Natal

I have not allotted instalments to destinations that, worthy as they were, did not give me anything to write about. Maceió was one of them. Natal was another. The latter made its mark only in retrospect, as I later came to find some aspects of it mirrored in my next destination. Since I left Natal, I have also been intrigued to hear repeated mentions of the city which have given me the impression that I may have left it underexplored. Had I been blind to the hidden charms — or even some unhidden ones — of a city that, all said and done, had welcomed me for thirty days? Be that as it may and to avoid the sin of ungratefulness, I will sketch a few words about Natal.

Natal is the capital of the state of Rio Grande do Norte. The people and all things pertaining to this state are referred to as Potiguar, after the ethnic group that inhabited the area before the European colonisation. It is often referred to as the easternmost state capital, and therefore the one that lies nearest to Africa. This had made me curious. A look at the map suggests that Natal’s proximity to Africa is due no more to its own eastern situation than to the west-reaching position of the bulge of Atlantic West Africa. History, however, does not seem to have followed geography. The city is not listed among the important traffic ports for the slave trade. Although I did not embark on any systematic research, I kept my eyes open for any visible traces of Africa in phenotypes, visual aesthetics or the arts. If they were there, I was a most incompetent observer. 

The literature describes a mixed music scene including such Afro-Brazilian genres as samba, baião, axé and frevo. And yet, in the month I spent there the soundtrack that hit my ears was almost exclusively forró — not one of the genres I would have highlighted for African vitality. I stayed in Ponta Negra, an area commonly referred to as a tourists’ hotspot and singled out for its nightlife — all of which passed me by, except for said music, which reached me from all directions, every day of the week. Had it been a different kind of Brazilian music, I might have felt motivated to rush out in search of the source of the jollity. 

I was lucky to have a window to the sea, that is, facing Africa. It always gave me a little flutter of the mind to remember that less than two thousand miles across the water lay Sierra Leone and Liberia, and, not too far to the south of that, stood the African namesake of my current location, the Congolese city of Pointe Noire. Apart from this notional thrill, my view proffered the odd kite surfer, treetops, roofs, neon signs and, further to the right, a local landmark known as Morro do Careca (Bald Man’s Hill). 

Nice enough, I thought — anything else? 

I was not — as I never am these days — into lying on the beach or bathing in the sea, but I took regular walks along the seaside promenade. From there I could see that the sand was darker and coarser than on the beaches of Maceió or Salvador. The Atlantic is the wrong side for sunsets, but all the same the light underwent intriguing transformations on the ocean at dusk. I would have stayed longer to admire them if the pong from the public lavatories had not urged me on my way. 

Nor did a few necessary Uber trips to shopping centres in different parts of town reveal any noteworthy city sights. This irked me, since I knew that two million visitors flocked annually to Natal from around the country and beyond. What did they come to see? If there were any earth-shattering landmarks, I reflected, I would have probably heard about them by now. If there were not, there must be a buzz, an atmosphere that makes the place attractive to vibe-seekers from other parts. 

At the time I was making the acquaintance of a new artificial intelligence tool hailing from China, named Deepseek. I asked it where I would find the throbbing cultural heart of Natal. It enthusiastically recommended a visit to Teatro Maranhão, a building of historical and architectural interest, suggesting that I might continue my exploration along Rua Chile, where I would find a bohemian atmosphere in the cafés and restaurants that lined the street. It was a Saturday, which seemed a good time to catch the locals enjoying some quality time outside. 

As I got into his car, the Uber driver stopped short of asking me why I was going to Teatro Maranhão, but something about his face seemed to pose the question. He dropped me next to a paved forecourt opposite a piazza called Augusto Severo — certainly severe but distinctly not august. A heavy silence hung over the place, only partially lifted by my discovery of the famed theatre. It is an elegant structure, fitting that description often applied to the grander public buildings in Brazil: “eclectic with neoclassical influences”. It solaced me to find it well preserved, and I cheered myself up remembering that one of its past directors had gloried in the name of Dorian Gray (a poet, sculptor and painter from the very state of Rio Grande do Norte, in case you did not know). Otherwise there was little cheer to be drawn from anything else at this landmark. It was not boarded up, but it did not seem to be in use. There was no vestige of any show held there in the past and no intimation of any in the future. It looked all but abandoned. The heart was not throbbing here.

port and hit Rua Chile. I met very few people on the way, including a group of none-too-friendly-looking males who were drinking beer on the pavement and blasting the ubiquitous forró on a very large speaker, seemingly for the benefit of the entire neighbourhood — if any of its residents had not gone away already. As to Rua Chile itself, it was completely deserted. The odd painted sign discolouring on a wall hinted that once there had been a shop here, or an eaterie there, but that the last customer had paid the bill and left at least a decade ago. Nor had the rubbish collectors troubled themselves on the place for quite some time. An old railway seemed to have once been used for transporting goods into a harbour depot, but on that Saturday afternoon the sepulchral silence that oppressed the air brought to mind the unwelcome memory of other now disused railways laden with grimmer associations. 

Giving Natal the benefit of the doubt, I had to conclude that its throbbing heart must have relocated to a different part of town many years after Deepseek had gathered its information. Where that might be, I was left none the wiser. One exploratory attempt was more than enough for a terminally inept tourist such as me. From that day onwards I gave up on any sightseeing pursuits to devote myself to the more arduous but more fruitful tasks I had to complete at my desk. 

Months later, from more southern latitudes, I have been hearing more references to the touristic importance of the Potiguar capital. What did I miss? I probably will never know. One thing is certain, though: I do not intend to rely on Deepseek for any travel decisions — or, for that matter, for anything. Another certainty is that geographical location alone is not enough to make a place eventful to experience.