The Fight

For me, a successful international journey in the air is one where the plane doesn’t crash. This low expectation, plus the four or five of those little wine bottles I imbibe mean I’m slightly exhilarated when I arrive anywhere, especially in the tropics.

I was traveling with a friend, and we both were carrying tons of electrical equipment. Like a fool, last time I’d left Brazil I’d asked people if I could bring anything back with me from the US. That’s the last fucking time I do that.

The customs man stopped my friend and unloaded two printers, miles of cables and other items that make custom’s people’s mouths water in countries with huge import duties on electrical goods. My friend protested innocence in English.

“All for personal use,” he declared with a straight face. The customs guy spoke no English and waved him on.

Also stopped, I tried the same tactic, sweating and in Portuguese. The customs guy said straight up that he didn’t believe me, which made me sweat more. But he bade me on with a piteous smile, perhaps realizing that someone involved in contraband would not be such an obvious liar.

It was my friend’s first time in Brazil and even though it was two in the morning, we decided to go out. I knew the perfect place.

Barracas are small wooden or iron kiosks that sell just about everything and dot the streets of Salvador. The kind of establishments that will probably eventually be crushed by the Walmarts of the world.

There was a 24-hour ‘Barraca’ close to where we were staying. Beside it some tables had been set up for people to drink. It was extremely clean and organized.

The beer came ice cold. Next to us was a group of prostitutes, their reptilian eyes following any movement, who drank beer and smoked cigarettes. They quickly realized we weren’t to be customers and paid us no further attention.

We chatted but also became increasingly diverted by a very drunk man standing at the counter. All drunk people should be filmed and the next day made to watch themselves to see what complete fucking idiots intoxication makes them.

A VW Beetle with loud Bob Marley music pouring out of it pulled up. Five young men ambled out, their eyes the small slits of those who’d been smoking a ton of weed. They were dark and bleached from the sun and there was a 99% chance they were surfers.

“These fucking pot heads are ruining the country, vagabonds, no-good-for-nothing pot heads.”

This was said by the drunk man as he stared menacingly at the young men as they settled into their table. He was about forty-five and spindly. This didn’t seem the most intelligent thing to do.

I gave an anthropological lecture to my friend about how in Brazil people loved to joust and wail at each other but didn’t fight. Look at how the customs guys let us go, isn’t this country great I said, so relaxed, the people so friendly.

One of young guys quickly attacked the drunk who was immediately flung to the ground and kicked him repeatedly in the head. It was a swift, efficient and brutal beating and the enforcer and his crew were quickly off.

The drunk guy, nose bleeding, shirt torn, head gashed and stumbling somehow made it back to the bar. He was now crying but to his credit still cursing the potheads.

We sat their stupefied but guiltily amused. When we paid, the owner apologized to us with an explanation.

“Put it this way, on a weeknight at 4:00 in the morning there is not much more than whores and drunks around the streets.”

And us.