going back some days to review the scribblings that began when i boarded the plane for salvador. it's funny now to go back and read into the anticipation and the managing of the anxiety of the unknown. in some ways i predicted correctly and others, well, not so much.
15 january 2010
on the plane. boarded. loaded. eager for the trip. i will be greeted by francisco at the gate. he will hold a sign with my name and we will go to the homestay place. what to expect?
food is most on my mind as the plane lumbers toward take-off.
and so it is that we are in the air. feeling the pressure from below and rising to the blue. off to the right there sprawl large patches of neighborhoods mixed in with rolling green hills. beyond: the ocean to the horizon.
and now into countryside where housing no longer exists. green fields, small bodies of water. the usual anxieties of travel swirl away. ease sets in. confidence in the pilot, crew, aircraft.
no booze available? bah!
into some mountains now and still hugging the coastline. simple. pretty.
two sisters in their fifties housing language students. this will be an experience. i wonder will they be fussy, doting, free-spirited...manic?
i hope they will be adventurous food folk. my mouth is watering even now at the thought of acarajé. squims in deliciousness.
over the cloud cover now. just us and the sun. the white forms its own landscape. a drifting mass of star dust rising up in columns--slabs breaking off in slow motion.
into the night we now go. nothing visible. but there is plenty to hear as the guy next to me has his ear buds blasting. and to my left a couple of men continue an emphatic conversation. at odd intervals a child some rows back screams in singular bursts of...surprise?
christmas finally came yesterday in the form of a box from my adoring mother. and in my box: a book. "open," the autobiography of andre agassi waits to be begun.
unexpected layover. not sure why that happened. hmmmm...my itinerary gave no such indication. at least i lost the loud-ear-bud neighbor. are we still due to arrive at my scheduled time? we shall see.
fortunately i am in the land of the laid-back. and the dude who's picking me up will likely roll with any delay more readily than if, say, i were landing in kagoshima (birthplace of sho-chu). or maybe it is i who will roll more readily since there isn't the focus here on puctuality and the apologetic bows would certainly be replaced by a more relaxed series of gestures.
take-off number two underway. and it is indeed good to be the first one in the first row. i am pleasantly close to the flight attendant who bears a slight resemblance to a young barbara streisand. or maybe it's this copy of agassi's story, inclusive of the details regarding his brief time with the singer, playing tricks on me.
either way i am smitten by the usual mental dalliances that seem to occur on every flight. her movements swift and confident. my ultimate safety in her hands. a glance and a smile as she goes through the routine of flight procedure were we to crash land.
at last we land--sans crash. we part ways with one last grin and twinkle of the eye. real or imagined it matters not. something about that uniform...
anyway, with the unexpected layover and subsequent confusion i hardly expect my suitcase to arrive. but it does. great relief.
and lo, here is francisco with the sign bearing my name. second time to have such an experience and enjoyed in equal measure to the first.
meeting up with another person from the school and a young lady from the netherlands. shortish drive to my apartment and first impressions roll in. i'm in the goddamn ghetto...again. i pause in the gated entrance as midnight fades well into the distance and the portero huddles in his tiny booth.
the place i'm staying is nice, but across the way a dwelling stands abandoned and gaping in my direction. litter floats about and street folk skitter on their delirious way. it's late. i'm tired. i enter.
up to the 18th floor i go. meet dolores: nice enough first impression. though she appears more tired than i. another body in her bedroom, sleeping. no real immediate spark coming from her at the prospect of my stay. what was i expecting? a parade? ribbons and banners?
her flat is swank, from what i've seen. she leaves me to the unpacking and then some soup in the kitchen.
now bed. 2 a.m. sleepy. nighty night.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
just days remain
a slight change in plans. we found ourselves renting a car and heading to praia do forte for a respite. along the coast we drove. we passed a series of beaches and crawled through a couple gongested areas. i've driven before in brazil and it is always an experience. the rules of engagement are simply more intense than what i've known from driving in the states and japan.
honking is a big part of roadway communication. a honk can mean anything from "hey, i'm coming through" to "get your punk ass outta my way." the motorcycles honk more than anyone. but that's because they are constantly weaving their way though the lanes. the delivery people are the best. since they are on the go all day, they have great skill and will duck and weave through impossibly small openings. if you've ever played that pizza delivery video game, then you have an idea of what this looks like. they brake, accelerate, and lean hard to the right and left. the sqaure container affixed to the back comes within inches of cars and trucks and bobs to and fro like a featherweight boxer.
so points of the drive were soothing. it always feels good to be on the move and headed somewhere new and beautiful. other parts...not so soothing.
alas we arrived. we ditched the car and went directly to the beach. what a sight. this is one of the most tranquil beaches i have ever seen. sparsely populated by people and powdery soft sand under foot. the water stretched out, calm and peaceful, about the length of a football field. beyond, the calm gave way to rolling waves on which surfers rode, sank into, and paddled back through for more.
palm trees tall and lean lined the beach. their fronds uniformly pushed back and giving the appearence of a face atop a long neck leaning forward into the wind with hair blowing majestically back. no noise. no litter. no hustlers bumming change and scoping out items to snatch, nor vendors demanding one buy their wares.
from there it was off to dinner in the little village. i knew not what to expect from this beach community, and i was pleasantly surprised. it's like a little tourist oasis in a tiny village. pousadas line a couple streets and come in various colors and architectural styles. in the town center one can stroll easily and without worry and take in the sight of shops, restaurants, and all the other delights that the average tourist might enjoy.
just a couple streets over in any direction, however, is something much more interesting. in fact, surrounding the tourist area is much more what would be described as "real brazil." winding through narrow passages and past tiny residences where locals relaxed, prepared food, and scurried about in their daily routines, we were given many quick peeks into lives quite different from our own. we agreed that we could spend many hours--days even--milling about this quiet little community.
on day two we settled ourselves at a table outside in some shade for a meal. the food was provided by a woman who simply set up a table and some chairs in front of her home. the menu was scribbled on a dry-erase board and the options were quite simple. i settled on fried chicken. with the meal came rice and beans and a little salad. a couple liters of beer were enjoyed and for dessert we had the freshest mango i've ever eaten. lunch for two: just under fifteen u.s. dollars.
just above our heads, little monkeys flew from limb to limb, giving chase and swinging in a most carefree fashion. a local man at a nearby table stood quickly in an apparent huff over some issue. a string of words flew from his mouth, vehement and forceful, directed at the proprietor. he picked up his bicycle, shouting the whole time and gesturing wildly with his free hand. the whole time he kept creeping toward the street and was nearly run down by both a car and a motorbike. he moved to the next mom-and-pop shop and tried explaining his situation, with increasing volume, to them. he was asked to leave. finally he rode slowly and unsteadily away, swiveling his neck to continue the string of verbiage as he was nearly plowed by yet another vehicle.
we exchanged looks of wonder and amusement and another local, just one table over, said "too much drink, he craaaazy." we nodded and proceeded to have a little chat. in the streets kids played. shoeless and reckless they streamed from one house to another and up and down this alley and that. monkeys continued their games overhead and a scrawny cat patrolled the area for table scraps.
more beach. more food. more drink. more strolling. more relief from the grind of salvador, which has become a giant headache. it's a beautiful city, with beautiful beaches. and the bahians are a wonderfully friendly, curious, and talkative people. but the carnaval preparations are in full swing. and this means that temporary structures are going up everywhere. so vehicles plug the streets and the sidewalks. sound systems are being tested every few meters. the hustlers are fully operational. people continue to stream in (word has it that 2 million strong flood in for the party). and the odors are all blending into a full-blown stench.
the official start isn't until thursday, but really it has already begun. friday i will go with some friends to a camarote--a sectioned-off party that includes food, drink, and some comfort from the mass of humanity (the pipoca, or popcorn) that will be frenetically popping below. ai ai ai.
honking is a big part of roadway communication. a honk can mean anything from "hey, i'm coming through" to "get your punk ass outta my way." the motorcycles honk more than anyone. but that's because they are constantly weaving their way though the lanes. the delivery people are the best. since they are on the go all day, they have great skill and will duck and weave through impossibly small openings. if you've ever played that pizza delivery video game, then you have an idea of what this looks like. they brake, accelerate, and lean hard to the right and left. the sqaure container affixed to the back comes within inches of cars and trucks and bobs to and fro like a featherweight boxer.
so points of the drive were soothing. it always feels good to be on the move and headed somewhere new and beautiful. other parts...not so soothing.
alas we arrived. we ditched the car and went directly to the beach. what a sight. this is one of the most tranquil beaches i have ever seen. sparsely populated by people and powdery soft sand under foot. the water stretched out, calm and peaceful, about the length of a football field. beyond, the calm gave way to rolling waves on which surfers rode, sank into, and paddled back through for more.
palm trees tall and lean lined the beach. their fronds uniformly pushed back and giving the appearence of a face atop a long neck leaning forward into the wind with hair blowing majestically back. no noise. no litter. no hustlers bumming change and scoping out items to snatch, nor vendors demanding one buy their wares.
from there it was off to dinner in the little village. i knew not what to expect from this beach community, and i was pleasantly surprised. it's like a little tourist oasis in a tiny village. pousadas line a couple streets and come in various colors and architectural styles. in the town center one can stroll easily and without worry and take in the sight of shops, restaurants, and all the other delights that the average tourist might enjoy.
just a couple streets over in any direction, however, is something much more interesting. in fact, surrounding the tourist area is much more what would be described as "real brazil." winding through narrow passages and past tiny residences where locals relaxed, prepared food, and scurried about in their daily routines, we were given many quick peeks into lives quite different from our own. we agreed that we could spend many hours--days even--milling about this quiet little community.
on day two we settled ourselves at a table outside in some shade for a meal. the food was provided by a woman who simply set up a table and some chairs in front of her home. the menu was scribbled on a dry-erase board and the options were quite simple. i settled on fried chicken. with the meal came rice and beans and a little salad. a couple liters of beer were enjoyed and for dessert we had the freshest mango i've ever eaten. lunch for two: just under fifteen u.s. dollars.
just above our heads, little monkeys flew from limb to limb, giving chase and swinging in a most carefree fashion. a local man at a nearby table stood quickly in an apparent huff over some issue. a string of words flew from his mouth, vehement and forceful, directed at the proprietor. he picked up his bicycle, shouting the whole time and gesturing wildly with his free hand. the whole time he kept creeping toward the street and was nearly run down by both a car and a motorbike. he moved to the next mom-and-pop shop and tried explaining his situation, with increasing volume, to them. he was asked to leave. finally he rode slowly and unsteadily away, swiveling his neck to continue the string of verbiage as he was nearly plowed by yet another vehicle.
we exchanged looks of wonder and amusement and another local, just one table over, said "too much drink, he craaaazy." we nodded and proceeded to have a little chat. in the streets kids played. shoeless and reckless they streamed from one house to another and up and down this alley and that. monkeys continued their games overhead and a scrawny cat patrolled the area for table scraps.
more beach. more food. more drink. more strolling. more relief from the grind of salvador, which has become a giant headache. it's a beautiful city, with beautiful beaches. and the bahians are a wonderfully friendly, curious, and talkative people. but the carnaval preparations are in full swing. and this means that temporary structures are going up everywhere. so vehicles plug the streets and the sidewalks. sound systems are being tested every few meters. the hustlers are fully operational. people continue to stream in (word has it that 2 million strong flood in for the party). and the odors are all blending into a full-blown stench.
the official start isn't until thursday, but really it has already begun. friday i will go with some friends to a camarote--a sectioned-off party that includes food, drink, and some comfort from the mass of humanity (the pipoca, or popcorn) that will be frenetically popping below. ai ai ai.
Friday, February 5, 2010
bad student
yep. skipping class today. tomorrow i will leave for praia do forte for a couple getaway days and the air conditioned internet place is a good enough place to gather my senses and figure out what's next. oh, the heat.
yesterday was a long and beautiful day. first class and then lunch and a stroll on the beach. around three in the afternoon a group of people from the school gathered and went on a boat tour. the vessel was a pirate-ship-looking thing and the three attendants were all dressed in the garb of early portuguese explorers with all the pomp and circumstance. mozart blasted from a sound system and a little show was put on as the captain arrived and took his seat. we all looked on with smiles and the captain commenced with a history of the area and various buildings lining the shore.
the view from the water gave a fresh perspective. fancy high rise condos lined parts of the waterfront and ramshackle housing occupied others. further on we passed the yacht club and then it was the beaches in our sight. the typical umbrella communities and surfers.
pictures galore were taken as scenes of honor bestowed, beheadings, and cordial dance took place. we came about and began the slow roll back to port; the sun continued its descent and mingled with the minimal cloud cover to give us optimal lighting for pictures and extended gazing and sighing.
after the cruise we broke into smaller groups and strolled through the public market. sensory overload would begin to describe this place. african/brazilian/bahian art, trinkets, musical instruments, oh my! just outside the structure, in a social square of sorts, more vendors offered their wares.
onward into pelourinho we strolled: lorrie, jenn, lucas, sandra, macaela, and yolanda (u.s., canada, switzerland, germany, holland and spain, repectively). the pace was delightfully slow and we looked about at the historic weathered buildings, bantering back and forth. soon, however, we had to deal with the usual uncertainty when finding a restaurant that will please all seven people. this scene plays out over and over. where do we go? what do you want? no, what do you want? i don't care, i'm not deciding this time. is this place too expensive? do you want to split something? what about that place over there?
at these moments i feel most like a tourist. and i also can't help but recall traveling through europe thirteen years ago, with my then companion. we would be rambling about, enjoying the sights, free from any care in the world. after all we were there for one month with nary a reservation nor itinerary. a eurorail pass took us from paris to bruges, and on to amsterdam, berlin, munich, budapest, salzburg. finally to rome, florence and venice and then back for a final glance at amsterdam before returning to paris and then flying home.
but, oh yes, the food situation. so we would be cruising around and never think about food until we were ravenously hungry. then we would look in our "let's go" guide and find something that looked good. all good at this point. the food descriptions added to our hunger and we would speak little as we sought our spot. then, trouble sometimes came. maybe the place was closed, or no longer in existence, or too expensive, or dirty. crap. now it's time for plan b. and now we're really hungry. blood sugar is beginning to plummet. irritation sets in. another fifteen minute walk and now we are talking. some barbs are thrown. some are deflected and some stick. grumble, grumble, grumble.
finally: salvation. a place to eat and recover. as soon as the first bite is swallowed it is as though all is forgiven. and for the most part it is. post meal, we laugh about our attitudes and vow to be more pro-active about the next meal.
so throw five more people into that equation and you have serious indecision.
alas, we found a place. outdoor seating on the cobbled street with only foot traffic idling by. we proceed to have a long lavish meal as music drifts around and talk turns to films, languages, the state of various unions. a delicious espresso finished off the event and the night somehow drifted to a close.
yesterday was a long and beautiful day. first class and then lunch and a stroll on the beach. around three in the afternoon a group of people from the school gathered and went on a boat tour. the vessel was a pirate-ship-looking thing and the three attendants were all dressed in the garb of early portuguese explorers with all the pomp and circumstance. mozart blasted from a sound system and a little show was put on as the captain arrived and took his seat. we all looked on with smiles and the captain commenced with a history of the area and various buildings lining the shore.
the view from the water gave a fresh perspective. fancy high rise condos lined parts of the waterfront and ramshackle housing occupied others. further on we passed the yacht club and then it was the beaches in our sight. the typical umbrella communities and surfers.
pictures galore were taken as scenes of honor bestowed, beheadings, and cordial dance took place. we came about and began the slow roll back to port; the sun continued its descent and mingled with the minimal cloud cover to give us optimal lighting for pictures and extended gazing and sighing.
after the cruise we broke into smaller groups and strolled through the public market. sensory overload would begin to describe this place. african/brazilian/bahian art, trinkets, musical instruments, oh my! just outside the structure, in a social square of sorts, more vendors offered their wares.
onward into pelourinho we strolled: lorrie, jenn, lucas, sandra, macaela, and yolanda (u.s., canada, switzerland, germany, holland and spain, repectively). the pace was delightfully slow and we looked about at the historic weathered buildings, bantering back and forth. soon, however, we had to deal with the usual uncertainty when finding a restaurant that will please all seven people. this scene plays out over and over. where do we go? what do you want? no, what do you want? i don't care, i'm not deciding this time. is this place too expensive? do you want to split something? what about that place over there?
at these moments i feel most like a tourist. and i also can't help but recall traveling through europe thirteen years ago, with my then companion. we would be rambling about, enjoying the sights, free from any care in the world. after all we were there for one month with nary a reservation nor itinerary. a eurorail pass took us from paris to bruges, and on to amsterdam, berlin, munich, budapest, salzburg. finally to rome, florence and venice and then back for a final glance at amsterdam before returning to paris and then flying home.
but, oh yes, the food situation. so we would be cruising around and never think about food until we were ravenously hungry. then we would look in our "let's go" guide and find something that looked good. all good at this point. the food descriptions added to our hunger and we would speak little as we sought our spot. then, trouble sometimes came. maybe the place was closed, or no longer in existence, or too expensive, or dirty. crap. now it's time for plan b. and now we're really hungry. blood sugar is beginning to plummet. irritation sets in. another fifteen minute walk and now we are talking. some barbs are thrown. some are deflected and some stick. grumble, grumble, grumble.
finally: salvation. a place to eat and recover. as soon as the first bite is swallowed it is as though all is forgiven. and for the most part it is. post meal, we laugh about our attitudes and vow to be more pro-active about the next meal.
so throw five more people into that equation and you have serious indecision.
alas, we found a place. outdoor seating on the cobbled street with only foot traffic idling by. we proceed to have a long lavish meal as music drifts around and talk turns to films, languages, the state of various unions. a delicious espresso finished off the event and the night somehow drifted to a close.
Monday, January 25, 2010
dump truck
holy hot. salvador is an oven. daytime means get to the beach or find air conditioning. there seems no in-between for a north american like me. 9th full day and some routine has been carved out. got the usual laptop spot, the quality acai joints, the cheap buffet scores, etc. also taking more cold showers than i ever thought necessary. sweat is a permanent fixture.
though i look around at the locals and nobody is sweating. of course the residents are acclimated, but i never thought the human body could not be dripping golf ball beads of moisture under such a piercing sun. it gets you through your shirt, your hat, and through the bottoms of your shoes.
the sun really is different than i've ever experienced. i've never been this close to the equator before, and the burn factor is out of control. the sun also rises at 5:30 in the morning and by 6:00 a.m. my room is filled with light. by 6:30 a.m. there is little chance of sleeping further. i tend to read until 8 or so and then it's off to breakfast.
dolores is my host mom, so to speak, and provides a morning meal every day. fresh fruit juice, various bread items, some kind of meat sandwich deal, and assorted other treats. one morning we had something that appeared to be lasagna. not complaining. dolores hooks me up with grub and sends me off to school.
there's also a portuguese only rule at the house and this makes for a stimulating start to the day. there is essentially no escape. i plop down half awake and already sweating and there's dolores firing questions at me, asking me about my day and forever telling me i don't eat enough. i smile and say maybe tomorrow i'll eat more.
turning down food is always a delicate manner. just yesterday i had to say no--emphatically--several times to what i'm certain was a delicious piece of grilled cheese on a stick. and i'm certain because i've had it. on the beach there are vendors who have a little grill they carry around and for a couple bucks they will dip a piece of delicious cheese in oregano and cook it up. it's awesome, of course. but my adventurous food spirit has left me a bit more cautious than i have been in travels past. the culprit: palm oil. unless you grew up eating food cooked in this shit, my advice is to steer clear or enjoy in severe moderation. i will likely enjoy the falafel down the street (sunflower oil) for the remainder of my stay more than anything that has taken a hot bath in saturated fat. my heart breaks for you, acaraje.
back to the host situation. the house is actually an apartment up on the 18th floor of a 20 story building. i have my own room right now and the view is great. to the left i see some of the sprawling downtown residential area. and to the right the coast begins within a few blocks and ocean commands the rest to the horizon. this morning i woke at 5:45 and the sunrise threw a lovely momentary glow about my room and the view at large. minutes later i lay in the beginning stages of further sweat while dolores klinked around the kitchen.
funny to see the sky from different angles. for example, the big dipper is upside down here to my north hemi eyes.
the apartment is in fine shape, tastefully and minimally decorated with glass sculptures and art from dolore's travels to egypt. one enters into a dining area. but it is only such an area in the sense that a large table occupies the middle of the room. the sense is that few meals are enjoyed here (though it is difficult to tell what is heavily used and what isn't since the whole place is kept remarkably clean at all times). off to the right is a little balcony area with a table for study and a view for random leisure.
through the doorway on the left one enters into the small hallway off which can be found the two guest rooms, guest bath, kitchen, and what is presumably the master bedroom. i presume only because i reckon this might be a living room were there not travelers lodging at various times and in various numbers. this room also holds the greatest mystery as it is the only one into which i have not ventured. and it appears that dolores and her sister share this room...and bed. the sister is rarely seen though she does come through, tornado-like, on occasion to rearrange the glasses in the cupboard and rapid fire some portuguese in my direction.
nothing special about my room. two single beds and a closet. only on the other side of the large window is there anything special to see. i commonly wake up--not only to a solar assault--but also to a confused and frustrated bird who dearly wants to either bust through the glass or else kill that mimicking bastard that looks just like him. thankfully the bathroom is on par with the rest of the pad. clean, modern, with a large walk-in shower from which the sea is visible.
when i first arrived there was another guest. a psychologist/travel writer from holland. we had a couple nice conversations. nothing much. and then she was gone. now it's oliver, also 36, from berlin. good guy. making his way just fine with the lessons and the city.
the school is a busy little hub of odd, normal, and everything-in-between types. switzerland, spain, australia, the u.s., canada, germany, uruguay, and holland are all represented. an austrian gal split just last week. i would begin to characterize the environment as heightened. everyone is here with a finite amount of time in which to learn some language, see everything they desire to, and find inspiration along the way. everyone has a story. and for the most part they're all good. not really a bad apple in the bunch.
it's fun to see the different groups form. the germans tend to stick together at points as do the spanish speakers and the dutch just cruise in and out of any group. same goes for the swiss. versatility. in truth, though, we are all strangers to each other and any one is fluid enough to unite with any other. And when we get together en masse, it is a riot. Here follows an account of a recent night:
last night's trip to pelourinho found us sixteen deep with a host of nationalities strung together. we met for sippers and hopped on the comfy bus. air conditioned and comfortable--tour quality--the bus soon exploded with conversation. manfred, middle-aged german dude, tucked in the middle of it all, looked on with a wide grin, soaking in the bumpy scenery. manfred was held tight by sandra, also from germany, a journalist and some years his junior, who takes a particular shine to helping manfred in class as well.
yolanda, from spain, engaged a couple spanish speaking ladies in animated conversation over two rows of seats. delight showed on their faces and the cool air made each note uttered crisp and somehow refreshing to hear. as though their words were cooling me from the inside. jenn and i exchanged quick exclamations of how wonderful was this scene.
i heard dutch, spanish, german flying from this corner to that and back and on and on. all were excited and it showed in the raucously affected speech and the eagerly subdued, to boot.
we were on our way to pelourinho, the old city square, where we were to see music and dancing. off the bus and into the fray we went. the square and surrounding area already full of people: vendors, singers, diners, dancers, hustlers, can collectors and a host of others. it was only a minute before we were collecting around a percussion group, mixing in with the crowd, beginning to bop our heads and shuffle our feet. another minute later saw full swing in action. loud, rapid and well-coordinated, the drum corp pulled a following and put a shimmy in the most vanilla of souls.
then on to a live band giving out the good-time reggae rhythm. sway side to side and peep the sights. tap your toes and groove if ya got the room. off to the left the corridor is tight and the cobbled street slopes rapidly down. a picture of history and a soundtrack of good life.
though i look around at the locals and nobody is sweating. of course the residents are acclimated, but i never thought the human body could not be dripping golf ball beads of moisture under such a piercing sun. it gets you through your shirt, your hat, and through the bottoms of your shoes.
the sun really is different than i've ever experienced. i've never been this close to the equator before, and the burn factor is out of control. the sun also rises at 5:30 in the morning and by 6:00 a.m. my room is filled with light. by 6:30 a.m. there is little chance of sleeping further. i tend to read until 8 or so and then it's off to breakfast.
dolores is my host mom, so to speak, and provides a morning meal every day. fresh fruit juice, various bread items, some kind of meat sandwich deal, and assorted other treats. one morning we had something that appeared to be lasagna. not complaining. dolores hooks me up with grub and sends me off to school.
there's also a portuguese only rule at the house and this makes for a stimulating start to the day. there is essentially no escape. i plop down half awake and already sweating and there's dolores firing questions at me, asking me about my day and forever telling me i don't eat enough. i smile and say maybe tomorrow i'll eat more.
turning down food is always a delicate manner. just yesterday i had to say no--emphatically--several times to what i'm certain was a delicious piece of grilled cheese on a stick. and i'm certain because i've had it. on the beach there are vendors who have a little grill they carry around and for a couple bucks they will dip a piece of delicious cheese in oregano and cook it up. it's awesome, of course. but my adventurous food spirit has left me a bit more cautious than i have been in travels past. the culprit: palm oil. unless you grew up eating food cooked in this shit, my advice is to steer clear or enjoy in severe moderation. i will likely enjoy the falafel down the street (sunflower oil) for the remainder of my stay more than anything that has taken a hot bath in saturated fat. my heart breaks for you, acaraje.
back to the host situation. the house is actually an apartment up on the 18th floor of a 20 story building. i have my own room right now and the view is great. to the left i see some of the sprawling downtown residential area. and to the right the coast begins within a few blocks and ocean commands the rest to the horizon. this morning i woke at 5:45 and the sunrise threw a lovely momentary glow about my room and the view at large. minutes later i lay in the beginning stages of further sweat while dolores klinked around the kitchen.
funny to see the sky from different angles. for example, the big dipper is upside down here to my north hemi eyes.
the apartment is in fine shape, tastefully and minimally decorated with glass sculptures and art from dolore's travels to egypt. one enters into a dining area. but it is only such an area in the sense that a large table occupies the middle of the room. the sense is that few meals are enjoyed here (though it is difficult to tell what is heavily used and what isn't since the whole place is kept remarkably clean at all times). off to the right is a little balcony area with a table for study and a view for random leisure.
through the doorway on the left one enters into the small hallway off which can be found the two guest rooms, guest bath, kitchen, and what is presumably the master bedroom. i presume only because i reckon this might be a living room were there not travelers lodging at various times and in various numbers. this room also holds the greatest mystery as it is the only one into which i have not ventured. and it appears that dolores and her sister share this room...and bed. the sister is rarely seen though she does come through, tornado-like, on occasion to rearrange the glasses in the cupboard and rapid fire some portuguese in my direction.
nothing special about my room. two single beds and a closet. only on the other side of the large window is there anything special to see. i commonly wake up--not only to a solar assault--but also to a confused and frustrated bird who dearly wants to either bust through the glass or else kill that mimicking bastard that looks just like him. thankfully the bathroom is on par with the rest of the pad. clean, modern, with a large walk-in shower from which the sea is visible.
when i first arrived there was another guest. a psychologist/travel writer from holland. we had a couple nice conversations. nothing much. and then she was gone. now it's oliver, also 36, from berlin. good guy. making his way just fine with the lessons and the city.
the school is a busy little hub of odd, normal, and everything-in-between types. switzerland, spain, australia, the u.s., canada, germany, uruguay, and holland are all represented. an austrian gal split just last week. i would begin to characterize the environment as heightened. everyone is here with a finite amount of time in which to learn some language, see everything they desire to, and find inspiration along the way. everyone has a story. and for the most part they're all good. not really a bad apple in the bunch.
it's fun to see the different groups form. the germans tend to stick together at points as do the spanish speakers and the dutch just cruise in and out of any group. same goes for the swiss. versatility. in truth, though, we are all strangers to each other and any one is fluid enough to unite with any other. And when we get together en masse, it is a riot. Here follows an account of a recent night:
last night's trip to pelourinho found us sixteen deep with a host of nationalities strung together. we met for sippers and hopped on the comfy bus. air conditioned and comfortable--tour quality--the bus soon exploded with conversation. manfred, middle-aged german dude, tucked in the middle of it all, looked on with a wide grin, soaking in the bumpy scenery. manfred was held tight by sandra, also from germany, a journalist and some years his junior, who takes a particular shine to helping manfred in class as well.
yolanda, from spain, engaged a couple spanish speaking ladies in animated conversation over two rows of seats. delight showed on their faces and the cool air made each note uttered crisp and somehow refreshing to hear. as though their words were cooling me from the inside. jenn and i exchanged quick exclamations of how wonderful was this scene.
i heard dutch, spanish, german flying from this corner to that and back and on and on. all were excited and it showed in the raucously affected speech and the eagerly subdued, to boot.
we were on our way to pelourinho, the old city square, where we were to see music and dancing. off the bus and into the fray we went. the square and surrounding area already full of people: vendors, singers, diners, dancers, hustlers, can collectors and a host of others. it was only a minute before we were collecting around a percussion group, mixing in with the crowd, beginning to bop our heads and shuffle our feet. another minute later saw full swing in action. loud, rapid and well-coordinated, the drum corp pulled a following and put a shimmy in the most vanilla of souls.
then on to a live band giving out the good-time reggae rhythm. sway side to side and peep the sights. tap your toes and groove if ya got the room. off to the left the corridor is tight and the cobbled street slopes rapidly down. a picture of history and a soundtrack of good life.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Torres
Some observations from the first trip to Torres.
31 October 2009
Bus to Torres. 10ish in the a.m. Bags are packed securely and a weekend beach adventure awaits. What to come? Presently the joy of motion is in my bones and my heart. On the go. Somewhere new. And a break, at that.
The bus is cushy and well-lined. Just out of the city proper we are witness to the poverty that pervades Brazil. Withered horses graze in patchy fields of deep green grass. Indeed, it is the greenery that saves so much of the scenery. Trash and ramshackle housing supplies additional balance in favor of the gloom. But, alas, this is truth. And who suffers the most?
Jenn says: “I have so much compared to some people.” But is there no serenity among the poor? Is there wisdom and contentment in the patched boxes of fragmented boards?
The Trash
I see disadvantage in terms of education, nutrition, water supply and perspective—among others. But I also see some natural beauty that could be enjoyed were it not for the trash that appears locked to the landscape. Layers of plastic, paper, scrap this and scrap that are affixed to cement, grass and dirt. Bits and big bundles slowly release their elasticity and veritably soak into the earth. One gets the impression that it has been here for a while and here is where it shall remain.
Mental image forever burned into memory: goat munching away atop giant mound of rubbish.
It has been a most unusual Halloween.
1 November 2009
We arrived yesterday without incident and managed several successful adventures that rounded out the day quite nicely.
The first was a walk to see the beaches that make up this community. Along the way we stopped for a bite to eat at a place to which we will likely not return. Aside from the mediocrity of the fare, it was less than clean. And when we were finished, a woman came along (she perhaps a bit slow) and asked if she could have the rest of Jenn’s sandwich. Jenn said, “Sure,” and the stranger promptly plopped down into her chair and began munching happily away.
Occasionally she offered a couple words which came garbled through mouthfuls of unidentified meat and veggies. It was a surreal and slightly harrowing sight.
It’s later in the day—just about noon—and so much has been accomplished. A delicious breakfast was supplied by the Pousada Solar Inn. There were cakes, of course, and the oh-so-delicious coffee that Brazilians usually have on hand.
Now the beach is where we have taken up camp. Here amongst the crowd—just to the rear where there is adequate space—we lounge as the others. Umbrellas create an eye-level canopy under which bodies recline or lie supine taking in sun, cool shade, and a light breeze that heals the heart. The water is cool—but not Lake Michigan cool—and it only takes a couple dips to acclimate.
I welcome the taste of salt and immediately recall days spent on Folly Beach and the Isle of Palms, enjoying the same repose and contentment that currently settles in my bones.
Last night sleep came easy and thick. I fought it only as one who knows the battle is lost but welcomes the defeat as it means sweet rest and what-the-hell-were-we-fighting-for-anyway? Such notions at the end of a long full day bring dreams of calm and quietude. From such dreams I wake with wonder and slip back under the covers for more. Ahhhhh, beach life.
31 October 2009
Bus to Torres. 10ish in the a.m. Bags are packed securely and a weekend beach adventure awaits. What to come? Presently the joy of motion is in my bones and my heart. On the go. Somewhere new. And a break, at that.
The bus is cushy and well-lined. Just out of the city proper we are witness to the poverty that pervades Brazil. Withered horses graze in patchy fields of deep green grass. Indeed, it is the greenery that saves so much of the scenery. Trash and ramshackle housing supplies additional balance in favor of the gloom. But, alas, this is truth. And who suffers the most?
Jenn says: “I have so much compared to some people.” But is there no serenity among the poor? Is there wisdom and contentment in the patched boxes of fragmented boards?
The Trash
I see disadvantage in terms of education, nutrition, water supply and perspective—among others. But I also see some natural beauty that could be enjoyed were it not for the trash that appears locked to the landscape. Layers of plastic, paper, scrap this and scrap that are affixed to cement, grass and dirt. Bits and big bundles slowly release their elasticity and veritably soak into the earth. One gets the impression that it has been here for a while and here is where it shall remain.
Mental image forever burned into memory: goat munching away atop giant mound of rubbish.
It has been a most unusual Halloween.
1 November 2009
We arrived yesterday without incident and managed several successful adventures that rounded out the day quite nicely.
The first was a walk to see the beaches that make up this community. Along the way we stopped for a bite to eat at a place to which we will likely not return. Aside from the mediocrity of the fare, it was less than clean. And when we were finished, a woman came along (she perhaps a bit slow) and asked if she could have the rest of Jenn’s sandwich. Jenn said, “Sure,” and the stranger promptly plopped down into her chair and began munching happily away.
Occasionally she offered a couple words which came garbled through mouthfuls of unidentified meat and veggies. It was a surreal and slightly harrowing sight.
It’s later in the day—just about noon—and so much has been accomplished. A delicious breakfast was supplied by the Pousada Solar Inn. There were cakes, of course, and the oh-so-delicious coffee that Brazilians usually have on hand.
Now the beach is where we have taken up camp. Here amongst the crowd—just to the rear where there is adequate space—we lounge as the others. Umbrellas create an eye-level canopy under which bodies recline or lie supine taking in sun, cool shade, and a light breeze that heals the heart. The water is cool—but not Lake Michigan cool—and it only takes a couple dips to acclimate.
I welcome the taste of salt and immediately recall days spent on Folly Beach and the Isle of Palms, enjoying the same repose and contentment that currently settles in my bones.
Last night sleep came easy and thick. I fought it only as one who knows the battle is lost but welcomes the defeat as it means sweet rest and what-the-hell-were-we-fighting-for-anyway? Such notions at the end of a long full day bring dreams of calm and quietude. From such dreams I wake with wonder and slip back under the covers for more. Ahhhhh, beach life.
An Infrequent Inspiration...and the Sea at Torres
Rarely do I get the gumption to write a poem, but for some reason the mood struck this morning and I banged out the following:
On Term’s End
Semesters end after paths doth wend,
But onward lo, and up again we’ll climb.
Books and books and reams and reams,
A sea behind, on which our minds did surf.
Across the subjects—ages all,
A diligence applied.
Far and wide all futures signed,
Now rest the pencils, too.
A break, a chance for summer rant,
Rambling hither and yon.
Minds at peace with toil complete—indeed!
We’ll grind again.
'Tis a bit premature as the semester is some days from being finished. But we are in the final stretch here for exams and 23 December approaches rapidly.
Last weekend saw another visit to Torres, a coastal town just a bus ride away. The draw of the salty water runs with the same force as the current that kept me in the shallow. So I must go to the beach where I shall never tire of the great touching of sand and sea.
There is awe and there is ease. Across a great distance one's gaze must stretch, and by this hopes will swell. To see so far, to see a sky of such expanse, to feel the rumble and soak in the foam that force created--this is the wonder. And the inverse: the simplicity. Repetitious arrangements natural and sweet to soothe and heal. To feel in motion while in the deepest repose amid letters to read and those to scribble. Calamity and calm in equal measure chill in the wings awaiting invocation.
Some notes from the Moleskine:
27 November 2009
Bus to Torres, again. Packing was much easier this time, the vision for the coming days being clearer than before. Small bag and guitar case padded with clothing.
The taxi ride to the bus station was the most eventful in recent memory. Our driver clipped another car in the race to destination central depot. Small matter for these chaps--though words were exchanged and glares given. A tidy run in the end costing just under eight reais.
Lounging dockside after a taste of the cerveja we were joined by the likes of our traveling companions. Anticipation and an urge to be mobile spurred us on and we headed to the plush bus.
To begin we felt as in a cozy den with the shades filtering the light blue. The enclosed and cushy space dampened our words and gave the impression of a slumber party. Smiles all around and a toast to the day, the week, the what-to-come. Then off to separate corners for music, gazing, and idle dozing.
28 November 2009
A dog stretched downward and someone noted its exhalation. And, perhaps, this person reckoned that the dog, unencumbered by questions of whether to breathe in at certain times as opposed to others, was operating in the most natural way.
So I wondered the same as we rambled along a sidewalk in search of the evening meal and paused to pet one of the many friendly flea bags that call this place home.
Following last night's settling into the Pousada, a meal was enjoyed but with unwelcome visitors. A member of our group was on the receiving end of two beetle visits. A not-too-pleasant event at supper-time, or any other, really. In truth, though, the juxtaposition of the crawling beetle and the legs-on cammarrão com casca (scrimps, squims, shrimp) made me look at my appetizer with some hesitation. The phrase "cockroaches of the sea" (though usually pertaining to lobsters) flashed in my mind. I imagined scores of shrimp scurrying about the ocean floor with legs quivering. Seconds later I was snapping off legs, cracking exoskeleton, and further feeding on the little morsels.
Exit Moleskine.
The weekend could be described as "moments between meals." Much revolved around which item on a stick would be consumed next or, indeed, if one more such delight would result in serious gastronomic overload. Crepes filled with bacon, cheese, palmito and other savory delights would be followed by the sweet: chocolate, strawberry and others.
Guitars made a regular appearance in our leisure, as well. On the beach or in the confines of the handicraft-adorned room, strumming and humming and occasional singing brought a welcome departure even further from the responsibilities that felt so very far away.
In this final reflection, it seems that the real draw for the beach is in the quietude. It is in the moments shared, among friends, where no words are required and a collective dinnertime gaze at nighttime waves bespeaks of hours stilled.
On Term’s End
Semesters end after paths doth wend,
But onward lo, and up again we’ll climb.
Books and books and reams and reams,
A sea behind, on which our minds did surf.
Across the subjects—ages all,
A diligence applied.
Far and wide all futures signed,
Now rest the pencils, too.
A break, a chance for summer rant,
Rambling hither and yon.
Minds at peace with toil complete—indeed!
We’ll grind again.
'Tis a bit premature as the semester is some days from being finished. But we are in the final stretch here for exams and 23 December approaches rapidly.
Last weekend saw another visit to Torres, a coastal town just a bus ride away. The draw of the salty water runs with the same force as the current that kept me in the shallow. So I must go to the beach where I shall never tire of the great touching of sand and sea.
There is awe and there is ease. Across a great distance one's gaze must stretch, and by this hopes will swell. To see so far, to see a sky of such expanse, to feel the rumble and soak in the foam that force created--this is the wonder. And the inverse: the simplicity. Repetitious arrangements natural and sweet to soothe and heal. To feel in motion while in the deepest repose amid letters to read and those to scribble. Calamity and calm in equal measure chill in the wings awaiting invocation.
Some notes from the Moleskine:
27 November 2009
Bus to Torres, again. Packing was much easier this time, the vision for the coming days being clearer than before. Small bag and guitar case padded with clothing.
The taxi ride to the bus station was the most eventful in recent memory. Our driver clipped another car in the race to destination central depot. Small matter for these chaps--though words were exchanged and glares given. A tidy run in the end costing just under eight reais.
Lounging dockside after a taste of the cerveja we were joined by the likes of our traveling companions. Anticipation and an urge to be mobile spurred us on and we headed to the plush bus.
To begin we felt as in a cozy den with the shades filtering the light blue. The enclosed and cushy space dampened our words and gave the impression of a slumber party. Smiles all around and a toast to the day, the week, the what-to-come. Then off to separate corners for music, gazing, and idle dozing.
28 November 2009
A dog stretched downward and someone noted its exhalation. And, perhaps, this person reckoned that the dog, unencumbered by questions of whether to breathe in at certain times as opposed to others, was operating in the most natural way.
So I wondered the same as we rambled along a sidewalk in search of the evening meal and paused to pet one of the many friendly flea bags that call this place home.
Following last night's settling into the Pousada, a meal was enjoyed but with unwelcome visitors. A member of our group was on the receiving end of two beetle visits. A not-too-pleasant event at supper-time, or any other, really. In truth, though, the juxtaposition of the crawling beetle and the legs-on cammarrão com casca (scrimps, squims, shrimp) made me look at my appetizer with some hesitation. The phrase "cockroaches of the sea" (though usually pertaining to lobsters) flashed in my mind. I imagined scores of shrimp scurrying about the ocean floor with legs quivering. Seconds later I was snapping off legs, cracking exoskeleton, and further feeding on the little morsels.
Exit Moleskine.
The weekend could be described as "moments between meals." Much revolved around which item on a stick would be consumed next or, indeed, if one more such delight would result in serious gastronomic overload. Crepes filled with bacon, cheese, palmito and other savory delights would be followed by the sweet: chocolate, strawberry and others.
Guitars made a regular appearance in our leisure, as well. On the beach or in the confines of the handicraft-adorned room, strumming and humming and occasional singing brought a welcome departure even further from the responsibilities that felt so very far away.
In this final reflection, it seems that the real draw for the beach is in the quietude. It is in the moments shared, among friends, where no words are required and a collective dinnertime gaze at nighttime waves bespeaks of hours stilled.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Rollercoaster
1st Day of School. I had scribbled this and saved it as a draft. Finally posting it.
Oh, the stress. And oh, the glory. The first day of school was a mind-boggling swirl of new names and faces. The students piled in and out and I began to make some sense of the task ahead. The task? Well, it seems to become more complex as the hours fly past. Quite simply, the situation I'm in is unlike any other I've faced.
Forget that I'm fresh in a new country that I don't understand and I've no handle on the language. Just consider the kids. They are smart. Wicked smart. They've travelled the globe and they speak multiple languages. Everyone speaks at least two, and a couple speak five. Yes: five. They are savvy about politics and international affairs. They have strong opinions and are vocal about them. It's awesome. And I can't stop myself from marveling at their brilliance.
Of course I have been in a very different world. My prior students were oh-so-opposite. They were disadvantaged and struggled to perform at grade-level. They appeared to loathe the labor of school and, in some cases, refused to comply with standard school procedures. I found myself remediating and remediating--trying to find a place from which the instruction could launch. With grade niners I repeatedly explained noun, verb, and adjective.
And now? Now all is upside down...wonderfully so.
Oh, the stress. And oh, the glory. The first day of school was a mind-boggling swirl of new names and faces. The students piled in and out and I began to make some sense of the task ahead. The task? Well, it seems to become more complex as the hours fly past. Quite simply, the situation I'm in is unlike any other I've faced.
Forget that I'm fresh in a new country that I don't understand and I've no handle on the language. Just consider the kids. They are smart. Wicked smart. They've travelled the globe and they speak multiple languages. Everyone speaks at least two, and a couple speak five. Yes: five. They are savvy about politics and international affairs. They have strong opinions and are vocal about them. It's awesome. And I can't stop myself from marveling at their brilliance.
Of course I have been in a very different world. My prior students were oh-so-opposite. They were disadvantaged and struggled to perform at grade-level. They appeared to loathe the labor of school and, in some cases, refused to comply with standard school procedures. I found myself remediating and remediating--trying to find a place from which the instruction could launch. With grade niners I repeatedly explained noun, verb, and adjective.
And now? Now all is upside down...wonderfully so.
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