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.