Still No Internet

Living in a semi-slum has its disadvantages. Currently without a fridge, and without an internet. Oh yeah, no washing machine too....or air conditioning, a counter top, breathing room. Still having lots of fun though. Is anyone still out there? I will be back with photos I swear.

Shanty This

The Interior

A mistake easily made when living in a big city is to forget the outside world. One could spend a lifetime, thrice over, running from one corner of the hive to the other. So many angles to indulge in, so many apartment buildings, town houses, shopping centers and bus stops to find your way to. But in this bustling mass of noise and heat, a stopping and starting point for so many lives, there is little offered in the way of peace. Neighbor looks upon neighbor with suspicion, locked doors and partitioned lives, people loose site of their brotherhood and become circumstantial enemies. In time, with the traffic and the trash and the frustrations piling, it all starts to look like one big mess, and you know it is time for escape.

That time came this last weekend. Crawling from the crags and fissures of the earth, my little ant antennas pointed toward the sky, I knew the moment had come. So odd to be in Brazil, a place that wiggles with adventure, and yet taste so little of it. Life becomes droll, placid, and routine all too easily. The only remedy, after wiping the working sweat from your brow, is to just give in a get out.

And that is what I did. The Easter holiday weekend provided enough time to see some of the “interior” of the state—that which is off the coast and outside the city walls. The destination of choice, a little rural town called Lamarão which is 2000 thousand inhabitants strong (give or take a chicken or two).

So heading out of the city with a friend and a Brazilian family:

Gone went the favelas and inner city traffic!

Gone went the hive which stretched on for miles!

Dare I say, the interior of Bahia had an immediate appeal. It was country, a fim do mundo (the end of the world), at its best. Accustomed to the stealthy black edges of my concrete palace, I was immediately struck by the palms trees, the sugar cane fields, and the pastoral greenery. As I arrived in town, my thoughts lingered on my first trip to rural Brazil back in 2003. My experience was hearty, authentic, a heady mixture of running around town meeting cousins, eating meat, watching social operas ascend and go by.


Lamarão was certainly this. It was place of street markets and Easter festivity. I stayed at a local families house, amazed at the all hours socializing that would occur during the day. People would drop in -- neighbors and friends, lovers and cousins -- just to say hello. People chatted over coffee, over beer, over Bahian delicacies of fish, and rice, and beans galore. The Easter holiday was in full swing, with Catholic parades running the cobbled streets.

Celebrity status was instantly offered to my friend James and I. We were outsiders, tall, blue eyed aliens from some strange different land. Walking the streets, ruminating on Brazilian culture, we would attract unapologetic stares and whispers. People would step out of their doorways to gape open mouthed in our direction. Women would giggle as we walked by, men turn their heads with suspicion.



And so we danced. I played Capoeira in the street, laughed with locals, trying desperately to understand their lispy Portuguese.

As in every place I have visited in Brazil, everything seemed to be broken. Doors didn't shut properly, hand rails were bent and coming off the wall. My fan required a toothbrush solution to get it to work again. Everything was broken, and nobody seemed to care.

But where Brazilians lack in mechanical pragmatism, they make up for it in culinary prowess!

Walking the streets, there were so many interesting things to see. Find the irony in this photograph. The sign humorously reads, "Please do not throw trash here". Ha!

Indeed, the town was a mix of refreshing simplicity, and small town ideals. People seemed happy, a bit bored, running around talking to the neighbors, trying desperately to find something to do. There was work, in limited degrees. Houses in the town cost upwards of, get this, $50o0. Make money and live like a king. The challenge is to find work, and to find something to do. Local remedies include getting pregnant at a young age, talking shit about your neighbors, and drinking cachaça until your teeth fall out. Typical small town ignorance. But there was a genuineness about this life that I found appealing. Like letting the craziness of the outside world pass by, enjoying your small place and small time in the grand scheme of things.

And the local customs were so fun. Take the burning of Judus for example. Forget Christian forgiveness. Let's make effigies and blow them the hell up! Yeah!

Notice the chicken in her hand that was handed over to us for supper. So much nice.

All in all, this trip reminds me that there is so much of Brazil left to see. Perhaps a motorcycle jaunt through the interior, or maybe even a trip to the Amazon. In the end, it's good to get out of my metropolitan rat hole--to see what beauty the forgotten places truly have to offer.

How are things?

I am sitting on my poor half-inch excuse for a mattress, sprawled out horizontally with the fan at my side. My room is a tad bit messy, looking less like my living quarters and more like art—abstract and fussy, a night school project by someone with too much to do. Occasionally, beads of sweat form on my forehead and I grimace. Damn these mosquitoes. The stealthy buggers somehow know to only attack my feet. I wrap my legs in bed sheets and pray for deliverance, hoping the Dengue fever never comes.

I love Brazilian TV. Somewhere in a galaxy far, far, away, some genius of a producer decided he could up his program ratings by incorporating scantily clad dancers into the mid-afternoon talk and game shows. Bob Barker would have been proud. Each contestant win – be it a washing machine or a flat screen TV – is punctuated by an ass shake and a roar from the crowd. No puritan family censorship here. I can’t help but avoid the remote, thinking “Oh yes, the price is definitely right”.



So, how are things?

Good. Thanks for asking.

Really? Are they good?

Well, to be honest.

Brazil = Adventure + Frustration. The two often go hand in hand. I continue to marvel at this place of extremes. Not only do I see them, socially, politically, but I seem to feel them as well. As if my inner reality is somehow affected by the world outside. I sit at my window, emotionally pondering, looking at the chaos zipping by and by. Things go high and things go low, and I definitely feel my altitude change.

In terms of the low, my financial position continues to be a great source of daily stress. I have avoided the super market for some time, seeking cheap ways to eat at home or on the street. Aside from becoming completely averse to the thought of ‘one more hotdog’ or ‘one more hamburger’, I have been blessed with a good ‘let that be a lesson to you’ bout of food poisoning (my third here in Brazil). This feeling of corporal fragility is only intensified by the mental trepidations, as I hand out my 1.6 dollars and wait for something, anything, to come back in. While things are slowly, ever so languidly starting to develop (subs and language students), I am definitely out spending my in spending if you know what I mean.

Then there is the relationship front, an added source of joy and pain. My return to ‘the girl’ has been long in coming, and the expectations high from the very start. She is much the same as I left her—beautiful, intelligent, challenging. But while indeed her charm and personality remains, there is an innocence now lacking in her eyes. Like all of us jaded, single, out of the fire folks, she is now wary of the contrary sex—protective with her feelings and a bit distrustful of men in general. While we have definitely been enjoying one another, it seems at times that we want different things. I have been single bordering on forever, and am interested in pursuing a relationship (surprise, yes I know). She just got out of one, and is looking to avoid that very thing. So while I am still hopeful that our attraction and compatibility will conquer all, things are definitely in the realm of the unknown.

So in terms of a voyage, its funny what you ask for and funny what you get. I left my comfortable Boulder life looking for challenge and adventure. I knew I would be tested, because that is what adventure is. It’s not a resort visit to Malibu, pina coladas in hand. Adventure is struggle; the pitting of yourself against some great conflict, to test the waters, to come to know who you really are. Five thousand miles from home, friends and familiarities all but blown away, it can be tough. No doubt. But all I can do is hope that my courage will lead to greater things, and that one day I will smile, a toothless old man, when someone asks, “How were things?”

Blood type stickers provided with my helmet. No one is beating around the bush here.

The Birds

Natural Brazilian alarm clock. Inescapable. I say p.m. but it's really a.m. Hazard of grabbing the camera before fully waking up.

Motorized

Que Liberdade! What freedom! Thanks to a great deal of help from my brother back home, and a number of sweaty walks to the bank, to the moto shop, to all manor of locations, I finally have my wittle scooter. She is, hmmm, different than my FZ 1000cc monster back home. My first impression of the bike as I jumped on her little black seat and blasted myself through traffic, was a somewhat disheartened "Is that all?". Going from a 4 cylinder luxury vehicle to a 1 cylinder motorcycle has its psychological downsides. I do somehow feel less powerful. No heart pounding sensation of breaking through space and time. Yet, the roads have become my playground and I feel so very amused to travel where and when I please.

The sensations of Neguinha (little blacky) are entirely different than my FZ1. She seems to make much more noise and vibrate 10 times more than Josephine. She is a bit smaller (well, more than a bit), but maneuvers well in the Kamikaze no rules, no lines, Brazilian traffic. Driving here is like floating half blind through an asteroid field. It is necessary to predict peoples behavior as they tend to avoid communicating it through turn signals or break lights. As a motorcycle driver, there is no imaginary box of space given to you by other motorists. People creep into your space and expect you to move into the side line of the road. At a stop sign or a slowing line of traffic, it is also expected that you weave in between the line of slow cars to get to the front of the motor pack. I have avoided this, and only tend to cut my lines when all of the asteroids are completely at rest. People look at me, sitting behind cars, like I'm crazy. But F*ck it, I like staying alive.

Greatest part about it....I can go to the beach. I can go to school. I can just up and choose a location and go, independent of someone else's transport!

I had my cheap little Brazilian good luck charm recast in silver by a metalsmith at the craft fair. Cost me hardly anything, and the guy did a great job. The old one was wearing away and refused to become shiny when buffed or polished. Be it tattoos or jewelery, I love becoming a custom work of art.

And then there is school. My teacher training course at ACBEU is proving quite the scholarly affair. The place is indeed professional, my course being taught by an affable and literate Ph.D. of languages. It is interesting exploring the school vibe yet again. I have a number of papers to write, and teachers to impress, as this place is a top candidate for my employment services come the end of the semester. The money situation is scaring the crap out of me right now, as my costs are high and my income nonexistent. I have accepted the fact that it may be a few months before something surfaces. And with the potential Masters coming up in August, my time is going to get even more limited. But I trust that with a little bit of luck, hard work, and a desire to make this life get of the ground, I won't be homeless or destitute for too long anyway.

A Request

Ahhhh, my friends. Any and all of you. I have one request from The Lions Den. I give so much and ask so litte, no? ;-P

Go out and rent this movie: It's called Ó Paí, Ó. The film is a 2007 drama directed by Monique Gardenberg. It tells the history of some inhabitants living in the tenement house of the Pillory, in the Historical Center of Salvador, the last day of carnival.

This is the first movie that I have seen that captures the heart of this city. If you have any desire in your black little hearts to come visit me, see this first. You will wonder why everyone is talking so loudly and shouting all the time. You will wonder why people are always dancing and singing.

Try the foreign section of your video store. Or Netflix, or where ever. Just find a way.

Even if you shan't ever have the chance to visit, at least you can breath in a little bit of what I inhale everyday.

Chaos and its Microcosm

Americans love control. Our society is founded on it. Like this massive machine promising individual rights of life and liberty, our nation chugs away, packaging citizens in bubble wrap to protect us from the outside world. While we steadily tread about our daily lives, insulated by our air bags, our cellophane, our 99.9% germ free living, the rest of the universe rotates in chaos. Don’t step on the grass, no parking, watch your step, blow dryer in a bath tub, yes it will kill you! The veneer is thin, but the denial deep, strengthened by our avoidance of the truth. We think more signs, more laws, more layers will keep us safe. As if the beast could caged, the garden fenced in. As if we had control over our own mortality.

I went to a beach side park a few days ago. I stood watching over a concrete stadium, as twilight dusted over the city. The central area of the park, a circular concrete area surrounded by large steps was filled with people. Kids ran about on foot, shuffled by on little toy scooters, moving haphazardly as their parents watched from afar. Skateboarders set up little ramps and launched into the air. Remote control cars buzzed around, keeping the younger kids wide eyed and smiling. Taking it all in, I stood amazed realizing I had never seen anything like it before. There were no “thou shall not” signs, no security forces playing daddy, no safety prepackaged lawyer endorsed nonsense. People ran, skated, jumped in every which way. No lanes, no rules, a happy swirling mass of chaos, and microcosm of the Brazilian soul.

I laugh thinking of this now. People say that God is Brazilian. These people seem more akin to his nature – genuine, sensory, unapologetically messy – and less inclined to paint over the veneer of illusory control. There is an authenticity about this country that I find quite powerful—that the world is indeed a dangerous and chaotic place, and that it is here to be lived, felt, enjoyed. We have the habit as human beings to appreciate only that which can be taken away. When you are bubble wrapped and insulated from the true mortality of this world, you forget how close the end can be. One flicker of the flame and the candle goes out. Better to burn brightly, I say, then to forget that you are even burning at all. This life is to be lived, and not ever feared and covered in plastic.

The Rain

It rained really hard last night. I remember listening in a sleepy daze to the torrential down pore. It seemed to go on for hours. When I woke up in the morning, I was surprised to see a whole section of our condominium gate completely knocked out by the storm. Driving to school in the morning, I saw flipped over cars, uprooted trees, and broken asphalt all over the city. Makes me happy not to live in a hillside favela.

Possibilities

Not to jump to any premature conclusions, decisions, or modes of life, but get this:

When I returned to the States back in 2006 I did so for one very persuasive reason – pressure. As a semi-productive human being, looking to increase my chances of success in the professional world, I knew that I needed to make some big decisions. My Anthropology degree while certainly valuable on a number of levels lacks a certain edge of practicality. Unlike a skilled trade or a business degree, Anthropology is an academic craft, demanding the weighty commitments of more school, time, and money. While indeed I felt the pressure to make these commitments, nothing seemed to sparkle and grab me. I looked into a museum studies degree at CU, into law school, into tourism internships in Denver, into business school. Working a shat bottom end monkey ladder job, my eyes were open to these possibilities, but nothing really felt right. Also, I had this constant premonition that Brazil was somehow in my cards. It was hard to ignore, and in some ways kept me from truly digging in.

Fast forward to 2008. Before I left my lovely mountain town of Boulder, I had in some ways given up. I felt like I had been chasing shadows, that each time I grabbed hold of a possibility in life, some big head descended from the sky and said, “Uh, Uhhh”. I figured that I should just stop worrying about “finding my thing”, that life would present it’s own opportunities if I would just give up and let go. There is a time for everything in this world, and sometimes it seems that the universe in its infinite forms of chaos somehow knows “when”.

In Brazil things are different. The pressure to find work and to pursue a professional path is much more palpable here. On a shat monkey ladder job, I had a great life in Boulder. I had food in my belly, and nice place to live, money for hobbies and extra expenses. Bottom end living did not necessarily translate into a low end quality of life. In Brazil, you are in one of two classes. Top end, professional, school accredited, or bottom rung, no ladder, your F**ked. I exaggerate of course; there is some middle ground, but it often exists as the exception to the rule.

This means less time putzzing around, and more time calculating and acting upon possibilities. Last night, talking with my pseudo-Brazilian family (I wave as I write this), I was presented with one. Things are premature and un-researched, but I do see some real good things at the end of this tunnel.

So first off, English teaching is my income. Or at least my only current possibility at an income. Unfortunately, I lack experience and accreditation. If I am to live here for a significant amount of time, I need these things. Teacher training will increase my chances of landing a good job, or charging more for private lessons. It is necessary if I want to be top rung. Last night, I was encouraged to start TTC (teacher training course) at one of the top language schools. It is a six month course that meets once a week. Expensive? I’m not sure. There might be a chance I can work off the expense with tutoring time.

Good, get that out of the way. Now onto the long term.

Panamerica, the American school that I will be subbing at is going to offer quite the dealeo in August. Apparently, a professor is going to come down from the States and offer teachers a Masters Degree in Education. The classes are crunched into short period of time, over the course of a few weeks. These periods would eventually span over a two year period. This would provide teacher certification for k-12^th grade (applicable in the States) I believe, and also would allow teaching at the community college level (have to look into that???).

But want to here the great part? The cost of the program is $7000, split between the students that attend. If there are 20 students, the cost would be $350 a person. What? Yeah, that’s what I said. Cost has definitely been a prohibitive factor in pursuing graduate studies. To earn a master’s for next to no money is unheard of in the states. Ha. Welcome to Brazil.

If I chose this path, and of course things are to premature at this point for true commitment, I would end up with teaching certificates applicable all around the world (plus fluency in a foreign language). I know a good amount of people who are funding their adventurist traveler lifestyles with such degrees. If I came back to the States, I could get a reasonable job just about anywhere. If I stayed here, there might also be some opportunities to teach. Earning a steady income, I could then decide to focus some of my energies on my tourism business ideas, I could write in the off months of school, I could feel reasonably accomplished as a human being.

So, yes I will keep you guys updated. There is much unknown at this point. I am at step B, and staying in Brazil with thoughts of school is at step K on the gringo continuum.

Today’s Wish List: a printer, a motorcycle, a new tan

On the street Carnival Pics. This is a rare thing. Check out my sweaty red face.

This is my please no one kill me I'm having fun face.

Remember my "letting go" post. I got a picture from that too.

Taisa and I at Porto do Barra.

Decisions

I played in my first Brazilian Capoeira roda yesterday. It was a sweaty, hot, magnificent experience. My capoeirista buddy James (pronounced Jameees here) encouraged me to get out of the house and go practice. I will admit to having reached a certain level of boredom here in Brazil. The problem is not that this place isn’t interesting. Just the opposite in fact, there is so much to see and do. But alas, I am a social creature and much prefer to share this world with my monkey brethren. With few friends to call my own, a lack of adequate transportation, and a constant fear of spending all my money, I tend to stay imprisoned in my own self-imposed green mile, shawshanking my way to frustration and a lonely gringo fervor.

But this is changing. I made a deal with myself a few days ago to avoid boredom at all costs—to buy a guide book and rock out the day with minor excursions into the city. And I have little doubt, with English work looming, gym time, Capoeira time, girlfriend time, self-study time, guitar time, surfing time, and all other manner of ways to spend time, I will be awfully busy soon. Boredom will not be an option.

So the Capoeira roda was a right of passage of sorts. To have finally played in Brazil is a Hajj—a great quest to the holy land that must be done at least once in a given life time. Having been out of practice for a few months, I was a bit nervous before playing, especially in front of some extremely high caliber capoeiristas. But true to form, I shucked off my trepidations with the beat of the berimbau, cart wheeling my way into the sensory full body religious experience that Capoeira tends to be.

After the roda, James and I ran off to Rio Vermelho to throw down a couple beers, heading to a small bar owned by his girlfriends’ dad. The bar sits on a little side street in the middle of a couple favelas (shanty towns), and is this really lively place, the kind of thing that is sure to win National Geographic playmate of the year. People play soccer in the streets, grill meat, butcher fish. Kids sell home made pizzas to passing traffic. The smell of bread wafts out of the bakery shops, and toothless old men sit in windows and chat about the activities of their day. On every open street corner, little plastic tables are set up to welcome thirsty chatty patrons. People smile and wave and say hello as you pass by. So authentic, the place would get a magazine fold out for sure.

On another note, I have been contemplating buying a motorcycle here, or shipping my FZ1 from the States. The cost would be about the same, around $2500 to ship the bike or to buy used. The moto experience here is hardly recreational, and most people own smaller versions of the Honda, Yamaha, street bike you find back home. A 250 hp is considered a fast bike, although you do see crotch rockets and Yamaha cruisers pass from time to time. Buying a car is ridiculously expensive, and so is the gas at about double the cost of current gas prices in the US of A. So a motorcycle is definitely the most economic option, though conversely also the most deadly. I see a crash damn near everyday, and half the people I talk to tell me to avoid riding at all costs. It’s hard to know what to do, considering I probably can’t afford a car and would really like the personal freedom that a bike would bring.

Random spirit(s) shot.

Portuguese Cod in African Dende oil. Are you kidding me?

A calamity of epic proportions. Live breaking news. Yes, it's true, another monkey died.

Look, I done balded myself.

It's really hot. So yeah, I got good and balded.

Nothing Much

Looking for work now. Am busy trying to be a productive human being. Here are some more videos to keep you guys occupied. I promise better content in the future.

And as a side note, I walked outside my apartment for like
20 minutes at nine o'clock this morning. When I got home,
I had to peel this shirt off like a second skin.
I wonder to myself, how on earth am I supposed to
look presentable sweating like this?

Tatuagens

I have so much swirling around my head on this subject, I could take up pages and pages. I have met my writing quota for the day, and don’t feel like evacuating any thoughts, so to grab just a few…

Dermal Pigmentation.

Always a charged subject. Opinions? Lets start with mine.

Tattoos can be brilliant. Tattoos can be bad. As with anything in this world, the more time and thought and creativity you pour into a project, the greater the result will be.

In my opinion over 90% of the cookie cutter tattoos that I see are worthless.

Bad tattoos give the art of tattooing a bad name.

The history of tattoos is by far more interesting than anything I heard you say all day.

Tattoos are a mark of nobility in some cultures, and a mark of poverty and crime in others. What your grandmother told you isn’t true. It is by far more complicated than that.

All my tattoos are self-designed. I have never said, nor will say, “I want that one”.

Yes my tattoos will look bad when I am 80. But so will I. And so will you. And who really wants to die without any scars?

This current tattoo is my favored artistic style: Borneo Tribal Abstract with King/Warrior motifs. Think I stumbled on that by accident. Think again.

This tattoo really really hurt.

No I am not done yet.

No, it is not perfect. Still lot’s to touch up and work on.

Yes it cost a lot.

And no, I can’t stop writing. Ahhh too much. I am going to stop now.

I prefer Tribal for it's Polynesian indigenous origins, it's simplicity,
it's boldness.

Symmetry, Symmetry, Symmetry. In symmetry, there is power.

Ever had a fast moving needle move over your collar bone. I don't recommend it.

Employment of Kanji. One of the few writing systems where whole words can be expressed in a single character. Strength on your left, Virtue on the right. Thanks Kazu for the correct symbology and interpretations.

My tattoo artist, one of the most well renowned in the city by the way, added some shading without my permission (hazard of not speaking the same language). Not sure if I'm going to keep it, as the other has no shading. He did it for balance, but I am considering shading it in. What do you think?

Inverting the body was necessary, I decided to use my other tribals to do so. Worked out well I think.

I am now white again. All my lovely tan South American skinned peeled away.

And there it is. Tattoo project 2008. Hope you enjoyed it.

Jesus Cakes and a Death Hairball

I got on the bus yesterday, waking up early to catch a ride to Barra. Riding a bus in this metropolis is always an interesting experience. The vehicle itself is like any typical inner city transport—long, box like, and noisy as hell. During peak hours, the busses are filled far beyond the point of ‘overcapacity’ with people standing or sitting on every inch of possible moving space. Bus drivers pedal their breakneck caravans at top speeds, and I constantly have to replace thoughts of us slamming into a cement telephone pole with milder pleasantries.

From the mundane to the spectacular, getting on the bus always provides some form of entertainment. Yesterday a merchant boarded the bus carrying his signature tray of chewing gum, candy, and snacks. These amateur business men are ubiquitous on most routes. They board the bus at random stops, step into the center aisle of the vehicle, and then proceed – with the pizzazz of an amateur showman – to sell their wares. On this occasion, the comerciante decided to sell something entirely different. Jesus cakes.

Well, not literally Jesus cakes. When he boarded the bus, he immediately caught my attention by launching into song. He began with “Good morning, hello people”, and then just started singing. I was puzzled and mildly entertained. After he finished singing, he started, softly at first, a Baptist sermon and testimony. It began like most sermons with scripture and promises of eternal love and life in the hereafter.

As the minutes passed, his voice began to rise in volume until he was almost at the point of screaming. Everyone ignored him, including the poor women whose ear was not but a few inches from his face. Naturally, I was the only one on the bus who hadn’t seen this before, and I tried to stare at him from the corner of my eye. I think he noticed, and was happy someone was giving him the most miniscule amount of attention. He yelled further, and began to point and shake is finger, ranting about the existence of homosexuality, prostitution, and who knows what else. I began to find his tirade extremely abrasive, as it continued at top volume for what must have been at least 15 minutes. I said something like, “Wow he talks a lot” to the girl sitting next to me and she just grimaced and turned away. After a few more minutes of screaming, he ended the lecture in song and then got up and walked off the bus.

I laughed to myself at the episode, thinking about how he wasn’t a very good business man, and if he wanted to sell Jesus cakes he should probably shake his finger less and hug people more.

Oh, and oh yeah. Just after he left, this woman sitting behind me coughed in the most bizarre of ways. I mean it was really bizarre. It sounded like the noise someone would make, the last noise that is, just before they die. You know, like (as in Fight Club): here it comes. DEATH HAIRBALL…cough…prepare to evacuate soul.

All I could think of was, “I hope that poor women decided to buy a Jesus Cake”.

Uhhhh.....kinda like this.