A Trip to the Fazenda & My First "Incident"

This last weekend, I traveled with Laís and three other friends: Maneco, Mauricio (aka Gafo), and Tuca. Maneco's aunt and uncle own a farm in the countryside just off a gravel road from a small town called Areia Branca. The town seemed small and simple in my mind, but later I learned it actually had a population of about 17,000 people.

We met early Saturday morning at Maneco's to another amazing meal: cuscuz (Eng. couscous), ovos (eggs), bife (beef), café (coffee), and leite em pó (powdered milk). Rarely here do people drink liquid milk, and when they do it's only sold in one liter containers. After a very cold shower we sent our bags with Maneco's uncle and took a taxi to the bus station. The driver had no problem packing the five of us into his small car. Almost all vehicles here look exactly the same, with only slight variations. Imagine a Geo Metro and multiply that image by one thousand. Got it? Now that's the streets of Aracaju.

Arriving at the bus station we stepped onto a bus headed somewhere. I guess I just trust my friends knowing where we're headed. The bus was quite comfortable with a nice interior but no air conditioning. I felt completely comfortable the entire ride. The woman in front of me carried a cardboard box with jagged holes poked in the sides and wrapped in kite string, and inside she carried a pit bull puppy. We rode for about 40 minutes, paid R $3 ($1.75), and exited in Areia Branca waiting for our ride to the farm.

The bus ride to Areia Branca was unreal. The countryside is an extraordinary view of rolling hills, distant mountains, plots of natural vegetation, and vast expanses of sugar cane fields. I suppose in a different but similar way the landscape is similar to Iowa. The different part is the hills, mountains, and types of vegetation, and the similar part... Well, very little. But comparing the way the land used to be compared to what it is now must cross comparisons. At one time the landscape would have been all tropical savanna with  palms, bushes, and dense lowground vegetation. Now the entire landscape has been transformed by man to fulfill the needs of expanding food and industrial needs of a growing Brazilian population. The sugar cane fields dominate all else and stand more than 12 feet. A beautiful site with little thought. Add thought, and it's somewhat saddening, but necessary?

Maneco's uncle picked us up from a random corner in Areia Branca, and we took a short drive to the farm. On the way, his uncle stopped his truck in the middle of the road, walked into a small open air bar, arm wrestled the bartender, raised his arms in victory, and took a shot of cachaça (popular Brazilian drink made from distilled fresh sugar cane juice). He got back in the truck and we took off. We made it to the farm and it was even better than I'd expected. It seemed to never end, giving true meaning to the word fazenda. There was a small building for horses, living quarters for the farmhands, and a relatively modest house for the farm owners. The yard was filled with mango trees probably 100 years old, bananas a little downhill, papayas and fruits I had never heard of--all  atop a hill overlooking a large lake where they have sectioned off an area to farm tilapia.

We spent the entire weekend eating amazing food and socializing with some of the most gracious people. I ate churrasco (Brazilian barbequed meat), pirão (Brazilian gravy eaten with rice), macaxeira (cassava, the root is much like eating potatoes), cuscuz, and so much more. Saturday we went to some 15-20 foot waterfalls on a crazy truck ride where we piled seven people in the truck box. The waterfalls were cold, but a truly beautiful experience. 

Saturday night turned into a typical farm night of beer, cachaça, and jokes on the veranda.

Sunday morning I woke up at 7am and accompanied some folks (farm owner, his wife, daughter, and son-in-law), none of whom spoke English, to a market in Areia Branca. What an experience! To give an idea of its magnitude, imagine an outdoor area the size of a Super Wal-Mart selling anything from fresh produce to reusable cell phone chargers. I walked through vendors selling beans, rice, shrimp, fish, vegetables, fruits, and an open air building with meats galore--all appearing fresher than any store in the US. The guys told me the market is every Sunday and at 8am it was packed with people. I was sent to accompany his son-in-law with a wad of cash on a couple of errands. We stopped first at the local barber shop where a handful of old men sat chatting and getting a trim. He paid out half of the wad, and we moved on to a grocer where the second half was given. On the way back to the market, he explained to me that this was payment for their work on the farm.

We found our way through the maze of people to a little stand selling something from a pitcher and pasteis (huge ravioli-looking pouch filled with meat and fried crispy). He asked if I wanted the sugar cane juice and a pastel. I said I'd have some juice but felt too much of an obligation to also demand a pastel--the Minnesota in me. He ordered two small cups of juice and a pastel. My very limited Portuguese has made me nearly mute, but I managed to tell ask him the cost and tell him I'd pay. As usual, he insisted on buying and said it was "muito muito barato," or "very very cheap". While we drank, I watched a young man running stalks of sugar cane through a mechanical press that collected its inner juice. The young woman behind the table would then dip a pail into the larger bucket and strain the juice into the plastic pitcher on the counter. We drank and drank as she continued to fill our cups whenever they were low. My new friend paid out a total of R $1.50 ($0.80) for our snack, and we wandered back into the market. 

When we found the others, we drove back to the farm where my friends were chatting on the veranda. Throughout the day we took the opportunity to swim in the beautiful lake down the hill from the house, and I took a ride on one of their horses--the first time I've ridden in years. Unfortunately, I brought my camera but didn't remember batteries, so the photos below are courtesy of Maneco and Gaforelli.

Swimming -- [Front Row] Regina (worker's daughter),
Dioclese (owner), Diana (Dioclese's daughter),
[Back Row] Luciano, Tuca, Maneco, Laís, Nate

We caught a bus back to Aracaju and stood the entire trip because it was completely full. When we arrived at the bus station people slowly started to file out, Maneco and Gafo first. I was waiting in line inside the bus when both of them came running to the door and jumped inside looking scared. People were yelling, and I didn't know what was happening. After a minute of tension people filed back out and I followed. When I found everyone I asked Laís what had happened by the bus that people were so scared. She informed me two guys had started arguing and when that happens people run because, "You never know what kinds of guns they have." Of course nothing happened, but the realization was less nerve-wracking than interesting. Everything here is normal for them, and for me completely new.