São João Batista

É sua primeira vez no blog? Leia antes o post “Uma Introdução” (em português).*

[email from a carioca]

Paying my respects to Carmen, that’s all. In 1955, her funeral procession stopped Rio cold as 500,000 people wended their way through the streets to the Cemitério São João Batista in Botafogo. Things were slightly less crowded today.

The cemetery had been the first item on the itinerary since I found out how close it was (maybe a 10-minute walk) from where I’m staying.

I made my way around, taking pictures, until two custodians let me know that you need special authorization to do so. Not to complain, but I can’t say that I was expecting an excess of paperwork in Brazil.

Anyway, by that time I’d already taken several dozen photos, so I beat a hasty retreat; but I’m sure I’ll be back.

The place is gorgeous and decaying and absolutely packed, a real urban cemetery, everything juxtaposed against the mountains and the sky and the Cristo. There’s no grid, nor even a sort of nucleus – just some broader paths around the outskirts, and you navigate your way around the cemetery by walking down little tomb-alleys, squeezing past crosses and cherubs. Custodians pushed little carts around or squatted by tombs touching up paint. I asked a few where Glauber Rocha was buried, but they swore that they hadn’t heard of him. I got the impression that I was probably the only tourist in the cemetery that day. For me, cemeteries are always a tourist destination; not so for Brazilians, I was told by carioca friends. “Sure, you go to cemeteries when you go to Paris,” said one. “But we don’t do that here.”

I ran into Carmen’s grave almost by accident, as I rounded a corner, but there it was – marble, bigger than the average tomb, but still not approaching the size of the vastest family mausoleums.

Two plaques: one from her husband and one from her mother. ”Devotedly your husband,” indeed – David Sebastian wildly mismanaged her career and helped drive her into an early grave.

More pictures on my Flickr stream

Humaitá is bustling, and the sea breeze keeps slamming doors and blowing papers around on my desk. I can’t say quite what Rio reminds me of; apparently Tijuca gets comparisons to Miami, which means I will probably steer clear, but apart from that I’m stumped. It still doesn’t feel quite real. Seeing a bus reading “VILA ISABEL” is still a bit like seeing a bus with the destination “OVER THE RAINBOW.”

Flora Thomson-DeVeaux

É escritora, tradutora, brasilianista e diretora de pesquisa na Rádio Novelo