The Ugly Girl

February 14, 2008

Photo by author

Armando had married a few days ago, but that didn’t stop him from accompanying me to celebrate Carnaval in Salvador. He’d judge the candidates as we walked down the streets of the Pelourinho: “Look at that one. She’s hot.” But I expected an abundance of beautiful people. After all, this is Brazil we’re talking about.

His mission was clear: he wanted to find me a date. His wife Adriana had stayed at home and, though Armando was faithful, he wanted to live vicariously through me. “I can stare at or approach any girls,” he argued, “because I’m only trying to help you find a date.”

In those streets of the historic center of Salvador we began stumbling upon live music. A small marching band played in the Terreiro de Jesus, while in the Praça da Sé some samba musicians took the stage. And, though pleasant, these were mere appetizers to the real treat of Carnaval in Salvador.

As we were leaving the Pelourinho we came across the unending ocean of people, all vying for a spot to watch the blocos that were marching down the avenues. But we carried on, in spite of the chaos around us, sometimes walking along the gutters and stepping on water and trash of questionable origin. When Armando saw a dead rat, I tried not to look down. When drops of liquid would hit my face, I’d hope they were beer, since beer cans were the most common projectile. Sweat from our neighbors rubbed off on our skin, and unfamiliar hands attempted to bury themselves in our pockets.

Armando was fixated on a mission: “You’ll have to kiss someone. You grab her hand and, if she’s up for it, she won’t let go.” It seemed a bit primeval, but I’d have to embrace that animal side soon, because Armando was still busy evaluating the candidates as if the sidewalk was a cement catwalk.

The real show, however, was on the asphalt, as a giant flatbed truck crawled down the road, pumping out the music played by a live band. This was one of the famous trios eletricos, the itinerant stages that have been a fixture of Bahian Carnaval for over fifty years. Some people purchased ‘abadás’, a sort of VIP pass allowing them full access to a trio eletrico wherever they went.

We weren’t fans of any specific one, and we didn’t have the money to purchase an expensive abadá. We also couldn’t afford a camarote and watch the action from a balcony above the crowd. So we stood on a street corner, in the very middle of it all, in Campo Grande, the place where trios began and ended their trail around town.

The multitude began to relocate: a trio was approaching and the crowd had to make way. And as the ocean of people parted I saw her, beckoning me with her eyes, and she was highly unattractive. I told Armando and we laughed about it, but didn’t react to her obvious invite. She was ugly, after all, and we were surrounded by plenty of beautiful people.

Though Armando had been my faithful companion throughout Carnaval, there was one afternoon where I was left to my own resources. He and his wife had gone to the beach to escape the chaos of the city; after all, they were expecting to spending their lives in Brazil and could celebrate Carnaval any year. I knew I’d have future opportunities to see the ocean, but the chance to witness Carnaval ‘next year’ wasn’t at all guaranteed.

It was a long walk back to Campo Grande, and this time I was alone. In the Pelourinho I saw some cross-dressers: the Muquiranas. “Anything is possible in Carnaval,” I thought, remembering the story I had heard about this particular group. The men pick a costume each year, turning it into a collective theme. And this year they were all Catwomen, dressed in black leather and sporting false ears and tails. I took a picture from as far away as my camera’s zoom would allow and kept walking.

I walked briskly along the sidewalks, stopping only when a trio eletrico would go by, filling the street and preventing any foot traffic. I wanted to find a place where I could take pictures, even attempting to climb a tree. But it was futile, so I pushed on.

And then they came, the Muquiranas, with their miniskirts and mustaches, carrying water guns to greet the crowd. I feared for my camera, so I took shelter next to a nearby building. But it turned out to be a horrible decision: the Muquiranas had invaded the sidewalks, and one of them decided to approach me. I closed my eyes as she gyrated her hairy, masculine body a few millimeters away from mine.

When I opened my eyes she was gone. But my momentary peace was interrupted by another Muquirana, who ran her tongue across her lips and uttered a phrase I am bound to never forget: “Olá gostozo” (“Hello, handsome”). And she wasn’t done, turning to her friends and screaming “It’s him!” Four other Muquiranas immediately ran up and without saying a word began throwing me up into the air. After they put me down, one of them had the decency to thank me, high-fiving me before walking away. Another one of them doused me in water, adding insult to insult.

I was dazed. I grew dizzy. I felt dirty. So I went home.

The only love and affection I received had come from the cat-’women’, leaving me to wonder whether it would’ve been better to settle for the unattractive girl from Campo Grande.

At least she was a girl.

About the author:Ernesto Machado is a 28 years old computer nerd who has lived and/or worked in his native Puerto Rico, Buenos Aires and all over the United States. In 2006 he left on a ‘three month trip’ to South America and hasn’t stopped yet. He currently lives in Brazil, and writes about it in his free time.