A Little of the Morning, A Little of the Evening

Putting the Poo in Boa Viagem's Poodles

One of Brasil’s enduring qualities is her delightful ability to regularly slap you with a surprise. It was before 8am and I’d already raised an eyebrow and chinstroked in company. The lift doors had barely closed when the neighbours slave bid me good morning and handed me her business card. Common courtesy in such situations is to reciprocate but I didn’t have one to hand/have any at all. Technically she should have been in the service lift, but you find yourself letting these things go now and again. I could tell that Carlos, the retired architect, was outraged and in between floors if you listened intently you could hear his mind screaming ‘Insolence!’ and cataloging the incident for Friday’s AOB at the bi-monthly residents meeting. 

Carlos’s departure brought Isabelle* to life. She’s been slaving for 5 years and considers herself an ironer without equal in the locality. Naturally a talented cleaner though she knows others more skilled than she. I’ve been in the market for an non-live-in escravo** for some time now and her slaveskillset does match my requirements. A reliable escravo is notoriously difficult to commandeer these days.*** My previous lodgings were a purpose built for a live-in. It had what we call a slave cave (Black hole of Calcutta type affairs with room enough for a bed, a single socket and a shelf for a telly) which could only be locked from the outside, for security reasons.

Isabelle was bringing out her masters repulsive poodle for his morning shite while I was going to the beach for my daily coconut. A guy blaring out tunes about shaking yo ass and whatnot usually wakes up the stragglers at this time as he wheels his CD cart to the beach. Today is no different. As it is winter, the hound had a rain jacket (with hood) and doggy trainers on so he wouldn’t dirty his paws after decorating the path with his glistening muck. It is a common early morning sight to see huddles of young black women from the surrounding towers sitting in the shade with poodles, Yorkshire Terriers or those hairless rats that middle-aged women like to carry around in handbags. The women smoke, while the poodles group poo. As a rule, dog dirt comes in threes. Good to know as a daily flip flop wearer.

Giddy up horsey

On my way back home Isabelle saw me from across the street and began to mime someone ironing (while restraining a dog and smoking). I gave her the thumbs up and promised myself to seriously consider allowing her be my weekend escravo. Slaves can be awful charming you know. Her proposal deserves some serious thought as I hate ironing more than I hate some stranger cleaning around me while I hammock aimlessly and look at the enormous multi-coloured towers that obscure the view of the sea.

Dusk arrives pretty damn quick at around a quarter past five every day all year. The unmarked bus stops begin to spill out onto the road and just like the dusk, the beepers begin their daily ritual. You soon become deaf to the hum of traffic and the shouts of the unhinged as they head back home to be mad there instead. You forget that the non compos mentis travel too, though are rarely seen in transit. Lights begin to flicker madly on the hill behind the airport where the buses are headed and across the skyline and the excitement of urban life is hard to deny. This is when you hear the vigilantes.****

They cycle around the neighbourhood until dawn blowing whistles in uniforms that attempt to assert some semblance of authority. They seem to be quite effective as I’ve yet to hear one suddenly begin blowing like beholy for other vigilantes to come to his aid. The whistle has a dual purpose. As well as warning ne’er do wells to stay the hell away or else, they also reassure the community that they are being protected by an unarmed man on a bicycle in a city with one of the highest gun crime rates in the world. 

The next step up on the career path seems to be a condominium security guard. These guys sit alone on stools outside plush towers with a walkie-talkie and a gun looking for some rakish reprobates to shoot at. Natural progression determines that they eventually become policemen. You can tell as they substitute the whistling for leaving on the patrol cars flashing lights at all times.

By nine the mindless novelas have begun. The lottery seller has chained his patio table and chair to the lampost and started off for home when the dramatic music starts. Naturally you’d think it's that fucker with his cart. Not tonight. An old car has pulled up nearby with a flashing light on the top. A woman gets out and starts reading a homage to a mammy from her adult son. There is cheese and goosebumps everywhere. Surely the poor woman must be mortified. It seems like she is refusing to come out. I picture some botoxed hag embarrassed beyond caring and trying to grimace bursting onto the street and vomiting on the woman, sending her packing before publicly disowning her idiot offspring. No such luck. With no movement on the part of the mammy, the ante is upped. An explosives expert gets out of the car and fires a rocket at the apartment in an attempt to blast the mammy out.

It works. Seconds later she arrives, sobbing. Mammy and son embrace and you can’t help but think what a complete pack of saps.

*Pronounced Is-a-belly.

** Slave.

***The locals will all swear they are like part of the family, albeit one who never gets photographed with the family, even if they do pay for a basic health plan for her.

**** Security guards are called vigilantes here and they look like they are handy with knife attacks from bicycles.