Um...Holla!

Hello you crazy cats of auto customization, you sultry souls of vehicular refinery, welcome to yet another addition of Pimp My Ride. Today, we’re bringing it to you live, not from the L.A. projects or the Big A’s urban sprawl, but from the little known outlands of back alley Oklahoma. It is here, with crescent wrench in hand, that were going to take one man’s sad little Neon, and turn it into a shiny new whip, a “brand new ride”.

So, without further a due, meet your host, mechanic, and recipient of today’s show -- Leo.
Leo hails from a long line of car detailers and traders, who’ve selected and sold such fine vehicles as the Volks Station Wagon, the Cargo Van, the Barby Beach Cruiser, the John Deer Mower, and many other finely listed farm and utility vehicles.

Today, Leo is going to show us what it means to be cool (minus the cool), and how to turn a not so sexy stock car into a formula one roadway fighter. Let’s watch:

First, you need a can of spray paint.
Next, for application purposes, a small roll of duck tape and some cardboard.

Before this, however, it is recommended to give the car a good soak, scrub, wax & wash.

Then, after everything is prepared, you need to stare into a camera and do this:

And this:

$50 dollars and a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken later, with a little seat cover, steering wheel mount, and a contact juggling ball, your car can look like this:

Plus some banging speakers and:

Bam!


Your ride is pimped!

I'd just like to take this moment to say, this is what happens when you get bored in Oklahoma.

Um...holla!

Off and Away

Well, I have returned. I sit in the same attic crawlspace from which my journey first began. My last few days in Brazil were incredible—Rio being the finale, and the true icing on the cake. In my final hours, I held hands with a monolithic Christ, I jumped off a nine hundred foot cliff, and I gave way to passion on a stormy beach until the rising of the next day sun. It was just as sweet as I intended it to be.

It is very strange to be back. I could list a thousand things which I notice more acutely now. The cars are so big, the people and the food equally so. Everything seems so clean, so neat, so ordered. It’s nice, to be able to sit back and relax, not having to focus intently on what people are saying or who is going to rob me.

What strikes me as strangest of all, however, is not how different everything is, but just how unchanged life has remained. I was only gone for four months, four measly little months, and yet I feel so different. Everything in Oklahoma, in the States, has remained in its place. My parents are here, the same people, working hard on the same daily things. My stuff lies unaffected, unmoved, if not for a bit of dust now collected on the rim. My car, my life, it is exactly how I left it, trapped in a bubble of static momentum.

And yet, amidst this regularity, amidst this collection of familiar things, I strangely feel somewhat foreign. I feel different than the person that left from this space—more full and more alive, like Dorothy stepping out of the whirlwind wondering where her Kansas had gone. My hair is ruffled, and my clothes torn yet everything else remains unchanged.

But this is a good feeling, and for me it reaffirms the necessity of such a trip. Having lived and breathed OZ, I return excited about my life, and confident in my ability to navigate through it. In less than a month I will be heading off to Washington D.C. I want to start up Kendo again. I want to continue working out at the gym. I want to save up for a motorcycle, get back into school, land myself a good job. I want to live and breathe the randomness of life.

For this adventure, and all that is to come, I am very grateful. For all you people who helped me get there, and who have lived with me on this journey—my heartfelt thanks. As one page ends, another begins, and I hope we continue to travel together on this great adventure.

These pictures speak for themselves:

Morning Thoughts

I woke up today staring up at the ceiling. My dreams were in English, the setting a world apart. Seeing the slanted red tile and the wood framing far above me, as my eyes slowly began to focus, it was only then that I remembered I was in Brazil.

I sit now in a tiny pousada room in the ocean village of Barra do Juco. A weed whacker is buzzing outside. The ocean breeze, carried not fifty meters off the beach, is playfully brushing my back. I’m listening to Afro Celt and methodically tonguing my teeth, hoping to dislodge the pieces bread affixed to my gums after my café de manha.

It feels good to write again. I got busy working on an article over the last few weeks, but it was all labor and no fun. I do prefer the freedom of my own thoughts, and the liberty to move in any direction as I descend the page. How fun it is to be the vessel through which other minds move.

Salvador passed behind me three days ago. The sweltering heat and constant hum of traffic was easily left behind; the pastel edifices, the friends and newly won familiarities were not. The hardest disconnection broke in my girlfriends eyes, when her delicate tears dropped from her face to the cold tile patterns of the bus station floor. All of life transitory, I reminded myself, all of it falls and passes on. Yet, even in this verity, I felt the sting of sadness as I turned my back and walked away. For the beauty that she shared with me, and the weighty reaffirmation that life is indeed worth living, I silently thanked her. Her smile and soft comforts will safely be guarded as little treasures, and the memories cherished and upheld as the best part of my trip.

As I get up and traverse each new day, the face of this country continues to change for me. It has moved from the once called undiscovered country—a heady and exotic place—to something a bit more mundane and close to reality. After four months, my Portuguese remains fairly basic. I am able to converse, to make jokes, flirt, and get by that which I need to get by. I lack wit and depth of thought, but have earned myself a voice. With this acquisition, and the constant realities I face in the day, I have begun to pick apart that which I expected would be and that which is.

Brazil is a beautiful country. The land is vast and green, the people given to a million shades. People love to sing here. They love to hold hands and kiss and live in the present moment. They are an emotional kind, and they drive, dance, and revel in this way. If you like sun and conversation, charged energy and a patriotic spirit, this is the country for you. To enjoy yourself, you must learn to deal with frustration. You must come to accept the failings of a clumsy bureaucracy. You must expect long lines at the bank, crowds and over flowing busses, beggars and street kids around every corner. You must hold tightly to your cell phone and your wallet, watch hungry looks and dark corners, and pray to god that random of violence and criminality does not strike at you.

We speak of freedom in the United States, freedom from oppression, freedom of religion, freedom from poverty. Living in Brazil, in a society which I believe is in fact much more free, I have come to understand that a great deal of our beloved liberty is born of control. People worry less here about the should of’s and have to’s. Stand or climb on what you will, no frivolous lawsuit will come to weigh you down. Signs, rules, direction, these are simply recommendations. Safety is a personal matter, and responsibility a choice. Sell what you want, even if it is copyrighted, build where you will, rob who you must. Here one can speak of greater independence.

In the end, freedom is choice, and will, and at its most unfettered level—chaos—opposing agendas and needs scrambling for gratification. Here you have less control, but more fear. Freedom of space yet more gates. Lovely liberated chaos. I suppose that which is better remains a personal choice. It’s just too bad that we don’t call our stars and stripes “freedom” for what it really is. Control can be a good thing, yet why all the pretenses?

But I digress. I only have about nine days left in Brazil. Before long, I will be in Oklahoma, back to the beautiful sunsets, waking up and wondering if it was all just a dream. Today I’ve got a meeting with the translation professor who lives in town. I’ll probably hit the beach, eat something fried, and drink some Skol. Barra do Juco is like a little surfing Mecca. My pousada is actually called the Koala Surf Motel and the owner’s son is a national champion. Life for me here is all about adventure, and I think I’m going to try and pick up some lessons from him. Then I’ll be off to Rio de Janeiro in a few days. Hang gliding off the giant rock domes is a city pastime, and if it’s not to expensive, I’m going to have to check that off the list.

In lue of more words, here are some random pictures to keep the kids entertained.

Hissss....growl....aggggg. I had a lot of interesting photos ready to post, but the damn upload isn't working on this comp. My apologies. I only got two out.

(Me and Taisa at the zoo. Who was the animal was questionable.)

(Just a short stroll from my pousada yielded this view. The city of Vitoria is to the right, just out of camera range. The place is like California with beach and mountains. It's really quite stunning.)

For your viewing pleasure

Here's a little more slivers of life from Brazil. I don't have much time to write at the moment, nor the discipline to, considering I'm working on other stuff, so the pictures will have to suffice.

(Everyone welcome Sheila to my blog. Say hi Sheila. )

(Sneaked this shot during my last class at Idioma)

(See look, I really do study!)

(This wouldn't be me and Tai at a tattoo shop would it?)

(This wouldn't be me getting more ink would it? I didn't think so!)

(Enjoying the new apartment...more pictures coming later)

(I've decided that if I don't have enough money to travel, at least I'm going to get to know this city. I will be making day excursions to popular sites around Salvador, from here on in. This is the famous Campo Grande Square.)

(This is me by the elevator that connects the cidade embaixo to the old part of town.)

(And this is a view from the ever glorious Pelourinho. I've seen it many times and it still takes my breath away.)

Crap...I'm spending a s*#t ton on the hotel internet. Will have to send more along later. Cheers!

Breaking the Bank

There is one problem concerning Brazil that I didn’t necessarily anticipate when first planning for this trip. No it’s not that the fact that the food is incredibly salt laden, or that everyone owns yapper dogs for the sole purpose of breaking me of my sanity. It’s not the daily annoyance of people asking for my money, or the unavoidable discomfort of public transport. Nay, these things I can deal with. These things are quite minor.

What really vexes me, irks me, and ruffles my feathers, is just how expensive everything is here. When I first visited Brazil back in 03, the dollar rained supreme—a testament to the empire-strikes-back resilience of the American economy. But now, with strain of military defense spending – as things move closer and closer to the shit house – my proud American greens aren’t holding up quite so strongly. The conversion rate steadily approaches 2 reais to every dollar—a marked increase from years past. This doesn’t look to bad, at first glance, but often merchandise and food here cost twice as many reais. All things considered, one ends up with a level playing field, and no advantage is afforded to my first world monetary status.

To make matters worse, my position within this Brazilian household continues to negatively influence my spending. Access to my host family kitchen is all but restricted, even when I offer to pay for utilities or gas. Every now and again, I’m able to heat up a plate of pasta, or nuke something in the microwave, but not without earning dirty looks from the “true” members of the household. Meals out have thus been so much easier, all too convenient and stress free. But as much as I’ve tried to avoid the really expensive places, eating out every day has taken its toll.

Now add my lifestyle variables to the mix, and one has a solid equation for instant poverty. Cell phone + over priced minute plan + pricy language school + girlfriend + weekly fieldtrips + lots of beer + living expenses + no income = a quick end to my money. And I do mean quick. Staring at my bank account yesterday, with my mouth hanging agape and tears in my eyes, I realized that a six month stay in Brazil just won’t be possible. Not only that, but three full months of language study would be equally impractical.

So it was with an empty purse in mind, and a need for hard and fast budgeting, that I put an end to the two most expensive things in my life: school and housing. Most students study at the school for two weeks, maybe three at most, and my plan for a full three months of courses was perhaps a bit unrealistic. Also, looking at my host stay bill, after doing a bit of research, I realized that renting an apartment would be in fact much cheaper. And in truth, I have become a bit fed up with my restricted freedoms within the house, and my family’s lack of desire to involve me in anything that they do (among other things).

So all together, this weeks book keeping has threatened a marked change in my lifestyle. With the aid of Taisa, who has been really quite incredible in helping me find a place of my own, I should soon acquire a Bahian apartment. And now that school is coming to a close, I will have more time on my hands and will be looking for work—volunteer or otherwise. Unfortunately, my basic Portuguese and “tourist” visa status will be my greatest roadblocks, for any work of the paid kind. My original plan was to do some volunteer work after school, and actually I have some great possibilities in that regard (more on that later), but I would to say the least prefer and income, with real money coming in! Just something to get me through the full six months anyway.

Aside from all of these business issues, and my now constant fear of becoming a street beggar asking for a centavo, just one centavo, I have really begun to enjoy my life here in Brazil. I feel a constant fulfillment by the fact that this reality is mine, that I made this trip happen through sheer will and force of my own. Before I left for Oklahoma, when I was living out my time in Michiganian purgatory, one of the main complaints that I had about my life was that I never “got out in the world”. Seeing the same old high school friends, the same old places, I felt like a failure for not having taken the initiative to get out there and live my own adventure. Now, I walk by a beautiful otherworldly beach everyday. I see the sway of the palm trees, and watch the movement of this strange place pass before me. And when I do, I have to thank myself—myself and the other the people that made this happen. I pat myself on the back and say, “Good job Aaron. Leo. Here you are. You did it. You’re living out your own adventure, and no one will ever be able to take this from you.”

However much time I am blessed with in Brazil, even if I am destined to return home early, or lose myself here for all time, I can at least come away with this feeling. That something beautiful steadily rose out of so much sadness, and that this, and this alone, is my own adventure.

Here are some complimentary pics of pre Carnival preparation, fun with the maids, and Taisa, Kazu, and I at the Barra beach drinking Skol and being happy:

(Getting ready to hit the streets, Carnival style)

(Gringo's are from Mars, Brazilians are from Venus)

(I walk by this mysterious little building on my way to school. I think it's abandoned and oh so creepy. )

(Hmm...upgrades. Taisa and I getting some sun.)

(This picture made me realize how white I had again become. It prompted me to hit the beach for three days in a row. I ham happy to report that I no longer look like a marshmellow.)

(There's nothing more classic than a Skol, the king of "bem geladas".)

(The facial expressions say it all.)

(I love this picture not for the overly passionate kiss, but for the gringo in the back ground staring at us doing it.)

(Shadow of the farol)

(My eye. Why I attach it here I'm not quite sure.)

Just some comings and goings...

I’m afraid that I’m still a bit burnt out from Carnival to want to write at length about it. Let me just say that it was massive, intense, an “explosão de cor e alegria” as promised by the citizens of Bahia. Highlights of my festival week include being steps away from Bono of U2, who partied it up near the Barra point lighthouse; getting waved at by Gilberto Gil, the famed musician and now minister of culture of Brazil; and finding, on one occasion, my now quasi girlfriend Tai amidst a crowd of millions. All romantic moments to be sure.

I wore a pair of light black and grey sneakers throughout the week, along with some polyester pants that I bought for Capoeira. They now occupy a dark corner of my room. Considering their present state, I’m thinking of throwing them away. They’re almost to dirty to look at or ever wear again. I would feel the same way if not for a week of showers and intense rest.

Strangely, after a month and a half of struggling through awkward moments and confused states, life here is beginning to become, of all things, normal. Getting this city wired, becoming adjusted to this new planet, this was really the first thing on my agenda. Figuring out where the buses run, how to pull cash out the bank, how to order out, these mundane tasks now slide past me with relative ease. I don’t have to go about my day sweating the small things, wondering how to communicate and interact with the world around me. It’s a relief to be sure, but also in a way a little less exciting.

My nights out have also definitely begun to diminish, as I continue slowly to dig myself into a routine. I am now content with staying home to watch a good movie on my laptop or to get some much needed rest. Aside from doing some writing, and working on a new tattoo that I’ve had in mind, the last few days have been quite free and uneventful. I took breakfast and lunch in the house, and went outside for walks every now and again. I’ve done some studying, some reading, and not much else. I feel like such an old man.

Last night, I headed out to the Rio Vermelho district to celebrate the birthday of my friend Sheila. The central praça of the neighborhood is just off the beach where a number of city streets converge. A small yellow church angled towards the main road divides the square into asymmetrical parts. Bars of varying quality line the edge, and large acarajé booth of famed appeal sits in the center. People come from all around to sample the fried shrimp and pepper laden dish made there. We sat just behind the booth at a small white plastic table, drinking cold beer and readying ourselves for cake and light conversation.

Arriving a tad bit early, I scanned the crowd for Tai and Kazu, anxious for them meet my friends and give Sheila her proper birthday dues. I had invited them earlier that day to come join in the fun. When I arrived, I brought with me a birthday cake substitute—a small donut covered in chocolate sprinkles with a pink candle on top. I was unsure whether the customary delicacy was going to be provided, and had to scramble around to various supermercados looking for something similar. Candles also proved hard to find, and I ended up with one that had the number three carved in wax on top of it. But hey, who doesn’t like to feel younger on their birthday.

Tai arrived just minutes after I sat down. As usual, her feminine charm resolved unremorsefully to take my breath away. She wore a delicately laced low cut top, a jean skirt, and cute little black shoes that drew more height to her walk. Large sea shell earrings dangled and swayed from her ears as she approached me in the crowd. The soft line of her chin and the wayward smile between were enough to invite supple kisses then and throughout the night. With her light voice playing in my ears, and with glasses raised and sweets to pass, I certainly didn’t want for lack of good company.

Having missed the last runs of city transport, I slept at Kazu’s lofty apartment that night. The view from his 20th floor balcony was incredible, offering vastly different images at dark and in the morning. With my head turned to the left I could just catch a glimpse of the breaking waters of the sea, either black or azure depending on the time of day. Following the skyline outward, endless shantytowns and apartment high rises came into view, with green space and concrete jungles weeding in between them. Black and white sidewalk stones patterned the rest of the ground. It was awe inspiring.

In the morning, I was woken by, what else, a boisterous informal football game being played out many floors below. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I spied the players moving briskly on a faded concrete court beside the apartment building. Most were bare foot, and all seemed intensely interested in what they were doing.

More later...

A Den of Thieves

2-18-06

I learned a very important lesson this last week—one that I dare not forget as Salvador approaches its season of madness. Soon, hundreds of thousands of people will take to the streets, yearning to brush of their inhibitions, their constraints of everyday life. For a week and a half, all business will come to a grinding halt, as people come together to celebrate the largest most extravagant party in the world. I went to the festa Itapua last week, and experienced but a little taste of this unbound alegria. With danger, drama, and adventura, it’s a story worthy of a least one good telling. Please excuse the grammatical errors and lack of flow. I really didn’t have much time to work on it, and even had to skip my homework for a couple of nights to get it done.


* * *


Tap, tap, tap. The sound was faint, almost inaudible. Leo sat typing furiously away on his laptop, lost to his thoughts, his work, in the corner of his host family room. Hunched over a small glass topped desk, little beyond his own deliberation registered in his head.

Knock, knock, knock. Sullen and ignored, the sound came again, this time more insistent. More out of instinct than a willful desire to know who was rapping, Leo slowly moved his head toward the sound.

“Quem é?” he yelled, perhaps a little rougher than intended.

“Ninginha. Posso entrar?” The voice was muffled behind a heavy wood door, but carried just far enough to justify the interruption.

“Pode, clado!” he replied, now fully in the room and away from his thoughts.

Slowly, the thinly framed twenty seven year old maid popped her head in door—the rest of her scurried in after. She greeted the estrangeiro with a smile, not in the least bit apologetic for having interrupted his work. She wore short cutoffs and a red bikini top, clearly not the typical work day uniform.

“Voce quer sair para a festa?” she said, her smile widening.

He looked at her and paused. God, he thought, how many parties can a single town have. The last few weeks had been a madhouse of revelry for the young tourist, looking to study and live in Brazil. Each time his head obstinately gravitated toward a pillow, some grandeous festa or back alley party was declared. The smallest sign, providential or not, could spark these events. If your cat died, good, throw a party. Find a six pack of Skol hiding in the back of your refrigerator, fine, throw another. This was Brazil, and Salvador moreover, where social-celebrations were simply a way of life.

“Errr…uh…talvez…uh…maybe” he replied, staring up at the ceiling. “Qual festa é?”

“Festa Itapua” she said curtly. He thought about it for a second. It didn’t ring a bell.

He stared at her, back at his work, then back at her once more. Ah, what the hell, he thought, life’s short and opportunity doesn’t come a knockin’ everyday.

“Sim, estou vou” he answered, giving her the obligatory thumbs up, registering in the affirmative. She laughed quickly, turned on her heals, and ran out the door, happy to have enlisted a companion.

Within minutes, after a quick change of clothes and shower, they were both on their way out the door. Leo assumed his favored party dress: low hanging board shorts with a side pocket for cash, a sleeveless tee, and sandals. The only jewelry he wore was a tightly bound silver chain hooked around is neck. It was common for Brazilian men sport these, even in the best of crowds, so little worry was afforded.

As they began to head out the door Ninginha started singing, her sandals wrapped against the pavement in time. Very typical of Bahiana, she knew a host of popular tunes—the present day classics, sung at all hours throughout the city. Afrodisiaco, Ivete, Timbilada, there wasn’t a moment where some stereo, speaker, or passerby celebrated these artists and their showcase tunes. At the larger festas, giant semi-trucks called trio elétricos – rigged with thousands of watts of sound equipment and a band on top – would parade down the street, playing these and other favorites at extremely high volumes. A bloco would follow behind, where paying customers would dance and sing, secured behind a roped off area as the semi crept along. Those outside of the roped area were known as pipoca, or popcorn, jammed as it were in the thousands, struggling to catch a glimpse of the band and its followers.

Ninginha and Leo, wide-eyed and energetic, climbed on the bus that would take them to Itapua. Stepping onto the large vehicle, paying the 1.70 centavos, squeezing through turn-style—this routine proved common and casual for them both, despite the precarious rollercoaster ride promised ahead. Before long, the bus began to creep behind a long line of traffic as it neared the festival site. Eager to head into the mix, Leo grabbed Ninginha’s hand and led her off the bus onto the sidewalk beside the road. She motioned to a street vendor, where she bought chicklets and cigarettes for the walk ahead.

“Vai em frente” she said, pointing towards the beachside avenue and the large mass of people gyrating beside. The road extended far beyond her outstretched arm, farther than the eye could see. Trio elétricos paraded amidst a swirling throng of people dancing, singing, giving themselves to the gods of passion and revelry. Ninginha tapped the wide eyed gringo on the shoulder, laughed, and then began to maker her way into the crowd.

Walking along the beach front, their rubber sandals trampled through pools of water, trash, and an incalculable number of feet. Bloco groups danced far ahead, swirling like a mass of stirred up confetti. Accustomed to the monotony of smaller places, Leo marveled at the diversity of the humans twirling before him. They reminded him of points of light in a large galaxy, each star, each person revealing its own unique shape and brilliance within a greater pattern.

Making his way around street vendors and dançarinos, Leo’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sharp pain to his backside. Turning his head, he caught a glimpse of a smiling girl standing behind him, brandishing her hand in front of her like an impromptu weapon. He returned the smile, surprised by the random pinch, and continued on his way. Before long, his thoughts and progress were yet again interrupted by a pinch to his bottom. Two pinches turned into three, and three into ten—each by a separate woman. What the hell is going on, he thought, taken aback by the unabashedly forward behavior. I’ve never seen anything like this, even at other festas.

Clued into the strangeness of it all, Leo’s eyes began to focus more acutely. Looking at the crowd, it suddenly dawned on him that he was the only light skinned person there—the only tourist, gringo, non-resident and non-Brazilian. Everyone around him was dark or tan, a testament to the cities ill repute as the largest slave port in Brazil. With blue eyes, highlighted hair, and fairer skin, he stood out as an irregularity, an abnormality, a point of exoticism for the darker ladies of the crowd.

Well that explains the nips, he surmised.

Walking further down the street, Leo and Ninginha had to take more care as they picked their way along. The great stands of people became thicker and thicker, until all but standing room was allowed. Holding a hand, shoulder, or anything to keep from being separated, they slowly continued onward, sometimes stopping for minutes in places where the cross traffic became to busy.

“Vai em frente!” Ninginha yelled, urging Leo onward, raising her sing song voice in an attempt to somehow be heard over the din of the music.

“Praonde!?” he replied. There was nowhere to go.

Just as the crowd began to gain further weight, things started to get crazy. Fights began to break out in random areas, over a push, a hard look, whatever. People were getting hit in the face with full beer cans chucked randomly into the crowd. As soon as violence erupted, the surrounding group of people would move desperately to get out of the way, pushing, shoving, and kicking their way forward. Lines of military police wearing camo and carrying thick black nightsticks shoved their way toward each fight, often breaking it up with a hard and swift justice of their own. Thieves, combatants, and bystanders caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, were aggressively pulled away, bloodied by their own exchanges or their run in with the cops.

The festas music rose, the crowd sang louder, everyone seemed to become increasingly agitated. Fiercely shoved from side to side, Leo began to get scared. He knew this wasn’t safe, wasn’t normal. He knew he had to get out of there.

Looking desperately around, he realized that the only exit was past a large trio electrico moving slowly down the street. People were jumping and slamming into one another next to it, their screams drown out by the large speakers below the band. They truly did look like popcorn as the Brazilian word described.

Grabbing Ninginha’s hand and shoving her face into his chest, Leo tried earnestly to move his way through the crowd. Another fight broke out beside them and they were both almost knocked down. In a place like this, getting thrown to the ground could be the end. Adrenaline pumped through Leo’s veins as he pulled her onward.

As they neared the side of the semi-trailer, Leo began to feel hands searching forcefully around his clothes. One in particular, thrust from behind, tried to open the zipper pocket of his shorts. With all his might he grabbed the hand and squeezed, hoping the pain and his knowledge of it would deter the crime. The hand retracted and Leo turned around, trying to find his assailant. A thousand faces stared blankly at him.

Looking ahead, he could see the end of the route just steps away. The crowd thinned there, offering a potential escape. Out of the blue, a strong hand grabbed his necklace from behind, pulling his head sharply backward. Leo turned around, ready for a fight, but again was met by a sea of innocent faces. Turning around one last time, the hand quickly found him. With one violent tug, his neck was squeezed inward, and he could feel the necklace break away. Acting instinctively, he grabbed the silver chain and lunged forward, breaking contact with the thief from behind. Eyes open and enraged, he turned around to meet the assailant. He followed the hand this time, and was ready to take someone down. Just as he began to move, a sharp crack broke his concentration. To his utter surprise, a police line was right behind him. A jet black bludgeon quickly descended, finding the man before he did.

The man’s face broke open, and blood flew everywhere. His tough visage quickly turned from resolve to terror, as he was grabbed around the neck and dragged away. Wasting no more time, Leo seized Ninginha’s hand and pulled her away from the sweat of the crowd. He shoved the broken necklace into his pocket, and quickly got the hell out of there.

Away from the danger and noise, sitting himself next a well lit restaurant, he began to settle down. Ninginha took a slow drag on a half crushed cigarette and laughed at him.

“Porque voce é muito nervoso?” she asked.

“Porque?” his brow furled. This had to be the most ridiculous question in the world.

“Esta é normal”, she calmly said, “e Carnaval é pior.”

Carnival is worse, he thought, she must be joking!

Before he had a chance to answer, she grabbed his hand and began to move away. But two eye winks later, they were yet again on a city bus, hoping for safe passage through the sprawl of the city. Leo felt a bit tired, but was happy to have lived through the experience. Later that night, he learned from a Brazilian friend that most locals heartily avoid festa Itapua. “It has a reputation for petty crime and violence”, his friend had flatly stated, “and at least a handful of people die there every year.”

Wiping the sweat of his brow, once again animated and smiling, Leo took the info in with a shrug. What better way, he thought, to witness the madness and unabashed foolery of some human beings. And in the least, he surmised, it all had the makings of a good story.


* * *

When I left the festival that night, with my energy drained from the stress and the movement, I was a bit disgusted with the hostility and bloodshed. Actually, I was more disgusted with the empathy towards these things than with the things themselves. For Ninginha to see the thievery and violence as normal and customary spoke volumes to me. Yes, people were drinking. Yes, some criminality was to be expected, but in such extremes? Was this part and parcel to the more destructive elements pervading Brazilian culture, inhibiting its movement and progression into the Ordem e Progresso that the flag so optimistically promised?

I didn’t have answers to these things, only more questions.

Traveling home on the bus, feeling more comfortable as I put distance between myself and Itapua, I experienced yet another episode that was so characteristically Brazilian. Just as we pulled away from the festival site, two musicians entered the bus—one carrying some kind of mandolin and the other a drum. Before a word passed between them, they gave their audience a sly smile. The mandolin was strummed, the drum beaten, and lively song began to issue from both of their mouths. Niginha immediately took up their cry, beating her feet against the metal baseboards of the bus in time with the music. Two girls behind me joined in the singing, then three others, then four. Before I knew it the whole bus began to play.

Whatever negative emotions remained after the festival melted swiftly away. I began to beat an empty beer can against the seat in front of me, amazed at how happy everyone seemed. Here was a group of complete strangers, united by a singular desire—to sing and be joyful, to join in songs born to the city, known exclusively by its residents.

As I continued to sing, I was overwhelmed by a feeling that this was Brazil—mixed and proud. A society of bottled violence and alegria, where happiness and despair, poverty and riches could live side by side. This feeling lasted but a moment, yet somehow, I knew I would find it again. I knew I would find more textures of this strange and beautiful land.

Tasting it once, my eyes were now open, and I knew more would come to me.

A little bit of love, a little bit of game

2-14-06

It’s Valentines Day, so what better subject to write upon then:

Ahhh, the single life. Affirmations of my liberated status have begun to manifest in a number of ways. First came the personal changes: an increased desire to work out, a new cell phone, a bitchin’ new haircut. In the competitive din of bachelorism, peacocking and communicative prowess is a must. Then came an introduction to the more subtle arts, where the eyes become open to body language, the mind receptive to demeanor, and the interaction masculine yet playful.

Become a strong yet sensitive alpha male, and one will win hearts. Learn to tease, learn when to become scarce and when to give a girl your full attention, learn to never let a stranger have control over your own self-worth, learn to always approach indirectly, learn to calculate every single that you do. There is truth to these things, and I have opened myself to it. Here in Brazil, it’s beginning to pay off.

Friday I scheduled a first date with the ever jovial and youthfully exuberant Tai, the so called “10” that I met in Pelourinho. I first spied her dancing at the far end of a crowd, sweating to the heated rhythms of a live samba band. She was the kind of girl that every man drools over, with a lithe feminine physic, long dark hair that cascaded over her back, and eyes—such large entrancing eyes that could make you forget your time and place in the world. I spotted her dancing, getting hit on by random passerbies, and I tried not to stare. Tried and failed. After breaking my trance, I put my head down, dancing, trying to forget about her all together. But we were two planets caught in each others enormity, meant to lose our own space and collide together in fire. When I pulled my head up again, not two minutes later, I noticed that her and her friend where dancing right next to me. I knew immediately that this was premeditated, my proximity alarming firing, telling me to move in closer. Slyly, and with little hesitation, I moved into her friend’s space, asking her in broken Portuguese if she knew the name of the band playing, and the type of dance everyone was swinging to. Yes, I played the curious gringo card, and it worked in good form.

It turned out that both of them spoke English. To my surprise, Tai had lived in Michigan for a year, finishing up high school in a foreign exchange program. When I told her I was from Michigan, her eyes lit up like a swarm of fireflies. Both of them cooed and I knew I was in. I used the following couple of hours to build rapport and social proof, running back and forth to my buds in the crowd, to Tai and her friend, solidifying the fact that I wasn’t weird, I wasn’t needy, and that other people liked me.

Let me take a quick moment to say that I really kind of detest the game. I would much prefer to stroll down the simple road, the “Hi my name is Dick”, and “Hi my name is Jane”, and “Let’s fall in love over coffee or tea.” I would much prefer small doses of sweet sincerity, where everyone is straight, innocent, and there is no push, or pull, or tug. But herein lies the great irony of modern dating, a truth I have found in my short time at play. In order to gain the attraction of the opposite sex, you much initially pretend as if you don’t want to. You much challenge and intrigue the person, hooking them in a world of unpredictable, challenging, and intriguing sites and sounds.

Those that do not open their eyes to these things, to the intense complexities of the male female interaction, are destined to remain on the sidelines. Those that do not accept the challenge, and play the game, however far from ideal that it may be, are destined to isolation, to twiddling thumbs and playing video games. True, people do tire of the game, but I would uphold that with marriage, a new game simply emerges. The rules are slightly different but the principles remain the same.

So there I was Friday night, sitting across the table from a gorgeous girl—petitioned to be a model, by the way, always extra points—praying that I wouldn’t screw things up too badly. It was after all my first date in like seven years. From the get go, I started things off super playful, busting her balls (ackkk, weird expression!) about being late, and how I would remove fingers if it happened in the future. Immediately I could tell that she was into me. She lifted her left hand constantly, playing with her hair, and displaying the undersides of her wrists (a big sign in the body language world). I took her out for a drink at the Caranguejo de Sergipe, then on to an Italian place for meatless pizza, as she is a vegetarian. We had a lot in common, and she laughed at my jokes—one of the most important factors in my book. She was intelligent, a law student, with a penchant for adventure and a love for dirty funk Brazilian songs. Hehe, two thumbs up.

We finished the night by folding our paper placemats into little boats, and then setting them free into the salty waters of the Bay of all Saints. I got hit by a large wave and was soaked from the calves down. The night finished with, what else, a beautiful lingering kiss, which I cut off just as things started to get interesting. Push, pull. Push, pull.

Our second date was more the same, albeit with vastly increased doses of kissing in public places. This is, I have come to find, a very Brazilian thing to do. It’s almost as informal as a handshake and no one else around seems notice. As usual, I was determined to immerse myself in the cultural peculiarities of my new country, and with little hesitation I might add.

The date ended with a conversation about ownership, boyfriend-girlfriend status, and the necessity of maintaining singleship prior to carnival. This, again, is rather normal. People want a guilt free holiday.

I got back to the apartment around 9:00, and by 10:00 was out on the town with another group of girls. I’m rather interested in one of them, a small spit fire of a lady that has the tendency to slap men for the simple joy of seeing them in pain. I think I’ve received six or seven of them by now.

Ahhh, the single life.

Happy Valentines Day all.

(Valentines Day me)

More good times...

Ahhh, good journal of mine. How I so neglect you. So many white pages, so many spaces left unfilled. Forgive me for my absence, my long belated embrace. Life beckons and my attention falls on other things. I have been out of the house almost every single night these last two weeks. What extra time I do have is usually spent on my homework for class, and I’m often too wiped out when I get home to do anything but fall asleep. I’ve had too much sun, too much beer, and enough new experiences to fill a small lifetime.

The sun rises early here. Despite the often late hour that my head hits the pillow, I usually wake up around six in the morning. Salvador is a place that is mercilessly loud, and if not for the rays of sun that touch my head, I am often roused by the urban concerto breaking open outside. Like many great operas, it begins simply, with a single note—but a drawn out whisper. Then, with time, force, and will, the harmony gains in complexity, taking on a life of its own. Here, the song begins with the chirp of a bird, the bustle of a car, and then falls into more intricate patterns. Each morning, a man in a blue and yellow uniform circles the block yelling “Gaizzzzz, Braziuuuuuu Gaizzzzz!” He pushes a cart with eight or nine kerosene containers; the kind that people use to heat their kitchen stoves. Yapper dogs with too little room and not enough play bark with his approach, and from the street people honk their car horns seeking the attention of the commuters laying wait inside. Within the apartment, the day begins with mince and pound of the juice grinder, squeezing sweet nectar out of an assortment of fruits for breakfast. Doors slam, toilets flush, the symphony rises in complexity. Little choice is afforded to those that wish to stay asleep.

After taking my shower and coffee, I begin my long track downhill to the school. Graça is situated about 30 min walking distance from Rua Greenfield, where the building resides. The route takes me past fruit vendors, small supermarkets, large gated historical buildings, and a number of other small lojas opening for the day’s comings and goings. Taking this path numerous times a day, I often see the same people, hear the same punctuated tones of street vendors selling their wares, catching their curious glances as I pass on by. The route is rather pleasant, animated by the cooler morning air and first light, but becomes quite a chore when I must hike back up the hill after midday. I’ve been doing so much walking lately that my feet are swollen and covered in sores. I bought a new pair of sandals—the cheap kind that almost everyone wears around here—but they only created new wounds in new places. My feet hurt so bad yesterday that I had to walk the entire length to school barefoot, mindful of the dog droppings and broken glass littering parts of the road.

Classes at Idioma have been steadily increasing in difficulty. Portuguese is quite a complex language, with a structure far more intricate than English. For every English word, they often have four (or like seventy if you want to count the verbs), divided by masculine, feminine, and plural forms. It is hard enough for Brazilians to understand, let alone a monolingual woefully incompetent speaker such as myself. I used to think that I was a worldly person, having experienced a bit of traveling in Europe and Latin America. Of all the students at the school, however, I remain the least advanced. Thanks be to the States where language remains an undeveloped pastime. Take Yasmina for example, a classmate and travel buddy over the last two weeks. Her fluency extends to French, Italian, Spanish, English, some German, and now Portuguese. And she is by no means an exception. Lately, I try my best to keep up with conversation in class, but it seems as if everyone else has a far greater vocabulary to draw open, and a far better ear to work with. I sit with my mouth hanging open, trying to parcel out the sounds that pass so rapidly by. I only hope that time and discipline will be my friend in this regard.

Just last week, Yasmina, Cori (another student…actually from the same town that my older brother lives), and I decided to do a little bit of traveling over the weekend. Our destination of choice was an island town known as Morro De Sao Paulo—a popular resort station for seafarers, Brazilians vacationers, and foreign tourists. The island lay about five hours ride, by ferry boat and bus, from Salvador. The trip was a perfect chance, as Yasmina cleverly mentioned, to “have a vacation from our vacation”. We hopped on a boat, first to the large island Itaparica, and then took a bus to a small colonial town known as Valencia. The bus ride was horrendously long—about two hours in total. All of the seats were taken and we had to stand up the entire way, perilously balanced as the bus over sped each turn. When we arrived in Valencia, it was late, after dark, and we came to find that the last river boat to Morro had left an hour before. Depressed and languid, we took a seat at the Tuica bar just by the waters edge. As we sat sipping a bit of cold beer at a yellow table outside, my mood was further darkened by the horrendously loud music slamming out of the speakers just beside us. Brazilians have a rather annoying tendency to over amplify music—often to the point where any redeeming sound is lost in the rattle of the hardware. At the bar, the music was not only pounding from huge black boxes just steps beside us, but also from a car across the street. The cars cd kept skipping, and it took about 15 min for anyone to notice and do something about it. Some random guy kept lighting firecrackers off near my head, for what purpose I wasn’t really sure, and it was all enough to make me question my sanity.

The night did fortunately improve after leaving the bar. We had met a young guy on the bus who recommended that we stay at his mother’s pousada, if we became stranded in town. The pousada turned out to be a clean well run establishment, founded by a Japanese Brazilian couple, who insisted that we try some of their Bahian cuisine for supper. The hotels slogan read “A sua casa em nossa cidade”—your house in our city. Everyone seemed excited that we were there, and after meeting up with the young guy again, we were offered numerous free drinks from the bar. I was served a Cervejaroska, a strange mixture of vodka and beer that threatened a quick T.K.O.

After bedding down for the night for a measly $10 per person, we caught a slow river boat out to the island. Discovered in 1531, the small tourist village promised a picturesque lighthouse and maravilhosas prais—blue green rock strewn sand and surf. We stayed at the Encanto Do Morro pousada, and hit an Italian beachside restaurant for dinner. Highlights over the following day and a half include eating the best damn french fries I have ever tasted, and acquiring an award winning sun burn that continues to plague me to this day.

On the way back home, riding on the bus to Valencia, I met a pretty blond haired Brazilian girl from Santa Catarina, a state near the southern tip of Brazil. Both she and her friend were very friendly and fun, and we exchanged numbers, promising to rendezvous later that week. All in all, the trip was quite the score.


* * *

Ahhhh…..Brazil. I have been so ridiculously busy here. Damn near every night I’ve got something going on. Take this week for example. Monday night I went to dinner in Barra with friends, eating Italian and talking over beer. Tuesday night I hit Pelourinho, dancing the night away to live samba ballads, and picking up the number of a girl who registers quite close to a ten. Ouch! Wednesday night I went out with Larissa, one of the girls I met on the bus returning from Morro de Sao Paulo. She was super sweet, trying earnestly to show me the sites and sounds of Salvador; the places a tourist wouldn’t go. We went to a local dive called Nossa Coisa – our thing – and ate clams and some kind of dish with fresh tuna. Thursday was a huge festa in Salvador—the Festa Iemanjá—celebrating the goddess of the sea, a major figure in the Orixas pantheon. People congregate in the Rio Vermelho neighborhood, offering up thousands of flowers and other gifts to the mulher do mar. I didn’t have small change and couldn’t buy a gift, so I instead stripped off my shirt and ran head first into the ocean. Everybody around thought I was crazy, but I just felt like being spontaneous. Like a mini carnival, bands strolled boisterously down the street, singing, dancing, being vicariously Brazilian. My group ended up as some ladies house, where we ate shrimp soup and danced to the classic music of Caetano Veloso. On Friday, I was planning on a quiet dinner with Corri and Yasmina, but instead ended up being dragged to see Olodum, an incredible live singing/percussion band known throughout Brazil. The concert was free, unusually so, and spectacular. After the show ended, I got tickets through Larissa to a private V.I.P. live concert party in Pelourinho, where I again danced the night away, flirting with the other girl I met on the bus last weekend. And if that wasn’t enough, tonight I’m heading to the Festa de Verão, a huge Woodstock like weeklong concert, where I’m going to see the oh so popular reggae band, Burning Spear. I’m sure I’m going to return tonight rather cooked and tired, ready to crash into oblivion. Sunday, I promised to hit another festa with the two maids that work in my house, Maria and Ninguem, who are 24 and 28 respectively. Then the week begins anew.

Ai, Meus Deus! And it’s not even Carnival yet!


* * *

Ahhh……que pena! My luck turns sour. If I wasn’t going to slow down my body was going to do it for me. After eating a rather large portion of meat and rice yesterday, I started to feel dizzy and sick to my stomach. Things started to move in directions they shouldn’t, and I had to immediately head for the bathroom. The maids, mindful of my predicament, started to break out all sorts of ad hoc remedies, first a lemon and then some sort of disintegrating water tablet. The first only increased the burn as I began to worship the porcelain god, and the second made me want to throw up even more. I was immediately taken back to my honeymoon in Mexico, when I experienced a dreadful bout of Montezuma’s revenge, where all sorts of liquids decided to exit one end and then the other (sorry for the mental picture). This time, it was the worse sort of vomiting, where nothing had quite been digested and no relief afforded after. I kept puking and puking until my throat burned from the acid and my whole body ached in complaint. I ran to the bathroom at least twenty or thirty times—just call me the chunky monkey.

And worse still, I had a Festa do Verão Burning Spear ticket in my hand, and quite an expensive one at that. It cost me about 65 reais, which is a small fortune for a concert ticket here. I so wanted to go, but my body said otherwise. In the end, I weakly handed over my ticket to a wide eyed Ninguem -- the maid I mentioned earlier -- who works everyday at the apartment cooking meals for Silvia’s catering business and cleaning the house. I would guess her daily salary to be at the very most 20 reais a day, although it is probably less. I knew that buying such a ticket would be damn close to an impossibility for her, and that she would appreciate it more than my other friends here. Her smile mirrored that fact.

This exchange got me thinking about an unfortunate truth of Brazil—that many people work their asses off here and make next to nothing. I see so much need, such hard resolve in many people’s faces. Lines and cresses communicate a demanding life, tough and unforgiving. Almost every time I sit outside at a restaurant I am accosted by young street children looking for handouts or bits of food. I have a difficult time looking at them, not because they are scarred or in some way disfigured, but because they look strangely unlike the children that they are. The innocence, given to a child sheltered and loved, is all but gone from their eyes. It’s like looking into the face of an adult with a child’s body, and it’s so saddening.

It makes one wonder how socialism or communism failed to take hold in countries such as these, where the system falls short for so many. I see great value in capitalism, structured as it is on the innate principles of nature’s survival of the fittest. Founded on the structure of the Savage Garden, it offers great possibility when functioning ideally, to the benefit of the greater good and the collective whole. When a man can earn his own keep, and is rewarded for his labor, he is given to a much greater desire to achieve more—to shoot farther than what a handout would provide. But like nature, capitalism lacks a sense of higher justice, driving it’s losers into the heat and press of the grindstone. When it is democratic, when the greater majority wins, then it is easily justified. But when the greater populace falls, and only a few ring strong, one can only begin to wonder. Is this the better way?

Anyway, maybe that’s the fever talking. I still am weak, achy, and in need of some good rest.

Time is said to heal all wounds. In my current state I’d rather pass the moments quickly.

(street vendors along side Igreja da Bom Fim)

(side of Igreja de Bom Fim)

(military fort, still used and abused)

(couple overlooking downtown Salvador)

(approaching Itaparica)

(pousada perfection)

(fighting over dinner at the Hotel Valencia)

(Arrgggghhhh...a pirate venture gone bad)

(bluer waters of Morro de Sao Paulo)

(red gringo)

(the tide is out and so is the modesty)

(a translation gone bad)

(ilha tropical)