Centennial!

Happy Birthday oh’ blog of mine! Four years in and we have
reached our 100th Post! Cue the lights. Open the champagne.
To the great republic we sing, oh what a journey it has been!

2005…seems worlds away now. I started this blog in the depressive throes of a breakup, after a complete toss up of my little rubik’s cube of a life. This blog was a much needed therapeutic discovery, an emotional distancing tool that allowed me to “get shit out”. Somehow, through multiple trips, both inward and outward journeys, she was maintained, a brilliant star and testament to the lemmings running around in my head.

To my audience, thank you for traveling with me. The only question left to ask is:

Shall we go another one hundred? Shall we leave my great grandchildren a road map to their ancestor’s life. Hmmm, perhaps. There are still many pages yet to fill.

The Evolution of Self, A four year Journey

The fork that started it all.

Ready to get out of Kalamazoo.

Working to do so.


The Move

Oklahoma. Out of the ashes the phoenix rises.

Rebirth in Brazil.

Pit Stop Mars

Back to Michigan

Move to D.C.


Escape to Boulder, CO.



Nesting in New Mexico.

Rome, Switzerland, Prague, Ireland

Back to Michigan

Oklahoma.....againnnnn.

And Brazil!

If it's more the journey than the destination, where shall we go from here?

Happy 100 Lion's Den!

Sigh

I think this is the first time since I was like 12 that I haven’t had a job. I am now into the third month without work and am starting to flip out. I survived the first few months in Brazil by subbing for a local school and by dipping into my savings. The pay was good but far from steady, as I had to wait for someone to get sick for them to call me in. On the English teaching side of things, I had hoped that I could get a job at ACBEU after completing their six month training course. I knew it was risky as I would be paying for work and not earning from it, but decided after hearing from a number of sources that I would probably get hired to take the plunge. I really worked my ass off, crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s, smiling to all of the right people. Well, come to find out they aren’t hiring this semester, so bye bye gringo. Another roll of snake eyes for me.

Until I can get my citizenship in the next (praying to god) 5 months, there are few options open to me. I have already been offered a job but lost it because of my visa status. Things are further complicated by the Master’s degree schedule, which blocks off evenings and makes it difficult to seek work in a language school. Add to that fact that because I am not an employee at the school where the program is held (out of 25 people I am the only one) the price has jumped an unanticipated R$ 375 to US$ 550 per class.

In terms of private English classes, I continue to find that it’s for the birds. It’s good when my students show up, and, you know, pay, but private arrangements are so much less formal and the students less committed to show.

I expect that after I get citizenship maybe, just maybe things will start to ease up. If I can get work at the school, then maybe I can get a paycheck, and just maybe I can go out and buy a pair of jeans.

Until then…well. I went out and bought a stapler today. It cost R$20 (due to the third world haha-stay poor-fuck you tax). Until then I survive.

I tell ya [shakes fist at the sky]. Sometimes living the adventurous life has its disadvantages.

Which side of the hedge are you on?

Branquinho

Or....little whitey. How many of us in the states can say that we are a racial minority. Very few of the people I know. In fact, my family could be categorized as "typically white", which in the absence of proper stereotypes equates to tall, reserved, Nordic people that have no idea how to dance.

In anthropology, we tend to de-emphasize notions of color, recognizing that we are 99.9% similar in our genetic material, and that our behavior and customs are best described in terms of the ideological web (i.e. culture) that we weave around ourselves. Race, as a whole, is considered a false and misleading construct, often used to justify and perpetuate social and economic inequity against “inferior” groups.

I for one recognize the issue as complex, and have always enjoyed being a part of the discussion. As an undergraduate, I was the lead researcher for an African American Society, spending a great deal of my weekend’s sleuthing away in the archives of segregated North Kalamazoo. Heading to a meeting of brilliant empowered black professionals, while at the same time getting the "What in the hell are you doing here white boy?" reaction from local residents, what just a typical part of my foot in both worlds existence.

As it stands, I have always been interested in the African Experience, especially in regards to the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, (1400-1896) which brought millions of Africans to the shores of the New World. The story is, in my humble opinion, just incredibly sad and gripping. Of the many economic and social horrors it has produced, which most certainly are still felt to this day, I also find it to have generated some of the most creative and inspiring forms of art, such as Bob Marley’s roots, rock, reggae, Jazz, Hip-Hop, and Capoeira. Despite the absence of melanin in my skin, I seem to identify with this side of life, that struggles against all odds and comes out spiritually unbound.

In Salvador, the vestiges of the slave trade, from a country that imported more slaves than all others (roughly 14 million) and kept it legal for longer (1888) are so viscerally felt and heard. I went to a sushi joint by my house the other day, and noticed that despite the fact that Salvador is 80% black, 98% of the clientele were white (that is except for the servers and the folks in my party). Despite the fact that Brazil maintains its status as a mixed society, in terms of economics there has been little progress made.

(Hmm....Salvador. Do I stand out much?)

These are serious issues, with no easy answers. My approach is to understand the gravity of our social complexities, yet to realize that life is often too short to be taken too seriously (i.e. Stuff White People Like). Enjoy people for their differences, embrace your cultural roots and heritage (white, black, or other), and recognize that we are all people on this earth, trying to figure things out and make our own way

Conscious Hip-Hop, pretty much the most amazing thing ever:

Divertir

A couple of days ago, I decided to descend the steps of my “tree house” apartment and take a walk. It was just after mid-day, and I was tired of being cooped up inside. Before stepping out, I slipped on some minimalist tropical gear—my board shorts, haviana sandals, and sun block to discourage a tan. Heading east out of Vila Matos, I started trekking along the beach front. It was a Sunday, and the sand was packed with soccer matches, sunbathers, and kids playing along the shore.

About five minutes into my walk, I noticed some tiny steps that lead up a hill opposite the beach. I took a look at the trail suspiciously. The foliage was dense and the destination unfamiliar, and I was a bit worried about being assaulted or robbed should I decide to ascend. On the side of the trail hidden amidst the rocks were small candomble offerings of flowers, food, and gifts—a bequest to the African gods that still rule the heart of this syncretic city. Reining in my courage, I eventually set forth into the greenery and started climbing into the unknown.

As part of my typical Brazilian street or nighttime routine, I removed my shirt to display my tattoos. I have noticed that looking men in the eye, walking upright, and showing my bee stripes (i.e. tribal ink) has kept me out of trouble. In an inner-city environment, it is important remain alpha, especially in sketchy night time situations. Put simply, unless a thief is exceedingly well armed, they tend to prey on the weak. Looking like you could be trouble is a way to avoid falling into it, and I continue to develop this survival tactic on the streets of Brazil.

After having gotten lost on a number of trailheads, I eventually made my way to the top of the hill. At about three hundred feet above sea level the view was just stunning, a stark compilation of sea breeze, sunshine, and city lines. I realized, smiling to myself, that life is the pathway to awe, a gift worth breathing in to the very last molecule.

Looking east towards Africa, I thought about the last six months I have spent in Brazil. I realized that things are beginning to change for me, that I am starting to enjoy this new world that I have made for myself on the edge of the South Atlantic. The initial shock of moving to a foreign country has slowly begun to ware off, replaced by newly won friendships, a greater handle on Portuguese, and a contentment with my subsistence in this land. I still worry about landing the right job, finding the right girl, and being the right person, but I realize now that such things are possible, and that with time my world here is only going to get bigger.

Colbert Report on Latin America and Brazil. For some reason I can't embed this, so check out the link here:

Watch Me

Hilarious!

Hot Water

Yessssss! After six months of cold showers, I have hot water! It cost me about R$ 100, but was worth every last centavo in my zestfully clean opinion. You know, they may be baby steps but I love moving up in the world!

In Brazil, we mix electricity with water because frankly we are just plain braver than you.

Rising Tides

I arrive at Porto da Barra beach at an early hour. It is a luminous day and the Bay of All Saints seems magical in the sunshine, a heady mix of greens and blues. As the wind whips through the sky flinging sand and sea birds farther inland, the body of this century’s old secluded port churns with laughter, broken only by the monstrous cargo ships that assail her tepid waters. On days like today, when Iemanja the goddess of the sea really lets her gifts shine, all feel blessed, streaming to the beach in groves to offer their own happiness as reward.

On a small stretch of shore, situated by the solid Forte de São Pedro, the Porto da Barra beach quivers with revel rousers—a crown stylishly jeweled with a thousand beach chairs, shade umbrellas, and passerbys. The site of Bahia’s first European settlement, Vila Velha, or the Old Village, this place has seen its share of history. To think, how many people must have stood there, two feet planted in the sand, with a smile spread headlong into the sea. An emperor’s army, I think, enough to fill the sky.

I arrive by motorbike, burning my 250 cc machine past the beach front bars. Weekends, full of sun are what Latin/Lusitanian America is all about. I park my bike and join in with the crowd, grabbing my havaianas to walk through the sand and smile with the rest of them. “Would you like a chair amigo, a beer, a place to sit?” Hawkers are everywhere, selling their long dangled earrings, their hammocks, their beach towels, necklaces, and sun screen. One taller black man walks through the swarm, singing a melodic “Meu nome é João, eu vendo camarão!” that plays softly in my ears. The place seems to pulse with life, a kind of natural torso that moves in and out as it breathes.

In the middle of the beach by the volleyball net, I sit down and relax, trading my board shorts in for a revealing sunga—a kind of men’s swimwear reminiscent of a jungle thong. I sit down to bathe in the sun, hoping to increase my legitimacy as a native by tanning in between the lines. To my right, my beach side companion grins, a beautiful girl of poetic charm, a kind of Salvadorian muse whose laugh reminds me of the sea.

Taking it all in, all of it, including the sand crabs, the laughing kids, the guys playing racquetball, I smile to myself, joining in the holy communion of the crowd. What a Saturday this is, a beach day, a winter day in Bahia, Brazil! Sometimes the tropics are nice, sometimes they are unbelievable.

Listening to:

Shanty This -- Take Two

Finding the Familiar

I have been having a reoccurring dream of late. It seems to be a subconscious affirmation of my present reality. The dream is hazy, the setting variable, but it always ends in the same message. In the dream I find myself traveling back to the United States. Usually I’m visiting family, chatting with my mother, spending time with friends. After a couple of days I feel a very pressing and overwhelming desire to get back to Brazil. “I can’t stay”, I mutter, “I have to get back”.

Some days I wake up to the noise of my bairro popular, to happily tweeting birds, dancing palm fronds, and incessant cries of Jesus from the neighborhood evangelist, and I wonder what the hell I am doing here. At times I feel such an outsider, straining to laugh when people laugh, trying desperately to affirm my place in this vivacious culture. At times I think to myself, who in their right mind leaves a secure and happy life, a nice house, a dog, a beautiful motorcycle, to come live like this—alone in the slum, with little work, and few luxuries. And then, upon waking from my dream, I remember “Ah, yes, I do!”

As frustrated as I become at times—driving my little moto through the torrents of rain—I feel on a subconscious level that my work is not done here, that my presence is part of some greater scheme of self-development and maturity. I am here because I shouldn’t be anywhere else, because I want to be independent, because in the end I wish for nothing more than to challenge my crazy, self-styled adventurous 27 year old self.

Currently listening to...

* * *

So back from vacation, life moves on. July is a month without formal work, as in work in the paid kind that gets you places. All of the schools are on break, and I find myself spending a great deal of time at home, scribbling away on my final ACBEU project and papers. I admit to reaching a greater point of familiarity with Brazil, which in some respects is bad for my writing. I feel like things are become normal, that after having launched myself into another world I am become slowly accustomed to it. I struggle between the desire to remain anthropological—a participant observer with an outsiders view—and to become a red-blooded native, who knows how to take busses, order breakfast, and who feels at ease with his home land.

So back from vacation, life moves on. When away from homework, I find my time most pleasurably spent chasing women and doing martial arts. Things have gotten more serious with “the girl”, and yet they haven’t, which on some level has led me to a point of dissatisfaction and a yearning to open my eyes and look elsewhere. There are, my dear lord, so many beautiful, lithe, long haired vixens that grace my poetical path. Brazil is no yardstick short of attractive women, and I have only been hesitant because of my place in the middle ground, of not knowing if I want to desert my present “non-relationship” for another.

Ahem. Check Please.

July has also been a month of returning to the fighting arts. Oh, how I have missed thee! I bought some Capoeira gear on Avenida Sete, and eventually forced myself back to practice almost a year after abandoning the post. I have avoided digging into Capoeira here for many reasons, but I think primarily because I am mourning the loss of my Capoeira social circle back in the States. Here I feel like an outsider, and the playing lacks a sense of camaraderie that I used to have.

To fill that gap I am very, very happy to announce the finding of a Kendo/Kenjitsu dojo here in Salvador. Kendo is a fighting art modeled on the war inclinations of the Samurai that involves full contact with Japanese bamboo swords and lots of yelling and getting sweaty with overly-serious men. It is just brilliant and something I have greatly missed since my fighting days in Michigan. I impressed the residing sempai with my crazy energy level and kiai, and he practically begged me to join the group at the end of class. Now I just have to get my armor and swords sent from the States, and I look forward, with a warrior’s glee, to many bouts and glories to come.

Battle wounds after the first practice...

I can't walk.....ugh.

And a few more...

Ok so, an extra camera showed up. And extra cameras mean extra pictures. Another toy for the blogger happy meal.

Salvador Shopping! Finances lifestyle!
Live in the slum [pictured behind], no worries!
Simply pay for your new tv in 72 installments and your ready to go!

At the tree house sipping on a brewski.

What! You didn't know I had a kid!
Ok, ok, so the little one's not mine.
But at least I can say we are pretty people.

So dinner at a millionaires place affords
fun fu fu opportunities. This
I do believe was some kind of strange
candle holder that I turned into a
massager.

Gordo! Obeso!

My Brazilian family. Cheers to them.

Look down shall we?

God's country.

My visitors get the royal treatment. So much fun we had, no!

Chapada

Ahhhh, rejuvination. So good to breath again.

I find myself liking Brazil yet again. A seven day vacation will do that to you. As much as I love the diversity of Babylon, there are times when I simply must get away. Witness.

Chapada is a place of marvels. If you come to visit Bahia, you must go! Call it a prime directive. It is a massive national park, full of jungle, and waterfalls, and green plains that stretch on for miles. This is a photo of our drive into the village, which is situated about an hour out of Palmeiras. You have to rent a rickety old transport to get there. The trucks run on propane, and you pray the whole way that you are not going to explode. This is a pic of our driver changing out the propane tank about half way there.

Capão

The village itself is quaint, quirky, and full of Brazilian hippies living the good life. There is a real artistic flavor to the town, including a full permanently situated circus out in the mata.

My friend Sheee's and I stayed at local artists house for the week. The very nice and accommodating owner was a fellow angoleira, a poi player, and wonderfully eccentric on all levels.

When we arrived the town was busy preparing itself for its highest tourist week, with hundreds of Salvadorians flooding into the town for the Sao Joao holiday weekend.

Local bar art. Enough to make any wall happy.

Chapada has enough trails to keep one busy for a year. There are 15 day guided hikes, reppelling adventures, and as we discovered, loads of waterfalls and mini-hikes in the nearyby surrounds.

Up.

Up.

And away.

This is Fumaça, which I was told is the second tallest waterfall in the world. True or not, approaching the thing and the drop off was almost maddening. Gave one the same majestic feeling as staring at the Grand Canyon, except it was the greener Brazilian version. Awesome!

And then there were places like Rio Vermelho--waterfall paridises that spewed out red water from its source. Jump in cold water, watch people play guitar, sit and contemplate how beautiful life is.

Sunday market in the square.

And the night life. Six consecutive days of Forro dancing, a kind of folksy music and step from the interior of Bahia. Spent the nights drinking aged liquors made from fruit, drinking hot chocolate, and scoping out the social scene.

The town kids ran around having fire cracker wars. No safety precations here. No parents freaking out that there kid might loose an eye or offend a passerby by exploding light objects near their face. Chaos has its wonders, upsides and downsides.

All I can say is, God's kingsom.

And I had a very nice time. It was great to see a different side of Brazil than the city. People were concerned about where they threw their trash, what the recycled, and the quality of food they put in their bodies. Fresh air, on a parched and poor mind, can really do wonders.

Before I Go

So I'm off to the green mata on a seven day excursion, to celebrate my birthday, the visit of a friend, and escape the city. I admit to being busy with school assignments, and neglectfully ignoring my blog. So before I go, thought it would be best to entertain the folks with a few random pics.

Here lies the good hill I call my home. Behind me is the steps up to the morro. I've been enjoying my experience here in this bairro popular, though going a bit mad at times at the ignorance that permeates this level of society (i.e. people trying to destroy my ears with all hour of the day and night fireworks, sound pollution, and general hatred toward my gringo kind). Normal things I suppose.

Oh and didn't I tell you. I found Jesus. No joke. I woke up one morning and rubbing my sleepy eyes, stared out into the trash heap that is my front yard. To my utter amazement, I see Jesus' floating head amidst the trash pile.

Look for yourself. Can you find the Christ? This was the picture I took before jumping around my apartment like a ninja, trying to retrieve the head that appeared at my doorstep. My neighbor on the floor below saw me descending the hill, and with his mouth dropped, I grabbed my plaster head and screamed "I found Jesus!". He shook his head and continued to stare at me. Haha. Not going to forget that one.

So it is that Jesus has become the patron saint of my apartment.

I was saving this goody for another post, but ah well, who has the time. So remember my girlfriend (i.e. motorcycle) in the States? I admit to having great "Saudades" for her. In the U.S. any time I got lonely, pissed, or generally depressed I would work on my bike. She was black and yellow and too pretty.

Well, now my reality is different, but who says I can create a little home as I go along. This is my bike after a couple months of work. She his loud as hell, and bright as a bee or wanabee for that matter. This translates, on Brazilian roads, into people generally avoiding colliding into me. All and all, the customization was really cheap. I traveled to some of the poorest neighborhoods to get her painted and fixed up (custom paint job cost me about $50 in total). This is Brazilian economy. The bike (technology) was expensive as hell, but the paint job (service) was beyond cheap.

Let me leave you with this little tidbit. Robadey....family name....rare as hell from a little known corner of the world (i.e. back country Switzerland). Very few of us still around, even though it is a 400+ year old name. So as it turns out, there was a emigration of Robadeys to Brazil many many moons ago. I am determined to root them out. Check out this pic I found on the web, of a little white girl on Robadey hill. Not a bad start if you ask me.

Back in a couple weeks with pics of greenery and relaxation.