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 When I catch myself whining about the rain or all the work to do picking up leaves and debris I have to ask myself: "What part of 'rainforest' don't you understand?" How beautiful is cascading water in a tropical forest? Everyday I'm bathing in a stream fed by springs and rain, with fish that used to entertain me in an aquarium.
I'm finding orchids and bromeliads falling from the trees and fruit that defies description. Sun, clouds, scattered showers with temperatures from 20°C - 30°C (68°F - 86°F) is a safe daily forecast this week. It's nice to have St. Peter, the Keeper of Heaven's Gate, responsible for all of the sky's activity, watering my fields and gardens while I stay dry in the house. Life in the Mata Atlântica (Atlantic Rainforest) is a correria, a runaround. When it starts to rain, you need to grab any number of things to go inside and when the sun comes out, everything goes outside to get dry again! Showers pass through here day and night to keep us on our toes. The natives of this area have keen instincts about the rain and I watch their clotheslines like a weather gauge. Prolonged showers can hide the sun for days and when the bright sun finally reappears Itacaré's sidewalks fill up with cushions, pillows, clothes and furniture; kind of festive in a Felliniesque sort of way. Our solar powered radio has a similar comic effect with the frequently passing clouds causing it to drift in and out like a running gag in the background of daily life. "São as águas de março fechando o verão. É a promesa de vida no teu coração." "They're the waters of March closing the summer. It's the promise of life in your heart." - Antônio Carlos Jobim The rain that arrives in March marks the end of summer all over Brazil. This year, in the south of Bahia, the radical shift in weather left no doubt about the changing seasons. It was hot and dry throughout the Carnaval celebrations at the end of February. The tourists were ecstatic without any rain to get in the way of their outdoor adventures. Even with receding water levels; nearby whitewater rafting still gives them a thrill. The same diminishing water supply left Itacaré in a mild panic because the city started rationing water, the water company raised its rates and the folks at higher elevations had no water at all due to the low level of the reservoir. Even the little creek ambling through our land was very low but thanks to the springs a few miles away, it will never go dry. Why does life around here have to be so extreme? In the course of just one weekend the hot, dry weather gave way to a thorough drenching. which paralyzed most normal activity. During Carnaval I sequestered myself each night and went through 25 years of slides to organize and prepare them for scanning. One night I was sitting between the projector and the light box when the first announcement came. There was a complete blackout and in less than a second an enormous boom rattled the windows like a jet crashing through the sound barrier, provoking in me an instinctive "duck and cover" response. The lights were restored in less than 10 seconds and the entire city let out an audible, collective 'sigh.' It was a heart stopping sound then that was the end of it, life went on as before. The following day was quiet and grey and in the evening the flickering flashes of lightning in the distance served as a subtle reminder of what was to come. While sound asleep in the early morning hours the thunder came upon us like a pre-dawn raid and quickly escalated to the sound of a full scale war being waged above us. The falling rain was moderate compared to the ferocious thunder claps resonating and ricocheting among the clouds of the dark, grey sky. Sleep was impossible but the bed provided great comfort. Thunder never repeats; it makes an infinite number of violent cracks and booms, some muffled, some echoing and at times it rips across the sky and seemingly pierces the eardrums. After a lull in the stormy weather the rain returned in a relentless downpour with no sign of letting up; effectively putting all plans on 'hold.' I woke up at 6 am one morning to the sound of passing showers and by 8 o'clock the neighbor's chainsaw started up and didn't stop, even in the rain. The sound of a chainsaw in the Mata Atlântica hurts more than a dental drill probing a deep cavity. Only 10% of this lush, tropical forest has survived and most of the remnant forest is in this region, mixed with pastures and plantations. That's why in Bahia we register chainsaws, not firearms. My neighbor, whom I call "The Cattle King," has slashed and burned the forest right up to our fence. Then he paid a chainsaw crew to cut rough lumber from the trees left to dry on the ground and following the example of his predecessors he planted a non-native grass for his cows; ending for good the diverse native habitat which supported thousands of exotic plants and animals. I would become a vegetarian if I thought it would save a small bit of forest. According to Brazil's most popular newsmagazine, Veja, cow pastures eating their way into the mighty Amazon recently turned in a combined measurement the size of Italy! "Cows Found on this Property will be Killed and Eaten." That's the sign I'd like to post around our land and I would do it too, if I thought it would do any good. It's too bad posting those signs would be in vain because the yokels who handle farm animals around here can't read. By now I am well beyond my pet peeve, mild irritation or slight annoyance with "The Cattle King" and his small herd. For the third time, our neighbor's cows broke the fence causing trouble and trashing the gardens around my house. The first sign of trouble came a few years ago when our neighbor on the east side had a mule that was out of control. That dumb bicho, (beast), kicked down a couple of posts putting the barbed wire on the ground. Then he came over and kicked and bit our mule; yeah, he broke the fence, beat up our mule and split! Turned out the owner wasn't much more intelligent or agreeable than his dumb jack ass. He made no apology, wouldn't call a vet to look at our animal and wouldn't repair the fence. To add insult to injury he tried to SELL us the wood for the fence. In Brazil someone so bold and cheeky is called cara de pau, or, wooden face, ironically enough. I told him what to do with his wood and likewise the mule. Another sort of humorous incident occurred just after lunch one day when I heard a lot of yelling about a hundred meters from the house up toward the road. I took the dog by the leash and went up to find somebody thrashing around in the woods, making loud. incomprehensible noises and I thought, 'Oh shit, I've got a drunk on my hands.' As it turned out, the guy was trying to round up a stray that managed to get through our pedestrian gate while the herd was passing on the road. On the other side of us is "The Cattle King." He pays little or nothing to graze his cows on other people's land, including ours, while he clears the forest to make pastures on his own land and his cattle can be seen moving up and down the road on any given day. Anyway it's his dumb animals that are making me crazy. Once they got loose over here when I wasn't home and my wife and dog had no way to round them up. Although the dog is part German Shepherd he never had any experience herding animals so he just barked like crazy while my wife, a city girl trying to defend her new bed of flowers, found herself between a cow and a calf on one side and a protective bull on the other. Eventually they moved away from the house and our caseiro, or, farm hand, arrived to restore order. On the second occasion I was here when I heard the dog going nuts down by the banana trees. I arrived there to find him moving the small herd back through the broken fence just like a veteran; running, circling and barking. All I had to do was get a stick and start whistling, the cows got back to their side quickly. Unfortunately they showed up a week later when nobody was home and the dog was tied up on the patio. He must have made a lot of noise, all for naught because no one could hear him and the cows had no fear. They crushed pineapple plants, broke stairs and retaining walls, ate every young fruit tree we planted and left manure everywhere! We returned home to find our neighbor's apologetic caseiro at our gate, who could only assure us that there was no damage to our house. He also kindly fixed the fence and has had the good sense to keep himself and those cows far away from me. Since getting moved to our house on the land outside of town, I've had a "double-life" as country yahoo on the pineapple plantation and Itacaré's photographer with many hats. ('Hats' include bartender, guide, interpreter/translator and others.) Our local web designer kindly gave me a corner of his office for my desk, computer, files, etc., in trade for photos and general office support and the short, five-mile commute to town has been an adventure unto itself. Originally, I made the ten-minute drive in our car but my wife needed it more and anyway, I was tired of the shakedown at the police roadblock; the trolls always wanted a little money to let the Gringo pass. We do have a regional bus passing on our dirt road four times a day arriving in Itacaré's bus station in about twenty minutes so I'm not completely stranded. That's the good news. The trouble is that this bus doesn't travel on rainy days because of the mud. Walking and hitchhiking are the alternatives, meaning I can walk two kilometers up to the asphalt and thumb a ride or catch a bus; whichever comes first. The only shelter from sun and rain where the dirt road meets the highway at the "6", (km 6), is with the police at their roadblock. On one occasion the local cops on duty there gave me a lift as two of them were going into town to pick up lunch. Surely it caused tongues to wag when I arrived in town in the back of the cops' little cruiser. I have ridden the short eight kilometers, or five miles, in a school van (with kids), a natural gas delivery truck, various cabs (no fare); with tourists, surfers and Jesus freaks. I even risked my neck on the back of a guy's new motorcycle, "Just fourteen kilometers," he proudly exclaimed about his shiny new bike. I quickly realized that this was also the sum total of his riding experience! Thank God we went different directions upon reaching the highway. Not quite as scary, but equally memorable, was a ride in the big, flatbed truck with short rails in place and only a few large bags and boxes to deliver. With the rest of the space for the bóia fria, day laborers, this is a popular form of transportation throughout rural Brazil. I climbed in, someone shouted "Segura" (hang on) and off we went; young and old farmers and their families all clutching farm tools, bags and Bibles. Rural life in the south of Bahia is full of surprises but I'm not as irritated as I may sound. There is nearly always something humorous and endearing about the eventual outcome of these little adventures. Like everything everywhere, it's a matter of adapting. The climate and tropical forest environment produce exotic flora and fauna while Bahia produces some of the most charming and unusual characters I've ever met. It makes for a rich and colorful theater where improvisation is essential for survival since there are no rehearsals for what we go through around here. Baianos, and Brazilians in general, know how to live in the moment; as if the future just doesn't exist and I have to learn to "Faz na hora," which is there way of telling to me relax and don't worry; cross that bridge when you get to it. You can find Eric's chronicle of daily life on line at http://feathers.fotopages.com or browse his photos at http://flickr.com/photos/das_plumas.
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