This post originally comes from Zero Tres, written by Ernesto, a boricua living in Recife.
From the sugarcane fields to your feet
We walk the Olinda seaside and pick a restaurant. Overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, we order the cheapest dish on the menu. We are, after all, budget travelers; we can’t afford even the most inexpensive restaurant in the touristy historic center. There is a sign nearby with an ominous message, and the fact that it is translated to English makes the message even more worrying: “Danger – Bathers in this area are at a greater than average risk of shark attack.”
But there are threats on land as well. A parade of products interrupts our conversation, and we realize we made a grave mistake sitting outdoors. We are no more a target than the locals, but the hawkers are no doubt a nuisance. The flower vendor lightens the mood when he jokingly offers his product to us, heterosexual men.
The sound of approaching cowbells pierces through the evening air. Everyone notices him, the caboclo-de-lança[1], in full costume. The charismatic young man approaches each table with a smile; when our turn comes, we actually pay attention. He obviously wants money, but his honesty makes us smile. He had taken part in a maracatu de baque solto[2] in the historic center, but transportation hadn’t been arranged. Now he wanted to catch a bus home, but he also wanted to have a beer, and he was asking for a handout. We gave him a few coins and he walked to the next table, and the next table, and so on until the sound of cowbells fades away.
We are left to wonder whether he gathered enough spare coins to complete his bus fare, and save himself from the long walk home. We wonder whether the sound of cowbells will continue through the neighborhoods of Olinda, until this caboclo-de-lança reaches his home, wherever it may be.
During the months leading up to Carnaval, the caboclo-de-lança (and, therefore, the sound of these cowbells) becomes a part of the city’s daily life. The groups that perform maracatu de baque solto rehearse their traditional dance/theater, leading up to countless presentations during Carnaval itself. The tradition is also called maracatu rural[3], due to the fact that it was originally created in the rural, sugarcane plantations around Recife. That surname distinguishes it from the more African version, called maracatu de baque virado[4] or maracatu nação[5], which is predominant in urban Recife. Though today most of the maracatu rural groups are still based in those sugarcane fields, at least one is based in Olinda itself: the Maracatu Piaba de Ouro.
When I became a student of Mestre Salustiano a year later, I began to understand the situation. He explained that the costume for the caboclo-de-lança costs R$300 ($150USD), of which approximately half is paid for by the government. In the more popular groups, the rest of the cost is shouldered by the organizers. In the absence of funds, each member of the group must fend for him or herself. Due to the fact that the Brazilian minimum wage is R$465 per month ($235USD), it’s hard for me to imagine how a sugarcane worker is able to bear the expenses for this Carnaval hobby.
Mestre Salustiano passed away in 2008, but his city-based maracatu rural lives on, thanks in part to the additional popularity provided by Chico Science and the manguebeat movement at the end of the 20th century. Though his group, Nação Zumbi, incorporated drumming patterns from the maracatu nação, Chico himself would appear on stage dressed as a caboclo-de-lança and even composed a song in honor of Mestre Salustiano. Thanks to him, maracatu nação, maracatu rural and countless other regional rhythms became stronger and more respected elements of Brazil’s culture. And, in spite of Chico’s passing in 1997, the image of the caboclo-de-lança remains forever tied to the manguebeat cultural movement that Nação Zumbi spearheaded.
Though Nação Zumbi has toured abroad, exporting northeastern Brazilian culture to the world, the image of the caboclo-de-lança is about to reach uncharted territory. Nike has produced sneakers inspired by the colorful costume worn by the caboclo-de-lança. Pictures and descriptions of the shoes are now widely available online, and sneaker-release parties were held in Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo. Soon, the beautiful, new shoes will be available in Nike stores around the world. It is a great achievement: the first Brazilian-designed and inspired Nike sneakers.
But no Nike party was held in Recife, and with no official Nike store in the Brazilian Northeast it remains to be seen whether the region that provided the inspiration will even have the sneakers on the shelves. Local media has ignored the new sneakers so far, in spite of the connection to the local culture. More alarming is the hefty price tag. It should come as no surprise, however, since it is a world-famous brand name and import taxes in Brazil are sky high.
It seems ironic that the entire manguebeat movement was based on cultural cannibalism; that is, taking local rhythms and mixing them with rock and hip hop and countless other elements. Chico Science would dance around in his caboclo-de-lança costume while an electric guitar played distorted riffs over traditional rhythms played on maracatu drums. And I am left to wonder if, were he alive today, he’d combine his R$300 costume with a pair of R$400 sneakers. Would Chico’s lyrics “Pernambuco embaixo dos pés” (”Pernambuco under my feet”) become “Pernambuco nos meus pés” (”Pernambuco on my feet”)?
My disposable income is not disposable enough for either of those purchases, but the next time I encounter a caboclo-de-lança asking for change, I’ll be sure to spare more than a few coins.
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[1]caboclo-de-lança = a caboclo (person of mixed race, European and Amerindian heritage) of the spear
[2]maracatu de baque solto = maracatu of the loose beat
[3]maracatu rural = rural maracatu
[4]maracatu de baque virado = maracatu of the turned around beat
[5]maracatu nação = maracatu of the (African) nation
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