Getting Settled

As the days move on, the sensory assault of my arrival has begun to diminish, at least in force and frequency. Naturally, as the first week still lingers, life continues to drift in an unpredictable course. I awake each morning to the sound of traffic, of movement outside my window, and beautiful sing song from the neighborhood birds. Sleep here is difficult, as I was given a minimally present quarter inch thick mattress and an old dusty pillow to cuddle up to. My allergies have protested and are persuading me to purchase something a bit more accommodating. Despite these discomforts I do sleep, and quite deeply, my brain flooded with new things to learn and in need of a good reorganizing.

The owner of the apartment, Badega, is a quiet and relaxed guy, and has been very hospitable in his welcome. He has allowed total access to the apartment and food, insisting that I cook and shower and do as I want. This is quite a wonderful thing, as I was barred from kitchen access and house life with my last host family. As I understand it, we will be sharing the cost of food, the maid, and internet access (which is getting installed next week!). I am paying him $350 reis a month (about $200) and sharing the cost of added utilities. This is quite a reasonable price, I think, though not without the pressure to find a job and earn extra income.
The neighborhood, Brotas, is typical working class Salvador, with lots of foot traffic, little grocery stores, hospitals, and the rest. As anywhere in this city, it can be dangerous at night if one isn’t careful. Here I feel more pressure to fit in—to try and combat my foreign skin and unfamiliar look. Just before I left the US, I bought a stylish little watch to grace my wrist. It was a dumb idea….it now stays at home.

As I found out yesterday, transportation to an from a neighborhood like this can be a difficult and frustrating thing. Badega left on a sailing trip yesterday, and I was left to my own devices. Before long, I became bored sitting at home and decided to venture off into the city. I hopped on a bus to Porto da Barra, the more touristy beach front next to the city’s own historic light house. Putting deep sours into my soft American feet, I ran around the neighborhood visiting old friends, and breathing in my last trip to Brazil. Walking down the beachfront, I was to my everlasting gringo shame the whitest person on two feet. This can be a dangerous and annoying thing here, a target for insistent vendors, thieves, and street kids asking if you want marijuana or blow.

After drinking a cold beer and dipping in the sea, I decided to make my way home before the sun cascaded past the sky. It took me two and a half hours, grrrr, and is apparently damn near impossible to catch a bus back home. I sat at three bus stops, waiting, straining to read the bus signs for a familiar road. Each person I asked about getting home told me something different. With the sun going down and my pallid glow becoming ever more pronounced, I finally gave up and took a taxi back home. Twas’ an expensive conclusion and one that I dare not repeat too often.