Handymen and Porteiros Part I

Objects of Mass Confusion

Criminal ineptitude is in no way a hindrance to a career in the Brazilian handyman racket.* Should your tool shed of DIY knowledge extend to discerning a hammer from hammock (or indeed an animal) then come to Brazil and be considered gifted. But why are there so many tool belt owning flâneurs about the place? This can be explained by the long held tradition which dictates that any man-made object with more than one moving part must be recycled until it either

    a)  Biodegrades

    b)  Explodes

    c)   Is used as a murder weapon

    d)  Outwits its master – not as uncommon as one would think.

    e)   Or evolves.

Recife’s litter problem can be partly attributed to bits of old Taiwanese tack being stapled once too often to some Pakistani plastic. During their forced welding they’ll form a Thelma & Louise type pact and the first chance they get make a dash for it. Freedom or death! They usually get as far as the road, embrace one last time and go out in a blaze of crushed plastic and screeching tyres. If they aren’t picked up that night by a man in a cart hunting plastic, cardboard and tin cans they will end up in the drains where come next rainy season, they’ll wreak their revenge.

A walk around any centre of commerce is a stroll into the soul of Brazil. Sandwiched between the fruit & veg whoppers and the tack hawkers are the handymen. Their huts have either been (shoddily) nailed to the wall or are behind windows that weren’t part of the original blue prints of the building. Inside there will be a hand held TV, a stool and that smell of hat sweat, moustache and wires.  Atop the stool sits a wee chap who knows a man who knows the man who has just popped out for an errand and who may be back soon, depending on multitude of variables, most of which concern food and women.

Panning for the numbers

These are places where you can get anything fixed, or mangled beyond recognition, depending on how you view things. Mountains of temporarily still fans and unsteady stacks of VHS players are the red carpet that announces to the customer that there is an artisan in the house. Out back, 1980s keyboards and CPUs lie abandoned after being panned for their valuable numbers by Recife’s great supermarket triumvirate. 

With supply greatly outstripping demand in the quarterly-skilled sectors, is it any wonder that whippersnappers with crushed dreams of becoming the best blender technician this side of the Bolivia drift towards the graveyard of the ambition….life as a porteiro.

Getting a good porteiro is pure luck. I was blessed with Jesus, who excelled at his job. This involved standing at a gate, sweeping, and not fixing problems.** He was in on it you see. Wise. Jesus was sagacious enough to realise that if he tried fixing anything he would make it worse. So he just didn’t. Ever. This showed the kind of canny judgment that made his namesake famous. Hoberto on the other hand, was ambitious.

The porteiro needs to be ever vigilant & alert

With thighs that must make him a first cousin to Roberto Carlos, Hoberto was a night porteiro. This involved a different skillset entirely. No handyman bullshit here. Just an ability to be strong, stay awake and kill (with his hands) anyone he didn’t recognize. He did this by studying the word of the Lord. Sometimes the good book would send him to sleep. Other times he would have a quick nap after teasing one out in what he perceived to be the darkness. Like Liam Neeson, he had a particular set of skills.*** Sadly these didn’t extend to remembering if you couldn’t see people outside if your lights were on or if they couldn’t see you...****

The rule of thumb as regards the failed handymen that haunt the porteiro game is this,

Once his name isn’t Zé, Hey! You’re OK!

They say your most amazing life revelation comes to you at 28. Mine came to realization soon after while failing to change a light bulb.

This is a job for Senhor Zé, the indomitable one-eyed porteiro

I thunk. No matter of twisting, tugging and cursing at the wretched thing would release it from its hold. I found Zé furiously concentrating on rest in his office. Rousing him from the right can startle him. His good eye takes a minute or two to focus after his post-lunch pre-siesta snooze. So I approached from the east and explained the situation. He nodded and his brain confirmed to him the innate suspicion that I was some eejit indeed.

Getting a man to change a light bulb for you is a demeaning business. Thankfully Mrs. Pernambuco Gypsy was not in to bear witness. However, my humiliation was short lived.

Three heads better than one

The layers of ancient masking tape should have been a clue. Instead of replacing the fixture, which would have involved a 10-minute trot to the DIY shop, Zé had been super-gluing bulbs to the rickety ceiling fan. All this came to light after he’d smashed the bulb with a hammer and wrenched the base free with a tool that we’ll both never know the name of. He then proceeded to smear the new light with enough glue to reattach regretful Siamese twins in a Shanghai backstreet.

Striking while the iron was hot, I asked him to cast his eye over the kitchen tap, which was on strike. So Zé unscrews the tap and water gushes forth. Zé puts his finger in the hole in the wall. The gush halts. Zé takes his finger out. Water spurts from the wall. Zé looks at the tap in his hand and says

EEEEIIIITA!

Obviously the tap is not the problem and there is an internal water problem in the wall. Stuffing some rubber that he had in his pocket into the hole to stem the tide, Zé shuffles out for reinforcements. He returns shortly with Félix, a man who looks like he would struggle naming the colours on a rubik’s cube never mind figuring out you can twist it. But he owns a tool belt so he’s a respected second opinion.

Félix takes a tool from his belt and begins to bang the wall above the tap. Zé nods in approval thinking

Why didn’t I think of that?

The banging continues. Occasionally the tool is changed for a different shaped one though with identical results. All the while the sun has passed from one side of the apartment to the other. Laughing in the face of whoever said that two heads are better than one, their collective will is almost broken. Defeated by a plastic tap. But not quite! A decision has been made. A specialist is to be summonsed.

It’s time for the 5° Rei. With trembling hands, the call is made. And we wait…

____________

* The average tradesman resembles a ‘handyman’ only in that he usually has two hands and is exclusively male.

** Although he was teetotal, chatting to the cachaça-eyed porteiro from two buildings down seemed to be part of his job description.


*** A particular set of skills.

****Hoberto was a friendly guy and liked to shake hands when he saw you. What you don’t know can’t hurt you…unless his fly and belt are undone during the shaking. He now patrols Recife’s only golf course, keeping non-golfers at bay.