16 The Butcher

THE BUTCHER

The Butcher, reeking of alcohol, stepped up from the street and glared at us as we sat on the sidewalk bench.  He asked us something in Portuguese that Richard attempted to answer.  Apparently the answer was not what the Butcher expected because he reached into the front of his pants, groped for something, pulled out a ten inch revolver, cocked it and pointed it at us!

“Ande!”  He said, indicating that we should start walking.  It was 1964, I had been in Brazil one week, this was my Peace Corps training site, I was one month short of my twenty-first birthday and I was terrified.

Was this the Rio Verde of Mato Grosso welcoming committee?  Obviously he did not remember us from our recognizance visit the past weekend when we brought our things in the Peace Corps vehicle.  We remembered his saturated state then when the men sitting on the sidewalk had joked about the Butcher and his addiction.  Where were these men now?

  Rio Verde do Mato Grosso is located about 150 kilometers north of Campo Grande. Source: free.dirctionswhiz.com  

The rainy season was under way and the road an hour south of Rio Verde had washed out. We had left our bus, walked around the washout and got on a truck returning to Rio Verde. Our bus was waiting to exchange passengers and baggage with the southbound bus from Ciuaba.  Then both buses could then turn around and continue each other’s mission. We were told that our baggage would be all right and that it would be delivered to Rio Verde with out fail.  We were worried and not totally convinced and that was why we were waiting after hours on the street.

  Mato Grosso do Sul borders on Bolivia and Paraguay.  www.freelargeimages.com

It was past 10 o’clock in the evening and everyone had gone to bed and the street was deserted except for us and this butcher!  “Ande!”

“I suppose we ought a get down on the street and start walking,” said Richard who had been in the country three months and understood Portuguese better than I. I was not going to argue with this pistol waving in our faces.

Terrified, we started walking, the butcher a few feet behind us.

Well, I thought, “At least we could walk down the main street, as it was the only one with streetlights and certainly somebody should see what was going on.  No such luck!  At the first intersection it became clear to Richard that the butcher wanted us to turn left.  It seemed that not a soul had seen us, and the street we just entered only reached into blackness. Where was this crazy man taking us? Maybe he thought this was the closest way out of town and he wanted to get us there fast; but then what would he do? Shoot us? The prospects did not seem good.

I noticed that Richard and I were walking faster than the Butcher who seemed to stumble a bit here and there.  It occurred to me that he might fall and accidentally shoot us. That was not how I wanted my Peace Corps experience to end.

As were gaining distance on him I spoke sideways to Richard.  “By the time we get to this next street we will be far enough ahead that we could split and run. In ten steps let’s head in opposite directions. It would confuse him, and the worst would be that he might shoot one rather than both of us.”

Richard grunted agreement and as we counted our steps…six, seven, and eight…. we suddenly heard the butcher breakout in an argument with someone.

Full of uncertainties, we kept walking, now almost approaching a run.  Before we could disappear into the darkness and leave this terror behind, a small boy caught up with us and let us know that things were all right.   We looked back to see two policemen subdue the Butcher and take his gun away.  He was yelling something about “communistas”.

“Communistas” explained a lot. The political climate of Brazil in 1964 and for several years was tense following the overthrow of the leftist government that April. The coup placed a lot of people on edge and anything strange or different was suspect and needed to be reported to the military government. This enthusiastic drunk took us foreigners for communist interlopers. As it was, the Butcher was taking us to the jail where we could be accounted for and thought he was doing the right thing.  It was just that his judgment was tainted by the alcohol.

The boy led us back down the street past the threesome to his house from where he had somehow seen the craziness and had gone to find the police.  His parents let us in and tried to calm us down. I was still uncertain whom I could trust in this chaotic place with armed madmen who drank too much and spoke a strange language. We were exceptionally relieved.

Richard was able to explain to the father that we had been waiting on the street to collect our baggage from the bus that we had left at the road washout about an hour out of Rio Verde.  We were worried that when our baggage was transferred to another bus it might pass on through the town and that we might never see it again.  Everything I had of value was in that bag.  Somehow, we managed to let go of our worry and trust the family to keep a look out for the bus.

About an hour later, the bus came and dropped off our baggage.  We lugged it on down to the boarding house where we were staying.  We went to our small room, collapsed with exhaustion and did not to wake until morning.

The next morning, it seemed that the night before had been a bad dream and had not really happened.  We went about meeting all the right people including the mayor and the other officials. No one mentioned the night before and not knowing the cultural implications and wanting to get our Peace Corps experience started on a positive note, we certainly did not tell the story to anyone.

It was not until evening, after we had been shown the town, given keys to our new office, eaten dinner, and retreated into to the safety of our small bedroom, when insanity started to happen again!

The day had been very pleasant, but our experience with the “night life” remained an enigma and we were terrified.  After barricading the door with our clothing armoire and having made sure our one window was locked several times, we set about exploring the Peace Corps book locker.  Each of us had just disappeared into a book, when there came a loud knock on the door.

“Hey, are you going to answer the door?  I’m not. The night isn’t very safe around here.”

“No, you answer the door!”  Knock, Knock, Knock!

“No, you answer the door!”

Finally, I got up and shoved the armoire about an inch away from the door and opened it a crack. Through the small opening I could see the town mayor and the city manager looking in at us.  The mayor began talking very rapidly and, in the excitement, I could not understand anything.  He was very anxious and seemed angry and the rapid barrage of words frightened and confused me.

After a few minutes Richard was able to figure what all the fuss was about.  “They just found out about last night and they are afraid that we will leave and go back to America.”

let them help me push the armoire back away from the door and they came into the room.  They talked for twenty minutes, apologizing over and over for the butcher’s actions the night before, promising that this was not normal around these parts.

When it became clear that we understood what they were concerned about, they got up to go.  As they were leaving, they noticed that I was preparing to barricade the door again.  “No, No! Don’t do that! It won’t be necessary. We want you to become comfortable with our town.  Come! Come out and join the “Passeo” as it is our custom on Sunday evening for the whole town to walk up and down the street visiting and socializing.  We want you to see that we welcome you and that this is a safe place. They tugged us out of the room and out of the boarding house into the street where we could see how friendly the people were.

We met several families and we walked on down the street on our own.  All was fine for about another block when whom should we meet but the drunken butcher!  This time he was very apologetic but now he was twice as drunk.  It was obvious that the police had worked him over some and in his drunken state he had fallen a few times in the street and was filthy.  Now he wanted to embrace us with an apologetic hug, certainly not my highest choice at that moment.  In a certain sense, I think I preferred him the night before!

We were able to let him know that we were not into hugs at that point in time but we gave into his insistence on taking us into a bar where he could buy as a drink to atone for his sins.  He led us into a back room and brought a bottle of Cashasa, a 52% alcohol Brazilian rum which we were not yet familiar.  He poured three glasses and we each took one, and before we could drink anything he downed his in one gulp and immediately passed out on the floor.  What was this drink? Or was this was some sort of suicide ritual? We smelled our drinks and it did not seem like something I wanted to put in my stomach. We placed our drinks on the table and called the Bar tender who came and carried the guy off.

Over the next several weeks, a few encounters with the butcher occurred. Each time he would offer to buy us drinks, trying to make amends. But after 6 weeks in Rio Verde, I was given my own Peace Corps site in Pedro Gomes, Mato Grosso, and another 3 hours up the road. (Richard remained in Rio Verde for his two years.)  I did not see the butcher after that for a long time.  Both Richard and I became immersed in Brazilian culture and Portuguese language over the next two years.

Meanwhile in Rio Verde the Butcher remained with the “shame” of his part of our adventure.  The local Brazilians made sure he did not forget, as they would tease him and goad him with all kinds of imaginary scenarios.  Ones like, “When will these Americanos take their revenge?” must have haunted him with fear, as that is what any normal frontier Brazilian would experience.  Well, nothing like that ever happened. The Butcher knew when Richard completed his two years and had terminated from the Peace Corps, nothing happened.

When it came time for me to terminate my 2 years Peace Corps assignment, I took the 8-hour bus trip into Campo Grande to borrow the Peace Corps vehicle so I could haul out my belongings. Rio Verde was along the route to Pedro Gomes and I stopped for lunch and visited with old acquaintances. There I announced that I would be leaving Mato Grosso to return to the United States and that I would be driving back through Rio Verde in a few days.

This return through Rio Verde was memorable.  As Antonio, my Brazilian counterpart and I sat eating lunch in the open sidewalk restaurant, I noticed a huge crowd gathering in the street to one side.  This was confusing; I did not think that I was so popular here as to warrant a going away “good-by” by that many people.  Then, I noticed that they were directing their attention mostly across the street as they yelled insults and goadings to none other than the Butcher!

There stood the Butcher, leaning against the wall of the building directly in front of the restaurant.  This time he was stone sober, watching every move I made.  He had two pistols in holsters and was ready for me to make my move and take my revenge.

I had not seen him all of the last year-and a-half and had dismissed our altercation “as over”.  But, the locals must have been teasing him a lot over the last few days, reminding him of what had happened and that “now was the time”.  They had been entertaining themselves by getting him worked up and now the situation had evolved into something exciting and something that could be very violent!  Now they were waiting to see the “great shootout between the “Butcher and the Gringo”!

He must have figured that it would be better if he could meet me on his terms rather than have me surprise him with a bullet in the back.  I think that he was in a self-preservation mode and this was the way he had to do it.

The Butcher continued to watch me as we sat at our table.  I had told Antonio the story of the Butcher once before, but now I don’t think he remembered as I urgently tried to point out to him “who that man over there was”.  Well, any way, we did nothing but sit quietly eating our meal.

After maybe ten minutes, the Butcher crossed the street, entered the restaurant through a side door and walked to a spot behind me in the back of the dining room.  He must have stood for about five minutes looking me over to see if I was armed and trying to decide what to do.  I sat very still, knowing that any sudden movement by me would have caused him to draw his weapons and start shooting.

He must have borne me no malice, as he had ample opportunity to do me in at that moment.  I think he realized that because of my calmness, I bore no malice for him either and since I was unarmed he decided to go back to his position across the street.  As he was walking past our table, Antonio noticed all the attention he was giving us and asked him if would like to share some food with us.  He grunted “No!” and left the room.

Once back across the street, he took up his position and waited.  We finally finished our meal, paid our bill and headed out to street where the vehicle was parked.  I feared at this point that something might happen. Fortunately, nothing did.  I opened the driver’s door, gave a wave to the crowd and the Butcher, climbed in, started the engine and drove away.

That was August 1966.  I returned to Mato Grosso 1971 for my dissertation research and before I went to visit the folks in Rio Verde I inquired about the Butcher. I did not want to surprise the Butcher let alone be butchered. There were some people in Campo Grande, the regional capital, who had lived in Rio Verde and had kept up with the affairs of the town.  They told me that the Butcher had fled the town after he had shot one of the locals, crippling him for life.  The family of the injured man went after him, but he got away.  The word was that he joined one of the newly formed communities up in the Amazon.