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.
4.28.2007
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!
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