[[I broke from my normal pattern of Portuguese blog titles just so I could be sure that anyone with even the slightest inkling of interest in doing this program DOES IT!!!]]
Porque você deve participar no programa Yale no Brasil
I said it before, but I really had no reason to come to Brazil other than that it was something to do over the summer. While that might not've been the best reasoning, I'm glad it made sense at the time! I totaly recommend this program. Especially for freshmen; this was definitely the perfect way to wrap up my first year as a Yale student.
Reasons why this is by far the best study abroad program Yale University offers:
Four Credits
That's an entire semester. AN ENTIRE FREAKING SEMESTER. Do you realize what this means? It means you never have to take a 5 credit semester. Ever. In your entire Yale college career. And if you choose to, you do so knowing that A) you can drop that extra credit, and B) you're enrolling in that class because you want to, not because your degree depends on it.
The Workload
It's ridiculously manageable. It's not really a gut because it's interesting (I tend to think gut courses are incredibly dull--easy as fuck, but dull), but there's really not a lot of (necessary) work. The language classes (especially the L1/L2 program) cover a lot of material, but they cover that material in class. Meaning most of the work you do will be during your 3 hours of Portuguese for Romance Language Speakers, not at home on your own. Jackson's class has a heavy reading load but... it's not actually necessary that you do it. Skim what looks interesting and enjoy the fact that you're in Brazil, learning more from lived experience (one would hope) than from 16th century Portuguese poetry.
The ISA
Okay, so not everyone gets it, and not everyone who gets it gets one as generous my own. But, if Yale helps you out majorly in terms of financial aid, TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THE INTERNATIONAL SUMMER AWARD. Essentially, Yale paid for my entire trip. I say "essentially" because Yale initially said they would only pay for 88% of the total cost; however, they're the ones estimating travel expenses and, as luck would have it, they (really) overestimated. Long story short, I got to keep the difference. So, every time I was lounging on the beach in Paraty, sipping a caipirinha I won in a raffle on our island hopping booze cruise, or stumbling out of a club in Lapa at 2 am on a Sunday morning, I stopped and thought: "Yale paid for me to do this. Holy fuck."
The Jacksons
They're seriously some of the nicest people in the world. Bete is super awesome, a really sweet person, and a kick-ass Portuguese teacher. Three hours (for the most part) flew by because we used the time effectively--as in, we were actually learning and not doing pointless drills. Professor K. David Jackson (Bete's husband) is really great too. His course consists mostly of him talking and when you take a break from surfing Facebook (when you have internet access) you can tell just how brilliant of a Brazilianist he is. Their kids came along too, and both of them are nice. Their daughter was our age so a lot of people got to be pretty close with her, and she came out with us a couple of times. It was a little awkward when we ran into her parents/our professors as we were walking to a bar. I never really got to know their 15 year old son. Both of them speak Portuguese as a first language--something you would NEVER assume from just looking at them.
I didn't really know Marta (the intermediate teacher) but some words that I've heard used to describe her are: "Sassy," "DGAF," and "Badass Bitch." Okay, the last one was just me... she definitely looks like one.
Brazil
Enough said.
But I'll say a little more anyway. Six weeks in Brazil should be enough to convince anyone. But take into account that the structure of this program is perfect. Your first two weeks are in Paraty, a historical, colonial city half-way between Rio and Sao Paulo. It's small, touristy, and beautiful. It's great for test driving your burgeoning Portuguese skills and for just taking in the fact that you're actually in Brazil (I think if we'd gone directly to Rio my head would've exploded). Normally Yale's there for the FLP (Festival Literaria Portuguesa), which was rescheduled when I went this summer because of the World Cup. Apparently it's an equally great experience that infuses Paraty with a lot more liveliness (and about 30,000 more people), but I enjoyed having Paraty nearly empty of tourists. Then four weeks in RIO DE JANEIRO. They don't call it A Cidade Maravilhosa for nothing.
Not New Haven
I love the Elm City (no, seriously, I do) but in the summer... Eh. The weather's shittier than normal a lot of the time, and not that many people are around. Luckily, the Brazil program spends two weeks in The Have. TWO. That's the shortest (I'm almost positive) time spent at Yale out of any of the Summer Sessions Abroad--well, actually the Swahili in Kenya program doesn't spend any time in New Haven at all, those bastards go straight to Africa. The French program, on the other hand, was on campus for almost a month before going to Paris. 14 days in New Haven and then SIX WHOLE WEEKS in Brazil. That is by far the best configuration for any Yale abroad program that starts off on campus.
No Experience Necessary
Very few summer sessions abroad have L1/L2-level courses available. The sole requirement for the intro. class was familiarity with a Romance language. While Spanish is definitely the most helpful, there were people who spoke French and even Romanian.
Learning From My Mistakes
The utter freedom of this program, especially in terms of structured activities vs. free time could be overwhelming at times. With so much that I could be doing, I frequently found myself not doing anything, really. I let homesickness affect me more than I would've liked, and lot of time was spent trying to hijack wifi from Luba's neighbors or hanging out in the internet cafe around the corner.
And it was always during those bouts of not doing anything that I started to feel really bad about not doing anything, as if I were completely wasting my experience in a way. That's not a good line of thinking to start down when you're even slightly emotionally on edge (because you're thousands of miles from home, friends, and the familiar). And, honestly, towards the end of the 5th week of program, I really started to think about going home a lot more and actually looked at my calendar in pseudo-countdown fashion. While I loved seeing two very distinct parts of Brazil, that was also somewhat disorienting. Just as I got used to Paraty, we up and left for Rio, for example. I then spent the next few days readjusting to life as someone's tenant in a totally foreign city--it definitely wasn't the smoothest transition for me to make.
Five months after returning to the US and Yale, my time in Brazil is now definitely in the realm of memory. I can't remember all the specifics of the trip, and my reflections are mostly hazy combinations of nostalgia and saudades. I definitely learned a lot from my six weeks abroad, though--about myself, about the place I come from, about what I want to do in life. I enjoyed the Yale Summer Session in Brazil, to be sure, but it did feel like a 6-week vacation; I mean, that's not necessarily a bad thing, but I wasn't out saving the world, or even interning or doing research; I was taking classes, exploring Rio, and generally relaxing. All admirable things and I don't regret doing them, but I now know that I want my subsequent summers to be more substantively productive.
But like I said, Brazil was awesome. Like Bete says, "O Brasil encanta, Brazil enchants." I definitely would love to go back, and I'm so happy that I had the opportunity to go. It was eye-opening on so many levels. The friends I made were also an added benefit; maybe it was just the particular year that I did it, or maybe the fact of being in such a wonderful place with such a relaxing academic program just pusts everyone in a good mood--whatever it was, I had an incredible time!
Well, I guess that's about all I have left in terms of Brazil-related blog posts. This probably lacks all credibility since there was a six-month gap in my postings, but I truly enjoyed keeping this online journal and am planning on starting one up for second semester--I'll post a link on Facebook or something.
Até logo, amigos. Graças por ler!
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Numa, numa van
[[This'll be a short one since it's adapted from my final report/'project' for Intro to Brazil. Pardon the pretentiously academic tone and enjoy my in-line metacommentary! Also, extra points if you caught the O-Zone reference.]]
Regardless of how many times I’ve taken busses, subways, or trains, I find myself almost completely incapable of shaking my inborn Californian mistrust of public transportation [[An hour-long bus ride and walk EVERY DAY of school for two and a half years means, quite simply, I FUCKING HATE THE BUS--for the most part, if I'm in no rush and it's not crowded, it can be alright]]. So when the bus I had been planning on taking to PUC on my second day in Rio never showed up, I was relatively—and, I think, understandably—shaken [[I almost cried]]. As time continued to pass with no bus in sight, I desperately sought an alternative [[I started to freak the fuck out]]. It was then that I saw the van. I don’t think I’d ever really noticed the vans before; I assumed, rather, that they were back-alley operations that probably jacked up their prices, took advantage of tourists, and were generally unsafe [[I couldn't tell if people were getting in them of their own free will or if they were being kidnapped]]. That image was shattered within the first few seconds. The man leaning out the window shouting, “Leblon, Gávea, PUC!” at random crowds on the street, hoping to gain a few more passengers, was actually quite helpful. I ended up getting to class in less time and at less cost than if I had ridden a bus. [[What really ended my anti-van prejudice was talking to an American student who'd been in Brazil for 8 months who said to me, "Yeah, they seem really sketch but they're a lot cheaper than the bus." Cheaper? She said the magic word.]]
Regardless of how many times I’ve taken busses, subways, or trains, I find myself almost completely incapable of shaking my inborn Californian mistrust of public transportation [[An hour-long bus ride and walk EVERY DAY of school for two and a half years means, quite simply, I FUCKING HATE THE BUS--for the most part, if I'm in no rush and it's not crowded, it can be alright]]. So when the bus I had been planning on taking to PUC on my second day in Rio never showed up, I was relatively—and, I think, understandably—shaken [[I almost cried]]. As time continued to pass with no bus in sight, I desperately sought an alternative [[I started to freak the fuck out]]. It was then that I saw the van. I don’t think I’d ever really noticed the vans before; I assumed, rather, that they were back-alley operations that probably jacked up their prices, took advantage of tourists, and were generally unsafe [[I couldn't tell if people were getting in them of their own free will or if they were being kidnapped]]. That image was shattered within the first few seconds. The man leaning out the window shouting, “Leblon, Gávea, PUC!” at random crowds on the street, hoping to gain a few more passengers, was actually quite helpful. I ended up getting to class in less time and at less cost than if I had ridden a bus. [[What really ended my anti-van prejudice was talking to an American student who'd been in Brazil for 8 months who said to me, "Yeah, they seem really sketch but they're a lot cheaper than the bus." Cheaper? She said the magic word.]]
Rio Gay Janeiro (Paraqueer?)
When thinking about my summer, I knew that I wanted two things: to be out, and to experience, in some capacity, queer social life in another country. That definitely wasn't why I chose to come to Brazil, but it was something I thought about a lot after finalizing my summer travel plans. So while I obsessively Googled "gay nightlife rio" or "gay-friendly brazil," not knowing exactly where I would be staying once in Rio hampered just how productive that Googling actually was. Not to mention that "gay Paraty" turns up a review for Paraty Affairs, a--how shall I say?--"mature" film about a "rangy, dreamy-eyed Argentinian" and his "various sexual adventures involving well-built, uncircumcised, sun-toasted men"--as well as that super awkward Out Travel review.[[Actually, re-watching that travel review and re-reading the porno review leads to some eery similarities... In fact, they basically follow the same plot, from the boat trip to the sexualized pool playing (in the reviewer's words, "handsome Raul Dias sounds his [co-star's] depths on a billiard table"). Right..]]
Anyway, Paraty unsurprisingly failed to be the rustic gay mecca that Logo promised. The only queer thing of note happened on perhaps our drunkest night there. Being led around town by some (overly?) friendly Paraty natives, or paratienses (some of whom have since been Facebook friended by people on the trip...), my fellow group of Yalies and I downed caipirinhas, cachaça shots, and Brazilian beer in quantities that would make a Zeta brother proud (may their frat RIP--but not really). Stumbling back to the pousada with perhaps much more trust in these random strangers than we should have had, I struck up a conversation with one couple, who I later learned owned the town's largest internet cafe, Dog Fighter (say, dohg-ee-fye-teh). Rather than describe the exchange, I'll let the words speak for themselves. Luckily, drunk me thought it a good idea to transcribe everything that was said--gotta love that guy:
Me [slurringly]: So, are there gay people in Paraty? A gay club?
Lady Rando: Haha. No. Sometimes foreigners, the foreign gays love it here. No clubs.
Me: Ughhh.
Lady Rando: Are you gay?
Me: Yeah.
Lady Rando: Really? You don't seem like it.
Me: Thank you...?
Lady Rando: You're welcome. [to Man Rando] Hey! He wants to know if there's a gay club in Paraty!!
Man Rando: Gay club? Are you gay??
Me: Um.
Man Rando: Gay! You like to kiss men?
Me [slurringly and awkwardly]: Um. Yeah.
Man Rando: Hah! Stay away from me then!
Landy Rando: Shuttup! He's only joking, Brazilians love gays.
Thus ended my search for queerness in Paraty. No big. I would be in Rio in a matter of days. And besides, I had requested GLS (Gays, Lésbicas, e Simpatizantes) housing--yes, the word for "ally" in Portuguese is "sympathizer"...
Like I mentioned earlier, my lodgings in Ipanema were pretty damn queer. A block away from the gay beach, a short walk from Le Boy (and La Girl), and a subway ride from The Week. But my interactions with gay Rio didn't start until Jazzmin and I went to Lapa--famous for its dancing, its clubs, its street vendors, and its propensity for casual molestation. No, seriously. Women, especially foreign women, attract a lot of (sometimes unwanted--just ask a few girls on the trip) attention, which occasionally gets physical.
While meandering around, Jazzmin and I noticed a group of women whose shirts boldly declaring "Sou uma mulher do arco-íris, com muito orgulho! I'm a woman of the rainbow and very proud of it!" Of course, we then proceeded to stalk them as they handed out fliers and, eventually, after consuming a Skol or two, I basically shoved Jazzmin into their lesbian midsts and had them give us their spiel. They're called Laços e Acasos (which translates [very] roughly to Links and Happenstance) and are part of Cidadanía Arco-Íris (Rainbow Citizenry), Brazil's oldest LGBT organization. They're an all female group dedicated to improving safe sex practices among lesbian and bisexual women as well as providing a space for queer women to discuss any number of issues (religion, relationships, family, etc.). After cruising (no pun intended) their website, I found out that they have a group for gay and bisexual boys and men called Entre Garotos (Between Guys). I shot them an email and went to one of their meetings--it was an incredible experience!
While it was kind of a schlep to actually get to where the meeting was held (and it wasn’t in the best part of Rio), and when we got there I had to awkwardly explain that I wasn’t looking for free HIV testing. Thankfully, the woman that I’d emailed came over and brought us into the room where Entre Garotos was meeting. There were about 20 people there throughout the course of the night, with an age range of maybe 17 to 22. The group members were presenting on hepatitis transmission and prevention. I had no idea that there were that many kinds of hep… Every presentation was fun (and informative!) with the guys all joking around with each other and with the older, organizational folks there. For example, the women in charge of the programs demonstrated, quite vividly, how to put on a condom using nothing but your moth—her demonstration involved a flavored condom and a humongous dildo (and lots of uncontrollable laughter). One of the teenagers jumped up and offered himself as an alternative to the dildo, prompting one of the older women (who seemed to be a doctor or nurse) to remark how much easier safe-sex for women was. Easier? I dunno, but there’s definitely much less risk of setting off your gag reflex.
After the presentation, I spoke to the woman in charge (as you can probably tell, I completely forgot her name and was too far in the conversation to ask what it was…). She told me that Entre Garotos had two main goals: health and education. The health stuff, she said, is about teaching a new generation about HIV-AIDS and STI prevention. They focus on getting condoms and other safe-sex products to the young people who need them and on teaching the basics of safe sexual practices as a means of empowering youth to make healthy decisions about their own sex lives and relationships. Being a CHE presenter, I was in heaven. And things only got better. I found out that Cidadanía Arco-Íris does anti-homophobia presentations in public secondary schools and schools that train teachers. The director explained that, since they couldn’t get into early education (LGBT sensitivity training for first graders is kind of impossible), they hoped to at least reach teachers who would be interacting with younger kids.
Like most LGBT youth organizations, Entre Garotos (and Laços, for that matter) work with youth with hostile families. In fact, two of the people at the meeting were expulsos da casa, kicked out of their homes, some had to live on the streets, having absolutely nowhere else to turn. The director remarked at how crazy it was that such things could happen in Rio in the year 2010. I told her that I had a friend working with homeless youth in New York City, the last place you would think of as anti-gay. She looked surprised, but then said, with some sadness, that prejudice was “uma coisa do homem, do ser humâno,” a part human existence. At the end of our chat we exchanged email addresses and promises to stay in touch.
I left feeling both energized, even more sure of my dedication to work with queer youth in the future—but also, perhaps understandably, sad. But even that sadness wasn’t overwhelming; I had seen the way that Rafael, the young man who’d been thrown out of his home was laughing and smiling with the rest of the garotos—I saw how he was belonging in a way that really moved me.
Other than that, my experiences at Rio's gay clubs were unimpressive. I never made it to the younger, hipper, more expensive The Week, and Le Boy was filled with little more than muscly gogo-boys, standoffish couples, and awkward dancing--not to mention a RIDICULOUS cover of 45 reais. Fortunately, that cover included a concert by the one, the only, Wanessa, who sang a variety of pop songs (from MIA to Gaga to Britney). Basically, it was a far cry from the hot sweaty mess I'd imagined. Maybe if I'd gone to The Week it would've been different, but who knows? And don't get me started on La Girl... Smirnoff Ice. Overwhelming fake fog. Seemingly no lesbians. And no one dancing (except an ambiguously gay man who started dancing in front of his reflection at the wall-length mirror). No one dancing, of course, until me and Jazzmin got up and whored out like it was no one's business.
[[P.S. I emailed back and forth with the Entre Garotos people for a while. They never got back to me after my last one though, but I'm thinking of emailing them again--and maybe hitting them up for another t-shirt...]]
Anyway, Paraty unsurprisingly failed to be the rustic gay mecca that Logo promised. The only queer thing of note happened on perhaps our drunkest night there. Being led around town by some (overly?) friendly Paraty natives, or paratienses (some of whom have since been Facebook friended by people on the trip...), my fellow group of Yalies and I downed caipirinhas, cachaça shots, and Brazilian beer in quantities that would make a Zeta brother proud (may their frat RIP--but not really). Stumbling back to the pousada with perhaps much more trust in these random strangers than we should have had, I struck up a conversation with one couple, who I later learned owned the town's largest internet cafe, Dog Fighter (say, dohg-ee-fye-teh). Rather than describe the exchange, I'll let the words speak for themselves. Luckily, drunk me thought it a good idea to transcribe everything that was said--gotta love that guy:
Me [slurringly]: So, are there gay people in Paraty? A gay club?
Lady Rando: Haha. No. Sometimes foreigners, the foreign gays love it here. No clubs.
Me: Ughhh.
Lady Rando: Are you gay?
Me: Yeah.
Lady Rando: Really? You don't seem like it.
Me: Thank you...?
Lady Rando: You're welcome. [to Man Rando] Hey! He wants to know if there's a gay club in Paraty!!
Man Rando: Gay club? Are you gay??
Me: Um.
Man Rando: Gay! You like to kiss men?
Me [slurringly and awkwardly]: Um. Yeah.
Man Rando: Hah! Stay away from me then!
Landy Rando: Shuttup! He's only joking, Brazilians love gays.
Thus ended my search for queerness in Paraty. No big. I would be in Rio in a matter of days. And besides, I had requested GLS (Gays, Lésbicas, e Simpatizantes) housing--yes, the word for "ally" in Portuguese is "sympathizer"...
Like I mentioned earlier, my lodgings in Ipanema were pretty damn queer. A block away from the gay beach, a short walk from Le Boy (and La Girl), and a subway ride from The Week. But my interactions with gay Rio didn't start until Jazzmin and I went to Lapa--famous for its dancing, its clubs, its street vendors, and its propensity for casual molestation. No, seriously. Women, especially foreign women, attract a lot of (sometimes unwanted--just ask a few girls on the trip) attention, which occasionally gets physical.
While meandering around, Jazzmin and I noticed a group of women whose shirts boldly declaring "Sou uma mulher do arco-íris, com muito orgulho! I'm a woman of the rainbow and very proud of it!" Of course, we then proceeded to stalk them as they handed out fliers and, eventually, after consuming a Skol or two, I basically shoved Jazzmin into their lesbian midsts and had them give us their spiel. They're called Laços e Acasos (which translates [very] roughly to Links and Happenstance) and are part of Cidadanía Arco-Íris (Rainbow Citizenry), Brazil's oldest LGBT organization. They're an all female group dedicated to improving safe sex practices among lesbian and bisexual women as well as providing a space for queer women to discuss any number of issues (religion, relationships, family, etc.). After cruising (no pun intended) their website, I found out that they have a group for gay and bisexual boys and men called Entre Garotos (Between Guys). I shot them an email and went to one of their meetings--it was an incredible experience!
While it was kind of a schlep to actually get to where the meeting was held (and it wasn’t in the best part of Rio), and when we got there I had to awkwardly explain that I wasn’t looking for free HIV testing. Thankfully, the woman that I’d emailed came over and brought us into the room where Entre Garotos was meeting. There were about 20 people there throughout the course of the night, with an age range of maybe 17 to 22. The group members were presenting on hepatitis transmission and prevention. I had no idea that there were that many kinds of hep… Every presentation was fun (and informative!) with the guys all joking around with each other and with the older, organizational folks there. For example, the women in charge of the programs demonstrated, quite vividly, how to put on a condom using nothing but your moth—her demonstration involved a flavored condom and a humongous dildo (and lots of uncontrollable laughter). One of the teenagers jumped up and offered himself as an alternative to the dildo, prompting one of the older women (who seemed to be a doctor or nurse) to remark how much easier safe-sex for women was. Easier? I dunno, but there’s definitely much less risk of setting off your gag reflex.
After the presentation, I spoke to the woman in charge (as you can probably tell, I completely forgot her name and was too far in the conversation to ask what it was…). She told me that Entre Garotos had two main goals: health and education. The health stuff, she said, is about teaching a new generation about HIV-AIDS and STI prevention. They focus on getting condoms and other safe-sex products to the young people who need them and on teaching the basics of safe sexual practices as a means of empowering youth to make healthy decisions about their own sex lives and relationships. Being a CHE presenter, I was in heaven. And things only got better. I found out that Cidadanía Arco-Íris does anti-homophobia presentations in public secondary schools and schools that train teachers. The director explained that, since they couldn’t get into early education (LGBT sensitivity training for first graders is kind of impossible), they hoped to at least reach teachers who would be interacting with younger kids.
Like most LGBT youth organizations, Entre Garotos (and Laços, for that matter) work with youth with hostile families. In fact, two of the people at the meeting were expulsos da casa, kicked out of their homes, some had to live on the streets, having absolutely nowhere else to turn. The director remarked at how crazy it was that such things could happen in Rio in the year 2010. I told her that I had a friend working with homeless youth in New York City, the last place you would think of as anti-gay. She looked surprised, but then said, with some sadness, that prejudice was “uma coisa do homem, do ser humâno,” a part human existence. At the end of our chat we exchanged email addresses and promises to stay in touch.
I left feeling both energized, even more sure of my dedication to work with queer youth in the future—but also, perhaps understandably, sad. But even that sadness wasn’t overwhelming; I had seen the way that Rafael, the young man who’d been thrown out of his home was laughing and smiling with the rest of the garotos—I saw how he was belonging in a way that really moved me.
Other than that, my experiences at Rio's gay clubs were unimpressive. I never made it to the younger, hipper, more expensive The Week, and Le Boy was filled with little more than muscly gogo-boys, standoffish couples, and awkward dancing--not to mention a RIDICULOUS cover of 45 reais. Fortunately, that cover included a concert by the one, the only, Wanessa, who sang a variety of pop songs (from MIA to Gaga to Britney). Basically, it was a far cry from the hot sweaty mess I'd imagined. Maybe if I'd gone to The Week it would've been different, but who knows? And don't get me started on La Girl... Smirnoff Ice. Overwhelming fake fog. Seemingly no lesbians. And no one dancing (except an ambiguously gay man who started dancing in front of his reflection at the wall-length mirror). No one dancing, of course, until me and Jazzmin got up and whored out like it was no one's business.
[[P.S. I emailed back and forth with the Entre Garotos people for a while. They never got back to me after my last one though, but I'm thinking of emailing them again--and maybe hitting them up for another t-shirt...]]
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Hoje, fui fraudado. FML.
Today, I was ripped off. It wasn't anything major, it wasn't anything serious, and it wasn't anything that should warrant more than a few minutes of annoyance.
Rather than taking the bus, I normally catch a van home from PUC. Normally, I really enjoy the experience (I'll probably write about them one of these days), and for the most part I enjoyed today's ride too--until the end that is. After standing for the majority of the ride, I gave the attendant my fare and squeezed my way through to a seat in the back row, (politely) stepping over a few people to get there. After a few more stops, the attendant came over and said something to me. I didn't catch what he'd said and just assumed he asked where I wanted to get off. I told him, "Teixera" and figured that was that.
That was not that.
He kept talking to me in rapid Portuguese, and I literally had no idea what he was saying. I eventually guessed that he was trying to tell me that I needed to pay--even though I'd given him the money ten minutes earlier. I tried to tell him, "eu ja paguei, I already paid," but he didn't believe me. More rapid Portuguese followed, and eventually we were at my stop. Rather than get into an argument with him--it would've been pointless given the language barrier--I paid him (again).
Sure, I was pretty ticked that he charged me twice. But objectively it wasn't a huge deal. The fare is R$ 2,20--about a buck twenty five--so really, it wasn't some grand economic hardship. I'm also pretty sure the guy just honestly forgot; I might be wrong, but I didn't get the sense that he was trying to legitimately screw me over. And since nothing like this has happened before (in fact, the opposite has, the attendants have given me too much change on more than one occasion), I don't have any reason to think that it'll happen again.
So why did it bother me so much?
I think it has something to do with the fact that this experience opened my eyes to just how vulnerable I am here. "Vulnerable" might be the wrong word in this context, but it was really unnerving to see just how little control I had in that situation. Any kind of interaction like that takes a certain amount of energy and the ability to be confrontational; since I'm generally a very non-confrontational person (even when I'm totally in my comfort zone), being in a stressful situation like that was just too much.
---
So, I took a break from this entry for a couple days before posting it. I totally got over this whole incident in a matter of hours, but I think what I said is still true. It's a deeply disturbing feeling to find yourself completely incapable of communication with another human being. When language fails, what can do you do?
Rather than taking the bus, I normally catch a van home from PUC. Normally, I really enjoy the experience (I'll probably write about them one of these days), and for the most part I enjoyed today's ride too--until the end that is. After standing for the majority of the ride, I gave the attendant my fare and squeezed my way through to a seat in the back row, (politely) stepping over a few people to get there. After a few more stops, the attendant came over and said something to me. I didn't catch what he'd said and just assumed he asked where I wanted to get off. I told him, "Teixera" and figured that was that.
That was not that.
He kept talking to me in rapid Portuguese, and I literally had no idea what he was saying. I eventually guessed that he was trying to tell me that I needed to pay--even though I'd given him the money ten minutes earlier. I tried to tell him, "eu ja paguei, I already paid," but he didn't believe me. More rapid Portuguese followed, and eventually we were at my stop. Rather than get into an argument with him--it would've been pointless given the language barrier--I paid him (again).
Sure, I was pretty ticked that he charged me twice. But objectively it wasn't a huge deal. The fare is R$ 2,20--about a buck twenty five--so really, it wasn't some grand economic hardship. I'm also pretty sure the guy just honestly forgot; I might be wrong, but I didn't get the sense that he was trying to legitimately screw me over. And since nothing like this has happened before (in fact, the opposite has, the attendants have given me too much change on more than one occasion), I don't have any reason to think that it'll happen again.
So why did it bother me so much?
I think it has something to do with the fact that this experience opened my eyes to just how vulnerable I am here. "Vulnerable" might be the wrong word in this context, but it was really unnerving to see just how little control I had in that situation. Any kind of interaction like that takes a certain amount of energy and the ability to be confrontational; since I'm generally a very non-confrontational person (even when I'm totally in my comfort zone), being in a stressful situation like that was just too much.
---
So, I took a break from this entry for a couple days before posting it. I totally got over this whole incident in a matter of hours, but I think what I said is still true. It's a deeply disturbing feeling to find yourself completely incapable of communication with another human being. When language fails, what can do you do?
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Ode à Maré
Today, Dona Marta scolded Jazzmin and me for not speaking Portuguese. Why, she asked, did we come all the way to Brazil if we were going to speak English the whole time? Of course, she ignored the fact that I'd just had a conversation (in Portuguese) with the director of the favela youth program we were visiting, and the fact that every one else was speaking in English. I'm also not sure that speaking Portuguese with people whose (shaky) grasp of the language isn't any better than my own (equally shaky) abilities is really an effective learning strategy.
But chastising aside, Marta had a valid point: why did I come to Brazil?
To be perfectly honest, it was one of the most off-handed decisions I've made. I knew almost nothing about Brazil, had no real affinity for the country, and assumed Portuguese was just Spanish with a strange accent. So maybe the answer to that question isn't what's important here. I'm discovering that the reasons why I came to Brazil are drastically different from the reasons that I want to be here, the reasons that this place and its people fascinate, challenge, and captivate me.
The Vila Olímpica da Maré is a community center for the favela of Maré that specializes in after school programs for youth. As the name would suggest, a lot of their programming involves sports and athletics; however, the Vila Olímpica has a host of academic and artistic programs: ballet, capoeira, "street dancing,"and classical and folkloric music. Our time in the favela itself was limited to the three-minute drive from the highway to the Vila Olímpica, so I don't feel in anyway that I can speak to what life there is like, and I won't try.
What I can talk about are the amazing teachers and students I met--incredible people committed to finding a way of improving their community. The kids were incredible; from the adorable four-year-old ballerinas, to the six-year-old capoeira drummers, to the awkward preteens doing gymnastics, all of them were insanely talented. I have no doubt that they'll all accomplish great things with that talent, in whatever ways they can.
The moment that has stuck with me the most, and probably will stick with me for a long while to come, was a short recorder recital. The semi-circle of children, ranging in age from maybe five to thirteen, smiled shyly at the group of gringos assembled before them and began to play. I remember turning to Jazzmin and saying, "This is probably the most adorable thing I've ever seen." But once they started to play "Ode to Joy," I was literally holding back tears.
Maybe it's the song, maybe it's the message that I've attached to that song, or maybe I was just overly emotional today, but watching these children--who come from a place where drug dealers wield more power than elected officials and street signs and basic plumbing are rarities--watching them play that song meant so much to me. I started to sing along, quietly and to myself, and when they got to the line, "Alle Menschen werden Brüder. All men become brothers," I knew that this day would be one that I don't think I'll ever forget.
That sentiment, that assertion that, yes, we do share a common humanity, and, yes, that human family actually matters--that is what I'll take away from my time at the Vila Olímpica. I'll take away from this day what I learned from the dedicated individuals who bring that place alive: the knowledge that rising above poverty and oppression doesn't mean forgetting where you came from, and the firm belief that people, working together, can affect change in their own lives and in their own communities.
So, Dona Marta, I may not be speaking Portuguese as much as I should be, but believe me when I say I'm learning.
But chastising aside, Marta had a valid point: why did I come to Brazil?
To be perfectly honest, it was one of the most off-handed decisions I've made. I knew almost nothing about Brazil, had no real affinity for the country, and assumed Portuguese was just Spanish with a strange accent. So maybe the answer to that question isn't what's important here. I'm discovering that the reasons why I came to Brazil are drastically different from the reasons that I want to be here, the reasons that this place and its people fascinate, challenge, and captivate me.
The Vila Olímpica da Maré is a community center for the favela of Maré that specializes in after school programs for youth. As the name would suggest, a lot of their programming involves sports and athletics; however, the Vila Olímpica has a host of academic and artistic programs: ballet, capoeira, "street dancing,"and classical and folkloric music. Our time in the favela itself was limited to the three-minute drive from the highway to the Vila Olímpica, so I don't feel in anyway that I can speak to what life there is like, and I won't try.
What I can talk about are the amazing teachers and students I met--incredible people committed to finding a way of improving their community. The kids were incredible; from the adorable four-year-old ballerinas, to the six-year-old capoeira drummers, to the awkward preteens doing gymnastics, all of them were insanely talented. I have no doubt that they'll all accomplish great things with that talent, in whatever ways they can.
The moment that has stuck with me the most, and probably will stick with me for a long while to come, was a short recorder recital. The semi-circle of children, ranging in age from maybe five to thirteen, smiled shyly at the group of gringos assembled before them and began to play. I remember turning to Jazzmin and saying, "This is probably the most adorable thing I've ever seen." But once they started to play "Ode to Joy," I was literally holding back tears.
Maybe it's the song, maybe it's the message that I've attached to that song, or maybe I was just overly emotional today, but watching these children--who come from a place where drug dealers wield more power than elected officials and street signs and basic plumbing are rarities--watching them play that song meant so much to me. I started to sing along, quietly and to myself, and when they got to the line, "Alle Menschen werden Brüder. All men become brothers," I knew that this day would be one that I don't think I'll ever forget.
That sentiment, that assertion that, yes, we do share a common humanity, and, yes, that human family actually matters--that is what I'll take away from my time at the Vila Olímpica. I'll take away from this day what I learned from the dedicated individuals who bring that place alive: the knowledge that rising above poverty and oppression doesn't mean forgetting where you came from, and the firm belief that people, working together, can affect change in their own lives and in their own communities.
So, Dona Marta, I may not be speaking Portuguese as much as I should be, but believe me when I say I'm learning.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Os bichos
Quasi-prophetically, my father, who just happened to watch "Brazil's Deadliest Animals" shortly before my departure, warned me to stay as far away from the Amazon and the swarms of killer beasts that live there as humanly possible. While the Amazon is (literally) thousands of miles away and I have (so far) successfully avoided dying of animal-related causes, I have had some encounters with the local fauna worth writing home about.
The walk from the internet cafe where I procrastinate to the room in the apartment where I'm staying (and procrastinating) takes a total of two minutes. And yet, somehow, that two minute period was like a safari in miniature tonight. Dangling from the fence on the corner was a white caterpillar/larva thing. It was at least four inches long, and definitely as thick as my index finger. I assume it was some kind of moth larva, but I can't be sure, and, since my camera died, I have no photographic evidence. Just imagine something like this.
Then, as I turned away from the caterpillar, I see a bat swoop by. To put it delicately, I sort of freaked the fuck out. Not out of fear, but with childish excitement. Without going into the embarrassing details of my past, there was a period in my life when I was mildly obsessed with bats (they're the only mammals that can fly!!!)--so much so that I considered being chiropterist (look it up). I'd always be on the look out for bats whenever I was out at night, but every time I thought I saw one, my mom, intent on crushing my dreams, usually just said, "A bat? I think it was a pigeon." Once, I saw a bat trapped in the corner of a building at a zoo, but it was tiny and rather disappointing as far as bats go. So imagine my surprise tonight when a bat--bigger than a pigeon, smaller than a seagull--flies overhead. It was pretty damn cool.
There was also the cockroach that was chilling in my bathroom. After a minor skirmish, it was flushed down the toilet. No word yet as to whether or not that was against the bizarre Brazilian flushing rules.
Other animal related points of interest:
-All the birds here (with the exception of the hordes of pigeons) are really pretty!
-In Paraty, the packs of stray dogs that roamed the street begging for scraps and generally just following us around town were actually pretty cute--as was the Portuguese term for them: viralatas, literally "can turner," in reference to their upturning trash cans looking for food.
-In Rio, I have seen more lapdogs than I thought possible; most have pretty stylish haircuts, but I wonder how some of the furrier ones survive the Brazilian summer. Also, I saw a dog wearing shoes. Yes, a dog (i.e. an animal) wearing shoes (i.e. human footwear).
-I am fairly certain there is some form of rodent that lives in the attic over my bedroom. I hear strange scuttling noises, day and night. At first I was kind of freaked out; now, as long as it doesn't gnaw my face off as I sleep, I'm cool.
The walk from the internet cafe where I procrastinate to the room in the apartment where I'm staying (and procrastinating) takes a total of two minutes. And yet, somehow, that two minute period was like a safari in miniature tonight. Dangling from the fence on the corner was a white caterpillar/larva thing. It was at least four inches long, and definitely as thick as my index finger. I assume it was some kind of moth larva, but I can't be sure, and, since my camera died, I have no photographic evidence. Just imagine something like this.
Then, as I turned away from the caterpillar, I see a bat swoop by. To put it delicately, I sort of freaked the fuck out. Not out of fear, but with childish excitement. Without going into the embarrassing details of my past, there was a period in my life when I was mildly obsessed with bats (they're the only mammals that can fly!!!)--so much so that I considered being chiropterist (look it up). I'd always be on the look out for bats whenever I was out at night, but every time I thought I saw one, my mom, intent on crushing my dreams, usually just said, "A bat? I think it was a pigeon." Once, I saw a bat trapped in the corner of a building at a zoo, but it was tiny and rather disappointing as far as bats go. So imagine my surprise tonight when a bat--bigger than a pigeon, smaller than a seagull--flies overhead. It was pretty damn cool.
There was also the cockroach that was chilling in my bathroom. After a minor skirmish, it was flushed down the toilet. No word yet as to whether or not that was against the bizarre Brazilian flushing rules.
Other animal related points of interest:
-All the birds here (with the exception of the hordes of pigeons) are really pretty!
-In Paraty, the packs of stray dogs that roamed the street begging for scraps and generally just following us around town were actually pretty cute--as was the Portuguese term for them: viralatas, literally "can turner," in reference to their upturning trash cans looking for food.
-In Rio, I have seen more lapdogs than I thought possible; most have pretty stylish haircuts, but I wonder how some of the furrier ones survive the Brazilian summer. Also, I saw a dog wearing shoes. Yes, a dog (i.e. an animal) wearing shoes (i.e. human footwear).
-I am fairly certain there is some form of rodent that lives in the attic over my bedroom. I hear strange scuttling noises, day and night. At first I was kind of freaked out; now, as long as it doesn't gnaw my face off as I sleep, I'm cool.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Aqui, não.
The title of this post is something that Bete says to us a lot in class whenever we talk about differences between Brazil and the States. "Aqui, não. Not here." An example: "In the United States, there's hot water in the entire house because the water's warmed with gas. Aqui, não. There's usually only hot water in the bathroom, and when it's heated, it's all electric." I've had a lot of aqui, não moments since arriving in Brazil. Some are pretty mundane--jarring at first, definitely, but not hugely important in the broader scheme of things: Brazilian "mustard" and "ketchup" taste nothing like any condiment I've ever eaten; electric showers tend to be kind of spastic; toilet paper, despite the name, doesn't go in the toilet, and, as a result, bidets are a dime a dozen; driers are almost non-existent outside of the laundromat; everything is sweeter--everything.
It's these tiny things, though, that are the persistent, daily reminders that I'm out of my element, my comfort zone. The small things whose presence I take for granted are gone. Traveling makes you see that the minutiae that structures our daily lives, the seemingly trivial stuff we assume is a given--a can of Diet Coke will taste like this, a hamburger will look like that--none of it's as stable as we'd like to think. And that's so exciting. So much of what I'm interested in--academically, intellectually, politically--involves upsetting what we assume to be immutable laws of the universe, upending people's preconceptions and, hopefully, making space for new ways of looking at the world. And if a packet of Brazilian ketchup can do that, just imagine the possibilities.
Then there's the big stuff, the aqui, não's that have really made me think about this country and my own. Favelas, primarily black slums perched precariously on the granite mountains that jut up from Rio's sprawl, testify to the insanely unequal distribution of wealth that plagues Brazil. I might be off here, but the favela seems to be treated as a sort of government-sanctioned jurisdiction of poverty and violence. I definitely wasn't expecting to see, for example, bus lines running to "Favela Cidade de Deus." I don't know of anything I can really compare it to in the U.S. Place names in Southern California, let's say, can be just as loaded (Compton, Inglewood, South Central) as the names of Brazilian favelas (Cidade de Deus, Rocinha, Rio das Pedras), but I don't think I'd ever see city maps labelled "South Central Slums," or "Lennox Ghetto." In fact, there's a move to sanitize the cultural connotations of these city names--South Central is now "South Los Angeles," for example.
A couple days ago, we were lucky enough to hear a talk by Brazilian cultural expert Roberto da Matta. It was all about soccer and the incredibly important role that the sport plays in the lives of Brazilians. A big part of his argument was that soccer is the promise of equality, of competition waged on a (literal) level playing field in a country that's so stratified along socio-economic and racial lines. Brazilian culture, he said, "requires a king," someone who's on top, a defined hierarchy of people. While I usually get kind of uncomfortable with sweeping cultural analyses (Brazilian society is like this, American society is like that--despite the fact that both countries are comprised of hundreds of millions of people), I can't help but wonder if the favelas, for all the talk of reform and aid and leadership training for youth there, are a welcomed part of society. If Brazilians really do have some cultural need to see who's farther down on the ladder, they need only to look up to the terraces teetering on the hillsides throughout the city.
American society, undoubtedly just as stratified as its Brazilian counterpart (if not along the same lines) operates quite differently. Americans don't want to see the ladder at all--it's far easier to pretend that we've done away with it entirely. In fact, our cultural compulsion (and national delusion) is to believe that we don't have to re-enact the level playing field in the world of sports because we're actually living it. For Americans, it's easy to look at Rio's glaring poverty, inequality, and social injustice--literally thrust into the public eye by the topography of the earth itself--and think, "Aqui, não. Not here."
It's these tiny things, though, that are the persistent, daily reminders that I'm out of my element, my comfort zone. The small things whose presence I take for granted are gone. Traveling makes you see that the minutiae that structures our daily lives, the seemingly trivial stuff we assume is a given--a can of Diet Coke will taste like this, a hamburger will look like that--none of it's as stable as we'd like to think. And that's so exciting. So much of what I'm interested in--academically, intellectually, politically--involves upsetting what we assume to be immutable laws of the universe, upending people's preconceptions and, hopefully, making space for new ways of looking at the world. And if a packet of Brazilian ketchup can do that, just imagine the possibilities.
Then there's the big stuff, the aqui, não's that have really made me think about this country and my own. Favelas, primarily black slums perched precariously on the granite mountains that jut up from Rio's sprawl, testify to the insanely unequal distribution of wealth that plagues Brazil. I might be off here, but the favela seems to be treated as a sort of government-sanctioned jurisdiction of poverty and violence. I definitely wasn't expecting to see, for example, bus lines running to "Favela Cidade de Deus." I don't know of anything I can really compare it to in the U.S. Place names in Southern California, let's say, can be just as loaded (Compton, Inglewood, South Central) as the names of Brazilian favelas (Cidade de Deus, Rocinha, Rio das Pedras), but I don't think I'd ever see city maps labelled "South Central Slums," or "Lennox Ghetto." In fact, there's a move to sanitize the cultural connotations of these city names--South Central is now "South Los Angeles," for example.
A couple days ago, we were lucky enough to hear a talk by Brazilian cultural expert Roberto da Matta. It was all about soccer and the incredibly important role that the sport plays in the lives of Brazilians. A big part of his argument was that soccer is the promise of equality, of competition waged on a (literal) level playing field in a country that's so stratified along socio-economic and racial lines. Brazilian culture, he said, "requires a king," someone who's on top, a defined hierarchy of people. While I usually get kind of uncomfortable with sweeping cultural analyses (Brazilian society is like this, American society is like that--despite the fact that both countries are comprised of hundreds of millions of people), I can't help but wonder if the favelas, for all the talk of reform and aid and leadership training for youth there, are a welcomed part of society. If Brazilians really do have some cultural need to see who's farther down on the ladder, they need only to look up to the terraces teetering on the hillsides throughout the city.
American society, undoubtedly just as stratified as its Brazilian counterpart (if not along the same lines) operates quite differently. Americans don't want to see the ladder at all--it's far easier to pretend that we've done away with it entirely. In fact, our cultural compulsion (and national delusion) is to believe that we don't have to re-enact the level playing field in the world of sports because we're actually living it. For Americans, it's easy to look at Rio's glaring poverty, inequality, and social injustice--literally thrust into the public eye by the topography of the earth itself--and think, "Aqui, não. Not here."
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