Latter, former

I noticed that she was staring at me. And the gears began turning, trying to locate her face in my unreliable memory.

But I carried on with my business, urgent, of course, as I was leaving in less than 48 hours. I was mailing a package -a Christmas gift, in fact- to a girl who wasn’t quite my girlfriend yet wasn’t quite my friend either.

Search result: one item found.

And here was another one of them, another girl who became nothing in my life, in line behind me at the post office. At 13 she was taller than me (why do I remember this?). She was my scheduled date for a school dance but a few days before the event she traded up to a better looking member of the species.

When I was done with the mail clerk she called me over. As she waited in line we made small talk; what are two post office customers (who last saw each other when they were half their own ages) supposed to talk about?

She told me about school. I told her about my trip to South America. She had an immediate proposal. “If you’re back in a few months or a year,” she said, “I’ll still be here in med school.” She wrote her phone numbers on a piece of paper and handed it over.

I would’ve framed it 15 years before, excited to be the recipient of her attention, but instead I put it into one of the few boxes of random belongings that I was not taking to South America.

Two years after our post office rendevouz, I’m back home searching through books and clothes I can take back to Brazil. And I couldn’t find the piece of paper.

My life goes on in Brazil and I wonder if she’s still waiting for my call.

Amputee

A lot of people seem to be catching my attention in Maranhão.

And perhaps that’s not a quality of maranhenses but a symptom of being poor. Because by now I’ve discarded the idea of traveling to all the must-see places and instead opt for relatively unknown destinations tucked away in the interior of Brazil’s poor, Northeastern states.

So instead of the glitz and glamour of cosmopolitan São Paulo or the mesmerizing beaches of Bahia, I’m in the interior of Maranhão, counting the number of guys with amputated arms, missing fingers and deformed ears.

And I lose count.

When I make it to São Luis I lose count of a different type of maranhense, those relying on tourist spending to make a living. The pitch is consistent: they’ll approach the tourist with some terrible artwork, such as wristbands and necklaces. Once the tourist sees that it’s the same cheap shit offered by the previous 400 street vendors, they’ll simply beg for money.

I am reminded of Salvador, not because of the black culture that permeates the place, and not because of the quaint, historic center. Salvador’s Pelourinho is the only other place in Brazil where I have felt a constant barrage of people trying to sell me things I don’t want, then simply beg for my money.

In Salvador I gave in and bought some $15 USD worth of crap I cannot for the life of me locate now, five years later. Now in São Luis for the second time, I know better.

And it’s not just material goods on sale in the historic center of Salvador. Two tables down a prostitute has sat down next to a middle aged, white European male. He orders a drink for her, but eventually catches on. He hurriedly pays in cash and leaves her; she’s lost a potential customer.

The Swedish guy –I meet too many people on the road to remember a name– and I are eventually approached as well. The two black, skinny, teenage prostitutes don’t get too far, though. He laughs nervously and I walk away. Without my free interpretation skills he’s completely lost and runs after me.

It’s as if I grew a tail. After wandering alone in the interior of the state of Maranhão, I’ve become a beacon for the six foreign tourists who have decided to follow me, here and there and everywhere. Translator and tour guide, jobs I carry out reluctantly, but quite well. And, best of all (for them), for free.

At the tourist information desk no one speaks English, and, of course, none of the travelers speaks Portuguese, so I translate. At the train station I become a commission-less travel agent. I find guaraná and açaí for them, as well as enough seats for all of them, though in two internet cafés. Determining a place to eat becomes painful: they choose a touristy pizza restaurant, and I sit down with them, staring at the ladies selling traditional food from humble kiosks down the street, for a fraction of the cost of this bad pizza. I eat because it’s their treat.

Everyone explains their story. One is going to the Amazon; another is coming from the Amazon. An American, a Canadian, some Europeans. Alcohol is ordered and cigarettes lit. Typical backpacker fare. I suffer through it all. I realize there’s no such thing as a free lunch.

More beggars approach us. A woman from Angola tries us on three occasions and thankfully gives up after I politely explain to her that we don’t want what she’s peddling. A man goes bipolar in a minute: first tries to sell his art, then asks for food, then asks for money for cachaça, then explodes into a xenophobic asshole. We get offered drugs, one by one, via a whispers in our ears. Prostitutes avoid us thanks to the presence of a girl in our group.

Near the end of the night, at a nearby bar after the pizza’s all gone, a Brazilian hippie approaches us. She and I talk, but my foreign companions are in no mood to spare a dime. I’m not either, but she’s not upset. She’s the first one who is friendly, but knows to move on: her goal is not to make friends. The most memorable encounter, however, comes when a kitten approaches us, looking like a young, famished Garfield.

And I quickly think of how I could take it back to Recife with me. Impossible, of course. So I let him go, and he runs away through the dirty streets of São Luis. I feel more pity for the kitten than for the amputees, the disoriented tourists, the art vendors, the hippies, the prostitutes and the beggars, all of whom could use my help.

I realize that I should feel bad, but I don’t. My arms, fingers and ears may be intact, but I know there’s something wrong.