Ted talks, yes!

One of my greatest online discoveries of late is Ted Talks.com, a riveting collection of video lectures recorded annually at the technology, entertainment, and design conference held in Long Beach, California. The central premise of TED is to disseminate "ideas worth spreading"; to bring in top name lecturers from a variety of fields, to share their research in a palatable format in 18 minute videos. I heartily recommend that you check out the 'most-favorited' tab on the video selection page and browse some of the entries. The videos are jaw-dropping at times, informative, and always thought provoking.

The video I am attaching below is novelist Chimamanda Adichie speaking on the importance of finding one's authentic cultural voice and warning against the perils of telling a single thread of a story. Trust me when I say, these videos are worth 18 minutes of your time.

Into the Black

Today is cloudy and quiet, a calm after the storm. Please be forewarned that this post is not for the faint of heart, and that it contains graphic violence and imagery.

       Vivi and I are in Recife, on vacation, and yesterday was my birthday. It began as most birthdays do with smiles and well wishes. We are staying with Vivi’s half sister Suzana in a small off-white house on a quiet dirt road. It is a quaint little neighborhood in the middle of the city and just the kind of place we were looking for to relax and get away from things. At seven in the morning, the house was already a stir with relatives heating up bread, drinking their morning coffee, and getting ready for work. Her half brother, Pedrinho, chatted for a bit then left the house on his motorcycle. I had just gotten to know the guy a day before. He seemed to be a laid back twenty-two year old, the kind of person that enjoys simple things like playing videos, hanging out with his girlfriend, and who needs some time before he can really warm up to you.
       Suzana and her husband Anderson head out the house a few minutes after Pedrinho, leaving Vivi and I to chat about how we should spend the rest of the day. As I stood in the kitchen barefoot getting ready to heat up a sandwich, Vivi’s cell phone rings. She picks up the receiver and cringes, furrowing her brow at the hysteric screams of her sister on the other end of the line.
       “Get your things” she says tensely running out the door. “My brother crashed his bike.”
       “Grab a clean towel”, I reply, realizing how serious the accident might be by the chilling sound of her sisters voice.
       We run out the door in a flash. Vivi starts barreling down the street as fast as her legs can carry her. She turns the corner onto the main road and I stop. The crash site is probably a lot farther than she thinks, I mumble to myself. Looking around, I see one of her neighbors pulling out of a driveway and I flag her down. I ask her if she knows Pedrinho and she nods. I tell her about the crash and she agrees to give us a ride. We pick up Vivi a quarter mile down the road and proceed toward the accident.
       “What horrible traffic”, her neighbors says her knuckles turning white as she wraps her hands tightly around the wheel. “My god, my god, oh dear god. I’ve known Pedro since he was a kid. Oh Jesus help him.”
       We inch forward in the car behind honking lines of vehicles and eventually make it to the site. Vivi and I bolt out of the car and cross the street. Anderson is there, his face a ghostly white as he desperately tries wave on traffic and free a space for the ambulance that is on its way. I walk forward and time seems to slow. On my left is a large green pickup truck with Pedro’s moto sticking out the front end. It looks like a petrified sculpture of metal, toy-like, joined together by an artist playing god.
       Suzana’s voice suddenly rises above the noise of the crowd. “My god, my god, my god”, she screams hysterically. I walk towards here voice and see Pedro lying contorted on the ground. His body is a mass of blood. I place the towel around his head to try and secure his spine and survey the damage. There are large scrapes and cuts over his entire body. I can see deep lacerations on his legs, broken toes, and an ear severed almost in two.
       “My back, my back” he screams.
       “Pedrinho, Pedrinho, look at me”, Vivi says calmly. “Spit out the blood. Pedro, breath through your mouth. Look at me. You’re going to be ok.”
       As she calms him down, I look around nervously. A large crowd has gathered, and people continue to drive by slowly trying to get a glimpse of the damage. A gray car behind the truck is also smashed up, and must have been involved in the crash. Suddenly, an ambulance pulls in beside us and two medics hop out. They tell the crowd to make room, and begin dressing Pedro’s wounds. The hysteria around us seems to grow. Suzana is pacing the sidewalk screaming, clearly in a state of shock. Blood from Pedro’s wounds runs on the cold concrete of the street. My stomach tightens as I try earnestly to keep a grip on my emotions. I feel helpless and lost.
       “Get in the ambulance,” Vivi says grabbing my hand. The medics seem to be in an argument trying to decide which hospital to take him to. In seems like years before they reach a decision, but eventually stuff both of us in the back of the van and shut the door. The ambulance begins to race down the street, darting in between cars and around intersections like the lance point of a spear. My hands grip tightly to the body board shifting around the car, as I try vainly to keep Pedro’s body from moving around. Eventually we hit a traffic jam and no one wants to let us by.
       “Get out of the way!” screams the driver honking his horn. “There is a guy dying here!”
       Vivi tells me later that ambulances often use their sirens to get through traffic, even without patients, and that nowadays few respect their right of way. We sit behind a delivery truck for what seems like hours. Pedro is dipping in and out of consciousness, mumbling weakly for water. One of the medics turns to me and says, “Ahh, meu deus, eu não gosto de moto.” (Oh lord, I don’t like motorcycles). I hear her wrong and think she says, “Eu não gosto de morte.” (I don’t like death). The words sound remarkably similar, and I think to myself man, this kid is a goner. (I can laugh about this little vocabulary mishap now, but it was far from amusing at the time. I kept thinking, how unprofessional! How could this medic in her right mind imply such an outcome under the circumstances).
       Eventually we make it to the public hospital, and Pedro is rushed inside. Waiting on the ER entryway ramp for word of his condition, we find out how the accident had occurred. Various witnesses on the scene of the crash would recount how Pedro, being the young bull headed Paulistano that he is, was passing the green truck when he was cut off. In São Paulo there is an unwritten code about keeping the corridor open for passing bikes. Generally riders band together and sometimes damage cars that invade their space. After being cut off, Pedro rode up beside the truck, took off his helmet, and slammed it into the driver’s side mirror of the vehicle. It broke off. The driver, unaware of having cut him off, thought that Pedro was assaulting his vehicle, slams on the gas, and tries to run him over. In the process, the truck crashes into another car and eventually takes Pedro down. His salvation was that the bike lodged up into the front bumper of the truck and stopped the vehicle. If it hadn’t, he would have been run over completely.
       At the hospital, family members gather in response to the tragedy. Anderson’s brother slips folded bills of cash into the hands of doctors, nurses, and hospital staff, hoping to bribe his way towards preferential treatment (this is common in Brazil). One of the family members knows a guy who knows a guy, who just happens to be the director of the hospital. He makes the call, and one of the director’s personal staff comes down to visit Pedro in the ER. When it comes to surviving in a public hospital in the developing world, who you know and how much you pay makes all the difference.
       We find out hours later that Pedro will likely survive. He has suffered loss of skin over his entire body, deep lacerations on his head, back, and leg. He has three broken ribs, a punctured lung, a broken collar bone, and his ear will need to be surgically reconstructed. Everyone is mad at him for his machismo and stupidity, knowing full well that the accident could have been prevented. There has been a wave of motorcycle shootings in Recife lately, and it is no wonder that the driver reacted as he did. In a world where violence is common, when and how it strikes unpredictable—where the smallest action can have dire consequences, stupidity is not something that is easily forgiven.
       For me, this will be a birthday worth remembering, not so much for the horror, and the stress, and the tragedy of Pedro’s actions, but for the clear and unadulterated reminder that life is short and worth living. The more violence and injustice I see in the world, the more confused I become about the possibility of a just God, who looks down benevolently on his perfect micro mess of a world. It’s hard to know what to think about the innate savagery of existence without being confused. But what is clear is that, this is all I have, my life, Pedro’s life, Vivi’s life, and if anything, emergent from the greatest threshold of simplicity, I must capture the present here and now, and live the life worth living.

Whirl Fup

Here it is fellow bloggers. The World Cup rundown. My neighborhood looks like a bee hive in spring with everyone running about, painting their tribal colors, and preparing for the games. I took the following video and pictures on Brazil vs. North Korea, day 1. I wanted to document my first world cup experience in this country doente for futebol. I was told that the city goes crazy when our buddies of blue, yellow, and green score a goal--that the city screams in unison. As you can see from my little documentary, I wasn't disappointed.

This is why I love living in a bairro popular. The people really get into the spirit of things. Our drab cement and brick favela of brown and grey is transformed. Plastic ribbons are strung between houses; soccer balls painted on walls and sidewalks. People write Jesus next to the name of their favorite player, hoping the good lord would send his blessings.

USA, Brazil, Switzerland, naturally my favorite teams.

Futebol truly is the greatest unifier of the Brazilian experience. We look forward to the next month of games.

Go Team Go!

Life ADD

I have life ADD. I started to realize this a few years ago when I noticed how addicted I was to change. Many people, from my observation, are afraid of change. In fact, I think that it scares the hell out of them. From the time we are children, we all, to some degree, establish a buffer of normalcy around ourselves and seek security in our own daily rituals and routines. As we grow life becomes known to us, predictable, and hopefully under our control.

This sanctuary of the known—as it were—is not the place for me (at least I used to think so). Perhaps it has something to do with my restless, hyper-frame, MTV generation, who grew up over-stimulated and over-entertained. Perhaps it has something to do with my genetic wiring and the fact that few people in my family are good at sitting still. Perhaps it is my commitment to an unbridled sense of curiosity, etcetera, e tal. Whatever the reason, I like change. I am addicted to the feeling of tasting and touching something new. Take my academic interests for example. When I was a kid I wanted to be a Paleontologist, study dinosaur bones, and walk around with a big hat carrying a trowel. Then in college I discovered archaeology and medieval history, hoping to play Indiana Jones and speak with an English accent. Then there was cultural anthropology, African studies, public history, museum studies. Then when I figured out that all of those former professions made you poor, I started getting into business, cultural heritage tourism, and the hospitality industry. Then when I figured out that all of those professions made you boring, I started getting into…you are starting to get the picture?

This is just one subset of my life that reflects this love, nay this addiction to change. Part of this process, I realize, is parcel to one’s twenties—that time in one’s life where you are still getting to know who you are. Yet, as much as I defend the position of Life ADD, where you are willing to take risks and continue getting to know the world, it certainly has its disadvantages.

Elizabeth Gilbert in her book Committed discusses this topic, albeit indirectly, looking to the root cause of such behavior. The problem, she highlights, is that we’re all full of desire; it is the very hallmark of our emotional existence, and it can lead to our downfall—and to the downfall of others. This rather Buddhist way of looking at the world, in the context of Life ADD makes sense, for, if we were happy with what we had why would we need to go looking for happiness or ‘newness’ elsewhere?

The answer to that question, Gilbert writes, is infatuation (the drug of lovers). Infatuation, the state that arises when you meet someone new, is the most perilous aspect of human desire. It actually physically alters your brain chemistry. Brain scans of infatuated lovers, scientists have discovered, look remarkably similar to the brain scans and mood swings of cocaine addicts, with measurable chemical effects on the brain. And just like any junkie, infatuated lovers will go to unhealthy, humiliating, and even physically dangerous lengths to procure their narcotic. (PUA community this one is for you). Some anthropologists argue, she continues, that the human species needs infatuation as a reproductive tool in order to keep us reckless enough to risk the hazards of pregnancy so that we can constantly replenish our ranks.

Gilbert talks about infatuation in the context of relationships, but I would take it a step further. I think Life ADD, or the need for change, is also an addiction. For me at least, finding something new is the same thing as finding someone new. It feels good, tastes good; it gets you high. But the problem with this is two fold. When it comes to that something, jumping around from one thing to another like a finicky cheshire cat in heat means you never actually get anywhere. The knowledge you build may be broad but it remains limited, and it prohibits life building (that steady climb to material and financial success).

When it comes to love, Gilbert concludes, infatuation is not quite the same thing; “it’s more like love’s shady second cousin who’s always borrowing money and can’t hold down a job”. When you become infatuated with somebody, you’re not really looking at that person; you’re just captivated by your own reflection, intoxicated by a dream of completion that you have projected on a virtual stranger. Narcissistic love.

So what’s the solution? I don’t think that I’m ever going to get rid of my Life ADD completely. Life without passion, without curiosity, without change is pretty dog gone boring, and I think most people would admit to that. But the thing about any drug is that it must be used in moderation. The feeling of completion that it offers is just an illusion. If you shoot up on a new relationship, a new place, or person, or thing today—tomorrow is going to feel just as hollow (worse because you are with a hangover!). This is superficial love; self love.

So ok. I admit it. I have life ADD. I am an addict. This is the first step, I assume, on the long road to recovery.

When time was young

First - I have to give a huge shout out to blogger for offering a new blog designer app. for this website. I have been struggling for weeks trying to tweak the background, text color, and other layout elements of my blog, with rather poor results. When I logged in today they were highlighting this feature, and within 30 minutes I accomplished what it took me two weeks of failed attempts to do; beautify my Den. So thanks!

Second - I just stumbled on some old photos that my brother had tucked away. These little gems deserve the spotlight, so I'm posting them here.

Cabin four runners. My brothers and I (center) explore our New Mexico mountain playground.

Early 90's I think. Oooo the clothes. I am sporting the awesome purple jump suit.

Carey Johnson, my grand father in his naval Uniform.

Carey on right, building the family empire. Go 60's!

This young vixen is my grandmother posing for a theatrical performance.

And the great Leslie Leonidas Johnson, LLJ, from whom I take my name, baptist missionary in Brazil for a solid 39 years.

Site Under Construction

Excuse the mess, I'm just looking for new ways to spoof up my Den. I've been experimenting with blogger templates and backgrounds. So far nothing seems to be working. Apparently the HTML script has been written simply to piss me off and waste my precious time. But whatever, let's see how things turn out.

A little bit on hair...

When I first landed in Salvador da Bahia two years ago there was much take in. Apart from the brilliant pastel colored buildings, the rapturous smell of the sea, or the intense and varied rhythm of life in Brazil’s original capital, what struck me most was just how African this new world colony was. From the blocos afros (African drum groups) of the historical center, the spicy palm tree oil cuisine, to the worship of various Yoruba and Nago deities, Salvador is a city mixed and proud—a heady cosmopolitan vortex of Portuguese and West African influences.

When you travel, great joy can be found in simple things, like the way a chilled coconut tastes by moonlight, or the sticky feeling of wet sand as it slips between your toes. In Bahia, when your eyes are new, unaccustomed to the shrill color of fresh experience, there are many things that stand out, including how people dress, dance, and fix their hair.

In terms of hairstyle, Salvador is a city where you can see just about everything, from braids, to curls, natural locks, updos, weaves, dreads, to the now popular cabelo black—where people let out their hair to its full voluminous potential. A current favorite in the city is where girls part their natural hair to one side, pin a flower on the part, and fro out the rest. Like the people in this city, hair in Salvador is at once beautiful, varied, and uncompromisingly creative.

Of the many hairstyles I have come to appreciate, nothing has mystified me more than my girlfriend’s hair. Left to its own devices, her hair is striking—short dark curls that stretch just below her chin. Generally she gravitates between keeping it natural in the hot summer months, to putting it in braids during the rainy winter season.

Recently, I got a chance to see how the braiding takes place, when two stylists dropped by to fix up her hair. From my perspective the process looks tortuous—a kind of hair lobotomy that can last from 6 to 8 hours.

It all begins with buying the synthetic hair at a local shop, which is imported from the US and can cost up to 50 dollars depending on the quality. This can be quite a lot of money considering that the minimum wage in Bahia is around 350 dollars a month. Colors range from black, brown, gold, to more extravagant blues, reds, and rainbow hues.

From the beginning the experience is tedious, generally demanding two braiders and a great deal of patience. The hairdressers begin by weaving the natural hair into fine braids, and then selectively attaching one section of fiber at a time.

The material of the braids ranges in size and thickness, and the style of braiding is equally diverse. Often, braids on the top of the head are shaped into intricate patterns, and the bottom half left to swing freely.

While the session is indeed long and grueling, it amazed me how fast these hairdressers could work, their hands whipping through the patterns in a concentrated blur.

By the end of the session, everyone is tired. My girlfriend downs a few pain meds to ease the dull throb of an oncoming headache, but smiles at the results of her new hair. It may not be completely natural, she notes, but is a welcome change to the chemical treatments that she used in the past. As for me, all I can do is smile, and think about how this place can, at best, award one for spontaneity, for creativity, and for embracing a beauty that is all your own. Whether synthetic or natural, frizzed, braided, or locked, the point is to be happy with who you are, and to find that inner confidence to shine – through your own sense of style – on the outside and beyond. Living in this city; watching the steady parade of styles, this is something that I continue to love and to learn.