Fly Me to Brazil

By Kenneth L. Chastain Jr.

Book Description

Fly Me to Brazil is a contemporary novel. What could be more now than a romance kindled on the Internet, blossoming while, at the same time, discovering the mysteries of the emerging country of Brazil the same Brazil that will host both World Cup Soccer in 2014 and the Olympics in 2016.

Scott, a single adult from California, is contacted by a woman from Brazil while perusing an Internet matching site. He couldnt imagine why someone from such a distant place would be remotely interested in him. Out of curiosity, he began a cautious, long distance conversation. She told him her name was Juliana. Beyond that she was a woman of mystery exciting, but unknown.

Over many months of online conversations a relationship began to blossom. He decides to visit Juliana in her home country and see just who this woman from another land is. Three trips over two years expose Scott to a Brazil rich in culture. During his time there he finds Juliana to be a very special woman. With each trip back to that tropical land he finds himself drawn nearer to her.

Come along with Scott and Juliana as they travel through Brazil visiting towns with strange sounding names. Discover something about Brazils rich immigration history and life in todays emerging middle class. Follow along as Scott and Julianas relationship evolves and find out to what end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483671253

Kenneth L. Chastain Jr.

Kenneth Lee Chastain, Jr. was born the same year World War II began in Europe. Raised an only child in California he lived an insular life until joining the United States Navy in 1958. In the military he attended schools in electronics and was introduced to life beyond California. Compliments of the U.S. Navy, he traveled throughout the United States in the 1950s and 1960s becoming familiar with the customs and lifestyles in other regions of the country. During the latter part of his eight-year naval experience he was stationed on ships that made port in Hawaii, Mexico, Scotland, Portugal and Francos Spain. Once out of the Navy and after college he entered the Semiconductor Industry and traveled the world on business. The countries he visited helped to further broaden his understanding of the wider world. Later he made several trips to Brazil where he wrote a series of "Letters from Brazil" outlining his discoveries in that enormous and divergent country Chastain began writing seriously in the 1990s and has co-published a non-fiction book, Winged History, the Life and Times of Kenneth L. Chastain, Aviator (Turner Publishing,2003). His second published work, Spears Odyssey (Xlibris Corporation, 2010), is a novel of transformation. Flying Blind, his third book, is a uniquely human historical novel. His novel, Fly Me to Brazil, is a heartwarming tale of blossoming love while discovering the culture and history of this exotic country. His latest novel, Brasileira, is a sequel to Fly Me to Brazil.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Woman from Another Land

In nervous anticipation, I placed my finger over the Enter key on my computer, closed my eyes, and pressed. I’d been living alone far too long, so on a lark, I went to an Internet search engine and typed in singles. After this simple but audacious move, I opened my eyes to see staring back at me the words Find love online. It’s easy to find companionship, friendship, romance, and more. Join for free and start making new friends today.

Taking in a deep breath, I proceeded to join the site and, with a reserved curiosity, began my search. After several days and a few false starts, I was contacted by a woman who seemed interested in me. The outrageous thing about it was she lived near São Paulo, Brazil. I couldn’t imagine why someone from that distant place would be remotely interested in me. The whole South American continent was a black hole to me. All I could think of was the steamy Carnival in Rio de Janeiro and the enormous Amazon jungle.

Out of curiosity, I began a cautious, long distance conversation with her. Who was this woman from another land? Was she really the person she represented herself to be? I had posted my photograph on the Web site, but she hadn’t. When I first emailed her in return, out of an abundance of caution, I didn’t use my name, but rather my handle, and I requested for a photograph. She complied, and I was impressed.

Studying her picture I saw a woman with long black hair, medium build and an attractive face. But what impressed me most of all was her expression. It was one of quiet confidence seeming to emanate from an innate intelligence. This wasn’t what I imagined a South American woman to be like. I wasn’t sure what I thought it was, but this wasn’t it. She told me her name was Juliana. Beyond that, to me she was a woman of mystery—exciting, but unknown.

In the course of our protracted discourse from afar, I came to like Juliana but still remained wary of the fact she was from a place and culture completely unknown to me. Besides these reasons and the obvious language difference, I could imagine the many challenges to starting a relationship, no matter how innocent, with someone living over six thousand miles away in Brazil.

After struggling with these disparate thoughts for some time, one day, it dawned on me my father had flown through Brazil during World War II. Thinking back, I remembered him telling me he had stopped in Brazil on his way across the South Atlantic to Ascension Island while headed to the war front in China, Burma, and India.

He was one of eleven military passengers on a Curtiss C-46 Commando. He told me, in Brazil, they first landed to refuel in Belem near the mouth of the Amazon then flew on to Natal located on the westernmost extreme of the country. In an airplane with a range of only 1,200 miles, the wide Atlantic Ocean to cross, and wartime overflight restrictions, the Curtiss C-46 and her passengers and crew were about to embark on a dangerous passage.

A one-week stay was required in Natal because of mechanical problems with the C-46. One problem was the engines were consuming too much fuel, reducing the aircraft’s range—a dangerous

proposition when crossing the Atlantic. Two and one-half hours out on the first attempt at flying to Ascension Island, the left engine started to backfire. They returned to Brazil to have a carburetor repaired—the main reason for the extended stay. After repairs, the pilots flew fuel consumption tests up and down the coast of Brazil to ensure everything was in order.

Finally, the C-46 took off for a second attempt to reach Ascension Island, and this time, the flight was successful. It was the middle of a war, so my father didn’t get to see much of the country, but through his experience, I came to know Brazil was allied with the United States in wartime and advanced enough to support the war effort. Perhaps, my father, if still alive, would encourage me to venture south to this enigmatic land.

Finally, Juliana and I decided on a date for me to visit Brazil. Once that was done, we began talking very seriously about what I was about to do. She sent me an email wherein she said, I can imagine how you are feeling about the trip: an unknown woman, a different country and language, and you need to be sure that you will be welcome. You are more courageous than I am.

Using instant messaging, we talked about the things we each did in our daily lives—a splash of Brazilian life, a dash of California living. After a while though, our conversations turned into discussions about what each of us wanted out of life—our dreams and aspirations. The more we talked, the more I felt I knew this person whom I’d never met face-to-face. I also knew I had to go to Brazil.

*     *     *

Dawn broke as we flew over central Brazil with its vast expanses. From horizon to horizon, only low-lying hills were discernible over the huge state of Mato Grosso. Although known for its cattle ranches, from thirty-six thousand feet, it seemed devoid of any human development.

Over Goiás State, towns strewn like tiddlywinks emerged from the uninterrupted emptiness of the land. Both wide and narrow rivers of blue-gray water wound their way between those small islands of civilization.

Far to the west, snow-capped mountains appeared, stretching north and south as far as the eye could see—the mighty Andes.

The sky above was very clear but changed from a pale blue to a layer of light brown haze near the ground. On the earth below, the scattered patches of green gradually merged, overwhelming the browns, and becoming the prominent color.

Halfway to the horizon, a gathering of clouds disguised itself as a large line of mountains. It created what looked to be steep and rough snow-capped crags until viewed from a different angle.

Still over Goiás, the towns grew larger and closer together, amid green fields of farmland. After overflying a sliver of Minas Gerais State, we reached the state of São Paulo. There the towns merged into suburbs and the suburbs into cities. An occasional tank farm appeared with two different sizes of white, circular containers lined up in neat rows.

Then a break came in the buildings below as lush, green hills, with valleys cloaked in fog appeared. After passing over this natural beauty, the metropolis of São Paulo City spread out between thickening streaks of clouds. Hundreds of tall buildings reached skyward, poking through the overcast like porcupine quills.

Approaching Guarulhos International Airport the clouds thickened, hiding the rest of the city from view. Down we glided into the mass of ground hugging fog. It covered the windows of the plane in a blinding whiteness. Our Boeing 767 slowed and tilted its nose upward as if trying to feel for the runway hidden below. Then ABORT!

With a sudden roar of jet engines throttled to full power, we climbed up and out of the clouds. The pilot announced that visibility had degraded to the point of danger.

Leveling off, we cruised out of the clouds and over green, forested hills dotted with clusters of red tile-roofed houses. Again, hundreds of skyscrapers appeared. After several minutes of circling, the pilot made another attempt at landing.

Dipping into the clouds once more, we began another approach to Guarulhos airport. The clouds reached almost to the ground, but we broke out of the overcast at about fifty feet above the runway. Nicely lined up with the navigation lights, we touched down smoothly. We were safely on solid ground again. Welcome to Brazil.

After a sixteen-hour flight with a layover in Dallas, I was light-headed and a little unsteady on my feet as I exited the airplane. With building excitement, I followed the other passengers through long passageways and downstairs to São Paulo immigration. Passport control went smoothly, after which I made my way to the baggage carousel. Pulling my wheeled suitcase behind and with my carry-on bag draped over my shoulder, I emerged from the security area.

There was a sizable crowd pushing up to the ropes separating our exit path from those looking for arriving friends and loved ones. I scanned the area for the face in the photograph—Juliana’s face. And there she was. I had no problem picking her out in the mass of people. Besides, she came rushing up and threw her arms around me.

Her first words to me were, Oh, Scott. I recognized you from your beautiful blue eyes.

She hugged me long and hard—a Brazilian trait I would become very familiar with. After what seemed like forever to a Californian not used to such a public display of emotion, she released her bear hug enough so I could hold her at arm’s length. As I grasped her upper arms, I looked deep into her dark brown eyes. Yes. This was the woman in the photograph—the one with the intelligent visage. Only now, there was a wide smile painted all across it.

I said to her, I’d know you anywhere.

Come on, she said as she directed me to a cart. I told her my suitcase had wheels.

They’re free, she insisted.

She led the way while I pushed the cart, loaded with my bags, toward the parking lot and her car. I was thinking Juliana looked to be both a take-charge person and a nurturing one. As she guided me along, she seemed intent on making things easy for me.

Along the way, we didn’t talk much. She had written me on the Internet she was better at reading and writing English than speaking it—not enough practice with the latter I supposed. But so far, she was doing just fine. Loading my baggage into the back of her blue Fiat, she told me we had to drive through the city of São Paulo. It was the only direct route to the coast and her condominium in Praia Grande.

I didn’t realize the full extent of the adventure we were about to embark on as we exited the airport and took a highway running straight toward the city. The road ran alongside Rio Tietê, lined with concrete on both embankments and smelling pretty bad. After about twenty minutes of driving, the city of São Paulo proper closed in around us. We wound our way through the city with Juliana pointing out a few things about driving in Brazil.

The first rule was such things as stop signs (pare) and lanes (faixas), in practice, are only suggestions. I was to learn much later Brazilians think of a Pare, or Stop sign, the way Americans think of a yield sign. Lane lines are only used as guides when driving in the city where it’s not necessary to keep the car inside them. The white line can even be used to aim or steer by.

Don’t bother signaling when changing lanes unless you are cutting off another car. Cars can change lanes in front of you without room for them to do so, or enter the roadway the same way. In cases like this, the offending driver may, optionally, give a single blink on their blinker. The basic rule of survival here is, always be on full alert.

Contrary to the law, in practice, pedestrians do not have the right of way in Brazil, even when in a crosswalk when there’s not a signal light. Despite this, they seem to have an uncanny ability to keep from being killed. They always manage to just get out of the way of cars rushing through an intersection or turning a corner in front of them. A California pedestrian would be cannon fodder here without proper instruction and practice.

The occasional weary horse, pulling a rudimentary, two-wheeled cart, didn’t seem to notice cars speeding around him as he plodded down the side of the road or was stopped alongside for a halter adjustment.

Bicyclists dodged in and out of traffic as if they were Kamikaze pilots. Even when they weren’t cutting in front of cars, they wheeled down the side of the road, often in the traffic lane, completely oblivious to the possible danger speeding past them.

On streets and avenues where traffic was bottled up (almost everywhere in São Paulo City), motorcyclists seemed unconcerned they may hit the cars as they were whizzing past or cutting in front of them. They passed on either side, weaving in and out of the slow-moving traffic, honking their anemic high-pitched horns as if they had the power of a semitruck. There were so many of them, it was a wonder they didn’t run into one another.

While sitting as a passenger in this hectic environment, strangely, I didn’t feel nervous at all. Being with a driver practiced in the local driving culture made it all seem rather normal. And Juliana was a very good driver, avoiding all the perils and even showing her displeasure with a gesture and a few well-chosen Portuguese expressions when called for by the situation.

In the city, police didn’t seem to bother with any of this. However, even though stop signs are highly optional, traffic lights are not and are rigidly enforced and obeyed. It’s even possible to be given a ticket for going through a yellow light at an intersection.

Once we left the city and were out on the highway on our way to the coast, I learned there are many bad drivers who pass where there is a double solid line or even pass on the right on a two-lane highway even though this is highly illegal. But the one thing strictly enforced is speed. Driving too fast seems to be the focus of the highway military police (highway patrol).

There are permanent military police stations at scattered points alongside the highways. At other locations, fixed, radar equipped cameras take photos of speeding cars. The drivers of which receive tickets in the mail. On the two-lane highways, when going through a small town or a construction area, speed bumps cross the roadway, making traffic slow down—a very irritating convention.

Juliana said, "There are two highways we can take to my condo. One, called Anchieta, goes over the mountains and is very narrow with many curves. The other is called Imigrantes. It’s a toll road but is straighter and goes through the mountains, not over them. We’ll take that."

I asked what Imigrantes meant.

"It’s named for the European immigrants who traveled from Santos, over on the coast, to São Paulo and the interior."

That was a new name to me. "Santos? What’s that?"

Juliana smiled. "Santos is a large seaport close to Praia Grande where my condo is. It’s the busiest port in South America. Many immigrants entered Brazil through there during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries."

Highly impressed with her eloquent answer, I said, Your English is just fine. Don’t worry about it.

She smiled, Really?

Really.

I soon learned what through the mountains meant. The highway was wide and modern, consisting of several extremely long tunnels. I’d never imagined highway tunnels could be so long. They seemed fairly new and were beautifully constructed. Because the tunnels were huge and well-lighted inside, I felt no trace of claustrophobia.

Exiting the eastern side of the Serra do Mar Mountains separating São Paulo with the littoral, or coastline, we passed through a flat expanse before crossing a long, low-slung bridge over the extended arms of a sprawling Laguna. From time to time, we’d drive past someone selling crabs alongside the highway. Strings of the crustaceans hung in rows from sticks held up by each peddler.

As we entered the coastal city of Praia Grande, we passed under a weathered, gray cement archway crossing over the divided roadway. The center of the arch was anchored in a grass median. Etched into it were the words PRAIA GRANDE, offering us greeting. We then drove through the old seaside town to an avenue running along the coast with its amazing beach.

A palm tree-lined promenade paralleled the avenue on the ocean side, while shops and high-rise condominiums lined the other. It seemed to me the Brazilians were very smart to not erect view-obstructing buildings on the beach itself. So much of the California coastline is out of public view.

Juliana’s condo was a couple of blocks, and an easy walk, from the beach. We pulled up to the automatic gate and Juliana reached over me and grabbed a controller out of the glove box. It took a few clicks, but finally the metal gate screeched open.

Looking around, I noticed all the condos were completely surrounded with high, metal fences. I asked, Is security a problem here?

She said, "Sim. There’s lots of crime, but the fenced-in high-rise buildings help keep things safe."

With Juliana’s help, I unloaded my suitcases from the car and muscled them up the elevator to the first floor. I found out in Brazil what Americans refer to as the first floor is called the ground floor, so her condo, located one floor up, was on the first floor.

Once we were inside and the suitcases put aside, Juliana gave me another big hug. Oh, Scott, I’m so happy you’re here. I’ve been looking forward to this day for a long time.

I kissed her cheek and stood back to get a better look at her. I’m glad too. Now we can get to know one another much better.

She pushed out her lower lip. Don’t you know me already? I feel I know who you are.

I smiled to try and lighten things up. Yes. You’re right. We’ve each come to know the other fairly well talking over the Internet. We’ve shared a lot. I just think, while I’m here, I can get to know even more. For instance, your family—what is their history? What in their personal stories helped to make you who you are? Know what I mean?

She smiled back. I do. I’ll be glad to tell you all you want to know. I’ll take some time, though. My grandparents were immigrants, from Portugal and Italy.

I’d like to hear about them. Maybe I can learn a little about Brazil’s history through their stories. I’m really interest in history, and I know almost nothing about your country.

I could see Juliana was warming to my idea. That would be grand. I could tell you a little bit at a time as we drive up the coast.

Right on. Let’s celebrate.

I broke out a bottle of California Champagne I’d brought with me. Juliana prepared something to eat while the bubbly was being chilled. After a while, we nibbled on sliced ham, cheese, nuts, and other goodies and drank a toast to one another and what the future might bring.

It wasn’t long into the evening that jet lag, and effects of the champagne, took their toll on me. I needed to get rid of the travel grime I’d accumulated, so I took a shower and sat down on Juliana’s low-slung bed. I’d never seen a bed so low to the floor before. I laid back and relaxed while Juliana took her shower. My eyes began to droop listening to the water running. I must have fallen right to sleep because I didn’t feel it when she got into bed.

Chapter 2

Praia Grande

I awoke to an incessant banging on wood and metal from across the street. With the condo’s screenless windows open day and night, there was nothing to deaden the construction noise coming from a new high rise a stone’s throw away. The resulting cacophony, its amplified sound bouncing off of the surrounding buildings, made it almost impossible for me to sleep.

However, after a sixteen-hour plane trip from the States, I was determined to get more rest. I forced myself to ignore the banging and, after a while, started drifting back to sleep. Then someone began driving slowly down the street with