So what is it really like to go to a World Cup game in Recife?
That will have to wait for my next post.
Today, guest blogger Suzanne Collins will be covering for me.
Ariniss Everstein and Zachmitch Abersweeney made their way down in the claustrophobia-inducing elevator.
Emerging through the guarded doors, out into the bright sunlight, their Easy Taxi transport was at the ready. Ariniss volunteered as tribute, and spoke to our escort in his native tongue.
Who is Antonio Falcao and why were they being driven to his metro station? We knew not what lay ahead.
Tagged with a red pulseira at the station (only R$7.50, including all the transfer fees), Ariniss and Zachmitch knew their every move was under the watchful guidance of the FIFA gamekeepers.
Boarding the train to the Arena Pernambuco gave them an uneasy feeling, surrounded on all sides by the rival clans - the Costa Hicans from District 1, wearing traditional red to signify the blood of their enemies, and the Italians wearing the blue jerseys favored in District 2.
At every station, the citizens gathered to see us off. At each stop, the crowds heading to the Arena grew til we could take it no further, for we had reached the transfer station. There, Ariniss and Zachmitch searched in vain for the path to the Arena. They knew in their heads that they should be fleeing in the opposite direction, but their hearts told them that their destiny awaited them ahead.
We found ourselves losing contact with the Italians we were following, until they dissolved into the crowd, now going in all directions. We were lost in a sea of locals, too busy going about their daily lives to even notice that the games would soon begin. It all seemed so hopeless. Would no one send a parachute, even though we were still outside the Arena? (which would technically break some rule even though there really are no rules, except for that thing about their being only one victor, and even that seemed to be on a sliding scale if you have some poison berries handy)
Suddenly Flavius, Venia, and Octavia appeared out of nowhere, trailed by Sergio Flickerman's enterprising sobrinha, Lais, who was interviewing the tributes for the national TV audience. Every word scripted in broken Portuguese, every image captured by her anonymous, voiceless Avox (oh, I just got that!) camerman, BruCinna and Michelue looked on helplessly, guarded by the Brazilian equivalent of a mariachi band.
The same show was repeated at every metro station. Only the actors changed. Funky costumes and freaky hair. Loud music and louder makeup. Occasionally accompanied by an armadillo, like we saw at the airport (I guess armadillos must be native to Brazil).
The whole show (charade) looked so out of place, so far out here in the Districts, so far from the Capitol. Dispatched by President Sepp to enterain (disgust? confuse?) the masses.
Actual conversation:
Flavius: Do you love Brazil?
BruCinna : Yes, we love Brazil!
Flavius: (To the crowd that has gathered to watch the spectacle): He loves Brazil!
(Flavius breaks into song about loving Brazil. The only lyric seems to be "I love Brazil")
Flavius: Where are you come from?
BruCinna : New York.
Flavius: New Yorkie!? I love New Yorkie! Do you love New Yorkie?!!
BruCinna : Yes, I love New Yorkie.
(Flavius breaks into song about loving New Yorkie. The only lyric seems to be "I love New Yorkie. He loves New Yorkie")
(BruCinna is encouraged to dance in strange local custom. Summary: "All in no rhythm.")
Flavius (to Michelue): Do you know Hoo Paul? I love Hoo Paul! Do you love Hoo Paul?!
(BruCinna and Michelue struggle to comprehend the situation we are in. BruCinna's mind races "Hoo Paul? Hoo Paul? I know that name. Finally it comes to him...and his mind snaps back to the beautiful game in which he is merely a pawn.)
BruCinna: Oh! Ru Paul! Yes, we love Ru Paul!
As Flavius breaks into song yet again ("I love Hoo Paul...They love Hoo Paul"), BruCinna explains to Michelue that Brazilians pronounce "R" like "H" and that Ru Paul is a 6 foot 5 African American drag queen.
Michelue looks like she is about to wilt under the assault when finally Ariness and Zachmitch complete their interview, and we are free to go.
We find the platform and rush to board the next train to the Arena. Our delay has cost us dearly, as we are the last to board and are forced to stand the rest of the way.
The trip is long and arduous. Thirteen stops, one for each District.
As we pass through each, we can discern their boundaries by the changing rooftops of the ramshackle houses, each made of the district's main export...clay, tin, steel, bananas, frozen concentrated orange juice.
Ariniss is stung by a tracker jacker and fades in and out of consciousness, barely able to stand as Zachmitch and BruCinna support her, and Michelue carries her pack.
Finally we reach our destination, and Michelue nurses Ariniss back to health with native food and drink (cacahuates e agua).
When she is finally well enough to travel, our party boards the free--as in beer not in freedom--shuttle buses. But they are just another ruse by the gamekeepers to draw us inexorably towards the Arena.
Peacekeeper in riot gear line the route. There is no sign of trouble, and the peacekeepers aim to keep it that way by intimidation...force if necessary.
Outside the Arena, built especially for the occasion, the citizens of the Capital--it seems the entire world--gather. The scene reminds me of the Hob back home. How I miss the Seam! But I know I must go forward, as behind lies only asphalt, and the buses won't take us back to the metro for another 3 or 4 hours. More peacekeepers, now on motorcycles and full military gear. Security is tighter than Kim Kardashian's mini skirt.
We pass through the final security cordon, known as "the Mag and Bag", through which only tributes and ticketholders are allowed.
As we enter the Arena, we are reminded how hot it is here. The winter in the Capital is warmer than summer in the Seam. Where I still miss The Hob, and my sister Zimm (who couldn't make the trip), and the hunting for rabbits, and shooting squirrels in the eye with arrows just to show off...where was I...oh, as we enter the Arena, we gasp as we take in the sight.
Twenty-two small children accompanying the tributes on the pitch. Are they to be sacrificed as well?
Where's Effie? Can she bring back some pretzels or something? I really am starting to get hungry.
Sergio Flickerman's voice comes over the loud speaker: "Let the Game Begin."
May the odds be ever in your favor!
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