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.