The Seed

I’m thinking of writing a book.

[Pause]

It’s just that. I woke up this morning from a dream, one in which the climax and revelation of the lucid events ended in a singular thought.

[Pause]

Write a book.

[Pause]

To tell you the truth, this has been on my mind for some time. It started a good 13 years ago when, as a boy, I contemplated writing a fantasy novel. I sat down one day and started typing. My hands conceived but a single page, a single thread to a larger world of mystical forests, swords, and the age old battle against good and evil. I relished the creative power at my finger tips, but lacked the discipline to carry it through.

[Pause]

Fast forward a decade. The desire yet remains. I realize two things at this departure in my life. First is that, all great projects start with a single thought. Everything in this world has a conception, a movement from simple to complex. With blank pages and an unsteady beginning, it is difficult to imagine such a thing coming to pass. And that brings me to my next point, is it not but a matter of courage? Is it not but a matter of abandoning the excuses, of realizing that fact that if I never begin it will never be realized.

[Pause]

All ships set sail with desire—the craving to move and seek out a point of destination. Yes, desire and courage. The rest is up to me. I currently dream of a novel, not to lengthy, set primarily in this beautiful world we call Bahia. I want fiction, to be the master of the movement and not the slave to it, set in a real world and real time. I want to investigate romance, culture, danger, flight, escapism, and the desire to make a new world apart from the next. I want, in essence, to write what I know, yet to create something fresh and germane.

[Pause]

All beginnings must begin. To set sail, or to stay at port? To put my energy somewhere else, or fling myself headlong into this sea? All adventures start with a single spark. The question is where, and how, and shall I begin.

The Mom Top 10

10 – South Carolina, dinner time! Despite having a full time job, mom somehow managed to always have food on the table. Chicken, rice, salad, so healthy the meals were. But the true secret is, shhhhhhhh, we loved it best when she didn’t have time. Macaroni and Cheese with hotdogs, yeah!

9 – Growing up safe and free. Some moms are over protective. Others don’t seem to care. This mom knew the perfect mix of the two. When we wanted to ride solo through the neighborhood on our bicycles, the door was wide open. But when things got too hairy (i.e. cliff sitting Choco Canyon, or a free climb of Elk Mountain), she always knew when to say no. Or at least yell, Chris!!!!! prompting a swift return to safety.

8 – Switzerland. Swiss chocolate. Double whipped cream and strawberries. Moonlit castles. Mountain Fog. Order and ingenuity. What better thing exists than to share in her culture. And now a family of Swiss citizens, with Europe now out our doorstep, that is all because of her too. Thanks mom!

7 – Seven days of waking us up for school. Seven days of breakfast, of hurrying us out the door. Seven days of head massages, cleaning scraped knees, of doing what a mom has to do. Seven days of attention, without lack or want or a voice of complaint. Such is the generosity of this mom. Twenty-four seven times an uncountable procession of years.

6 – New Mexico, Oklahoma, Texas, South Carolina, Illinois, Michigan. Canada, Switzerland, Germany, France, Italy, Brazil. Rome, Prague, Dresden, Paris. When your parents world is large, so to is yours. For the fearless tread of one foot in front of the other, the following of her footsteps in the shifting sands, the world is now my own.

5 – Spaghetti and garlic bread on bright colored cabin fiesta-ware. Beef and been burritos. Caramel cookies at Christmas time. What culinary prowess, what gastronomic creativity.

4 – Send Me an Angel, 80’s hair, and weight lifting competitions. 5 mile runs a dawn. Good genes and workout habits. Leafy greens and a strong heart. What boy can brag that their mom can kick ass, and take names. Ah yes, this one.

3 – For getting us through the rough times. Constipation problems not excluded. Remember how scared I was. Only 8 years old when things went so very wrong. But you mom, you knew what to do. Just a dash of prune juice and sheer will. Everything moves given enough pressure and time. Eureka! Somehow you always know!

2 – For surviving amicably the creation and molding of three boys. WTF! All I can say is good job.

1 – Mom. You take first place. Thank you for being such an amazing human being and happy mother’s day.

Gone with the Wind

Spiral inhalations of the South Atlantic, born to the cheek of Poseidon, and the mer like bosom of Iamanja, whip over the Praia do Paciência—a soft and invisible energy like a thousand passing butterflies. Unable to break from the crest of the wave – the rise and fall that birthed it from the sea – the wind whips up, crashing headlong into the tenement houses lining the shore. Driven into the sand of São Salvador, into a settlement half a thousand years strong, it slows. The smell of burning meat, of discarded coconuts and beer, of trash, fruit, and other urban pleasantries give it character and weight.

I open the window and stare at the rooftops, the birds passing by, and at the sea. The wind now laden with personality fills my little home. I can hear the barking dogs, chants, and exaltations—the sounds that have crested, surfed, and voyaged through the air. Small beads of sweat flatten on my forehead as I stare at my little corner of Brazil. How transient this world is, how constant is our change. Not even the wind stays with me as I stare out towards the sea.

* * *

The problem with not keeping up with a journal is indeed this very transience. My pages remain static, yet my thoughts and my world moves on. In this last month a thousand ships of emotion have passed on by. Like the wind, my reality has been colored, saturated, filled with so many iconic smells and experiences. I feel saturated by them, slick in their pleasure and pain, and it is difficult to know where to begin.

First, Villa Matos. My new home. It has everything a Brazilian urbanite could want or need. Villa Matos is a tiny little street in the south end of Rio Vermelho, situated in the valley of two rising neighborhoods. It is a constant parade of people and pageantry, a place drenched in city culture, and home to impromptu soccer games, bakeries, and lunch time restaurants. It is a generally peaceful place, though definitely on the poorer side and not without its risks and peculiarities.

My days in Villa Matos are always an adventure. I often come home from school around noon, and plant myself in Villa’s Refeiçoes Restaurante e Pizzaria. For R$ 4.50, I get a massive steaming plate of rice and beans, fried fish or salted meat, vegetables and a jar of mango or goiaba juice. After the meal, it is usually a struggle to move and I languidly crawl back to my apartment for a siesta. If I feel up to it, and have a break from my papers and lesson plans, I grab my board shorts and run the length of beach, doing sit ups in the sand or at the municipal beachside gym nearby. Then it’s a run home, a chilled coconut, and maybe a bite of frozen açai from a local vendor.

When the night takes over here in Villa Matos, red and white plastic tables are flipped into the street. Hordes of people pass by on their way back from work, searching for the comforts of home and for bread from the local bakeries. Bottles of cold beer come out by the dozens and the day’s hardships all but drowned and forgotten. As the night truly starts to descend, some of my favorite local characters come by my hang out joint for a swig of cheap cachaça. My favorite among these is the all famous all knowing Zambini, a local drunk who sets up shop wherever his cardboard home and plastic bottle cart will take him. The man is utterly hilarious; a rather genial drunkard by nature who runs around kissing peoples foreheads, their cars and motorcycles, or whatever shiny object happens to be lying around. If someone starts blasting music, Zambini runs headlong into the street and starts pumping the air with his crotch. Everyone points and yells, “Go Zambini!!!” which only encourages the man to increase his air humping with more voracity. I swear to god, if I could only bring him back to the U.S., plant a red plastic Halloween cape around his shoulders, and call him my sidekick, I would die a happy man.

Out of my village, my world revolves around substitution work at Panamericana, my teachers training course at ACBEU, and the organization of private language classes. Alas, most of my nights are filled with work, and my Capoeira life has become almost nonexistent. I live with great trepidation of becoming a native who drinks much and exercises little. Beer drinking is a round the clock social experience here, and almost everyone I meet has a well developed floppy beer belly to call their own—women and teenagers included.

The days continue to pass, and I continue to feel like I am living in a dream. Swimming through moonlight waves at midnight, running my motorcycle through the bush, watching the palms sway and dance in the weighty tropical air—I continue to relish this charged separate reality. Who was to think that life could feel so different but a few thousand miles away from home? My eyes open to the daylight, and I wonder where the known universe has dropped away to. So new is this constellation of stars, this solar system of irregularity. And perhaps, only the wind knows where my spirit will fly away to.

Making my house a home.

Teaching has its rewards. Witness a gift from a 2nd grader.
It´ll melt you´re heart, it surely will.

Villa Matos at dawn. Before the bustle of the day.

Take a right at the white pole and you will have found my street.
Now there should be no excuses for people visiting me, haha.

Still No Internet

Living in a semi-slum has its disadvantages. Currently without a fridge, and without an internet. Oh yeah, no washing machine too....or air conditioning, a counter top, breathing room. Still having lots of fun though. Is anyone still out there? I will be back with photos I swear.

Shanty This

The Interior

A mistake easily made when living in a big city is to forget the outside world. One could spend a lifetime, thrice over, running from one corner of the hive to the other. So many angles to indulge in, so many apartment buildings, town houses, shopping centers and bus stops to find your way to. But in this bustling mass of noise and heat, a stopping and starting point for so many lives, there is little offered in the way of peace. Neighbor looks upon neighbor with suspicion, locked doors and partitioned lives, people loose site of their brotherhood and become circumstantial enemies. In time, with the traffic and the trash and the frustrations piling, it all starts to look like one big mess, and you know it is time for escape.

That time came this last weekend. Crawling from the crags and fissures of the earth, my little ant antennas pointed toward the sky, I knew the moment had come. So odd to be in Brazil, a place that wiggles with adventure, and yet taste so little of it. Life becomes droll, placid, and routine all too easily. The only remedy, after wiping the working sweat from your brow, is to just give in a get out.

And that is what I did. The Easter holiday weekend provided enough time to see some of the “interior” of the state—that which is off the coast and outside the city walls. The destination of choice, a little rural town called Lamarão which is 2000 thousand inhabitants strong (give or take a chicken or two).

So heading out of the city with a friend and a Brazilian family:

Gone went the favelas and inner city traffic!

Gone went the hive which stretched on for miles!

Dare I say, the interior of Bahia had an immediate appeal. It was country, a fim do mundo (the end of the world), at its best. Accustomed to the stealthy black edges of my concrete palace, I was immediately struck by the palms trees, the sugar cane fields, and the pastoral greenery. As I arrived in town, my thoughts lingered on my first trip to rural Brazil back in 2003. My experience was hearty, authentic, a heady mixture of running around town meeting cousins, eating meat, watching social operas ascend and go by.


Lamarão was certainly this. It was place of street markets and Easter festivity. I stayed at a local families house, amazed at the all hours socializing that would occur during the day. People would drop in -- neighbors and friends, lovers and cousins -- just to say hello. People chatted over coffee, over beer, over Bahian delicacies of fish, and rice, and beans galore. The Easter holiday was in full swing, with Catholic parades running the cobbled streets.

Celebrity status was instantly offered to my friend James and I. We were outsiders, tall, blue eyed aliens from some strange different land. Walking the streets, ruminating on Brazilian culture, we would attract unapologetic stares and whispers. People would step out of their doorways to gape open mouthed in our direction. Women would giggle as we walked by, men turn their heads with suspicion.



And so we danced. I played Capoeira in the street, laughed with locals, trying desperately to understand their lispy Portuguese.

As in every place I have visited in Brazil, everything seemed to be broken. Doors didn't shut properly, hand rails were bent and coming off the wall. My fan required a toothbrush solution to get it to work again. Everything was broken, and nobody seemed to care.

But where Brazilians lack in mechanical pragmatism, they make up for it in culinary prowess!

Walking the streets, there were so many interesting things to see. Find the irony in this photograph. The sign humorously reads, "Please do not throw trash here". Ha!

Indeed, the town was a mix of refreshing simplicity, and small town ideals. People seemed happy, a bit bored, running around talking to the neighbors, trying desperately to find something to do. There was work, in limited degrees. Houses in the town cost upwards of, get this, $50o0. Make money and live like a king. The challenge is to find work, and to find something to do. Local remedies include getting pregnant at a young age, talking shit about your neighbors, and drinking cachaça until your teeth fall out. Typical small town ignorance. But there was a genuineness about this life that I found appealing. Like letting the craziness of the outside world pass by, enjoying your small place and small time in the grand scheme of things.

And the local customs were so fun. Take the burning of Judus for example. Forget Christian forgiveness. Let's make effigies and blow them the hell up! Yeah!

Notice the chicken in her hand that was handed over to us for supper. So much nice.

All in all, this trip reminds me that there is so much of Brazil left to see. Perhaps a motorcycle jaunt through the interior, or maybe even a trip to the Amazon. In the end, it's good to get out of my metropolitan rat hole--to see what beauty the forgotten places truly have to offer.

How are things?

I am sitting on my poor half-inch excuse for a mattress, sprawled out horizontally with the fan at my side. My room is a tad bit messy, looking less like my living quarters and more like art—abstract and fussy, a night school project by someone with too much to do. Occasionally, beads of sweat form on my forehead and I grimace. Damn these mosquitoes. The stealthy buggers somehow know to only attack my feet. I wrap my legs in bed sheets and pray for deliverance, hoping the Dengue fever never comes.

I love Brazilian TV. Somewhere in a galaxy far, far, away, some genius of a producer decided he could up his program ratings by incorporating scantily clad dancers into the mid-afternoon talk and game shows. Bob Barker would have been proud. Each contestant win – be it a washing machine or a flat screen TV – is punctuated by an ass shake and a roar from the crowd. No puritan family censorship here. I can’t help but avoid the remote, thinking “Oh yes, the price is definitely right”.



So, how are things?

Good. Thanks for asking.

Really? Are they good?

Well, to be honest.

Brazil = Adventure + Frustration. The two often go hand in hand. I continue to marvel at this place of extremes. Not only do I see them, socially, politically, but I seem to feel them as well. As if my inner reality is somehow affected by the world outside. I sit at my window, emotionally pondering, looking at the chaos zipping by and by. Things go high and things go low, and I definitely feel my altitude change.

In terms of the low, my financial position continues to be a great source of daily stress. I have avoided the super market for some time, seeking cheap ways to eat at home or on the street. Aside from becoming completely averse to the thought of ‘one more hotdog’ or ‘one more hamburger’, I have been blessed with a good ‘let that be a lesson to you’ bout of food poisoning (my third here in Brazil). This feeling of corporal fragility is only intensified by the mental trepidations, as I hand out my 1.6 dollars and wait for something, anything, to come back in. While things are slowly, ever so languidly starting to develop (subs and language students), I am definitely out spending my in spending if you know what I mean.

Then there is the relationship front, an added source of joy and pain. My return to ‘the girl’ has been long in coming, and the expectations high from the very start. She is much the same as I left her—beautiful, intelligent, challenging. But while indeed her charm and personality remains, there is an innocence now lacking in her eyes. Like all of us jaded, single, out of the fire folks, she is now wary of the contrary sex—protective with her feelings and a bit distrustful of men in general. While we have definitely been enjoying one another, it seems at times that we want different things. I have been single bordering on forever, and am interested in pursuing a relationship (surprise, yes I know). She just got out of one, and is looking to avoid that very thing. So while I am still hopeful that our attraction and compatibility will conquer all, things are definitely in the realm of the unknown.

So in terms of a voyage, its funny what you ask for and funny what you get. I left my comfortable Boulder life looking for challenge and adventure. I knew I would be tested, because that is what adventure is. It’s not a resort visit to Malibu, pina coladas in hand. Adventure is struggle; the pitting of yourself against some great conflict, to test the waters, to come to know who you really are. Five thousand miles from home, friends and familiarities all but blown away, it can be tough. No doubt. But all I can do is hope that my courage will lead to greater things, and that one day I will smile, a toothless old man, when someone asks, “How were things?”

Blood type stickers provided with my helmet. No one is beating around the bush here.

The Birds

Natural Brazilian alarm clock. Inescapable. I say p.m. but it's really a.m. Hazard of grabbing the camera before fully waking up.

Motorized

Que Liberdade! What freedom! Thanks to a great deal of help from my brother back home, and a number of sweaty walks to the bank, to the moto shop, to all manor of locations, I finally have my wittle scooter. She is, hmmm, different than my FZ 1000cc monster back home. My first impression of the bike as I jumped on her little black seat and blasted myself through traffic, was a somewhat disheartened "Is that all?". Going from a 4 cylinder luxury vehicle to a 1 cylinder motorcycle has its psychological downsides. I do somehow feel less powerful. No heart pounding sensation of breaking through space and time. Yet, the roads have become my playground and I feel so very amused to travel where and when I please.

The sensations of Neguinha (little blacky) are entirely different than my FZ1. She seems to make much more noise and vibrate 10 times more than Josephine. She is a bit smaller (well, more than a bit), but maneuvers well in the Kamikaze no rules, no lines, Brazilian traffic. Driving here is like floating half blind through an asteroid field. It is necessary to predict peoples behavior as they tend to avoid communicating it through turn signals or break lights. As a motorcycle driver, there is no imaginary box of space given to you by other motorists. People creep into your space and expect you to move into the side line of the road. At a stop sign or a slowing line of traffic, it is also expected that you weave in between the line of slow cars to get to the front of the motor pack. I have avoided this, and only tend to cut my lines when all of the asteroids are completely at rest. People look at me, sitting behind cars, like I'm crazy. But F*ck it, I like staying alive.

Greatest part about it....I can go to the beach. I can go to school. I can just up and choose a location and go, independent of someone else's transport!

I had my cheap little Brazilian good luck charm recast in silver by a metalsmith at the craft fair. Cost me hardly anything, and the guy did a great job. The old one was wearing away and refused to become shiny when buffed or polished. Be it tattoos or jewelery, I love becoming a custom work of art.

And then there is school. My teacher training course at ACBEU is proving quite the scholarly affair. The place is indeed professional, my course being taught by an affable and literate Ph.D. of languages. It is interesting exploring the school vibe yet again. I have a number of papers to write, and teachers to impress, as this place is a top candidate for my employment services come the end of the semester. The money situation is scaring the crap out of me right now, as my costs are high and my income nonexistent. I have accepted the fact that it may be a few months before something surfaces. And with the potential Masters coming up in August, my time is going to get even more limited. But I trust that with a little bit of luck, hard work, and a desire to make this life get of the ground, I won't be homeless or destitute for too long anyway.

A Request

Ahhhh, my friends. Any and all of you. I have one request from The Lions Den. I give so much and ask so litte, no? ;-P

Go out and rent this movie: It's called Ó Paí, Ó. The film is a 2007 drama directed by Monique Gardenberg. It tells the history of some inhabitants living in the tenement house of the Pillory, in the Historical Center of Salvador, the last day of carnival.

This is the first movie that I have seen that captures the heart of this city. If you have any desire in your black little hearts to come visit me, see this first. You will wonder why everyone is talking so loudly and shouting all the time. You will wonder why people are always dancing and singing.

Try the foreign section of your video store. Or Netflix, or where ever. Just find a way.

Even if you shan't ever have the chance to visit, at least you can breath in a little bit of what I inhale everyday.

Chaos and its Microcosm

Americans love control. Our society is founded on it. Like this massive machine promising individual rights of life and liberty, our nation chugs away, packaging citizens in bubble wrap to protect us from the outside world. While we steadily tread about our daily lives, insulated by our air bags, our cellophane, our 99.9% germ free living, the rest of the universe rotates in chaos. Don’t step on the grass, no parking, watch your step, blow dryer in a bath tub, yes it will kill you! The veneer is thin, but the denial deep, strengthened by our avoidance of the truth. We think more signs, more laws, more layers will keep us safe. As if the beast could caged, the garden fenced in. As if we had control over our own mortality.

I went to a beach side park a few days ago. I stood watching over a concrete stadium, as twilight dusted over the city. The central area of the park, a circular concrete area surrounded by large steps was filled with people. Kids ran about on foot, shuffled by on little toy scooters, moving haphazardly as their parents watched from afar. Skateboarders set up little ramps and launched into the air. Remote control cars buzzed around, keeping the younger kids wide eyed and smiling. Taking it all in, I stood amazed realizing I had never seen anything like it before. There were no “thou shall not” signs, no security forces playing daddy, no safety prepackaged lawyer endorsed nonsense. People ran, skated, jumped in every which way. No lanes, no rules, a happy swirling mass of chaos, and microcosm of the Brazilian soul.

I laugh thinking of this now. People say that God is Brazilian. These people seem more akin to his nature – genuine, sensory, unapologetically messy – and less inclined to paint over the veneer of illusory control. There is an authenticity about this country that I find quite powerful—that the world is indeed a dangerous and chaotic place, and that it is here to be lived, felt, enjoyed. We have the habit as human beings to appreciate only that which can be taken away. When you are bubble wrapped and insulated from the true mortality of this world, you forget how close the end can be. One flicker of the flame and the candle goes out. Better to burn brightly, I say, then to forget that you are even burning at all. This life is to be lived, and not ever feared and covered in plastic.

The Rain

It rained really hard last night. I remember listening in a sleepy daze to the torrential down pore. It seemed to go on for hours. When I woke up in the morning, I was surprised to see a whole section of our condominium gate completely knocked out by the storm. Driving to school in the morning, I saw flipped over cars, uprooted trees, and broken asphalt all over the city. Makes me happy not to live in a hillside favela.

Possibilities

Not to jump to any premature conclusions, decisions, or modes of life, but get this:

When I returned to the States back in 2006 I did so for one very persuasive reason – pressure. As a semi-productive human being, looking to increase my chances of success in the professional world, I knew that I needed to make some big decisions. My Anthropology degree while certainly valuable on a number of levels lacks a certain edge of practicality. Unlike a skilled trade or a business degree, Anthropology is an academic craft, demanding the weighty commitments of more school, time, and money. While indeed I felt the pressure to make these commitments, nothing seemed to sparkle and grab me. I looked into a museum studies degree at CU, into law school, into tourism internships in Denver, into business school. Working a shat bottom end monkey ladder job, my eyes were open to these possibilities, but nothing really felt right. Also, I had this constant premonition that Brazil was somehow in my cards. It was hard to ignore, and in some ways kept me from truly digging in.

Fast forward to 2008. Before I left my lovely mountain town of Boulder, I had in some ways given up. I felt like I had been chasing shadows, that each time I grabbed hold of a possibility in life, some big head descended from the sky and said, “Uh, Uhhh”. I figured that I should just stop worrying about “finding my thing”, that life would present it’s own opportunities if I would just give up and let go. There is a time for everything in this world, and sometimes it seems that the universe in its infinite forms of chaos somehow knows “when”.

In Brazil things are different. The pressure to find work and to pursue a professional path is much more palpable here. On a shat monkey ladder job, I had a great life in Boulder. I had food in my belly, and nice place to live, money for hobbies and extra expenses. Bottom end living did not necessarily translate into a low end quality of life. In Brazil, you are in one of two classes. Top end, professional, school accredited, or bottom rung, no ladder, your F**ked. I exaggerate of course; there is some middle ground, but it often exists as the exception to the rule.

This means less time putzzing around, and more time calculating and acting upon possibilities. Last night, talking with my pseudo-Brazilian family (I wave as I write this), I was presented with one. Things are premature and un-researched, but I do see some real good things at the end of this tunnel.

So first off, English teaching is my income. Or at least my only current possibility at an income. Unfortunately, I lack experience and accreditation. If I am to live here for a significant amount of time, I need these things. Teacher training will increase my chances of landing a good job, or charging more for private lessons. It is necessary if I want to be top rung. Last night, I was encouraged to start TTC (teacher training course) at one of the top language schools. It is a six month course that meets once a week. Expensive? I’m not sure. There might be a chance I can work off the expense with tutoring time.

Good, get that out of the way. Now onto the long term.

Panamerica, the American school that I will be subbing at is going to offer quite the dealeo in August. Apparently, a professor is going to come down from the States and offer teachers a Masters Degree in Education. The classes are crunched into short period of time, over the course of a few weeks. These periods would eventually span over a two year period. This would provide teacher certification for k-12^th grade (applicable in the States) I believe, and also would allow teaching at the community college level (have to look into that???).

But want to here the great part? The cost of the program is $7000, split between the students that attend. If there are 20 students, the cost would be $350 a person. What? Yeah, that’s what I said. Cost has definitely been a prohibitive factor in pursuing graduate studies. To earn a master’s for next to no money is unheard of in the states. Ha. Welcome to Brazil.

If I chose this path, and of course things are to premature at this point for true commitment, I would end up with teaching certificates applicable all around the world (plus fluency in a foreign language). I know a good amount of people who are funding their adventurist traveler lifestyles with such degrees. If I came back to the States, I could get a reasonable job just about anywhere. If I stayed here, there might also be some opportunities to teach. Earning a steady income, I could then decide to focus some of my energies on my tourism business ideas, I could write in the off months of school, I could feel reasonably accomplished as a human being.

So, yes I will keep you guys updated. There is much unknown at this point. I am at step B, and staying in Brazil with thoughts of school is at step K on the gringo continuum.

Today’s Wish List: a printer, a motorcycle, a new tan

On the street Carnival Pics. This is a rare thing. Check out my sweaty red face.

This is my please no one kill me I'm having fun face.

Remember my "letting go" post. I got a picture from that too.

Taisa and I at Porto do Barra.

Decisions

I played in my first Brazilian Capoeira roda yesterday. It was a sweaty, hot, magnificent experience. My capoeirista buddy James (pronounced Jameees here) encouraged me to get out of the house and go practice. I will admit to having reached a certain level of boredom here in Brazil. The problem is not that this place isn’t interesting. Just the opposite in fact, there is so much to see and do. But alas, I am a social creature and much prefer to share this world with my monkey brethren. With few friends to call my own, a lack of adequate transportation, and a constant fear of spending all my money, I tend to stay imprisoned in my own self-imposed green mile, shawshanking my way to frustration and a lonely gringo fervor.

But this is changing. I made a deal with myself a few days ago to avoid boredom at all costs—to buy a guide book and rock out the day with minor excursions into the city. And I have little doubt, with English work looming, gym time, Capoeira time, girlfriend time, self-study time, guitar time, surfing time, and all other manner of ways to spend time, I will be awfully busy soon. Boredom will not be an option.

So the Capoeira roda was a right of passage of sorts. To have finally played in Brazil is a Hajj—a great quest to the holy land that must be done at least once in a given life time. Having been out of practice for a few months, I was a bit nervous before playing, especially in front of some extremely high caliber capoeiristas. But true to form, I shucked off my trepidations with the beat of the berimbau, cart wheeling my way into the sensory full body religious experience that Capoeira tends to be.

After the roda, James and I ran off to Rio Vermelho to throw down a couple beers, heading to a small bar owned by his girlfriends’ dad. The bar sits on a little side street in the middle of a couple favelas (shanty towns), and is this really lively place, the kind of thing that is sure to win National Geographic playmate of the year. People play soccer in the streets, grill meat, butcher fish. Kids sell home made pizzas to passing traffic. The smell of bread wafts out of the bakery shops, and toothless old men sit in windows and chat about the activities of their day. On every open street corner, little plastic tables are set up to welcome thirsty chatty patrons. People smile and wave and say hello as you pass by. So authentic, the place would get a magazine fold out for sure.

On another note, I have been contemplating buying a motorcycle here, or shipping my FZ1 from the States. The cost would be about the same, around $2500 to ship the bike or to buy used. The moto experience here is hardly recreational, and most people own smaller versions of the Honda, Yamaha, street bike you find back home. A 250 hp is considered a fast bike, although you do see crotch rockets and Yamaha cruisers pass from time to time. Buying a car is ridiculously expensive, and so is the gas at about double the cost of current gas prices in the US of A. So a motorcycle is definitely the most economic option, though conversely also the most deadly. I see a crash damn near everyday, and half the people I talk to tell me to avoid riding at all costs. It’s hard to know what to do, considering I probably can’t afford a car and would really like the personal freedom that a bike would bring.

Random spirit(s) shot.

Portuguese Cod in African Dende oil. Are you kidding me?

A calamity of epic proportions. Live breaking news. Yes, it's true, another monkey died.

Look, I done balded myself.

It's really hot. So yeah, I got good and balded.