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 Surveying the panorama, I saw mile after
mile of developed beaches fronted by high-rise hotels
one after another. Was this Maceió, or was it Daytona Beach?
By Norman Weeks
The great eastward bulge of the South American continent, closer to Africa than to any
place in North America, is the Nordeste of Brazil. The Nordeste was the
region of Brazil's discovery, first settlement, and early culture. Gradually, political
power and economic strength shifted from the plantation aristocrats of the Nordeste
down to the mercantile elite of São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro. The Nordeste then
sank into poverty, its subsistence farmers suffering privations caused by recurrent
droughts.
If the barren badlands of the interior of the Nordeste are the curse of the
region, the beaches of the Atlantic might be its salvation. All of the Brazilian state
capitals of the Nordeste—Fortaleza, Natal, João Pessoa, Recife, Maceió,
Aracaju, and Salvador—are perched on the Atlantic coastline. The beaches of the Nordeste
being as picturesque as, and, more importantly, safer than, the beaches of Rio de Janeiro,
Brazilians from the South have flocked to the Nordeste capitals. Instead of the
subsistence agriculture of the past, internal Brazilian tourism is becoming the basis of
the local economies.
The people of the Nordeste littoral, once desperate dirt scratchers, are now
making their livelihood out of sea sand and those who come to lie upon it.
A hundred sixty miles south of Recife, the metropolis of the Nordeste, is
Maceió, capital of the state of Alagoas. What I remember twenty-five years ago as a
sleepy little mosquito-infested hoveltown in a swamp has now become a thriving tourist
destination for those who seek Brazil as it should be, the Brazil of tropical fantasy, the
Brazil free of strong-arm robberies, narcotics trafficking, street children, and dangers
lurking all around.
From the tenth-floor dining room of my Maceió beachfront hotel, I heard, at breakfast,
the call of the cock of the neighborhood, and I looked down to see a tired horse, under
the direction of a slumped peasant, pulling a ramshackle two-wheeled cart. That was the
Maceió as I remembered it from my Peace Corps days.
But then, surveying the panorama, I saw mile after mile of developed beaches fronted by
high-rise hotels one after another. Was this Maceió, or was it Daytona Beach?
Alagoas is in a joint venture with Pernambuco to develop the beaches adjoining the
borders of the two states into a great Costa Dourada, a Gold Coast. The idea is, in fact,
to reproduce the prosperous beach communities of the Florida Atlantic coast.
Maceió has been spending a lot developing the tourist infrastructure. The city beaches
are models of attractiveness. There is a walkway running the length of the beaches, barracas
(restaurant/bar cabanas) at intervals, white sand and clean waters, the glare of the sun
reduced by the many coqueiros (coconut palms), the characteristic tree of the
Alagoas coast. I left the hotel and headed to the water. I walked the series of beaches
northward of Pajuçara Beach, at an hour when the sun was risen but not yet high enough to
fill the beaches with bathers.
I came across a few fishermen practicing their ancient trade. Traditional local economy
was not wholly extinct. I first saw a practitioner of the thrownet. That is a circular net
weighted along its circumference. The fisherman wades the shallows, and, when he spots
some small dark shadows in the water, he flings the net into the air, hoping to capture
the fish within the net when it abruptly parachutes around them. Lifting up the net draws
the weights together and entraps the fish in the mesh.
Success with a thrownet depends on sharp eyes and clear water. I watched the portly
fisherman—for he had a big belly to fill—make his casts. He caught just a few
small fish, which his partner removed from the net and dropped into a basket.
There was also a crew of shore fishermen working the beach. They had set out a long
hanging net in a great loop, to corral the fish. Three of them pulled in the rope at one
end of the net, gradually reducing the loop and drawing in the fish toward the shore. The
men walked backwards up the beach, pulling the rope, the highest man then switching to the
lowest, rotating their positions, working slowly but relentlessly.
At times, one man would leave the one-way tug-o-war and pile the accumulated rope in a
neat circle. I could see the floats of the net approaching the shore closer and closer.
The fishermen's work drew a crowd of bystanders, interested in seeing what the catch would
be. At last, the crew pulled the net onto the sand. A mass of shanghaied fish wriggled and
flopped about, dismayed at the sudden loss of their aqueous ambiance.
The fishermen bent over their catch and began to toss the fish into a big wicker
basket. They culled their catch, tossing aside undesirable or inedible fish, like puffers,
along with the small crabs entangled in the mesh. The puffer one fisherman called `a
ping-pong ball', but he kicked it into the air like a soccer ball. Some children chased
after it.
One boy, finding a crab, pressed it into the sand by stepping on it with his bare foot,
tore out both its pincers, then took the crippled crab away with him. Some bystanders,
seeing the little rejected fish tossed aside and struggling in asphyxiated desperation in
the sand, picked them up and tossed them back into the Atlantic. One leathery old lady was
especially diligent in her rescue mission. Sunbathing tourists have cash to buy their
lunch; they have no need of fish. Whether they tried to save the lives of the castoff fish
out of compassion or conservation, I was gladdened to see them do it.
The toddlers and tykes were excited and delighted to witness the catch. They wanted to
pick up and examine every little flipflopping fishy life-form, even as their mothers
warned, `Watch out, it'll bite you!'
One fisherman found a plastic cup, filled it with sea water, inhabited it with a tiny
angelfish, and gave it to a small boy, who took the cup and drew it up close under his
staring eyes. An older boy—the same who had mutilated the crab—filled a yellow
plastic pail with all the fish he could grab up. He had put seawater into the pail, but,
crowded as the fish were, and because he wanted to pick out and examine every individual
in his collection, the fish were soon dying or dead, one after another, killed by
suffocation and shock and the boy's touch.
I continued my stroll up to the farther beaches, where I gazed and lingered. When I got
back to Pajuçara Beach an hour or so later, I saw the same fishermen, the same scene,
some same and some new bystanders.
There were two baskets of fish now. In one, a still heap, the gills of the fish flared
from their last breath. In the other basket, a struggle, twitches, a few feeble flips.
And, from the bottom of the basket, now and then a shudder that welled up to the top of
the heap...
A taxi-driver I hired to take me on a tour of Maceió told me that the jangadas,
the traditional sailboats of the region, no longer go out in search of fish. They now
conduct tourists on excursions. Fish have to be pursued, after all, and catching them is
no sure thing; but the tourists clamor to get into the boat, so the prospects for the
future are more tourists than fish. In fulfillment of the gospel prophecy, the jangadeiros
have become fishers of men.
On this, my nostalgia trip return to Brazil, I wanted to experience all I could of the Nordeste
as it has become, and so I was quite willing to let myself get caught. Maceió, o
paraíso das águas, the paradise of waters! If I was in paradise, I should avail
myself of paradisiacal delights. The day after my taxi tour, I headed back to the beach in
search of a jangada for me to sail in.
The taxi-driver had told me with pride that the jangada excursion to the piscina
natural was voted the number-one tourist experience in all Brazil. The piscina
natural is a shallow natural sandy pool in the reefs, about a mile-and-a-half off
shore.
The launching point for the excursion to the piscina natural happened to be,
most conveniently, on Pajuçara Beach, right in front of my hotel. I was beckoned to an
available jangada by a well-tanned and vigorous old jangadeiro. I waited
about fifteen minutes, as the jangadeiro combed the beach, recruiting the six other
people to make a boatload.
My jangadeiro must have been a senior member of the captain's brotherhood, for
he strutted the shoreline with a swagger and air. While soliciting prospective passengers,
he carried on a cheerful conversation with himself. I was joined by three couples. First,
two old Japanese. They were São Paulo Japanese, not Tokyo Japanese, as I found out when
the Portuguese began to flow from them. The jangadeiro asked them whether they had
any relatives in Japan. Not that they knew of, they shrugged. Brazilians don't bother with
any ancestor cult.
Then there was a young couple from Belo Horizonte, the capital of Minas Gerais, a state
in the South. They both were on the quiet side, for Brazilians. The girl plumped up her
bathing suit well. The third couple were from Brasília, which I wondered about. The girl
had that tiny stature, little triangular face, and narrow eyes I had seen in some Nordestinos.
Sure enough, she was originally from Piauí. She was a happy, laughing, girlish little
thing, homely but very charming. She found childish delight in every aspect of the
nautical procedure. The full complement having been acquired, we were ready to set off.
The jangada was pushed on wooden rollers down the sand and into the water. We
passengers waded out and got aboard.
The jangada is the traditional sailboat of the Atlantic littoral, lagoons, and
rivers of the Brazilian Nordeste. Its primitive form was tree trunks lashed
together as a raft and outfitted with a sail. Today's jangadas are still
rectangular, with a flat bottom, are equipped with a daggerboard and single sale fore. The
rudder is an enlarged oar, that, twisted at the stern, can be used to propel the craft.
The jangada is no swift yacht, but it is stable and comfortable. I had been told
that nearly two hundred jangadas were available in Maceió to carry tourists on
excursions.
The early morning wind was weak, so the jangadeiro, whose name was Rodolfo, had
to use the rudder as an oar. He pried and pushed it against the stern. Little by little,
we headed out to open waters. I had a little chat with Rodolfo. He was not born to the
sea, he told me. Raised in Junqueiro, a town in the interior of Alagoas, he discovered the
Atlantic as a young man, spat the dust of the interior out of his mouth, and took up
sailing, a profession he has now practiced for thirty years, most of them as a fisherman.
Rodolfo has some fish tales to tell,—five-hundred-pound tuna and such.
In about twenty minutes, we came to some submerged reefs and, between them,
sandy-bottomed passageways for the jangada to course through. We made our way into
the piscina natural and anchored upwind. It being low tide, we were able to get out
and wade the clear shallows. Meanwhile, more jangadas were arriving, shuttling in
their loads of tourists. Soon a long row of jangadas was anchored to the reef. The jangadeiros
rolled up their sails against the mast. And a party broke out in the middle of the sea.
Wading waiters carried trays of fish and lobster or delivered beer or soft drinks or
the juice of a carved-out pineapple. Some jangadas were equipped with barbecues;
the scent of grilled fish wafted over us as we waded. Vendors with floating platforms
displaying their wares hawked seashells or jewelry or souvenirs.
They had even anchored jangada models to the bottom. Adults played with those,
like children in a bathtub. Some young girls started a game of water volleyball.
Snorkelers studied the reefs. Some waded, some swam, some soaked, some just stood and
marveled at the scene around them. I sought out the deeper part of the pool. Although it
was only mid-morning now, the sun was strong, so I kept on my sunglasses and Panama hat
over my bald head, as I breast-stroked my way through the water.
I stood for a while at the edge of the submerged reef, which provided penthouse
apartments for the little fish. I put my hand near one tenant. He kept circling my hand
aggressively. "Be off, trespasser!" he warned in body-language. The occasion was
more festive than Carnaval. More wholesome, certainly. Young and old mingled and
exchanged appreciative pleasantries. Most of the tourists seemed to be Brazilians from the
South, as I found out in conversation.
I counted fifty jangadas, so, figuring six to eight per boat, there must have
been more than three hundred people in the piscina natural.
After two hours of aquatic exploring, socializing, feasting, and enjoying, our little
group climbed back aboard our jangada. By now the wind had picked up, so we speeded
to Pajuçara Beach.
I have cruised the Amazon and the Nile, the Caribbean and Mediterranean, but the
excursion out to the piscina natural has been an experience comparable in
satisfaction. The little boat-party in the shallows was such a happy combination of Nature
and human nature. .
Alagoas, the name of the state, derives from as lagoas, the lagoons. If I wanted
a complete experience of the paradise of waters, I thought, I should not limit myself to
the Atlantic beach, as attractive as it is. Disembarking from the excursion to the piscina
natural, I was accosted by a hustler selling a schooner cruise of the Maceió lagoons.
The next day I would try to find him and let myself get sold on that.
I had no sooner entered onto my early morning beach-walk, when the hustler found me. He
signed me up. The excursion for the cruise would leave at noon, so I would have the
morning to idle away. A few minutes after noon, I was piled into a Volkswagen van with a
few other excursionists and driven to Pontal da Barra. The first scheduled activity was,
most sensibly considering the time of day, lunch. I ordered chicken with the traditional
Brazilian side-dish, black-beans-and-rice.
In the open lagoon side restaurant, I sat next to a young couple. He was another of
those Brazilian Japanese from São Paulo. She was tall, fair-skinned, and fleshy. You
could almost take her for a Midwest American farm-girl, but, no, she was paulista
too. They were on their honeymoon, she told me. They looked none too happy about it. They
weren't very communicative, either toward each other or toward their fellow-tourists. He
had a severe look on his face; yet, as I surveyed her warm skin and curves and cleavage,
she seemed to offer a paradise of sensual honeymoon delights.
Maceió must be somewhat of a honeymoon Mecca. When I ran into the Brasília Brazilian
and his little Piauí girl again in the artisans' fair the previous night, they told me
that they too were on their honeymoon. That one, at least, seemed to be going well. She
was bubbling, as usual, and he was in fine spirits. There was a gentlemanly quality about
him that I liked.
After lunch, we boarded the schooner—the Cisne Branco, the White Swan. I
had no sooner sat down than I was ordered to disembark. It seemed that each tour hustler
worked with a different ship-owner. My hustler was affiliated with the Dakkar, so I
had to change schooners.
I liked the looks of the Dakkar better; some good, dark, weathered wood on her.
I would later regret my transfer, however, for the Swan was a swimmer, the Dakkar a
floater. The Swan was off a-sailing, as the Dakkar sat dockside. In a while, we
pulled out, only to pull in at another restaurant down the shore, where we waited. Then we
cast off, only to return to the restaurant where I had eaten. We waited some more, then
shuttled back to the other restaurant. We seemed to be always arriving, never leaving.
It then became apparent why our departure was delayed. Agents in the restaurants were
trying to recruit more passengers from among the diners, to make up the Dakkar's
full capacity of twenty-five. Some diners did come aboard, so, at last, we stopped kissing
the shoreline and steamed out onto the brackish waters of Mundaú, one of the two
principal lagoons of Maceió.
The itinerary of the cruise was called Nove Ilhas, the Nine Islands, and it
started out well. The captain pointed out the various islands in the lagoon and told about
them, although mostly in terms of which industrialist or politician owned which island and
what development plans for each had failed or were still in-the-works. As if nature has no
significance without such utilitarian reference points.
Some islands in the lagoon had coqueiros, others bore mostly scrub. One had been
raked clean for a sítio, the Brazilian version of the Mediterranean villa; the
house of the sítio was situated on a point. Another island was occupied by a small
fishing community, plying the traditional trade of the Alagoas littoral.
The schooner captain was a young man with red hair and a leprechaun-look, an anomalous
type under tropical skies, if it weren't for the multiformity of human specimens produced
by Brazil's half-millennium of uninhibited miscegenation. The captain was a drinker. Both
he and the mate at the wheel were sucking cans of beer the whole time.
We approached the opening of the lagoon to the Atlantic, where the sea surges in or out
with the tides. There was an island there, a sandy dune devoid of trees, its only
vegetation some sparse grass and ground vines. The captain announced that we would be
making a stop at the island, for exploring or swimming. A barraca bar there was a
broad, open shelter roofed with palm fronds.
I set off exploring the shore on the seaward side. The waves were clawing away at the
sand piles, and there was a stiff breeze. Combing the beach, I spied a weathered white
hump protruding from the sand. I pulled it out. It turned out to be...the skull of a dog.
A salty dog, most certainly.
Farther along the shore, I found his ribs and vertebrae. Had that Fido, a
jangadeiro's dog, been given a burial-at-sea? I wanted to set the skull on a post, as
a primitives' taboo-marker, to scare off trespassers upon canine sacred cemeterial ground;
but, after showing the skull to two fellow-excursionists, I dropped it back into its sandy
grave.
I had a bit of a sunburn from the previous day's jangada excursion, so I decided
I wouldn't go swimming. Anyway, the sea looked dangerous, and the lagoon waters were
suspect of schistosomiasis and the cholera that still bedevils Alagoas.
I resorted to the shade of the bar, where I noticed the captain and mate slumped at a
table drinking beer, emptied bottles already accumulated.
Here was where the schooner excursion bogged down completely. The bar stop dragged on
for two hours. I sat there impatient, wanting to be off again cruising, not drinking
myself into a stupor in the heat.
And I watched the Cisne Branco, which had earlier cruised by us, return. It drew
near the island, but not for the bar. It merely used the island as a block against the
swift current, then cruised on to new waters. There was the schooner I should have been
on, even if I had to put up with the glum looks of honeymooners!
At last, we boarded the Dakkar again, only to head straight back to dock. The
captain and mate were sucking beers still; they had been at it for four straight hours. I
hope that the captain owns his boat, for, if I were the owner and found out that he was
managing my property while fueling himself nonstop with alcohol, I would promptly tie a
rock to his leg and send him to the fate of the salty dog.
So, there was my schooner excursion:—One hour in the van, one hour in the
restaurant, two hours in the barraca bar, and less than two hours cruising. The
whole thing seemed like a sweetheart-deal among restaurant, boat, and bar. The tour ended
in confusion over the van shuttle and a half-hour wasted sitting in the van at the lagoon,
just as the mosquito hour was arriving. Two Argentines had apparently decided to stay
behind to have dinner at the lagoon restaurant; they thought the van and its six other
passengers would sit awaiting their completion of a dessert and cordial.
The vanload accomplished at last, we headed back into town. The schooner cruise was
supposed to climax in a por-do-sol, a romantic sunset. There was a por-do-sol,
of course, Nature's timely and reliable one; but I did not see it, because, at the
romantic moment, I was inside the van, speeding through the streets of Maceió, where the
buildings obstructed all views.
The brown chubby little boy, who had kept up a charming chatter with his father the
whole cruise, was dead away asleep, his head limp on his father's hairy chest...
That night, I decided to have a convenient dinner in a barraca on Pajuçara
Beach. It was a grilled cross-section of some fish that, judging by the girth, which
filled the tray, must have been of some imposing bulk as it cruised the Atlantic eating,
in the days before its fate of that day, which was being eaten.
By the time I was done with dinner, it had gotten quite dark, so I strolled down to the
shore to look at the stars, to seek out the Southern Cross. As I stared out into the sky
over the south Atlantic, standing at the very waterline, some boys behind me sang and
danced in the sand, just happy with the place and the warm night.
The stars shone brightly against the black sky. Just a few clouds drifted in the air,
reflecting back the streetlights of Maceió. The salted breeze, as it passed onto the
land, left its trace on my lips. Absent from Brazil for twenty-five years, I had to
re-orient myself. This was a new heavens here, and, under it, a new Nordeste and a
new people. Just when I thought all would be familiar, I found all strange. I had come as
a traveler, but wound up as a tourist.
The Nordeste I had lived in as a Peace Corps volunteer was all poverty and
hopelessness. Now there is a good state-of-things, with promise of a better.
Tourism can be a constructive component of economic development.
The ruination of the Nordeste was its land. The salvation of the Nordeste
may be the sea. Maceió? is not really paradise, of course. It only seems that way—to
the Brazilian tourists from the South, who are escaping the mess of São Paulo and Rio,
and to the locals, who, for the first time, are experiencing the amenities of making a
decent living.
Norman Weeks was the last United States Peace Corps Volunteer to serve in the
state of Alagoas, Brazil. Twenty-five years after leaving Brazil, he returned to his area
of Peace Corps service to assess how all had changed. Tropical Ecstasy, his
book on the trip is being represented for publication by Debbie Fine, Southeast Literary
Agency, P.O. Box 910, Sharpes, Florida 32959-0910. Norman Weeks may be reached at jmnf62577@aol.com
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