Recently, the local papers have been filled with the gap-toothed grins of local dignitaries posing next to piles of loose chippings, newly asphalted roads or bleak locals holding a length of soon-to-be-installed sewer pipe. The explanation for this explosion of civic progress? Why, it's election year.
As we are fortunate enough to live in a bairro nobre da cidade, we have been particularly blessed by the politicians' eagerness to gain the votes of the literate. No sooner had the grass verge the length of our whole avenida been planted with 100 cherry blossom trees to mark the centenary of Japanese immigration (<little-known fact>: the largest Japanese population outside Tokyo is in São Paulo</little-known-fact>), than the sides of the same avenue are, as I type, being graced with palm trees of varying health and height.
Whilst this crude vote-courting is broadly welcome, it does, as most things around here, suffer from an almost total lack of planning. An attempt to gentrify a piece of wasteland near our house by planting a hotch-potch of undergrowth and making an inordinate number of concrete benches (upon which only the infirm in transit and stray dogs appear to rest their aching bones) gives weight to my opinions (see photo). The low walls demarcating the beds of limp flora alone look like the result of a well-intentioned, but ultimately overly ambitious, infant school outing.
The gardens of secure psychiatric institutions are probably subject to better horticultural practices than this, for obvious reasons. The only possible feelgood factor arising from sitting drunk on one of the concrete seats commemorating another six months of unemployment, whilst gazing at the sorry state of the not so hardy perennials, can be the thought that "life could be worse, I could have a withered limb and be dying of neglect too".
In fact, this photo was taken since the replanting of the entire area. Rather than waste time and effort looking after the plants, every couple of months short, grubby men appear in a flat-bed truck and remove the dead plants and replace them with dying ones.
And the brass band plays. I, for one, shall not be voting for any of them. I'm not allowed to. But I wouldn't anyway. Technically, I'd have to, because it's compulsory, but I'd scrawl "less gardens, more jobs!" on my ballot paper in protest. But I've just remembered that they use electronic voting here...
And they call it a democracy...
As we are fortunate enough to live in a bairro nobre da cidade, we have been particularly blessed by the politicians' eagerness to gain the votes of the literate. No sooner had the grass verge the length of our whole avenida been planted with 100 cherry blossom trees to mark the centenary of Japanese immigration (<little-known fact>: the largest Japanese population outside Tokyo is in São Paulo</little-known-fact>), than the sides of the same avenue are, as I type, being graced with palm trees of varying health and height.Whilst this crude vote-courting is broadly welcome, it does, as most things around here, suffer from an almost total lack of planning. An attempt to gentrify a piece of wasteland near our house by planting a hotch-potch of undergrowth and making an inordinate number of concrete benches (upon which only the infirm in transit and stray dogs appear to rest their aching bones) gives weight to my opinions (see photo). The low walls demarcating the beds of limp flora alone look like the result of a well-intentioned, but ultimately overly ambitious, infant school outing.
The gardens of secure psychiatric institutions are probably subject to better horticultural practices than this, for obvious reasons. The only possible feelgood factor arising from sitting drunk on one of the concrete seats commemorating another six months of unemployment, whilst gazing at the sorry state of the not so hardy perennials, can be the thought that "life could be worse, I could have a withered limb and be dying of neglect too".
In fact, this photo was taken since the replanting of the entire area. Rather than waste time and effort looking after the plants, every couple of months short, grubby men appear in a flat-bed truck and remove the dead plants and replace them with dying ones.
And the brass band plays. I, for one, shall not be voting for any of them. I'm not allowed to. But I wouldn't anyway. Technically, I'd have to, because it's compulsory, but I'd scrawl "less gardens, more jobs!" on my ballot paper in protest. But I've just remembered that they use electronic voting here...
And they call it a democracy...
Comments
I think this may be my best joke ever.
No Good, I like you're style, though none of them speak English well enough to spell "Death To Your Dreams!" correctly. In Portuguese it would probably have some grammar erros too.
First class pun, Mrs P. Even a Gurkha would be tickled by that one.
I remain, Madam, etc, etc.
I have a student here from Sao Paolo, and he assures me the Japanese-Brazilian girls in SP are to die for.
He left the school today actually, it's a shame, he was a great joke teller. But probably the funniest joke was unintenional: the one about his friend who lived in a condom! Somehow he had got mixed up between Condominium, Condo and however you may say that in Portuguese. He saw the funny side though.
Another of his greatest hits was during a classroom activity. Students needed to practice direct and reported speech by impersonating a classmate. He impersonated a Korean girl, the fact that he donned a pair of specs and streached his eyes out with his hands to try and look Asian was somewhat superfulous to requirements;). Childish, but the guy is in his 40s.