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.
