Mansions and streets of São Luís: voices from the past

By Marcos Estrela on the Blog Propaganda, by Ricardo Fonseca - There was a time when chants echoed in the alleys, mansions, and stonework of the old and beautiful city. Those who have only heard of the street cries of São Luís don't know that they were better observed with the ears. Before speaking about those who hawked all sorts of objects and foodstuffs, proclaiming, spreading, and praising their virtues, I would like to recall that same city in its daily activities. 

Their lives consisted of little more than sleeping, waking up, eating, working, and sleeping again. These activities were defined exclusively by sunlight. There wasn't enough electrical power to fully sustain the city's days and nights. Fish, meat, vegetables, fruits, and greens were bought at the doorstep. There were also ice cream vendors, lollipop sellers, bottle sellers, charcoal sellers, umbrella vendors, chamber pot sellers, stove sellers, and everything else imaginable needed to run a household. And all of this with delivery service.

The city's skies were streaked with goats, manta rays, parrots, suras, and curicas, which danced in the island's generous winds, their tails and cotton lines bathed in the gum made from blue magnesia glass, which had already been pulverized by the tracks of the São Pantaleão electric tram line.

Rua da Palma in 1970. Photo: Marco Estrela

These gladiators, made of kite string, string, wooden planks, and tissue paper, were master craftsmen of Zé Caveira and Fala Besteira. The city participated in a daily duel, from Beira Mar to the far reaches of Anil. Marcos Brandão, a friend who also lived through those times and, like Zé Lopes from São Pantaleão, was a "master gladiator." 

He always talked about "the sacks, the twisted and distorted ones, the stick-beating and the jigging, the brakes on the heads and the turns, the whistles to call the wind, the sacks on the lines, the 'it's thinking it's a puncture', the cotton tails, the little punches, Dioclécio's tapiocas, the magnesia cerols, the fluorescent lamps and the thermos bottles. 

Beira-Mar Avenue. Photo: Ricardo Fonseca

Everything is moved to one side so as not to go wrong and blind the glass, from the lance, from the choking, from the cutting on the brake and the hand, from the "killed and cut", from the "passing the wire", from the "goat's testicles", from the "here it goes" and "here it comes", from the fabricated by Tiririca… 

In that same city, where a unique vocabulary was used, only there could one hear echoing between the walls of schools, in the streets and squares, the typical and characteristic expressions of that small province. One no longer hears: “Not even Mr. Souza”, “Jeneve's Head”, “Oh my colleague, damn it!”, “I'll give you a bogue!”, “Let me kick it!”, “Tcho rébis” and “à fulote”. Verbs like *escangalhar*, *arreliar*, *arremedar*, *canhengar*, and many others have also fallen out of use. They no longer belong to the Ludovicense dictionary. 

Portugal Street. Photo: Ricardo Fonseca

City of slippery cobblestone pavements, which lined the streets of Palma, Alegria, Afogados, Passeio, Hortas, Paz, Veados and Palácio dos Leões. City of Lusitania da Mouraria, of Portuguese stones and Rua Portugal. 

Province of chicken in brown sauce on sunny Sundays, of yellow croaker on the beaches, and of cuxá (a traditional dish) at the São João festivities, and of Seu Antonio José Lopes, craftsman-artist, sculptor and painter of a creativity, originality and skill never seen before to this day. 

Frankie's Inn on Rua da Palma. Photo: Marco Estrela

Land where an ox lost its tongue and died, due to the whims of a pregnant woman. City sworn to by a huge serpent, which promised to return and take it with it to the depths of São Marcos Bay. 

On Sundays, family men would gather at their front doors, seated in their colorful "macaroni chairs," to listen to the famous Rádio Timbira do Maranhão*, located south of the equator and 54° west of Greenwich, broadcasting on medium wave and amplitude modulation at 1940 kHz. They would hear the games of Sampaio Correia, their arch-rival Moto Clube, and the spirited Ferroviário, Vitória do Mar, and Maranhão Atlético Clube, the old Bode Gregório. 

Roller Coaster Street, next to the City Hall headquarters. Photo: Ricardo Fonseca

No one heard of, or even cared about, teams from other centers. And what about the voices of the street, the wandering poets, the creative cries that sang about the stonework? Those remained forever in the hearts and minds of all those mentioned above. Which of us doesn't remember the one who made a living shouting his jingles full of advertising appeal? "Bottle seller, buy bottles, sell bottles, half bottles, liter!" With this cry, the seller announced his arrival in the neighborhood, ready to buy any glass container (there were many), to then resell to the beverage factories and pharmacies of São Luís. "Sugarcane stick, it's sugarcane, look at the stick, stick... Of sugarcane!" "Pamoona! Pamoona! It's hot, it's hot!" "camarêêêuuuu" (this requires translation: it was a seller of fresh and dried shrimp) "ííííícole, icole, icole".

Rua do Sol in São Luís (MA), with the magnificent Arthur Azevedo theater in the background. Photo by Ricardo Fonseca. 

Now imagine Rua do Sol at midday, deserted, everyone having lunch, a sepulchral silence… Suddenly, a lament in the distance tore through the calm, it was a sad chant, usually in the voice of a boy: “Derresóoooo, derreeeééésó!” That pierced the soul and caused a sudden sadness, even in the hardest hearts. 

He was a vendor selling a sweet treat that cost only one derréis, a corruption of ten réis. At that time, there were "derréis, vintém, and tostão" as coins. Few people didn't buy from him… The feeling of helping that lonely little soul was stronger than household finances. 

And so, the old province surrendered to marketing techniques and methods aimed at developing sales through emotional appeal. Years passed, and that land grew, changed, was devoured and conquered by new peoples, new customs, became a hub for transnational mining consortia, changed its style and lost its charm. 

Today, on this side of the bridge, we eat cheese bread as if we were from Minas Gerais, we grill meat like the people from Rio Grande do Sul, we play samba like the people from Rio de Janeiro, we order pizzas on Sundays like the people from São Paulo, and we even drink wine and savor escargot like the French. But the other side of the bridge, where the towers of the Madre Deus church can be seen, has not yet surrendered, has not yet been conquered, has not allowed the invasion, is still fighting its Battle of Guaxenduba*, still awaits a victory before the final embrace of the serpent. 

Marco Estrela is a lawyer, psychologist, painter, historian, and passionate about the magnetic island of São Luís.

Battle of Guaxenduba: http://www.onordeste.com/onordeste/enciclopediaNordeste/index.php?titulo=Batalha+de+Guaxenduba,+Maranh%C3%A3o

Radio Timbira from Maranhão: http://www.radiotimbira.ma.gov.br/