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.

Nothing Much

Looking for work now. Am busy trying to be a productive human being. Here are some more videos to keep you guys occupied. I promise better content in the future.

And as a side note, I walked outside my apartment for like
20 minutes at nine o'clock this morning. When I got home,
I had to peel this shirt off like a second skin.
I wonder to myself, how on earth am I supposed to
look presentable sweating like this?

Tatuagens

I have so much swirling around my head on this subject, I could take up pages and pages. I have met my writing quota for the day, and don’t feel like evacuating any thoughts, so to grab just a few…

Dermal Pigmentation.

Always a charged subject. Opinions? Lets start with mine.

Tattoos can be brilliant. Tattoos can be bad. As with anything in this world, the more time and thought and creativity you pour into a project, the greater the result will be.

In my opinion over 90% of the cookie cutter tattoos that I see are worthless.

Bad tattoos give the art of tattooing a bad name.

The history of tattoos is by far more interesting than anything I heard you say all day.

Tattoos are a mark of nobility in some cultures, and a mark of poverty and crime in others. What your grandmother told you isn’t true. It is by far more complicated than that.

All my tattoos are self-designed. I have never said, nor will say, “I want that one”.

Yes my tattoos will look bad when I am 80. But so will I. And so will you. And who really wants to die without any scars?

This current tattoo is my favored artistic style: Borneo Tribal Abstract with King/Warrior motifs. Think I stumbled on that by accident. Think again.

This tattoo really really hurt.

No I am not done yet.

No, it is not perfect. Still lot’s to touch up and work on.

Yes it cost a lot.

And no, I can’t stop writing. Ahhh too much. I am going to stop now.

I prefer Tribal for it's Polynesian indigenous origins, it's simplicity,
it's boldness.

Symmetry, Symmetry, Symmetry. In symmetry, there is power.

Ever had a fast moving needle move over your collar bone. I don't recommend it.

Employment of Kanji. One of the few writing systems where whole words can be expressed in a single character. Strength on your left, Virtue on the right. Thanks Kazu for the correct symbology and interpretations.

My tattoo artist, one of the most well renowned in the city by the way, added some shading without my permission (hazard of not speaking the same language). Not sure if I'm going to keep it, as the other has no shading. He did it for balance, but I am considering shading it in. What do you think?

Inverting the body was necessary, I decided to use my other tribals to do so. Worked out well I think.

I am now white again. All my lovely tan South American skinned peeled away.

And there it is. Tattoo project 2008. Hope you enjoyed it.

Jesus Cakes and a Death Hairball

I got on the bus yesterday, waking up early to catch a ride to Barra. Riding a bus in this metropolis is always an interesting experience. The vehicle itself is like any typical inner city transport—long, box like, and noisy as hell. During peak hours, the busses are filled far beyond the point of ‘overcapacity’ with people standing or sitting on every inch of possible moving space. Bus drivers pedal their breakneck caravans at top speeds, and I constantly have to replace thoughts of us slamming into a cement telephone pole with milder pleasantries.

From the mundane to the spectacular, getting on the bus always provides some form of entertainment. Yesterday a merchant boarded the bus carrying his signature tray of chewing gum, candy, and snacks. These amateur business men are ubiquitous on most routes. They board the bus at random stops, step into the center aisle of the vehicle, and then proceed – with the pizzazz of an amateur showman – to sell their wares. On this occasion, the comerciante decided to sell something entirely different. Jesus cakes.

Well, not literally Jesus cakes. When he boarded the bus, he immediately caught my attention by launching into song. He began with “Good morning, hello people”, and then just started singing. I was puzzled and mildly entertained. After he finished singing, he started, softly at first, a Baptist sermon and testimony. It began like most sermons with scripture and promises of eternal love and life in the hereafter.

As the minutes passed, his voice began to rise in volume until he was almost at the point of screaming. Everyone ignored him, including the poor women whose ear was not but a few inches from his face. Naturally, I was the only one on the bus who hadn’t seen this before, and I tried to stare at him from the corner of my eye. I think he noticed, and was happy someone was giving him the most miniscule amount of attention. He yelled further, and began to point and shake is finger, ranting about the existence of homosexuality, prostitution, and who knows what else. I began to find his tirade extremely abrasive, as it continued at top volume for what must have been at least 15 minutes. I said something like, “Wow he talks a lot” to the girl sitting next to me and she just grimaced and turned away. After a few more minutes of screaming, he ended the lecture in song and then got up and walked off the bus.

I laughed to myself at the episode, thinking about how he wasn’t a very good business man, and if he wanted to sell Jesus cakes he should probably shake his finger less and hug people more.

Oh, and oh yeah. Just after he left, this woman sitting behind me coughed in the most bizarre of ways. I mean it was really bizarre. It sounded like the noise someone would make, the last noise that is, just before they die. You know, like (as in Fight Club): here it comes. DEATH HAIRBALL…cough…prepare to evacuate soul.

All I could think of was, “I hope that poor women decided to buy a Jesus Cake”.

Uhhhh.....kinda like this.

Waking Dream

So she returned yesterday. Long tresses of African hair danced off her morena skin. With a lithe grace, sovereign and honeyed, she glided past the baroque statues of the ancient Pelourinho, a silver whispering dance. As the streets divided at the top of the hill, so to followed her lips, a beaming nervous smile that pacified its destination. Stepping from his perch, he locked hearts with her, his hands opening in embrace, as if to loosen the fast rhythm that drummed out of his chest. They giggled at one another, like children discovering a new and exciting curiosity. Their hands moved—feelers in a dark that were sedated by distance and time. Now together, in a new light, they closed, grabbed a new chapter and started writing. Their lips came forward and it fell away, sold in the silence of a kiss, delicate and everlasting.

Beer and Tings

Brazilian beer is light, refreshing, and cold—stored in the freezer just before serving time. If one is interested in procuring a fresh crisp glass, there are three choices. Pilsner, cold pilsner, or really well chilled cold pilsner. While there a number of major vendors – Antartica, Skol, Brahma, Nobel – they seem analogous in color and confection to my foreign tongue. Brazilians argue otherwise, claiming the superiority of one brand over the other. I am one to believe that this rather pleasant beverage comes from the same macro brewery, differentially labeled to placate consumerist tribal tendencies (i.e. to maintain the “my beer is better than your beer so shut up or I’m telling” reflex).

So, to be fair, I have been drinking a lot of this pale amber liquid. It is the habit of the Brazilians to socialize in mass, for long extended periods of time. The life blood of this connectivity, call it liquid currency, is the beer itself. Beer is not ordered in pints or single glasses as in the U.S. or Great Britain, but in large over sized glass bottles called garrafas. Small cups are distributed to those partaking, and everyone pours from the same bottle. This demonstrates the wonderful Brazilian characteristic of close-knit sociability. Instead of an individual and solitary drinking experience, the libation process is more group oriented and communally shared.

Witness a video of my room mate and I making juice. Now that I have a fast internet connection, this should be the first of many. This blog will indeed be getting a video makeover.

Yeah, more surfing tropical weather pics.

So, in truth, surfing is very very hard. Yesterday, I got caught up in a wave that far surpassed my novice skill level. Basically, getting caught in a big wave is like getting tossed in a blendor. I tumbled for what seemed like minutes, and ending up hitting face first into the edge of my bored. It hurt, and now surfing scares me.

Acaraje stand. Afro-Brazilian fried dumplings cooked in dende oil, and served with hot pepper, vegetables, and shrimp. A Bahian street and beach favorite.

Hey remember when I said I would buy a guitar. Witness my Brazilian made electric/acoustic Giannini. Except for the nearly impossible guitar solo, I can already play Stairway to Heaven, booyaka. Feels good to spend money and get musical.

Yesterday was bonding day for me and my surfer house mate. We drank beer all day, philosophized about life and American politics, and played darts until red in the face. I fee I have properly demonstrated my likability to my Brazilian host.

Yeah I win at darts. Oh thank you Boulder house dart board for all you have taught me.

Today

Today I woke up early, marveling at the heat and beauty of the sunrise at 6 am. Badega and I ran down the street and had a hamburger breakfast before he had to hop off to work. The breakfast included then and there orange juice (squeezed right in front of me), and a massive sandwich of cheese, ham, egg, corn, and hamburger meat. The whole deal cost me a buck fifty.

Today I’m thinking of buying a guitar, to return to music and play rock star for the rest of my days.

Today I may go to the beach.

Today I may start working on my next tattoo.

Today I will get internet at the house. A big thank you to all who have been reading and commenting on my posts. At home connection will allow me time to reply, and I look forward to reading of your daily “today’s” very soon.

Crazival

Facts. Facts are fun. Facts are the currency of truth, traded as hard cash in a world of disputable observations. One seemingly undeniable tome of facts, the Guinness Book of World Records, has consistently maintained Salvador’s preeminent status—its number one position as biggest street party in the world. Imagine five million people running amuck in a swarming mass of sweat on skin, letting loose with wild abandon, dancing, bobbing, a landmark of such a sufficient size it is likely visible from space. Believe me when I say, the heat alone of those bodies could rival that of the sun, at least in intensity or zeal. For those of northern blood, it is more than surreal, something God probably shakes his head in wonder at. Call it sensory overload at its most human. And it must be experienced, at least once, in a given life time.

Let me attempt to describe it for you.

Porto da Barra – O something hundred or anothor hours – Bahia, Brazil.

It is dark. The hot Bahian sun has dipped somewhere over the distant horizon. The city is beginning to take over the night with lights of its own, flooding the street with hues of hazy acrylic. The shadows of cement electricity poles move in waves above the street as taxis, busses, and buzzy one cylinder motorcycles dance across their path. Traffic has breached and flooded its boundaries, spilling in steady moving lines to the official point of commencement, the beach front streets that line the Salvador bay. People vibrate in anticipation, drinking heavy cocktails of beer, and vodka, and red bull—anything to intensify the heat of their own civic fire.

Get out. Step out of the car. People are everywhere. The music hasn’t even started to play, and yet the city dances. Masked men and women in all manner of dress enter stage left. To the right, colorful t-shirts swirl in mass moving down the street to the beach front and initial staging point of the picture show. The scale of this movement – little points of light eating, running, talking on the phone, uncountable in its activity – robs the mind of control. That inner desire to organize, so human in its subsistence, all but flutters away, driving one to another state—one more akin to liberation, and the true acknowledgment of the world as chaos. It is a scary yet awe inspiring place to be.

From one end of the port to the other, massive semi-trailers line the street, belching out heat and fumes and noise. Thousands of watts of sound equipment sit like ancient columns built ten feet tall on their side, and on top bands prepare to play. Drums, keyboards, guitars, microphones, all are switched on, tested, tuned, and readied. Singers drink cold water, cooling their own vocal aspirations, ready to excite the crowd. Behind these trailers, large areas are roped off for the paying patrons, those people who can afford to follow the heavily armed vehicles as they pass down the road.

Look. Stirring, stirring masses.

The crowd drones in anticipation. People bob in and out of reality, swirling with thoughts of alegria (happiness) as the booze begins to kick in. Before anyone is truly ready…..buuuutat. Bu tat to tat to tat. The drums explode! Announcers come on and greet the crowd. Everyone cheers and the massive pile begins to churn and move languidly down the road. Breathing room and personal space mix, and thousands upon thousands of people begin to share their sweat and their voices.

Quick, grab a beer. Avoid loosing money to a robber or the street (I lost 100 reis, grrr!). Watch and listen. The queen bee stirs from her pedestal, grabbing the microphone and smiling. She will lead the way. One foot, one foot, then the other. She sings, everyone cries, steps on and follows forward. She will lead the way.

The semi-trailers of sound belch ahead. The heat of the equipment mixes with the hot summer air, creating a rolling mass of steam that lurches down the street. People begin to dance, really dance, swirling in red and green and blue patterns. Men grab women, women grab men, men grab men, women grab women, few barriers remain for those who want to breathe and to kiss and to love. To the side of the paved avenue, vendors sell roasting meat, beer, and water, hoping to make a quick buck in this so called season of madness.

And mad it truly is.

As the rain starts to pour, a thick torrent from the sky, the city continues to buzz, an up hill crescendo with little break for climax. Water runs down the street in heavy swathes, dirtied from the mass of trash, and piss, and sweat. Everything is wet, and dirty, full of elasticity and passion, a picturesque and undeniable portrayal of the Brazilian soul.

All night the kings and queens parade. People spin until their feet are full of pain, until their energy is utterly spent and they can dance no more. So much light, so much sensation, it saturates all. The morning slowly comes, and the streets begin to empty. Only in daylight hour are the revelers forced to desert, and many with regret that the dawn has already come.

You. Well you are unreservedly tired. You have climbed a mountain, wish for rest, wish to sit in your tent at the base camp of Everest and never see a mountain again.

For the brasileiros, there are still six days of Carnival yet to rise.

Ayda and me pre madness. Yes, somehow I was convinced to

go as Popeye (the sailor man). Twas fun, aside from the fact that I

ended up being dragged to the gay bloco, and the costume

ended up being more of a liability than a asset. Oh, well.

Grrrrrr. Sailor tattoos. Grrrrrr.

Despite my best efforts not to let this happen, happen it did.

Burning under the sun is rather unavoidable here, especially when

you are a white boy like me.

Go Gringo Go!

Lets Get Visual

Trying to wake up at 4:30 to catch the morning waves.

Taking a pounding. Sandals are hard on feet, at least for the first few weeks until you get some new skin.

Surfistas da manha. Surfing is hard, like going to war with the sea. But weee, I am learning.

Enough green to feed even the hungriest of eyes.

My host, Ayda after a cold shower. Brazilian women are sometimes to firey for their own good. A cold shower and massage are necessary elements to my own personal sanity. This is in need of a good discussion.

Chic Brazilians like their poodles. If only he knew how rediculous he actually looked.

Letting Go

Entering a foreign culture is a difficult process for most people. It requires complete malleability, a willingness to suspend the underlying laws that govern ones own society, and a desire to learn new things that may appear frightening or distasteful. In essence, it is a process of acclimatization—a time for the body to ‘normalize’ unregistered external input and make it comfortable and familiar. This period of adjustment is different for us all and often depends on our experience with the alien cultures, and our willingness to adapt to them. If anything, this could be likened to a cold water swim on a hot summer day. When one hits the water, a quick gasp of breath escapes the body. The eyes light up with shock and register fight or flight upset in the sensory inputs of the brain. Only with acceptance, with recognition of a threat-less state will the body calm itself and back down. The secret to all of is to LET GO.

My last post was my way of dealing with this upset, of dealing with the culture shock and frustration of this new and unknown land. Brazil is really quite an intense place—truly the coldest of alien pools I have had a dip in. While I still have a long way to go (months and months) in terms of proper acclimatization, I did feel a palpable sense of release with my desire to LET GO.

It happened rather innocently. Just a little party put on for some American teachers here in Bahia. I was invited by a beautifully wonderful acquaintance of mine to attend. I ate churrasco (Brazilian barbeque meat….slober slob), drank beer, babbled in English and Portuguese, and danced the night away. I hugged a palm tree, I embraced the warm sea breeze, I looked up at the sky and muttered a thanks.

Simple really. If you truly want to adapt and to change, to get over the culture shock and embrace the wave of unfamiliarity, just do one thing.
Embrace the unknown. Smile at the universe and…well…just LET GO.


--Been to dangerous to drag the camera around, but pics are coming soon. I will have internet at the house after carnival. Speaking of which
stay tuned for some good reading.