Remember back when I wrote about "plans"? The gist of that entry was that these plans we make are very likely to change. Well, mine continues to be an ever-evolving plan, and evolved it has over the last month.
The fact that I haven't written a substantial entry since early October is testament to this. I feel I've undergone a transitional month (of course, this was post transitional-September in Brazil, which was after a transitional summer in Paraguay... but I digress). One of the most recent changes of mind I had was realizing that I love living in Chicago. The city and my job at the music school have moved way up on my list of priorities. Another thing that has occurred to me is that I thrive on distractions; that is, if I have several different little projects, I complete all of them at a much higher level.
A couple of thoughts...
This morning I read through the introduction of my Princeton Review GRE Prep Workbook. It explains how the computerized test begins by giving you a question of medium difficulty - if you answer it correctly the next question is more difficult, and if you answer it incorrectly, the next question is easier. You go through the test getting knocked from easy questions to harder questions and back like a pendulum until the computer hones in on your final score. (Note: I always find the strangest things metaphoric. Please bear with me.) This image - bouncing back and forth between narrowing extremes until you finally squeeze into something that fits you "just right" - seemed appropriate for today, for the past month, and for the months and years to come. We're all honing in on something.
I have also been thinking a lot about the film (and book, which I just serendipitously found at a thrift store for 50 cents) High Fidelity. This month I took several short trips to visit friends and family in various parts of the country. I started at my mom's in Arkansas, then passed through Boston, Philadelphia, and Washington DC, and finally made a trip home to Minnesota for a few days. It reminded me of the way the main character in High Fidelity feels this need to check in with all of his old girlfriends before he can settle down and get on with things. It feels good to find those various points of "center" and figure out how they all connect, which ones held significance for different reasons. It was a wonderful luxury I had to be able to re-connect.
Forgive my rambling entry. I have been working on a few non-blog pieces of writing, and am a bit more focused on their coherence than I am here in this space. Until next time.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
the panic of real life
Back in Chicago after four months, I am cognizant that my preoccupations are different now, after being away, re-evaluating my direction, working with awesome kids. This is all really good, of course, but caused me a bit of a panic yesterday.
Walking down Lincoln Avenue, past my old haunts - half-wanting to see a friendly face, half-praying that no one would recognize me - I had to catch my breath. I realized my forehead was furrowed beyond relaxation, and I was sweating in the perfectly pleasant autumn breeze.
I had a few metaphorical images flash before me - my subconscious's attempts to capture the feeling of starting this journey. The first one is of myself squeezing into a narrow channel or tube, shedding every excess that will not fit, adjusting, letting myself move through it with no sure sense of when it will end, but a hopeful certainty that I will land in some beautiful place, stretch out, and breathe - someday. The other image is perhaps partially stolen from some recently-seen film... I see myself standing on the corner of Lincoln and Lawrence, when the scene begins to spin around me, becomes a blur, turns a full 360-degrees, and stops in its original place again. I stop for a moment to let this happen with obvious fear on my face, then I straighten my posture, fix my gaze, and cross the street.
Last night I spoke with a friend who this week began her first year as a medical intern (after 3 years of medical school and rotations). She mentioned that we had some catching up to do, about the overwhelming reality of starting one's "real life". It's not just me.
There should be a word that means both exciting and scary. That's how real life feels. The sense that all of your questions - the main ones being "can this actually work?" and "what am I doing?" - could, conceivably, remain unanswered for twenty years or more.
Walking down Lincoln Avenue, past my old haunts - half-wanting to see a friendly face, half-praying that no one would recognize me - I had to catch my breath. I realized my forehead was furrowed beyond relaxation, and I was sweating in the perfectly pleasant autumn breeze.
I had a few metaphorical images flash before me - my subconscious's attempts to capture the feeling of starting this journey. The first one is of myself squeezing into a narrow channel or tube, shedding every excess that will not fit, adjusting, letting myself move through it with no sure sense of when it will end, but a hopeful certainty that I will land in some beautiful place, stretch out, and breathe - someday. The other image is perhaps partially stolen from some recently-seen film... I see myself standing on the corner of Lincoln and Lawrence, when the scene begins to spin around me, becomes a blur, turns a full 360-degrees, and stops in its original place again. I stop for a moment to let this happen with obvious fear on my face, then I straighten my posture, fix my gaze, and cross the street.
Last night I spoke with a friend who this week began her first year as a medical intern (after 3 years of medical school and rotations). She mentioned that we had some catching up to do, about the overwhelming reality of starting one's "real life". It's not just me.
There should be a word that means both exciting and scary. That's how real life feels. The sense that all of your questions - the main ones being "can this actually work?" and "what am I doing?" - could, conceivably, remain unanswered for twenty years or more.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 17, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 10, 2007
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!”
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!”
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
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?
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?
Saturday, September 1, 2007
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!
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!
Friday, August 24, 2007
cuture shocking
The volunteers arrived home in the States early this week, and have been sending me emails to let me know they are safe and, of course, how they much they miss their family and home in Paraguay. Several want to come back, others are just out of sorts; all are experiencing culture shock in one form or another.
From experiencing travel adjustment in several different places at various stages in my life, I've found that the actual "shock" people describe is, more generally, a reaction to living a lifestyle that is relatively different than the one in which the individual previously found his/her self. So culture shock can occur when you move from one city to another, or even when you've just gone through a job change or a change in your living situation. Often the harshest shock comes when, after adjusting to a completely new place, one returns to their former lifestyle where everything is still "the same" (i.e. reverse culture shock).
The adjustment after Amigos is not just a spatial or cultural one, but largely it is a personal one. From my vantage point, I see the volunteers returning to the US as completely different people. They are adults who have managed community projects, found their way around the country-side in a foreign place, started conversations with complete strangers, and learned to speak two new languages. They are a thousand times more confident having been in the most uncomfortable of situations and found their way through them. It is to be expected, then, that going back to their parents' house and hanging out with friends who also still live at home, enjoy their summer air conditioning, drive themselves to school, and use washing machines and automatic dryers (to name only a few lifestyle differences) would be a difficult adjustment.
I, myself, am experiencing the first tinges of the painful adjustment process. This past weekend I attended a party hosted by a few Peace Corps volunteers in Asuncion. There were bands, a keg of light beer, and lots of 20-somethings chatting and standing around. In general a great party... but I found myself slinking into a corner. Its been a while since I was around people my age, let alone English-speaking Americans in numbers that large. It was actually quite daunting.
Earlier this week, I traveled to Puerto Iguazu, Argentina and was overwhelmed by the Argentinian accent, fashion, and restaurant menus. I felt like I was in Europe, and I honestly could not tell who were Euro/American tourists and who were native Argentinians. The town itself looked every bit like a typical Colorado ski village, it was insane.
At this moment I am sitting on a stool at the modern bar table in my hotel room in Asuncion.
The air conditioner is on, and a hot shower and foot soak await me when I finish this entry. But even as I write these words, a few tears come to my eyes. I haven't had a hotel room this luxurious, all to myself, since my Deloitte days, which were so long ago - in time and from where I feel I am as a person now. I think about going back to the States with this fear, wondering if I'll fall back into the creative rut I had finally left. My good friend, and travel mate, Bess had these words of consolation: "Don't think of [the States] as a rut, but as a wonderful shiny place with a rut in it somewhere. You just got stuck in it but you don't have to get stuck again." She's wise for a little 20-year-old.
I know the travel bug can carry a dangerous "disease" which one should avoid; that being the tendency to go somewhere different in order to be different. If you latch on to that way of thinking, it becomes very hard to be happy anywhere. Ideally, travel should inspire, not frustrate.
Well folks, Brazil - and a whole new adjustment experience - awaits. Its time for my telenovela.
From experiencing travel adjustment in several different places at various stages in my life, I've found that the actual "shock" people describe is, more generally, a reaction to living a lifestyle that is relatively different than the one in which the individual previously found his/her self. So culture shock can occur when you move from one city to another, or even when you've just gone through a job change or a change in your living situation. Often the harshest shock comes when, after adjusting to a completely new place, one returns to their former lifestyle where everything is still "the same" (i.e. reverse culture shock).
The adjustment after Amigos is not just a spatial or cultural one, but largely it is a personal one. From my vantage point, I see the volunteers returning to the US as completely different people. They are adults who have managed community projects, found their way around the country-side in a foreign place, started conversations with complete strangers, and learned to speak two new languages. They are a thousand times more confident having been in the most uncomfortable of situations and found their way through them. It is to be expected, then, that going back to their parents' house and hanging out with friends who also still live at home, enjoy their summer air conditioning, drive themselves to school, and use washing machines and automatic dryers (to name only a few lifestyle differences) would be a difficult adjustment.
I, myself, am experiencing the first tinges of the painful adjustment process. This past weekend I attended a party hosted by a few Peace Corps volunteers in Asuncion. There were bands, a keg of light beer, and lots of 20-somethings chatting and standing around. In general a great party... but I found myself slinking into a corner. Its been a while since I was around people my age, let alone English-speaking Americans in numbers that large. It was actually quite daunting.
Earlier this week, I traveled to Puerto Iguazu, Argentina and was overwhelmed by the Argentinian accent, fashion, and restaurant menus. I felt like I was in Europe, and I honestly could not tell who were Euro/American tourists and who were native Argentinians. The town itself looked every bit like a typical Colorado ski village, it was insane.
At this moment I am sitting on a stool at the modern bar table in my hotel room in Asuncion.
The air conditioner is on, and a hot shower and foot soak await me when I finish this entry. But even as I write these words, a few tears come to my eyes. I haven't had a hotel room this luxurious, all to myself, since my Deloitte days, which were so long ago - in time and from where I feel I am as a person now. I think about going back to the States with this fear, wondering if I'll fall back into the creative rut I had finally left. My good friend, and travel mate, Bess had these words of consolation: "Don't think of [the States] as a rut, but as a wonderful shiny place with a rut in it somewhere. You just got stuck in it but you don't have to get stuck again." She's wise for a little 20-year-old.I know the travel bug can carry a dangerous "disease" which one should avoid; that being the tendency to go somewhere different in order to be different. If you latch on to that way of thinking, it becomes very hard to be happy anywhere. Ideally, travel should inspire, not frustrate.
Well folks, Brazil - and a whole new adjustment experience - awaits. Its time for my telenovela.
all alone in asuncion
Today is Kara and Bess's last day in Paraguay. The three of us were the only remaining Amigos staff in the country (the girls stayed to visit Iguazu Falls in Argentina, then relax a bit in the city before the long trip home). This afternoon I will accompany them to the airport, then I'll be on my own!
I've got a little hotel room with a kitchen, and I've got lots of people to visit over the next few days. My main project is to write a proposal for the town of Alfonso Tranquera, where Mercedes and Amalio Willamayor live. Mercedes has been working with a group of moms to get funding for the construction of a 'salon cultural' (a theater space, essentially) at the elementary school. There is a large local foundation that provides assistance for community projects, but it can get political at times. They thought if I led the effort, the officials would be less likely to refuse, since I am a foreigner and not associated with any political party. We shall see.
I leave for Brazil on the 1st of September and, as of now, will be back in the States at the beginning of October. Its going to be extremely difficult to say good-bye to South America... but now is not the time to contemplate such things. I've got to help the girls pack up.
I've got a little hotel room with a kitchen, and I've got lots of people to visit over the next few days. My main project is to write a proposal for the town of Alfonso Tranquera, where Mercedes and Amalio Willamayor live. Mercedes has been working with a group of moms to get funding for the construction of a 'salon cultural' (a theater space, essentially) at the elementary school. There is a large local foundation that provides assistance for community projects, but it can get political at times. They thought if I led the effort, the officials would be less likely to refuse, since I am a foreigner and not associated with any political party. We shall see.
I leave for Brazil on the 1st of September and, as of now, will be back in the States at the beginning of October. Its going to be extremely difficult to say good-bye to South America... but now is not the time to contemplate such things. I've got to help the girls pack up.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
this is just too weird
Its hot in Paraguay today. I am about to get on a bus out to the campo to do my final visits and community close-out, then the program's over! Last night we said tearful good-byes to the volunteers in the airport, and then made straight for the Mexican restaurant for a celebratory dinner and our single alotted beverage before we sign ourselves out of Amigos on the 20th. That was an amazing margarita, let me tell you!
Anyway, what's weird (i.e., what I'm referencing in the title of this entry) is this:
On Monday, we took the vols on a little souvenir shopping outing to the town of Caacupe. In order to get there from the campsite where we were having de-briefing, our director rented two buses from the Loma Grande cooperative. We were all enjoying the breezy bus-ride and the driver's loud radio music, and commenting on the funny songs they play on Paraguayan radio when... suddenly I realized the song we were listening to was 'Jambalaya'! It was some rendition by what sounded like CCR.
Amazing. For so many reasons...
1. I have never heard that song on the radio before
2. That is the first song I ever learned on guitar (along with every other student at OTS)
3. OTS just had their huge Guinness Book of Records 'Biggest Guitar Lesson' event - literally a few days ago - at which several hundred people played 'Jambalaya' in unison
4. I was in Paraguay
Anyway, what's weird (i.e., what I'm referencing in the title of this entry) is this:
On Monday, we took the vols on a little souvenir shopping outing to the town of Caacupe. In order to get there from the campsite where we were having de-briefing, our director rented two buses from the Loma Grande cooperative. We were all enjoying the breezy bus-ride and the driver's loud radio music, and commenting on the funny songs they play on Paraguayan radio when... suddenly I realized the song we were listening to was 'Jambalaya'! It was some rendition by what sounded like CCR.
Amazing. For so many reasons...
1. I have never heard that song on the radio before
2. That is the first song I ever learned on guitar (along with every other student at OTS)
3. OTS just had their huge Guinness Book of Records 'Biggest Guitar Lesson' event - literally a few days ago - at which several hundred people played 'Jambalaya' in unison
4. I was in Paraguay
Thursday, August 9, 2007
my paraguayan family
Here are Mercedes, Amalio, and little Victor Willamayor (Camila was in school, unfortunately). These folks have been like my family in Paraguay, and I am going to miss them dearly.
hello, readers
I just found out, via snail-mail correspondence, that Drew's family has been faithfully reading my blog this summer. Frankly, I am amazed that you found it, but also flattered that you've enjoyed my rants and raves. I thought I'd write an entry especially got you guys this time.
Drew is healthy and happy. This week, he and his partner accomplished something I did not think would be possible - they built a playground (parque infantil) for their town on a $50 budget. Not only that, but they did it in almost no-time. When I arrived on Tuesday afternoon, the boys met my bus and made me keep eyes on the ground because they "had a surprise for me". We walked toward the church as their host brother told me about all the "problems" they'd been having getting the right size wood and the right color paint for the playground - it was all a mess, he said, and they weren't sure they were going to finish. When they told me I could look up, this is what I saw:
The boys had spent three straight days working on constructing swingsets, planting trees, and painting murals. The park is an amazing success - look at all the kids on the swings! (Their host brother apologized later for tricking me.)
Here is a picture of Drew from the following morning, circa 10:00am. I think he was tired after the long work weekend, hehe.
Drew is healthy and happy. This week, he and his partner accomplished something I did not think would be possible - they built a playground (parque infantil) for their town on a $50 budget. Not only that, but they did it in almost no-time. When I arrived on Tuesday afternoon, the boys met my bus and made me keep eyes on the ground because they "had a surprise for me". We walked toward the church as their host brother told me about all the "problems" they'd been having getting the right size wood and the right color paint for the playground - it was all a mess, he said, and they weren't sure they were going to finish. When they told me I could look up, this is what I saw:
The boys had spent three straight days working on constructing swingsets, planting trees, and painting murals. The park is an amazing success - look at all the kids on the swings! (Their host brother apologized later for tricking me.)Here is a picture of Drew from the following morning, circa 10:00am. I think he was tired after the long work weekend, hehe.
Friday, August 3, 2007
the home-office divide
One thing I like about Paraguay (there are many things, of course) is the way that being "at home" and being "at work" are often indistinguishable. It might be due to the nature of the countryside economy - that is, subsistence or cooperative farming and a business sector that is devoid of any international corporate presence. Every store you stop at in the campo, from the bakeries to the tire shops, is based out of a family's home and attended by whichever member is present at the moment.
If you're buying milk, just knock on the Riquelme's kitchen door and they'll measure it out for you, fresh from the cow. If you're buying groceries, just look for any house that has a 'BRAHMA' beer ad hanging somewhere in the front - upon entering you will find a small refrigerated case with milk and yogurt along with a few shelves of rice, dulce de leche, bread, and other basic items. Yesterday, I was directed to the local wood-shop ("three houses down the road") and, when I arrived, was invited by the senora to come in and have a seat while her husband finished showering. When he came out - combing his hair - we discussed the dimensions of a few boards I needed for a swing-set and set a date for me to pick them up. The only thing missing was an invitation to share some mate', which is common courtesy but must have slipped his mind having just emerged from bathing.
This all sets quite a comfortable tone for all of our interactions with the SENASA engineers (a.k.a. the 'funcionarios'). Every Monday morning we get together with SENASA in Caacupe for a check-in meeting. If the meeting attendees are going to be few we gather at their small three-room regional office, squeeze between the desks of two employees, and keep it short. Should the regional director or other higher-level boss attend, however, we move the meeting a few blocks away to the home of one of the funcionarios, Senor Valbuena. His living room is more spacious than any of the rooms at the office building, and he has plenty of chairs. The only bothersome thing is that the front door is located directly in the center of the living room, and Senora Valbuena and their children often have to come and go during our meetings. But no one seems to mind.
***
This entry will, unfortunately, not be continued. As the summer comes to a close, I am manic-panicked with all the things I have to do. Once the volunteers have left, I have finished all Amigos paperwork, visited Iguacu falls, obtained my Brazilian visa, and changed countries, I will again try to be reflective about this past summer.
(...breathe...)
If you're buying milk, just knock on the Riquelme's kitchen door and they'll measure it out for you, fresh from the cow. If you're buying groceries, just look for any house that has a 'BRAHMA' beer ad hanging somewhere in the front - upon entering you will find a small refrigerated case with milk and yogurt along with a few shelves of rice, dulce de leche, bread, and other basic items. Yesterday, I was directed to the local wood-shop ("three houses down the road") and, when I arrived, was invited by the senora to come in and have a seat while her husband finished showering. When he came out - combing his hair - we discussed the dimensions of a few boards I needed for a swing-set and set a date for me to pick them up. The only thing missing was an invitation to share some mate', which is common courtesy but must have slipped his mind having just emerged from bathing.
This all sets quite a comfortable tone for all of our interactions with the SENASA engineers (a.k.a. the 'funcionarios'). Every Monday morning we get together with SENASA in Caacupe for a check-in meeting. If the meeting attendees are going to be few we gather at their small three-room regional office, squeeze between the desks of two employees, and keep it short. Should the regional director or other higher-level boss attend, however, we move the meeting a few blocks away to the home of one of the funcionarios, Senor Valbuena. His living room is more spacious than any of the rooms at the office building, and he has plenty of chairs. The only bothersome thing is that the front door is located directly in the center of the living room, and Senora Valbuena and their children often have to come and go during our meetings. But no one seems to mind.
***
This entry will, unfortunately, not be continued. As the summer comes to a close, I am manic-panicked with all the things I have to do. Once the volunteers have left, I have finished all Amigos paperwork, visited Iguacu falls, obtained my Brazilian visa, and changed countries, I will again try to be reflective about this past summer.
(...breathe...)
emigration
As an American in Paraguay, I often find myself lending an ear to folks whose sons, daughters, friends, and other relatives have emigrated to the US. They want to know if I'm familiar with the place where these family members live, or if I could get in touch with them somehow, bring them a care package when I go back, or just give them "a hug from their mother". They tell me the nice things their children have been able to provide for them (modern bathrooms, paved floors for their houses, electronics like stereos and TVs) as a result of their lucrative jobs abroad, but their eyes fill with tears when they tell me how long it has been since they last saw their oldest daughter, their youngest nephew, or how they've never met their grandchildren.
As an "immigrant" in Paraguay, I have a distinct advantage over most of my counter-parts in the US: I can go home whenever I want. My family always encouraged my siblings and me to travel. Each trip I have taken has been an adventure, a chance to improve my language skills and make some new friends. Each time I've left my country with the assurance that if my economic situation becomes unmanageable, I can always return to my country, pick up a job waiting tables or answering phones, and stay comfortably with family members - at least temporarily. I can always "go home".
For immigrants in the United States, the situation is quite different. As US citizens, we often make the assumption that foreigners come to our country "for a better life" and they stay because they enjoy the American lifestyle. What my experiences in Paraguay and elsewhere have taught me, however, is that there's no place like home - and I really think most people feel the same way. How difficult would it be to have to leave your family, your cozy home in the rich countryside of Paraguay where each morning you enjoy fresh goats milk in your steaming mug of cocido? How frustrating would it be to move from there to a small crowded apartment in New Jersey, wake up in the wee hours of the morning and travel into the city to clean houses or lift furniture all day, never knowing if or when you will see your family again?
The disparity of wealth in the Americas has led to a disparity in the availability of jobs, to be sure. But I wonder whether disallowing the free movement of undocumented immigrants across the US border - essentially "locking" them in once they arrive - is merely aggravating the situation.
As an "immigrant" in Paraguay, I have a distinct advantage over most of my counter-parts in the US: I can go home whenever I want. My family always encouraged my siblings and me to travel. Each trip I have taken has been an adventure, a chance to improve my language skills and make some new friends. Each time I've left my country with the assurance that if my economic situation becomes unmanageable, I can always return to my country, pick up a job waiting tables or answering phones, and stay comfortably with family members - at least temporarily. I can always "go home".
For immigrants in the United States, the situation is quite different. As US citizens, we often make the assumption that foreigners come to our country "for a better life" and they stay because they enjoy the American lifestyle. What my experiences in Paraguay and elsewhere have taught me, however, is that there's no place like home - and I really think most people feel the same way. How difficult would it be to have to leave your family, your cozy home in the rich countryside of Paraguay where each morning you enjoy fresh goats milk in your steaming mug of cocido? How frustrating would it be to move from there to a small crowded apartment in New Jersey, wake up in the wee hours of the morning and travel into the city to clean houses or lift furniture all day, never knowing if or when you will see your family again?
The disparity of wealth in the Americas has led to a disparity in the availability of jobs, to be sure. But I wonder whether disallowing the free movement of undocumented immigrants across the US border - essentially "locking" them in once they arrive - is merely aggravating the situation.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
san juan dice que si
Over the last month, communities all over Paraguay celebrated the annual festival of San Juan - an incredibly interesting and fiery event, the history of which I have had some difficulty researching. Neither the saint nor the holiday are mentioned in much detail under Wikipedia's 'Paraguay' entry (I even checked Wiki en espanol), although it seems to be a very prominent holiday here. When I conducted a google search, the first two hits mentioned non-Paraguayan San Juan festivals, and the third hit was the Amigos website reporting that the volunteers were celebrating the festival with their host families. Yup.
As it turns out, however, the festival of San Juan is not unique to Paraguay. It has its origin in southern Spain, where it is still celebrated in a similar fashion. Namely, in honor of the summer solstice, people come out in droves to set fire to effigies of politicians, light fireworks, and burn anything else they can think of. One of the favorite games at a Paraguayan San Juan party is the "pelota tata", which is basically a normal game of soccer except that the ball is on fire (tata is the Guarani word for fire). The volunteers had a great time with this one. Here's a random picture I found of someone playing pelota-tata.
Other notable celebratory activities:
- A game Ari and Drew described to me as a "ring of tata" that they jumped through for a thrill. I wasn't pleased.
- A comical re-enactment of a wedding in which Julia and Katie participated. Katie was the bride and Julia was a policeman. The other characters were a priest, the groom, and a pregnant woman who interrupted the ceremony to announce that the groom was her baby's father. Neither of the girls completely understood the tradition, but they were told it was enacted to recall the period in Paraguayan history after the War of the Triple Alliance. This war took a huge toll on the population of Paraguay, reducing the number of living males to 10% of what it had been. I would have felt a bit nervous laughing at such a scene, but I suppose its one way to deal with the painful history of that war.
As it turns out, however, the festival of San Juan is not unique to Paraguay. It has its origin in southern Spain, where it is still celebrated in a similar fashion. Namely, in honor of the summer solstice, people come out in droves to set fire to effigies of politicians, light fireworks, and burn anything else they can think of. One of the favorite games at a Paraguayan San Juan party is the "pelota tata", which is basically a normal game of soccer except that the ball is on fire (tata is the Guarani word for fire). The volunteers had a great time with this one. Here's a random picture I found of someone playing pelota-tata.
Other notable celebratory activities:- A game Ari and Drew described to me as a "ring of tata" that they jumped through for a thrill. I wasn't pleased.
- A comical re-enactment of a wedding in which Julia and Katie participated. Katie was the bride and Julia was a policeman. The other characters were a priest, the groom, and a pregnant woman who interrupted the ceremony to announce that the groom was her baby's father. Neither of the girls completely understood the tradition, but they were told it was enacted to recall the period in Paraguayan history after the War of the Triple Alliance. This war took a huge toll on the population of Paraguay, reducing the number of living males to 10% of what it had been. I would have felt a bit nervous laughing at such a scene, but I suppose its one way to deal with the painful history of that war.
looking ahead
So it starting to be that time... when I need to decide what I'm doing after Amigos is over. I have narrowed it down to a few more concrete ideas.
Plan A is industrious and would be very wise as far as career preparation goes. I just have to get the job. If not, there's Plan B - I have wanted to learn Portuguese for a while now, and I could also take some Samba classes. What's not to love about Plan B?
Anyone have other suggestions or recommendations?
Plan A is industrious and would be very wise as far as career preparation goes. I just have to get the job. If not, there's Plan B - I have wanted to learn Portuguese for a while now, and I could also take some Samba classes. What's not to love about Plan B?
Anyone have other suggestions or recommendations?
Thursday, July 26, 2007
achievement
Over ten days, from July 9 to 18, Amigos invited fifteen local Paraguayan youth volunteers to stay in a few Amigos volunteer towns and collaborate on their projects. The youth were nominated through an international organization called Junior Achievement, which teaches entrepreneurship and community development. I supervised three of these volunteers – two girls (Lilian and Fatima) were placed in San José Obrero along with Daisy and Alex, and another boy (Salomon) joined up with Ari and Drew in Las Mercedes.
(Salomon is the one making the 'hang loose' sign in the back left)
During their orientation, two returning Junior Achievement volunteers told the rest of the group a bit about their experience the previous year. Both had an “espectaculár” time which, no doubt, was the reason they were returning. They described construction projects, mural painting, and the kindly community members who worked with them. I was impressed, and actually a bit intimidated – I was going to have to put together something super cool for my Junior Achievement volunteers to do, and quickly.
In other towns, though – like Las Mercedes and Barrio Libertad – the only thing the volunteers can really do is plant a seed of energy, provide some ideas and some tools for running community projects, and take their leave. There’s nothing more difficult that working your hardest on a cool project, knowing all along that the initiative is entirely unsustainable. But if you let that tiny bit of frustration and doubt enter into your thoughts it can ultimately bring a whole community down with it. What matters is whether there are people who will follow your example; these are the people who will ultimately organize the community in your absence.
Friday, July 20, 2007
waiting
I didn't catch all of them this week, but here are two of my bus stops. I got my backpack in there, too, just so you know I was there.
Here is Mariscal Estigarribia:
And here's Alfonso Tranquera (on a beautiful, clear day):
Here is Mariscal Estigarribia:
And here's Alfonso Tranquera (on a beautiful, clear day):
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