By Gary Hawkins | Sept/Oct 08 | Features

The Lost Confederados

Why thousands of Southerners fled to Brazil after the Civil War, why they stayed, and why their descendants still remember

The Festa feels like a cross between a low-key county fair and a formalized picnic. Half of the estimated fifteen hundred Festa goers are seated in rented chairs under awnings in a grassy clearing near the center of the outpost. The rest are milling around the retail booths that line the perimeter. I blend right in, smiling and nodding my way to an open-air kitchen where I find a generous spread of Southern basics—frango frito (fried chicken), salada repolho (coleslaw), and pudim de banana (guess), mingled with a dozen or so Brazilian mystery dishes. When a fellow beside me orders a hamburger, the server places a slice of ham on the ground beef and asks him if he would also care for eggs. He declines, and I mosey over to check out my beverage options—Skol, Ashby, Crystal, or Cerpa—all beers. Then to the sweets, booth after booth, where I am hoping to find signature holiday edibles, perhaps a Confederados version of Peeps, candy corn, or green beer, but can do no better than a yogurty concoction with red, white, and blue sprinkles. When I reach the non-edibles, I find every kind of Descendência paraphernalia—mugs, belt buckles, bumper stickers, caps—all emblazoned with the Confederate battle flag, which means you can buy it down here but good luck wearing it around town back home. The T-shirts are lettered with Portuguese phrases that are lost on me. I’m pretty sure they don’t say, Brazilian by birth, Confederado by the grace of God! or, Hell no, we won’t forget! The Confederate infantry caps with the ironed-on Brazilian flag patches are especially cool. Cool enough that I’m mentally converting reals to dollars when Kenny Rogers drops abruptly off the PA. Tap tap, mike check. Looks like something’s happening on the stage at the northern end of the outpost, so I return the cap to the vendor and say, “Not today,” which she doesn’t understand, and join the herd heading northward.

When I reach the stage, I find a color guard of sorts standing at attention on a concrete patio. All are dapper young men, dressed in Rebel gray with showy yellow sashes and aviator shades. The fellow on the end, the one who keeps looking around self-consciously and chuckling to himself as if he’d been asked to come down and help out because we’re short one Rebel and could sure use you, is sporting a soul patch. The floor of the patio has been painted into a likeness of the Confederate flag so enormous that it could double as a regulation shuffleboard lane. Behind the Confederate patio stands a two-room museum, and lining the concrete dance floor are five flagpoles. When enough of a crowd has gathered, the president of the Fraternidade, Cicero Carr, orders up the music. The crowd falls silent, and the flags are hoisted.