Coco-what? Errrr II

I have a job!

Yes ladies and gentlemen it has happened. Leo has gone corporate.

In one weeks time my lifestyle here
in Brazil has done a 180. After months
of struggling as a unemployed, twiddling my thumbs with too much time on my
hands, I have found a job. And not just any job, but a real live 9-5. Before I left the States I did an internship for an agency specializing in Cultural Heritage Tourism. I considered the field to be the perfect melding of my talents: (1) works good with people (2) enjoys foreign places and exotic travel (3) detail oriented (4) competitive (5) and for-profit. As much as I love the academic life, I became disenchanted with the non-profit lifestyle (i.e. work hard, make little), and was determined to find a career that would reward me for my labor.

About a week ago, an internship and a manager position was posted online for internet based Travel Company that specializes in custom built tours to South America. After doing a bit of research, I learned that the company was small, but quite impressive in its list of services (real estate solutions, travel solutions, web design, and translation). Essentially, it was a one stop shop for clients interested in real estate investment, travel, translation and web design in Latin America.

Fast forward a couple of interviews, and Leo had himself a contract. The company posted a manager position that required at least 8 years experience in tourism, which naturally I didn’t have, but I was determined to sell my skills and bid high. Having done the “intern” thing, I told them that I was ready for a bigger challenge and they agreed. For the next three months I’m on salary as an operations manager and sales tech. If I survive the next three months of work, then I become manager of the travel division, with around 8 employees under my wing.

The work itself is…..hmmm….odd. So different than my past experience. Essentially, I sit at a computer all day long. Because the company is small, our team has a thousand responsibilities. In an eight hour day, I end up playing the role of accountant, administrator, customer service guru, sales tech, and researcher. As if the multiple role thing wasn’t enough of a challenge, I have to do a great deal of my work in Portuguese, which is exceedingly difficult by the end of the day. When I get home my brain is fried.

So, yeah my life has changed. Who knows if it will last, but for now at least I have a steady income. I can return to my routine of going to the gym, of paying for my martial arts, of not freaking out when I buy groceries. I’m really interested in this tourism thing, and hope to continue digging myself into the industry while I complete my masters. I’m still going to have to live sparsely, as Brazilian salaries are MUCH MUCH less than a American salaries, but at least something….anything….is coming in.

Check out the links on the sidebar for my plug.

Away

I must admit that deep down I am a country boy. I grew up in Michigan, in a back woods landscape of snow and leaves. I grew up appreciating nature for its mystical qualities, for its ability to transfer the mundane into something wholly mysterious. For me, the forest was a place where I could exercise my imagination, unreservedly, where I could live out my own quests, adventures, and dreams.

For the first time in my life, I find myself living in the heart of a large city, in the center of hustle and traffic and stress. At times, the city becomes too much for me, the weight of its human drama, and I simply have to get away.

On just this very whim, Vivi and I took off this weekend, escaping to the island of Itaparica on the other side of the Bay. Our first night was spent in Mar Grande, where we roamed around the midnight streets, eating, drinking, and mingling with the holiday crowd. The next morning, we took off for ‘Sitio Alma Tropical’, a beautiful beachside estate owned by my friend Betulia. The place was just what we needed, a tropical paradise filled with animals, and greenery, and natural wonder. For any of you visiting Bahia, I heartily recommend a stay at one of their beach side bungalows, as it’s a wonderful place to rest up and rejuvenate the soul.

Click here: Sitio Alma Tropical

Ready to go. On the ferry boat ride.

The other side of Salvador.

Professora saluting.

Sitio Alma Tropical. Well, one beautiful corner anyway.

Full of fish.

And coconuts!

Smile Vivi.

We're in the jungle baby!


Keep gate closed.

Mist and shadows.

And here we go. Back accross the bay.

Hard Realities

So you want the truth do you? Sit down, have a seat.

Today we are going to address the question of the itinerant gringo. Why is it that foreigners from the US and Europe, who come to Brazil to try and make a life, end up going home?

Well, the answer is simple. Money and quality of life.

Here in Brazil, money is hard to come by. This is because:

The great majority of the population works for a measly $200 USD a month. The middle class exists, but only in times of plenty. When inflation takes off, the middle class fall back into poverty. In terms of Social-Darwinism and capitalism, a small bourgeoisie population and a massive army of poor does not exactly make for a strong economy.

This is because:

Less people with money = less consumption.

Less consumption = higher prices.

Higher prices = Low quality of life.

For the passing tourist, Brazil seems like a paradise. The climate is warm, the palm trees are plenty, the women exotic. With a pocket stuffed full of euros or dollars, the gringo feels rich and in control. Then, gringo experiences the formula:

1. Gringo falls in love with a local.
2. Gringo goes back to his boring rat-race existence in the real world, but has little success after tasting a little slice of paradise.
3. Gringo because enamored with his little slice of paradise, and in a fit of inspiration decides to throw away is cubicle existence to live in Brazil.

Whoo. Awesome. Great.

Fast forward six months.

Gringo sinks his teeth into reality. Gringo experiences his/her first bout as a native instead of the tourist. Gringo realizes that his income doesn’t get him very far. Gringo realizes that for the first time in life, he is poor. Gringo realizes that it is nearly impossible to get a job. Gringo realizes that the only people with money are working professionals (i.e. lawyers, doctors, engineers) who struggled up the professional ladder, or got into good schools because their families are rich. Gringo realizes that he is not rich, nor getting into a good school.

Gringo teaches English until he realizes that.

He/She is not making enough money to travel.

He /She is not making enough money to live in a safe and secure place.

He/She is not making enough money to enjoy hobbies, or see movies, or dine out (at least not with the same frequency as back home).

Gringo hits the wall, packs up, and moves home.

More truths:

--Most gringos that come to live comfortably in Brazil are retired (i.e. earned their money elsewhere) or work for international companies.
--Most gringos that I know live here illegally, marginally, and earn a very small living.

Not to say that these formulas apply to me, this is just what I continue to see.

Oh, gringoes. Don't say that I didn't warn you.

A little 'City of God'

I'm in my bedroom. Two minutes ago, I snapped these photos of the military police sniffing around my bairro.





I'm not going to lie. This shit makes me nervous. The police force in Salvador are under payed and over armed. When there is trouble in paradise, bullets fly. I so feel like 'Rocket' in the City of God, snapping pictures of the police from around the corner. Who knows, maybe it will boost my career in journalism. Maybe it will help me find a job.

I have a bed!

Slowly, day by day, my house is turning into a home. After sleeping on the floor and on thin mattresses for the last eight months, I finally decided to take the plunge and buy a real bed. It's amazing how luxurious such a simple thing feels after denying yourself the pleasure. No more soar hips and unnecessary back aches. Step by step, this cub is moving up in the world.

Love is the Death of Ego

When we come into this world, we come in fragile. We need people to care for us, to nurture us, to give us life. Before long, as we feel pain both real and imagined, both physical and emotional, we start to build walls. The savagery that is life, which takes without regret, begins to dig underneath our skin, and in response we toughen our whole exterior. This shell is our selfish gene, our disconnect from the world, our ego. The stronger our ego becomes, the less we ultimately feel.

I experienced a revelation this weekend, born of a horror I dare not forget. I experienced a moment where I thought I was going to die. Emergency rooms, blackness, thinness, demons, I saw the shell that is in me, this armor built black, made up of all my fears. And in that moment I saw my ego for what it truly was, and therein lay the key.

Love is the death of ego.

Love is the death of ego.

Love is the blessing beneath the shell. Love is inter-connectivity.
Love is light perfected. Without the other, there is no love. Without
the offer, no one could receive. To get you must give, and by giving you will obtain.

In this life, imperfect as it may be, there is nothing more worthy than to love and be loved.

The House and Things

Ok, I know. I need better material. It's just a trifle anyway.

Shhhhbang!

I worked my ass off today. I made 4 trips to the electric store, ran up my hill 10 times (no easy feat trust me), and am finally relaxing after a cold shower at home. After a day under the hot sun stringing wires throughout the villa, I can happily announce that I am internet equipped. And if that wasn't enough cushion in the lap of luxury, I now have my own t.v. too, thanks to a kindly lend by my friend Greg! You should check out his new blog here, not only because it's a good blog but because he recently visited my house and wrote a post about it:

http://gringoinbahia.blogspot.com/

I have to credit him for the two pictures posted below as well. If you have enough courage to visit my Favela, this sunset is your sure fire reward.

Shhhhbang!

Click from my porch.

Contemplating something grand.

A Walk Home

Hastily written as I fall to sleep…

It’s around nine o’clock. I exit the barred entryway of the internet café. I spent the last few minutes scanning photo’s of my time in Europe last summer. My head still sways with the green pastures of Switzerland, with the cows, and chocolate, the family and friends and stunning beauty of the place. My exit into the street is a time warp, a transport into chaos and all of the frenzy that surrounds Campo Grande square.

I start my thirty minute track home. My legs are tired from repeatedly climbing the favela hill. I have resolved to avoid busses to save a bit of money, and my feet are starting to feel it. I walk and my sandals clap. I pass coconut water vendors, meat sizzling on little makeshift grills. The rich our out walking their pure breed dogs. Street kids wearing shirts emblazoned with “security” scream at passing cars, trying desperately to direct people to park in an effort earn a little bit of change.

I walk fast and hurry towards Largo Victoria. In the span of 30 minutes, I have been asked for money four times, including one favela acquaintance who pleads for me to give him some water. As I near the square, I see about 20 people standing next to a city bus that is stopped dead in the middle of the street. There is a police car parked nearby that is flashing its lights. Suddenly, as I near the square, one of the young kids from the favela grabs my arm. He tells me in an excited voice to follow him, that he wants me to get closer to what appears to be an accident. I ask him what happened, and he tells me that the bus hit a motorcyclist, that he went under. He points to his leg and says “Nao existe mais”, it doesn’t exist anymore. I tell him that I drive a motorcycle and don’t want to see what happened. This is the 6th accident involving a motorcycle that I have seen in the last 8 months, including a string of incidents where drivers were decapitated by fallen clothes lines.

As I quicken my step towards Vila, a ball welling up in my throat, I pass the church at the top of the hill. As I go by, I catch a glimpse of a beautiful bride dressed in white entering into the church. It is a beautiful sight, and I give thanks to this country for the reminding me that there is life, there is death, and they do exist.

I descend the hill in the dark. Kids line the concrete steps, chatting about the accident and how they won’t sleep tonight. I enter the entryway towards my house, a tight alley submerged between the hastily constructed brick buildings. Halfway through, I am surprised to find a number of the Vila men propped under a small light working on a house. I quickly launch into the story about the accident, hoping to avoid the harsh looks that the Vila men often give me (hi, I’m a friendly social gringo). Alex, a pseudo-Rastafarian and long term resident whose father founded the neighborhood, welcomes me to the circle. When I arrived here a few weeks back, I knew Alex was my “in”. He had a good energy about him, and I could tell that he was highly respected in the Vila. He tells me in a booming voice that I am his brother, that no one will mess with me here, and that we are village neighbors. The men eye me cautiously, and I can tell that his words have had an effect.

I awkwardly sign off with a “boa noite”, making my way down the tight corridor and finally arrive at home. I situate myself down stairs, open my bedroom windows, and relax to the sound of the waves. I can’t help but think…Brazil…here you are. What more lessons do you have to offer me?

The Day After

Well, I survived yesterday’s rain. It took six buckets, two brooms, and the strength of a Bengal Tiger but I did it. Vivi came over last night and gave me some tough girl advice, telling me to suck it up until I have enough money to fix the roof. We came to the conclusion that I should stick it out here for at least month, or until I have a more accurate feel for the place. As for my general mistrust of the residents, well, that too will take time. Clearly we are both operating off of stereotypes. They think I’m a rich, aloof, gringo, and I think they are poor, uneducated, thieves. While there is some grain of truth to this pigeonhole, we are both operating under extremes. Only through a beer, a round of soccer, an opportunity to share an experience – will these typecasts be revealed for the oversimplifications that they are. I just hope this will happen before one of us does something stupid.

The Price of Paradise

Me: Oh shit [realization]. That walkway my construction guy’s built fits nicely under my front door. Oh shit. With the way it leans just right, all of the water from my neighbor’s corridor is going to come streaming into my upper floor. I rush over to Vila Matos to talk to the guy.

Guy: Uh. Uh. Mumble. What?

Me: Dude. Impending disaster. You have to come fix this now! This is a problem.

Guy: Mumble. Mumble.

Guy: I’ll come tomorrow.

Me: What if it rains tonight? This will kill my house.

Guy: Mumble. It won’t rain. Tomorrow.

Me: Grrr. Fine.

I return home. I’m tired from my day in Vila Brandão. This neighborhood is just different from Vila Matos. People are always asking me to give them shit—a dollar, a t.v., old speakers in the house, a refrigerator motor, a job. I feel like an outsider here, and people are constantly giving me the snake eyes. Yesterday, a piece of equipment was stolen off of my bike. I haven’t slept well in 3 days. Last night, some prankster threw stones at the metal grating outside my window, and then banged on the glass pane in my bathroom. I am being provoked and I know it.

Me: [asleep, day 3, 1:00 in the morning. The sound of running water suddenly rushes to my ears].

Me: Oh shit.

I grab a broom and rush upstairs. Water is coming through the door and is falling through multiple holes in the roof, despite the fact that I just “fixed” it two days ago. My laptop is sitting in a pool of water. I realize that I need a whole new roof to live here. That means wood, roofing tiles, a new labor contract, and I don’t have that kind of money.

Me: Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

An hour passes, and I eventually drag myself to bed. I can’t relax, my brain won’t shut up. I can’t help from thinking that I’ve backed myself into a corner.

Brain: You haven’t gotten a sub call in a month, blah, blah, you have no money, blah, blah, you’re a marginal living on the edges of society, blah, blah. I down some allergy medicine and try fitfully to relax.

Me: What now
..……….
...............
………...
………...
zzzzzzzzz.

I slowly fall to sleep.

How we fix things in the ghetto.

Thanks be to mother nature for creating gravity.

Tired and wet.

Construction

I started the first round of construction on Casa Branca here in Vila Brandão. Signing the R$1000 contract and paying for my shady neighbors R$350 electric bill has sealed the deal. I am now an official 'home owner' in this small Favela community. (well part home owner anyway)

It is interesting to note how my perception of quality is beginning to change. Had I visited Casa Branca upon first arriving in Brazil, I would have been horrified at the 'slum' like conditions. Compared to the tighty, white washed, neat little world that is home, Vila B and my little house would be quickly scheduled for demolition. Pipes run in crazy directions, open wires befriend standing water, the place lives and breaths chaos. I'm sure that if you named a building code, I'm probably breaking it.

But as it is, by and by, if you are here long enough in Brazil you start to forget these trifles. Things are how they are and you learn to live with them. Life is, after all, a matter of perception. To the people in this neighborhood, my house with its high ceilings and view of the bay is considered a castle and a "dream home" to use the words of a neighbor. What horrifies some is the envy of others I suppose. If any of you adventurists back home are brave enough to visit, the least I can promise you is humility.

Working on the balcony.

Battling the wall cracks.

I can now unlock the house without falling 10 feet to my death.
Funny thing about Brazilian construction is that it is so creative. Instead of just "ordering materials", the guys ran around the house looking for scrap wood. This walkway is built from abandoned housing beams and a couple of my shelves. In the lack of money, "Sempre ha um jeito".

This is the 'why are you taking pictures of me' face.

Also, construction safety. Awesome. This is an abandoned ladder that was found on the property, which is rusted and about to fall apart. This guy put two of its legs on beams set across the stairwell. I watched him in amazement, hoping at first that I wouldn't get sued, and then I remembered that lawyers in this country simply don't give a rats ass.

Yikes!

I stepped out of the house for a minute only to find that the guys had thrown all of our waste materials out into the green space below my house. This is very typical here. Hills are considered waste dumps, even when they are right next to residential property. I think that of all the cultures that I am familiar with, the Brazilians are the least environmentally conscious, which is a shame considering that they sit on the worlds largest most ecologically valued rain forest.

Ugly, ugly, ugly.

My first artistic creation. You likey?

This is a picture of my first sunset in the house. The trick in this house is to choose which spot you'd like to watch the sunset from. Naturally, this picture hardly does it justice.

A Little Walk

Sunday. What a marvelous day. Vivi and I (yes -- the girl has officially made it on my blog) had lunch in my Vila Matos apartment, and then headed up and into the slum for a little walk. Truly, it was one of those wonderful days where everything seems to fit nicely. Included in the list of this Sunday's qualities is: an awesome vegetarian pizza cooked by yours truly, rose wine, strawberries dipped in cream, a stop by the zoo, a sundown, a full moon, a milkshake, and a wikedly profound movie (Blindness -- read the book, go see the movie).

Me and my boy Guto hanging out the night before. We play quality music on our veranda.

Gotcha V! You're hot even when you brush your teeth.

Drinking a bit of wine before our walk.

The underbelly of Salvador, and that which the tourist never sees.

Where I take people when I want to impress them.

My rediculously awesome photo number 1. The boys are trying to fly home made kites.

Little visitors.

My rediculously awesome photo number 2.

What a pose.

Our sundown.


I caught this dog chilling on a roof. Classic.

Checking out the moon before the movie.


What a Sunday!!!

Dogs R' Us

I attach here a short gringoes.com commentary on my least favorite part of Brazilian inner-city life: The Barking Dog ' (ssssssssssssss + infinity)

Irish: (notice he writes all in caps, which, yes, is exactly how I feel)

"HELLO ALL,

CAN SOMEONE ANYONE HELP ME TO REACH A SOLUTION ABOUT SHUTTING DOGS UP. WHICH DOG DAZER IS THE MOST EFFECTIVE AND WHERE CAN I BUY ONE IN BRAZIL? WHY DO BRAZILIANS THINK ITS OK TO TRAP DOGS BEHIND GATES AND NOT WALK THEM AND HAVE THEM BARKING AND HOWLING CONSTANTLY?

ANY SOLUTIONS OR ANSWERS ON THIS ONE PLEASE.

THANK YOU"

Man of Leisure:

"As LL says, welcome to Brazil. Dogs barking all day and night is normal here and people will be surprised that it bothers you. I suggest you say nothing as this will alert the owner to your presence. Meanwhile, go the farmacia and buy Ibuprofeno (Ibuprophen) in 600mg tablet form (as this does not require a prescription in Brazil) and then melt some chocolate and coat the pills. Ibuprophen has a minimum lethal dosage of 600mg per kilogram bodyweight in dogs so a small 3kg poodle will need 3 chocky treats and larger dogs probably a few more. Just throw them over the wall or through the letter-box. Renal failure and death follow swiftly."

London Lad:

"IRISH, who is noted for his gracious manners, was awakened one morning at 4:44 A.M. by his ringing telephone.

"Your dog's barking, and it's keeping me awake," said an angry voice.
IRISH thanked the caller and politely asked his name and number before hanging up.

The next morning at precisely 4:44 A.M., IRISH called his neighbor back.

"Good morning, Mr. Lucena, Just called to say that I don't have a dog."

Me:

"Hahahah.....the chocolate coated pain killer. That's an instant classic.

Barking dogs are in my all time top 3 of Brazilian pet peeves (like the pun?). Worse still, Brazilians seem to have a soft spot for my LEAST FAVORITE of all mongrels, the black eyed curly haired demonic yapper known as "The Poodle". Why anyone would want a dog that is as ugly as sin, and absent of any redeeming qualities is beyond me. And because no one seems to walk their pets, all of these screaming headache makers have gone completely bug nuts insane. I walk by this one every time I come home from work and I swear to god we mental battle.

I think "Bitch, I'm gonna squash you!" And it thinks "Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap......you get my point."

Exactly This: