Jupiters Travels: Four Years Around the World on a Triumph (29 page)

'The customs need a bank guarantee against the importation of the motorcycle,' I told him, 'and this guarantee is being provided by the
Sunday Times
in London. You have heard of it, perhaps? The newspaper?'

His expression indicated mounting distaste. I hurried on.

'The guarantee was lodged in Rio de Janeiro. Now I must tell them to have it transferred here to Fortaleza.'

The agent began to turn away towards the door.

'So I would like, with your help, to send a telex message, unless . . .' I caught sight of a telephone, 'unless perhaps I could telephone.'

This last remark seemed to penetrate where nothing else had.

'Impossible,' he said.

T would reverse the charges, of course.'

'It is impossible,' he repeated with a voice like a rubber stamp.

The telephone was one of those ancient models with the mouthpiece on a stalk like a bakelite rose. It did not seem adequate for reaching London, and I let the idea go.

'Well, when can I get a telex message off?' I asked.

'You will not get through,' he said.

'Why not?' I asked.

'Impossible,' he said. 'You must use the telex.'

'Yes,' I said. T would like to send a telex message. Do you have telex?'

'Of course,' he said.

'When can I use it?'

'It is too late,' he said. 'Please wait.' And he left the room.

I sat down in a brown chair and considered how much time I should

donate to this useless exercise in order to make sure that the agent did not actually block my progress. I roughed out a short message to the
Sunday Times,
and allowed the agent to enter and leave the room once without demanding his attention. When he returned ten minutes later I felt I had shown enough humility and asked him where the telex machine was. He avoided the question and left the room again, but an elderly clerk was obliged to remain and I harassed him with questions about time differences and routing details until, in frustration at not being able to understand me or dispose of me, he took me downstairs to the street and into another office a few doors along. Within this office was yet another smaller office, and when the door was opened, icy air struck me, freezing my sweaty shirt to my skin.

Where before I had seen only brown wooden desks, I now saw green metal filing cabinets. A young man in a tight-fitting suit, and a shirt with shootable cuffs was using a telephone of recent design. Through the hum I heard a pronounced 'clack' that focussed my eyes immediately on a bright new telex machine chattering its pre-taped message to its remote counterpart across the globe.

Walter Sa was a grave and fashionable young man who spoke good English and, apparently, also got things done, for he was the man in charge of beating the penalty at the
Zoë
G.
He agreed immediately to send my message. He warned me that there might be no line open until later, and I should not expect a reply before the following day.

I should have thanked him cordially, relaxed, and left his refrigerated office to go about my proper business, which was getting used to the climate, seeing something of the strange city and learning the language. I did not. What I had already seen of the town depressed me. The strange behaviour of the police frightened me. I wanted to get away from both, but as long as the bike was locked up in the customs shed I could not move. I became obsessed by the need to speed up the process, and could think of nothing else. I sat for hours in the artificial atmosphere of Sa's office watching the clock, willing the channels to London to open, willing the message to arrive, willing the answer to return there and then. It was absurd. The message went out as expected at 4 p.m.; that was 7 p-.m. in London, and too late for a reply to be possible until the next day.

My back was stiff with tension, and the chill air had done it no good. I took a token walk up the hill into town, but my heart was not in it. Torrents of rainwater were rushing down the street, making a muddy river over wildly uneven surfaces of flagstone, cobble, cement and earth. Halfway up the hill was a bridge being either restored or demolished, it was hard to know which. Above me loomed a grey granite wall retaining the embanked garden of a colonial fort, and on the wall stood a soldier, wearing a waterproof cape and carrying a rifle. As I passed he gave me a

malevolent stare, locking on the wallet at my waist. So, I noticed, did others. I began to learn that in this part of America one thing you looked for on a stranger was a gun.

Then the clouds began to weep again, and I lost what heart I had and scuttled back to the ship in a taxi. The shower had stopped when I arrived. The storm covers were being removed from the hatches and the cashews were swinging out. The work continued under floodlights through the night. My dreams were modified to include the rhythmic rumbling of the derricks, and the pace of it kept my own anxiety alive.

In the morning, over an oily egg fried in garlic which I had come to appreciate, I learned that I would have to leave the ship that day. The
Zoë
G
was expected to sail the following morning before dawn. I took a taxi back to the agent's office but there was no message, and I took another aimless walk into town. It was a shock to discover that the Spanish I had learned was no use at all. Even when I read out the Portuguese words from a menu at a fruit juice counter I could not make myself understood, a blow to my self-esteem because I had always been good at picking up the 'feel' of a language. In revenge I developed a senseless dislike of Portuguese and determined not to bother with it, telling myself that I would soon be in Spanish-speaking America and that to learn Portuguese was a waste of time.

As soon as I reasonably could, I returned to the shipping office and sat, frozen inwardly and out, waiting. They were patient and tolerant. I was offered frequent cups of
cafesinho
and bottles of Fanta.

Shortly before midday the message came.

It was in three parts.

The bank guarantee had been arranged with the Banco do Brasil in Rio de Janeiro.

I was introduced to Father Walsh at the Acao Social of Sao Raimundo, with an address and a telephone number.

It was suggested that I go to a town called Iguatu where there had been a serious flood disaster, and write about it.

I was delighted to have some information which might lead to the release of the motorcycle, for the bike was the key to my freedom. The introduction to the priest, who I gathered must be a Catholic missionary, promised at least a foothold on this slippery shore, and gave something more to look forward to than bureaucratic entanglements.

The reference to Iguatu scared me ... I had no doubt that telex messages were monitored by the police. In due course they would read that the
Sunday Times
had asked me to report on a flood disaster in the state of Ceara. 'This', they would say, 'is an odd way for a tourist to be carrying on. Let's ask him again where he's hidden his snorkel.'

Sá gave me the use of his phone, and I dialled the number in the telex. A woman's voice sang in my ear.
'Quern estd falando?"

The words meant nothing to me, and I asked for Padre Walsh. There were some scuffling sounds, and a man came to the telephone who by pure chance turned out to be Walsh. I explained how I had heard of him. In a brisk, young voice with a powerful Irish inflection he established quickly where I was and what I needed, and arranged to meet me with a car an hour later.

'If I'm not there on the dot, don't worry. I'll be stopped somewhere on the way with my head under the bonnet. We have the most egregious collection of cars you'll ever see. I'll bring
the jatao
- that means jet liner-it's a flashy performer but it has black moods.'

The
jatao
was on schedule. Walsh leaned across the empty seat to shout my name through the window.

I liked the look of him immediately. He was a vigorous man of about thirty in a loose shirt and sandals with a friendly but shrewd face. I climbed in to the green VW and he suggested lunch before I had even begun to wonder how to mention it. We went to a fish restaurant on the beach. The food was delicious, the beer was good and cold, and Walsh was a grand talker. His speech came fast and furious and often his accent made it hard for me to catch, but by the end of lunch he had illuminated the political landscape of Northern Brazil, the church's history, the changes forced upon it and the present role, as he saw it, of a Catholic priest in Ceara. He was witty, comprehensive and wonderfully free of humbug or pious rectitude.

Perhaps the major surprise for a pagan like myself was that he concentrated so thoroughly on the pragmatic approach. As a reaction to the shameful history of the church's indifference to its poor flock, it was refreshing. When Walsh spoke about the church or his mission it was with the excitement of someone engrossed in a stupendous theatrical production, though whether as actor, director, stage manager or critic was unclear. Presumably the show was put on for the greater glory of God, but the presumption remained tacit. Walsh had one criterion for a smash hit, and that was 'Would it send the people away better off?'

He seemed (and I surely wronged him here) to care nothing for that part of his duties which required him to wear his cassock unless it made money.

'You should see our Wednesday Novena,' he said. 'The Wednesday Show, continuous performances through the day, the most fashionable thing in town. All the cream of Fortaleza is there. The takin's are something glorious.'

The takings went to support social welfare schemes and were spent on

things as prosaic as food, clothing, building materials and tools for self-help projects.

I listened bemused and grateful for the torrent of information. If I spoke at all it was token stuff to show my appreciation and give the man a breather. I showed him my telex message, and mentioned my fears. To his credit he did not try to convince me that they were groundless, but simply suggested putting them away since there was nothing I could do about them anyway. In his company that seemed a most natural and intelligent course to take.

He drove me to the docks and helped me to fetch my things. A measure of his influence was that the
Zoë
G, which that morning had felt like home, now looked the seedy old freighter she would always be when viewed from shore. I said some farewells to the crew, trying to breathe a little of the old camaraderie into them, but the replies were so off-hand that I saw I had long ago been unloaded and forgotten in their minds, relegated to that other world which the
Zoë
G
always sailed away from sooner or later.

Walsh and I rattled off to Sao Raimundo on an endless and tortuous route. At times we seemed to drive out into the country, only to plunge again into some waterlogged and sand-strewn suburb. The greater part of the city consisted of single-storeyed brick buildings undulating and crumbling in loose foundations. I felt the earth was determined to shake itself loose of an unwanted encumbrance.

Towards the end we ran along a major road whose surface had all but disappeared, with ditches running alongside and across it. There were cars and many taxis on the road, all looking as though they had been recovered from the wrecker's yard. They flashed as the sun struck the multi-faceted dents in their bodywork, and the doors jiggled visibly in their frames. They slalomed skilfully but recklessly, in a triumph of temperament over common sense, because vehicles in Brazil were supremely expensive.

We climbed a sandy embankment, crossed a railway line, stumbled over some ditches and arrived at Sao Raimundo.

For the next few days I ate with the priests, and slept in a hammock down the road in the caretaker's home. Antonio Sa, the caretaker, was a tall, happy man, brown-skinned and handsome who lived with his wife and children in a small brick house. They ate in one room and slept in another, so the third room was available for letting. I shared it with another Englishman, Ian Dall, who was visiting Sao Raimundo, and we paid Antonio a few cruzeiros to help him out while he studied to become an electrician. Ian showed me how to use the hammock, it was a revelation to find that by lying diagonally across it, one could stretch out straight and comfortable rather than be folded up like a banana.

The next day I presented myself at the Banco do Brasil to see about the guarantee. The bank took me by surprise. I had expected the older style of shabby and discreet banking. Here was a large airy banking hall full of up-to-date office machinery and animated people, promising bustle and efficiency. I found my way to the right official and explained my problem with a translator and several eager minions standing by. The man had a keen, expressionless face of European paleness. He wore spectacles finely framed to foster the impression of a man whose mind ranged far beyond his immediate responsibilities. His suit was an immaculate lightweight grey, and his shoes gleamed on the comfortable carpeting beneath his table. Above all I was struck by his opulent linen. His shirt and handkerchief had that soft and spotless luxury which only dedicated servants can provide and which no amount of Western money and machinery can duplicate.

He listened carefully and his entourage gazed on respectfully. Then he spoke. The translator informed me that what I wanted could not, unfortunately, be done. The official addressed himself to his papers, and the group obviously expected me to vanish marvellously without another word. The rudeness of it astonished me. I demanded an explanation, and the official raised his head and looked at me as though I really had reappeared from thin air. He smiled at some private and infinitely subtle joke, and even laughed, lightly and delicately. He repeated that it would be 'quite impossible', meaning that only a half-wit could have imagined otherwise. I still refused to evaporate, and was shunted off to others, but nobody seemed capable of even hinting at an explanation.