Will the Gringo Win?

A shrill blast on the whistle marked the end of the capoeira game.
The mestres stopped playing and lowered their berimbaus.
Everyone became hushed as we waited for the referees' decision…
The crowd now wanted the gringo to win.

Alastair Thompson

The air was thick and wet and hung down from the roof like a blanket, while music, percussion, and young voices singing, reverberated around the hall. It was nine in the morning. Inside it must have been about a hundred degrees as the sun poured its blessings down on the corrugated tin roof that covered our little gathering. Little? No, not little. Groups had come from all over São Paulo to take part, and each group had brought its own collection of singing, dancing and chanting fans.

I sat quietly on my chair in the corner trying to concentrate as I strapped my wrist with an old bandage. What was I doing here? I was the only gringo in this colorful mass of people. My blonde hair and green eyes earned me the nickname, alemão (German), and wherever I went in São Paulo, Brazilians would shout out their friendly greeting, "Oi, alemão! Tudo bem?" (Hi, German! How are you?)

Now here I was a year and a half after the day I first arrived in Brazil, and I was about to enter my first competition. I tried not to watch the other athletes as they got ready, somersaulting, hand-standing, twisting and flipping, showing their moves to each other. I tried not to think too much. In a short while I would meet them in the roda, literally `circle', the traditional meeting place for those who practiced the Brazilian art of capoeira.

Capoeira is uniquely Brazilian. According to tradition it was created by the African slaves who were brought to Brazil by the Portuguese. Prohibited from fight amongst themselves, the slaves developed a fighting style that appeared to be a dance. Capoeiristas (those who practice capoeira) would glide and float around each other using elaborate movements, rolling, cart-wheeling, twisting and falling, always, always to the sinuous rhythmic twang of the berimbau, an instrument made from the thin branch of a tree, a piece of wire from a nearby fence, and a dry cabaça, a hollow gourd that serves to amplify the sound from the berimbau. To their white owners, the slaves would appear to be singing and dancing, but inside the circle of clapping and chanting spectators, two capoeiristas were honing their fighting skills, preparing for the day when they would rise up and fight against their oppressors.

"Oi, alemão. Tudo bem?"

I looked up. My mestre (master) stood in front of me. Tio João (Uncle John) was a native Baiano (from the state of Bahia) who had moved to São Paulo with his mestre fifteen years ago. Capoeira was his life. Capoeira had taken him out of the favelas (slums) of Bahia and given meaning to his life. Now he taught capoeira at a small academy in São Paulo where he shared the knowledge passed down from his mestre, and his mestre's mestre, and the mestres before him.

"Oi, tio. Tudo bem." (Hi, Uncle. I'm well.)

The drum beat, steady four on four, bounced around the hall, deep, hollow, it sprouted from the atabaque (a large bass drum) and supported the melody coaxed from three gaudy berimbaus and two shimmering pandeiros (tambourines). The crowd were silent now, waiting, waiting for the mestre to start his ladainha, his song of praise to capoeira, to his mestre, and to the great capoeiristas of the past. Around me competitors clad in white swayed gently. Letting the rhythm carry them, a few started to ginga (characteristic movement associated with capoeira) slowly. Into this silence strode the opening words of the ladainha (litany),
 

Bom dia, meus senhores Bom dia, minha senhoras Vamos dar início à festa Que está em cima da hora A vocês que aqui estão Um minuto de atenção Vou fazer a minha prece Que eu não sou nenhum pagão Agradeço ao Criador Que me deu inspiração Àqueles que me ofenderem Eu respondo com perdão Educação não tem fronteira É uma realidade É o que todos devem usar Para o bem da humanidade Isto é uma lição Pra quem quiser aprender Quem não vive para servir Não serve para viver Quanto mais vive se aprende Saber nunca é demais Capoeira é no Brasil Quero ver quem joga mais ra, ra, viva meu deus...

Good day, my good sirs Good day, my good ladies Lets start the celebration That is ready to start To you that are here A minute of your attention I will offer up my thanks Because I am not a pagan I thank the Creator Who gave me inspiration To those who offend me I respond with pardon Education has no boundaries This is a reality And all should use it For the good of humanity This is a lesson For those who want to learn He who does not live to serve Has no reason to live The more you live, the more you learn You can never know too much Capoeira is from Brazil I want to see who plays the best ra, ra, God is great…

As one we responded, "Viva meu deus, camará." (God is great, comrade.)

The mestre nodded and signaled to two capoeiristas waiting, crouched before the assembled musicians. In one swift fluid movement they entered the roda, the circle, and began their game. At the same time every pair of hands in that steamy hall started to clap, and a thousand voices sang with the single mestre on his berimbau. "Viva meu mestre, camará." (My master is great, comrade.) I sang with them, and clapped, and watched the game as it unfolded before me in a symphony of motion. Whirling legs and twisting bodies moved smoothly through the air, and the crowd held its breath momentarily as one of the competitors seemed to fall, but miraculously recovered only to reply with an even more breathtaking assault, and the crowd sang with even greater gusto.

Each game lasted a mere one and a half minutes. Three referees watched every game and allocated points to each player for a breach of the other's defense. Capoeira is the art of malandragem (villainy and double dealing). The idea is to execute a complicated acrobatic maneuver (the more complicated the better) and lure your opponent into attacking you. Then, when he or she attacks, thinking that you are too busy executing your one-handed double-twisting back flip (S-dobrado), you expertly roll out of the back flip and counter attack with a flying full twisting scissors kick (tesoura). However, your opponent might be expecting this and could evade your carefully executed trap using a crouching back flip (pulo do macaco) and counter with a sweeping reverse kick (meia lua de compasso). As you can see, it gets complicated.

As each game ended and the winner was announced, so the crowd would become an explosion of sound and motion. The winner, inspired by the adulation of the crowd, would enter the roda once more, this time alone, and execute a seemingly impossible maneuver, an expression of sheer exuberance, a statement. "This is my capoeira! I can play capoeira!"

I watched each game with my group. We sang with the succession of mestres as they took turns on the berimbau. We cheered when one of our players entered the roda and faced a capoeirista from another group. We shared the exultation of the winner, we consoled the loser. We laughed at our mistakes and swore at those of the referees. And all the while a tiny silver coil tightened itself quietly in my stomach, for as each game passed, so the time drew closer when I would have to enter the roda with another capoeirista. A Brazilian, weaned on samba and capoeira, not an awkward gringo like me.

The sun hung golden orange in the late afternoon São Paulo smog and filtered through into the hall. The young bucks of São Paulo had played their games. They had won and lost and shared their joy or sorrow with the crowd. Finally my time had come. My name, clumsy amid the soft spoken Portuguese, stumbled out of the loudspeakers. The crowd became quiet. It was the gringo. I walked slowly toward the roda. Suddenly I heard a voice by my side. It was João.

"Calma." He said. "Sempre busca calma na roda."

I looked at him and saw the twinkle in his eye. I had heard that before. At the end of our training sessions he would enter the roda with his students. We would be tired, physically and mentally, after a long arduous two hours of training. João would push each one of us, testing our limits of ability and endurance, until finally we would flee the tight circle of clapping chanting bodies, and seek refuge from the incessant barrage of attacking movements executed by our mestre.

"Calm." He would say. "Always search for calm in the roda."

Amid the heady beat of the drum, the music, the clapping hands, the singing, and the malicious intent of your partner in the roda, there exists a quiet place in which you can find calm. I needed to find this place. Within this space you can play your game unrestricted by thought. Here there is no thought, there is only action and reaction, a smooth evolution of time played out in slow motion by the body of the capoeirista.

I crouched quietly before the assembled mestres. As I waited for my opponent to join me, I felt the music from the berimbau drift down over my body. I tried to find that calm space. Suddenly my opponent arrived and I felt the silver coil in my stomach tighten once more. The mestre began to sing.
 

Desde de pequeniniho Eu ouvia meu pai falar Que quando eu crescesse Ele ia me ensinar Me ensinar a jogar...

(Since I was a small child I heard my father say That when I grew up He would teach me Teach me how to play...)

"Capoeira." I heard myself singing with everybody else. I looked across at my opponent. He too was singing. He caught my eye and stretched out his hand, a greeting, a sign of respect, and an indication that the game was about to start. The mestre dipped his berimbau and as one we rolled into the roda. Suddenly everything else disappeared, and all that remained was the roda, and in it, my opponent, and I.

His first attack was swift and efficient, but I saw it coming. In an instant I evaded his blow and moved to counter attack, but then saw that his attack was merely a ruse, and his real intent was the counter attack. As his body twirled and his right leg started the graceful downward arc that would sweep my feet from under me, I halted my attack and using my remaining momentum, threw my weight onto my arms, lifting my legs from the floor. As my legs reached their apex, I curled my body around my shoulders, freeing my legs once more to return and whip his legs out from under him.

I heard a roar from the crowd. The gringo could play capoeira, and in my mind I could see João smiling as the crowd recognized my achievement, and his. In a flash my opponent was up again. I looked into his eyes and saw that there would be no more opportunities like that again. I was a gringo no longer. In his eyes I was a capoeirista, a treacherous and malicious opponent who would be shown no leniency. I expected none.

We played for the full one and a half minutes. In that time I thrice managed to escape being unceremoniously upended by my experienced and skillful opponent. I found the quiet place in the roda. I played as if my life depended on it, every movement linked to every other movement until it became so that I did not know where the movements of my opponent ended, and where mine began. I saw that the quiet space in the roda was not static, but was rather a fluid continuum where motion summoned motion and we, the players, merely responded to the call.

A shrill blast on the whistle marked the end of the game. The mestres stopped playing and lowered their berimbaus. The crowd too became hushed as we returned once more to the entrance of the roda in front of the musicians and, standing together, waited for the referees to announce their decision. One by one they raised their flags. The first referee, a green flag. The gringo! The gringo! And I heard the shouts from the crowd as they waited on the second referee. Yellow. There was applause, but they wanted the gringo. They wanted the gringo to win, this glorious crowd, because it was their sport, their heritage, their culture, and the gringo had come to Brazil to play. They wanted the gringo.

We waited for the third referee, an old capoeirista, a mestre who no longer played, but who carried his capoeira in his heart, and his mind was still as sharp as his body had been in the days when he was a young capoeirista making a name for himself on the streets of Salvador.

I knew what the color would be before he raised his flag. I had known it during the game. I had trained hard, and was a good player, but I was only beginning. That first sweeping rasteira (literally sweep) had been lucky. My opponent had been overconfident and unprepared for my rapid counter attack. He had quickly recovered, and for the rest of the game I had been on the defensive. So when the old mestre raised his yellow flag, I was not surprised. I was not indignant, nor was I devastated. Rather I was proud. I was proud to have entered the same roda as the capoeirista who stood before me now, and who, after shaking my hand, had flick-flacked into the roda and executed a maneuver that I could only dream of pulling off.

I was proud to have played capoeira in front of these wonderful people who had supported us and sung with us throughout the day. I was proud to have played before the many great mestres who had gathered here today. And yes, in my vanity, I was proud to have tumbled another capoeirista.

Alastair Thompson is a travelling writer and teacher. He is living in São Paulo, Brazil, at the moment, teaching English and learning to play capoeira with the group, Capoeira Arte e Ginga, (Web site - http://www.capoeiraarteeginga.hpg.ig.com.br). You can contact him at the following email address: alastairt@hotmail.com 

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