Moving to a Favela – Part 1

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

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

Well, to get started…

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

Lets open the play:

Setting:

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

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

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



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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Many questions remain, and I wonder…

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

Coco-what? Errrr.

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

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

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

Hair done did, Bahiana Style

Not that I know the official Portuguese name for this hairstyle, but it seems to be a Salvador exclusive.

I first took notice of this odd form of braiding when I landed here in 2006. Apparently the "do" is accomplished by weaving strands of fiber like cloth into one's natural hair. Length and color may vary, and usually are done in shades of black, blue, brown, or red. As I tend to be on the peacocky side of personal adornment, I will admit to a personal liking for this most alien and rockstar of hairstyles.

Having never actually seen someone go through the painful process of braiding their hair in this fashion, the procedure is rather a mystery. From what my girlfriend tells me (pictured here) the braiding takes her stylist three hours to complete, she gets it redone once a week, and it costs her a monthly average of a hundred reis. Quite a commitment from the man point of view, but you sure as hell won't find me complaining when the days cat walks are all said and done.

Indestructible

I awoke at 6...

I wracked my brain on papers till noon...

I thought I lost my credit and debit card and
spent two hours tearing my apartment apart trying to find them...

I pulled money out of the atm that should of stayed in the atm...

I found out that I probably won't be able to move into the house...

I rode the bus for an hour to school...

I stepped in a mud puddle soiling one of my two pairs of jeans...

I tried to ignore hate calls from my ex...

I realized that despite it all, Brazil, Brazil, Brazil, my soul remains indestructible.

I miss my sports.

Random thoughts for the day:

Hey, you remember way back when in those once upon a time days called college, when you stayed up late writing papers and eating Ramen noodles? Well those days have returned for me. My masters degree has started this week, and I find myself running to and from school, exercising my brain, and trying desperately to safely navigate rush hour traffic.

Quite naturally, I find myself stressed and looking for an outlet. Aside from the occasional beer or social outing with my girlfriend, I tend to de-pressurize with a friendly game/fight of Capoeira or Kendo. Unfortunately, both of these options are currently out of my reach. Capoeira, while cheap as dirt, still feels like an extra that I'm not read to financially commit to. Not until I have a steady work anyway. And the Kendo should hopefully start up as soon as I receive my equipment from the United States, which I pray finds its way through the mail. My armor is worth well over US $1500, and it's not too uncommon to have expensive items "lost" while en route to Brazil. I'm banking on the fact that these items are Japanese, and beyond the cultural scope of most post office employees.

Slow Motion Kendo Vid -- Very Nice

Awesome Vid of Capoeira Angola, Pasthina Style, circa 1963

I just realized watching these two videos that my girlfriend is a subtle reflection of my hobbies. She is an afro-brazilian who grew up in a Japanese neighborhood in Sao Paulo, and has both African and Japanese features (though the latter is merely by coincidence).

"Curiouser and curiouser" says Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.

The Fixer-Upper

Alas, my days in Vila Matos are numbered. For the most part, the tree house apartment has been good to me. I know scores of new people. I have a bar, and a street, and neighborhood to call my own. I live cheaply and simply and it works.

But sometimes...

Out of the blue...

Life has other plans for you.

Meet my new residence, my new home. As it so happens, an American teacher at Panamerica built a little house in the favela off of Barra hill. After kicking it Brazilian style for a few years, she ended up returning to the States, and the house has been abandoned ever since.

When a few cats at the school caught word of my current living arrangement (i.e. iddy biddy
apartment with the bathroom in the kitchen) they thought of putting me here.

The arrangement works out rather nicely. The place is empty and falling apart. Without a watchdog, the place continues to get dirtier and dirtier, not to mention broken into.


Here comes little gringo me, with interior decoration tendencies. They get security of mind, and a person to clean and fix stuff up. I get a huge fixer-up project, and a potentially legitimate crash pad with an amazing view.

See!

Now don't get me wrong. The place is BASIC and all kinds of favela like, but there is tons of space (even if it is covered by dirt).

The place needs: new locks, security measures, gutters, and a new roof. But I am happy to say that I have fixed my not having a refrigerator problem, cause this place comes fully stocked!

Previous tenant artifacts.

Pimped out entryway. I want to do much more of this, perhaps fill the place with Bahian art. Maybe furniture if I ever have a paycheck.

Scary mold pattern in the kitchen.

Bedroom window.

And this. This is Bob. I knew the place was for me when I saw this poster. With Bob's blessing my Exodus feels fully endorsed. It'll need a few months of work, people, but just think of the parties we could have!

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.