Sue Chester

Normal Brazilian female attire is minimalism at its best. Not in the simple, pared down way. More like few clothes and either kitsch beach chique (brightly coloured strappy tops with low fronts or peekaboo backs) or strumpet style (short skirts, low cut tops, taught, tight, floozy-squeezing).

Everything and every woman has to be sexy, sexy, sexy. Brazilian men expect this. Brazilian women understand it’s their duty. And as I’m not Brazilian, my days of wearing lycra vanished into the mists of my youth years ago. I prefer to feel and be loose, loose, loose. But not in the floozy-strumpet way.

From the day I arrived and wandered round Sao Paulo airport in a jet lagged daze, I noted I’d have to slightly modify my dress code to fit in as I was getting sympathetic looks from the locals.  I’ve had a constant stream of Brazilian girlfriends asking why I don’t wear lipstick and commenting on the fact that I never wear a skirt. When I explain I get cold – drafts at night giving way to a pain in the leg – they can’t quite believe it.

In my defence, dressing down (flat shoes, no make up, baggy T shirts and grubby old rucksack) has been a deliberate ploy as a gringo-mugging repellent whilst out and about on the streets and travelling on public transport (all those glamorous Brazilian women have cars). It seems to have worked as I’ve only been mugged four times (more later).

However I think Brazilian women have shot themselves in their stiletto-ed, manicured feet and completely kyboshed their pussy power; it’s become so normal to run around half naked, lycra-clad, that Brazilian men have become immune to the female form. I witnessed a group of youngsters out for dinner. A beautiful and well-endowed girl was sat in a low cut top chatting to the bloke next to her, displaying an eyeful of coconuts, but he didn’t take a blind bit of notice. But maybe that’s because it’s bottoms that count?

By the time my English girlfriend turned up for a visit, soon after my arrival, I was getting fed up of being stared at and thought it might be better to blend in after all.  So we set off to the poshest shopping centre Salvador has to offer. Egged on by said Girlfriend, I surprised myself by plucking taut little tops from the rails, which once bagged (but not baggy), spurred us on to skirts. Spotting denim mini skirts in a jeans shop window we entered despite a couple of fierce looking Brazilian females shop assistants. In we shuffled in our voluminous shorts feeling humbled by their feminine presence (long hair, massive dangly earrings, full-works make up, tight garments, heels and bad perfume) as they sneered from behind the safety of the counter.  Helplessly miming ‘mini skirts’, one scoffed, “We don’t have bermudas” miming billowing fabric (she was exaggerating here).  Oh no! They thought our shorts were bermudas?  Lord, the insult. It’s American women who wear big ol’ baggy Bermudas.  Not put off we quietly mumbled sort of assertively, “No, we don’t want bermudas we want minis.”  Disparagingly, they gave us a selection of minis and after surviving the humiliation of admitting to cultural adaptation, we left the shop with our new look complete. But I still don’t really blend in and now I’ve given up trying. Brazilians are not bashful,  they enjoy a jolly good gaup. Now I’ve adapted to this – babies, children, old women, young women, men and dogs stare. At first I wondered why – did I have 3 heads I wasn’t aware of?

A few months later I was walking in the national park to a famous waterfall, frequented by gringos. There was some kind of Northern European or Scandinavian girl standing taking a breather. Now after 4 months of living in Bahia where even the whitest folk are a tasty toffee hue, this girl looked like a freak; translucently chalky with white blonde hair and very pale eyes and she looked like one of the children from the horror film, “The Village of the Damned”.  I realised that that’s what I look like and then I thought what a mutant I must look like wandering round town. Brazilians understood and forgiven. I do tire of the constant comments I should get a tan. I’ve been laughed at in shorts and a guide was rendered speechless when I took my shoes and socks off to wade through a stream. This was followed by fits of laughter as he jabbed towards my feet. I mean, I’m not a Hobbit, so I was dumbfounded. When I discovered it was the snowy-blue-whiteness he couldn’t believe, I was vaguely comforted. At least I didn’t my feet waxing. I feel a waxing story coming on…