My life has changed, dramatically. I’ve been thrown back into the American mainstream, knocked on my keester, right smack back into my old life. I mean literally, back into our old house, back into my old position at work, back into my old desk, computer, right down to the my old coffee cup that they saved, “just in case”.
How do I feel about this? Pretty good, I guess. Actually, pretty pulled. I love being back in the “land of plenty”, but really miss the simple life. I have these whimsical daydreams about how my life was a few months ago—low stress, good food, great people, hanging out in the hammock, no work. But quickly, I realize you can’t live in America this way, unless you are independently wealthy, which I am not, but even if I were, I think you would really have to train yourself to not want all the latest greatest, gadgets, and try to live simply and eat simply. I imagine it’s harder than we think.
I’ve delayed writing a blog for two reasons; I’ve been in reverse culture shock, not sure exactly what to write and the second delay comes in the form of having two kids.
So, here I am back at the keyboard ready to write…I think. Here are a few things that shocked me once I de-boarded from my third and final airplane.
America is RICH! America is CLEAN! America is OBESE!
First off, if you complain that we have too many poor people in American, you don’t know the meaning of poor. I walked and talked with people who live off of meat bone soup because they are too poor to buy the meat that once fleshed out the bones; I saw women begging with their children on the streets; gave food to children who were homeless and parentless traveling in little gangs addicted to huffing glue from bottles. Americans are wealthy, even if our poor are wealthy.
Everything here in America is very clean--the streets, the houses, the yards, the stores, the public restrooms, even the dump! It’s nice to be able to wash my floors twice a week, instead of everyday. It’s nice to go for a run and not have to sidestep discarded animal bones, and, yes, it’s nice to have a paved road again. Gracie, my 3&1/2 year-old, after going to the potty at the airport asked where she was to put the toilet paper after wiping. I was happy to inform her that, “here in America, we can flush the toilet paper”.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I can lose a few pounds. But while living in Brazil I saw about 3 obese people and absolutely no obese children. I mentioned this to my pediatrician friend and he asked, “The poor weren’t obese?” Because we all know the correlations between low income and obesity, right? If not, check this out http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2004/01/040105071229.htm
Trying to eat the way we did in brazil—grass fed meats, fresh free-range corn-fed chickens and their eggs, local veggies—is really hitting us hard in the pocket book. The really healthy foods in America are very expensive. Sure, the high-fructose-corn-syrup products are cheap and in abundance, but I really don’t want to feed my kids that stuff, or eat it myself. Lately, I’ve been engrossed with Michael Pollan’s book, Omnivore’s Delima (2006). He explains why Americans are bigger and “stronger” than the majority of people inhabiting our world. If we follow our industrialized path to pudginess, like Pollan did in his book, we can easily see where America diverged from fresh to fabricated. What is so bad about fabricated I asked? We’ll everything we can buy cheaply is loaded with HFCS, and due to this cheap sugar source, we see the rise in larger portions of foodstuff. Ie: the supersized nation. Supersizing is a way for the big fastfood chains to make an easy buck. HFCS is so cheap it costs pennies to supersize an item, while to customer pays 30 or 40 cents more. Huge profits on a large scale. Therefore, American’s, on average, consume 500 more calories a day than they did two decades ago.
So, going back to Dr. Mark’s question, “the poor weren’t obese?”. If there are so many poor in the area of Brazil that we lived (approx. 80%), why was obesity absent?
I’m thinking this must be due to absence of cheap prefabricated foods and fast food restaurants. For my neighbors, a quick fast meal involved walking to the corner and purchasing a spit full of barbecued meat with a plate of rice and beans for R$2 (roughly a US dollar).
The weight problem for America is the only thing that really jumped out at me. It’s quite alarming when faced with creating good eating habits for my kids. It becomes difficult when you have limited time to prepare foods and shop. As my girlfriend says, and I'm sure she mimicks what many other mother's would say, "McNuggets are just sooo easy". Looking at her, I decided not to tell her that those little clusters of "easiness" are sprayed with butane (i.e. lighter fluid), to preserve "freshness"--ha, how the meaning of "fresh" has morphed. Bon appetite and as Gracie says, "napkins in your lapkins".
10.15.2007
7.14.2007
Over the past 11 months I've spent time hanging out with Mateus at the Dona's house, talking and enjoying lunches. The amazingly delicious and simple foods that are served at the Dona's house exude the essence of Brazilian life. I've tried to guess what ingredients are used but have been stumped. So, I asked if I could hang out in the kitchen and learn how to prepare basic Brazilian foods.
This past week I've had the privilege of spending three days in the kitchen with Nelda the head chef, and Karen, her su chef, although neither one of them would call themselves chefs. But they are. Daily they feed between 10 and 25 people. Members of the church that come at times to work either at the church, the memorial or the Dona's house. Doing various chores. Yesterday, Dona Maria washed out the Daime jugs, Carmen cleaned and oiled the wood paneling in the kitchen, and Val did the daily laundry (which includes washing, hang drying and ironing everything, even the underwear!). Today, there were a number of men painting the outside of the house, getting it ready for the large party celebrating the Dona's 70 th birthday on Saturday. Often when I'm at the Dona's house I think of the saying "Many hands makes for light work". People at this church really work together.
Around 11AM everyone will stop and eat together. The children are permitted to eat before the Dona but everyone else has to wait for the Dona to get her lunch first. Supplies are often brought by members of the church, who drop off bags full of supplies--rice, beans, farina, tomato sauce, etc. Rice and beans are served with every lunch and I've heard people say that they haven't eaten if they haven't had rice and beans with their main meal. On a few occasions people have asked me if Americans eat rice and beans daily. I usually say, "si, teng arroz e fegioan, mas, nao todo dia". Which means, yes we have rice and beans but not every day. They just look at me strange, like we Americans don't eat properly. The look is usually accompanied with a shoulder shrug.
The first morning I was in the kitchen, we made stewed pork shoulder, carne moida (ground beef) with spaghetti, salada (cabbage, beet & tomato salad), farofa (ground up maxacada root), and of course, rice and beans. The latter is usually taken for granted. In many cultures the main subsistence dish is usually the sacred unspoken-the dish that is never talked about but expected to adorn every lunch table. And for me, the Americana, to learn how to make this sacred staple would be a little coup for me.
You might think, "how hard can it be to make beans?" Welp, "fejiao da Nelda" is quite the undertaking. It takes a good hour, give or take and can include any combination of, a whole beet, green onions, covie (a type of green), mild peppers, acorn squash pieces, dried beef chunks, chopped green beans, salt, and coloral. Coloral is an indigenous powder that is often used by the natives of the forest as body paint. But here in the city, it is used in almost everything. Especially, coating meat before it is fried up. It is rich in red color and really has no smell and a mild taste. I have grown to love it and have secured two large bags for the flight home.
After three days I have some really great traditional recipes and am eager to try them out on friends back in the states, especially Brazilian meatballs, which are outtasite. Look forward to seeing you all in a week!
This past week I've had the privilege of spending three days in the kitchen with Nelda the head chef, and Karen, her su chef, although neither one of them would call themselves chefs. But they are. Daily they feed between 10 and 25 people. Members of the church that come at times to work either at the church, the memorial or the Dona's house. Doing various chores. Yesterday, Dona Maria washed out the Daime jugs, Carmen cleaned and oiled the wood paneling in the kitchen, and Val did the daily laundry (which includes washing, hang drying and ironing everything, even the underwear!). Today, there were a number of men painting the outside of the house, getting it ready for the large party celebrating the Dona's 70 th birthday on Saturday. Often when I'm at the Dona's house I think of the saying "Many hands makes for light work". People at this church really work together.
Around 11AM everyone will stop and eat together. The children are permitted to eat before the Dona but everyone else has to wait for the Dona to get her lunch first. Supplies are often brought by members of the church, who drop off bags full of supplies--rice, beans, farina, tomato sauce, etc. Rice and beans are served with every lunch and I've heard people say that they haven't eaten if they haven't had rice and beans with their main meal. On a few occasions people have asked me if Americans eat rice and beans daily. I usually say, "si, teng arroz e fegioan, mas, nao todo dia". Which means, yes we have rice and beans but not every day. They just look at me strange, like we Americans don't eat properly. The look is usually accompanied with a shoulder shrug.
The first morning I was in the kitchen, we made stewed pork shoulder, carne moida (ground beef) with spaghetti, salada (cabbage, beet & tomato salad), farofa (ground up maxacada root), and of course, rice and beans. The latter is usually taken for granted. In many cultures the main subsistence dish is usually the sacred unspoken-the dish that is never talked about but expected to adorn every lunch table. And for me, the Americana, to learn how to make this sacred staple would be a little coup for me.
You might think, "how hard can it be to make beans?" Welp, "fejiao da Nelda" is quite the undertaking. It takes a good hour, give or take and can include any combination of, a whole beet, green onions, covie (a type of green), mild peppers, acorn squash pieces, dried beef chunks, chopped green beans, salt, and coloral. Coloral is an indigenous powder that is often used by the natives of the forest as body paint. But here in the city, it is used in almost everything. Especially, coating meat before it is fried up. It is rich in red color and really has no smell and a mild taste. I have grown to love it and have secured two large bags for the flight home.
After three days I have some really great traditional recipes and am eager to try them out on friends back in the states, especially Brazilian meatballs, which are outtasite. Look forward to seeing you all in a week!
6.18.2007
The Unusual Fathers Day
It started out like any other Fathers day. We planed a family picnic at the Horto, or Orchard. Matt said he wanted to go into the other part of the Horto to set up picnic. He had seen picnic tables in a clearing once and thought it would be a nice spot. Now, in previous posts I've written about the Horto, but never really discussed the "dark side" of this place. The Horto is broken up into two parts, one part consists of a running loop, playground, pull-up and sit-up stations and volleyball courts. This section is where we as a family usual hang out and play. The other part is what locals seem to view as the "dark part". This area contains a number of trails and bridges that wind through a thick forest area, and along side the river. I've scoffed at the notion that this part of the Horto is seedy because when I run through, around 6:30 AM, there is nothing suspicious, only fluttering butterflies. However, on this day, I stopped scoffing.
We had an awesome lunch of spaghetti with meat sauce, rice and beans and Sprite. I was feeling quite environmentally PC, because everything we used was glass, aluminum or cloth (barring the Sprite bottle), so everything that was packed in, packed out. It was an awesome day, hot but the shade of the palms and a slight cool breeze made the weather very comfortable. Gracie ran around, picking up sticks and leaves, pretending they were one thing or another. Maddie watched with glee and stumbled around after her older sis. Time came to pack up and head out, we chose to go out a different path. Gracie galloped ahead, her dress bouncing and her hair shining in the sun was a joyous image to behold.
We came to a clearing that transected another path. As we entered, I noted that it smelled like pee, but then my eye caught something dark in the grass. Maybe not pee, but rotting flesh? We moved in closer to see what was dead; for it was obvious it was dead by the flies. We came upon a sacrificial site. Two black chickens had been cut open and displayed quite neatly. One was placed on a clay bowl and the other on the grass next to it. The bowl looked as though it had corn meal, a piece of paper with something written on it and black & red candle wax, with the chicken displayed on top of it all. There were black and red candles burned down, positioned around the birds, some tobacco and a lid to Aguardant (a kind of Portuguese brandy) bottle. It smelled, but since it was a fresh sacrifice, it was tolerable. We filmed the scene extensively but were careful not to disturb the display. I figured that an Umbanda ritual had taken place the night before and one was best to not mess with any sorcery, good or bad.
Umbanda is a magic-type practice, some say a religion, that derives in large part from an African ancestry. People say you can use this magic for good or evil. As we were filming, a guy walked by so we took the opportunity to interview him. He said he had seen this type of thing before in the Horto. He called the site, despacho, which means to dispatch spirits after someone. He said the piece of paper probably had the name of the person who was the target of the despacho. He went on to explain, "when I see this kind of thing I go by saying the name of Jesus and sometimes I even kick them". Matt asked, "Do you feel implicated in the sorcery if you interfere with it? He responded, "If I don't say anything, then I feel something bad will happen to me. So maybe kicking it away is a good idea." He parted, and I noticed that the guy didn't kick this ritual site away. Which left me wondering why?
Gracie wanted to say goodbye to the birds, so we wished them farewell and went on our way. Matthew and I were like two kids, so excited to come across a scene of sorcery, something we’ve only read about in books. We’ve decided to look into this while we are still here, maybe talk with a sorceress, and maybe make a mini-documentary.
the scene, the tobacco is in the form of a cigar
the burned down candle
I'm pointing to the bird to give size perspective
This is a closeup of the bowl, paper, cornmeal, candle wax
We had an awesome lunch of spaghetti with meat sauce, rice and beans and Sprite. I was feeling quite environmentally PC, because everything we used was glass, aluminum or cloth (barring the Sprite bottle), so everything that was packed in, packed out. It was an awesome day, hot but the shade of the palms and a slight cool breeze made the weather very comfortable. Gracie ran around, picking up sticks and leaves, pretending they were one thing or another. Maddie watched with glee and stumbled around after her older sis. Time came to pack up and head out, we chose to go out a different path. Gracie galloped ahead, her dress bouncing and her hair shining in the sun was a joyous image to behold.
We came to a clearing that transected another path. As we entered, I noted that it smelled like pee, but then my eye caught something dark in the grass. Maybe not pee, but rotting flesh? We moved in closer to see what was dead; for it was obvious it was dead by the flies. We came upon a sacrificial site. Two black chickens had been cut open and displayed quite neatly. One was placed on a clay bowl and the other on the grass next to it. The bowl looked as though it had corn meal, a piece of paper with something written on it and black & red candle wax, with the chicken displayed on top of it all. There were black and red candles burned down, positioned around the birds, some tobacco and a lid to Aguardant (a kind of Portuguese brandy) bottle. It smelled, but since it was a fresh sacrifice, it was tolerable. We filmed the scene extensively but were careful not to disturb the display. I figured that an Umbanda ritual had taken place the night before and one was best to not mess with any sorcery, good or bad.
Umbanda is a magic-type practice, some say a religion, that derives in large part from an African ancestry. People say you can use this magic for good or evil. As we were filming, a guy walked by so we took the opportunity to interview him. He said he had seen this type of thing before in the Horto. He called the site, despacho, which means to dispatch spirits after someone. He said the piece of paper probably had the name of the person who was the target of the despacho. He went on to explain, "when I see this kind of thing I go by saying the name of Jesus and sometimes I even kick them". Matt asked, "Do you feel implicated in the sorcery if you interfere with it? He responded, "If I don't say anything, then I feel something bad will happen to me. So maybe kicking it away is a good idea." He parted, and I noticed that the guy didn't kick this ritual site away. Which left me wondering why?
Gracie wanted to say goodbye to the birds, so we wished them farewell and went on our way. Matthew and I were like two kids, so excited to come across a scene of sorcery, something we’ve only read about in books. We’ve decided to look into this while we are still here, maybe talk with a sorceress, and maybe make a mini-documentary.
the scene, the tobacco is in the form of a cigar
the burned down candle
I'm pointing to the bird to give size perspective
This is a closeup of the bowl, paper, cornmeal, candle wax
5.27.2007
Random Capoeira
A quick note about today. We traveled downtown to the river for some R, R & beers. After getting off the bus, we heard drums and a slight sound of chanting. Matt thought it sounded like capoeira music. So we followed our ears to the municpal building a block down and found a group of people watching a round circle of dancers clapping, singing and playing instruments. In the middle were two guys dancing capoeira , amazing. It was like watching really awesome break dancers in unison. About every three minutes or so, other dancers would cut in for a continual in-and-out, circular movement of legs, arms, pelvises--bodies whirling around and around. Gracie's eyes were huge (and so were mine!) and fixed on the group. As we walked away she said she wanted to take that dance class. I said, "me too".
No pictures, our camera is on the fritz, but Matt brought his sound recording equipment. Here is a sound clip of today.
No pictures, our camera is on the fritz, but Matt brought his sound recording equipment. Here is a sound clip of today.
5.12.2007
Exploring Daime & Pregnancy
Friday morning, we went out to the home of Raimunda (hi-munda) and Jose (jo-ze). They are a young couple who have a three-month-old son, Lucas. Jose is a pilot and Raimunda is a teacher. They belong to a splinter church that is literally a street away from the Dona’s church (see 9/19 post). This sect splintered off during the 1980s when the Dona started to take control of the church.
Jose picked us up in his car that resembled a Volkswagen Thing--a square, tin box. It had that familiar Volkswagen smell about it, large bench seat in the back with no seatbelts. Seatbelt laws in Brazil or at least Rio Branco are lax. No one uses car seats for kids, they are generally held in the lap, usually in the backseat. We motored along the highway out toward their home, which is on the outskirts of the main town. We turned right onto a dirt, heavily riveted road. I tried to hold onto both kids, while keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead of us to keep from getting car sick. We rocked back-n-forth through the rough terrain, at one point, I felt as though we were sideways, teetering on two wheels.
Finally, we arrived at their home. A nice place, large in fact, with an open veranda that wrapped the entire house. We walked through the car port into the back area which was floored with beautiful Amazonian wood, rich hues of dark browns. The back porch was equipped with a bathroom, dining area, stove, sink and sitting area. The secratario was making a lunch of fried fish, rice, beans, meatballs, salad, and fardho (ground up manioc root fried up with bacon and butter, usually people dip a bite of meat in it). The smells were mixed with fish and vegetation from the open jungle area that their house butts up against. I periodically looked for monkeys, to no avail.
The sitting area was built of five hardwood chairs facing each other around a coffee table. A rede or hammock swung in the background, which was good because Maddie was due for her morning nap and will only sleep in a rede (she‘s a jungle baby in so many ways).
We sat and talked awhile and at first lull, I asked Raimunda if she had taken Daime during her pregnancy. She said she had, but followed the regiment that the founding Mestre advised. I immediately envisioned an old hand-written document discussing how pregnant women should use Daime, my excitement could hardly be contained. A tangible morsel of field data!
What little understanding I have accumulated is that a smaller amount of the tea is given because the woman is more “open to the divine realm” while pregnant. I went on to ask Raimunda , “Did you tell your doctor about drinking Daime?” She said no, that she only spoke with her Mestre at the church. To me , implicit in her decision not to tell her physician are so many issues--for instance; the status of the doctor/patient relationship. The muted patient voice in fear of social retribution. How exactly is Daime construed by the public and medical establishment in Rio Branco? Could taking Daime during pregnancy be seen as negligent and abusive to her baby?
There is so much here for me to study, and just as I feel confident in my language skills we are about to leave. I guess I’ll have to go back for that PhD to get the opportunity to follow-up on these themes. But I’m here now, and I planning on speaking with Raimunda‘s Mestre. More to come…
Jose picked us up in his car that resembled a Volkswagen Thing--a square, tin box. It had that familiar Volkswagen smell about it, large bench seat in the back with no seatbelts. Seatbelt laws in Brazil or at least Rio Branco are lax. No one uses car seats for kids, they are generally held in the lap, usually in the backseat. We motored along the highway out toward their home, which is on the outskirts of the main town. We turned right onto a dirt, heavily riveted road. I tried to hold onto both kids, while keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead of us to keep from getting car sick. We rocked back-n-forth through the rough terrain, at one point, I felt as though we were sideways, teetering on two wheels.
Finally, we arrived at their home. A nice place, large in fact, with an open veranda that wrapped the entire house. We walked through the car port into the back area which was floored with beautiful Amazonian wood, rich hues of dark browns. The back porch was equipped with a bathroom, dining area, stove, sink and sitting area. The secratario was making a lunch of fried fish, rice, beans, meatballs, salad, and fardho (ground up manioc root fried up with bacon and butter, usually people dip a bite of meat in it). The smells were mixed with fish and vegetation from the open jungle area that their house butts up against. I periodically looked for monkeys, to no avail.
The sitting area was built of five hardwood chairs facing each other around a coffee table. A rede or hammock swung in the background, which was good because Maddie was due for her morning nap and will only sleep in a rede (she‘s a jungle baby in so many ways).
We sat and talked awhile and at first lull, I asked Raimunda if she had taken Daime during her pregnancy. She said she had, but followed the regiment that the founding Mestre advised. I immediately envisioned an old hand-written document discussing how pregnant women should use Daime, my excitement could hardly be contained. A tangible morsel of field data!
What little understanding I have accumulated is that a smaller amount of the tea is given because the woman is more “open to the divine realm” while pregnant. I went on to ask Raimunda , “Did you tell your doctor about drinking Daime?” She said no, that she only spoke with her Mestre at the church. To me , implicit in her decision not to tell her physician are so many issues--for instance; the status of the doctor/patient relationship. The muted patient voice in fear of social retribution. How exactly is Daime construed by the public and medical establishment in Rio Branco? Could taking Daime during pregnancy be seen as negligent and abusive to her baby?
There is so much here for me to study, and just as I feel confident in my language skills we are about to leave. I guess I’ll have to go back for that PhD to get the opportunity to follow-up on these themes. But I’m here now, and I planning on speaking with Raimunda‘s Mestre. More to come…
4.28.2007
The Battle for the Souls
In our neighborhood, Novo Horizonate, we have at least 10 churches tucked into, what seems like, every nook and cranny. We’ve noticed many had sprung up between houses on residential streets, beside little mercardos, well, just about everywhere in town. So, needlesstosay, the area of Brazil that we find ourselves, Acre, is steeped in religion. And the people aren’t afraid to let you know all about their beliefs.
We met, Pia, short for Olympia, so is Pilipino. She came to Brazil twelve years ago as a new bride married through the religion of Divine Principle under the Reverend Sun Myung Moon. This religion is most famous for the mass marriages that you’ve seen on Ripley’s Believe or Not, or some show like that. I don’t believe she had met her husband or had ever been to Brazil before she was married. We ran into her on the street and since she spoke English she was eager to talk with us. I don’t remember telling her where we lived, but there she was one day, standing outside our house clapping her hands and yelling “Anyone home?”. She dropped of her copy of Divine Principles for us to read. This wasn’t so bad, I mean we are used to the Mormons stopping by in the States. But when she showed up again a week later at an inconvenient time to discuss what I had read, I felt a bit put off. She went on in great detail about the troubles that our world faces today and how is it America‘s “duty and responsibility“ to help. As politely as I could, with a half-baked smile, holding Maddie bare butt on my hip, I declined her offer to come in my house.
Next, is Valjir of the Catholic faith. He owns the Mercado across the street from our house. He is part Italian so he tries to speak Italian, which is pretty much Portuguese with an Italian accent. Poor Matt, I usually send him over to get what ever we need, so he gets wrangled into hearing about the Bible. Today is was quotes from the last supper, where Jesus asks the disciples to eat his flesh. Matthew was left with an uneasy feeling, thinking thoughts of cannibalism! He told me this and we laughed.
And then there are the Jehovah Witness’ who come, brief case and bible in hand. They are nice enough, however, when the woman, Lache, came by my default response, “No folo Portuguese” didn’t work, I felt intruded upon. She started in “Goot Morgin”, and walked pass me into my courtyard. At that moment, when I knew she was going to try and talk to me in English, I called for Matthew. He likes to talk to the JW & the Mormons, unlike me, who shuts the blinds and locks the front door at first street sighting.
And finally, Thiago (che-a-go), a young kid that Matthew teaches English to twice a week. He follows Benny Hinn (even has Hinn’s phone number programmed in his cell) of the Evangelical religion and wears a bright hat that reads, “JESUS”. He shared with us a movie called “Left Behind” starring Kirk Camron (remember that guy?). It was a horribly-cheesy movie--don‘t rent it. He convinced Matthew to go with him to a study group. Matthew learned that at this church a member receives merit points for converting people to this faith. So, Thiago would be among the first to be taken during the “Rapture“ if he converts a whole family. I like Thiago but I don‘t think it will by our family that gets him on the first shuttle.
For me, I’m happy to be apart of the non-conforming Unitarian Universalist tradition. Matthew has become a member of the religion of the Dona that he studies and for the kids, well, we are planning on baptizing Maddie at the Dona’s church in June, and Grace was baptized in the UU tradition, so they will be of mixed traditions, just like us.
We met, Pia, short for Olympia, so is Pilipino. She came to Brazil twelve years ago as a new bride married through the religion of Divine Principle under the Reverend Sun Myung Moon. This religion is most famous for the mass marriages that you’ve seen on Ripley’s Believe or Not, or some show like that. I don’t believe she had met her husband or had ever been to Brazil before she was married. We ran into her on the street and since she spoke English she was eager to talk with us. I don’t remember telling her where we lived, but there she was one day, standing outside our house clapping her hands and yelling “Anyone home?”. She dropped of her copy of Divine Principles for us to read. This wasn’t so bad, I mean we are used to the Mormons stopping by in the States. But when she showed up again a week later at an inconvenient time to discuss what I had read, I felt a bit put off. She went on in great detail about the troubles that our world faces today and how is it America‘s “duty and responsibility“ to help. As politely as I could, with a half-baked smile, holding Maddie bare butt on my hip, I declined her offer to come in my house.
Next, is Valjir of the Catholic faith. He owns the Mercado across the street from our house. He is part Italian so he tries to speak Italian, which is pretty much Portuguese with an Italian accent. Poor Matt, I usually send him over to get what ever we need, so he gets wrangled into hearing about the Bible. Today is was quotes from the last supper, where Jesus asks the disciples to eat his flesh. Matthew was left with an uneasy feeling, thinking thoughts of cannibalism! He told me this and we laughed.
And then there are the Jehovah Witness’ who come, brief case and bible in hand. They are nice enough, however, when the woman, Lache, came by my default response, “No folo Portuguese” didn’t work, I felt intruded upon. She started in “Goot Morgin”, and walked pass me into my courtyard. At that moment, when I knew she was going to try and talk to me in English, I called for Matthew. He likes to talk to the JW & the Mormons, unlike me, who shuts the blinds and locks the front door at first street sighting.
And finally, Thiago (che-a-go), a young kid that Matthew teaches English to twice a week. He follows Benny Hinn (even has Hinn’s phone number programmed in his cell) of the Evangelical religion and wears a bright hat that reads, “JESUS”. He shared with us a movie called “Left Behind” starring Kirk Camron (remember that guy?). It was a horribly-cheesy movie--don‘t rent it. He convinced Matthew to go with him to a study group. Matthew learned that at this church a member receives merit points for converting people to this faith. So, Thiago would be among the first to be taken during the “Rapture“ if he converts a whole family. I like Thiago but I don‘t think it will by our family that gets him on the first shuttle.
For me, I’m happy to be apart of the non-conforming Unitarian Universalist tradition. Matthew has become a member of the religion of the Dona that he studies and for the kids, well, we are planning on baptizing Maddie at the Dona’s church in June, and Grace was baptized in the UU tradition, so they will be of mixed traditions, just like us.
4.23.2007
The Dona's
This morning at 6:15, my watch alarm woke me up. The morning was overcast, rainy, and a bit chilly. I sat up, stroked Maddie’s hair, who lay next to me in our large, but not quite large enough bed. I thumb through my running clothes that I diligently placed at the end of my bed, so there would be no excuse not to go. After a long pee, hit on my asthma inhaler, and quick teeth brushing, I’m out of the A/C and into the humidity. I’ve decided to wear a long sleeve t-shirt, which I realize a few minutes into my route, I probably should have chosen the short sleeve.
The rain is light and feels nice hitting my face. When I reach the main road of my route, there is a virtual sea of bikes and walkers, going to work or school, no doubt. Men with lawn cutters strapped to their backs, whole families migrating down the hill quickly whiz by me. No matter how many times I see this, I‘m still amazed at the site of four people on one bike. There are young kids in their school uniforms, secretarios or house maids, walking or riding bikes. Known by their stereotypical clothing of either Daisy-Duke shorts or short skirts and little tops, similar to sport bras, leaving a full mid-drift view.
Our “friends” shops are open, have been for an hour or so. The Sobrino Mercardo, Seo Beto the butcher, the “tire guy”(we don‘t know his name yet!), and the bakery. I wave to everyone and jog on down the hill, side stepping potholes and meat bones that have been discarded over night. There is a slow burning pile of trash that has been smoldering since the night before. This is one smell I will be glad to be rid of. Despite the city’s efforts to cut down on trash burning by having pick-up three times a week, people pile their daily trash up in a corner of their yard and burn it every night.
As I pass people, I can’t help but notice the many different types of faces. For me, its very difficult to discern where people are from. I saw a woman, light skinned, narrow nose, with light eyes, that I swore was American, or maybe German, but no, she was Brazilian. I know this because while running by I usually try to make eye contact and say “hello”, if there is no response this usually means they are local. The foot traffic I run pass are dark-skinned with dark hair, which should come as no surprise, but what was surprising to me is that once I run through the Horto, or Orchard gates, the skin tone becomes noticeable lighter. In the mornings, there are predominately middle-aged women, who I call, “The Dona’s”. I call them this because I assume they are married to wealthy men and have secretarios at home cleaning and getting lunch ready.
Finishing up a mile at the Horto, I break before running the last mile, which is all uphill. I start doing my bicep & tricep pushes, and I see The Dona’s come striding by in their lycra one-piececolor- coordinated outfits, we stare at each other. I’m noticing how light their skin color is compared to the group of day laborers behind them, and they, perhaps, are noticing my skin color, unmistakably foreign. Or maybe they are just critiquing my decisively unattractive tattered surfer shorts, wife-beater T-shirt and baseball hat.
The rain is light and feels nice hitting my face. When I reach the main road of my route, there is a virtual sea of bikes and walkers, going to work or school, no doubt. Men with lawn cutters strapped to their backs, whole families migrating down the hill quickly whiz by me. No matter how many times I see this, I‘m still amazed at the site of four people on one bike. There are young kids in their school uniforms, secretarios or house maids, walking or riding bikes. Known by their stereotypical clothing of either Daisy-Duke shorts or short skirts and little tops, similar to sport bras, leaving a full mid-drift view.
Our “friends” shops are open, have been for an hour or so. The Sobrino Mercardo, Seo Beto the butcher, the “tire guy”(we don‘t know his name yet!), and the bakery. I wave to everyone and jog on down the hill, side stepping potholes and meat bones that have been discarded over night. There is a slow burning pile of trash that has been smoldering since the night before. This is one smell I will be glad to be rid of. Despite the city’s efforts to cut down on trash burning by having pick-up three times a week, people pile their daily trash up in a corner of their yard and burn it every night.
As I pass people, I can’t help but notice the many different types of faces. For me, its very difficult to discern where people are from. I saw a woman, light skinned, narrow nose, with light eyes, that I swore was American, or maybe German, but no, she was Brazilian. I know this because while running by I usually try to make eye contact and say “hello”, if there is no response this usually means they are local. The foot traffic I run pass are dark-skinned with dark hair, which should come as no surprise, but what was surprising to me is that once I run through the Horto, or Orchard gates, the skin tone becomes noticeable lighter. In the mornings, there are predominately middle-aged women, who I call, “The Dona’s”. I call them this because I assume they are married to wealthy men and have secretarios at home cleaning and getting lunch ready.
Finishing up a mile at the Horto, I break before running the last mile, which is all uphill. I start doing my bicep & tricep pushes, and I see The Dona’s come striding by in their lycra one-piececolor- coordinated outfits, we stare at each other. I’m noticing how light their skin color is compared to the group of day laborers behind them, and they, perhaps, are noticing my skin color, unmistakably foreign. Or maybe they are just critiquing my decisively unattractive tattered surfer shorts, wife-beater T-shirt and baseball hat.
4.06.2007
Update
Its raining and the mosquitoes are biting. I'm pretty used to both now. At any given time I have at least four bites on my body. Usually, my ass because when I get up to breastfeed Maddie, for her 3 AM snack, I think my butt sticks out of the mosquito netting. So, I haven't written in awhile. I've been working on integrating one of my first letters with a friend of mine's letter. Her name is Ophelia and she has moved to Cuba with her husband and two-year-old daughter, Lucy. We promised to write corresponding letters to each other, but it took them a bit longer to get into the "field" due to visa issues. She has finally written her first letter, which is amazing! So, I've been going back over my first letters and integrated them with hers, which is a fun exercise.
I realize that when I write, at times, it appears that I am down in the dumps, ready to take Prozac or some variety of pharmaceutical. This is not the case. Ever since I was a kid I can remember running to the bathroom with pen and paper, sitting on the pot, and writing like crazy about how pissed off I was at my brother or sister, how unfair life was and plots of great revenge. I wish I would have saved those reams of prose, but in fact, I threw them away right after writing them. So, writing for me is a release. I know life is ever shifting, ever changing, and that no matter how stressful the moment is; it is truly, only a moment in time—fleeting.
Turning now to life pre-Pascua (Easter). Since Brazil is about 90% catholic, Pascua is a huge deal here. It starts on Thursday, everything is closed through Sunday. People start to party on Thursday night, which goes until the wee hours of Friday morning. An evangelist church down the street is starting a prayer vigil that will go from Friday night through Sunday morning. The Catholic Church on the corner is reenacting Jesus' "walk", by gathering at 4AM on Sunday morning and walking down to the center of town and back for church services at 7:30. And Matthew's church, yes, he became fardado, celebrated last night. The service started at 6 PM and went until 7 AM. He told me all the hymns and prayers that they said, which I figured, amounted to more prayers than I have done in my entire life! They sung some 300 hymns which were punctuated, here and there, by Our Fathers, Hail Mary's, and fireworks (of course). We are planning on returning to my roots this year and attending the Catholic Church on the corner for Pascua mass. My mom sent the girls matching dresses, which really sends me back to childhood, when she dressed my sister and I alike.
Boa Pascua a todos!
I realize that when I write, at times, it appears that I am down in the dumps, ready to take Prozac or some variety of pharmaceutical. This is not the case. Ever since I was a kid I can remember running to the bathroom with pen and paper, sitting on the pot, and writing like crazy about how pissed off I was at my brother or sister, how unfair life was and plots of great revenge. I wish I would have saved those reams of prose, but in fact, I threw them away right after writing them. So, writing for me is a release. I know life is ever shifting, ever changing, and that no matter how stressful the moment is; it is truly, only a moment in time—fleeting.
Turning now to life pre-Pascua (Easter). Since Brazil is about 90% catholic, Pascua is a huge deal here. It starts on Thursday, everything is closed through Sunday. People start to party on Thursday night, which goes until the wee hours of Friday morning. An evangelist church down the street is starting a prayer vigil that will go from Friday night through Sunday morning. The Catholic Church on the corner is reenacting Jesus' "walk", by gathering at 4AM on Sunday morning and walking down to the center of town and back for church services at 7:30. And Matthew's church, yes, he became fardado, celebrated last night. The service started at 6 PM and went until 7 AM. He told me all the hymns and prayers that they said, which I figured, amounted to more prayers than I have done in my entire life! They sung some 300 hymns which were punctuated, here and there, by Our Fathers, Hail Mary's, and fireworks (of course). We are planning on returning to my roots this year and attending the Catholic Church on the corner for Pascua mass. My mom sent the girls matching dresses, which really sends me back to childhood, when she dressed my sister and I alike.
Boa Pascua a todos!
3.24.2007
My Motherhood
Before I left,
Things seemed so Ideal,
Stay at home mom, two girls,
Living in Brasil
Its real alright,
Moments are good, moments are great,
Moments just are…
Moments burn bright,
First crawls, first teeth, first steps,
Breastfeeding throughout the night.
Ideal, real, right, bright
Words falling on trembling lips
Trapped, smothered,
Coming to terms with motherhoods grips.
Before I left,
I couldn’t wait to be free,
Free of work, TV, the news, the war.
I couldn’t wait to be free,
To stay at home, to just be me.
Then I left,
Two flights, two days,
Traveling with two babes.
My husband there,
But mom is all they see,
Comforting arms, breasts of milk.
Yes, I’m free to be me.
Where is “me”?
Lost in the smell of stale milk,
Desitin and pee.
Lost in the simple tasks of
cleaning butts and spit-ups.
Lost in motherhood.
Before I left,
I read all I could,
Virtues from stay at home moms.
Before I left,
I couldn’t see enough
To read their subtext.
Crying, clinging, pinching, screaming,
Cooking, scrubbing, counting 1-2-3
Kisses to hubby who’s off to work,
Oh, to be free.
No car, no TV, no escape from reality.
Humid air in my lungs, hot nights, dirt roads,
And foreign tongues.
I escape to the toilet,
A delicious moment to myself.
The New Yorker I quickly grab from the shelf,
First line of Talk of the Town,
And four eyes are staring me down.
The infant between my legs,
The toddler shouting, where’s my eggs!
Oh to be free, Oh to be me.
Moments are good, moments are great,
Moments just are…
Moments burn bright,
Milk teeth smiling, lips vigorously sucking,
Eyes shining in the night.
Motherhood: childhood relived.
Motherhood: I so misunderstood.
Great, Bright, smiles in the night.
Words falling on smiling lips,
Trapped, smothered,
Coming to terms with motherhoods grips.
Things seemed so Ideal,
Stay at home mom, two girls,
Living in Brasil
Its real alright,
Moments are good, moments are great,
Moments just are…
Moments burn bright,
First crawls, first teeth, first steps,
Breastfeeding throughout the night.
Ideal, real, right, bright
Words falling on trembling lips
Trapped, smothered,
Coming to terms with motherhoods grips.
Before I left,
I couldn’t wait to be free,
Free of work, TV, the news, the war.
I couldn’t wait to be free,
To stay at home, to just be me.
Then I left,
Two flights, two days,
Traveling with two babes.
My husband there,
But mom is all they see,
Comforting arms, breasts of milk.
Yes, I’m free to be me.
Where is “me”?
Lost in the smell of stale milk,
Desitin and pee.
Lost in the simple tasks of
cleaning butts and spit-ups.
Lost in motherhood.
Before I left,
I read all I could,
Virtues from stay at home moms.
Before I left,
I couldn’t see enough
To read their subtext.
Crying, clinging, pinching, screaming,
Cooking, scrubbing, counting 1-2-3
Kisses to hubby who’s off to work,
Oh, to be free.
No car, no TV, no escape from reality.
Humid air in my lungs, hot nights, dirt roads,
And foreign tongues.
I escape to the toilet,
A delicious moment to myself.
The New Yorker I quickly grab from the shelf,
First line of Talk of the Town,
And four eyes are staring me down.
The infant between my legs,
The toddler shouting, where’s my eggs!
Oh to be free, Oh to be me.
Moments are good, moments are great,
Moments just are…
Moments burn bright,
Milk teeth smiling, lips vigorously sucking,
Eyes shining in the night.
Motherhood: childhood relived.
Motherhood: I so misunderstood.
Great, Bright, smiles in the night.
Words falling on smiling lips,
Trapped, smothered,
Coming to terms with motherhoods grips.
3.13.2007
Hope in Healing
When Matthew ran across the street to get fabric softener from the Mercado, he noticed a cup full of something writhing in a cup. The Mercado owner, Valdir, held up the cup and Matthew took a closer look. “The first thing I saw was red peanuts pods and then black beetles swarming the nuts.” Matthew reported to me. They were small, pea-sized, beetles, (ulomoides dermestoides) munching on peanuts. “It’s a remedy“, Valdir explained, “throw seven in the blender with Nescau (powdered chocolate ) and it will cure asthma”. You can’t buy these “Magic Beetles”, they have to be given to you in order for their magic to work. After doing a simple Google search I found that the beetle’s excretions are said to strengthen body defenses against cancer, asthma, diabetes and even AIDS, as well as, increase sex drive. This sounds too good to be true, but, in a region where money is scarce, and trips to the doctor are even scarcer, hope looms large.
In 2003 Wall Street Journal writer, Matt Moffett, traveled down to Argentina to see about this, as he puts it, “Beetlemania“. He found testimony after testimony regarding the magical properties of these tiny six legged creatures. He traveled to the northern city of Parana where he heard of a church that was distributing the beetles to its parishioners. Pastor Antonio Orlando Mattiassi, of the Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, became interested in the beetle in 2001 after hearing about a man cured of esophageal cancer. The church bulletin noted the beetles as “a gift from God…especially for the poorest who can’t afford expensive medicines”. Here in Rio Branco, magical forces are often said to be behind ailments and remedies to cure such ailments are often given out freely. I’ve been told on numerous occasions that we have contracted “evil eye” from jealous onlookers. And after battling cold after cold, the girls and I have taken to wearing a red ribbon around our wrists to ward off this evil.
As many of you know, or don’t know, I suffer from mild asthma. So when remedies are presented I am eager to be unchained from my inhalers once and for all. I’m not really excited about the prospect of munching these little critters, especially when I’m supposed to munch about a dozen or so a day ( some eat as many as 70 a day!). But hey, I am living in the Amazon right? That guarantees eating a beetle or two or ten.
In 2003 Wall Street Journal writer, Matt Moffett, traveled down to Argentina to see about this, as he puts it, “Beetlemania“. He found testimony after testimony regarding the magical properties of these tiny six legged creatures. He traveled to the northern city of Parana where he heard of a church that was distributing the beetles to its parishioners. Pastor Antonio Orlando Mattiassi, of the Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, became interested in the beetle in 2001 after hearing about a man cured of esophageal cancer. The church bulletin noted the beetles as “a gift from God…especially for the poorest who can’t afford expensive medicines”. Here in Rio Branco, magical forces are often said to be behind ailments and remedies to cure such ailments are often given out freely. I’ve been told on numerous occasions that we have contracted “evil eye” from jealous onlookers. And after battling cold after cold, the girls and I have taken to wearing a red ribbon around our wrists to ward off this evil.
As many of you know, or don’t know, I suffer from mild asthma. So when remedies are presented I am eager to be unchained from my inhalers once and for all. I’m not really excited about the prospect of munching these little critters, especially when I’m supposed to munch about a dozen or so a day ( some eat as many as 70 a day!). But hey, I am living in the Amazon right? That guarantees eating a beetle or two or ten.
2.21.2007
Lost Loves & Life Lessons
Just about everyone over a certain age will find themselves taking on aspects of their parent, usually corresponding to gender. For me, I just couldn’t see it, (even though my husband periodically responds to me “okay, Camille”). That is, until I had to grieve lost loves this past month did I hear Camille’s voice ring out, “Can’t I have anything nice?”
First Grief: My beloved multi-colored sarong. I know, a sarong, how emotionally attached can I really be, but you don’t understand what special meaning I have imbued on this 6 x 6 piece of cotton fabric. Its trekked the globe with me acting as bath towel, beach wrap, beach towel, dress, skirt, head wrap, privacy boarder(in hostels), blanket, sheet, etc. I’ve labored wearing it, twice, and now it’s traveled to Brazil.
The other morning after wearing my beloved, I hung it up on a spare nail that was in the doorway of the bathroom. About an hour later, my 3-year-old came into the kitchen and asked for some glue to “fix it”. I said, “fix what?”, thinking of the various little toys that litter the floor these days. I followed her into the bedroom where she stopped and held her hand out like Vanna White and said, “see what happened.” There was my sarong, shredded down the middle and up one side. She said something about trying to swing on it like Tarzan. Her words of explanation fell on numb ears and my eyes welled with tears as I unhooked the now tattered piece of cloth. I took it to Matt and buried my face in it and sobbed. He just patted my back in support and this is when I heard my mom’s voice ring out, “can’t I have anything nice?”
Second Grief: About two weeks later, I saw my link to the familiar, my escape, my virtual-friend-my laptop, lying on the floor and again, my 3-year-old, finger in mouth, one foot pigeon-toed, huge green eyes wide, murmuring an explanation. Her explanation drowned out by my racing heart as I picked it up and placed it on the table. We slowly opened the screen up and turned it on. I was praying it wasn’t broken, but alas as it booted up, the screen had a beautiful crack from the left corner down to the right. Only have the screen was visible. My stomach turned and my mouth went dry. All my writing, all my pictures were in this square piece of metal and plastic. I turned and looked at Grace, and I opened my mouth, and out poured Camille’s voice, “can’t I have anything nice?!!!”
So, on this wet, rainy Wednesday, pen to paper, I’m realizing what a terrible speller I am. I’m realizing how attached I am to material objects. I’m realizing that I do not practice what I preach. There are many good things about having kids, they seem to be teaching me lessons in life that I didn’t even know I needed to learn. And it’s hard to come to terms with imperfections in ones personality. I know I should make the most out of these two events and how I’ve handled them, I know I should glean what I can to become a better person and parent. But, as I sit here, pen to paper, I find myself not reflecting on how to be less attached to material objects but desperately missing the spell check function.
First Grief: My beloved multi-colored sarong. I know, a sarong, how emotionally attached can I really be, but you don’t understand what special meaning I have imbued on this 6 x 6 piece of cotton fabric. Its trekked the globe with me acting as bath towel, beach wrap, beach towel, dress, skirt, head wrap, privacy boarder(in hostels), blanket, sheet, etc. I’ve labored wearing it, twice, and now it’s traveled to Brazil.
The other morning after wearing my beloved, I hung it up on a spare nail that was in the doorway of the bathroom. About an hour later, my 3-year-old came into the kitchen and asked for some glue to “fix it”. I said, “fix what?”, thinking of the various little toys that litter the floor these days. I followed her into the bedroom where she stopped and held her hand out like Vanna White and said, “see what happened.” There was my sarong, shredded down the middle and up one side. She said something about trying to swing on it like Tarzan. Her words of explanation fell on numb ears and my eyes welled with tears as I unhooked the now tattered piece of cloth. I took it to Matt and buried my face in it and sobbed. He just patted my back in support and this is when I heard my mom’s voice ring out, “can’t I have anything nice?”
Second Grief: About two weeks later, I saw my link to the familiar, my escape, my virtual-friend-my laptop, lying on the floor and again, my 3-year-old, finger in mouth, one foot pigeon-toed, huge green eyes wide, murmuring an explanation. Her explanation drowned out by my racing heart as I picked it up and placed it on the table. We slowly opened the screen up and turned it on. I was praying it wasn’t broken, but alas as it booted up, the screen had a beautiful crack from the left corner down to the right. Only have the screen was visible. My stomach turned and my mouth went dry. All my writing, all my pictures were in this square piece of metal and plastic. I turned and looked at Grace, and I opened my mouth, and out poured Camille’s voice, “can’t I have anything nice?!!!”
So, on this wet, rainy Wednesday, pen to paper, I’m realizing what a terrible speller I am. I’m realizing how attached I am to material objects. I’m realizing that I do not practice what I preach. There are many good things about having kids, they seem to be teaching me lessons in life that I didn’t even know I needed to learn. And it’s hard to come to terms with imperfections in ones personality. I know I should make the most out of these two events and how I’ve handled them, I know I should glean what I can to become a better person and parent. But, as I sit here, pen to paper, I find myself not reflecting on how to be less attached to material objects but desperately missing the spell check function.
2.11.2007
The Diet
I’m writing this entry out of curiosity and frustration. The church that Matthew is studying adheres to a strict diet. If you’ve been reading my blogs, you are aware of “the diet“. Before drinking Daime, you must be “prepared”. The diet consists of no alcohol or sex three days before and three days after drinking Daime. Now, the question that come to my mind is; why no sex?? I can understand the alcohol, but sex? Hear me out here. It can get down right ridiculous, take this month for example. There is a hinario, this is a session where the members wear their ornate white uniforms and dance and sign until the wee hours of the morning (this work will go until 2AM). So that means members have been on the diet since the 7th of February, the work is on the 10th, so they will be on the diet until the 13th. But, on the 15th is the bi-monthly concentration session. So, the diet will last from the 7th until the 19th. Hence the frustrtation part. So, if you are a couple wanting to conceive a child and are ovulating between the 7th and 19th you’re screwed (pun intended). Does the diet work to regulate births?
Do members really stick to it? Asking around we hear people say things like, “she knows if you haven’t just by looking at you”. She referring to The Dona. What power this woman has. But then we’ve also gone to churrascos (bbq’s) where we’ve seen members hanging out in the back drinking during the diet time. So, there is some dissent from the Dona’s power. Its is interesting to note that all the other Ayahuasca churches in the area have abandoned the diet. Maybe by keeping the diet, the Dona sets her church apart from all other churches as the original church… hum. There has got to be some reason that the diet endures, I’ll keep sleuthing.
1.24.2007
The Making of Ayahuasca
This story is a recounting of an event that I personally was not privy to, because you must be invited. However, Matthew was invited and explained everything in great detail. I’m not sure if Matthew is going to write about this on his blog, but I felt I should since I talk about Ayahuasca quite often.
According to church rules, in order to attend the making of Ayahuasca, you must follow a strict diet; no sex or alcohol three days prior to the work and three days after. During the work you must only eat macaxeira, cooked manioc root (like a potato type product that is the main subsistence for the indigenous tribes that live further into the jungle), and drink either water or Ayahuasca. During the work, which takes place in a building close to the church structure, hymns are either sung or recorded hymns are played.
First, the vine, Jagube (Banisteria caapi), is gathered, either locally or some distance out of town. It is cut into small sections and placed next to a piece of tree trunk, which acts like a table. There are six tree trunk tables with small stools all lined up on one side of the open walled structure. There are large wooden mallets resting on the dirt floor. The men (women were absent from this work, however I suspect that they were the ones who cooked the macaxeira…) take their places and begin to pound in rhythm to the music. From what I’ve heard (Matt made sound recordings) it sounds hypnotic. Once a section of vine is pounded out thin, it is tossed into the middle of the room, where a person will come along ever so often and gather them up. They are then taken to the cooking room, where a large stone oven is surging with flames. There are three large holes on top of the oven, this is where the large vats will cook for hours.
Once there is a good amount of pounded Jagube, the cook will layer a large vat with Jagube vine, and folha (Psychortia viridis leaves); these layers will be built up, one layer after another, until they reach just about half the vat. Water is then added and the mixture will be left to cook with a periodic stirring until the liquid is a warm amber-brown color. Once this color is achieved, the liquid is poured through a large sieve. The cooked vine and leaves are toss out and the liquid is added to another vat that has fresh vines and leaves for another long cooking period. This makes the tea a nice robust dark honey brown color. Once the tea is cooled it is then poured into gallon containers and taken to a storage area to await the next concentration or hinario. The tea, prepared in a ritualized place and process, has been prayed over and made according to the rules of the church, it is no longer considered Ayahuasca, but now, goes under the name Daime.
According to church rules, in order to attend the making of Ayahuasca, you must follow a strict diet; no sex or alcohol three days prior to the work and three days after. During the work you must only eat macaxeira, cooked manioc root (like a potato type product that is the main subsistence for the indigenous tribes that live further into the jungle), and drink either water or Ayahuasca. During the work, which takes place in a building close to the church structure, hymns are either sung or recorded hymns are played.
First, the vine, Jagube (Banisteria caapi), is gathered, either locally or some distance out of town. It is cut into small sections and placed next to a piece of tree trunk, which acts like a table. There are six tree trunk tables with small stools all lined up on one side of the open walled structure. There are large wooden mallets resting on the dirt floor. The men (women were absent from this work, however I suspect that they were the ones who cooked the macaxeira…) take their places and begin to pound in rhythm to the music. From what I’ve heard (Matt made sound recordings) it sounds hypnotic. Once a section of vine is pounded out thin, it is tossed into the middle of the room, where a person will come along ever so often and gather them up. They are then taken to the cooking room, where a large stone oven is surging with flames. There are three large holes on top of the oven, this is where the large vats will cook for hours.
Once there is a good amount of pounded Jagube, the cook will layer a large vat with Jagube vine, and folha (Psychortia viridis leaves); these layers will be built up, one layer after another, until they reach just about half the vat. Water is then added and the mixture will be left to cook with a periodic stirring until the liquid is a warm amber-brown color. Once this color is achieved, the liquid is poured through a large sieve. The cooked vine and leaves are toss out and the liquid is added to another vat that has fresh vines and leaves for another long cooking period. This makes the tea a nice robust dark honey brown color. Once the tea is cooled it is then poured into gallon containers and taken to a storage area to await the next concentration or hinario. The tea, prepared in a ritualized place and process, has been prayed over and made according to the rules of the church, it is no longer considered Ayahuasca, but now, goes under the name Daime.
1.15.2007
Comments
Hi everyone,
I just realized that the comment function was set to private, so no one could leave comments! I thought I had no readers! I've changed this so, please comment freely! You don't have to be a member to leave them.
Thanks for tuning in,
Mar
I just realized that the comment function was set to private, so no one could leave comments! I thought I had no readers! I've changed this so, please comment freely! You don't have to be a member to leave them.
Thanks for tuning in,
Mar
1.10.2007
Life in the City
I have become pretty comfortable with my neighborhood, taking daily walks and runs has made the unfamiliar commonplace. I’ve relatively stopped comparing everything to the States and started to enjoy life in situ. But this walk would send those feelings of non-comparison and comfort fleeing.
It was to be our typical walk to the orchard. We got the girls packed up in the dual stroller, and made sure all the appropriate items were aboard--water sippy, toys, blanket, and some cash. But as we turned the corner onto the main road, Getulio Vargas, the hairs on the back of my neck rose. We were met by military police armed with AK assault weapons. My knee-jerk reaction was to turn around and run back home, especially since we‘d been discussing the situation in Iraq were people are shot on the spot for being Sunni. But Matthew assured me that this was routine procedure, and that the military, the only official form of police protection in Rio Branco, often stage these “blitzes” to check Ids and for drugs. It was a strange feeling to see the road blocked off by stern-faced persons dressed in dark-green uniforms, dark sunglasses, and berets, adorned with machine guns. They were randomly pulling over cars and searching the occupants. My heart was racing and I remember feeling like I really didn‘t want to go through this area. But Matt said, “really Mar, they are not interested in us”. I felt relatively assured but couldn’t help but feel a twinge of skepticism as I looked at Matt puffing on his hand-rolled Indian tobacco cigarette.
We kept moving toward the blitz. Since the rains have come, the roads are in piss-poor condition; erosion, poor soil, and poor construction have left a portion of one of the four lanes with a 3-foot deep trench in the middle, and the sidewalks literally treacherous in some areas. This forces us to walk the stroller in the bike lane, a four foot lane that flanks either side of the street (at 5:30PM these lanes are so busy they, by far, out number vehicles on the road, and many bikes overflow into the car lanes). As we approached the core of action, I tried to appear invisible as we strode by two armed men. But looking back at the photo Matt snapped of me, there was no WAY I could appear invisible. I have Americana written all over me. I saw out the corner of my eye, one man standing spread eagle while a policeman padded him down. I didn’t want to stare or make eye contact with anyone., for fear they would pull me over.
Once passed, I swiftly turned back to watch in amazement and disbelief and relief that we were on the other side. I couldn’t imagine this occurring in the States. But Matt reminded me of “check points”, where cars are funneled through a police check point to see if alcohol could be detected. So now I’m back comparing Brazil to the US. Instead of appreciating all that’s around me for its difference, I hold it up to the US. For me, it’s a constant struggle. I could pretend to rise above this tedious practice of comparison, and do as taught in all those Anthropology courses, to be open and nonjudgmental. But it’s the American-cultural-condition to compare, right? Are we not raised to compare? “who is tallest in the class?“ Who has read the most books, sold the most whatever!“ Its not right, but there it is. We can argue all you want about this, but try to visit another country, another neighborhood, shoot, a different grocery store, and try not to compare it to what you know. Impossible! But still…here I am…struggling to rise above the condition my condition is in.
It was to be our typical walk to the orchard. We got the girls packed up in the dual stroller, and made sure all the appropriate items were aboard--water sippy, toys, blanket, and some cash. But as we turned the corner onto the main road, Getulio Vargas, the hairs on the back of my neck rose. We were met by military police armed with AK assault weapons. My knee-jerk reaction was to turn around and run back home, especially since we‘d been discussing the situation in Iraq were people are shot on the spot for being Sunni. But Matthew assured me that this was routine procedure, and that the military, the only official form of police protection in Rio Branco, often stage these “blitzes” to check Ids and for drugs. It was a strange feeling to see the road blocked off by stern-faced persons dressed in dark-green uniforms, dark sunglasses, and berets, adorned with machine guns. They were randomly pulling over cars and searching the occupants. My heart was racing and I remember feeling like I really didn‘t want to go through this area. But Matt said, “really Mar, they are not interested in us”. I felt relatively assured but couldn’t help but feel a twinge of skepticism as I looked at Matt puffing on his hand-rolled Indian tobacco cigarette.
We kept moving toward the blitz. Since the rains have come, the roads are in piss-poor condition; erosion, poor soil, and poor construction have left a portion of one of the four lanes with a 3-foot deep trench in the middle, and the sidewalks literally treacherous in some areas. This forces us to walk the stroller in the bike lane, a four foot lane that flanks either side of the street (at 5:30PM these lanes are so busy they, by far, out number vehicles on the road, and many bikes overflow into the car lanes). As we approached the core of action, I tried to appear invisible as we strode by two armed men. But looking back at the photo Matt snapped of me, there was no WAY I could appear invisible. I have Americana written all over me. I saw out the corner of my eye, one man standing spread eagle while a policeman padded him down. I didn’t want to stare or make eye contact with anyone., for fear they would pull me over.
Once passed, I swiftly turned back to watch in amazement and disbelief and relief that we were on the other side. I couldn’t imagine this occurring in the States. But Matt reminded me of “check points”, where cars are funneled through a police check point to see if alcohol could be detected. So now I’m back comparing Brazil to the US. Instead of appreciating all that’s around me for its difference, I hold it up to the US. For me, it’s a constant struggle. I could pretend to rise above this tedious practice of comparison, and do as taught in all those Anthropology courses, to be open and nonjudgmental. But it’s the American-cultural-condition to compare, right? Are we not raised to compare? “who is tallest in the class?“ Who has read the most books, sold the most whatever!“ Its not right, but there it is. We can argue all you want about this, but try to visit another country, another neighborhood, shoot, a different grocery store, and try not to compare it to what you know. Impossible! But still…here I am…struggling to rise above the condition my condition is in.
1.04.2007
Bringing “Fire” to the People
Awe, the holidays are over. Its seems everyone took a holiday down here, even my muse. I haven’t had the gumption to write in quite awhile. But after witnessing an event so incredible, my muse found her place again on my shoulder and here we are, writing…
Before you set out on your journey, whether it be to the store, on a hike, or cross country, you just never know what exactly you may need on your jaunt. Well after being here in Brazil for five months now, it has been really surprising to me that you cannot find a can opener, other than the janky camping type. You know, the kind that is made out of one piece of metal with a hook and point on one side. It takes me about half-an-hour to open the one thing my 3-year-old can’t live without, “wet peaches” or canned peaches to the rest of us.
When Matt’s mom asked us what we would like her to bring down, the first thing out of my mouth was “CAN OPENER“. People down here have never seen a can opener of the type that we have in the States. We had her bring down three. One for us, and one each for Cosmo and Jair; our two friends that made it possible for us to gain entrance into the country for research. We gave Cosmo his at Christmas and the first thing he said was “what is this thing?”. We laughed and explained it was the latest in can openers, the kind that leaves the edges dull. He was happy, but a little perplexed by the newfangled thingamabob.
A few days later, Cosmo invited us and a few other guests over for moqueca de peixe (moo-KAY-ka duh PAY-shuh), a Brazilian fish stew with coconut milk. Unbeknownst to us, among the other guests, was the Dona of the church that Matthew is studying. It was interesting to interact with her at a location quite removed from t he church. I think this gave Matthew an opportunity to causally chat with her, a nice added dimension to their relationship.
At one point during the gathering Cosmo invited a few of the women over to the table to help open a few cans. He pulled out his can opener and they stared at it. They leaned over on the table, resting their jaws in their hands and watched as one woman picked it up and gave it a once over. She held it in one hand and said, “what is this?” “A can opener” Cosmo said proudly. He showed her how to open it up and hook it onto the edge of the can. They all watched, intensely. She started to turn the crank. She kept on turning it, around and around, before Matt chimed in to stop and take off the top. They all looked in disbelief, as the Dona, who was watching, carefully poked at the top, then poked again a little harder. The top lifted up on one side and they all “oooed” and “aweeed“, and laughed and clapped. I felt like I was watching them discover fire. They all quickly looked for something else to open. It was quite amazing to watch. A first, you hardly ever get to see “firsts” in this world anymore. I suspect as time goes on and the world gets “smaller” there will be fewer and fewer to witness. The Dona looked at Matthew in surprise and delight. I would have never thought that a can opener could open more than cans, but it looks as if its opened a new door for Matt.
Needlesstosay, we have an order for more can openers to be shipped down from the land of plenty.
Jair and family trying out their new can opener
Before you set out on your journey, whether it be to the store, on a hike, or cross country, you just never know what exactly you may need on your jaunt. Well after being here in Brazil for five months now, it has been really surprising to me that you cannot find a can opener, other than the janky camping type. You know, the kind that is made out of one piece of metal with a hook and point on one side. It takes me about half-an-hour to open the one thing my 3-year-old can’t live without, “wet peaches” or canned peaches to the rest of us.
When Matt’s mom asked us what we would like her to bring down, the first thing out of my mouth was “CAN OPENER“. People down here have never seen a can opener of the type that we have in the States. We had her bring down three. One for us, and one each for Cosmo and Jair; our two friends that made it possible for us to gain entrance into the country for research. We gave Cosmo his at Christmas and the first thing he said was “what is this thing?”. We laughed and explained it was the latest in can openers, the kind that leaves the edges dull. He was happy, but a little perplexed by the newfangled thingamabob.
A few days later, Cosmo invited us and a few other guests over for moqueca de peixe (moo-KAY-ka duh PAY-shuh), a Brazilian fish stew with coconut milk. Unbeknownst to us, among the other guests, was the Dona of the church that Matthew is studying. It was interesting to interact with her at a location quite removed from t he church. I think this gave Matthew an opportunity to causally chat with her, a nice added dimension to their relationship.
At one point during the gathering Cosmo invited a few of the women over to the table to help open a few cans. He pulled out his can opener and they stared at it. They leaned over on the table, resting their jaws in their hands and watched as one woman picked it up and gave it a once over. She held it in one hand and said, “what is this?” “A can opener” Cosmo said proudly. He showed her how to open it up and hook it onto the edge of the can. They all watched, intensely. She started to turn the crank. She kept on turning it, around and around, before Matt chimed in to stop and take off the top. They all looked in disbelief, as the Dona, who was watching, carefully poked at the top, then poked again a little harder. The top lifted up on one side and they all “oooed” and “aweeed“, and laughed and clapped. I felt like I was watching them discover fire. They all quickly looked for something else to open. It was quite amazing to watch. A first, you hardly ever get to see “firsts” in this world anymore. I suspect as time goes on and the world gets “smaller” there will be fewer and fewer to witness. The Dona looked at Matthew in surprise and delight. I would have never thought that a can opener could open more than cans, but it looks as if its opened a new door for Matt.
Needlesstosay, we have an order for more can openers to be shipped down from the land of plenty.
Jair and family trying out their new can opener
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