Shhhhbang!

I worked my ass off today. I made 4 trips to the electric store, ran up my hill 10 times (no easy feat trust me), and am finally relaxing after a cold shower at home. After a day under the hot sun stringing wires throughout the villa, I can happily announce that I am internet equipped. And if that wasn't enough cushion in the lap of luxury, I now have my own t.v. too, thanks to a kindly lend by my friend Greg! You should check out his new blog here, not only because it's a good blog but because he recently visited my house and wrote a post about it:

http://gringoinbahia.blogspot.com/

I have to credit him for the two pictures posted below as well. If you have enough courage to visit my Favela, this sunset is your sure fire reward.

Shhhhbang!

Click from my porch.

Contemplating something grand.

A Walk Home

Hastily written as I fall to sleep…

It’s around nine o’clock. I exit the barred entryway of the internet café. I spent the last few minutes scanning photo’s of my time in Europe last summer. My head still sways with the green pastures of Switzerland, with the cows, and chocolate, the family and friends and stunning beauty of the place. My exit into the street is a time warp, a transport into chaos and all of the frenzy that surrounds Campo Grande square.

I start my thirty minute track home. My legs are tired from repeatedly climbing the favela hill. I have resolved to avoid busses to save a bit of money, and my feet are starting to feel it. I walk and my sandals clap. I pass coconut water vendors, meat sizzling on little makeshift grills. The rich our out walking their pure breed dogs. Street kids wearing shirts emblazoned with “security” scream at passing cars, trying desperately to direct people to park in an effort earn a little bit of change.

I walk fast and hurry towards Largo Victoria. In the span of 30 minutes, I have been asked for money four times, including one favela acquaintance who pleads for me to give him some water. As I near the square, I see about 20 people standing next to a city bus that is stopped dead in the middle of the street. There is a police car parked nearby that is flashing its lights. Suddenly, as I near the square, one of the young kids from the favela grabs my arm. He tells me in an excited voice to follow him, that he wants me to get closer to what appears to be an accident. I ask him what happened, and he tells me that the bus hit a motorcyclist, that he went under. He points to his leg and says “Nao existe mais”, it doesn’t exist anymore. I tell him that I drive a motorcycle and don’t want to see what happened. This is the 6th accident involving a motorcycle that I have seen in the last 8 months, including a string of incidents where drivers were decapitated by fallen clothes lines.

As I quicken my step towards Vila, a ball welling up in my throat, I pass the church at the top of the hill. As I go by, I catch a glimpse of a beautiful bride dressed in white entering into the church. It is a beautiful sight, and I give thanks to this country for the reminding me that there is life, there is death, and they do exist.

I descend the hill in the dark. Kids line the concrete steps, chatting about the accident and how they won’t sleep tonight. I enter the entryway towards my house, a tight alley submerged between the hastily constructed brick buildings. Halfway through, I am surprised to find a number of the Vila men propped under a small light working on a house. I quickly launch into the story about the accident, hoping to avoid the harsh looks that the Vila men often give me (hi, I’m a friendly social gringo). Alex, a pseudo-Rastafarian and long term resident whose father founded the neighborhood, welcomes me to the circle. When I arrived here a few weeks back, I knew Alex was my “in”. He had a good energy about him, and I could tell that he was highly respected in the Vila. He tells me in a booming voice that I am his brother, that no one will mess with me here, and that we are village neighbors. The men eye me cautiously, and I can tell that his words have had an effect.

I awkwardly sign off with a “boa noite”, making my way down the tight corridor and finally arrive at home. I situate myself down stairs, open my bedroom windows, and relax to the sound of the waves. I can’t help but think…Brazil…here you are. What more lessons do you have to offer me?

The Day After

Well, I survived yesterday’s rain. It took six buckets, two brooms, and the strength of a Bengal Tiger but I did it. Vivi came over last night and gave me some tough girl advice, telling me to suck it up until I have enough money to fix the roof. We came to the conclusion that I should stick it out here for at least month, or until I have a more accurate feel for the place. As for my general mistrust of the residents, well, that too will take time. Clearly we are both operating off of stereotypes. They think I’m a rich, aloof, gringo, and I think they are poor, uneducated, thieves. While there is some grain of truth to this pigeonhole, we are both operating under extremes. Only through a beer, a round of soccer, an opportunity to share an experience – will these typecasts be revealed for the oversimplifications that they are. I just hope this will happen before one of us does something stupid.

The Price of Paradise

Me: Oh shit [realization]. That walkway my construction guy’s built fits nicely under my front door. Oh shit. With the way it leans just right, all of the water from my neighbor’s corridor is going to come streaming into my upper floor. I rush over to Vila Matos to talk to the guy.

Guy: Uh. Uh. Mumble. What?

Me: Dude. Impending disaster. You have to come fix this now! This is a problem.

Guy: Mumble. Mumble.

Guy: I’ll come tomorrow.

Me: What if it rains tonight? This will kill my house.

Guy: Mumble. It won’t rain. Tomorrow.

Me: Grrr. Fine.

I return home. I’m tired from my day in Vila Brandão. This neighborhood is just different from Vila Matos. People are always asking me to give them shit—a dollar, a t.v., old speakers in the house, a refrigerator motor, a job. I feel like an outsider here, and people are constantly giving me the snake eyes. Yesterday, a piece of equipment was stolen off of my bike. I haven’t slept well in 3 days. Last night, some prankster threw stones at the metal grating outside my window, and then banged on the glass pane in my bathroom. I am being provoked and I know it.

Me: [asleep, day 3, 1:00 in the morning. The sound of running water suddenly rushes to my ears].

Me: Oh shit.

I grab a broom and rush upstairs. Water is coming through the door and is falling through multiple holes in the roof, despite the fact that I just “fixed” it two days ago. My laptop is sitting in a pool of water. I realize that I need a whole new roof to live here. That means wood, roofing tiles, a new labor contract, and I don’t have that kind of money.

Me: Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

An hour passes, and I eventually drag myself to bed. I can’t relax, my brain won’t shut up. I can’t help from thinking that I’ve backed myself into a corner.

Brain: You haven’t gotten a sub call in a month, blah, blah, you have no money, blah, blah, you’re a marginal living on the edges of society, blah, blah. I down some allergy medicine and try fitfully to relax.

Me: What now
..……….
...............
………...
………...
zzzzzzzzz.

I slowly fall to sleep.

How we fix things in the ghetto.

Thanks be to mother nature for creating gravity.

Tired and wet.

Construction

I started the first round of construction on Casa Branca here in Vila Brandão. Signing the R$1000 contract and paying for my shady neighbors R$350 electric bill has sealed the deal. I am now an official 'home owner' in this small Favela community. (well part home owner anyway)

It is interesting to note how my perception of quality is beginning to change. Had I visited Casa Branca upon first arriving in Brazil, I would have been horrified at the 'slum' like conditions. Compared to the tighty, white washed, neat little world that is home, Vila B and my little house would be quickly scheduled for demolition. Pipes run in crazy directions, open wires befriend standing water, the place lives and breaths chaos. I'm sure that if you named a building code, I'm probably breaking it.

But as it is, by and by, if you are here long enough in Brazil you start to forget these trifles. Things are how they are and you learn to live with them. Life is, after all, a matter of perception. To the people in this neighborhood, my house with its high ceilings and view of the bay is considered a castle and a "dream home" to use the words of a neighbor. What horrifies some is the envy of others I suppose. If any of you adventurists back home are brave enough to visit, the least I can promise you is humility.

Working on the balcony.

Battling the wall cracks.

I can now unlock the house without falling 10 feet to my death.
Funny thing about Brazilian construction is that it is so creative. Instead of just "ordering materials", the guys ran around the house looking for scrap wood. This walkway is built from abandoned housing beams and a couple of my shelves. In the lack of money, "Sempre ha um jeito".

This is the 'why are you taking pictures of me' face.

Also, construction safety. Awesome. This is an abandoned ladder that was found on the property, which is rusted and about to fall apart. This guy put two of its legs on beams set across the stairwell. I watched him in amazement, hoping at first that I wouldn't get sued, and then I remembered that lawyers in this country simply don't give a rats ass.

Yikes!

I stepped out of the house for a minute only to find that the guys had thrown all of our waste materials out into the green space below my house. This is very typical here. Hills are considered waste dumps, even when they are right next to residential property. I think that of all the cultures that I am familiar with, the Brazilians are the least environmentally conscious, which is a shame considering that they sit on the worlds largest most ecologically valued rain forest.

Ugly, ugly, ugly.

My first artistic creation. You likey?

This is a picture of my first sunset in the house. The trick in this house is to choose which spot you'd like to watch the sunset from. Naturally, this picture hardly does it justice.

A Little Walk

Sunday. What a marvelous day. Vivi and I (yes -- the girl has officially made it on my blog) had lunch in my Vila Matos apartment, and then headed up and into the slum for a little walk. Truly, it was one of those wonderful days where everything seems to fit nicely. Included in the list of this Sunday's qualities is: an awesome vegetarian pizza cooked by yours truly, rose wine, strawberries dipped in cream, a stop by the zoo, a sundown, a full moon, a milkshake, and a wikedly profound movie (Blindness -- read the book, go see the movie).

Me and my boy Guto hanging out the night before. We play quality music on our veranda.

Gotcha V! You're hot even when you brush your teeth.

Drinking a bit of wine before our walk.

The underbelly of Salvador, and that which the tourist never sees.

Where I take people when I want to impress them.

My rediculously awesome photo number 1. The boys are trying to fly home made kites.

Little visitors.

My rediculously awesome photo number 2.

What a pose.

Our sundown.


I caught this dog chilling on a roof. Classic.

Checking out the moon before the movie.


What a Sunday!!!

Dogs R' Us

I attach here a short gringoes.com commentary on my least favorite part of Brazilian inner-city life: The Barking Dog ' (ssssssssssssss + infinity)

Irish: (notice he writes all in caps, which, yes, is exactly how I feel)

"HELLO ALL,

CAN SOMEONE ANYONE HELP ME TO REACH A SOLUTION ABOUT SHUTTING DOGS UP. WHICH DOG DAZER IS THE MOST EFFECTIVE AND WHERE CAN I BUY ONE IN BRAZIL? WHY DO BRAZILIANS THINK ITS OK TO TRAP DOGS BEHIND GATES AND NOT WALK THEM AND HAVE THEM BARKING AND HOWLING CONSTANTLY?

ANY SOLUTIONS OR ANSWERS ON THIS ONE PLEASE.

THANK YOU"

Man of Leisure:

"As LL says, welcome to Brazil. Dogs barking all day and night is normal here and people will be surprised that it bothers you. I suggest you say nothing as this will alert the owner to your presence. Meanwhile, go the farmacia and buy Ibuprofeno (Ibuprophen) in 600mg tablet form (as this does not require a prescription in Brazil) and then melt some chocolate and coat the pills. Ibuprophen has a minimum lethal dosage of 600mg per kilogram bodyweight in dogs so a small 3kg poodle will need 3 chocky treats and larger dogs probably a few more. Just throw them over the wall or through the letter-box. Renal failure and death follow swiftly."

London Lad:

"IRISH, who is noted for his gracious manners, was awakened one morning at 4:44 A.M. by his ringing telephone.

"Your dog's barking, and it's keeping me awake," said an angry voice.
IRISH thanked the caller and politely asked his name and number before hanging up.

The next morning at precisely 4:44 A.M., IRISH called his neighbor back.

"Good morning, Mr. Lucena, Just called to say that I don't have a dog."

Me:

"Hahahah.....the chocolate coated pain killer. That's an instant classic.

Barking dogs are in my all time top 3 of Brazilian pet peeves (like the pun?). Worse still, Brazilians seem to have a soft spot for my LEAST FAVORITE of all mongrels, the black eyed curly haired demonic yapper known as "The Poodle". Why anyone would want a dog that is as ugly as sin, and absent of any redeeming qualities is beyond me. And because no one seems to walk their pets, all of these screaming headache makers have gone completely bug nuts insane. I walk by this one every time I come home from work and I swear to god we mental battle.

I think "Bitch, I'm gonna squash you!" And it thinks "Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap......you get my point."

Exactly This:

Moving to a Favela – Part 2

Why is Brazil all ups and downs? I swear to god, daily highs and lows are just part of the chemistry of this place. There are simply few middle of the road days, which is odd when you are from a country like the US where life just kind of flows. Brazil is life or death, rich or poor, happy or sad. Brazil is a savage garden. Brazil is life in the real.

Yesterday, I spent my evening at the favela house (now titled Casabranca), piecing together old Bob Marley albums, magazine clippings, and rasta symbols into a kind of reggae collage. I figured that if I can’t afford purchasing art I might as well make it for myself. As the day ended, I opened up the patio doors on the second floor and watched the sun slowly descend over bay. It was a magical moment, and one that really seemed to validate my decision to move there.

Cue the ascent of a new sun to signal departure from point high. Today I made the lofty decision to hike over to COELBA, the energy company, to investigate this matter of a debit on the light bill/account. Turns out that Grilo, the nasty cat that I mentioned before, had his name added to the account in 2007 (without the owners permission), and had racked up R$800 in unpaid light bills and back chargers. Despite the fact that he was the one robbing the owner, I was informed that I would have to pay the bill before moving in.

First off, f**k, s**t, G*d D*mn expletive, expletive, expletive. That’s really unfair.

Secondly, Grilo is a dumb shit for thinking he wasn’t going to get caught when his name is on the bill.

And thirdly, where is a good revenge enaction mob party when you need one? (a.k.a “ Brazilian security firm”)

From the beginning, Grilo has been giving me excuses about the bill. He gave me the same b.s. when I marched over to the neighborhood today and got all up in his face. Sad thing is I have few options but to pay the thing because he obviously is not going to do so. I might be able to file a claim with the company but that would take years. Obviously, the police are not going to take care of anything. So I’m thinking…maybe I should just buy a gun or a waffle bat and take the matter into my own hands.

Battle Anthem Choice of the Day:

One nation under google.

My how the internet has changed our lives. How brilliant it is to communicate with the galera from a thousand miles away. To share a video with a friend in the middle east, another in Tokyo, another in Europe, and all on the same day, is something I will never take for granted.

On this Sunday of Sunday's, Dr. Leo's daily dose recommends:

Best song to wake up to:



Best live performance by a chubby guy:



Best thing to ever come out of India (a.k.a minor butt engine made Benny Lava):



Best three videos to show you why 'Tool' is cooler than your favorite rock band (sample a bit of each):







And best two videos from my favorite Norwegian:





I hope we have been entertained.

Moving to a Favela – Part 1

So I suppose I would refer to my current living situation in Vila Matos as less favela and more ghetto. Vila is definitely on the poorer side of things. It is a dirty place full of street dogs and foot traffic, but does retain a certain level of infrastructure and security. Because there are so many people living in this bairro, I find that I can remain fairly anonymous as a foreigner, just one more face in the crowd.

I have been offered to live in/possibly co-own a house in another area of town. An American teacher working for my school had built it during her stay, but eventually decided to jump ship (as most gringos do) and make her way back to the States. The move was sudden, and after her first tenant decided to haul ass to Sao Paulo, the house was left all but abandoned. Friends at the school saw me as the ideal candidate to take up the place, considering that I was one of the few foreigners willing to live in a favela, and that I was young, impoverished, and eager to take up the proverbial nail and hammer.

Well, to get started…

What began as a seemingly ideal situation has turned into some far more complicated, a tele-novela of epic proportions set in the heart of Salvador. I have been left to make some tough decisions, balancing my simple life in Vila with something thick with responsibility (and opportunity?). Perhaps you blog readers could lend a discerning eye to this most knotty of situations.

Lets open the play:

Setting:

Villa Brandão. Villa B is a small favela community off of the Largo do Vitoria, a stunning place with a picturesque view of the sea, a kind of Jorge Amado romance novel that hasn’t been written. Because it is small, everyone knows everyone, and when you are a gringo people really know it. The place breaths sensuality and is certainly a most attractive of ladies, but as we all know, beauty is often misleading and not a true marker to the course and content of a persons soul.

The house. The house in question is big, with two stories and a large patio facing the sea. It has two bathrooms, a large kitchen, living room, bedroom, and upstairs floor. Local kids and drug users have been using the house as their little adventure castle, and unfortunately the year and a half of neglect coupled with the shoddy favela craftsmanship has not been kind. There are holes in the roof and multiple structural cracks along the walls. There are water leaks in the bedroom, and non secure points of entry (a big deal in this kind of neighborhood). I am told by the local residents that these problems are fixable. Clearly, work would need to be contracted outside of the favela, and at this point I have no idea how much all of these “must do’s” are going to cost. But the place could be a real diamond in the rough, and I like the idea of fixing it up and turning it into something beautiful.

The situation. So here is where things start to get dicey. My initial impression of Vila B could be described as sketchy at best. As soon as I arrived in the area, I felt the eyes glisten on local residents and my spidey senses when all haywire. Immediately upon entering the bairro, people began to approach me for money. Local kids entered my house asking me for things, and one of them stole a favorite knife of mine right in front of my nose. One guy asked if I would like to buy a boat he was building. I said no and that I didn’t have much money. One guy insisted on doing my construction. The list goes on.



Then came the two evil antagonists of our tale, Adilson and Roberval, who enter stage left with knives and face cards hidden up their sleeves. The first guy, Adilson, shady fucking dude that he is, approached me with this concocted story that the owner had left the electricity bill in his name (she denies this), and that if I wanted to move in, I would have to pick up his electricity bill and the debit to turn the electricity on. First he said the debit was R$300, then R$700, then R$300 again. Naturally, “he didn’t have any money” and that he would pay me back “someday” (haha…right). Whatever his relationship to the money is, there is indeed a bill, and I would have to pay it before I move in (unjust anyone?)

Then pops in Roberval who built the original house (a house that looks to be fifty years old after three years standing I might add). Apparently, a few years ago, Roberval’s wife made him a church going man, got him to stop using and robbing people blind. As per you can’t take the fight out of the dog, he as apparently returned to his old ways, and looks for any opportunity to scam a gringo. Well, naturally, he insisted on doing all of the repairs for the house, but wouldn’t give me an estimate or work out a contract. There are rumors surfacing that he wanted to tear down the house himself, and steal the land from his previous contractor. (small minds, small thoughts)


Supporting characters and notions. Now to be fair, Vila B is not just a den of robbers and thieves. These two low lifes are not, I think, representative of the bairro as a whole. The truth of the matter is until I prove my grit and establish rapport with the local community, this is normal favela behavior. Poor people know their opportunities when they see them. I have to show them what is or is not acceptable in terms of my treatment. And speaking of the house, I dream of building it up into a place that is actually visitable, with room for guests. I could have churrascos overlooking the sea. I could properly entertain my friends and folks from the States. I have a new stove, a refrigerator, and a place to finally put my stuff.

Last week I did another round of touring and work on the house. I met a very nice old women, a friend of the owner, who had tried to set up social projects for the kids in the area. She told me to get the place as secure as possible, to never allow locals to enter the house, to contract work from outside, but also that the place was a great place to live, there wasn’t any real violence or serious drug trafficking, and that if I sat it out I would really come to love the place. In this sense, I am a conflicted person.

The house is in bad shape but could be reformed into something magical…

The village is favela but could with time become a wonderful setting for my writing…

The issues of safety, for myself, my girlfriend, my stuff are of prime importance…

Many questions remain, and I wonder…

Can I, should I, try and make this work?

Coco-what? Errrr.

One thing I love about Brazil far beyond its typical culinary pleasures is the great wealth of palm trees that dot its landscape. Palm trees are so alien in appearance, with their smooth gangly looking trunks and top hat of green foliage. Aside from the lovely way that a sea breeze glides through its fronds, dancing hither and to with a soft leisurely whisper, the palm tree’s greatest attribute is its hard coconut shell—one of the best drinks that nature has to offer. In Salvador, coconut vendors dot the beach side, selling their lot at R$ 1 a piece. The coconuts are often chilled, heavy with juice, and are prepared for the consumer with a few quick swats of a machete. After a morning jog, a work out on the shore, or perhaps a quick dip in the sea, few pleasures can rival the implicit “awww” of coconut water slurped greedily through a straw.

As a make-shift anthropologist, a quasi-explorador, a space monkey that goes where no monkey has gone before, I feel that it is my job to embrace my new cultural surroundings. If this means saturating my life with coconut products then so be it. I now wash my clothes, my dishes, my motorcycle with coconut soap. I eat coconut cake, chew coconut gum, and drink coconut yogurt for a hold over between meals. Last week, I put coconut milk in my pizza dough, and today, made a kind of coconut tomato pasta, enough to rival the best of any Thai or Indian cuisine.

While I certainly miss my fast American favorites, my burritos, and hamburgers, and butter finger bars, at least in the void of such things I have my new best friend, the coconut, to carry my way.