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.