The São Paulo Stewardess Conspiracy

Last summer a team came down from the US, and in the course of their stay one of the men bought a cake from a local vendor at an exorbitant price. When I found out about it, I laughed and told him “Welcome to Brazil!”

Later, as we were discussing the day’s events, the group gave him a good teasing about the expensive cake. Though he took it in good grace and laughed along with the others, I got the sense that having been taken in bothered him a little. So after a while I called for the group’s attention.

“Gather around, everybody,” I said. “Have I got a tale for you.”

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It was late November, 1989. Several hours earlier I had taken off from dreary, gray Rochester NY, en rout to Brazil for the first time in my life. After a brief layover in Orlando I boarded the TransBrasil airliner bound for São Paulo.

And as the plane winged its way south I began to notice that the crew of the plane was very intent on making me comfortable. The lovely Brazilian stewardesses would stop by my seat to make sure everything was ok, and to ask me, in their exotic tropical accents, if there was any way they could make my flight better.

And I was sure that I was going to like Brazil.

Now, at this point it is probably important to inform the gentle reader that in 1989 I was a painfully thin teenager sporting wire-rim glasses, braces, and the remnants of acne that no amount of Clearasil could do away with.

Those who know me now may find that hard to believe, but unfortunately there is photographic evidence.

So…a bevy of Brazilian beauties showering me with attention should have given me pause.

But it didn’t. Indeed, I convinced myself that finally, FINALLY the suave, debonair Andrew I always knew existed was receiving his long-overdue credit.

That opinion was even further bolstered when the plane landed and all the passengers made their way towards the tram that would take us to the airport. As I made to follow the crowd I felt a soft hand on my shoulder, turned, and came face to face with the most attractive of the stewardesses. And given their general attractiveness as a group, that was saying a lot.

“You stay with me,” she said.

Her logic was unassailable.

As we waited there on the tarmac, she plied me with questions.

“Is this your first time in Brazil?”

“Yes.”

“Are you here by yourself?”

“Yep.”

“Oh wow. You are so brave!”

“Well…shucks.”

Now…if I had any sense at all, the red flags should have started while I was still on the plane getting all that attention. And there on the tarmac, answering those questions…well…there should have been enough red flags to resemble an October Revolution parade at the Kremlin.

But there is a long history of men doing stupid things when beautiful women are involved (cf. Adam, Samson, David, et al). And when the man in question is a nerdy seventeen-year-old home-schooled kid…yeah…I didn’t stand a chance.

As we boarded a special tram for the pilots and crew, the stewardess flashed a big smile at me.

“Customs here in Brazil can be complicated…so since it’s your first time, we’re going to help you get through.”

I thanked her, and in my head I was thinking What nice people!

And true to her word, she accompanied me to baggage claim, and then through the customs line. Or rather, around the customs line. All the passengers from my flight watched as I walked by their line, accompanied by the drop-dead gorgeous stewardess. Not gonna lie…it felt good.

Once we were through, she turned to me, the same dazzling smile on here face. “Now that we’ve helped you, we were wondering if you could help us with something.”

Now at that point every red flag in the known universe should have been flapping wildly in my head. But the only thing I could think of was how great it would be if I could impress this heavenly creature. Besides…I was in Brazil on a missions trip…and missionaries help people, right?

Then things got really weird, really fast. First, some dude showed up.

“You go with him,” the stewardess said. She handed me a wad of American cash, then disappeared. This stranger led me to a store that had the words “Duty Free” emblazoned in red over the entrance. We went down a side aisle, and he began loading large boxes onto my luggage cart, on top of my suitcases.

And it was at this point that I started having some serious second thoughts. What was in those boxes? Why were they putting them on my cart? Where did all this money come from?

The labels on the boxes were in Portuguese so I couldn’t read them…except there was one word…one word that I was sure I had seen in the Berlitz Portuguese LPs (it was 1989, remember) I had borrowed from the Corning Public Library in preparation for my trip. If only I could remember what it meant…

That mystery occupied my mind as I frantically tried to figure out what was going on. Meanwhile, we got in line for the cash register. My anxiety increased the closer we got to the counter. What was going on? Who was this guy? Where was the beautiful stewardess?

When we got to the counter the cashier tallied up the price of the boxes, in English. I stood there stupidly until my “minder” indicated that I was to pay him with the roll of cash in my hand. I put the whole thing on the table. Embarrassed, the guy with me quickly counted out the bills, then took the rest and stuck it in his pocket. Then the cashier asked for my passport, which I dutifully supplied. And just as he was stamping it with some official-looking seal, I remembered from the Berlitz course the word on the boxes.

Cerveja. Beer!

And reality came crushing down on me. There was no “suave, debonair Andrew”. Nobody thought I was brave. The heavenly beings aboard the TransBrasil flight were not trying to help me. No, I had been thoroughly and completely duped…used by the airline employees to purchase duty-free beer for them.

In a fog I followed the guy back out into the hallway. The boxes of beer were whisked away, and I was left standing alone. No stewardesses, no minder…nothing. The gravity of what I had done crushed down upon me. I was a criminal, and outlaw. I had been in Brazil all of one hour, and already I had visions of spending the rest of my life rotting away in some South American jail.

To this day I’m not sure how I had the presence of mind to make my connection. Somehow I did, and ended up it to Fortaleza, where other adventures awaited.* But I kept my mouth shut about the São Paulo incident until I finally met up with my host missionary, at which point the flood gates opened.

He stood there with a serious look on his face as I went on about stewardesses and boxes of beer and wads of cash. When I finally finished he broke out in a hearty laugh.

“Welcome to Brazil!” he said.

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*I’ve previously written about my adventures in the Fortaleza airport, and almost getting mugged on the streets of that same city.

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And be sure to read the action-packed adventures of Missionary Max: Missionary Max and the Jungle Princess and Missionary Max and the Lost City.