"Sergeant Barefoot, the 'Apple Guy'"

It was January 2021, and the world seemed to be emerging from a semi-standstill that had begun in March 2020, caused by efforts to combat the COVID-19 pandemic, exacerbated by the uproar stirred up by the media and the health industry over the virus that caused it (SARS-CoV-2). In practice, there were still no vaccines approved globally.

In Brazil, vaccination began in late February 2021 with CoronaVac, of Chinese origin (from Sinovac), made with attenuated virus, diluted and bottled by the Butantan Institute. Then came AstraZeneca, of British origin, involving viral DNA, which began to be produced by FIOCRUZ. Next were Pfizer’s (also involving cellular modifications to the virus), which, for reasons I’m not entirely sure of, seemed to become the predominant one in Brazil. Around the world, there were also Moderna, Johnson & Johnson, Sputnik (Russian, apparently widely used in Argentina), another from India, etc.

Back to the beginning: the decline in cases around October–November 2020, and the population gradually accepting the need to live with the epidemic and returning to a sense of normalcy around death, was enough for some international flights to resume in December 2020.

So I, the author of these words, engineer Silio, and geologist Newton, went to Angola on a work trip for a field visit. It was a project for a dam to capture 1 m³/s of water to irrigate a grain farming venture in Malanje Province, in the Quizenga-Lutete region, about 400 km east of Luanda, roughly on the same latitude.

Professional duty is like war or a hospital: you go, no questions asked. If you get sick, you get sick; if you die, you die; if you live, you live. But you’ve done your part for society.

Since Brazil–Angola flights were still suspended, we left Rio with round-trip tickets via TAP, through Lisbon, on Thursday night, January 7. We connected in Lisbon and arrived in Luanda on the night of January 8. About 24 hours of travel. Everyone wore masks the entire time, as required by protocol to minimize breath exposure and potential contamination.

At Luanda airport, the routine was to check that everyone had tested negative for COVID-19 before boarding and to confiscate passports so people would remain confined in a “seven-day quarantine,” each recording their body temperature twice a day.

From the airport, we were taken to the Maianga neighborhood, to a reasonably spacious and comfortable apartment in a new building complex (Imporáfrica), with both residential and office buildings, for our 7-day isolation. At the end of this period, a “second test” (this time a blood test) was done, and we waited 24 hours for the result to see if we were free of the terrifying virus.

It was during these days that we learned (via WhatsApp) of the deaths in Brazil of fellow engineers Leizer Lerner (about 85, in Rio) and Paulo Pena de Moraes (about 70, in Belo Horizonte), apparently from COVID-19. A note for the record.

Despite culinary challenges—exacerbated by our geologist colleague’s habit of putting mustard on everything, even pasta sauce—the “reasonably comfortable” part was thanks to a few bottles of Jameson whiskey and Tanqueray gin, wisely supplied by the client’s team, since our passports were held and we couldn’t go outside under penalty of arrest and, with luck, deportation.

There was a certain sadism in some people’s eagerness to scare others, especially when they sensed the other person was easily frightened—worried, glued to the TV, believing everything, even the contradictions. Perhaps due to a lack of topics, some went out of their way to terrify newly arrived visitors. They didn’t even need to mention COVID-19—there were wild stories about Yellow Fever, Ebola, Typhoid, Tsetse (sleeping sickness), and so on.

I said “second test” (the blood test after 7 days in Luanda) because to board the flight, you had to test negative within 48 hours beforehand, in a test that involved extracting nasal secretions with a long cotton-tipped swab—a very unpleasant procedure, as the swab had to go deep into the nostrils. During this nasal swab collection, I realized I wouldn’t withstand torture with that little stick—I’d confess to anything. Hence, I conclude that torture is useless for gathering information. It’s mere sadism. As I’m recording all this for posterity, after the nasal sample was taken, we had to wait at least 12 hours for the result.

Back in Luanda, the seven days, which began on a Saturday, ended on a Friday, when the blood was drawn in the morning. But since weekends are sacred for bureaucrats, the result only came out the following Monday, January 18, and we were only released around noon. We were then placed in an SUV (like a Toyota Hilux 4x4), along with another companion, Edward, an Argentine construction technician who had also shared the Luanda apartment with us.

In another similar SUV, another 5 or 6 technicians headed to the same destination: QUIZENGA FARM.

It was a Tower of Babel: mostly Angolans (of course), Argentinians (the agricultural project and general coordination were Argentine), and Portuguese. Besides them, there were us three Brazilians, one American, one South African, one Spaniard, and Egyptian-Lebanese inspectors.

The road was reasonably good (except for about 25 km already under repair!), paved, with no speed bumps—physical or electronic—which was wonderful in itself. The first 200 km were easy, passing through somewhat monotonous landscapes due to their repetitiveness: a savanna/caatinga-type vegetation, with the omnipresence of baobabs—the tree Saint-Exupéry immortalized on the cover of The Little Prince.

Then, in the middle of nowhere, about 200 km from Luanda, an Angolan army post acting as a highway checkpoint. Stop for document inspection, including negative COVID-19 tests. Buses, trucks, cars, motorcycles—a bit of a mess, but not too much. It was somewhat organized, or at least there were enough officers to handle the flow, forming lines of no more than 3 or 4 people.

A welcome stop, also good for stretching legs, a bathroom break, a cigarette, a sneaky photo with the phone—those things. In 15 minutes, we were heading back to the SUV, and I was still smoking when I saw our geologist Newton with a professional camera, telephoto lens and all, documenting the place. Instinctively, I moved toward him to suggest not flaunting the camera. Too late!

Before I could reach him, a properly uniformed and equipped Angolan soldier “detained” Newton, taking him into the building that served as the post: photographing military installations was forbidden!

It was no use arguing that we didn’t know.

“You’re detained, and the lieutenant in charge of this post will interrogate you.”

All in clear Portuguese, so we understood everything—and in Latin America, the phrase “the police will interrogate you” is a bit unsettling, right?

But we only understood when they wanted us to—when they didn’t, it was a local language impossible to grasp, which made things more worrying. Not understanding everything makes you feel more foreign, increasing insecurity, anxiety, and fear.

With a mix of apprehension and concern on his face, Newton was led into a room in the post, followed by me—who decided to act as the group’s “responsible party” to avoid being accused of desertion or abandonment of the helpless, ha! Our driver was also “detained,” “arrested.” Two detainees and one trying to play the hero—that was me.

To avoid alarming the reader too much, we were detained in a room resembling a classroom or training space, with those typical chairs that have a foldable writing surface for right-handed people—left-handers had to make do. In other words, nothing like the cinematic cells full of rats, threatening inmates, or foul or ghostly conditions. I even considered going off on a tangent about that, but I don’t want to disparage the civilized folks we encountered there (who exist everywhere, except in the imagination of screenwriters—always dark, always opting for horror or near-horror).

Well, once “confined” in the interrogation room, the soldier who had “arrested” Newton paced back and forth with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder while they decided what to do with us—to the despair of Claudio, an Argentine in charge of our logistics in Angola: in Luanda, for transport, and at the camp where we would be staying. Claudio had already learned of the confusion and was looking for someone to blame. That seemed to be how things worked.

Claudio might have been a case of “deployed-stress”—he had probably been there longer than he could handle. You could clearly see a certain irritation in almost everything he did—or didn’t do. Yes, even in what he didn’t do, he got annoyed. For example:

There was an incident we resolved without needing him, and he got irritated because he wasn’t called. Newton, a very friendly and excellent professional, wasn’t exactly an easy travel companion. I only met him at the airport, as he was brought by Silio. At check-in, he had the largest suitcase among the three of us—perhaps the largest on the plane—and it was red, which made it look even bigger. Definitely larger than mine and Silio’s combined.

On top of that, he tried to board with a 1-liter bottle of alcohol to disinfect his hands—a paranoia linked to COVID-19—and his geologist’s hammer. All of it was in his carry-on, which triggered the X-ray alarm. The pointed hammer was considered a weapon and was transported “under review” by the pilot. To top it off, upon arrival in Luanda, he unknowingly picked up another red suitcase that wasn’t his, only realizing it after the rightful owner contacted TAP, which had to find us and arrange the exchange the next day! In short, traveling with Newton is pure adventure.

Back to the interrogation room: finally, Sergeant Gomes entered—a deep navy-black man, athletic, serious, medium height (about 1.65 to 1.70 m), around 50 years old, in a spotless uniform-of-the-day (shorts and short-sleeved shirt), all neatly pressed with insignias. He was even wearing cologne, had manicured nails, and… was barefoot!

No one needed to explain it to me. Around 2010, I met a man like that in São Luís do Maranhão, at CAEMA (the state water and sewage company), known as “barefoot.” He felt better barefoot, never got used to shoes. But it was still a surprise. To avoid confusing characters, I decided to call this sergeant “barefoot,” just in case I ever write a chronicle about the equally clean and well-groomed public servant and community leader from Maranhão.

He explained that the lieutenant was unavailable and that he would conduct the “interrogation” and “initiate the process.” Judging by the sergeant’s face, the corporal’s face, and the soldier’s face, I still find the explanation for the lieutenant’s unavailability curious. Either he was sleeping or doing something he could but shouldn’t—or should but couldn’t. In any case, it was clear they were covering for their colleague and superior. At the very least, sparing him the bureaucracy.

Barefoot sat at the teacher’s desk (as if the room were a classroom), opened a folder, and pulled out a stack of lined paper (did I get the term right?). I hadn’t seen that kind of paper since finishing university—about 50 years ago. He folded the left margin about 2.5 cm from the edge, just like my teachers used to make us do in elementary school—and my mother at home. People just like us… I started to feel confident that the interrogation would go well.

But when I looked at Newton, I saw he didn’t share my confidence—he was even sweating cold. After all, they had already confiscated his professional camera, a loss of about 3,000 dollars.

Then the “hearing” began, with the sergeant delivering an organized speech about the difficulties of imposing order and respect in a young country, in a society still learning to deal with the collective, in a republic still steeped in colonial customs, in a socialist nation with inequality and poverty—but on the path to dignity. That the outlook was promising, that the peasant, the worker, the proletariat would prevail, etc., etc. You could immediately tell from his vocabulary that, besides being an army sergeant, he was also part of the “party” hierarchy. The script is the same worldwide.

Finally, he explained the “offense” Newton and the van driver had committed—since it was the driver’s responsibility, as an Angolan familiar with local laws, customs, and practices, not to let what happened happen. If not for the diligent soldier, it would have gone unnoticed.

I tried to interrupt to say something about how proud we were to be collaborating with Angola’s development, but I was abruptly cut off by the sergeant:

“Wait until I ask you something before you speak.” And boom!

I kept quiet with my demagogic speeches. I should have started by calling the sergeant “comrade sergeant,” identifying ourselves as workers, blah, blah...

Well, at that point, the hearing turned into an “interrogation”:

“Your name?” And Newton decided to spell it out: N-E-W-T-O-N (November, Echo, Whiskey, Tango, Oscar, November). “Let me repeat: N as in Nair, E as in Ernesto, W as in Double-U, T as in...” At that point, the sergeant interrupted and asked:

“The one with the apple?”

I liked that. I began to ADMIRE the sergeant: ironic, cheeky, and straight to the point. He put us in our place without any preaching—just that: “The one with the apple?”

In the brief silence that followed, it felt like I could read the sergeant’s thoughts: “You white idiots think I’m uncultured, that I’ll write ‘Niuton’? And if I do write ‘Niuton,’ it’s because I want to—screw you.”

There were no further issues with the surname. Newton didn’t spell out “Carvalho.”

Sgt: “Date of birth?”Newton: “August 20, 1956.”

Sgt: “Address?”Newton: “Rua São Clemente 248, Rio de Janeiro.”

Sgt: “Where is that?”Newton: “City of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.”

The sergeant, getting irritated: “I heard you, no need to repeat. I want to know the neighborhood.”

Newton: “Botafogo.” (To this day, we’re curious why that detail mattered.)

Sgt: “Marital status?”Newton: “Separated.”

The sergeant, raising his voice: “What?”

Newton, softly, already terrified of another scolding: “Separated.”

Sgt, annoyed: “What is that?”

Silence. (Newton didn’t realize he should have said ‘divorced.’)

Suddenly, the sergeant “clarified” the question: “I want to know if you have children...”

Newton, mumbling: “I have two daughters, one is 33, the other is 28.”

Sgt, now less irritated: “Ah, so you’re married!”

And I, whispering in Newton’s ear: “I think he likes you...” My intention was to lighten the mood, but Newton took it the wrong way and started to look even paler... I feared he might faint.

When I realized why Newton’s nervousness was increasing, I had to hold back laughter—and that’s not easy, especially in those circumstances. Why did I say that? But with great professionalism, like a seasoned actor, I managed to hold it in without anyone noticing or asking why.

Anyway, after two or three more questions for Newton, the interrogation moved on to the driver, and everything was going fine until the fateful question:

Sgt: “Marital status?”Driver: “Two children!”

We all thought that was the correct answer, given the previous exchange. Everyone except Barefoot, who got angry:

“You idiot, are you married or not? Answer what I asked you!”

Let me pause here to explain to those who’ve never been to Angola: There, they speak a Portuguese that we Brazilians think is from Portugal, but the Portuguese think it’s Brazilian.

Driver: “We’ve been together for ten years, but...”

Sergeant, interrupting and getting more agitated: “And why aren’t you married? That’s why—because of things like this and people like you—the country doesn’t get organized... The family is the core of society’s structure, and blah, blah... Angola will only improve when people like you realize they need to follow rules, have discipline, children need to know they have a father and mother, etc., etc.”_

While I reflected on what kind of socialism-communism is practiced in the world today—and how Marx and I need to adapt or acculturate—an unbelievable 10 to 15 minutes of sermon passed. I was already imagining the sergeant summoning the driver’s partner from Luanda to perform a forced wedding right there. But everything has its limits. After the sermon, the topics ran out on their own, and we were released.

As we stepped outside the compound, I saw Silio “discreetly” filming everything with his phone. He looked like a secret agent from The Naked Gun or The Three Stooges. I feared the worst: it was all going to start again! But everyone pretended not to notice, and we got into the SUV. What was supposed to be a 20-minute stop had turned into 2 hours and 20 minutes. We resumed the journey with Newton very sad because his camera had been confiscated—but relieved. Extremely relieved.

About five minutes later, the phone of the single-father-of-two driver rang. We were still in coverage range. It was an order to return! The lieutenant in charge of the post had shown up and was being briefed on the situation. Now Newton was really going to be arrested.

Claudio, in the other SUV, was on the verge of a heart attack. Since the recall was only for our van (the driver and Newton), he decided not to return, abandoning us to our fate with a sadistic little smirk, savoring our misfortune. He didn’t say a word because he knew he might “jinx” it and we wouldn’t forgive him—especially Edward, who was furious with Claudio’s behavior.

To our surprise, the little soldier who had “arrested” Newton approached us and said the camera had been cleared and released, the lieutenant didn’t want to see us, and that was it. Before anyone could change their mind—about-face—and we continued our journey. About three hours later, two of them already at night, but without further incident, we arrived at the construction camp built by our predecessors. It was Monday, Jan 18, 2021.

The adventures and misadventures of the following days are for another chronicle (or more). Our return to Brazil was on the night of Thursday, January 28, 2021, via Air France, through Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, with an 18-hour layover before our connection to Rio on January 29, arriving in Rio on Saturday, January 30 at 9:30 a.m. All because TAP had canceled flights starting January 24 (ours was scheduled for the 28th), citing the pandemic. It’s worth noting that our client took care of us, managing to get us those return tickets at the last minute—how, we’ll never know.

Why the French thought differently from the Portuguese and kept their flights running—we’ll find out, or not, in about 20 years. Some things not even Freud can explain.

I sit here wondering, next time I pass through that Angolan army-police checkpoint, I’ll look for Barefoot and strike up a conversation about Freud—“Froide.” He’ll surely start by clarifying: “The one with the couch?”

—

Miguel Fernández, consulting engineer, chronicler, and columnist (Jul–Dec 2022Re)

www.engenheiromiguelfernández.com.br