Sunday, February 29, 2004

JOHN MARRETT 2

I should have said:

Probably Eileen couldn't face the prospect o living in a world WITHOUT John ...

PBB

Postscript: the hazards of writing on the move
JOHN MARRETT

I thought yesterday that the sculpture of the fist with extended right finger was a political statement connected with Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, one of the leaders of independence for the Gold Coast (Ghana), but I didn't say so. Then I wondered if it had anything to do with Jomo Kenyatta of the Kenya independence movement, through the Mau Mau movement, but I doubt it.

Since his young children may not have discussed politics with him, I don't know if I will ever find out for sure.



PBB

Saturday, February 28, 2004

OMISSION

I still make less errors than The New York Times.

I forgot to mention that the train took 32 minutes.

PBB
MY FAVOURITE FAMILY

I had heard about blogs (Web Logs) and had even read one of the most famous, Where is Raed?, the blog out of Iraq that is in touch with what`s happening on the ground as these reporters all say these days. As opposed to what`s happening above ground, I suppose.

But I never thought of authoring one until a friend, Sean Marrett, who I first met in 1969, invited me to read his. Sean was born of Jamaican parents in Canada, but we Jamaicans would call him Jamaican, wouldn`t we?

I arrived in the United States on 16 June 1968, the day after Wes Montgomery, the famous jazz guitarist died.

I started working at Columbia University on 2 January 1969 as a clerk in Pupin Labs, in the department of W. W. Havens, the director. The physics lab was headquarters of the Manhattan Project, where geniuses like I. I. Rabi helped produce the atomic bomb. I was later to occupy his old office on a project in which I was engaged.

On my first vacation in the summer of 1969, having spent 30 years on a small island, I chose to spread my wings and took a train one night at Penn Station and got off late the following morning, or early that afternoon, in the station downtown Montreal.

1969, during that period of make love not war, and peace and love, and all the world needs is love, and when it really seemed as if the world could be a better place; when All we need is love; Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Ravi Shankar, Jim Morrison and the Doors, Cat Stevens, Richie Havens, The Rolling Stones, The Who, the Beatles, Otis Redding, Art Blakey, The Incredible String Band, Laurie Nyro, Motown, Miles, Monk, Dizzy, Art Blakey, Billy Graham`s Fillmore East and Fillmore West, the other Billy Graham taking us to the Promised Land, The Loving Spoonful, California Dreaming, Chicago, Cream; Earth, Wind and Fire; Come on baby, Light my Fire; the Mets, the Monterey Jazz Festival; Judy Collins, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan causing distress and anger in the country world by using an amplified guitar; Simon and Garfunkel, the Graduate (Oh, Mrs. Robinson, I think you are trying to seduce me); the Beachboys ...

Where was I? Oh, I just got off that train in Montreal. In those days you didn`t try to find a cheap hotel, you tried to find a house to crash. So I arrived with the name and address of a young woman. Found her home but she had guests and I was welcome the following night.

THE PARK

That evening I returned to the park near the train station and stayed in that vicinity until about 3 AM when a guy shared the information that he thought I was cute.

I left the park and wandered until I found an all-night restaurant, where I sat with my head on my arms until the sun rose.

The point, you see, is that it was unthinkable to pay good money to stay in a hotel. I did not know of hostels then.

I returned to the park where I met a young man from New York. We both went to visit Expo 68, or was it 69, and at the end of the day visited the Jamaican Booth. I made it known that I was a down and out Jamaican looking for a place to stay. I got two offers on the spot.

I don`t recall what made me choose the offer made by Sean`s sister, Gillian. After the booth closed, we both took a bus to her home. I`ll never forget the look on the face of her mother, Eileen, when Gillian said Mama this is Barry, and explained that I needed a place to stay. It had a strong hint of surprise because Gillian hadn`t phoned ahead. (Remember a time when there were no cell phones?)

PARENTS

It didn`t take long to realize that Sean`s father, John, was a most remarkable man. He was quick to acknowledge the wrongs in the world. I recall he had a problem with being ripped off regarding a patent to a lock. He was working for a UN agency, the International Civil Aviation Organization, better known as ICAO. He had a big problem with them also, being far less professional in their treatment of him than acceptable.

John`s dream was to return to Jamaica and establish a farm. A dream he never realized. He never took things sitting down. The last time I saw John he was driving a car with tinted windows, against the law. He had trouble with his eyes and he had to knock the heads of the police department to get them to accept the fact. Whenever I need to remember the last time I saw John, in Victoria, BC, I simply have to ask Sean to remind me of his wedding day. It was a coincidence I showed up so I had no decent clothes to wear. I am the one in the picture that looks like a hobo.

John had a sculpture of a fist with an upturned index finger. I don`t quite recall the significance to him of the upraised finger, but it reminds me of wrestlers under immense pressure who, after the referee hits the mat twice, on his way to the third, the wrestler wags that index finger to signal that he may be down but definitely not out. And that`s how I see John, because he never even thought of giving up. He just kept fighting those sons of bitches, whoever they may have been.

Eileen shared four children with John: Gillian, John Jr., Penelope and Sean. She operated on a different level of intensity from her husband. John`s intensity was apparent, to me at least, while Eileen`s seem to smoulder. She wrote a book. I think it was about Flea Markets in the region, or places that are worth visiting; and she got her degree in Education. I was always pleased when she asked me to find a book for her in New York City. And when I found it, I couldn`t possibly accept money for the book.

I loved them both. Dearly. I have long told anybody willing to listen, that that was my all-time favourite family and, for quite a while after the deaths of both of them, their children followed a sort of tradition of accepting me as part of the family.

Why is it important to be telling you about a family that means nothing to you? Simple, because I am a product of my experiences and both Eileen and John have been extremely crucial in my life. So I am a product of those interactions with this beautiful family and that has some bearing on the wonderful person that I am. So there, I said it.

One night, John got out of bed and went downstairs for a drink of water. He never returned upstairs. Probably Eileen couldn`t face the prospect of living in a world with John because I believe it was several months later that she passed away as well.

I saw John Jr., a few years ago when I was in Montreal. I was able to convince his secretary to give me the address of his office without telling him. I surprised his butt by showing up!

I remember the New York City marathon when Sean finished the course. I was glad to have him stay at 621 Nostrand Avenue #4R in Bedford Stuyvesent in Brooklyn. After all, I would show up unannounced at his home and only once did I ever have to stay at a hostel because the house was full.

Like Muhammad Ali, Miles, Monk, Richard Pryor, John was one of kind. The mold was broken. I am more than happy that when we met at the Expo, somehow Gillian knew that I had to meet her family.

Peace and Love.

Patrick Barrington Barr


SOME OBSERVATIONS

Writing while I am on the move has its hazards. At home, I write in Word, and revise, and reshape, and paragraph one ends up paragraph 12.

I left out something crucial in the story of the young miss from Indianapolis. I failed to mention that she said grace before her meal, and ate her hamburger with a knife and fork.

I wondered? Does the Pope say grace? Did Christ say grace at the last supper?

ON ANOTHER SUBJECT

Apart from personal diaries, people write to be read and I hope my friends read these pieces to get to get an inkling of what makes me tick. But as important as it is to he read, equally important is my need to write things to sort of lower their intensity in my head. Like the man at the beach implied? If I can just repent all those sins, I could float so much easier on the water. By writing about my experiences I suppose I can get to float a little easier in this sometimes ugly world.

I suppose that is a sort of forewarning because I plan to write a long blog that you may or may not have the time to read. After all, my friends are gainfully employed, if not on the job, at least in the community. I, on the other hand, should be in the Guinness book for sitting on my ass doing nothing but reading, surfing, reading the news, going to the movies, travelling, and, now, blogging.

And speaking of blogging, the piece I plan to write was triggered by the fact that I got the idea of blogging when I was invited by a friend, Sean Marrett, to visit his blog.

PBB
João Pessoa, Paraíba, Brasil

I gave myself a present yesterday, simply because I deserved it.

I took a bus from practically in front of my hotel to the end of the line in Bedelco and asked directions. The shopkeeper drew me an L-shaped road with a railway line intersecting the first road before the bend toward the station.

I like things simple, so you can never embarrass me when you draw a picture. You couldn't embarrass me if you wrote out the alphabet each time you gave me something to read.

I got to the train station and paid 50 centavos (about 15¢) to enter.

I've loved trains all my life. My uncle drove a passenger train from Kingston to Montego Bay, where I was born. I don't recall ever seeing him in the engine.

My friend, Robbie, drove trains in St. Elizabeth, hauling bauxite to Port Kaiser. Just pray the brakes don't fail while you are hauling all that load downhill to the port.

Some evenings, Robbie would blow the whistle on his way down to the port, while Teddy Comrie and I would be in my kitchen, about 50 yards away, cooking. Then we would put the food in a carrier and sit on the line until we heard the train returning to the mines. He would slow down and we would hand the food to a sideman.

As children, we would go on church excursions from Kingston to May Pen, or Porus, or some other rural town. It was an annual ritual. We would prepare sandwiches the night before, get out of bed early enough to walk to the train station downtown. Early because the buses started running too late to get us to the station on time.

Long, long before I fell in love with jazz, I fell in love with the rhythms of train wheels. Loved when the train took those long curves so you could see other people in other trains in front and back. We are talking about steam engines, so I found I prefered to sit facing the back of the train to avoid the ash, or whatever that was, from getting into my eyes.

When I was about 11 and a student at All Saints School on West and Charles Streets, our class went on an excursion. I believe I tried to kiss a girl named Bonito while we were going through a tunnel. We were heading somewhere on the northeast coast, I believe where Errol Flynn had his house. She probably forget that kiss by the next tunnel.

Fairly short rides are the best. After a while, Toronto to Chicago wasn't fun. The same, during spring break of 1972, on that trip from Chicago to New Orleans. First of all, we had to get from Madison, Wisconsin to the Chicago train station. We probably made that by bus.

But returning from New Orleans to Chicago was worse because there was some flooding, causing long delays.

Of course, New Orleans was memorable, to this day, so we managed the delays without distress.

Yesterday, according to the information in my Olympus C-700 Ultra Zoom, 2.1 megapixel with 10X optical zoom, the train pulled into the station at 3:36 PM.

The train is not modern but not decrepit either. My car was painted gray and the adjoining car had a bit of yellow, which gave the impression that it had light. Of course, it didn't.

The mood was festive. Continuous movement and talking and laughing and buys of things to eat and drink and changing seats. A slender woman in a bikini top and a skirt is doing pull-ups on the one of three rows of what, in New York City, used to be known as straphangers. Of course, they are not made of leather straps anymore, but of metal.

A man moves in slow-motion while cleaning the cars. Three men walk through, selling edibles, including a very popular frozen delight called din-din. More or less, it is a frozen drink in a plastic wrapper.

In my car, the seats are blue and the windows at the bottom half are frosted, while the top half is metalic with about one-inch diameter holes. It is not easy to see through so, after the engine changed positions and moved out of the station, at 4:02, I stood up.

Inside the train there is absolutely no writing. No warning about smoking, leaning on the doors. Nothing. No advertising. No grafitti.

The chatter and laughter does not stop. It is a holiday mood. People, for insurance, keep one foot inside the train to prevent the door closing, while they get that last few puffs of smoke into their lungs. Oh, so good!

There seems to be no impatience on the part of the passengers, some of whom are standing. A man enters, sits, and, a few minutes later, examines his watch. He doesn't seem to belong in that crowd.

No one is running to get into the train either.

At 4:02 the motorman blows the horn a couple of times and the train pulls out. I had expected to feel a jolt when the engine connected, but didn't. People continue to change seats.

We are now picking up speed and the wheels are in full swing, producing those rhythms that takes me back to my youth, those ancient days in the 40s when coal dust was unwelcome in one's eyes.

On the third stop before the terminal, the train waited while a little boy peed into that space between the platform and the train. One of the guards held up his hand for the motorman to wait. The train moved and suddenly stopped again. I looked out to see a woman and two children running to get into the train. Even it runs on the half hour, the train had actually stopped to allow this family to get on.

I was very surprised that when we entered the terminal and started exiting, the crowd outside were so intent on getting seats that they left very little room for us to exit.

I delayed my exit by stopping to take a picture and had to ask the guard to not chain the gate.

I then walked in front of the bus station, drank a glass of cane juice; continued walking to buy the Correio Brasilense from this newstand. It is a strange newstand. People just stand around reading the newspapers. And the owner tries to sell me other papers.

He'll say that two papers cost R$8.50 and then when I hesitate he will say OK give me R$8.30.

I bought some incense in case, God forbid, I run into another Senora X situation, a lighter, and then walk to the Central Market to bus No. 510 to Tambaú.

The joys of life!

PBB

Friday, February 27, 2004

João Pessoa, Paraíba, Brasil

Come with me again on a time travel, back several days.

It was my last day in Natal, Rio Grande do Norte, Brasil and I had too many hours ahead with not much planned. It was about 4:30 o'clock when I went to the Praia Shopping mall and got a ticket to The Human Stain, with Anthony Hopkins and Julia Roberts. I had not planned to see this movie, but any port in a storm.

As usual, I headed for the back row but a couple were near my usual spot, near the projector, so I settled on a seat off to the left. About ten minutes a young miss at first sat in front, and then moved to sit in the seat beside me. Well, it was beside me and it wasn't beside me. All the other seats were joined, but our seats were not physically joined, being separated by about a couple inches.

I noticed her English study books just before the lights went dark and we started a conversation, which threatened to carry into the movie. She offered me a jujube (that soft, sweet), which I accepted.

After the movie we chatted and sat for a soda. She ordered a Coca Cola, but I am still boycotting American products, when it is convenient for me to do so, so I ordered a Brasilian drink.

I took about three photos, without flash, since we were in a very public dining area. They still looked good.

Daguia wore a chain with a cross, glasses. We had a very pleasant conversation. She is very engaged, on different levels, in her church. She had improved her English in Chicago on her first visit to the States and planned to return about mid-year. Her English is quite good at his point and can only improve. She sees a movie every week so that she can discuss it, in English, in her class.

About an hour later, we moved to another part of the mall to have dinner. I left my camera in her care, while I went to the banheiro. On my return, she expressed surprise that I could leave my valuable camera with a complete stranger. I told her it was the way I have lived my life. I come to conclusions on people I meet, based on the vibrations. I don't wait for people to prove they can be trusted. I trust up front, and if I am exploited and betrayed, I manage to get over it somehow.

In that way, I have missed my extensive record and book collections a lot more than I have missed some of my friends, after our expiration date had come and gone.

After dinner, we walked to the bus stop, a few yards away, and, after one of the strongest handshakes I ever experienced in my life, caught her bus. If I receive her permission, I will share the photos with you.

I returned to the store to search for a book, then caught my bus at the same stop. The conductor helped me get off at the right stop but I was disoriented for several minutes, never having seeing that area from that point of view.

Finally got the hotel, the best on my trip so far.

Até logo.

PBB

The movie was better than I had expected.
USL and PBB

Because of the attack on the World Trade Towers, I can no longer travel with a pair of scissors. The result is that I stay unkempt and, more and more, day by day, am beginning to look like Usama bin Laden.

When I walk through a city and see people laughing really heartily, while looking in my direction, I know they are thinking Usama bin Laden.

If they are young, and sometimes even old, they will refer to Papa Noel, Papai Noel or Santa Claus.

But since the hair has started protruding from my nostrils, and my moustache covering my lips at random spots, I notice that self-respecting females no longer smile and nod good morning.

My three-month vacation ends on 11 March when I return to Lima.

I have the feeling that if I take a 6-month vacation I will return as the reincarnation of Howard Hughes ... hair, nails -- everything but the money.

PBB
MAP MAKERS

I believe map makers are an irresponsible lot. They never, ever apologize for not making the map life-size, nor admit that an inch is an inch, but not on the map.

If you only look at the map then start walking to your destination, you could end up taking the bus back two days later, after a walk, that judging by the map, should have taken you 35 minutes.

I arrive in every city, like Columbus, without a clue:

Where do I get a map?
Where do I find tourist information?
Do I enter the bus in front or in back?
How much is the bus fare, and do I need exact change?
Is there a metro?
Where is a safe, affordable hotel in an interesting part of town (Where are the museums, restaurants, and highly populated at 11 pm)?

Then by day two you begin to get the knack of things. And, by the time I start getting into the swing of things, I take off and start all over again.

I remember in Toronto, before the bus comes to a stop you have to step down or the door won't open. I believe in Madrid and Barcelona, you have to twist the knob of the subway to open the door because all doors don't open as they do in New York.

I am absolutely in love with cities. I spent five days in the jungle in northern Perú and they rank among the worst in my life. No news, no radio, no TV. I didn't even know Bush's health. Maddening.

When I travel, I head for capitals. And when I arrive in the capitals, I head for the center of the city. But that is not always an interesting formula. João Pessoa is one example, and Oklahoma City, where I went on assignment for AT&T in another life, is another. You see, some downtowns are very heavily commercial and you know what that means. Every shuts up their property, roll up the welcome carpet and head for home. So you step out of your hotel and find a couple bars.

I spent a night downtown João Pessoa. It wasn't unpleasant. It seemed quite safe and people were out in the park at 11 o'clock, sitting and chatting. If I had gone searching, who knows, I may have found a bar or club open.

But I switched to the ocean-front area and it is quite nice. My hotel yesterday was next door to the internet café. Today, I have this wonderful room on the ocean, No. 21, second floor, on the same road, about three minutes away, instead of three seconds.

I look forward to being in that room until Monday morning, when I take a cab to the bus station for the 9:30 AM for my 6-1/2 hour trip south to Maceió.

PBB


João Pessoa, Paraíba, Brasil

CATS AND DOGS

There are cats and there are dogs. And there are cat lovers and cats who make love.

Dogs behave like, well, dogs. While cats, apparently more cultured, wait until after dark to carry on and wail that wierd baby-sounding wail that nobody could find endearing.

Well, this morning at about 8 o'clock, on the walkway by the ocean-front, there were these three cats. Two appeared to be related, based on their color pattern, while the Don Juan was gray. It was the gray and another which were behaving quite uncatlike, if you ask me.

As far as I can tell, loving cats have always sought the dark, but not today. In broad view, the gray cat straddled one, holding her by the neck in his teeth, while nudging her to raise her hind part. Just when she complied, her relative nipped her from behind to break up the sport.

Within a minute, the couple were back for another attempt. This time, the female snarled and called the whole thing off.

Not wanting to be considered weird, I left, which was quite irresponsible to science's further understanding of uncatlike behavior.

PBB


João Pessoa, Paraíba, Brasil

Come with me, back to Buenos Aires, where I spent about five days in January:

I saw a young, American woman in the cemetery in Buenos Aires and she had that look on her face that said she was searching for something. We bumped into each other five or so minutes later and the look had not left her face. Instinctively, I knew she had failed to find the mausoleum of Eva Peron.

I have had a fascination with Eva Duarte Peron, born 1919 and died, age 33, in 1952. I had read a biography of hers, about 35 years ago, written by a guy named Brooks, if I recall correctly. Eva was a very controversial figure in Argentine history, as anybody close to poor people would be in any country. (For a current example, see President Chávez of Venezuela). The generals saw to it that she didn't run for the vice-presidency along with her husband the hands-down favorite to return to the presidency.

Eva had cancer and so hated was she by segments of the populace that scrawled large on a wall, or maybe walls, were the ominous words: LONG LIVE CANCER!

To the contrary, when she died the radio said: "Our spiritual leader has died!"

Well, back to the young American from Indiapolis, if I recall. She offered my assistance in showing her where Eva Peron rested.

We chatted afterwards, and having time to spare, went to have lunch at a world-famous chain. You would probably guess, but I simply cannot remember now. Maybe before I finish. I wasn't really hungry but it is always nice to get back to talking English now and then.

The Hard Rock Café. Told you the brain cells might kick in pronto!

We had a good conversation and I took photos and gave her a Hard Rock Café tee-shirt, seeing that it was on her birthday! We parted with my offer to send her photos which I had taken.

By sheer luck, we bumped into each other about 45 minutes later at the subway (called Subte, short for subterranean) and went our separate ways.

We exchanged a couple emails and all was pleasant. Then it happened. I spoke the truth. I shared my thoughts that America was a sick country. That if US forces had killed one million Iraqis the only observation would be "Could you pass the ketchup, please?" But America was up in arms because one of Janet Jackson's breasts was revealed on TV.

That was the last time I heard from her.

But that was nothing compared to a Jamaican woman with whom I had been very close from 1959 to about 1993. We were speaking on the phone. She had managed to make it to Miami, after all those years of trying. During the conversation she found out that I was an atheist.

That was the last time I heard from her.

Até logo.

PBB

Thursday, February 26, 2004

barrbq100@hotmail.com


João Pessoa, Paraíba, Brasil

About four days ago, I paid for my hotel and left to find the city of Olinda. On the way to the bus, I questioned many people about where to find the bus stop. Two guys, in their 20's told me they were going to Olinda. So the bus came, and I stuck with them.

About 20 minutes later we pulled into Olinda. The taller was obviously the leader. We both followed where he led. I offered them a drink and we stopped at a bar. He chose where we sat. The beer came, we toasted and we drank. Another bottle came. Ditto.

The bill came. R$4. It was my responsibility to pay. No problem. I had that programmed in my head.

We walked to what appeared to be the heart of the city. A road lined with people past ready to party. Some dressed in costumes, many apparent tourists, many sitting in the houses and establishments that lined the street.

One of the guys bought a beer and I drank almost a cup when I thought it would be a good idea to get a room here. The first place had no rooms. The second place, where our leader went to check, was that loony place that that had a room just waiting for me at the price of R$1,500.

It's strange how those robbers on the bridge spotted me as a guy with money, now this woman, who offered to call the owner. She came back with the offer of a broom-closet-sized room for R$170. A guy inside told me about the pool. Big deal. I can't even float. No thanks.

When I went outside, the other follower told me I owed R$2 for another bottle of beer. That's when I handed over the money and say my goodbyes.

Interesting how the guys on the bridge plundered my pocket using guile and brute force, where this leader was using guile to get into my pocket as well.

I walked a bit more and made inquiries, which lead me to the galleries near the Igreja da Sé. (I may have to correct that later.)

I will talk next about the room I rented for two days.

PBB
João Pessoa, Paraíba

The Brasilian money is the Real, singular, and Reales. (pron. Reai and Reaies).

I am visiting the North East of Brasil at present.

Correction: I meant to say call her Senora X to protect the identity of the guilty, but said to protect the identity of the innocent.

In Recife my hotel room was 204.
In Olinda the house number was 24
In João Pessoa yesterday my room number was 204.

Get to work, you numerologists!

This morning, on the beach, it is 13. A good price but no windows. Already about to say bye to go look for a better place for tomorrow -- or even later. What the hell. I just paid ONLY R$35, so I can afford to turn my back on it.

Changes hotels and will talk about that another time.

Até logo.

PBB
João Pessoa, Paraíba, Brasil

So, I arrived outside the Igreja da Sé (church) and continue to enquire about lodgings. A couple people are consulted and a woman approaches. Let's call her Senora X to protect the identity of the innocent. She said R$100/day. She knew she was ripping me off ... and I knew she was ripping me off, but I said OK. There gets to be a point where your patience grows thin and you just to bring some act to conclusion.

She runs a stall and asked someone to tend it while we went to her house. It wasn't what I expected. The room seemed about 8' x 6' and carried a smell. The wall between the room and the bathroom stopped short of closing them off and stopped about 9 inches short.

I felt committed. I asked to use the bathroom. She entered and flushed ... then apologized. Sitting there, floating on the top, were two large turds, following the laws of physics. Turds that refuse to go away, will float!

I returned to Recife and returned with my backpack.

The little dog, Pitushka, and the cat, both took to me. I rooted through my backpack, looking for incense, but had left them in Belo Horizonte. I had planned to tell her that when I meditate, I light incense. Being a spiritual person, she probably read my mind and presented me with incense because the smell continued to be unbearable. I am talking about that night, at about 8 o'clock when she had retuned.

So I lit the incense and the mosquitos fed all night on my blood. If God had meant mosquitos to sing in our ears, why didn't He give them at least two octaves?

The following morning we walked quite a distance to a beach. She joined about eight of her friends. When I said I couldn't float, a man said it was because of my pecados (sins). I still think it was funny, even though he may be correct.

She left and I was sure I could find my way back to her house. Only thing is that I was so involved in our conversion on the way to the beach, that I really had no markers. On my return, nobody could tell me where to find the School of Samba, but at least I could find the church.

When I returned, her little dog, escaped into the street. Something she does often. Although she had returned, wearing only her bikini, now she seemed reluctant to go into the street to retrieve the dog. In the meantime, two of her other dogs, who live outside the house and who bark as if they want to hurt someone, both ran outside as well.

So she is shouting for Pitushka and I go to try get Pitushka. Only thing is that the black dog is after a piece of my body, barking real menacingly and too close for comfort. And, not surprisingly, Pitushka, until then my friend, joins the other dog in an attempt to do me harm. Finally, I am rescued by Senora X.

That night, I invite her to join me for camarao (shrimps). It has been on my mind for days. I drank what we in Jamaica call soursop, that is made with milk.

I barely remember her telling me that the dogs would be in the bathroom that night. (Failed to mention that the day I arrived, sweaty and all, there was no water to take a shower.)

Went to bed and struggled for quite a while to see how many mosquitos I could kill. After a couple hours, I said what the hell, go ahead and take your blood, anything to end that damn singing.

I awake in the morning and am using every muscle to hold on until I can get to the toilet. (I have a bad relation with milk. Love it. It hates me. A lifelong thing. Bad to drink milk and travel, if you know what I mean. Or even leave the house). I open the door and the first thing I see is the black dog who wanted a piece of me the day before. I shut the door and am desperate. I keep my cool for another ten seconds then call upstairs for Senora X. She instructs me to open the back door and let the dogs out. They won't bother me, she assures. It works. She definitely knows her dogs.

I rush to the toilet and nothing floats.

After R$200 Reales, two bad nights, one desperate morning, I leave ... never to return.

PBB

Wednesday, February 25, 2004

João Pessoa, Paraíba, Brasil

Don't know what button I hit the last time but my message has not appeared. I recall saying that I have been hearing two pronunciations of Recife. Maybe it has to do with the educational level.

In Brasil, for about five days after the start of carnival on about the 21st of February (I am not keeping notes), the cities seem to go on life support. The movies seem to be considered essential services in Recife.

I'll always remember Recife. How can you possibly forget a city where two professionals team up on the Boa Vista bridge (Good View Bridge) to give you a good shove on your left, while his partner plunges his hand, with the skill of a heart surgeon, into your right pocket, to extract all the notes while leaving the change.

Of course, growing up in a city like Kingston prepares you well for live in big cities. My coins generally reside in the pocket he went for; my smaller bills in the lower right pocket, and larger bills in the left lower pocket. He probably got between R$12 to R$20 which is roughly $3.10 to $5.20.

Some people would ask, why don't these people look for work? I believe picking the pockets of unsuspecting people is work. I believe begging is work.

But it wasn't a pretty situation. Looking at the guy afterwards while he avoided eye-contact. You are essentially helpless. We are talking about gangs here ... on their turf. You chalk it up to experience and move on. I turned out all my pockets and made the trip back to the hotel.

More later!

PBB
Olinda, Pernambuco, Brasil

I had had enough of Recife. The city had come to a sort of halt. A kind of ghost town. I spent about three hours searching for a bank, many of which were shuttered, and some just didn't work with my Citibank card. I had someone call Citibank and they said a bank was located at 1377 Avenida Boa Vista. I walked there but it didn't exist. So I called this time and they said an office was at 785. But I decided to try a Brandesco bank. Some people had entered and broken the glass on the machines. Notwithstanding, the bank did give me some money and I went to pay my hotel bill. R$45 each day, paid in the morning.

During my quest for a bank, I entered a hotel and met a man from Sweden who had worse luck than me on the bridge. He had lost his credit card. Very amiable man. After I got my money and was leaving town he caught up with me and we chatted again.

Actually, I'm still talking about Recife. Earlier that day, I had taken a trip to Olinda, which is labeled a Patrimony of Humanity by the UN. I had met two guys, who I will talk about later, and had tried to get lodging in the center of this little town. The woman showed me a room and, with a straight face, told me R$1,500!! Got that? About US$490. So what if they have a pool? Swimming is not on top of my list.

So I left these two guys, of whom I will speak later, and went looking for a room. I approached a mulata at a window and told her I was looking for a room. Without saying a word, she looked off to the right. I figured that was her "thinking" posture. After about 30 seconds, I realized that was her "dismissal" posture. Her way of saying "this guy must be joking to think I would favor him with the time of day!"

I repeated the process and this time I was invited into the yard where a man and about four women listened to my desires. He told me to go up that road and make a left. I went up the road and made a right.

I happened upon a series of bazaars near the Igreja da Sé (a very old church). I bought a couple things from a man and asked him if he knew where I could find a room. He consulted with a couple vendors and Sandete told me I could have a room in her house for R$100. It sounded a hell of a lot better than R$1,500.

I'm tired now. Tell you about her later.

PBB

Friday, February 20, 2004

Recife, Pernambuco

Returned to bed after writing this morning and went to Shopping Boa Vista to buy aspirin. I took two.

PRODUCT WARNING: Take everything I say about Brasil with a grain of salt. Today, I heard a lot of loudspeakers talking about Re-ci-fi (with a short "i' at the end). Somebody in Natal told me it was Re-cife. But I will take the word of the Recifians (if that is the name).

Got my clothes from the laundry and returned to bed at about 2 o'clock. Talked to my body to get the pressure down. I know when it is high without taking a measurement. The only question is how high. In other words, will I send a blog tomorrow? That kind of feeling.

I had been told twice today that there would be a procession nearby this afternoon. There happens to be the headquarters of a Bloco two blocks away. So, after I got up, I walked to the headquarters, where people were arriving at a steady pace. The music never stopped! I continued to take a lot of pictures but it wasn't easy because there is a delay of about half a second when I press the button and the people bouncing up and down to the music aren't about to accommodate my lazy camera.

I might have been there for about two hours when they decided to get the show on the road. But just before that, a guy and his friend posed for their picture, so I took it. They were so delighted when I showed them that I was awarded a beer, Brahma, a Brasilian brand. I only drink the local brand when I travel. Unfortunately, his shouting in my ear over the music, didn't help me understand any better. Afterwards, I went to thank him and he rewarded me with something out of a Coke bottle with a little liquor added.

I photographed a woman, she reluctantly, but she seemed to like the result. I saw her about ten minutes later, and three other women presented themselves to be photographed. I will share their photos with you another time.

Since it was only a long block from my hotel, I stopped at Confrario On Line to write.

Speaking of the hotel, let me tell you what type of hotel it is:
I have to pay every morning
Nobody under 18 is permitted to stay there (I wonder why)
Ants are in charge of the dining room (but I do prefer them to flies, or the roaches with whom I lived in the New Reina Hotel in Buenos Aires)
People tend to ignore you when you say Bon dia

But I actually have no problems with Room 204. It has three single beds - my clothes live on one, and I sleep in another. OK, so I love hard mattresses.

Something significant will happen early in the morning. It is called Galo de Madrugada (about noon Saturday.)

In the past I thought that February was carnaval but all is pre-carnival until the 21st.)

It takes place, Galo de Madrugada, about 10 blocks away, a 12-15 minute walk.

Bye for now.

PBB
Recife

Last night, I crossed two bridges to get to the area called Old Recife. For weeks, I had been calling the city Re-ci-fe, but it is actually pronounced Re-ceef. Reminds me of when I visited Lisbon and kept saying Obligado (thanks) when I should have been saying Obrigado.

I was tired last night and my equilibrium was not good. Sometimes I feel as if I am on the verge of toppling over. Maybe not taking my pills for hypertension has something to do with it. Notwithstanding, I kept walking. Bought cane juice (caldo do caña), of was it caldo da caña? This was at the other side of the first bridge, the bridge to Boa Vista, where I am staying.

The man who sold me got into a very animated conversion about the region. I can read a bit of Portuguese, just enough to get a sense of what happened. But if I concentrate hard on the speaker, sometimes I can understand a bit. For about 15 minutes, he told me a lot about what was worth seeing in the region, not just in Recife. I understood about 20 percent. A very likable man and I hope to see him again.

I left him to follow a band and a group of dancers in costume, called a Bloco. After about four blocks, I came into a square where there were a few more blocos, one dancing behind, as well as on a truck. I crossed the second bridge with this group and eventually found this area that I saw on the tourist literature.

I walked freely on the street and found a restaurant called Ballentines. With the sidewalk full of people at tables, I choose to eat inside the restaurant. By the time I returned to the street, it was impassable. Chock full of musicians and revellers. Group after group. There was no way to move, unless I joined a group to be carried away as if upon a wave. During a brief lull, I worked my way against the stream and sought fairly empty streets that I could use to get back to the hotel.

I probably got back to the hotel at about 11:30 PM, went to bed, and slept badly. At the moment, 10:56 AM, I am not feeling steady at all and think it would be a good idea to go back to bed. I would love to get back on the street, this time with my camera, but I get the sense my pressure has gone sky high.

Até logo, as they say in Brasil.

PBB

Thursday, February 19, 2004

Recife, Pernambuco, Brasil

Left Natal at 9:30 this morning by bus and arrived in Recife at about 2 o'clock. Took the metro from the rodovario (bus station) to estação Joana Bezerra, then the number 100 bus to Shopping Boa Vista. I was a menace in the bus because with a back-pack and a smaller bag in front, I blocked the way. Got off the bus and walked about five blocks to the Hotel Barão de São Borja. It is not the best hotel; I left a super hotel in Natal, one block from the beach.

I was in Fortaleza before I went to Natal, but I am too tired to write about it.

Went to the laundromat, about two blocks away, and am now in this internet spot which is on my block.

I arrived tired so I haven't gone out to explore yet.

I'm told that the area is safe; it sits in the center of downtown, where I like to be, where I can walk to places.

Patrick Barry B.