Smoking Mary.

It is only 12kms from São João del Rei to Tiradentes. And there is no better way to do the half hour trip than on-board the good-old Maria Fumaça. It's the original line from 1870 built  during the textile boom of  São João, one of the first in the continent, with beautiful carriages from the 30s, wooden seats and floors and the original steam engines of the 19th century.

We crossed half of the town until we hit the hills and valleys towards Tiradentes. And along the train tracks we had an impromptu audience, stopped on their tracks and looking in amazement. The novelty of a whistling and puffing steam engine is obvious, that's why I was here in the first place, but it is a regular, albeit limited, service nevertheless. The residents see old Mary struggling her path every week and yet they froze, they felt incapable of resisting it's beauty and optimism.

There was a kid leaning against a fence, waving slowly with dreamy eyes, seemingly waving at a mythical animal, a black unicorn. And  three girls, maybe neighbours or even sisters, smiling shyly at the steel caterpillar with the square openings between its ribs, they appeared to be waiting for us. But not just children with open mouths, unsure what to make of this timeless alien; old people, farmers and drivers and women holding their shopping bags were smiling and waving. And it made me think: what is in a train that captures the imagination of humans? How can an old, black, smoking beast be worthy of such attention? Why do people have the instinctive urge to raise their hand and wave to its passengers, some weekend tourists heading to the next village?

I find it a primitive response to dreams. An escapist instinct, the desire to know more and grow, an instantaneous travel to unknown lands and new friendships. And why this never happens with cars or buses? Is it the firmness of the tracks, the sweet, rusty sound of the steam or just nostalgia? That I do not know but Smoking Mary was generous.

Pulling Teeth.

The first attempt to make a country out of the vastness of Brazil was the Inconfidência Mineira in 1789. And its leader was a man that was to be cut into pieces and scattered all over the Mining Town as an example. The plot was swiftly folded but of course in time his dream materialized. He was born in this little village that bears his nickname, Tiradentes or the "teeth-puller". He was a dentist.

The white and yellow church at the top of the hill, adorned with maybe more gold than any other church in the country, is testament to the mining rush of gone times. And now pink horse carriages with cartoon stickers take the tourists around in bumpy rides. The houses are white with blue and yellow windows, and on the windowsills are girl statuettes, the Namoradeiras, looking at the passers-by with dreamy, smiling eyes. I'm not sure who are they waiting for or what do they think of us but they make for a comforting company.

North by North-West.

I found myself in São João del Rei and the beautiful mining towns of Minas took a strange turn. The churches are as immaculate as always, the narrow alleys and cobble-streets bumpy and oozing history, the little squares as lazy and sleepy as always. There's a stream cutting through the town, bridges and hills, great views and even a fully functioning textile factory from the 19th century, sweating away night and day. But during dinner came the twist.

A huge truck with a long trailer, both decorated with Christmas lights, bells ringing and colourful spotlights flashing left and right passed by. The trailer had a floor and a ceiling of course but no walls, instead a single bar (or were there more?) was keeping it's stock from falling out. And it was not carrying sheep or cows, it was kids and youngsters, people on board. They were waving wildly at everything on their way, singing and pretending to be dancing to the music screeching out of some well hidden speakers. Nobody batted an eyelid, nobody even bothered to raise their eyes. I thought I was dreaming, it must have been a mirage, an illusion. What was that?

And then I saw it again, different part of the town, different song, me with the same half-open mouth in amazement. Again nobody paid attention, it was as if it never existed. Three times it passed in one night and out of my surprise I never managed to take a picture of it. It always took me by surprise, appeared out of nowhere, and in what felt like super-slow motion, disappeared at the next corner. I guess Rudolf is getting old
by now.

Dirty Business.

Mariana is only 14 kms away. A short bus ride away, a smaller and flatter town of equal beauty and even more colour. It started more ambitiously than its neighbor but somehow got overtaken on the way. And it doesn't seem to give a fig about it, confident, sleepy and happy with itself. A place where one can have a taste of how a time machine would be like.

As all these towns were build for and from the gold of the surrounding mines, their glory and expansion (but not their beauty) muted with it's demise, a visit in one of these mines is mandatory. Mina de Passagem is just outside Mariana and after a colourful ownership record, was shut down in 1985. Eerily maintained, with 35 km of tunnels and a natural cavernous lake, with it's 19th century hydraulic machine still active, sweetly fine-tuned and manicured by Antonio, made for an interesting day. Antonio has been 36 years at the mine, four as a miner and since then taking visitors up and down the mine's 315m steep descent. He says working on the tram is much better than down the pit. And after seeing the mine itself, the perforated walls for the dynamite, the labyrinthine tunnels, the humidity and the shrine to the Candomble Orixa of beauty, the abandoned tools and the site of so many tears and blood I do not blame him at all. Gold is a dirty business and you wouldn't want to dip your fingers in its filth.

Black Gold.

Ouro Preto is my main hub. The first capital of the state, the place where a leper artist with no hands gave form to the earth and gained eternity, the city with 26 churches, one more imposing than the other, with the steep cobblestone streets where teenagers gossip in conspiring voices and the yellow and white houses hanging bravely on the edge.

The beauty of the place is difficult to describe. Sharp, rusty crosses rise through the morning fog, ominously suggestive, just like the overlooking mountains. The cold is dry and penetrating, yet fresh and welcoming. On the way to the town you pass one, two, several churches with ancient cemeteries and fresh flowers on the tombs. Slowly the air is clearing up, old ladies in skirts and blouses take their stroll. And when the sun arrives gloriously over the town, a flood of colours and small doors, steep alleys and shops, more churches and unexpected vistas of rooftops, small colourful matchboxes lined neatly upon the slopes across and an endless green are breathtaking. The air is pure, the looks straightforward and honest, the streets ablaze. The subtle smell of burning wood is hinting at the winter we're in. Time is slow, endless and generous. And the days as
beautiful and rewarding.

Same Place, New Place.

The bus ride today was as perilous as ever and I was mentally poring over the geography of my journey. The view was spectacular but impossible to focus upon, the schoolchildren disappeared like little bright shadows in a green backdrop and the large crosses with the white ribbons tied around their limbs my only marks of reference. We were not going far but there was time for a daydreaming roller-coaster.

I've spent some considerable time in Brazil by now and this positively feels like the fourth different country I've been within it. After the cosmopolitan Rio and the Costa Verde, the African and sensual Bahia and the European South now I find myself in the heartland of Minas Gerais. A land of green mountains and humble people, rocks fused with history, girls with long hair and graceful steps, revolutions and gold, innumerable churches and unparalleled beauty, sweet words and strong cachaça. The place of the first revolt against the Portuguese rule was soaked in blood, the same blood that filtered the tones of mined dust for a few precious ounces of gold. The Citades Historicas have been on the itinerary for a while and it was time to make my pilgrimage.