Today marks one month in our new home. A routine has established and I’m feeling much better about having the help around here. However, there are some things that are disturbing about having someone underfoot. Before I delve into the oddities of having someone around all day, let me rant for a minute.
First off, Lana’s name really isn’t Lana, its Nana. She never corrected me. About two weeks into her employment, she told Matthew it was Nana. It took me a few days to get it straight and Grace still calls her Lana. Secondly, for all of you who are wondering if Nana is pregnant, she is not. It did come out that she is on fertility pills, which is disturbing to me, since she is only sixteen. Does the government pay for fertility treatments? How many treatments are you allowed?, who qualifies? If she doesn’t, How can she afford this? Interesting thread here, considering people in the US pay beaucoup bucks for said treatments. Questions I would love to ask, again I feel mute…
This revelation does disturb me, but not as much as the day she communicated that she has been married for three years. I stared at her in amazement, as I slowly understood what she was saying. I reiterated what she said as best I could by making hand gestures and using broken Portuguese to make sure I understood that in fact she got married at thirteen. “Da, da, certo” (yes, yes, right) she said. I was, I AM, appalled! I felt like a great injustice was done to this girl. She quit school at thirteen and got married. I’ve been trying to understand this but having two girls, I don’t think I can swallow this bitter pill. I know I’m being ethnocentric here and yes this does happen in the States, but usually the girl is pregnant…but even then, thirteen is pretty much on the young end of the spectrum. To my credit I did talk to Francimar about this, to get a local perspective and she agrees that, as she says, “its disgusting” to allow a 13- year-old to get married, not to mention against the law. I prodded her a bit more and she went on to say that sometimes parents will go with the couple to the court and state that they are okay with the arrangement, then a type of adoption occurs, where the husband to be adopts the girl.
Brazilian law states that girls can marry at sixteen with parental consent, and Cosmo believes that if she did get married at thirteen, it was not a legal ceremony, or it was an adoption type arrangement. I also found out that children are not allow to work until they are 18, they must apprentice for two years before starting to work. I think Nana would have benefited from apprenticing, but since she is married she is exempt from this policy.
Okay, moving on to having someone in your stuff all day. After a month of having someone here, this is what’s bothering me. First of all, she shoves all of our personal stuff into all kinds of places, off of the counter surfaces and out of sight. She was probably told to keep all surface areas cleared of nick-nacks. So when we go to find, oh, lets say, a set of keys that were on the bureau, we have to hunt in all the drawers. Second, when I’m home, for example, the other day I was showing Gracie pictures on the camera, and I looked up and she was standing at the door staring at us. Then twice, I went to find my flip-flops and she was wearing them!! And to top it all off, I noticed she has been dipping into my facial cream--the movie Single White Female came to mind (those of you too young to get this reference here’s the link). So what, you might ask. Yea, so what, maybe I‘m being paranoid. So, she may be a little weird, a little young and I don’t want to say dense, but sometimes, yes, dense. Like washing my purple velour hand-towel with my white cotton bath towel (which is a lovely shade of lavender now)or putting fabric softner into the steam function on the iron because the bottle said "helps with ironing". But hey, she keeps my floors clean, has the coffee made by 7 every morning, and has lunch on the table everyday at 12:30. I’ve got nothing to complain about…except for the flip-flop thang, that’s kinda weird.
10.30.2006
10.26.2006
Bolivia
Our trip to Bolivia was somewhat of a let down. When Cosmo picked us up bright and early for our trip to Bolivia, I had so many cool expectations. I had imagined brightly colored textiles, women with long black braids and broad faces, with babies wrapped on their backs, weaving beautiful rugs…this wasn’t exactly what we encountered.
We piled into the red VW Golf and flew to a Shell gas station to fuel up (you think gas is expensive in the states? Try six bucks a gallon!). The trip would take about three hours. The road had the familiar bumps I’ve come to associate with Brazilian roads, but instead of winding, it stretched out straight in front of us, like a long zipper. We were flanked with wide open farm land, accented with white cows. I noticed there were tall trees with plumage at the very top. A tree that looked as if it was once part of the forest canopy, but looked naked, vulnerable, standing by themselves dotting the horizon.
Cosmo noticed me looking at the trees and told us that Brazil passed a law, making it illegal to cut down the castanha tree (the Brazil nut tree). So what we saw, was the deforestation of the jungle, all except the fortunate castanha tree…or the not so fortunate, if you ask me.
I couldn’t wait to get to Bolivia and buy fresh tortillas. Once we got to the border town of Cobija, we stopped at a restaurant for a bite to eat. Cosmo had never heard of tortillas and Matthew asked the waiter if they had them in Bolivia. He said yes, and that got us even more excited. Its funny but before we left the states, I would have never expected to miss tortillas!! I guess, for us, it is a household staple. Grace insists on having quesadillas so I have to make her a grill cheese sandwich, cut off the crusts and tell her its made with Brazilian tortillas! The food at the restaurant was Brazilian food, which was a disappointment I guess it’s the same in all border towns, the borders become blurred after while (a good example of this would be San Ysidro).
After lunch, Cosmo took us to the center of town, where all the action was. My heart sank as we drove down the street and I looked out the window. What I saw was basically Tijuana for Brazilians. For those of you not familiar with Southern California, Tijuana is where Californians go to find a plethora of “brand name“ items at a fraction of the price. I parentheses brand name, because its assumed that these items are forgeries. We walked down one side of the street filled with one shop after another selling the same things, designer perfumes, kitchen wares, toys and electronics, oh and least not, fake Christmas trees adorned with snow spray… what a bummer. Although, I did see one older woman with long braids down her back, that were tied together and dreaded out at the bottom. I imagined she had never cut her hair, this was a far cry from what I had imagined. I guess nothing is ever how we imagine it to be, right?
Anyhow, we did our best to buy up crap we didn’t need and settled for the small indigenous experience of drinking fresh squeezed orange juice from a woman peeling and squeezing on the corner. She had a hand crank peeler, which cut the peel into one long curling strip as she churned the hand crank. It made for a lovely orange colored fringe around her cart. I imagine that she dries the peels and uses them for tea.
We ended our trip by purchasing about 15 pirated DVDs, and we’re excited at the prospect of watching Pirates of the Caribbean II. However, once home, only five of the fifteen DVDs worked (serves us right for buying pirated copies!)…that pretty much sums up our trip to Bolivia.
We piled into the red VW Golf and flew to a Shell gas station to fuel up (you think gas is expensive in the states? Try six bucks a gallon!). The trip would take about three hours. The road had the familiar bumps I’ve come to associate with Brazilian roads, but instead of winding, it stretched out straight in front of us, like a long zipper. We were flanked with wide open farm land, accented with white cows. I noticed there were tall trees with plumage at the very top. A tree that looked as if it was once part of the forest canopy, but looked naked, vulnerable, standing by themselves dotting the horizon.
Cosmo noticed me looking at the trees and told us that Brazil passed a law, making it illegal to cut down the castanha tree (the Brazil nut tree). So what we saw, was the deforestation of the jungle, all except the fortunate castanha tree…or the not so fortunate, if you ask me.
I couldn’t wait to get to Bolivia and buy fresh tortillas. Once we got to the border town of Cobija, we stopped at a restaurant for a bite to eat. Cosmo had never heard of tortillas and Matthew asked the waiter if they had them in Bolivia. He said yes, and that got us even more excited. Its funny but before we left the states, I would have never expected to miss tortillas!! I guess, for us, it is a household staple. Grace insists on having quesadillas so I have to make her a grill cheese sandwich, cut off the crusts and tell her its made with Brazilian tortillas! The food at the restaurant was Brazilian food, which was a disappointment I guess it’s the same in all border towns, the borders become blurred after while (a good example of this would be San Ysidro).
After lunch, Cosmo took us to the center of town, where all the action was. My heart sank as we drove down the street and I looked out the window. What I saw was basically Tijuana for Brazilians. For those of you not familiar with Southern California, Tijuana is where Californians go to find a plethora of “brand name“ items at a fraction of the price. I parentheses brand name, because its assumed that these items are forgeries. We walked down one side of the street filled with one shop after another selling the same things, designer perfumes, kitchen wares, toys and electronics, oh and least not, fake Christmas trees adorned with snow spray… what a bummer. Although, I did see one older woman with long braids down her back, that were tied together and dreaded out at the bottom. I imagined she had never cut her hair, this was a far cry from what I had imagined. I guess nothing is ever how we imagine it to be, right?
Anyhow, we did our best to buy up crap we didn’t need and settled for the small indigenous experience of drinking fresh squeezed orange juice from a woman peeling and squeezing on the corner. She had a hand crank peeler, which cut the peel into one long curling strip as she churned the hand crank. It made for a lovely orange colored fringe around her cart. I imagine that she dries the peels and uses them for tea.
We ended our trip by purchasing about 15 pirated DVDs, and we’re excited at the prospect of watching Pirates of the Caribbean II. However, once home, only five of the fifteen DVDs worked (serves us right for buying pirated copies!)…that pretty much sums up our trip to Bolivia.
10.16.2006
A Trip to the Healer
It was Thursday night when Francimar noticed how agitated Maddie was. Maddie had had a fever for the entire day, nothing to worry about, just fighting off something (you can tell this is our second child). She said that we needed to take her to the rezador (healer) for a healing because the evil-eye had taken all her energy. When Matt translated this, I thought okay, this is the second time that someone has mentioned my child having the evil-eye. And this time, from Francimar, a biochemist who teaches at the local university. So, when she offered to take us to her friend, a healer, I agreed.
Francimar and her 15-year-old daughter, Rinata, picked us up at 5:30 PM. We were to be at the rezador around 6 PM. We dumped along winding roads filled with potholes listening (quite loudly) to Rinata‘s favorite American band, Oasis. She kept yelling back at me asking for a translation of the lyrics. Lucky for me, I knew the song and could tell her what he was saying. At this point, I realized that riding in the back of cars is very juvenile in nature. Since I’ve arrived in Brazil, I’ve had to ride in the backseat holding the girls (car seats are not mandatory here and will not fit in most of the small cars). You cannot roll down window, cannot open the door, and you certainly cannot adjust the air conditioner vents, which is desperately needed in this hot and humid environment. You have to rely on the “front seat people”, the privileged two, who get the vents right in their face. How annoying! I really felt annoyed when Rinata asked me if I knew how to drive! Man, I felt like telling her that I was driving before she was born, but then I didn’t know how to say that in Portuguese nor did I want to own up to being that old…
We arrived at a clinic of some sort. We got out of the tiny Fiat and rang the bell to the gate. An older woman, with a leopard pint shirt, that was far too small, accentuating her waist rolls, came slowly down the two flights of steep stairs. Grace was the first to yell out to her, Oi! Then Francimar and the woman exchanged greetings and once the gates opened they hugged and kissed Brazilian style, a kiss on both cheeks. I did the same and we were lead up to the home above the clinic. The stairs were narrow and steep and the smelled like cold concrete. It was hard to carry the baby, manage Grace as she climbed up and hold up my long skirt so I didn‘t trip going up. I made a mental note not to wear a long skirt when going to unknown places, especially in Brazil where often houses have stairs that locate them off the streets.
The stairs led us to a door that opened into a large living room, that had two bedrooms connected and a large dining area that gave way to a kitchen. Grace ran off with another little girl that was there. Its funny how there are no barriers when it comes to the language of play.
As soon as I finished greeting the other woman in the house, about five other women suddenly appeared from the bedrooms, all chattering around Maddie, touching her hair and making favorable comments, I guess. I just smiled and said “Obrigada” --thank you. We sat down on the chocolate L shaped couch and waited. I wasn’t sure what we were waiting for and my prejudice had me believing leopard shirt, was the rezadora. I’m not sure why I thought the healer would be a women.
The only man in the house soon appeared. He was considerably shorter than me, I would say about 5’3”, with jet black hair and smile wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His hands looked old and veiny, worn from many years of life. He saturated some pieces of cotton in a brown tea looking liquid. I asked Rinata what this liquid was and she told me it was Vegetal, the sacred form of Ayahuasca used by the church, the UDV I stood up, holding Maddie face out and greeted him with the formal Brazilian greeting, “Bom dia, todo bom?” and a kiss on either cheek.
He held the wet cotton pieces in the palm of his right hand, and with his left caressed Maddie’s face and head. He then asked me to take a seat on the couch and he proceeded to place the palm holding the vegetal soaked cotton on top of Maddie’s soft spot. He held it there for a few seconds while mumbling prayers, then he slowly slid his hand, that was in the shape of a cup, off the side of Maddie’s head meeting his other hand that was also shaped in a cup, as if swiping a substance into the palm of his other hand and holding it by cupping both hands together and then carrying it to the open window and throwing it outside. I imagined this was the evil energy that befell my Maddie. He did this a number of times, all the while in a deep meditative trance, his lips moving in prayer.
The healing took approximately ten minutes and I was instructed via Francimar to not give Maddie a bath until the morning. The vegetal smelled like teriyaki glaze to me, and left Maddie’s hair stiff. We were supposed to watch over her and if she still appeared agitated, we were to give her, by mouth, three drops of vegetal with four drops of water. I took this information and thought, “she will be fine, there will be no need for this extra internal cleansing” (I‘m not that open-minded when it comes to giving my baby a hallucinogen). Maddie was calm the rest of the night, however, the tea left a rash on her forehead. Not a bad one but still red and blotchy.
She’s been in good spirits, but when we went downtown the other night a woman, sitting on a bench, kept staring at Maddie and asked her name, I hesitated in answering, thinking that maybe she might give her the evil-eye…“Naaaa, I don’t believe in that stuff.” I thought, and yelled out, “Madeline”. She looked at me puzzled, and said “que?” Many people don’t understand “Madeline” because its not a Brazilian name and we have to repeat it a few times before they can get it. But this time I didn‘t repeat it, we just kept walking.
Francimar and her 15-year-old daughter, Rinata, picked us up at 5:30 PM. We were to be at the rezador around 6 PM. We dumped along winding roads filled with potholes listening (quite loudly) to Rinata‘s favorite American band, Oasis. She kept yelling back at me asking for a translation of the lyrics. Lucky for me, I knew the song and could tell her what he was saying. At this point, I realized that riding in the back of cars is very juvenile in nature. Since I’ve arrived in Brazil, I’ve had to ride in the backseat holding the girls (car seats are not mandatory here and will not fit in most of the small cars). You cannot roll down window, cannot open the door, and you certainly cannot adjust the air conditioner vents, which is desperately needed in this hot and humid environment. You have to rely on the “front seat people”, the privileged two, who get the vents right in their face. How annoying! I really felt annoyed when Rinata asked me if I knew how to drive! Man, I felt like telling her that I was driving before she was born, but then I didn’t know how to say that in Portuguese nor did I want to own up to being that old…
We arrived at a clinic of some sort. We got out of the tiny Fiat and rang the bell to the gate. An older woman, with a leopard pint shirt, that was far too small, accentuating her waist rolls, came slowly down the two flights of steep stairs. Grace was the first to yell out to her, Oi! Then Francimar and the woman exchanged greetings and once the gates opened they hugged and kissed Brazilian style, a kiss on both cheeks. I did the same and we were lead up to the home above the clinic. The stairs were narrow and steep and the smelled like cold concrete. It was hard to carry the baby, manage Grace as she climbed up and hold up my long skirt so I didn‘t trip going up. I made a mental note not to wear a long skirt when going to unknown places, especially in Brazil where often houses have stairs that locate them off the streets.
The stairs led us to a door that opened into a large living room, that had two bedrooms connected and a large dining area that gave way to a kitchen. Grace ran off with another little girl that was there. Its funny how there are no barriers when it comes to the language of play.
As soon as I finished greeting the other woman in the house, about five other women suddenly appeared from the bedrooms, all chattering around Maddie, touching her hair and making favorable comments, I guess. I just smiled and said “Obrigada” --thank you. We sat down on the chocolate L shaped couch and waited. I wasn’t sure what we were waiting for and my prejudice had me believing leopard shirt, was the rezadora. I’m not sure why I thought the healer would be a women.
The only man in the house soon appeared. He was considerably shorter than me, I would say about 5’3”, with jet black hair and smile wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His hands looked old and veiny, worn from many years of life. He saturated some pieces of cotton in a brown tea looking liquid. I asked Rinata what this liquid was and she told me it was Vegetal, the sacred form of Ayahuasca used by the church, the UDV I stood up, holding Maddie face out and greeted him with the formal Brazilian greeting, “Bom dia, todo bom?” and a kiss on either cheek.
He held the wet cotton pieces in the palm of his right hand, and with his left caressed Maddie’s face and head. He then asked me to take a seat on the couch and he proceeded to place the palm holding the vegetal soaked cotton on top of Maddie’s soft spot. He held it there for a few seconds while mumbling prayers, then he slowly slid his hand, that was in the shape of a cup, off the side of Maddie’s head meeting his other hand that was also shaped in a cup, as if swiping a substance into the palm of his other hand and holding it by cupping both hands together and then carrying it to the open window and throwing it outside. I imagined this was the evil energy that befell my Maddie. He did this a number of times, all the while in a deep meditative trance, his lips moving in prayer.
The healing took approximately ten minutes and I was instructed via Francimar to not give Maddie a bath until the morning. The vegetal smelled like teriyaki glaze to me, and left Maddie’s hair stiff. We were supposed to watch over her and if she still appeared agitated, we were to give her, by mouth, three drops of vegetal with four drops of water. I took this information and thought, “she will be fine, there will be no need for this extra internal cleansing” (I‘m not that open-minded when it comes to giving my baby a hallucinogen). Maddie was calm the rest of the night, however, the tea left a rash on her forehead. Not a bad one but still red and blotchy.
She’s been in good spirits, but when we went downtown the other night a woman, sitting on a bench, kept staring at Maddie and asked her name, I hesitated in answering, thinking that maybe she might give her the evil-eye…“Naaaa, I don’t believe in that stuff.” I thought, and yelled out, “Madeline”. She looked at me puzzled, and said “que?” Many people don’t understand “Madeline” because its not a Brazilian name and we have to repeat it a few times before they can get it. But this time I didn‘t repeat it, we just kept walking.
10.10.2006
Bowel Habits
I may have reconsidered going into the field with a 2&½-year-old freshly potty trained toddler, if I knew how hard it was going to be. The stress of the move has caused a back slide in her training, well the move and the fact that we also have a new baby in the family. The combination was just too much and I think Grace’s only power in this temporarily unstable situation is the power to pee and poo where ever and when ever she can, but definitely not in the potty. The first few weeks were rough and we contemplated putting her back in diapers. We asked her if she wanted to go back to diapers and she said, “no, how about pull-ups?“ This cracked up us, and we searched all over Rio Branco for pull-ups, the transitional diaper to panties. Apparently there is not a need in Brazil for such items. So we’ve toughed it out and I’ve washed my share of panties for the past month. After a month, she is now going pee on the toilet but definitely not poo. With the latter, she has decided that she must either go outside on the lawn or in the shower. But not the potty, despite our offers of jelly beans, cookies, lolly pops, ice cream, basically every sweet treat under the sun!
On the diaper front, it appears that Brazil is about 20 years behind the US in quality of diaper and diaper care. The diaper wipes that they sell here are basically scented wet pieces of wax paper. It just smears the poo around the butt. The diapers leak and the tabs stick to Maddie’s skin if not super careful to fold them in while changing. So, for Christmas, Maddie has put on her wish list, Pampers Lavender scented baby wipes. We can deal with the diapers because they are too bulky for Santa (Matt’s mom) to fly them down to us.
Along with poor diapers comes diaper rash! I’ve had to battle this with Maddie, Grace only had rash once in her diaper career. But the heat in combination with bad absorption, equals painful rashes. Need-less-to-say, Maddie goes naked-butt quite often around here. She’s our streaker, well, Grace is as well. Ever since she’s learned to take off her clothes, I can’t seem to keep them on her. I guess there are worse things. I’m choosing my battles and I choose the “Battle of the Poo”.
On the diaper front, it appears that Brazil is about 20 years behind the US in quality of diaper and diaper care. The diaper wipes that they sell here are basically scented wet pieces of wax paper. It just smears the poo around the butt. The diapers leak and the tabs stick to Maddie’s skin if not super careful to fold them in while changing. So, for Christmas, Maddie has put on her wish list, Pampers Lavender scented baby wipes. We can deal with the diapers because they are too bulky for Santa (Matt’s mom) to fly them down to us.
Along with poor diapers comes diaper rash! I’ve had to battle this with Maddie, Grace only had rash once in her diaper career. But the heat in combination with bad absorption, equals painful rashes. Need-less-to-say, Maddie goes naked-butt quite often around here. She’s our streaker, well, Grace is as well. Ever since she’s learned to take off her clothes, I can’t seem to keep them on her. I guess there are worse things. I’m choosing my battles and I choose the “Battle of the Poo”.
The adventures of Tom Sawyer
Last night a huge storm blew through. Thunder and lighting rocked the atmosphere and we ran outside and jumped into our hammocks. It was quite the spectacle. The water poured off the roof and into the rain gutter and at times spilled over the sides. The air was heavy with water and everything on the front porch, including us, were wet.
Lately, Gracie’s imagination has been super active. She decided that we were on a river in our canoes. So we all took on different names, Matt was Mark Twain, Grace-Tom Sawyer, Maddie-Huck Finn, and me- well, I was Jim. Which seems apt, since being a woman in Brazil, at times, places me in the same category as Jim in the 19th-century South. This topic I will expand upon in a later blog.
This morning we awoke and Grace still wanted to refer to us all as our river names and so, we got our cups of joe and headed out to front porch river. We saddled up in our canoes and headed down looking for a good fishing spot. Grace bailed out of the canoe and went for a little swim and caught a huge fish for lunch.
the pics below are Mark Twain and Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn and Jim, Tom Sawyer swimming for fish, and Tom guiding us through some rough waters.
Lately, Gracie’s imagination has been super active. She decided that we were on a river in our canoes. So we all took on different names, Matt was Mark Twain, Grace-Tom Sawyer, Maddie-Huck Finn, and me- well, I was Jim. Which seems apt, since being a woman in Brazil, at times, places me in the same category as Jim in the 19th-century South. This topic I will expand upon in a later blog.
This morning we awoke and Grace still wanted to refer to us all as our river names and so, we got our cups of joe and headed out to front porch river. We saddled up in our canoes and headed down looking for a good fishing spot. Grace bailed out of the canoe and went for a little swim and caught a huge fish for lunch.
the pics below are Mark Twain and Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn and Jim, Tom Sawyer swimming for fish, and Tom guiding us through some rough waters.
My Second Church Service
Upon arriving to the church, everything was more familiar and less strange. Although, the whole fire cracker thing is a bit disconcerting. Every so often, I’m sure demarcated by a certain hymn, fire works explode right next to the church, which causes Grace to run frantically, face first into my crotch, screaming in fright. What does shooting off fireworks signify? They are the kind that have no color, they just pop loudly, and no one is there is watch, they are all singing in the church. I’m leaping at an interpretation here, but I think they set off the fireworks as a way of connecting the earthly plane to the astral or heavens. I will have to ask one of the ladies at the church. Given my limited vocabulary, this may take some time.
Many things made this church service different for me, first, there were only about 100 people at this hinario (a book of hymns that are sung during the service). Second, given that there were less people, it was easy to move around from the back area to the front where the hinario was being sung. This freed up a lot of room for Gracie to run around. Third, I felt more comfortable because the women had seen them at the anniversary hinario and gave me friendly smiles. The kids also, made it nice when they ran up to Grace and patted her on her back. They would speak to her and she would look at them and then, surprised me by saying, “no folo Portugese”. She will be speaking before me, I’m sure.
From what I understand there are several different books of hymns. These hymns were received by a person while in miracao, or in the vision of huasca. The hymns are about different topics and Matt told me that the book sung at this hinario have to do with being a truthful person and dealing with others who lie in our lives. A hinario, or the singing of a book of hymns, takes roughly 6 or 7 hours depending on the number of hymns.
During this service, I really took note to see if I could tell if people were under the influence. Many, well most, had a glassy look to their eyes and their pupils were large. One kid, bent down to tie his shoe and he stumbled to the side, cracking up. But, other than the normal physiological displays of the sacrament, everyone seemed pretty normal and very happy. I use the word sacrament here because it feels wrong to me to use the word “drug”. It feels inappropriate after spending time with the members. They view the tea as a tool to help them be in touch with God. A tool to help them reach the astral plane. So its seems derogatory to refer to their sacrament as a drug.
I watched as the women blessed themselves with the sign of the cross before drinking down Ayahuasca and then moving back to the main center to fall in line and start singing the hymns. Many of the women dance like swaying trees, gliding back and forth, while the men stomp vigorously, making large noises with their homemade maracas. The maracas chime in beat with the guitars and the voices singing. All of the maracas are homemade and vary size and materials. There were little tomato cans with wooden handles used by the kids, or slightly larger cans for the women. Some men used pint paint cans and large ball bearings that made a colossal sound.
I made a friend who speaks pretty good English. She has agreed to help me gather birth stories in exchange for English lessons. I’m thrilled. Apparently it is very common for women to use their sacrament to help ease the stress of childbirth…
Many things made this church service different for me, first, there were only about 100 people at this hinario (a book of hymns that are sung during the service). Second, given that there were less people, it was easy to move around from the back area to the front where the hinario was being sung. This freed up a lot of room for Gracie to run around. Third, I felt more comfortable because the women had seen them at the anniversary hinario and gave me friendly smiles. The kids also, made it nice when they ran up to Grace and patted her on her back. They would speak to her and she would look at them and then, surprised me by saying, “no folo Portugese”. She will be speaking before me, I’m sure.
From what I understand there are several different books of hymns. These hymns were received by a person while in miracao, or in the vision of huasca. The hymns are about different topics and Matt told me that the book sung at this hinario have to do with being a truthful person and dealing with others who lie in our lives. A hinario, or the singing of a book of hymns, takes roughly 6 or 7 hours depending on the number of hymns.
During this service, I really took note to see if I could tell if people were under the influence. Many, well most, had a glassy look to their eyes and their pupils were large. One kid, bent down to tie his shoe and he stumbled to the side, cracking up. But, other than the normal physiological displays of the sacrament, everyone seemed pretty normal and very happy. I use the word sacrament here because it feels wrong to me to use the word “drug”. It feels inappropriate after spending time with the members. They view the tea as a tool to help them be in touch with God. A tool to help them reach the astral plane. So its seems derogatory to refer to their sacrament as a drug.
I watched as the women blessed themselves with the sign of the cross before drinking down Ayahuasca and then moving back to the main center to fall in line and start singing the hymns. Many of the women dance like swaying trees, gliding back and forth, while the men stomp vigorously, making large noises with their homemade maracas. The maracas chime in beat with the guitars and the voices singing. All of the maracas are homemade and vary size and materials. There were little tomato cans with wooden handles used by the kids, or slightly larger cans for the women. Some men used pint paint cans and large ball bearings that made a colossal sound.
I made a friend who speaks pretty good English. She has agreed to help me gather birth stories in exchange for English lessons. I’m thrilled. Apparently it is very common for women to use their sacrament to help ease the stress of childbirth…
Morning
Early in the morning I get up and go for a walk before the sun heats up the roads and the wind kicks up the dust. Its nice being up so early, the streets are desolate except for some dogs running around looking for something to eat. At first, I got a jolt, thinking they would come after me, but then soon, I realized they are not interested in humans, unless they have food in their hands. Early in the mornings, I can see people waking up, servant people washing down front porches and drive ways, and kids getting ready for school. The roosters greet me, and I find peace in the smells of the morning.
Our neighborhood appears to be mid-to-low class in its make up. Some houses are super elaborate with electronic fencing, tile driveways bordered with large palms, while other homes appear to be slightly above waddle and dab. There is no rhyme or reason to the housing or the roads. Our road is paved, albeit very dusty from the dirt roads that transect it. The city was not planed on any type of a grid system, so roads look like they sprung up, like they were cut into the landscape by rushing water that fingers out across the land. Their topography is more likely a result of foot trails in the jungle made by the rubber tapers during the rubber boom at the turn of the 20th Century.
The road that we are on leads up to one of the two main highways going into the center of town and is blessed by a large Catholic church on the corner surrounded by Mango trees where we often retrieve delicious fruits. This is a very good location for us. There are two butchers, a bakery, a mercantile, and numerous fruit stands within walking distance and the church where Matthew studies is a 10-minute bike ride away. The main highway is where I‘ve started taking my morning walks, out of a sense of security because I know I wont get lost if I stay on this main road. Along this road is the butcher that I go to, an older gentleman, short and stout, like yoda, with glasses, who finds it very curious to have a white woman come in and speak a Spanish/Italian bastardization of Portuguese. The first few times, he didn’t say much to me, just the total of my purchase. But on this last morning walk, I waved to him and he waved back! Yeah, I’ve made a friend.
I’ve been walking for about a week now and the stares have become somewhat less. When I first went on my walks, in my new uber-white New Balance shoes, MP3 player and Baby Bjorn, I felt totally bourgeois-y, like Angelina Jolie in Setswana with slightly smaller lips a bigger hips. But now, I think the people have gotten used to seeing me steadily walking along the pothole stricken sidewalks and actually nod a good morning to me. I think I’m gonna like it here…
Our neighborhood appears to be mid-to-low class in its make up. Some houses are super elaborate with electronic fencing, tile driveways bordered with large palms, while other homes appear to be slightly above waddle and dab. There is no rhyme or reason to the housing or the roads. Our road is paved, albeit very dusty from the dirt roads that transect it. The city was not planed on any type of a grid system, so roads look like they sprung up, like they were cut into the landscape by rushing water that fingers out across the land. Their topography is more likely a result of foot trails in the jungle made by the rubber tapers during the rubber boom at the turn of the 20th Century.
The road that we are on leads up to one of the two main highways going into the center of town and is blessed by a large Catholic church on the corner surrounded by Mango trees where we often retrieve delicious fruits. This is a very good location for us. There are two butchers, a bakery, a mercantile, and numerous fruit stands within walking distance and the church where Matthew studies is a 10-minute bike ride away. The main highway is where I‘ve started taking my morning walks, out of a sense of security because I know I wont get lost if I stay on this main road. Along this road is the butcher that I go to, an older gentleman, short and stout, like yoda, with glasses, who finds it very curious to have a white woman come in and speak a Spanish/Italian bastardization of Portuguese. The first few times, he didn’t say much to me, just the total of my purchase. But on this last morning walk, I waved to him and he waved back! Yeah, I’ve made a friend.
I’ve been walking for about a week now and the stares have become somewhat less. When I first went on my walks, in my new uber-white New Balance shoes, MP3 player and Baby Bjorn, I felt totally bourgeois-y, like Angelina Jolie in Setswana with slightly smaller lips a bigger hips. But now, I think the people have gotten used to seeing me steadily walking along the pothole stricken sidewalks and actually nod a good morning to me. I think I’m gonna like it here…
Dona de Casa
Today marks the first day with a full time house keeper. Its strange, I feel like I have to keep the house much cleaner than I normally would. The old adage, "I need to clean before the maid comes"! I find I’m picking up after myself, my mom would be proud. It’s a funny feeling to have a stranger in your home all day long, cleaning up after you. Like right now, Lana, a portly-5 foot tall dark skinned woman, with kinky hair, is making our bed, and my mind is racing, trying to remember if I left my panties on the floor. Undergarments, I never thought much about them before and now all I can think about is someone else washing my panties, I’m obsessed and feel like I want to run out and buy all new undergarments, unstained! Gross!
My new role as “Dona de Casa“, has me feeling a bit uncomfortable. Four days have passed and I’m a bit less skeevo about my under panties, but more uncomfortable not cleaning! I can‘t believe it! I need to clean or do something to help out. Again, my mom would be proud. All those years of badgering me with Catholic guilt have paid off. Just when I think I’ve banished that guilt feeling and start to enjoy playing with the girls, or settle down in the hammock to read about Botswana, a place I image hotter than here, the Catholic church on the corner rings its bells, telling me to ”clean up” or “help out” with every chime. The guilt covers me like a familiar blanket from childhood. I’m hoping that eventually the guilt will subside.
A daily routine is starting to form. Every morning when Lana arrives to make our breakfast, I instruct her on what to do for the day and what to make for lunch (which is totally weird! I feel like the slave mistress). Then she proceeds to wash the dishes from the night before, wash down all the floors, clean the bedrooms and wash and iron what laundry there is ( Brazilians iron everything--sheets, socks and yes, panties!). While doing all this cleaning, she keeps sharp eye on the time, because at 11 AM she starts to prepare the lunch for the day. Lunches in Brazil are the main meal of the day and are always served with a large dish of rice and beans, a meat of some kind, gound manioc root fried in butter with onions or bacon, a veggie, salad and freshly blended juice made from frozen pulp bought at the market. This is my favorite part of lunch. I’ve grown quite a liking for maracuja, (passion fruit). Grace’s favorite is cupuaceu, a brown hairy fruit that grows on the bark of the tree and is about the size of a football. Another favorite is Caju, or cashew, there is a large fruit that the cashew nut grows on. It looks like a golden bell pepper with a cashew shaped pod on the end of it.
The daily lunch is always followed by a nice nap in an air conditioned room to escape the hottest time of the day. Around 4 PM the streets start to bustle again and shops reopen until 7 or 8 PM. While I’m settling the girls down for the afternoon nap and readying myself to have a nice sleep, I hear Lana in the kitchen cleaning up from lunch and I wonder about her nap? It seems that people of the lower working class do not have seista, it is only for the people who can afford to do so…
At 4 PM Lana calls it a day, and waits for Matthew or I to pay her 15 Reals, about $7.50. It doesn’t seem right, and I feel guilty for paying her so little. She works her ass off for a third of our dinner bill at Guadalajara. And what makes this situation even more extraordinary, is that Lana just turned sixteen! She dropped out of school in the 7th year, and is now married to the young man who delivered our furniture. When I look at Lana’s youthful face, my Ipod-myspace-15-year-old sister-n-law’s face comes to mind, the juxtaposition is striking.
Lana took time off yesterday to go to the doctors for an exam, we are not sure what kind of exam, but I think she may be pregnant…
the pics below are, the chuch on the corner, afternoon nap, and typical lunch at Cosmo's mom's house.
My new role as “Dona de Casa“, has me feeling a bit uncomfortable. Four days have passed and I’m a bit less skeevo about my under panties, but more uncomfortable not cleaning! I can‘t believe it! I need to clean or do something to help out. Again, my mom would be proud. All those years of badgering me with Catholic guilt have paid off. Just when I think I’ve banished that guilt feeling and start to enjoy playing with the girls, or settle down in the hammock to read about Botswana, a place I image hotter than here, the Catholic church on the corner rings its bells, telling me to ”clean up” or “help out” with every chime. The guilt covers me like a familiar blanket from childhood. I’m hoping that eventually the guilt will subside.
A daily routine is starting to form. Every morning when Lana arrives to make our breakfast, I instruct her on what to do for the day and what to make for lunch (which is totally weird! I feel like the slave mistress). Then she proceeds to wash the dishes from the night before, wash down all the floors, clean the bedrooms and wash and iron what laundry there is ( Brazilians iron everything--sheets, socks and yes, panties!). While doing all this cleaning, she keeps sharp eye on the time, because at 11 AM she starts to prepare the lunch for the day. Lunches in Brazil are the main meal of the day and are always served with a large dish of rice and beans, a meat of some kind, gound manioc root fried in butter with onions or bacon, a veggie, salad and freshly blended juice made from frozen pulp bought at the market. This is my favorite part of lunch. I’ve grown quite a liking for maracuja, (passion fruit). Grace’s favorite is cupuaceu, a brown hairy fruit that grows on the bark of the tree and is about the size of a football. Another favorite is Caju, or cashew, there is a large fruit that the cashew nut grows on. It looks like a golden bell pepper with a cashew shaped pod on the end of it.
The daily lunch is always followed by a nice nap in an air conditioned room to escape the hottest time of the day. Around 4 PM the streets start to bustle again and shops reopen until 7 or 8 PM. While I’m settling the girls down for the afternoon nap and readying myself to have a nice sleep, I hear Lana in the kitchen cleaning up from lunch and I wonder about her nap? It seems that people of the lower working class do not have seista, it is only for the people who can afford to do so…
At 4 PM Lana calls it a day, and waits for Matthew or I to pay her 15 Reals, about $7.50. It doesn’t seem right, and I feel guilty for paying her so little. She works her ass off for a third of our dinner bill at Guadalajara. And what makes this situation even more extraordinary, is that Lana just turned sixteen! She dropped out of school in the 7th year, and is now married to the young man who delivered our furniture. When I look at Lana’s youthful face, my Ipod-myspace-15-year-old sister-n-law’s face comes to mind, the juxtaposition is striking.
Lana took time off yesterday to go to the doctors for an exam, we are not sure what kind of exam, but I think she may be pregnant…
the pics below are, the chuch on the corner, afternoon nap, and typical lunch at Cosmo's mom's house.
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