Fado na Alfama, by Markus Lüske
I recently returned from a week in Lisbon. The holiday was
an incredibly thoughtful birthday gift from a friend, as I have always had an
unusual passion and interest for all things Luso. As young children, my parents
took my sister and me on our first holiday to the Algarve. I cannot say what it
was about the country and its wonderful people, but subsequently, I chose to do
my first memorable school project on Portugal. In my late teens, I developed a
taste for Brazilian electronic music, a deep enthusiasm for such artists as
Suba, Cibelle, Fernanda Porto, and Céu, then branching out to baile funk music
and Angolan kuduro, the latter genres being introduced to the international
mainstream by Diplo and M.I.A. I loved Maria Rita, Bebel Gilberto, and Mylene Pires,
and owned all the latest bossa nova compilations of both João and Astrud
Gilberto, and Stan Getz. I discovered the intense beauty of Portuguese fado. It
was from a desperate desire to understand Cibelle’s poetry and identify with
Amália Rodrigues’ longing that I sought out a Portuguese language teacher in
Neasden.
My friend and I debated for a while over which part of Lisbon we should stay at, and upon learning of its status as the birthplace of fado, my friend opted for history and culture over nightlife, and booked a bijou apartment in Alfama. The eccentric owner of the flat, Maria, met us outside Santa Apolónia railway station on the Tuesday evening that we landed. She proceeded to guide us down Rua Jardim do Tobaco, and began relaying amusing anecdotes about previous guests, the neighbourhood, and her colourful personal life with gusto and an air of effervescence. As we followed her across the road opposite the Museu do Fado, we passed through a small public square to enter Alfama’s archetypal labyrinth of steep and winding, narrow streets. By the time we had ascended the first couple of cobblestone inclines and were tackling the first set of steps, Maria was already out of breath, her gravelly voice wheezing and panting between sentences. A few more turns and steps later, we had stopped outside a tall terraced house. Maria reached her hand through an open panel in the door to release the lock, assuring us that this was the only way to enter the building. A rather steep and narrow wooden staircase led to our room on the top floor, and it took another good fifteen to twenty minutes of Maria nattering before we were finally alone.
It was, by then, after 10 o’clock
in the evening, and we needed to find something to eat. So we set off into the
streets of our new neighbourhood and settled for an al fresco dinner at the
first open restaurant that we came across, situated on a cobblestone side
street. A fado performance went on in a small square behind us as we picked on pastéis
de bacalhau and olives, awaiting our meals. We had ordered a jug of wine
and, when our food finally arrived, my friend began to wax lyrical about his
grilled sardines and boiled potatoes. I had initially found my own dish of bacalhau
à bras to be quite bland, almost like a fish khichri of sorts. It
was made up of shredded salted codfish cooked with sliced onions and strips of
fried potato. But I soon began to appreciate the subtle flavours and textures,
almost as much as conversing with the Nepalese waiters, speaking both in Hindi
and in broken Nepali.
The next morning was, for me,
unbearably hot; during our stay the temperature refused to dip
below 28°C. I had stupidly forgotten to pack my Kolhapuri slippers, and did not
bring anything in the way of summer clothing. Desperate to get some airflow
going, I was suddenly captivated at the east-facing window. The view was like a
scene from a postcard. The terracotta tiles of Alfama’s rooftops blazed red
before me, only to be offset by the brilliant white of the buildings they enveloped.
To the left stood the serene Igreja de Santo Estêvão, and ahead a vast stretch
of sea blue, almost like facing the edge of the earth: the celebrated Tagus
river.
I stood there for a moment, the sun’s rays hitting my chest, breathing
in Lisbon’s sweet air, taking in the beauty. After we had showered and got
dressed, we set off for a pastry shop nearby that Maria had recommended in
order to sample the famous Portuguese pastéis de nata for breakfast.
Something about the narrow streets and the heat of the day reminded me of
India, of Old Delhi and my walks around Jamnagar during the afternoon siesta.
Of course, Alfama was nowhere near as busy and crowded as any Indian locality,
but the clothes hanging to dry outside people’s front doors, the small square
windows looking into quaint home kitchens, and the camaraderie between its
residents; these little things caught my attention, reminding me of
neighbourhoods in India.
Many of the houses and buildings
throughout the city itself were tiled with striking ceramic tile work known as Azulejos,
an influence bestowed by the earlier Muslim inhabitants of Iberia. This too
corresponded to what I had seen in Northern India, similar geometric shapes and
floral motives adorning the grand buildings of the Mughal elite and the old
towns. The many churches too were, quite naturally, of a similar design to the
churches I saw in Diu, a former Portuguese colony until only 1961, just south
of the Saurashtra region of Gujarat. In fact, the Igreja de Santo António de Lisboa,
which stood close by at the bottom of our street in Alfama, made me think back to my visit to the Church of St. Paul in Diu.
We decided to walk to the Castelo de São Jorge, not too far from our apartment. Trundling up the steep steps of Beco de Santa Helena, we found that we had come face to face with the Cerca Velha, or the medieval Old Wall, and a bustling street bearing an imposing statue of São Vicente stood opposite the Museum of Decorative Arts. Following the tram tracks, we explored the town on our way to the castle, getting lost many a time along the way, discovering local life, walls decorated with bold graffiti, and more tiled buildings. The castle itself and the surrounding grounds also reminded me of Diu and its fort, while its structure and impressive size has similarities to the forts of Jaipur, albeit on a much less intricate and aesthetically refined scale. The amount of walking and the heat of the day saw us finally retiring at our starting point, the Miradouro das Portas do Sol. With a spectacular view of Alfama before us, we sat at a table on a vast balcony, the largest balloon glass of gin and tonic I had ever encountered, and a bottle of ice-cold champagne between us.
For many nights, we longed to observe a live fado performance. Earlier on in the week my friend and I resolved to have dinner at the Museo do Fado restaurant, opting for a table outside after being encouraged by the balmy weather and the throng of patrons enjoying drinks and conversation outside the restaurant. It was only after the chatty and beautiful waitress had brought us a basket of bread accompanied by garlic butter, olive tapenade, creamy farmer’s goats cheese with a home made fig conserve, and an octopus relish as appetisers, that we noticed everyone beginning to take their seats inside the building in anticipation of the performances. We made up for our dismay by getting absolutely slaughtered bar hopping across Bairro Alto later that night, and ending up at a live jazz bar where I was allowed to smoke indoors and where I had my first taste of luscious ginjinha.
I took a spoonful of the chocolate mousse and sipped on
the ginjinha. The rich, dense mousse coated my mouth in a blanket of
bittersweet bliss, followed by the intense sour cherry liqueur: deep and
luxurious, syrupy, burning my throat and chest. The fadista began to sing. Her
voice was crystal clear and slightly high pitched. She moved and sang
perfectly, her actions and eyes matching the mood of the song; one slightly
jovial, the next more melancholy. The restaurant was lit with candles, and a
warm pink glow had settled on everything, the strapping guitarists, the
doll-like singer, the glasses of alcohol, and the mesmerised faces of the
seated diners. It may have been the ginjinha, but I was starting to feel very
warm. The performance ended to wild applause, and I went to pay for our bill.
Behind the bar, washing dishes in the kitchen, I spotted the waitress from
earlier. She caught my eye and managed to wave. I told her that we had been
waiting to hear her sing, that we had come especially for that reason at her
own request. She appeared hesitant for a moment. Then she lifted her index
finger and came to the bar. “Let me speak to my boss,” she told me. Perhaps she
could organise something. I ordered another round of ginjinha and returned to
my table. The guitarists looked as though they were set to head home, and I
could see the waitress almost pleading with the maître d’. Finally, the
guitarists returned to their places and began to play as one of the men sang to
warm up. The waitress entered the performance space and began whispering with
the guitarists nervously. With a song decided upon, the soul stirring strumming
commenced. Out of nowhere, a powerful and slightly husky voice boomed across
the room. As she found her feet, the waitress’ voice oozed from the depths of
her very core out through her mouth. The honeyed words trickled like heavy but
reluctant tears onto the audience, the words of sadness and longing, of love
lost and better days. She looked as though she was breaking down, the
microphone bearing her frustration, her feet stamping on the tiled floor. And
then, once the performance was over the agony on her face disappeared, and the
awkwardness and nerves returned in contemplation of the next song.
That night I was blown away. The two performers had such different styles, personalities, and performance deliveries. Where the first singer stood with poise and cool confidence, her vocals precise with a restrained playfulness, the waitress displayed humility and a sweet charm, desperation to some minute extent, whilst her singing alluded to personal loss and suffering. It was like watching a film, one of those old Indian films set in a brothel or a royal palace, where you view the lives of two artistes of different social classes and levels of expertise, and their journeys through love and privilege. Being lucky enough to observe a few more fado performances throughout my stay, including one where a spirited and amiable group of elderly friends took turns on the stage, they made me think of the old mehfils and mujras of Mughal India, so lavishly portrayed in art and media. The old friends reminded me of my family around the time I was born, when my grandfather would invite his pals over and they would all sit on worn Persian rugs and fraying bolsters playing musical instruments and arguing over the melody and lyrics of film songs and ghazals. Each of my aunts would be roped into singing as the remaining guests and family members would sip on tea and graze on snacks, mothers cradling their sleeping children in their laps. Of course, the history and social practices of mehfils and fado are not comparable, but the passion in the performers, the sense of desolation present in the florid lyrics, and most importantly the emotions these performances stir up, the bringing together of souls through music, this is the common ground I found between the musical performances of Northern India and Lisbon.
There is so much more to share about my trip to Portugal,
including visiting the fairytale castles of pastel-coloured Sintra, reminiscent
of my idea of South India merging with an aristocratic colonial hill station,
and the historical municipality of Belém. Visiting Lisbon made me feel
strangely at home. Perhaps understanding the language helps in familiarising
yourself with a place, adding to that my keen interest in the country, but it
felt like I was simply revisiting a part of my past with new eyes. Alfama
itself was magical, and we left its sweet old ladies and captivating fadistas,
its crumbling brickwork and glazed azulejo tiles, and its magnificent churches
and hole in the wall ginjinha bars in the early hours of the morning. That
night was the night of the total lunar eclipse and the Super Blood Moon. As my
friend caught a couple hours of kip in preparation for the early flight, I
stood at the window admiring the reflection of the brilliant full moon on the
Tagus River. As the hours passed, the moon began to disappear and surge higher
into sky, making me stretch my body further through the window. Around 2.30am we pulled our
suitcases as silently as we could across the cobblestones of Alfama. One or two
astronomy types were out with their telescopes and cameras, a truly surreal
sight in the old world surroundings of the town. I looked up as we approached
Santa Apolónia railway station, and I saw the luminous garnet moon watching
over me. It bid me farewell, following me all the way in the taxi to the
airport.
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A collection of ideas and indignancies from the thoughts of a twenty-something North Londoner
Thursday, 19 November 2015
Lusophilia: Lisboa, te amo!
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