OLINDA: TWO SIDES OF THE TRACKS

The tourist sees what the tourist wants to see. From
Olinda’s hill, you gaze out over tiled roofs,
Churches baroque, palms and banana plants, to the
Atlantic beaches of Recife. Locals play
Dominoes, guitarists strum, streetcleaners chill, red
Tunics flared by florescent stripes. A gentle breeze
Whispers you’ve landed in a piece of paradise.
‘How pretty!’ was the sailor’s cry that named this town.
The tourist’s eyes today are similarly blessed,
This setting, this world, seem too perfect to be true.

At the bottom of the hill, across the main road
Is a beach. It’s a sheltered cove. Two horses are
Being bathed whilst some skinny swimmers splash around.
Trying to follow the line of the coast, I cut
Through a backstreet of shacks. People stare. Kids mutter
Hello Gringo. There’s an oblong, fetid lake of
Plastic cups. Rubbish scattered. Behind a half-closed
Door, someone whistles. A man in a hat shakes a
Finger, like a schoolteacher telling off a kid.
I get the message. Turn and retreat. Avoiding
Eye contact. Nothing happens. Back on the other
Side of the road, the sun-shot world’s unchanged.



olinda/ recife 11.11.04