A Find

There are times in life when I feel directed—when if feels as if a great hand has just dropped from the sky, grabbed my chin, and boomed, “Hey, hey, looky here.” These moments are rare, are different from the countless mundane episodes that saturate our lives. Somehow they spark, they bristle, and on some conscious level feel predetermined.

This is how I felt when I met Denis—one of the more interesting human beings to crash headlong into my life.

It was a sunny day. The sea journeying next to Ondina beach shone with personality—a proud display of refracted light—bending, dancing, diving through the water.

The nature in which I first met him can only be described in quiet whispers of humility. Rounding the bend of the Ondina beach I found him prostrated—kneeling over a concrete block picking up dog shit. In any other land, this elderly man, with his nose pointed to the floor, would strike me as marginal—someone who carried little favor in the stratum of society. But this was Brazil, the northeast, Bahia, a land covered in trash, in bottles, in objects once loved and now abandoned. In a land where stewardship seems unknown, where personal waste becomes “that other person’s problem”, any man picking up dog shit displays education, a prince among the poor.

Denis was 60, smiling, was getting on in years but not without a certain level of charm. His hair was cropped short and brilliant white. Three silver earrings graced each of his ears. With a full beard, some aging tattoos, and a pair of pleasant blue eyes, he struck me as a philosopher—a Plato, an Aristotle, or even a Merlin perhaps who casts spells on into his later years.

As any noteworthy magician should, Denis was surrounded by other worldly companions. DoDo, his night watchmen greeted us with throaty growls at the door. From the depths of the inner sanctum, the dog pulled his way towards the front portal, a being half in this world and half out. His hind legs were deformed, hanging uselessly behind him. Managing to somehow shirk past this sentient being, I entered Denis’ playground. His house, built into the side of a cliff face, and facing the glory of the Bahian sea, was also something of a marvel. “It took me 15 years to build,” he said, “and is the fifth house I have tried to assemble on this block.”

Constructed on three levels, with intricate draining systems running here and about, the place was built like a fortress, and clearly designed to fight the sea. Standing on the first balcony, it was obvious as to why—the primary wall was but a stones throw away from the sea break. The entire house was lined in dark grey tile, and the beams three and four feet in diameter built of solid rock. As I stood contemplating this marvel, a three legged white cat seemed to appear from no where, jumping onto a wooden statue that rested inches from my head. I leaped back, startled by another personality in this age old cavern of mysteries.

* * *


I will stop here. I could continue, and for many pages I think. I stumbled onto Denis’ place by chance, when I strolled around the neighborhood looking for a new apartment. My American roommate James unexpectedly jumped ship, and I was left contemplating a doubled rent and solitary living.

Denis was a character that I found entirely fascinating. Perhaps I saw a little bit of me in him, his adventurous spirit, and life in Brazil. Denis is from Ireland originally, and came to the States in the 60’s. His story is a whirlwind of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, of living life on full throttle. I have returned to his house two times now and have sat for hours listening to him talk. He is foremost a bohemian intellectual. He has written six books, all of which he gave to me upon arrival. In his earlier years, he became one of the foremost English teachers in Bahia and in Brazil. He was a Robin Hood of sorts, teaching very wealthy and influential people, and giving back to his city by offering free English classes to street kids, prostitutes, and the working poor. He wrote one little book called English in the Night, in which he translates useful phrases such as “Fucky Fucky”, and “Quanto é uma rapidinha”—how much is a quicky? Another book he gave me is a publication of 1,300 love letters he received in his life time, “A biography”, it lists, “of 2,600 hands”.

His house is a testament to his personality. It’s just really fricken interesting. It is built at the base of this little secluded hill in the middle of the city. When I say that it is on the water, it is reallllly on the water, and is one of the most beautiful spots I have ever seen. The house is quality work, an architectural marvel built entirely out of stone. Denis lived on that street for over 30 years, I think it was. The street faces the sea, and the houses built there must withstand a constant barrage of salt and storm. Living there for so many years, Denis would build one house and then watch it crumble, build one and watch it fall. Over time, he figured out ways to preserve his structures, and then finally committed his efforts to building his masterpiece. Exploring the house, there is clearly a lot of thought and sweat that went into it, with rooms built at strange levels, windows at odd angles, crazy little techniques to keep out the sea.

Now, here’s the crazy part. I kind of don’t want to write this lest the word gets out, but Denis is selling the place for a measly R$250,000. That’s $130,000 for a custom 3 story stonework structure on the beach. He is doing this only because of his back, which he broke in a bar fight when he was 23. The injury has finally taken hold, and he can’t traverse the many steps built into the structure. The place is really amazing, and is well suited to become a pousada (hotel) on the water, a getaway in the city, the adventure hotel that I dreamed of opening. Right next door, there is a huge hotel going up, which will bring development and money to the area. I think that the place will only go up from here, and that his house, be it a restaurant, hotel, or personal home, will only increase in value.

There are of course many challenges with living so close to the sea. The salt eats away everything, and special care must be taken with electronics and with monthly maintenance on the place. It wouldn’t be so great as a getaway home, unless someone could be hired to come in and clean while the family was away. Then there are the storms, which at times produce waves that come over the wall. The place is built to defend this, but there is still a threat of one big tsunami that will come and wipe everything away.

Nonetheless, If I was to stay in Bahia, what a crazy pad it would be. So cheap if only I had the cash!!! Pocket change for the wealthy and a universe away from me. Arghhh. Denis has offered to sell me a floor for $50,000, and in turn I simply nod my head and wish it was somehow possible.

Anyway, life continues here. I have decided to stay in my hole in the wall apartment, to live the bachelor life and fix up the place for my own. Now that I have more space, I am putting in a indoor hammock, fixing up a little grill, painting the walls and pretty much just dousing the place with my own creativity.

For those abroad, know that you have a place to stay when you visit (the hammock is really quite large and comfortable when you get down to it). Capoeira schools are near for my warrior friends, and a trip to the beach just a stones throw away. My interactions with Denis are only further inspiring me to write a book, but now I’m thinking of non-fiction. Picture my own personal tale sprinkled with interviews and interactions of crazy personalities from all over Bahia—a picture of this land printed by, for, and about the people.

As for the rest, we shall see. My first teaching sessions are coming up at ACBEU. Friends are coming to vist. My birthday is approaching. Until then, lets throw are material constraints aside, forget about the future, think fondly on the past, and go have some churrasco.

The portal.

Front Yard South Atlantic

Three legged apparition.


Stonework.

Drainage systems.

The wizard and his two legged dog.

My new grill. Beat that suckers.

Jellyfish wounds. Hazard of swimming at night.

Pimping my light fixtures.

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.