Day 49: A Brief Revaluation Of The Poorly Named Museum

I was harsh on the museum. If it was "The Museum of Brazilian Literature" I wouldn't have gotten my hopes up for linguistics. If their website didn't brag about linguistics I wouldn't have gotten my hopes up about linguistics.

I would have loved it.

Also, they introduced me to this quote: "Navigar é preciso, viver não é preciso." - "Exploration is necessary, Survival is not." 

I have never loved a quote more*. 

I repeat it to everyone I see today. It fails to evoke excitement. Perhaps they cant understand my accent. 

*Hyperbole.

Day 48: A Long And Boring Account Of My Visit To A Poorly Named Museum

The Museum of the Portuguese Language is three stories. Floor one holds an exhibit of sculptures loosely associated with Portuguese words. Sometimes full sentences. Floor two is famous Brazilian novels. Floor three is poetry. This looks a lot like a museum of Brazilian Literature.

In a room on the second floor I find the only nod to linguistics. A kiosk is dedicated to each of the four regions which most heavily influenced the Portuguese language.

First kiosk: Africa. Awesome. Will they detail the process by which most agricultural terms in Portuguese came from Bantu speaking plantation slaves? What about the colonies in Africa? I have always wondered if Swahili names for commonly traded goods found their way into Portuguese. Perhaps I will finally find the answer? 

Nope. The Africa kiosk just has some vases and tiki masks. 

Really?

Next Kiosk: Europe. Ok, Africa was tough. Portuguese contact there was poorly documented until recently and so it's hard to separate carts from horses. European Portuguese, however, is well attested all the way back to its birth in 218 B.C. I remember from a linguistics class that Portugal's rulers spoke only Mozarabic for a while, and so the language took on an entire vocabulary set related to administration. But, because their relationship was all business, they adopted zero Mozarabic words relating to feelings or personal issues. But what about Spanish? Or Arabic? How did they influence Portuguese and vice versa? 

Instead of answering my questions I am shown some unadorned Roman plates or something equally unmemorable. Portuguese did not come from only Latin! What about Visigothic? The letter 'ç' comes from Visigothic 'z'. You can't tell me they got a letter from their Visigothic kings and no other linguistic influence. 

Next Kiosk: South American Indians. I walk past it without looking. 

The linguistic family tree on the wall is the only piece of linguistics in this whole building. Unfortunately its makers seem to think "Languages from Asia" is a language family. Geographical grouping of language families!? What kind of a lazy ignorant knucklehead signed off on that? Not a linguist, that's who. 

Years ago I was in a Library. They had chronologically ordered ship logs from Portuguese explorers in the Amazon River. Going forward in time you could see changes in the grammar, different conjugations becoming more popular, and new words appearing. It was awesome. 

Then I went to the Museum of the Portuguese Language. It was less awesome. 

I feel like I just went to the Air and Space museum but instead of spacesuits and science they had an interpretive dance troupe reenacting the cow jumping over the moon to the Star Wars Soundtrack. 

Day 47: Corinthians

Everyone in Brazil loves one soccer team and hates two; they love their team, they hate their rival, and they hate the Corinthians.

Corinthians fans are the exception to this rule. Corinthianos love one team and hate everything else. 

Or so I'm told. I'm told many things about the Corinthians.

Day 46: Hooligans

I only have enough milk for half a bowl of cereal. I discover this after pouring a full bowl of cereal. Oh well.
One of my students is late. "Sorry, I forgot to set my alarm clock." OK, it happens.
Traffic is bad. The Corinthians are rioting in the streets again. Oh well.

"..Wait, they had a game today?" Nope. Just felt like a nice day to riot.

"Did they have a game yesterday or something?" No, they just like to riot. They are Corinthianos after all. The news says they've been rioting all week in other parts of the city.

Day 45: McFerrari's

A McDonald's burger starts at ten dollars. A crumpled big mac wrapper in the back of your car is a status symbol.

No one understands my confusion.

After all, they reason, the best burger ever doesn't just come for nothing. And from the inventor of burgers no less. It's not like fresh fruit* that grows on a tree. Otherwise poor people would be eating there.

The what? from the who? "Poor people DO eat there. And most of the richer people I know scoff** at the place."

They are in shock. "So not only does everyone have a Ferrari, but in America, even your poor people get to eat at McDonald's?" This one is too much for some of them. They won't believe this.

This is too much for me. I don't believe this.




* A dozen fresh bananas, vine ripened, harvested this morning: 50 cents. 
** I don't actually know the word "scoff" in Portuguese. I put my thumb on my nose and said "Argentina people" 

Day 44: My Car

Everyone in America has a Ferrari  I nearly had this myth dispelled when one of my students found a picture of me on Facebook. I was standing next to a busted 90's mustang.

It's a convertible. It's red. Definitely a Ferrari. Definitely MY Ferrari. Definitely proof.

All Americans have Ferraris.

Day 43: Without Success

Nata and I are going to grab lunch at a shopping mall named Bom Sucesso - 'Good Success'. I might have heard it called by another name once.

"Is it the same as Sem Sucesso?" 

Nata laughs. He's never heard it called 'Without Success' before. "Yes, that's this one."

This town has sixty shopping malls. If he's never heard that name, then how does he know its this one? I'm working out how to ask him in Portuguese. Then I see the mall. 

Day 42: The Orthodontist.

Strobe lights and neon illuminate the inside of an orthodontist office. It is 10:00 p.m. The windows are mostly covered but an occasional laser finds the gaps and skips across the street.

This orthodontist, I discover, moonlights as a disk jockey. DJ Dentes* (pronounced "dainchs"). Braces by day, parties by night. If I ever need braces, I'm going to DJ Teeth.




*DJ Teeth, a doctor of dentistry, has no relation to Electric Mayhem frontman Dr. Teeth.

Day 41: You're Killing Me, Smalls

Last week the class discussion was on food. How do you translate "smores"? You don't. Portuguese has no word for smores and Brazil has no concept of such a food. This was to be rectified immediately, but Brazil does not have marshmallows or graham crackers.

Today, we have finally imported our exotic ingredients. We build a fire on the roof and I lecture on the two schools of mallow roasting.

Black mallow enthusiasts insist on a fully flamin mallow, whereas Brown mallow purists enjoy the art of evenly rotisserie browning their mallows. Brown mallowists have better tasting smoors, but burnt hands. Black mallowists get to play with fire.

Are you a Brown mallowist or a Black mallowist? Comment below.

Day 40: Trees

Strolling down the street I am taken by the beauty of a tree in bloom. A branch reaches well into the street, weighed down to eye level with bright orange flowers on every twig. I put my stroll on hold to admire the bouquet before me.

Two days ago I finally decided to abandon my camera. Poor timing. To go home and back for my camera would add an hour to my day. It's just one picture.

While calculating the time against value of this potential picture I realize people are staring at me. I return the favor to discover a look of distaste on their faces. What is wrong with admiring some flowers on a tree? If these savages cant appreciate natural beauty then I don't care what they think of me. I decide to go back for my camera if for nothing more than to make a statement.

Yes this may be ordinary to you, but where I come from such things are rarely seen on public streets. If only I had my camera now to defiantly make my point. I return my gaze to the tree. This time, on the other side of my picture perfect branch, I notice a scared little boy zipping up his pants next to a wet tree trunk.

Two days ago I abandoned my camera. Providential timing. I'm not going back for it. Ever. 

Observation #54: Jingles

Brazilian ice cream trucks do not play the standard weasle merigoround jingles. Instead they play K-Ci & JOJO's "All My Life"

Day 39: Grape Flavor

Artificial grape flavoring taste nothing like grapes. A side by side comparison of Grape Drink and Grape Juice demonstrates this principle well.

Today, at a fruit market, I discover grapes that taste exactly like grape flavoring.

Day 38: Photography

Waiting for food at my neighborhood Lebanese sandwich and pizzeria I discover the bathroom. Their toilet is the kind with an overhead water tank and a pull string flusher. Full of excitement, I grab my camera and run back into the bathroom.

I return to a restaurant of stares. Uncomfortable, confused, staring.

Any explanation here would be a tightrope walk. I may well insult the restaurant if I'm unable to explain exactly what I mean by "interesting". A safer, more vague approach will likely end up with me looking crazier than I already do.

Also I don't know how to say 'toilet' in Portuguese. What I can say is "I saw something interesting in your restroom. I can't remember the word for it, but its the thing you have when you go to the bathroom". This is more ambiguous in Portuguese than it is in English.

There's no salvation in this one. I take the low road. Staring? What? Who's staring? I don't see anything out of the ordinary here. I sit down and hum tunelessly to myself until food arrives. I take it to go.

Yesterday I tried to take a picture of the storage container shops at the Sao Miguel market. They thought I was an investigator. They didn't like it.

Perhaps it's time to give up on my photographical aspirations for this blog. My pictures tend to be worth negative 1000 words anyway. I could spend all day describing the size and beauty of Sao Paulo Cathedral. With a single picture I would convince you that its actually small and dull. It is not small and dull.

Day 37: São Miguel

Robert hit himself in the face with a window. His glasses didn't make it.

São Miguel market has butchers who specialize in Northern Brazilian foods, specialty barbershops, and more than one squeegee shop. Robert spends his afternoon troubling over the fashions of his prospective new glasses while I explore São Miguel. Vehicles are prohibited so the street is just one giant sidewalk. The giant sidewalk is completely clogged with portable storage containers. Most of which are chained, pad locked, and sometimes even have a human guard.

These storage containers were once shops. The police shut them down because they were ruining the aesthetic of this quaint little shopping district. Because they had a fantastic sense of humor, and nothing better to do, the container-shop keeps closed up, but kept their containers in the middle of everyone's way. Some of them are open to show off all their lovely jeans, or toys, or selection of squeegees, but if you ask to buy anything they chase you off with a stick.

Day 36: Cleaning

After work is done, I clean. Every inch of my apartment is thoroughly scrubbed. The underside of the refrigerator is scrubbed. My appliances are all dismantled and each individual piece is scrubbed before reassembly. All of my clothes, clean or not, are put to the laundry.

I mop my walls. I mop my ceiling. I douse my mattress in every toxic chemical I can find, then wrap it in plastic and put a mattress protector on it. There is no possibility that a single microscopic life form has survived anywhere in my apartment. 

Tonight seems like a good night to not sleep on the roof.

Day 35: Glasses and Guests

I wear my glasses sometimes. Today is sometimes. During lunch I notice small bumpies on the ceiling. Closer inspection reveals my ceiling and upper walls to contain forty five cocoons.

I'm ok with bugs. If they look nice I shoo them. If they look mean I shoo them with a newspaper. Cocoons are different. They're probably harmless, but they don't weight enough to fall straight. The first one I knock down flutters all over before landing. I'm not ok with the chance of "probably harmless" fluttering into my hair. As far as I'm concerned my ceiling is coated in a brood of aliens waiting to pounce.

I decide to consult the internet. I decide to consult the internet somewhere else. They look entirely different from any pictures or descriptions I find. Four hours later I have no better idea of their identity. Four hours and five minutes later I am resolved to defend my cave from the 44 remaining invaders. Armed with a broom, a bucket, a mask and a hairnet, I enter the cave.

There are five cocoons in my apartment.

Terrified.

I remove five cocoons. Perhaps tonight is a good night to camp on the roof.

Day 34: A Portuguese Lesson

Today is ice cream day for my class.The Portuguese word for "freezer" is perhaps better translated as "well, it's colder than the fridge anyway.."

Today is ice cream soup day for my class.

Day 33: Brazilian Labor Day.

Brazilian Labor day. Robert and I pass a rally in the historic city center. Its the radiology specialists convention he tells me. The square in front of Sao Paulo Cathedral is a mob of X-ray and ultrasound technicians. We take a closer look.

The man on stage speaks with more passion than any doctor I've met. These people are enthusiastic. Too enthusiastic. Every third person waves an over sized banner. Every other shirt bears the likeness of a famous radiology specialist. I believe Vladimir Lenin was responsible for modernizing Russian science leading to numerous radiological advancements. Then there's Wilhelm Roentgen, inventor of the x-ray, who bears a strong resemblance to Friedrich Engels. And of course Engels' protege Karl Marx. I mean Roentgen's protege. Wait - why is Roentgen pictured with Marx? And is that Che Guevara? We are currently near the middle of the mob.

Perhaps "Radiology Specialists" was meant to sound more like "radical ideology socialists". An understandable fumble. I cant keep up with the fanatical speech of the man on stage, but I manage to catch the word "capitalists" in almost every sentence. Now feels like a good time to discontinue any English usage.

Sanity aside, the demonstration is well executed. Quasimodo commences the thunder of the cathedral bell towers just as the speech nears its crescendo for a dramatic effect.

Days 30-32: Life In The Tropics

Day 30
Slight touch of fever. Work, eat, study*, sleep.

Day 31:
Moderate touch of fever: Work, sleep.

Day 32:
Narcolepsy is like a super power. I wake up still sick. I don't take my narcolepsy medicine. Sleep.

I wake up. It's tomorrow afternoon and I feel fine.

Time travel.

Awesome.**

 * Liberal definition of "study" applied. 

** Like all superpowers, Narcolepsy takes time and practice to master. That part is not awesome. I accidentally time traveled through college once.

Day 29: Small Talk

It's a nice day. I walk home from Portuguese lessons. A car runs me over.

A screaming lady occupies the passenger seat. The woman behind the wheel is confused. On our trip to visit the Indians, we were joined by a nice old lady named Sonia. In fact it was her trip. We joined her. Sonia's the screaming one. Her right hand is waving wildly trying to keep up with her yelling. Her left hand is still clamped to the commandeered steering wheel.


No one knows what Sonia says when she gets excited. The driver gives up before I do and makes Sonia write it on paper.

Sonia's happy to see me. Would I like to come to her church this weekend?

The driver was expecting more. You ran the kid over for small talk? Well we honked first.

Day 28: Sugarcane Subsidies

Brazil hyper subsidizes sugar until it's cheaper than dirt. Today was not my first time drinking a Coke in Brazil. Today was my first time reading the ingredients on my Coke. Sugar. Brazilian soda does not have high fructose corn syrup. Brazil does not have high fructose corn syrup. The last 27 days have been a blind taste test. I never noticed a difference.

Dear food hippies: Shut up. You're wrong. 

Brazil does not hyper subsidized corn, so grass is cheaper. Brazilian cows eat grass. I have had steak seven times since I got here. The seven best steaks I have ever had were all in the past 28 days. This is not hyperbole, and it's not a close call. These steaks are better by a margin wider than bears comparison. 

Dear food hippies * : Keep on. Corn fed beef is dog food. **




 
* Vegetarian foodies excluded.
** Breed, age at butchering, and method of drying are also different here. You might still be wrong.

Day 27: Brazilian Haircut

I had to wait two hours for the best barber in town. He used only a straight razor. I got a shave too. This new haircut is the magic flute. Looking more like a Brazilian now, I teleport to the next level.

At market I try to buy bread. It's not as easy. People are speaking faster. What did you say? I'm sorry can you slow down please? Yes thank you I know my accent is funny. No, I have no clue what you're saying. Because I only know a little Portuguese. No, really. No I'm from America.

I have to switch to English to prove my point.

This strategy no longer works. Yes thank you I do have a good gringo impersonation. That almost sounded like real English didn't it? Time to break out the sign language. Time and again, the game of charades proves to be my most valuable educational experience.

My hair looks like a West Philadelphia barbershop's interpretation of Rockabilly. My hair looks Brazilian.

Day 26: The White Bus

Most Buses are covered in registrations, licenses, permits, and ID tags. Leftover space is given to advertisements. If a tax is missed, or a registration expires, the bus gets shut down. There are two options for a bus owner in such a situation: go out of business, or join White Bus.

A quiet man stands at a busy bus stop. Buses come and go, and small crowd quietly gathers around him. A small white bus with black windows flies by. The quite man is unmoving. A police car flies by. His small crowd shrinks.

Time passes.

The bus returns from the other direction, and overshoots the bus stop by ten paces skidding to a halt. Its doors appear to have been surgically widened to allow double file passage. A white faced wad of people is ejected and the small quiet crowd is catapulted in.

The bus is gone.

I have witnessed the Brazilian black market of public transit.

Day 25: The Audible Effects of Zoning

My neighborhood has no zoning. The corner bakery turns into a bar when the Corinthians are playing. I can hear them cheering, and shooting off fireworks. I can hear a church. They sing the gospel with a more energy than tone. I can hear the pneumatic tools of an auto shop and the saws of a lumber mill. My neighbors don't have glass in their window so their kitchen, which is cruelly two feet from my bedroom, is always audible. They are having company.

The cargo trucks don't slow down for our speed bumps or our potholes, so they sound like freight trains passing. Swarms of cheap motorcycles come and go like bees. Across the street roosters are crowing and a pack of strays is howling.

A heavy downpour muffles and blends these sounds into an enchanting delusion.

Day 24: The Other Bus

A 15 seat Ford Econoline bus is sitting at the stop. Robert and I get on.

Robert and I wait.

What are we waiting for? The bus. This isn't the bus? Just wait.

A full sized public city bus arrives. The driver scowls at ours, who casually pretends not to notice his rival. As soon as the city bus is underway our driver guns it. Laughing as we fly by, he shouts a battle cry out the window.

We pull into the next stop just ahead of the city bus. We take all the passengers. Our driver puts his head out the window to more clearly convey his politics to our trailing foe. We make dust.

These buses want everyone to know how much faster they are than the public line. They will never start a rout until the public bus starts it first. Then they showcase their speed. Robert grins at me "It's not over yet brother" 

Flying downhill on a steep one lane street, we are cut off when the city bus pulls out of an alley ahead. He skipped a few stops to take a shortcut and is now the one casting opinions out his own window.

Our driver, has no problem driving on the sidewalk if it means retaking the lead. We steal another bench full of passengers. From my perspective this maneuver very nearly appears to reduce our prospective passenger count by one. No one is daunted by the close call. In passing, I count two people on the city bus. It is at least four times our size. We have fifteen people sitting. We have fifteen more standing.

Laughing like a madman, our driver hurls a final discourse out the window, whips around a corner, and we never see our defeated opponent again.

An hour later I am wandering through a market street. My brain is still defragging. "That was fast" I mumble to Robert. "The white bus is even more fast, but I don't go it. They are driving very more dangerous on the white bus."

Observation #40: Pulp

The juice here is stronger. The plumbing is weaker. Pulp from the juice is thick enough to completely clog the sink.

Observation #37: Brazil on Rain

Brazilians do not deal with rain. A single drop and the umbrellas all come out. More than a drop, and half the city retreats to their bed. School attendance is quartered on rainy days. Traffic is substantially reduced as well. Robert sleeps an extra four hours on rainy days (average).

Day 23: Sunshowers

It started raining yesterday. The sun came out for an hour this morning. It didn't stop raining, but the sun came out. The sun came out again at noon. Still raining.

There are black clouds to the north and south, but a long narrow stretch of sunny sky running east west. I am directly under that stretch of sun. The rain is pouring. My street is a small river. It is almost seventy degrees and I'm tanning on the roof. In the rain.

Robert! This is crazy!

"Yes brother, you are insane"

What? No, the rain. And the sun. I mean ... What?

"You're out in the rain, you are crazy"

I learned today that seventy degrees is cold to a Brazilian. I learned today that a special alignment of mountains, oceans, and air currents makes this sunny strip in the middle of a monsooning monster cloud fairly common. I learned today that Brazilians are scared of the rain.

I proceed to follow my travel rule number 1: If the locals fear it, I fear it.

Day 22: How to Celebrate

Brazilians make their own fireworks. This rarely results in beautiful sky displays. This occasionally results in loud injuries. Usually, it just means a throwable explodeable thing.

Throwable explodeables are required accessories for watching soccer. The first thing outside the window must be reduced to smithereens every time your team scores. 

The T.V. at the corner bakery is always welcome to a Corinthians fan. The water store down the street is for Sao Paulo. I follow four different games by listening for the direction of noises.

Screams from over here? Palmeiras gave up a point.

Laughter and explosions back there? Corinthians scored. 

My neighborhood will be a scary place the day Palmieras face Corinthians. The whole city will.

Day 21: Hot Sauce Buns

Robert leaves for his Exams. Utilizing the new found freedom of my very own key, I leave too. My neighborhood is named Pimentas. Depending on the context, pimentas means either 'hot sauces' or 'hot sauce people'.

Places are not named after things they do with mediocrity. Neither would a mild person be expected to have a spicy nickname. I set out to find either pimenta dos Pimentas (hot sauce of The Hot Sauces) or a pimentano (hot sauce person).

My expedition makes it as far as a bakery. I point out a handsome little loaf of bread and some juice that comes from a fruit I cant even begin to identify. I love the texture of fresh out of the oven bread. My tiny loaf of bread does not deliver that experience. There is a texture wholly unbreadlike.

There is a tiny ham baked into this tiny loaf.

Brilliant.

Day 20: New Keys

Robert and I share a single set of keys. We are each others prisoner. In the morning we teach classes and in the evening Robert goes to university while I have my Portuguese lessons. There is always something to be done in-between. Tomorrow we'll really REALLY get to the locksmith before he closes.

Notice the the title of this post. Day 20. Twenty days. We will not make it tomorrow. We will not make it ever.

I combine a piece of scrap metal, a vice, and a hacksaw. The result resembles a key. I add some heat and a few taps with a cross pein hammer. Now it fits in the keyhole too. It's ugly. It works. It's beautiful.

Day 19: Not Dancing. Almost

Brazilians have a hard time not dancing when there's music. People love to say this of themselves. What they usually mean is that they tap their toe. Brazilians dance.

Sometimes I play music in class.

I mark the ground where the desks are. By the end of class the desks have always shifted a few inches. On days with music the travel can be measured in feet.

Today Robert wants to play a song after class. It reminds me of a rap rendition of Father Abraham. The tune is trendy enough, but the lyrics play Simon Says with a list of body parts and directions. It's a perfect sucker punch. We'll trick the kids into practicing English.

Unless they wont dance.

As soon as the music starts, twenty girls are glued to the wall. Roberts attempts at coercion result in screams and scattering. He walks away and twenty girls snap back to the safety of their wall by invisible bungee cords. They are flat against the bricks.

But Brazilians have a hard time not dancing when there's music.

They're trying not to, but every now and then something slips out. These intermittent hiccups of dancing have more movement in two dimensions than most dancers can pull off in three.

Day 18: My Finest Student

It's a nice day and I'm sitting outside with a student after class. She studies, but its just so hard. The quiz had eight words. She never studied. No, those were hard words!

Four of the words were cognates, they were not hard words. Nope, she sticks to her guns. Clearly I just don't understand. English is like totally super hard.

Why is she determined to convince me of this? If you want to learn, great. Come to class, pay attention, and study. If not, great. Come to class, listen to headphones, and play games with everyone afterwards. She thinks for a minute.

I'm finally getting through to her how much I don't care.

Noooo, but she iiiiiiis trying!

Never mind.

She demonstrates the early warning signs of a lengthy tirade. Trying to follow a thirteen year old on a tangent is difficult in any language. They rarely make sense."Jeans" on the other hand, is "jeans" in every language. It was not a hard quiz.

I give up and interrupt her with two claps. Hector's instantly at my side. "Sit" Hector sits. "Lay down" he lays down. "Stand up" he rolls over. oops.

"uh.. Roll over?" he stands. I switch to Portuguese and praise him on a perfect four out of four. "All right, now go away before you screw up on something she knows." He goes back to hide from the sun under a car.

She asks me which soccer team I like.

Nice work Hector.

Observation #30: Football Stats (Estatísticas de Futebol)

Both of my blog posts with 'soccer' in the title have been viewed twenty times more than the rest of my posts. These additional hits are all from Brazil.

Why are Brazilians searching the internet for 'soccer'? I have not found any indication that the American MLS has any popularity here, and I doubt very much that they are interested in the sports happenings in Papua New Guinea. The rest of the world calls it football.

This raises a question. Would the additional hits be significantly more than twenty if the title said 'football' instead?

...I know how to find out.

Feel free to contribute to observation #31 and post 

your thoughts in the comments section below.

Observation #30: Soccer Stats

Both of my blog posts with 'soccer' in the title have been viewed twenty times more than the rest of my posts. These additional hits are all from Brazil.

Why are Brazilians searching the internet for 'soccer'? I have not found any indication that the American MLS has any popularity here, and I doubt very much that they are interested in the sports happenings in Papua New Guinea. The rest of the world calls it football.

This raises a question. Would the additional hits be significantly more than twenty if the title said 'football' instead?

...I know how to find out.

Feel free to contribute to observation #31 and post 

your thoughts in the comments section below.

Day 17: The Cookie Smugglers, Part 3

Chief Cassique calls for music. Traditional drums are brought out, a not so traditional guitar is tuned, and a ceremonial "thank you" dance is preformed.

Very nice.

There's an American with us? He's never heard English before. An song is demanded.
Preferably an English version of a song he's familiar with.

aww...

Amazing grace is a safe bet. I don't know the lyrics past verse one, but I know the tune and that's what counts. At verse two, I start inventing lyrics. At verse three I start inventing words. Everyone smiles. Robert doesn't smile. He knows too much English.

Robert decides to help me out.

Robert's a good singer, and we sound nice together, but it quickly becomes clear that one of us knows the lyrics and one of us doesn't. The song ends. I try to apologize for mucking up the lyrics, but Robert is my translator. No one believes him.

Obviously the American was singing the correct lyrics. Robert tried to join in, and embarrassed himself. I try my best to exonerate Robert, but now they think I'm just trying to be nice. Not only did the American sing it perfectly, but now he's trying to take the fall for Robert. What a guy.

At this point Robert and I are laughing too much, so any further attempts are perceived as some kind of joke. We give up. I accept credit for being awesome, and Robert's a heel.

Chief Cassique liked the song. He formally presents me with a gift. It's a CD he likes. He explains how track number seven is totally killer, and invites me to come back for a visit on May 13. This is the best day of my life.

The truck has no trouble with the sand on our way out. It seems to weigh a lot less now. On the trip home I sit next to an old lady. She has been helping this tribe out with "cookies" for the last five years.

She confirms my assumption that the Indians were uncomfortable with their garb, but not for the reason I thought. Recently this tribe finally decided to adopt the practice of wearing clothes when they have company. They weren't trying to look more primitive for us. They were trying to look less.

Were the "cookies" some kind of Euphemism for something.. else?

Probably.

  Who thinks I should show up naked on the 13th? Share your opinion in the comments section below.

Day 17: The Cookie Smugglers, Part 2

With a few exceptions, Brazilian roads are poorly maintained. Brazilian jungle roads are not an exception. Neither Robert nor I are licensed to drive a flatbed truck, but a friend of ours is. A friend who happens to be a government official with a bit of common sense.

Water drainage is a serious problem for lowland rainforest roads. An effective solution is to make the roads out of sand. Effective for water drainage. Not cars. Cars rarely travel this road. Flatbed trucks never travel this road. Our truck tries. For being completely empty, our truck is surprisingly heavy. Our truck does not travel this road.

We dig. We push. We lay down branches. We're stuck.

A passing Indian notices our predicament. Minutes later twenty five Indians, a few friends, and I are pushing a flatbed truck through the sand in a jungle. Our progress is slow. Very slow.

Do you know the village we're looking for? TWO MILES!! Well where's your village? Just around the bend you say? What are your feelings on cookies?

Two Indians take off running while the rest of us continue our sandy trudge. I don't speak a word of Tupi, but I think they were shouting something like "Quick hide the T.V. and get out your feathers CITY PEOPLE ARE COMING!"

We arrive at a village of hastily painted faces rushing outside and trying to look natural. It is obvious their paint is still wet. The adults pull it off, but the kids pristine faces accrue a steady swath of finger smudges until it dries ten minutes later.

Many of the girls look extremely uncomfortable in their coconuts. It's obvious they only wear these for tourists, which don't come very often. The whole show is beautiful, but it feels horribly fake and insincere.

I would never go to Rome and expect everyone to be wearing togas and sandals and speaking Latin. I know they wear tight shiny jeans and shoes that look like boots but fall apart if you put them to any real stress. I know they speak Italian. Likewise, I would not go to Japan expecting to find a mob of kimono clad samurai waving katanas around. I'm sure they would in fact be dressed like Lolita dolls, or wearing some kind of animal costume with brown face paint and silver hair.

Neither would I want to find togas and samurais in these places. I do not travel for a love of history. I travel for a love of people. I am interested in the people and their real daily lives. So when I arrive at an Indian reservation to find that they have gone out of their way to hide their real identity under the paintings of their past, I am dismayed.

We significantly lighten our truck and turn it around, but are asked to wait before leaving. A runner is sent to fetch the chief. Chief Cassique arrives in flip flops, jean shorts, and a sleeveless Aerosmith shirt. He is too old and tired to care about appearances.

     Check back soon for an exciting conclusion in "The Cookie Smugglers: Part 3" 

Was my description of Japanese fashion unfair? Post your own thoughts 

and observations of Japanese fashion in the comments section below.

Observation #25: Counting

There are 104 professional soccer teams in the state of São Paulo. One hundred and four.

Three of them are named The Fifteenth of November. Last year The Fifteenth of November beat The Fifteenth of November and The Fifteenth of November back to back.

Day 17: The Cookie Smugglers, Part 1

A group of Roberts friends visited an Indian reservation last week. They had cookies. They shared. It was the most delicious thing the Indian kids had ever tasted.

Brazil allows the Indians to have reservations, but with a few conditions. These conditions are codified in Brazilian law. Brazil produces laws as coherent as any massive pseudo-democratic Latin-American bureaucracy could be expected to produce.

I am unable to find anyone who knows exactly what these laws are, but the basic summary is "Maintain a traditional lifestyle or we sell your land to the plantations"

There are restrictions about who can visit the Indians and when. There are restrictions on imports and exports to the Indians. There is a flat prohibition on preaching any non-indigenous religion.

The entire tribe is already Christian? Too bad, they have to pretend to be pagans. And the UNESCO people are coming next month so pretend HARD! Not even the Indians are allowed to preach on their reservation.

The nearest allowable church is a ten mile walk, because cars are also nonexistent. 

Traditional methods of food production relied heavily on fishing and hunting. This part of the rainforest survived industrialization. The rivers and big game did not.

Their primary source of income is tourism. Indians are not currently in style in Brazil so their primary source of income is not currently producing income.

The Indians break the rules whenever they can and any government agent with a bit of common sense is happy to look the other way. Still, their lack of exposure to cookies seems to indicate that they could use some help with breaking rules.

Today we rent a flatbed truck and load it with broken rules.

We are not allowed to deliver this to the Indians. So we don't. If we did, I wouldn't be publishing it online. Only idiots brag about that kind of thing on the internet.

Check back soon for an exciting turn of events in "The Cookie Smugglers, Part 2"

Day 16: Forest Frolic

6:00 a.m. 
The road through the mountains of the Atlantic Coastal Rainforest is pleasant. Rainy season is just ending and the flowers are in bloom. The steep mountains and deep ravines are capped with clouds and filled with fog. The road itself is an engineering marvel.

8:00 a.m.
Brazilians don't care much for the jungle. They stay at the cabin. I explore the jungle.

1:30 p.m.
DO NOT smell the green ones. 

2:00 p.m.
Nosebleed stops.

6:30 p.m.
Jungle mosquitoes are overrated. Twelve hours spent in a tropical rainforest, and they have given me no problem.

8:30 p.m.
Jungle mosquitoes are nocturnal. They swarm. They bite through jeans.

Observation #23: Gas Stations

All gas stations in Brazil offer gasoline, natural gas, or ethanol. Brazil has cars that run on natural gas. Brazil has cars that run on pure ethanol. They have been doing this since the 70s.

You can buy a natural gas conversion kit at any auto shop. Most cars here can switch between gasoline and ethanol. Everyone uses ethanol during the sugarcane harvest season. In the rainy season they go back to gas.

Day 15: Fruit Market

Open air fruit market is a misleading name. It is an open air everything market. The first fruit stand has me mesmerized. So many colors. Every shape and size imaginable. What's that? Can you even eat this? These ones smell like steak! "Robert, what are all these fruits?"

"This stand only has bananas."

Mind. Blown.

A nearby orange guy has even more different kinds of oranges than the banana guy had bananas. I suspect some of those "oranges" are actually grapefruits, but decide to let it go.

Most of my life, I've been used to eating fruit that was picked when green, and ripened in a shipping container. These vine ripened fruits are still in the hands of the farmers who picked them this morning. The meat is still breathing when you order it. As for exotic drinks they have Coca-Cola imported all the way from ...Georgia.

The ubiquitous samba music is drowned out in many places by shouting vendors. This is how I always imagined the floor of the New York Stock Exchange looked before they had computers. Except suits and ties are replaced with straw fedoras and machetes.

They have everything here. How do you say bootlegged DVD in Portuguese?

Paraguay.

How about counterfeit Rolex? Rolex Paraguay. Are those NBA jerseys made of..  wool? Paraguay.

This place is hilarious.

Day 14: Professor Serio

My students have taken up the hobby of doodling. Every third paper turned in to me has my portrait on it. These likenesses vary dramatically. Some have me wearing a top hat and cane, others depict me with a handlebar mustache. In one picture I am flying through the clouds with an afro of lightning. Some are simple stick figures, while others are elaborate colored pencil masterpieces.

Most are titled either "Professor Louco" (crazy) or "Professor Serio" (serious). Both names my students find hilarious. There is one thing that every picture has in common. A monocle. I am wearing a monocle in every single picture.

I don't understand this place.

Day 13: Semantics

A few Brazilians convey distress to me over my blog. They enjoy my depiction of daily life in Brazil, however, they feel my usage of "jungle" in the title is unfair. I am informed that many here believe America unjustly stereotypes Brazilians as a bunch of tree dwelling, loincloth wearing, spear toting Indians.

This is Sao Paulo, home of culture and sophistication. The Indians, I am repeatedly assured, live in the jungle. Not in the cities. This is the City.

They are correct.

The rainforest which once stood in the way of progress has been removed and replaced with glorious Sao Paulo. The city is, however, flanked on three sides by the Atlantic Coastal Rainforest, a bonafide official rainforest (full of bonafide official Indians)

Nonetheless I cede the point. I am in the city. But my title intends the word "jungle" in the "concrete jungle" sense. In the context of the rest of my title, it is meant to be an ironic play on the Victorian notion of the "Glourious Expedition" (which is why this blog's description is in the wording of a pulp adventure novel) The wordplay is furthered by the fact that this "concrete jungle" is smack in the middle of a forested jungle.

We have some coffee. We tell some jokes. It is agreed that we will visit the fashion district of Paulista Avenue and take a picture for the blog.

We debate soccer. We play soccer. It is agreed that we will go into the rainforest and take a picture for the blog. 

Everybody eats chocolate and goes home happy.

Observation #18: And Another Thing

I have noticed a counter-intuitively inverse relationship between air quality and the distribution of clotheslines. Places that don't care, or fail, to regulate their air quality tend to be filled with people who do not afford dryers. My clothes here tend to take on a faint industrial mystery odor while drying on the line. They also accumulate a thin film of dirt.

This principle seems to hold true even within cities. I remember the in wealthy neighborhoods of Cabo, there were parks and gardens filling the air with jasmine and honeysuckle and all kinds of sweet smells I couldn't name. The laundromats in those neighborhoods used dryers with flower scented dryer sheets. The poorest neighborhoods were downwind of an open air sewage treatment facility. Their laundromats used clotheslines. Their clothes never smelled nice.

My sample pool, however, is limited to a small handful of locations. Feel free to contribute your own observations on the issue in the comments section below.

Day 12: Slum Singer

Work at the slum begins. The kids have never seen an American before, but they know better than to believe I'm one. My eyes are too dark and my hair isn't blond.

I narrate everything I do or see in English. Their response is enthusiastic. The school is instantly packed with scores of six year olds. English songs are demanded. 

My set list: Baby Beluga, Father Abraham, He's got the Whole World in His Hands

I'm a rock star.

Actually I'm just the warmup act. We are here to put on an Easter play and sermon, but the favela electrical grid isn't good at dealing with PA systems.This school house is like 10 ft by 30 ft, but we brought the speakers and mic so we're going to use them. 

I continue stalling with an encore of Father Abraham.

Day 11: Negotiations

We are expanding into a nearby squatters slum. They agree to let us use a mud hole (one of their finest) for free if it is to help the community. Yesterday we finished converting their fine mud hole into a fine school house.

Today they agree to let us use their fine new school house for only 200 reis per month if it is to help the community.

No way. Negotiations ensue.

Brazilian negotiations seem to include a good deal of coffee, some soccer debates, maybe a siesta, and a soccer game. Resolutions? Nope.

Everyone goes home happy. Wait... What? Everyone happy? What about the school?

Oh Cory. You and your silly Americanisms. You worry too much. Lets get some chocolate.

Observation #17: Clotheslines

Clotheslines are cheaper than dryers. Clotheslines are more energy efficient than dryers. Clotheslines do not work well in the rain. The rainforest is not known for its aridity.

Day 10: More Rain

More rain. Hector follows the new rule like a saint: inside only just far enough that the door doesn't hit him when it closes. Not even my tween team can coerce him to disobey. He wags his tail. He watches. He stays put.

Our laundry is in off the roof before the rain. It's not dry yet, but its not rained on either.

This morning a bean dish fell prey to a swarm of formigas. It's useless to us, so today Hector is dry AND he eats like a king. I spoil that dog.

Day 9: The Forecast

During the day we open our front door. The school has video games, ping pong, soccer balls, a library, a rock climbing wall, and board games free to all kids. Hector's record had been flawless. Today he came inside. "WHAT GIVES YOU THE IDEA THIS IS OK ALL OF A SUDDEN? Get out of here."

Did someone trick him into coming inside?  "HEY! halfway doesn't count mister. ALLL the way outside dude. Don't be acting like you don't know the rules."

Five minutes later a cloud appears.

Ten minutes later the sky is black.

The monsoon hits before we get all our clothes lines in off the roof.

New rule: Hector the weatherman-dog is allowed inside to warn us of impending rain, but only within arms reach of the door.

Day 8: The Doorbell

Brazil has no doorbells. Shouting the name of an occupant works just fine. This was not a problem for me in Mexico. My neighborhood was quiet in Mexico.

Within earshot of my front door right now a man is fixing his car accompanied by samba. His speakers are blown, but that's no reason to turn down the volume. There are two ongoing soccer games, three gossiping circles, a crowing rooster, two barking dogs, two construction projects, and a tree being cut down.

Also, I have the hardest name in the world.

Cory.

The open 'O' followed by an American 'R' delivers a one-two knockout punch to even the most tenacious tongue. Trying to get the correct "o" they loudly cycle through vowels like a tone deaf drunkard attempting to find a pitch.

The 'r' is significantly less confident. Confidence is a significant source of volume.

Exhausted from the strain, no one ever makes it all the way to the simply 'y' at the end of my name. This final 'y' only occurs as an afterthought, and is filled with disappointment and defeat.

The best case scenario sounds something like "qweiaAAwd-derrr... eh". So from my apartment all I hear is "waa" or sometimes "woa". This might have worked in Mexico. My neighborhood was quiet in Mexico.

Day 7: Soccer Shoes

Soccer doesn't require a formal goal. Any target will do. Moving targets are more fun. The wheels of a car move nicely. If the driver sees you or the ball coming he will slow down. It doesn't count if he slows down; that's too easy. A large blind spot covers the rear wheels so they're too easy also.

Brazilian logic on proper footwear: The streets are filthy. Filth covered shoes are no good. Flip flops reduce agility. Soccer requires agility. Glass in your foot? Remove glass. Rinse with muck. Back in game. Shoes are still clean. Nice.

My logic: shoes.

Day 6: Hector

Last year the school had an intern who took in a stray dog. When he left, Hector became a stray again. I'm the new intern, so it seems to me that I've inherited a dog. He's not allowed inside, he has no collar, and I can't justify feeding a dog who's been content with garbage cans for so many years. To the untrained eye Hector is still a stray, but every time I go outside he's at my heel within a minute. He knows three commands: "Stay" "Go away" and "Relax dude".

Day 5: Seriously with the coffee

Seriously with the coffee. Is the sun rising or setting?

DAY 4: Professor Ninja

First day of class. Rob hands me the keys and takes off for nursing school. I attempt to explain pronouns to a dozen giggling tween girls. They have no idea what I'm talking about. A maintenance guy shows up. He needs something. I have no clue what he's talking about.

He wants me to...  He's looking for...  um...

I run back upstairs to enlist the aid of my students. A dozen giggling tween girls are now pantomiming the plight of the maintenance man for me. He's here to fix our security cameras, but he needs a ladder. Great work tween team. A+ for everyone.

We have a ladder, but it's in the alley way. I don't have a key for the alley gate. Oh well, he doesn't mind watching me teach English for the next few hours while we wait for Rob to get back.

No way.

I climb out onto the neighbors roof and shimmy my way down into the alley, then return up to the side balcony with the ladder in tow. Problem solved.

Two dozen tween girls are bouncing off the walls. Did they just multiply? My new name is Professor Ninja. Professor Ninja wants to do some professoring. Spazzy Tween Team wants to do some ninjaing.

This job rocks.

Day 3: Coffee

Brazil's caffeine obsession is killing me. There is no more grievous offense than to reject an invitation for coffee. I'm the new toy that everyone wants to caffeinate.

That's ok. This place still rocks.

Day 2: God and Soccer

Corinthians are beating Oeste 2-0

Church starts soon...
Goal! 3-0

Church starts no.
But it's 3-0!!

Rob is a bible study leader at the church. Wont they be expecting us?
3-0 Brother! This doesn't just happen every day!

Church started 10 minutes ago.
This is ok. Only the Palmieristas will be there anyway.

20 minutes late.
Relax, the preacher is Corinthiano. He will understand.

We arrive 30 minutes late.
The preacher is 31 minutes late.

Day 1: Brazilian Decorator

DAY 1:

I have a cinder block bookshelf, an upholstered plank for a sofa, and my "stately gentleman's easy chair" is a school desk/chair combo with the desk part broken off. No need to worry about falling out of this chair; The bar that once held the desktop is now a functional roller coaster seat belt.

My shower head is directly over the toilet which would be interesting if I could use it. Turning on my shower knocks out the electricity.

I found the rest of my stately gentleman's easy chair in the kitchen. The missing desktop is my cutting board.

This place rocks.