parking lots and baseball diamonds

... my introduction to the U.S. from the airplane window at 5:45am Tuesday morning. Later that day... french toast and scrambled eggs. Welcome home.

when a picture's worth a word or two

'I have been desperately trying to understand why I feel so restless and miserable in Brazil. This is Brazil! This is the place that everyone dreams of visiting. The Northeastern coast has world-famous music and dance, beautiful scenery, and cosmopolitan cities with rich history. The people are interesting, hailing from many different backgrounds and living a wide range of lifestyles. I am amidst an gold mine of topics to think and write about – so why have I felt so completely bored?

This morning I copied all my Brazil photos onto a USB drive and brought them over to Laura’s apartment to exchange for digital copies of her photos. As I was going through her collection, I realized that most of our pictures were of the same things – historical sights, beach vistas, the skyline of Salvador, etc. I could give a one-sentence description of each of these places, having faithfully read my Lonely Planet. “This church is historical…”, “this plaza was significant…”, “this statue is of a famous colonial leader…”, and on and on. As I scrolled through one identical photo after the other, I realized these places held little meaning for Laura and me. We were here, we took a photo, then continued on our way.

It occurred to me that pictures are supposed to be “worth a thousand words” and these, sadly, are not. At the moment each photo was snapped, I had waited patiently for souvenir-vendors to move out of the way in order to compose the picture and capture the angle I wanted. Afterward I would have to say “no, thank you” (in broken Portuguese) as they offered me bracelets, earrings, sunglasses, and what-have-you. That group of pushy middle-aged French tourists who attended the Folkloric Ballet with Wendy and me last Thursday were a small handful of the innumerable humans who pass through Salvador each year – capturing the same photographs, saying “no thank-you” to the same street vendors, and stepping into the same attractive, air conditioned high-end souvenir shops.

In an economy that relies heavily on tourism, it is difficult, as a foreigner, to avoid being a tourist. In all honesty, I did want to see all of these things; it gave me something to do each day, and saw first-hand some of the places I had read about in my college history courses. But formally or informally, so many Brazilians work in the tourism industry that everywhere I went, every time I asked for directions or stopped to look at a restaurant menu – despite how sincerely I cultivated my Portuguese accent – the Salvadorans I encountered saw me through a single lens. (I admit I was rather obvious at times, with my foreign hair-cut, sun-deprived skin, relatively long skirts, and un-made-up face.)

I’ll elaborate on one experience. Something I have been working on since I arrived in Salvador is learning how to take public transportation. At this point, I can get myself pretty much anywhere, thanks to the advice of friends and people at the bus stops. However, my understanding of the system relies heavily on a limited number of bus- lines that exist primarily for tourists. These are smaller air-conditioned buses, which cost twice the regular bus fare. Essentially, all of these people who have counseled me on which bus to take to get here-or-there have almost exclusively directed me toward the “tourist buses”.

Last night, Laura, Wendy, and I were attempting to find our way home from the city center after our boat tour (yes, we took a touristy day-trip to two of the islands in All Saints Bay). We took the Lacerda Elevator up to the Municipal Plaza and went to the usual stop where there are always a few buses waiting for passengers. We climbed on the double-fare tourist bus, went through the turnstile next to the driver’s seat, and seated ourselves in the ice-cold AC, waiting for the driver to return. At that moment I noticed another non-tourist bus parked in the loading zone that was actually headed closer to my apartment (and cost half the price). I alerted Laura and we got off the tourist bus, going through the turnstile on our way out. As we stepped onto the other bus, our driver caught up to us from behind and tried to explain that we had to pay him the full fare for having gotten on and off the tourist bus – despite the fact that we didn’t go anywhere. We were both upset and indignant, but the driver called a policeman over to explain to us that the driver has to pay the bus company for every flip of the turnstile – that’s the way fare money is controlled here (Brazilian buses don’t have the little cash box that we have in the US).

The experience served to top off my frustration with my inability to avoid being a tourist in a country where each tourist’s money carries such large significance. Whether it is a street vendor selling one 50-cent bracelet or a bus driver getting punished and fined for letting two girls change their minds – so many Salvadorans are dependent on the whims of foreign travelers for their livelihood. At first it is nice – there are lots of things to do and see, and it is relatively easy to get around the city. But I realized I can’t live day to day paying people to show me their culture, their history – there is something that feels exploitative about it all.

Having realized these things – after three excruciating weeks of being “entertained” as opposed to inspired, being a tourist when I wanted to be a “traveler” – I do have some idea of where I would start if I were to stay here to work or write. But I am ready to be back in the U.S., to do a bit more research and to have something in mind, something I want to learn, before I travel to the place to find it.

sigh.

The question: when did I start feeling like I'm just drifting here in Brasil?

Was it the first morning, when I woke up at 5:30 and couldn't get back to sleep (as I've done every morning since)? Was it last weekend when I experienced so much joie de vivre at various dance venues, and just couldn't feel it myself? Was it in Portuguese class, staring out the window while the professor reviewed the difference between reflexive and direct verbs for the tenth time? Was it at the beach this weekend - amidst so much natural beauty, yet so far from friends and family who would have appreciated such a sight so much? Reading the only English text I have (The Lonely Planet guide to Brazil), causing me only to feel more disconnected from everything?

Or was it before I even got to Brasil, back in the hotel in Paraguay?

One thing I do know - the moment I heard 'YMCA' on the radio on the bus back from the beach this weekend, that was it. I can't stand that song. It is terrible. I thought, "I'm ready to go home, I'm ready to 'move' somewhere."

I know this feeling, I've been here before. So, after a beautiful weekend of sun, fresh food, all-ages Capoeira circles, and one lonely Caipirinha, I decided to go home. I cut my trip a week short, and will be flying back to Arkansas (to see mom) on September 25.

Pronto.

um fim de semana muito legal

I was thinking my Portuguese teacher will likely ask us what we did this weekend, so I better practice the phrasing. There is actually a lot to tell.

On Friday, I saw a movie with Laura (my Dutch classmate), and her hosts – this included her host mother, Audimir, and Audmir’s boyfriend, Osvaldo, who drove us to the huge shopping mall where we saw the film. Laura and I chose the film Cidade dos Homens because we thought it was American, and would have Portuguese subtitles – a good way to “practice”. The theater was busy, and all the attendants were wearing t-shirts advertising the movie we had chosen. This seemed normal for opening weekend, so I assumed this was the case and ignored my suspicion that the movie might actually be Brazilian. After sitting through six previews for horror movies – which was more of an odd coincidence than anything else – the feature presentation began. Upon reading the first line of the opening credits, “Imagem Filmes presentam,” Laura and I looked at each other and groaned. It was going to be in Portuguese.

I actually made it through the movie without falling asleep. Osvaldo – who speaks perfect English – was kind enough to provide me with intermittent translations from his spot three seats away. Happily, no one in the theater seemed to mind. That is something I love about Brazil (and Paraguay and Mexico): it is quite difficult to offend people.

The movie told a story similar to that of Boys in the Hood, only it was set in a hill-side favela in Rio de Janeiro. Favela is the term for the poor urban neighborhoods in Brazil. In Rio, they are commonly located on the city’s dramatically steep hills because the land is undesirable for building expensive homes and condos. I read a really interesting article about favela governance a few years ago in the NACLA quarterly. Rather than getting into the details of the movie and/or providing a summary of the article, here is the link: Rio Drug Gangs Force a Fragile Security.

After the film, the four of us attended a Forró – a specific kind of Brazilian dance with a live band (key instrument, accordion!) at a bar. The dancing was really impressive, so I stayed seated most of the night and just watched. Osvaldo did insist on taking me out on the floor once, but the combination of his lack of rhythm and my stiff Tango-trained body made a bit of a scene. I retired to my caipirinha and people-watching, and was satisfied.

On Saturday, Osvaldo and Audimir drove Laura and me to the town of Cachoeira, an important inland port for sugar-cane transportation during colonial times. Before railroads were constructed and long before the abolishment of slavery (which occurred in Brazil in 1888 – the latest of any nation in the Americas), Cachoeira was the only connecting point between the coast and the interior. This meant the city was a rich cultural and trade center for a few centuries. The colonial-style buildings and the imported infrastructure (iron bridges and fountains constructed in England) are now mostly in decay, but remain a testament to the great wealth of the colonial city. For lunch we feasted at an outdoor restaurant along the water. I tried a typical shrimp dish called Muqueca, whichis made with palm oil and coconut milk and accompanied with rice, Brazilian baked beans, and farofa (a toasted “crumble” of mandioca flour and butter). Muito bom.

The town of Cachoeira is also considered the center of the Candomblé religion. Their principal ceremonies take place in February when they have an annual festival honoring Iemanja, the goddess of the sea (also the orixá most commonly linked to the Catholic Virgin Mary). We also just missed the annual festival of Boa Morte (good death), which takes place in August and is hosted by the Sisterhood of Good Death – a group of women who long ago organized escape routes for the slaves. These days, the festival celebrates and promotes Black empowerment in Brazil.

After a long and tiring drive back to Salvador, Laura and I rested up for a night of Salsa dancing. Her host brother brought us to one of his favorite places – a cozy, dark basement with candles in old bottles on each table. The building was formerly a factory where mandioca flour was processed. Now it is owned by a family and offers live music every night – Forró, Samba, Salsa, Lambada, etc. Unfortunately, the Salsa band cancelled at the last minute, so the three of us enjoyed a small dinner, a few Caipirinhas, and live music provided by a local band that was called in at the last minute. They actually weren’t bad, just not as lively as we were expecting.

On Sunday I slept in and met up with Laura in the early afternoon to attend a free Zouk Lambada class in Pituacú park – a large urban green space about 10km east of our neighborhood. The class was offered at an outdoor café with a perfect dance floor, and lots of people were there (mostly women, of course). Zouk Lambada is a Brazilian form of Zouk, which originated in the Cape Verdian islands. It’s a partner dance and the steps are similar to Salsa, with the main difference that Zouk appears much more “flow-y” and incorporates dramatic dips and swirling of the hair. At present, there aren’t any clubs or bars that offer Zouk music in Salvador, but the movement is growing. It was really cool to be at this casual free class, learning from various instructors, everyone helping each other and practicing with each other. Even the waitresses joined in when they saw how much fun we were having.

The other cool thing about our Sunday outing was just the fact that Laura and got there by ourselves, on the bus. There is something awesome about the moment you figure out the public transportation system in a new city – it’s as though everything opens up to you. Suddenly there are so many places to explore and things to see.

Another cool Brazilian dance form to look up – if you are interested – is Funke (or Funk… I’m not sure how they spell it). Funke parties are hosted in favelas throughout Brasil and are popular among all kinds of folks. I saw a television program where the journalist attended a Funke, and it looked like a lot of fun. Everyone shouting “na na NA na na!”

coasting: my first few days in salvador, bahia

I am living a few blocks from the central coast of Brazil, on a huge bay on the Atlantic Ocean. Salvador is the country’s third-largest city, and one of the cultural centers for Carnival early each year. In addition to this definitive celebration, the culture is rich with influences from West Africa, which have resulted in unique forms of artistic and religious expression: Capoeira – a dance-like “combat sport” (for lack of a better word… forgive me) – and Candomblé – a religion originating among Brazilian slaves that celebrates physical spirits, called Orixas, which correspond to each of the saints of the Catholic church.


My neighborhood, Barra, is surrounded by the ocean on three sides. The beaches are full of surfers, relaxed and friendly Baianos, and some of the tiniest bikinis I have ever seen. On the street along the beach you can buy fresh coconut juice to drink or a bowl of acai pulp with any fruit you like mixed in. Here is a photo:I have managed to taste some typical fresh Brazilian dishes at three different “comida a kilo” buffets over the last three days – including my first taste of feijoada, the popular Brazilian bean stew. (I think my standard meal plan will definitely incorporate lunch at one of these places every day this month.)


But besides “coasting” on the coast – which is lovely – I have felt strangely aware of my emotional ups and downs. Not that they are any higher or lower than normal, just that I have been noticing them more, a feeling which I might relate to that of being on a roller coaster. Upon my arrival in Salvador, as the plane taxied up to the airport jet way, I felt a sense of calm – I had made it safely. As my friendly taxi driver passed along the lively beachfront, and the car radio played typical Bahian music, I was intrigued and almost euphoric – I wanted to get out and dance in the street. When we pulled up in front of my apartment I felt suddenly fearful of the apartment-mates I had never met and the neighborhood with which I was completely unfamiliar. After moving my things into my room, I called my teacher and she came over to meet me and show me around – at which point I felt an incredible relief for her kind assistance. Upon waking up the next morning, however, I was nervous again – like the way you feel on the first day of school. When I showed up an hour early to class because I set my watch wrong, I was overcome with embarrassment and ran away quickly (to waste an hour walking by the beach). Later that morning, I learned my first words in Portuguese and felt elated – proud of my self for learning a new language, fascinated with the oddly cute Portuguese pronunciation. During our first break, my classmate invited me to take a ritmos baianos dance class with her and suggested we go together to register that afternoon (after some “comida a kilo” of course) – how wonderful to have a new friend, I thought!


It’s highly odd to be fully aware of the emotion you are experiencing right when you are experiencing it: calm, euphoric, fearful, relieved, nervous, embarrassed, elated, happy. As I am settling in to a routine here in Salvador, however, I believe this phenomenon has dissipated. Today, it occurred to me that I will be back in the U.S. in only a few short weeks. Although I know this will be far too short a stay in Brazil, I am excited to be “coasting” through September, counting down the few short days until I get to see my family and friends again.

time and temp

En route to Salvador this past weekend, I spent a day in Sao Paolo with a high school friend of Page’s who is from the city. He picked me up from the airport, took me to see some sights (the municipal market and the cathedral, among others), took me out for top-of-the-line Brazilian barbecue (at one of the original Fogo de Chao restaurants), and invited me along as his guest to a local university’s annual graduation celebration (an all-night gala with live music, professional dancers, unlimited caipirinhas of all flavors, and a luscious dinner spread). Essentially, I went from shooing chickens under my feet at the breakfast table Thursday morning to sharing a toast of Veuve de Clicquot with some of the most elite families in Sao Paolo Saturday night. I still have not fully processed this cross-over experience.

But let me give my readers some perspective. Sao Paolo is the largest city in South America, and nearly twice the size of New York. That alone takes a moment to process. The pace of life is fast, traffic is orderly but always jammed, and the gorgeous natives are almost exclusively clad in high-end fashion, all of them driving seemingly brand-new cars. Really, the only signs that I was not in New York were the slightly lower height of the buildings, the building materials (concrete as opposed to steel), some incredibly beautiful graffiti, and the rows of wooden shacks with plastic tarp roofs visible just over the freeway walls on the outskirts of the city – signs of the extreme economic disparity that chokes Brazil.

As I passed a lovely and comfortable day with my host and his friends, I was impressed time and time again by each extravagance. The full-table spread of delectable breakfast foods laid out by the maid was everything I wanted. The floral arrangements at the party Saturday night were larger and more beautiful than any I have seen at similar occasions in the U.S. But none of the things that most called my attention in Sao Paolo left a similar impression on my host. He commented that the party had been average, the elaborate breakfast was not out-of-the-ordinary, and the poverty-stricken outer-lying areas of the city were normal scenery on the way into town.

An outsider will always analyze a foreign culture relative to his or her own. Having grown up middle-class in the U.S., I am a firm believer that a strong middle class will maintain a society and its economy. When I see such a dramatic disparity of wealth, and it seems as though those in positions of power are not working toward improving the situation, I feel frustrated. Don’t you want to change things? Don’t you see that this is unfair?

As my flight touched down in Salvador, reality checked up on me. The flight attendant welcomed us to the city and announced the temperature, 25 degrees Celsius, and the time, 16:25. I sighed and thought to myself, “now, how much is 25 degrees in Fahrenheit? And what is 16 hours?” Then it occurred to me – after three months (along with previous time spent in Europe, Mexico, and Central America), I still have to convert the time and temperature into my own measurements in order to understand it. I simply cannot get my head around another culture’s perspective of these essential, but most basic, numerical descriptors.

It is certainly not easy to look at one’s own culture from another perspective and realize that there are parts of it that need to change. It takes an individual who can completely separate his or her self from the culture that defines the most essential parts of who they are. Furthermore, the more comfortable one feels, the more difficult it is to move. In Sao Paolo, one can easily ignore the disparate situation by avoiding public transportation or not exiting the freeway between downtown and the airport.

In a way, I see this as a personal challenge – to question my values and to try and see myself and my culture as others would. What have I been ignoring? What needs to change? And what do I have the power to do?

passing through the airport

I'm leaving Paraguay this morning. I barely got through immigration... I didn't have a return stamp from my trip back from Iguazu Falls (Argentina), and they were threatening me with a $120 fine. I told them I was a volunteer, and they totally went soft. I can't believe, really, that I got through without paying.

Last night I was completely ready to go and I wasn't looking back. Even since I arrived here at the airport, though, I just keep thinking of various little things I will miss. No more random Guarani words, for one.

More soon... from Brazil!