bout de papier, Vol. 12, No. 2 (1995) — Summer 1995 // Été 1995, pp. 31–32
As the jet rose into the hot Brazilian sky I could see the vestiges of the Minister’s visit through the haze already burning off in the noon-day sun; a great, long, four-metre tree-trunk, gathered at the base by an enormous bag of roots wrapped in cellophane, lay prone on the tarmac.
“What do we do with the bag of roots he’s left behind?” I asked the Consul General, suspecting all the while that I shouldn’t have asked. Don Jamieson, our Secretary of State for External Affairs at the time had just completed a boisterous romp through the Brazilian landscape. After the death-defying swoop down São Paulo’s concrete canyons in a military chopper; toasts before the Chamber; and the ribbon-cutting at the new Consulate we were awed by the verity of those who had warned of boundless energy. That [then] Agriculture Minister Whelan had promised the peoples of Southern Brazil a tree to commemorate the Canadian fathers of their Hereford bulls, was not in itselt reason, we thought, to cause us to tace this syrupy challenge.
“Yes, my boy, I want you to take this maple tree to the people of Bagé and present it to them on behalf of Eugene Whelan,” retorted my boss. I began yet another episode of personal growth in Canada’s foreign service.
As I boarded the Varig jet headed for Brazil’s southern state of Rio Grande do Sul, the steward handed me a map, with my Caipiriña, and pointed to a little dot, Bagé, not far from the Uruguayan border. I would be switching down to more modest modes of travel at Porto Alegre.
Canadian exports to Brazil were modest in these mid-1970’s and agricultural livestock was one of the promising lines (along with urban transport and hydro-electric generating technology). The great Western happening that attracted so many foreigners each year was the agricultural fair Expointer in Porto Alegre — here, Canadian cowboys mingled with their gaucho counterparts, sipping matte-tea in what looked like leatherbound pipes (but were really mugs with a silver stem). We showed our best bulls, finest semen and embryo transplanters of progeny from Charolais, Chianina, Hereford, and Angus stock (and, at times, Holstein-Friesian dairy cattle). The real prize would have been, of course, Canadian swine, especially western Canadian Duroc, if it hadn’t been for the presence of African Swine Fever in Brazil. A year earlier, the green-topped Whelan had been down-right delighted to have met with the breeding and cattle fraternity of the southern town of Bagé (not but two hours from Porto Alegre) at the Expointer and was so impressed with their enthusiastic bonding with Canadian livestock that he offered to decorate their streets with a real live Canadian maple tree – and thus did his Newfoundland co-Minister bring down our cigar-like gift.
At Porto Alegre, I settled down behind a Churrasco sandwich, caffeine sugar-fix (Brazilian coffee) and Herald Tribune. With only five months in Brazil under my belt, the old Portuguese was fairly rudimentary but was still “hauling” as they said at the time. Presently, I heard through the din on the PA system “Would the Canadian consul going to Bagé please present himself at the VASP air-counter”. As there couldn’t have been too many others like me around at the time, I assumed this was my call.
“Consul, we regret, but we cannot put your tree on board the airplane to Bagé. It is too big and the plane is too small!” invoked the rather pleasant but firm official. I bristled This was going to be dicey. The Consulate’s PR whiz, Ricardo, had lined up the Mayor, the alderpeople, the local cattle association, the print and electronic media to meet the Canadian Consul at the airport to mark the celebrous arrival of the “bordo” (Portuguese for maple).
“If we don’t get this thing on board, there will be an international incident,” I menaced sweetly. “The mayor and the TV will be awaiting our arrival. The delivery of that tree will be of the gravest necessity”. The official was adamant. Although the small Bandeirante aircraft (Brazilian STOL vessel equipped, I proudly noted, with Canadian Pratt- Whitney PT-6 engines) was an excellent craft, its hold could never accommodate four metres of tree-trunk, plus root-bag. I persevered and we eventually ended up with the airline’s airport Director. He listened to his official, then to my impassioned plea that invoked, in plebian Portuguese, my mother, Brazil-Canada ties, Canadian investments in electricity generation since the turn of the century, the Canadian Jesuit school (Santa Cruz) in São Paulo, Canadian cattle improving Brazilian breeding stock, our imports of coffee and OJ and the clincher: the success of Brazilian soap-operas in Quebec. A steely resolve descended upon his visage and he growled at the official, “This is a case of force majeure! Get the Consul’s tree on board, somehow, anyhow, Manuel!”.. That was that.
I returned to my coffee and waited to take off. Sugar-plum fairies danced in my head. I looked out at the ominous skyline where storm clouds were gathering to the west (Bagé was west). I gritted my teeth when the boarding announcement was made and pulled myself together for the trek across the tarmac to the Bandeirante. As we approached the sleek little machine, I could see passengers bunching up at the top of the short flight of steps. They seemed to be struggling with an impediment at their feet. When it came my turn at the top of the stairs, I found myself confronted with an enormous but familiar-looking plastic bag of vegetal tuber! The enterprising ground-crew had indeed found a solution to meet this challenge of force majeure. There, nestled under the entire configuration of passenger seating, was our maple. Instead of stowing their hand baggage under the seats forward, passengers were obliged to head for the overhead racks for beneath each seat, engorging the narrow passage down one side of the plane, was our bashful bordo.
I clambered aboard, hoping that no-one would realize that I was responsible for the flora between their feet, and sat down for the two hour flight to Bagé. As we drew westward, the little plane started to buffet around, diving relentlessly into darker and darker cloud. Thunder cracked and the knock of significant turbulence reminded us that we were indisputably in tropical Brazilian climes. Below, as we descended, we could see nothing but torrent and mist until, as if by miracle, the Bandeirante
32 bout de papier Vol. ground into the porous landing-strip with a bang. We taxied to a stop whereupon I could see movement beneath a cluster of black umbrellas under the fuselage. The passenger door erupted forth and I heard over the loudspeaker that the Canadian Consul was to come to the rear of the plane at the request of Bagé’s Mayor. I clambered forward and stuck out my hand to greet this beaming, dripping city official with the ubiquitous bag of roots separating our clasped hands. I was beckoned forward to join the welcoming committee of wet well-wishers and in the confusion caught my left foot in the maple’s purse of entrails, managing to pirouette on my right toe at the second step and plumped down, splat, in front of a gaggle of cameras, both still and moving. Flashes popped and microphones protruded. My halting Portuguese answered questions in its best vernacular. I shook the hands, smiled the smiles, chatted to the “Avenida do Canada” Committee (where they would be planting our maple the following day), and was finally deposited briefly at my hotel for a change — time for a little whiskey I thought and possibly a deep drag or two of Benson and Hedges Special Filter. Later that night, as I prepared to put to rest the preceding festivities, I turned on the television to catch the news and saw to my alarm an up-beat reporting of a callow Canadian Consul whirling down a gangplank and babbling courageously of Canado-Brazilian ties before a happy throng of townspersons.
Morning brought breakfast and the Bagé Daily Bugle. The front page headline beamed in generous letters: “O Consul Collocou O Bordo A Bordo”: Portuguese word-play for: “The Consul jammed the maple aboard” There beneath was a story of the saga that brought a tree from Canada to São Paulo to Bagé. “No Brasil apenas cinco meses, o consul ja esta falando bem o portuguese… it marveled, as if to say that my banter wasn’t bad for someone so recently arrived. I felt good about my mission and was spoiled and regaled for two exciting days among the hospitable natives of Rio Grande do Sul before returning to the urban matrix of smoggy São Paulo.
As the taxi home rounded the final corner before entering the suburb of Pacaembu, I wondered, almost aloud, if the zoo in Bagé had any beavers.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 12, No. 2 (1995) — Summer 1995 // Été 1995, pp. 31–32. Read the rest of this issue →
