19 September

At the beach, two of We Students began to attempt handstands and the like, and it prompted the arrival of a boy, whose age we guessed to be about 13 or so, came up, comparing/teaching technique and showing off. A beach vendor he (presumably) was acquainted with stopped by to exhibit his standing 360 degree back-flip. The kid spent another 15-30 minutes doing things to impress us. He moved on to the hand-stand-from-kneeling-position (easier than it at first seems,) then moved on to doing his handstands and cartwheels in the ocean, jumping backwards into the ocean, and finally throwing (or having us throw) abandoned aluminum cans full of sand out into the sea, waiting for them to sink, and then swimming out to retrieve them. It felt very much as though the three of us at the beach were his parents and he was constantly looking to us and shouting out “Watch This!” It was a fun, very human, very uncynical experience that didn't end with “and this establishes an agreement between us in which you give me money for being charmingly local!” (This is apparently what happens when you take a picture of a woman standing about in traditional baiana dress) or “I'm going to cut you!” His name was Pedro. Charming.

After Capoeira today (three days in a row is exhausting), a guy who has repeatedly come in near the end of each session to enter the roda with the more advanced players, and who uses a very odd style, said Hare Krishna to me three or four times, each one accompanied by a high-five. He himself did not have the traditional Hare Krishna shaved head (though neither did George Harrison). Is he a Hare Krishna? Does the combination of longer hair and headbands make him think of Hare Krishna? Is he certifiably insane? These are the questions that hover about like impossibly lazy birds.

An unmeasurable deluge of events has occurred. A very small fraction of those events have happened in Salvador, Bahia, and some of those have happened to me. Or at least around me. This Friday there was an organized “samba” lesson for the 52 or so of us at ACBEU. At some point in the middle of that affair I was gripped with the horrifying sensation that I had been captured in the midst of an awfully tacky tourism video for the carefree tropical island resort of Brasil. Artists in general have, in some circles, the reputation of that rarefied mix of insanity/instability/irascibility...but for me, I think people who are so in to dance that they earn by it, teach it and...live it, I suppose...most of those people possess a very uniform form of craziness. That's all subjective, of course.

The “Samba” (I use quotations because it seemed to me that it slowly devolved into the half-aerobics backed by overproduced watered-down pseudo-World music that anyone with that much enthusiasm and a gaggle of people following their every move is destined as by God to gravitate towards in a sick dance of anatomical suburbanism...but I wouldn't know, I'm not the dance expert...here ends this burst of uncalled for prose-throwing) was followed by a question-and-answer session with a famous Acarajé chef named Dinha...Acarajé is a food that, through its association with Candomblé, seems to have some ritual/religious connections...though it is not protected as an esoteric sacrament for an inner-circle of practitioners. It is sold on the street, and it sells quite nicely, from what I hear. After the Q&A (in which we learned what orixá is associated with each day, and what colours one wears on each day, accordingly...if you want to know what those colours are, I can not recall...but if you choose a colour and add “and white” to it, you will be half correct! Except for Friday. That's all white.) we were then served acarajé...while it ultimately comes out to fried bread mixed with plenty of onion (Cebolas! CEBOLAS!) and topped with one's choice of more shrimp, what is referred to in Spanish as salsa fresca, and a variety of sauces, I have to say it provides a much more rounded and deeper satisfaction than many other fried delights. Also available were bolinhos de estudante, (Lil' Student Cakes) little nuggets which gave the impression of being the offspring of turkish delights and potatoes...this ungodly genetic experiment was made more bewildering by its tasty success.

Advantages of being in the Advanced Class:

We cut class on Friday to go a farmer's market with our teacher...an indoor affair, full of exotic fruits, Catholic idols, hanging raw meats, kilos of chocolate, herbs and commercial health products and basket after basket of dried shrimp. After I leave Brasil, I don't think I will particularly want to hear the word “camarão” again. We were supposed to interaction with the vendors, use our Portuguese and learn the names of foods we didn't know...I did a few “o que é isso?”s and tried an unknown fruit or two, but the things I learned seemed to slip with from my mind with an uncommon dexterity. There were also pet stores and a veterinarian's. The way birds move makes them look as though every single moment is a blazing unsurpassed experience of absolute originality...that their eyes are incapable of expressing. I wonder if it is any fun.

Soon after walking in, I was asked if I was Italian. Later the next night, a begging type seemed to be saying “arrividerci”...as if to get the attention of an Italian? I hope it does not continue.

Salvador...ean...buses are no worse than buses in large American cities. Perhaps even better than some. Too bad about the rail system. (We have been told in the culture class that, surprise surprise, the rail system was deliberately destroyed by the big auto companies when they were invited in during the late 50s modernisation of Brazil under Kubitschek (sp?))

Another day of capoeira...I have the basic move down, but the combination with other movements often sends me into a spiral of confusion. Still, I paid for a month, and I fully plan on diving back in. The first foot blister, but no bleeding. My feet, sent by UPS from the forges of Mount Olympus, shall battle on.

Arena Futebol and the Beach. Had a cold Açai smoothie topped with yoghurt and granola. I Fought The Sea And The Sea Won. One of our number struck up conversation with a child buried in the sand. She helped him make his sand encasement into a football jersey. She asked if he wanted Ronaldinho, and he said no, Zidane. That was, to use a phrase we tried explaining to someone's Brazilian brother, bomb diggity. (It was easier to explain than what fuck meant combined with various words.) He was rather firm about what he didn't want, using a singularly sassy finger wave. He was learning English, and she exchanged email addresses with him. Just when I was starting to play some paddle ball, he asked if he could take over and proceeded to play for at least half an hour. Hard to say no to a confident eleven year old. It was his birthday!

Many people applauded when the sunset completed the drop over the horizon. This happens every evening, it seems. Culture is strange, no?

7 September

There is something striking about people doing normal hey-we're-at-the-beach activities right next to early-16th century architecture. There must be a number of other locations where this happens...but there is something about the juxtaposition, nonetheless. Something. Eloquent, no?
Also, "Residencial Andy Warhol."
Oh! And it rained a fair amount over the past three days or so. Your typical torrential tropical downpour, stoppage, downpour, stoppage pattern. Only unpleasant if you have to wait for a bus.

Seen on a wall: "Revolucao Socialismo Mes-FBBR"

4 September

Went to Pelourinho, a mix of historic center and nightlife spot. The center, with a music stage and a lot of people selling food and dollar-fifty drinks is at the stop, and the rest pours down narrow cobblestone streets packed with colonial (or colonial-style) architecture with restuarants...bars...god knows what else...it did seem to be a bit of a tourist magnet, albeit a young tourist magnet. (read: obviously coked-out blond Europeans) At one point a drumming procession came up the street, playing what I think was samba...or perhaps a genre or related genre...carnaval music, one would think. That was stereotypically Brazilian enough to make a narrow road of pastel centuries-old century buildings snaking off into the dark even more surreal. I also encountered two guys whose very essences cried out for their own buddy-comedy movie. He's the smooth banker with a french name who speaks English! He's the goofy drunk with dreadlocks! They have only one week to go to the international potato-sack racing finals on the other side of the country to get the money to save the local playground from the evil developers! BATHROOM, FOOL!

5 September

Hey! Turns out the crazy-uncle character actually is the crazy uncle. (I had thought his name was Cheo or Chio, but he was being called tio.) My older sister brought over a girl (young woman) who I think I gathered was from Pollonia, though I never gathered why she was there or what relationship she had to anyone present. In any case, her arrival resulted in crazy-uncle doing a magic trick which involved disappearing a plastic bag and pulling it out of his mouth. It was impressive enough that I, at least, could not detect his method...and even if wasn't technically perfect magic, it still shows the dedication required to have a plastic bag in one's mouth. Respect.

3 September

The tour gave me the beginnings of a sense of the general shape of the city. The middle class area of edifícios is on a tip protruding out into the bay, which, if I'm remembering what I learned about Beirut at all correctly, is somewhat similar to that city. The coast is home to forts and landmarks from the Portuguese landings, favelas, public schools and malls in construction. The middle of the city, a bit inland has, from what I can tell, the historic center of the city, and the very rich hide farther up the hills. The strangest part of the city by far is still thickly forested, and home to the government buildings. That description comes later.

2 September

So there was this guy...I don't know what relation he is to anyone, but he played the crazy uncle part, coming in with the handshake-to-hair-smoothing fake-out, goofy faces and solidarity fists. Then he starts shouting about...something...it almost seems like he's shouting at my sister's husband, but when the crazy-uncle-or-whatever goes down the hall, the husband keeps giving him a thumbs-up...and then my sister shows me a picture of her brother who was born in 1964 and died in 1983, in a car accident. It was all great, because I had no idea what was going on.

2 September

A multitude of bus lines. That, I think, was the first thing I consciously noticed, and I have seen at least one new company each day I have been here, while Verdemar remains my favorite. In that same stretch of days I have seen far more Fiats than I could have possibly hoped for...and we all know how many that is already. The Taxicoometas ride from the airport lead past a number of freeway bicyclists, sans helmets, and many more genuine slums, though nothing bad enough that it would fit in on the outskirts of Lagos. If Utopia had an airport, I'm sure even the neighborhood around that would be unpleasant. It might not even have so many nice overpasses.
Hotel Tropical da Bahia was lavish to the edge of guilt inducement. My roommate for the one night was also from UCSB, though he had not shown up at any of the orientations on campus. Our room became a nexus for almost everyone in the program, and I was much assured by how many of them had studied no Portuguese whatsoever.
My Brazilian mother, Hilda Pimental da Fonseca, lives on Avenida de Sete Setembro in Vitoria, about a minute or half-a-minute walk from ACBEU, and across from the sea. In fact, there is a shimmering rectangle of A Baia de Todos Os Santos directly out my window, framed by the two opposite edificios. (One of them O Edifício Koch - some Brazilian admired a certain mayor of New York?) These residential towers are the dominant form of architecture on this street, although there is also the Museu de Arte and the Museu de Geologia. (So yes, it's true, Brazil is just one big party.) Fortunately, in this land of apartment towers, my family lives on the first floor. One flight of stairs and a good perch for amateur anthropology and shouting "Oi! Americano! Onde vai?" to any colleagues who may pass. Minha mae brasileira is cheery, takes the fact that my year of Portuguese often does not assist me in having any idea what she is talking about in good humour, and repeatedly tells me that all the food she is giving me, augmented by her home-made fruit juices, will make me strong. An early topic of conversation was, of course, how much shorter my hair is, followed by how long it still is. Andres, her son-to-become dentist, has noted that Brazilians rarely have long hair or orange shoes. My skin tone, it seems, gives me the look of someone from Sao Paulo, in fact, a specific Paulisto who is a friend of his. My Guatemalan messenger bag, however, tips me over into 'tourist.' Oh well. Another sibling dropped by around dinner, although she lives elsewhere with a husband and son. Monday is a day of the Portuguese placement exam (another friend of Andres' who came by for dinner complimented me on knowing the names of some forró artists and said I spoke fairly good Portuguese - but he may have been being polite.) and a city tour ending at what is purported to be one of the top churrascos in Brazil. This means that is also has excellent sushi. Small world, etc. Also, the beach really IS that crowded, at least on a Sunday, and there is a company that sells both Cartoon-Network affiliated children's sodas and beer under the same brand name (Mini Schin and Nova Schina.) They both have the smooth taste of refreshing honesty.

So, in summary: Brazilians give the thumbs-up with an amazing frequency, and trying to think in a foreign language weirds up one's writing style.

The surprise?
It doesn't feel oppressively hot this close to the equator.