets, liquor, perfume, and trinkets into boats and baskets, designed to be taken by the tide to her gaping, seductive maw.

Doidao came by halfway through the laundry (guests + sheets - water shortage = beer) with the biggest chameleon ever to grace our dinner table, electric green and almost the size of his arm. only a leash kept the voracious dragon away from throats and precious mangos. The former led me out to a candomble (afro-brazilian catholi-pagan ritua-religion) festival across the street.
	And who's running it but Painh(o/a), local religious leader and transvestite. You know, the one that comes by the house with a "cade o gringo bonito" ("where the pretty gringo"), always disappointed when erik isn't around. As big as any woman and with the white bahian garb to prove it, Painho was (d/tr)ancing a precise circular storm when I started clapping along. Three men on drums -- one harangued by an equally large woman as to the true transcendental division of the beat -- and four shirtless boys (the ones that chase our frisbees down) tinkling cowbells and dancing around Painho (our little father....). Like so much else in Brazil -- and maybe I'm learning this is what brasil is all about -- i didn't know if i was experiencing something sublime or obscene. Beautiful miniature boats filled with champagne, cachaca, and peanut brittle. Drunken drummers rhythym barely making it through the haze of hi-fi arrocha coming from everywhere around us. And Painho himself chanting in no portuguese I had ever heard, invoking the spirit of Iemanja amidst his swirling skirts.

	It continued for hours -- as the time wore on, more and more spectators arrived, decked out in plastic bikinis and tacky sunglasses, huge watches and clapping hands. occassionally one would enter with a bar of soap or perfume to give to iemanja, filling the huge baskets. Sometimes Painho would dance with the baskets on his head. Then more Bahianas filtered in to the ritual area, and he would dance up to each one, fiercely, at which point they would have to enter the ring and dance madly with him until the drumbeat died down. These women danced manically despite their size and age, and left the ring flushed with bliss. After this stage of the ritual Painho sat down and cried -- heaving sobs -- for a good 15 minutes, while others danced and sang. Then a woman entered the scene, dressed all in white as well, and danced possessed for the better part of an hour. She made all kinds of squawking noises like a chicken, and fell down (and had to be helped up) multiple times, always to renewed clapping and even applause. She would sing different songs, which the crowd knew and followed, and had complete control of the drummers, somehow signalling exactly which beats to play. After she ceded the floor, Painho returned with an Oar in his hand, pretended to row for a while, and then took a basket on his head. Several of the Bahianas did likewise, as well as Marcos -- a kind and sleazy Italian who's been here for almost twenty years.
	They walked out of the barraca onto the beach as the crowd followed, eventually walking into the ocean -- baskets held atop their heads -- to a waiting boat. The boat was a typical Aratuban fishing boat, designed for two or three people and a net full of shrimp and seaweed. Close to thirty people must have boarded, presents and all, and it puttered off towards a break in the reef to dump the presents at sea.
	At this point I noticed a number of other processions and boats up and down the beach, and within five minutes six boats had formed a flotila of sorts, crossed through the reef, and headed out to the wild and deep Atlantic to drop their gifts for Iemanja.

	The whole thing was wild. hot. savage. strangely sexual. This ancient energy of tribes, spirits, drums, and dende oil juxtaposed with the flashy watch the priest was wearing and the bright plastic bikini of every female from six to sixty. The three drummers trancing for hours in bermuda shorts, and everything seemed to fit so well. Nothing out-of-place, nothing to make you think of globalization or the red hot chili peppers -- just brazil doing its thing, making a loud beautiful plastic party out of everything.

	And yes, Carnaval starts tomorrow...

***

nota buena -- if shit goes well with the landlord, we have the pousada until the end of feb. the last scheduled guest (we have a houseful of unscheduled ones at the moment...) leaves feb 20. carnval is thursday through tuesday. the tempo might slow down a bit, but im not crossing my drumsticks. which is all to say, you still have a chance to rescue yourself from whatever malaise of indecision or illusion of irresponsibility has prevented you from visiting so far. no joke. the brazilian solution is in the last stage of the proof. get your visa today, come on friday, and stay for two weeks.

***

ankur