COUNTRIES VISITED |
International Chopin Festival in Rio |
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| INTRODUCTION BRAZIL Flight to Rio ARGENTINA Buenos Aires Atlantic,
the Bay, Rio
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INTRODUCTION To many musicians and music-lovers, the year 1960 is of special significance: affectionately dubbed "The Chopin Year", it marks the 150th anniversary of the birth of the great Polish composer whose immortal works are being performed in special concerts and music festivals the world over. In this article, the author has penned his experiences of a similar occasion 3 years earlier, when he attended the Chopin Festival at Rio de Janeiro as an invitee of the Brazilian Education Ministry. - by Azim Mayadas BRAZIL Thirty-six hours in the air! 1 had already spanned two continents since my departure from Delhi on a hot sultry day towards the end of July and here I was, still en route to that jewel of Latin American capitals, Rio de Janeiro, to pay homage to the memory of Chopin. My mind abruptly harked back to Kanpur, where I was posted for a few months earlier that year. It was there that I had learnt of my selection as India’s only representative to the First International Music Festival and Piano Competition ever to be held in South America. I was rudely awakened from my reverie by the throaty voice over the intercom, announcing rapidly in half-a- dozen languages, that we were about to land at some place or the other. The modern Pegasus, a giant ‘ Super- Conny ‘ picturesquely christened ‘ The Flying Bandit’, began to lose height. The next moment the sea seemed to rush towards us in an earnest endeavour to clasp us to its bosom. Miraculously, the ’plane straightened out; having thus thwarted the scheming ambition of the waves below, we showed a clean pair of heels and made for the coastline directly ahead. I have a blurred recollection of a tangled mass of tropical vegetation, dazzling white buildings, the airstrip and then the gentle bump as the ’plane touched down. We had arrived at Dakar which is situated on the extreme western tip of the Bulge of French West Africa, and thus serves as the ideal springboard for the South Atlantic hop to Brazil. An hour later, we had left the shores of Africa behind us with the bitter tang of strong black ‘airport’coffee still on our lips. While the ’plane droned on, lulling the passengers to sleep, the ocean beneath shimmered under the incessant glare of a truly equatorial Phoebus which was soon to prove a resplendent setting for the Heavenly Reception accorded to me at the precise moment we crossed ‘The First Line’. I arose to hear the High Counsel of the Reigning Winds, Auras, Brisas, Aragens, Zephyrus and Favonius who, after a minute’s deliberation. conferred upon me the high-flown title of ‘Viajante de Primeira Linha’. My first contact with Brazil was Recife, which proved to be singularly disappointing. On arrival, the all too thorough fumigation within the confines of the ’plane followed by the ‘usual’ formalities which were unending, smacked strongly of Home Sweet Home. The quick spin around town was uninspiring and rendered me the more impatient to continue my journey to that fabulous metropolis which only a short while ago had appeared to be quite unattainable, even in my wildest dreams.The final stage of the flight lived up to all my expectations: never before have I seen such an impenetrably dense, evergreen jungle which now gradually unfolds at my feet. Leaving the blue ribbon of the South Atlantic on the horizon far to port, ‘The Flying Bandit’ stealthily probes further inland until there remains only the limitless, sombre, mysterious ocean of the thickly-covered Brazilian Highlands—in truth, a series of extensive plateaus. Despite my exalted position high up in the clouds, I am humbled by this grandiose display of Nature in the raw—awesome, invincible, magnificent! Most travellers to Brazil admit unhesitatingly that one soon runs out of superlatives within 24 hours of one’s arrival. Even those who have globe-trotted indiscriminately and, as a result, have become transparently blase, are forced to succumb to the overpowering Colossus that is Brazil. I was no exception: the Highlands had barely vanished astern when the ’plane executed a sharp spiral turn and the Atlantic, the Bay, Rio were upon me with a suddenness which left me dizzy. Here was the world-famous landmark, the Sugar-Loaf Mountain. seemingly standing out to sea, sentinel-like; there, the long line of silver beaches, strung together like a coral necklace around the imposing skyscrapers on the Strand and. as a grand finale. the ominous, towering Corcovado or ‘Hunchback’ overshadowing all, a fitting backcloth to an unforgettable panorama of the Brazilian Capital. Speechless. I was brought out of my coma by the prosaic request ‘Passaporte, por favor’. Some officials of the Ministry of Education were at the aerodrome to receive me, and I was overjoyed to hear that I would be staying very near the top of the Corcovado at the ‘Casa do Professor’, the Government Villa for visiting academicians and artistes. I reported at the Festival Committee’s Office where four other pianists—from Italy. Austria, Germany and Uruguay—joined me to make up the house-party of five who were to occupy the Villa during the Festival. We were driven to the western suburbs of Rio and thence up the Corcovado along a winding, tree lined road so reminiscent of those in the sub-Himalayan regions back home. The temperature dropped rapidly and coupled with the fact that early August is mid-winter in Brazil, we were breathing visibly by the time the car pulled up at the Villa, 1,500 feet up. Early next morning we visited the hill-top in the funicular which crosses the road a stone’s throw from the Villa. Every twist and turn of the journey up revealed a refreshing new vista of the City Beautiful until we reached the summit intoxicated with delight. And lo! we beheld Rio's best-known landmark, the mighty statue of Our Lord, Jesus Christ, with arms outstretched all-embracingly, symbolic of His acceptance of Man and his works in spite of his manifold sins and infirmities . . . The rest of the day was usefully spent in town, fixing up our individual practicing arrangements at various private homes with pianos to spare. The Festival The festival was formally inaugurated by the President the following day at the Municipal Theatre and thereafter commenced a fortnight’s heavy programme for each participant that soon made itself felt. Let me explain why: our concerts were always arranged between 7:30 and 10:30 p.m. followed by dinner, a long drawn-out affair, from 10:30 p.m. to 1:30 a.m. and drinks very frequently up to the crack of dawn. No wonder that the Brazilian's inverse order of the scheme of things began to tell on most of us! Gradually, however, we assimilated this mode of existence so successfully that I, personally, can vouch for no ill-effects, as a result of ‘brunching’ at 2 p.m. and ‘coffeeing’ at 6 p.m. before the all-night ‘concert’ routine. My inseparable companions in all these goings-on were the Austrian and Italian pianists who were later destined to be voted the top two exponents of Chopin at the festival. Society bestowed upon us the sobriquet of ‘The Three Musketeers’ and, without undue immodesty, we assumed this role with deserving éclat. The Environs
of Rio The estate owner, blessed with a highly musical family, had a fad for collecting Steinway Concert Grands: in sheer disbelief we counted seven in all, distributed about his palatial residence. There was a private night club on the premises, complete with a three-piece band, so what could have been more natural than for us to take over and regale the house guests on Saturday night with a unique demonstration of Classical Jazz! A little to the left of the house was a natural waterfall which fed into a swimming pool, set romantically in sylvan surroundings, with a periphery of exotic plants and bowers, while at the back of the building was a sunken terraced lawn with beautifully laid-out walks decorated with graceful marble statues which showed up even whiter against the dark green of the all-pervading stately pine-trees. A veritable paradise! Rio is probably one of the most expensive cities in the world. The only two commodities which compare in price with those ruling in India are matches and Coca-Cola, otherwise, to live comfortably, one must really have a fat bank account. The fabulous apartments on the Copacabana fetch rents of Rs.10,000 per month and upwards, whilst the equally fabulous restaurants and night clubs charge Rs.50 and over for a simple meal unlarded with wine and other embellishments. On the bottom end of the scale are the wretched ‘favellas’ or hovels of the poor which cling to the sides of the hills like ugly sores. They house the Negro and mixed- blooded Brazilians, although I must hasten to add that others of similar descent have attained affluence and position in this remarkable country’s plural society. Travelling in
Brazil Eventually I decided to go first to São Paulo, 500 kilometres away, by air-conditioned coach, spend a week there and then fly to Buenos Aires. Thc road link between Rio and the coffee centre of the world is a masterpiece of modern engineering and skill. The beautiful but powerful streamlined coach ate up the miles in seven hours flat without undue exertion while the passengers viewed the delightful hilly countryside with relish through thc crystal-clear panoramic windows. 
Looking down São João Avenue, São Paolo - Azim São Paulo is essentially a business centre and exudes an aura of prosperity. It is mainly the European element of Brazil’s mixed population that has entrenched itself here. The Paulista, who is likened to thc proverbial Texan in many respects, will openly boast to the first stranger he meets of the astounding fact that a new skyscraper comes up every 24 hours and that, apart from his coffee record, may be taken as a measure of his ebullience and industry. ARGENTINA Buenos Aires Due to the exigencies of his job, my host had a separate establishment in the heart of Buenos Aires and it was there that I shifted, after a restful two days in the suburbs, in order to make the most of my short stay. The Argentinean capital is a shopper’s paradise and, compared with Rio, everything is astonishingly cheap. Built with mathematical precision and on the American system of ‘blocks’ and numbered streets. endowed with spacious squares and impressive edifices, equipped with first-class transport facilities over- and under-ground, Buenos Aires fits in with my conception of a modern metropolis and has one of the largest opera houses in the world, The Colon Theatre. Indeed, the stage is so deep and immense that, when the Theatre stages Bizet's Carmen, a horse-and-carriage can be allowed to execute a triumphal figure of eight at the climax of the opera.  El Teatro Colon (inside) The only fly in the city's ointment is the total absence of traffic-lights or an equivalent substitute but then, according to the Puertinos (the citizens of Buenos Aires), that would smack of regimentation! Isn’t the Latin temperament wonderful ? One can get excellent gastronomical fare anywhere for next to nothing—at the pub round the corner, at the pavement cafes, at the railway stations. Being an avid carnivore myself, I am more than biased towards the typical Argentinean diet: an unbelievably large juicy ‘bif-stek’ at least an inch thick and ‘papa frita’ (potato chips), downed with the wine or beer of one’s choice. Pleasure Trip An alleviating feature of the trip was the very comfortable upholstery of the carriages and the excellence of the restaurant cuisine. Watching the unending ‘pampas’ slip by, bathed in brilliant sunshine and dotted here and there with grazing cattle, transported me back many thousands of miles to the plains of India which did not seem so far away after all The wayside stations, even down to the platform seats, were an exact replica of those to be seen anywhere from Kashmir to Cape Comorin, an eloquent testimony to the same hand that had built them. Every now and then, I could not help but notice a superabundance of what looked like heather which had almost supplanted the dull-green grass of the ‘pampas’ in expansive prey patches. I was told that it was in fact Scottish heather, brought over by that enterprising race to assist—exactly how I cannot say —in the making of home-brewed whisky! Incredible that it has now become so acclimatized and taken such firm root that the ‘estancia’ barons have commenced to wage a war of extermination in order to save the less hardy ‘pampas’ grass from virtual strangulation. Mar del Plata, the ‘ Blackpool’ of Argentina, exists solely for the amusement of the three million Puertinos who account for more than one-sixth of the country’s population. It is brand-new in appearance and continues to wax opulently. Life there alternates between the beaches and the Casino. We - "Roger and me" pictured below - followed suit and spent many pleasurable hours during the day soaking up the sun while later on at night, we in turn were ‘ soaked’—not so pleasurable!—at the roulette table.
"Roger and Me" - The Esplanade, Mar del Plata Adventure on the Pampas Departure
Finis
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