Santo Patricío

I’m turning 23 again next week, or perhaps I’ll jump straight to 25, I’m not sure yet. When I told someone I was soon to be 24, they smiled and said ‘You mean 23 again’. I brushed it off as some sort of joke about getting old, but when another person said I should go straight to 25, I had to ask what the deal was. It turns out it’s some sort of code for gays to say you’re 24. To avoid any confusion I might stop the rot for 1 more year. 

No problem staying for another few months anyway. I made my way into Natal, to the federal police station, and got a renewal, without problems, until mid-June. It took the better part of a day, but at least I wasn’t kicked out of the building for wearing shorts this time. I also saw the site for the new World Cup stadium. It will be held in a big dirty field, apparently, that could hardly be called a construction site yet. 

The British ‘Daily Telegraph’ seems to be ready for the big event anyway. An English journalist turned up at the sanctuary the other day, whom was in the process of reporting on the region, in anticipation of the World Cup. Most likely the English need to know where best to hooliganise, well in advance of the event. Sorry, that was uncalled for, I’ve just been feeling a bit patriotic these last few days. Not sure why…

The journalist also got to take in another ‘abertura’ (turtle nest opening), on Madeiro beach, which is always good fun, for us and the public. A girl from the state nature agency IBAMA is staying with us for a few days, and the abertura probably helped the TAMAR guys stay in her/IBAMA’s good books. Cynical auld me. Whilst this was going on, unbeknownst to us and hidden behind a large headland, a car was careering off the cacimbinhas cliff to the beach, where luckily no one was situated. It might seem a bit morbid, but I can honestly say that the driver would have had one of the best views in the northeast of Brazil, before his untimely end.

The story was related to me by a taxi-man, whom used the lovely phrase ‘comenta, aumenta’, which translates as the slightly more cumbersome ‘the more it’s talked about, the bigger the story becomes’. Another nicety of the language was described to me when I was relating how it is that I came to be in Brazil. I told someone that my grandfather’s brother moved here….’Oh, you mean your grandfather….’, they interrupted. It turns out that no matter how distant a relation is, you call them your cousin, aunt/uncle or grandmother/father. ‘The cousins of my cousin are my cousins too’, she declared.

The woman in question was Lourival’s mother. He is fast becoming my best friend in the whole wide world, and it was easy to see why when his lovely family rocked up for a big barbecue the other day. Boa gente, all of them, and what a feast they brought too. They had all sorts of questions about Ireland, which reminds me why I had that sudden spurt of patriotism a minute ago, Paddy’s day of course!

A day of ups and downs really. I was working at the reception until 2pm, but that turned out to be great fun. I had my face painted by Lourdinha, who works in the sanctuary shop, and I carefully drew a shamrock for her calling it a ‘trevo’ or clover, but I ended with two green splodges on my face. Not to be deterred, I put up some posters at the sanctuary reception, as well as a map and some information about Ireland. I decided that the luck of the 4-leafed clover was due to St. Patricks blessing, as the miracle of the snakes wasn’t really doing it for the Brazilians. I even had a sign saying that I would do a little jig for anyone that could name the capital. Great fun all day, and as I related the incoming rugby scores, the guys here gave the appropriate boos and jeers, to cheer me up. After a few auld ballads in the house off I went for a quiet few in Pipa. Or should that be quite a few?

Everyone who knew the significance of the day had a good laugh at/with me, and it was a great night all-in-all. A Spanish film crew arrived, to shoot some of the general Saturday night mayhem, and I got about 2 minutes of air time, blabbering away in broken English/Portuguese/Spanish, before they moved on to some pretty girl, who had less to say, but was given longer on TV. Strange. 

My own personal Paddy’s day miracle happened when I was at the reception. One of the correct entrants to guess Dublin as the capital was a cheerful couple, originally from Switzerland, called Emily and Herbert. I did my little jig, as promised, and plenty of laughs were had. When Herb filled out his details for the sanctuary ticket, I noticed he was from Cuiabá. For my upcoming journey south, I was thinking of visiting either Iguassu falls or the Pantanal wetlands, the latter of which I knew had Cuiabá as the nearest city. When I casually mentioned my intention, he almost erupted, ‘Alex, we have a big farm there, come stay with us, no problem, bed and breakfast, trips into the wetlands, no problem’. I still don’t know what my plans are, but what a contact to make if I do go. Cheers Santo Patricío. I hope y’all had fun on P-day too, and sorry again about the English hooligan jibe, but that rugby defeat left a bitter taste. I’m off to wash it out with the rest of Lourival’s mother’s chocolate cake that was left for us. Que pena, (how bad).

Abraços.