Monday, 2 January 2012

Your Life Is An Impossibility`s New Year’s Eve is spent in the only way New Year’s Eve should be spent – in torrential rain, watching a duplo sertanejo, in the main square of the otherwise picturesque town of Goiás Velha. Hunger spasms wrack the YLIAI belly – all the bars and restaurants closed at 10pm, meaning the only food on offer now is grilled cat kebabs served by men with blackened fingernails. Things look up when YLIA finds a booze stand flogging whopper shots of Johnny Walker Red Label (what passes for fine whiskey in these parts) for the pittance of R$7. But the allegedly straight Johnny Walker Red Label smells of oranges and tastes like one of those radioactive mixed fruit citrus drinks that make children’s skin turn yellow. YLIAI suspects that the virginal status of the whiskey bottle may not have survived the journey from distillery to booze stand intact.

Still, Francis Begbie is a fine companion for this or any other occasion, and the patter fairly pelts along. The local radio DJ up on the sodden stage thanks someone called Vilas Boas for his part in organizing the show. YLIAI amuses Francis Begbie by telling her that the manager of Chelsea Football Club is also called Vilas Boas, but as a Portugeezer his name must be pronounced Vilash Boash.  Francis Begbie hunts for paper and pen so as to prevent this pearl from ever slipping from memory. The influence, or otherwise of Shakespeare’s sonnets on the lyrics of current Brazilian smash hit Ai Se Eu Te Pego (delicía, delicía, assim você me mata, ai se eu te pego/ooh baby, ooh baby, you’re driving me nuts, oooh when I get my paws on you….) is analysed in some detail.

Eventually shelter is taken from the storm behind the kiosk of the corrupter of young whiskeys. The only other punter there is a snail the size of a pony, leaving plenty of space to watch the self-dubbed most shameless duplo sertanejo in Brazil, Cesar & Alessandro. It’s an impressive title, given that even being a duplo sertanejo in the first place surely requires one to be sem vergonha in spades. YLIAI can recommend C&A tune Posto Da Gasolina, or Petrol Station, about why a petrol station is a really good place to pick up chicks.

The New Year is greeted in typical style by the kind of magic and miracles that even YLIA’s godless heart can appreciate, or in other words, fireworks. How original, YLIAI scoffs at the beginning, as he always does, but soon he is oohing and aahing with the best of them, the charms of a bounteous harvest of leggy goianiense youth squeezed into their best, most spray-painted-on, reveillon glad rags forgotten, just for a few moments.

And what of the centro-oeste? First impressions, after almost three months, are not entirely favourable. Not that the jewel of the mid-west, Goiânia, is such a bad place. Nowhere where the eating not only of breakfast, lunch and dinner, but also of jantinha, or little dinner, is compulsory, can be entirely bad. It is a middle-class-ish kind of city – few vertiginous favelas, none of Recife’s river or swamp side shanties. On an evening stroll out to the village-in-upstate-New-England charms of Jaó, Francis Begbie takes a wrong turn, and our pair end up in a grotty neighbourhood down near the abandoned railway line. This is one of the favelas, whispers Francis Begbie, eyes even more saucer-like than usual, which is saying something. Gadzooks, cries YLIAI, if this was in Recife it would be the most expensive square on the Monopolio board!  An exaggeration, to be fair, but it’s true to say that even the very worst Goiânia has to offer remains more Jardim São Paulo than Coque.

The red earth of the dry season has turned into red mud now the rains are here, and Goiânia has a muddy feel to it in every sense. This may be a nicer place to live than Recife, in some ways – better roads, less flooding when it rains, less harum scarum street kids hanging off buses, less people getting shot every day. Goiânia boasted a new personal best in 2011, with 444 murders by November, a figure that again had Francis Begbie reeling in extra-wide-eyed horror, while YLIAI chuckled at the feeble efforts of the sertanejo loving baddies: until the admirable progress of the last couple of years, 4,000 homicidios would be a quiet year for the Recife death toll.

But, and herein lies the rubber bullet, Goiânia is not an exciting place to live. When the Dark Lords of the Sith at TV Globo go spinning around Brazil for their New Year’s Eve round up, there’s Avenida Paulista up on the screen, and Copacabana, and the Farol da Barra, and Boa Viagem, and a stage in front of some charmless chunk of Niemeyer in Brasilia, and even Praça Da Estação in Belo Horizonte, but no Goiânia.  When the World Cup winning tickets were handed out, the aforementioned usual suspects were all there, slapping each other on the back, along with Porto Alegre and Curitiba, Natal and Fortaleza and Manaus, and even bloody Campo Grande, for Dilma’s sake, but no Goiânia. Come carnaval, Brazil will flood to Olinda and Salvador and Rio and Ouro Preto and the rest, while Goianienses abandon their capital in droves.

There are works of art here, to be fair. The public transport system is a marvellous recreation of last century pre-privatisation slackness: buses are late, ancient and always packed. A plus is the food, which knocks Recife’s namby pamby fishiness into a cocked hat – feijão tropeiro is a marvel of Brazilian culture the equal of any of Machado De Assis’ scribblings or Tom Jobim’s noodling.  A negative might the people, though of course it's very, very, very wrong to generalise in such a way. But what the hell. The locals are a guarded bunch, compared to the nordestino's back-slapping chuminess, and on the surface at least, slumped outside bars while the ever present musica sertanej bawls from a nearby car stereo, unlikely to be forming any centro-oeste Algonquin round tables in the near future. The countryside outside the city is pleasanter than the bumpy agreste of Pernambuco, though not as haunting as the sertão. Historic towns such as Goias Velha and Pirenopolis are fine, romantic places to spend a weekend. And, of course, there is the leggy goianiense youth…

But there is nothing to take the breath away, nothing to make the heart soar. Nothing as exhilarating as Arruda filled with 60,000 lost souls, nothing as goosebumping as all those people and all that booze streaming up and down the ladeiras of Olinda during carnaval. Nothing as poetically evocative as the sun setting behind the church in the Patio Santa Cruz, or the view from a bus careering over the bridge into Pina. Goiânia, Recife’s frumpy and better mannered cousin dressed in smarter clothes, is nice, and there’s nothing much worse than being nice.  

The problem was, YLIAI thought he’d had it with Recife. Thought four years was enough. Thought it was time to settle down into a life of quiet, goianiense boredom. Turns out he was wrong. Turns out absence really does make the cock grow harder, as YLIAI’s new literary hero John Cheever would surely have said (metaphorically speaking, and with apologies to more sensitive readers). Only where, now, will it all end?

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