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.