Nightmare in Rio: ...and a lifelong search.

By Glen Kittelson

Culture shock slammed Greg Anderson hard and fast when the Los Angeles ad man arrived in Rio de Janeiro not knowing a word of Portuguese, but having to take orders from Brazilian executives. With Bossa Nova and "Girls from Ipanema" in near bare-all bikinis dancing in his head, he had believed the job offer from the largest and most innovative advertising agency in South America to be a creative man's dream of paradise. That illusion faded fast when coworkers resented his presence as being intrusive, the sweltering heat seemed insufferable, the food was strange and, for him, not appetizing, the seasons were turned around; Christmas was in summer, and then he encountered runaway inflation of local currency making the dollar-price of an escape ticket impossibly high.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483524634

Book preview

9781483524634

Chapter 1

Okay, Dave, you, as creative director of this ad agency, tell me just what am I going to be hit with today? Are the people up in those offices going to accept me or resent my presence?

Just be yourself, Greg. You’re a good professional, just don’t act arrogant.

Arrogant? Hell, I can't even speak their language. I feel queasy about just going in there.

I know, it'll take you a few months before you'll be speaking Portuguese, but I’ll smooth the way for you as much as I can, Dave replied as he maneuvered into a parking space.

The blaring horns and roaring engines from the traffic-clogged street jangled my stressed nerves. My God, this town is noisy. Back in LA I could drive all day and not hear a horn.

Yeah, I remember. You're going to find Rio is a long way from Los Angeles in many ways, not just in distance.

Walking past heavily-armed soldiers standing guard at the door of the building next to the ad agency, I asked, Is that a military facility?

No. Dave pointed up to a sign reading Banco do Brasil carved into the stone facade.

That’s the national headquarters for the Bank of Brazil. It needs lots of protection during these unstable times.

What do you mean by unstable times?

Brazil’s economy is rocky, and there are elements in the country talking revolution.

What! Are you telling me that we could get caught up in a war? Now, just when I got here? Are you kidding me?

Entering through a large doorway into a dimly-lit, cavernous lobby, our footsteps and Dave’s voice echoed off the hard marble walls. Take it easy. Don’t you know that’s how it is in most Latin American countries? All through the late 50s and now the 60s they’re all near some kind of a revolution. He looked at me and grinned, You’ll get used to it.

We fell into an uncomfortable silence while riding up in a slow and jerky early 1900s vintage elevator, making me wonder if we'd make it to the sixth floor.

What-in-the-hell did I get myself into?

Less than twenty-four hours ago I had heard the landing gear lowering and searched through the plane's window for Rio de Janeiro’s beautiful bay and exotic beaches. But I saw nothing resembling the beachside metropolis so glamorized by bikini-clad erotica in magazines and movies. I saw only ugly hills covered with hundreds of scruffy, unpainted shacks scattered next to muddy streets. On that bright sunny morning my anticipation of pleasures made a fast-fade and I thought Holy shit, this can’t be Rio.

Skimming over what appeared to be a river, we touched down on a single runway set in a sea of tropical grass so tall the terminal was obscured, only the control tower protruded above a waving mass of green. The new jet-era Boeing 707, so out of place in those primitive surroundings, slowly turned around at the end of the runway, as did my stomach.

The previous evening's conversation with an international business traveler at the modern airport bar in New York flashed to mind. I had told him about accepting a three-year contract for a job in Rio. The man had asked, Are you going to be paid in dollars?

No, in local currency.

Well, good luck, the man said with a touch of sarcasm, and then got up and walked away.

That, and what I saw out the window, was sending a chill through me as the plane taxied to a stop. In shocking contrast the steamy humid air hit me in the face when I stepped out of the door and descended the steep stairs onto the tarmac. Perspiration rapidly soaked my white shirt and grey flannel suit coat as I stood with the other passengers in the shade of the wing waiting for the luggage to be unloaded. Searching for comfort, and with a show of impatience, I pulled my tie loose while observing the slow laborious cargo removal. Finally, spotting my two bags among the pile stacked in disarray on the pavement, I picked them up and lugged them over to the aging terminal building. At the entrance a sweaty overweight customs official in a rumpled tan uniform ordered me to place the heavy bags up on a scruffy wood table for inspection.

My God, this is getting worse by the minute.

The contents of my luggage and passport were declared in order by the customs and immigration inspectors who directed me to carry the bags deeper into the dank and poorly-lit structure. Then an enormous realization suddenly hit me. Those two suitcases contain all that remain of my former life. They are all I'm taking into . . . who knows what . . . why the hell did I make this jump? What the devil made me do this?

There I stood in that strange place, in a foreign country, feeling unstable, nervous, and very alone. What a dumb mistake, leaving my job . . . my West L.A. apartment . . . my sports car . . . my friends . . . to find myself in a place like this. "SHIT!" I said to myself.

Discomfort ran through me, recognizing the contrast between me, a slim, light-skinned, nervous art director and the hefty sun-bronzed, perspiring gruff all-in-charge airport inspectors. While my eyes were adjusting to the faint light of the warehouse-like terminal, butterflies scrambled around in my stomach. Peering into the dimness, I scanned the crowd for the guy who, out of the blue, had called offering me a job in Rio and an opportunity for the adventure and romance of working in a foreign land. Scrunched among the crowd who were waiting to receive friends and relatives, I detected two figures laughing with excitement and waving at me. There was blond athletic Dave Peterson, and his wife, the Asian beauty Mara. In that instant the nervousness disappeared and renewed excitement surged as I rushed around the barrier, dropped the bags, and embraced Mara.

Greg, it’s so good to see you. It’s been far too long.

My God, Mara, you’re more beautiful than ever.

Dave reached around his wife, grabbed my hand, pulled me loose into a bear hug, saying, It’s great to see you, old buddy.

Good seeing you Dave. Let’s see . . . can I still call you buddy, or now that I’ll be working for you . . . and I drew back in mock fear . . . do I have to call you boss?

Mara snickered, while Dave laughed and said, No, man, we’re still buddies. We‘ve been through too much to change that. Give me those bags and let’s get out of this crappy old place. The car is close by.

With the two suitcases in the trunk of the car and Dave behind the wheel, we headed out along a road of unfamiliar tropical sights. Papaya, mango, and banana trees grew in random profusion with ripened fruit hanging low inviting to be picked. But amidst the verdant lushness grimy poverty was apparent all along the way. Mara explained the surroundings while Dave kept busy dodging innumerable potholes in the asphalt that led us into the edge of the city. The traffic increased like our chatter, as we kept interrupting each other trying to catch up on what had been happening over the past three years. Mara wanted to know about the breakup of my six-year marriage and said, We had been good friends with both of you, but I admit, we didn't think the union would last. As much as I liked her, I could see she was too controlling for what I thought was your pent-up free spirit.

That’s a long story. We can get into that later. I now want to know something about Rio de Janeiro that I hope will wash away my first impression at the airport.

That initial negative image began to change as we entered a district of tall buildings indicating wealth, and then onto the widest boulevard I had ever seen.

"This is Avenida Presidente Vargas running through the financial district, Dave said. He then pointed to a structure about eight stories high, with a limestone curved façade, That building is our ad agency."

It looks good to me, I replied.

Turning off of the wide avenue we were soon driving along a beautiful small bay where pleasure boats were anchored. On the far side of the azure blue water protruded a huge

rock-mountain phallus. With a show of pride, Dave said, That’s the landmark of Rio, Sugar Loaf. Now, look over to your right. There is Mount Corcovado, and up on top is that iconic statue of Christ blessing the city here below.

While craning my neck, in prolonged admiration of that dramatic figure, everything went black as we entered the first of two tunnels, burrowed through as many steep hills. Exiting the last tunnel, I saw what I had hoped to see from the plane, the beautiful island-dotted bay.

As Dave turned onto Avanita Atlantica he said, Well, here we are, where the bikinis are in full bloom. This is Copacabana Beach!

It was as I'd seen in so many photos. The wide-arched beach filled with sun bathers on the left side of the avenue, and tall modern apartment buildings and hotels on the other. At the base of those monuments to luxurious living, on the famous black and white marble mosaic sidewalks, were outdoor cafes and bars filled with people relishing the joy of living.

Now this is what I’ve been looking forward to! The ugly airport and the poverty seen on the way in were washed away. Yes. Oh yes. This I can live with.

Arriving at the sixth floor in that ancient jerky elevator I expected to enter a stylish lobby of supposedly the biggest and most creative advertising agency in South America. Dave pulled open the creaky elevator door and we stepped into a gray dingy waiting room with the appearance of a rundown nuts-and-bolts factory. I cringed as he took me into another area, past rows of old fashioned gray wooden desks. He opened a door and, to my relief, we entered his well-lit combination conference room and office, a step up in style, air-conditioned and carpeted. Windows set in a curved wall opened to the view below of the wide Avenida Presidente Vargas and the roof of the large cathedral Candelaria. On the opposite wall was a collage of framed awards Dave had won in the U.S. and copies of magazine ads he had helped create for the agency. I wandered around, curious about the surroundings, while Dave called the agency owner’s secretary to arrange for me to meet him. He was told to bring me over, the owner was in and waiting for us.

"Greg, I think you should know Senhor Losora, the man you're about to meet, is considered the most important advertising man in all of Latin America."

Is that supposed to impress me, or make me more nervous than I already am?

Impress you. Don’t be nervous. He’s a very gracious man and easy to meet.

Entering the waiting room the secretary invited us to have a seat until the light turns green. Dismayed, I looked at Dave, who pointed up to the light bulbs above the owner’s office door, one being red, and the other green.

Like a traffic light? I asked, and released a little laugh.

When the red light went out and the green bulb lit, Dave said, Okay, let’s go.

He opened the door, allowing me to enter first into the owner’s large elegant office. A portly, balding gentleman in a handsome tailored suit rose from his chair. With a warm smile, he reached out to shake my hand, Welcome, Mr. Anderson, I am very pleased to meet you. Dave has spoken highly of you. His perfect English reflected a European accent.

"Thank you, Senhor Losora, I am honored to meet you."

Have a seat. He gestured to one of the two ornate armchairs in front of his large hand-carved dark wood desk, as Dave sat down in the other. Senhor Losora's engaging small talk, in his sophisticated office, eased my first-impression of chagrin when exiting the creaky elevator. After only a few minutes of pleasantries, the mighty man of Latin American advertising stood up and said, in a sincere voice, I wish you success in our organization, and if you ever need me, just come to my office.

Dave and I thanked him and exited from European elegance back into the disappointing other world of clearly defined class distinction.

Now let me show you around, Dave said.

He took me down a hall where he stopped next to a time clock. Here, you will punch your time card when coming into, and leaving work.

You are kidding, Right?

No, everyone in the creative department punches in and out here, he said casually.

Well, not me! I haven’t punched one of those damned things since I quit working in a meat packing plant ten years ago. I’ll get on a plane and head back to LA, before I’ll use that thing! I growled.

You have to. That’s the system here.

You should know me well enough to realize you don’t have to keep track of how many hours I work. I’m a frigging workaholic. You know that!

"But if you don’t use the time clock, the others will stop using it too. We can’t have that. You've got to use it," Dave half pleaded.

Well, I won’t!

Okay, let’s drop that for now. Let’s get on to other things. We entered a large room where again everything was painted that same battleship gray. Hugging a long wall were small half-glass enclosed cubicles, each with a drawing board and a copywriter’s desk. The outer wall of each cubicle had an open window, supplementing air-conditioning but letting in the loud street noise. Dave was showing me which of them was to be mine when a thin, effete, balding young man with buck teeth and an arrogant demeanor strutted in. Dave introduced him, I want you to meet Tiago who'll be working with you as your copy-writing partner.

In almost unintelligible English Tiago said, I am glad to meet you. I hope we can work well together.

The smug way he enunciated those words came off more as a challenge than a welcome. Once more I got a queasy feeling and thought, what in hell have I gotten myself into?

Dave then directed me into his office and took the seat at the head of his conference table/desk. I sat down, leaned forward, and stared at him, eyeball to eyeball, and said, "You didn’t bring me all the way down here to be just another layout guy in your art department, did you? You've got to know I’ve progressed one a hell of a lot in the three years since you’ve seen my work. I’ve won art director's awards in LA, and nationally, as well as had my work published in Graphis Awards Annual in Europe."

I know, I know. I checked you out to see what you’d been doing before calling you. Dave exhaled loudly and continued, Greg, I need someone who is creatively above the rest of the guys here, and who’ll be on my side. There's only one other American in this large company. I need some more gringo help. He leaned back, looked up at the ceiling, breathed in deep, then brought his head down, stared out the window releasing his breath slowly, I have a political tug of war going on. There are executives here who don’t like the idea of an American being successful on their playing field. He turned to look at me and said, I can’t set you up as head art director until you’ve proven yourself better than the others who are already here.

Why not? I gruffly asked. If I don’t start out in that position everyone else is going to be trying to tear me down to their level, or lower.

Greg, it can’t be done. If I tried that, I’d get fired, and that’d be bad for both of us. You must understand how things work here. It isn’t like back home where we were all Americans in our own country. We are the foreigners here. We are the outsiders. Look, I’m going to assign you to the two biggest, most important and diverse accounts in the agency, Shell Petroleum and Helena Rubinstein Cosmetics. That’ll place you in the top position simply on the merit of those accounts, and you’ll get lots of national exposure.

With that news my bent ego was somewhat mollified, and I relaxed until hearing Dave’s next words. You’ve got to know you have some strong competition here. This agency is known as the most creative ad agency in Brazil, maybe even all of South America, and that’s because of those of us who are already here in the creative department. Yeah, the offices don’t look slick like those in LA or New York, but the work produced in them is damn good. However, I want you to help make it even better, but it isn’t going to be a walk in the park. He paused briefly, giving emphasis to what he had to say next. It isn’t like coming into an overseas office of a U.S. corporation, or ad agency where the American executives rule. Here we are in their county, the Brazilians have the power, make the rules, and give the orders!

Chapter 2

It became apparent that the transition into the Brazilian business culture wasn’t going to be easy, and probably not pleasant. It was something I hadn't taken into consideration, but the realization was coming down on me hard and fast. Understanding my concern, Dave promised to keep me under his wing while getting to know the people in the creative department, the account executives, and senior management. But I would also need to familiarize myself with the non-business, out-in-the-street cultural differences which I would encounter living in that very different country with an unknown language.

During those initial days in Brazil I was staying in Dave and Mara's home, and riding with Dave to work. On a morning of exceptional heavy traffic, I pondered aloud, It’s hard for me to understand how the traffic flows at all without police to direct things.

Yeah, I know. Here, it’s everyone for himself. There are traffic laws, but nobody follows them. It’s a matter of working your way through chaos by being aggressively defensive, Dave explained.

That unfamiliar anarchy ended once we were up and into the well-organized ad agency. The people with whom I needed to have contact were courteous and, in most cases, knew a little English. But those who could speak it fluently enjoyed demonstrating bi-lingual proficiency, contrasting to my mono-linguistic, confidence-diminishing ineptitude.

About a week after my arrival, during dinner, Dave told me, I have to go to the airport very early in the morning to see someone off. Do you feel confident enough to take a taxi into the office by yourself?

I responded, Sure. If I was able to get by in Tokyo on rest leave from the war in Korea, I sure as hell can handle it here. No, don’t worry about me.

In the cool morning air, wearing my Brooks Brothers suit and tie, I was confidently seeking a cab and enjoying the experience of being alone out on the streets of Ipanema. But the pleasure diminished as I kept looking for a ride and not seeing anything resembling a taxi. Pacing back and forth in the rapidly warming humidity, I asked people on the street for help to determine what a taxi looked like, but in their rush to get to work few pedestrians gave me notice. I found that not many understood English and could not, or would not, assist me. The pleasant stroll became nervous frustration.

Damn it, I might not be able to handle it here alone.

In post-World War Tokyo I wore my Air Force uniform, which people respected, and therefore me wearing it. In Rio I was just a dumb foreigner wandering around alone on the street. I saw people waving at cars that would stop and let them in, but I couldn’t understand what they could recognize about a taxi that I didn’t. After a half an hour of carefully examining the hundreds of vehicles going by, I saw some had meters barely visible mounted low on their dashboards. I then noticed that those same cars had red-numbered license plates one could see from a distance. Ah ha, those are taxis.

Repeated arm waving, gesturing, stepping off the curb, and jumping back on again out of the way of the cars, I finally got one car to stop, and told the driver my destination.

"Como?" The man replied. The driver didn’t know what I had said, so I repeated the address several times, until realizing the fellow couldn’t understand my bad pronunciation of the street name and number. Writing the address on a piece of paper I handed it to the driver. The man understood my scribble, and, with a hearty laugh, pulled out into the dense traffic. He wove his way on toward the destination, talking joyfully all the way. It hadn’t mattered to him that I didn’t understand a word spoken, but it made me feel dumb and uncomfortable . More than an hour later I paid the driver with a large cruzeiro bill, not knowing if I had overpaid, but the man seemed happy, and I was just glad the experience had ended.

I was embarrassed about my incompetence in handling what should’ve been a simple task, and also for being late to work. It put another big crack into my rapidly-diminishing self-respect, an esteem which had been building ever so slowly over the previous years of increasing professional success. With a queasy stomach I entered the building. I felt like the little farm kid I once was, arriving late to the one-room schoolhouse after being distracted while walking along a dirt road, and then fearing the teacher’s harsh reprimand. There I was, twenty-two years later, alone in a foreign country, with a language I couldn’t speak, and, at that moment, devoid of confidence. In self defense holding my head high, I entered in and made my way past the agency staff. I was sure they were placing judgments upon me, that strange-looking newcomer from the big old United States.

Approaching my cubicle I encountered Dave already back from the airport. What happened, Greg, did you get lost?

I explained some of what took place, and Dave exclaimed, Oh crap, I didn’t think about telling you how to identify taxi cabs. Yes, they do look different from those in the U.S. Oh well, come into my office, I want to introduce you to someone who just got back in town.

There at Dave’s conference table sat a fellow in his middle thirties with a shock of blond hair displaying a ready smile, but remaining seated, which I interpreted as probable arrogance. Dave said, I want you to meet Werner Von Duisenberg, the agency account supervisor on the Shell Petroleum account.

With an educated German accent he said, "I am very glad to meet you. Dave says you two have been friends