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…
5.12.2007
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
12.10.2006
Field Update
I have this overwhelming feeling of doom. Not sure why, at times I feel like I'm one of the women in the Feminine Mystique—valium satiated housewife. However, I'm not on anything, but I do fantasize about having a cocktail once all I have to do is done, but it never is… weird. This is what I asked for, right? To be SAHM (stay at home mom)?? Well, I guess I romanticized the hell out of that notion. I wish, "I could just tear it all down", this feeling I mean (quoting Tim Bluhm, who I'm listening to right now).
Before we left I thought I would be doing more research, but the language barrier is very intimidating for me. I see pregnant women at the church ingesting ayahuasca, and want so bad to ask them questions, but I shrink away once I walk up to them. Instead, I smile and walk on past… Matthew has offered to give informal lessons at home. I think I will take him up on. His research is coming along great. He's very busy. Hey, it just occurred to me that I may be jealous. He's one more step to getting done with his Phd and doing it on something that he is passionate about--Lucky guy. And I'm just being a mom…with the ideas of an anthropologist, but pushing a broom instead of my recorder and pen…
Okay, life can't be all that bad… I think the flies and ants have me down. Since the rains have come we have unexpected houseguests. Winged things, and creepy crawlers are all the rage down here. And just in time for Maddie to start crawling and doing little taste experiments!
Anyohw, Matt had to get some things at the store, so we all went. I hoped this would raise my spirits a bit. It did, somewhat. Maybe I need to go on a run…that always releases some happy endorphins—I wish we were near the ocean… Here are some snaps I took that I thought were interesting scenes. Dig it.
Before we left I thought I would be doing more research, but the language barrier is very intimidating for me. I see pregnant women at the church ingesting ayahuasca, and want so bad to ask them questions, but I shrink away once I walk up to them. Instead, I smile and walk on past… Matthew has offered to give informal lessons at home. I think I will take him up on. His research is coming along great. He's very busy. Hey, it just occurred to me that I may be jealous. He's one more step to getting done with his Phd and doing it on something that he is passionate about--Lucky guy. And I'm just being a mom…with the ideas of an anthropologist, but pushing a broom instead of my recorder and pen…
Okay, life can't be all that bad… I think the flies and ants have me down. Since the rains have come we have unexpected houseguests. Winged things, and creepy crawlers are all the rage down here. And just in time for Maddie to start crawling and doing little taste experiments!
Anyohw, Matt had to get some things at the store, so we all went. I hoped this would raise my spirits a bit. It did, somewhat. Maybe I need to go on a run…that always releases some happy endorphins—I wish we were near the ocean… Here are some snaps I took that I thought were interesting scenes. Dig it.
pics
Supergreen vegetation
Muddy roads leading back to our house
the corner store where i buy most our food
Chickens in the Que (notice the guy is bbqing chickens!)
11.29.2006
Things That Are Good to Know
Hotel vs. Motel
A few things of note before traveling to Brazil. First is the difference between a Hotel and Motel. A hotel is where you will want to stay, for a night or week or what have you. As opposed to a Motel, which in Brazil is universally known as a rent-by-the hour type of establishment, if you get my drift. They are usually housed in modest buildings set off the street, very discreet. You would probably miss them entirely, if not looking for one. We have one on the main drag by our house. Its aptly named the OK Motel, so you don’t have to worry about feeling guilty because there its “OK to have an affair”. I’ve only seen one truck speed out of the driveway and I’ve never seen anyone leave it. Except, today I saw a guy with his shorts hanging off his hips, as is all the fashion here among the youth, run from the driveway and cross the street to where I was walking. As he strode by he looked at me, winked and smiled, like I knew why he was there. It was a perverse encounter.
A few things of note before traveling to Brazil. First is the difference between a Hotel and Motel. A hotel is where you will want to stay, for a night or week or what have you. As opposed to a Motel, which in Brazil is universally known as a rent-by-the hour type of establishment, if you get my drift. They are usually housed in modest buildings set off the street, very discreet. You would probably miss them entirely, if not looking for one. We have one on the main drag by our house. Its aptly named the OK Motel, so you don’t have to worry about feeling guilty because there its “OK to have an affair”. I’ve only seen one truck speed out of the driveway and I’ve never seen anyone leave it. Except, today I saw a guy with his shorts hanging off his hips, as is all the fashion here among the youth, run from the driveway and cross the street to where I was walking. As he strode by he looked at me, winked and smiled, like I knew why he was there. It was a perverse encounter.
Thumbs Up vs. Okay Sign
Using the thumbs up hand gesture is the way to go in Brazil. People use it here as we use the wave in the States. I usually use it as a response to people staring at me; I smile and say "Oi", with a vigorous thumbs up. One thing that you should never do is to lift your hand in the OK gesture, with your thumb and index finger making a circle. This is equivalent to giving someone the bird in Brazil. I’ve only done this once to my friend Cosmo at dinner…oops! Thankfully, he’s got a good sense of humor.Don’t Flush the Paper Down
My whole life I’ve been taught to flush the toilet paper down. But oh no, not here in Brazil. No one flushes TP down, they throw it away in the little waste basket. Which doesn’t make for pleasant experience when using a public restroom. They do equip toilets with a nice sprayer so you can get that “oh so fresh feeling” every time you go. But drying off is another mess because the single-ply TP disintegrates as soon as it makes contact with water. So I don’t use these that often. We did manage to find two-ply TP at a store not too far from here. Yes, we’ve stocked up.
Don’t touch that Shower Head
One thing I had to learn quickly was not to touch the shower heads. You see, they are electric! Yes, that’s right electric. That is how we get hot showers. You have to remember that once you turn on the electric switch of heat up your water, you cannot not adjust the temperature on the shower head because you’ll get shocked. Pure genius in this invention (sarcastic tone). I’m pretty shocked that its caught on, just about every middle class family home has one.
Don’t touch that Shower Head
One thing I had to learn quickly was not to touch the shower heads. You see, they are electric! Yes, that’s right electric. That is how we get hot showers. You have to remember that once you turn on the electric switch of heat up your water, you cannot not adjust the temperature on the shower head because you’ll get shocked. Pure genius in this invention (sarcastic tone). I’m pretty shocked that its caught on, just about every middle class family home has one.
Make Time for Shopping
If you are in the mood for some shopping, make sure you got plenty of time and patience. Once you have finally figured out what you would like to purchase, you give it to a salesperson who writes up a ticket for it. That means, a hand written itemized list of all your items and amount. Then you take the ticket to another counter where you wait in line to pay for the items. Then you take the receipt back to the salesperson that you gave your merchandise to and show them the receipt, then finally you can go. These are just a few things that I can think of to let you know what to look forward to when you travel down to Brazil.
11.20.2006
Rainy Season
Today Grace gave me one of those hugs, you know, the kind where you bury your face into her hair and take a deep breath, where flashes of her babyhood run through your mind. It left me staggering back to washing the dishes with a drunk smile. Moments like these make up my daily life. A smattering of kisses and leg hugs in between washing the floor, or cleaning the bathroom or hanging up clothes.
The day-to-day routines have begun to grind a rut into the tile floors of the house. Its comforting. The other day we made Thanksgiving turkeys by tracing our hands and coloring them in traditional orange and brown--well Gracie’s is a psychedelic swirl of all the colors. I hung them up with pride, thinking, I can’t believe that its November, it feels like I’ve entered into a time warp where its continually August, hot and humid. It hit 90 degrees yesterday and the humidity was so thick you felt like you were walking in a cloud. Everyone knew the rain was coming but when…
Its rainy season here and the mud stuck to our shoes can prove it. Last night around 5 PM we decided to take a walk down to the nature preserve at the bottom of the hill. We started to walk down there with the girls loaded up in the stroller, Matthew threw the umbrella in just in case. About half way down we could see a massive rain cloud, about the size of Texas moving toward us. At the bottom of the hill, we could see the curtain of rain moving slowly up. As we sped down the hill, we questioned whether we should be doing this, but then, its been so hot all day, a little cooling down was in order. A light sprinkle started and then a torrent of downpours, coming in, sheet after sheet. Matt fumbled with the umbrella and put it over the entire stroller. The girls were dry, but we were soaked. We looked at the each other and laughed, enjoying the freedom of feeling the rain dance over our bodies. I looked back up the hill and there were a bunch of kids running into the middle of the street and laying in the newly formed river gushing downstream. The innocence of youth.
We made it to the preserve and trudged the stroller across the front area to a road that led out to a large palapa that over looked a dry lake. The mud was viscous and stuck to the stroller wheels, Matthew was wearing flip-flops and at the time I thought was a poor shoe choice, but given his short clean up time once we got home, I reconsidered as I scrubbed my running shoes. We essentially carried the stroller out to the palapa and we waited for the rain to stop. However, as we waited we feared that it may get dark before the rain ceased and we didn’t have our head lamps. I couldn’t bare the thought of dragging the girls across that road, which was becoming smaller and smaller as it melted into the side of the lake bed, in pitch darkness.
After a few minutes of heated debate on whether we should go or not, Maddie started to fuss. Great timing, kids always have the best timing. I reached down to give her a kiss and she latched onto my bottom lip and started sucking vigorously! I lifted up my shirt and latched her on my teat, grabbed the umbrella and yelled to Matt, “I’m crossing”. I starting walking her across the mud road, securing the umbrella close to us. I felt confident I wouldn’t fall. However, halfway through I became less confident when my foot slipped out and I swaggered, crossing leg over leg, until I finally got my balance. I looked down at Maddie, surely she was a scared as I, but she hadn’t missed a suck.
We made it across without falling into the lake and waited for Matthew and Gracie to do the same. I looked into the graying night, and waited. I started to get a bit worried, but then they appeared. Matthew dragging the stroller with Gracie manning it like a ships’ captain. We were safe onto the sand-compacted walking trails of the preserve. Gracie demanded to go home; “I’m soaked”, she said pathetically. “Okay, we’re on our way” we said.
We slowly walked up the hill, the rain did let up a bit, now it was misting. We turned the corner to our street and let out a sigh of relief. We were home, finally. And after three months of living in the Amazon, a hot shower felt great.
The day-to-day routines have begun to grind a rut into the tile floors of the house. Its comforting. The other day we made Thanksgiving turkeys by tracing our hands and coloring them in traditional orange and brown--well Gracie’s is a psychedelic swirl of all the colors. I hung them up with pride, thinking, I can’t believe that its November, it feels like I’ve entered into a time warp where its continually August, hot and humid. It hit 90 degrees yesterday and the humidity was so thick you felt like you were walking in a cloud. Everyone knew the rain was coming but when…
Its rainy season here and the mud stuck to our shoes can prove it. Last night around 5 PM we decided to take a walk down to the nature preserve at the bottom of the hill. We started to walk down there with the girls loaded up in the stroller, Matthew threw the umbrella in just in case. About half way down we could see a massive rain cloud, about the size of Texas moving toward us. At the bottom of the hill, we could see the curtain of rain moving slowly up. As we sped down the hill, we questioned whether we should be doing this, but then, its been so hot all day, a little cooling down was in order. A light sprinkle started and then a torrent of downpours, coming in, sheet after sheet. Matt fumbled with the umbrella and put it over the entire stroller. The girls were dry, but we were soaked. We looked at the each other and laughed, enjoying the freedom of feeling the rain dance over our bodies. I looked back up the hill and there were a bunch of kids running into the middle of the street and laying in the newly formed river gushing downstream. The innocence of youth.
We made it to the preserve and trudged the stroller across the front area to a road that led out to a large palapa that over looked a dry lake. The mud was viscous and stuck to the stroller wheels, Matthew was wearing flip-flops and at the time I thought was a poor shoe choice, but given his short clean up time once we got home, I reconsidered as I scrubbed my running shoes. We essentially carried the stroller out to the palapa and we waited for the rain to stop. However, as we waited we feared that it may get dark before the rain ceased and we didn’t have our head lamps. I couldn’t bare the thought of dragging the girls across that road, which was becoming smaller and smaller as it melted into the side of the lake bed, in pitch darkness.
After a few minutes of heated debate on whether we should go or not, Maddie started to fuss. Great timing, kids always have the best timing. I reached down to give her a kiss and she latched onto my bottom lip and started sucking vigorously! I lifted up my shirt and latched her on my teat, grabbed the umbrella and yelled to Matt, “I’m crossing”. I starting walking her across the mud road, securing the umbrella close to us. I felt confident I wouldn’t fall. However, halfway through I became less confident when my foot slipped out and I swaggered, crossing leg over leg, until I finally got my balance. I looked down at Maddie, surely she was a scared as I, but she hadn’t missed a suck.
We made it across without falling into the lake and waited for Matthew and Gracie to do the same. I looked into the graying night, and waited. I started to get a bit worried, but then they appeared. Matthew dragging the stroller with Gracie manning it like a ships’ captain. We were safe onto the sand-compacted walking trails of the preserve. Gracie demanded to go home; “I’m soaked”, she said pathetically. “Okay, we’re on our way” we said.
We slowly walked up the hill, the rain did let up a bit, now it was misting. We turned the corner to our street and let out a sigh of relief. We were home, finally. And after three months of living in the Amazon, a hot shower felt great.
11.14.2006
Culinary Limit
Today I reached my culinary limit. As we all know, I am making all the lunches now… Matthew brought home a fresh wild chicken. He said they didn’t have any of the prepared frozen kind, the kind that I am used to cooking (like what we get at the supermarket in the states). I thought, okay, no biggie, I’m sure I can make something delish with it. I took the bag and dropped it into the sink and didn’t think about it again until 11AM, when it came time to prepare it for cooking.
Out of the bag I pulled a chicken, yes the complete chicken with all the innards attached. Now, understand, I’ve never claimed to be one of those chefs that likes to hunt down the prey, skin and cook it. I’m more like the type to go to Whole Foods and buy it, cut and cleaned, removed from anything resembling a live entity with a soul. When I looked at the poor little beak, closed eyes, and dangling feet… a wave of guilt rushed over me, and then, a wave of disgust. I’m all about the Slow Food Movement, but this really putting a face on the food!
I gagged twice, as I shoved its head back into the bag, and stretched its neck across the middle divide of the sink. I grabbed the butcher knife with apprehension, and starting chopping down the neck. A horrible cracking sound rose up, and again I gagged. Man, this is for the birds (pun intended) isn’t there a KFC around?? (in fact there isn’t one fast food restaurant in Rio Branco, which is good, right?). Anyhow, I managed to not vomit while pulling out all the insides, there were things in there I couldn’t identify.
Its funny, but I started to feel better about eating it once I had it cut up into its “proper” portions. I guess I am an American, I like my foods uninhabited , defaced. There is no honor in that, I know. But, I have to say it like it is. So, I threw it all in to a pot, poured some homemade teriyaki sauce over it, added in cut up pineapple and green onions and viola, Teriyaki Chicken, delish! Yes, I am a chef after all!
Gracie & Matthew w/chicken
Out of the bag I pulled a chicken, yes the complete chicken with all the innards attached. Now, understand, I’ve never claimed to be one of those chefs that likes to hunt down the prey, skin and cook it. I’m more like the type to go to Whole Foods and buy it, cut and cleaned, removed from anything resembling a live entity with a soul. When I looked at the poor little beak, closed eyes, and dangling feet… a wave of guilt rushed over me, and then, a wave of disgust. I’m all about the Slow Food Movement, but this really putting a face on the food!
I gagged twice, as I shoved its head back into the bag, and stretched its neck across the middle divide of the sink. I grabbed the butcher knife with apprehension, and starting chopping down the neck. A horrible cracking sound rose up, and again I gagged. Man, this is for the birds (pun intended) isn’t there a KFC around?? (in fact there isn’t one fast food restaurant in Rio Branco, which is good, right?). Anyhow, I managed to not vomit while pulling out all the insides, there were things in there I couldn’t identify.
Its funny, but I started to feel better about eating it once I had it cut up into its “proper” portions. I guess I am an American, I like my foods uninhabited , defaced. There is no honor in that, I know. But, I have to say it like it is. So, I threw it all in to a pot, poured some homemade teriyaki sauce over it, added in cut up pineapple and green onions and viola, Teriyaki Chicken, delish! Yes, I am a chef after all!
Gracie & Matthew w/chicken
11.07.2006
Fond Farewell? To Lana-Nana
This morning I awoke to the sounds of rain drizzle, that always makes me sleep in. Matt had gotten up already. It was 7:15 AM and I could hear Nana in the kitchen washing up dishes from last night. A loud crash from as glass or plate woke up the baby and I thought, "oh well, there goes another". Lets just say that Nana isn't the most graceful. However, after my last post I may have been a bit harsh. My friend, Jamie, reminded me that getting married at thirteen, you don't get much training or many moral lessons.
So, it was 7:15 AM and I could hear Nana in the kitchen washing up dishes from last night. A loud crash from as glass or plate woke up the baby and I thought, “oh well, there goes another”. Lets just say that Nana isn’t the most graceful. However, after my last post I may have been a bit harsh. My friend, Jamie, reminded me that getting married at thirteen, you don’t get much training or many moral lessons.
Yesterday, we had presented her with a list of things that should be done daily, so she had some structure to her week. We felt that she needed structure, due to the fact of her leaving early with dirty pans shoved into the oven and other things to that effect. After a month we had a good idea of how we wanted things to go, so we made up a weekly schedule and told her that if she got things done she could leave early. I had done one day of the schedule on Saturday and finished up by 1pm. So, I thought the schedule wsa reasonable. We also told her to change it around as she saw fit and if she couldn’t finish up by 3pm, she could leave for the next day. That’s fair.
We were on good terms. But this morning Matthew went to get some underwear off the clothes line and noticed that all of our whites were PINK! Yes, Pink… okay, I got a little pissed at this point. I mean, I sucked it up when she dripped bleach all over my black nursing shirt and cool pants I got on Haight-Ashbury in S.F. What really pissed me off, is that she didn’t tell me right after this happened so that I could try to reverse it with bleach. Instead, she rewashed them, WITHOUT BLEACH! Again we had to find out by discovery. We all make mistakes, but owning up to those mistakes and trying to do better, is what makes a good employee, shit, a good person.
She started crying and said she was sorry for all she had done (stealing coins and pain meds, on top of the aforementioned). Now, keep in mind, this is the first apology I’ve heard from her, even after we confronted her about the coins and medicine. She spoke with Matthew while I filled the washing machine with bleach and water. I listened but didn’t understand anything. Matthew called to me and said that she wanted to leave and not come back. I felt bad for her. She is only 16, and I think back on all the shit I did in my adolescence and how cool people were with me… So, I walked inside to her and told Matthew to translate verbatim.
“it’s the choices we make that create the people we are. We all make mistakes, but its how you choose to deal with those mistakes that builds our character. You can’t always run away from uncomfortable situations. (emotional silence here) I would like you to stay, but be honest and upfront with me.” So she looked at me and smiled, I smiled too and she stayed. Then an hour later, she came to Matt and said she still wanted to leave. At that point, we paid her and she left…
As I hang up the load to dry, I can’t help but feel weird about it. I think I am feeling that old martyr feeling again. That same ol’ rut that kept me in a terrible relationship for so long-- (Scarlet O‘hara voice: “I can change him, I know I can”). I think I didn’t want to fire her because I thought I could make her a better person. Sometimes, you just can’t… Welp, at least I saved all the whites except for Matthew’s Eddie Bauer socks, they will have to remain a nice rendition of the 80s IZOD-pink.
So, it was 7:15 AM and I could hear Nana in the kitchen washing up dishes from last night. A loud crash from as glass or plate woke up the baby and I thought, “oh well, there goes another”. Lets just say that Nana isn’t the most graceful. However, after my last post I may have been a bit harsh. My friend, Jamie, reminded me that getting married at thirteen, you don’t get much training or many moral lessons.
Yesterday, we had presented her with a list of things that should be done daily, so she had some structure to her week. We felt that she needed structure, due to the fact of her leaving early with dirty pans shoved into the oven and other things to that effect. After a month we had a good idea of how we wanted things to go, so we made up a weekly schedule and told her that if she got things done she could leave early. I had done one day of the schedule on Saturday and finished up by 1pm. So, I thought the schedule wsa reasonable. We also told her to change it around as she saw fit and if she couldn’t finish up by 3pm, she could leave for the next day. That’s fair.
We were on good terms. But this morning Matthew went to get some underwear off the clothes line and noticed that all of our whites were PINK! Yes, Pink… okay, I got a little pissed at this point. I mean, I sucked it up when she dripped bleach all over my black nursing shirt and cool pants I got on Haight-Ashbury in S.F. What really pissed me off, is that she didn’t tell me right after this happened so that I could try to reverse it with bleach. Instead, she rewashed them, WITHOUT BLEACH! Again we had to find out by discovery. We all make mistakes, but owning up to those mistakes and trying to do better, is what makes a good employee, shit, a good person.
She started crying and said she was sorry for all she had done (stealing coins and pain meds, on top of the aforementioned). Now, keep in mind, this is the first apology I’ve heard from her, even after we confronted her about the coins and medicine. She spoke with Matthew while I filled the washing machine with bleach and water. I listened but didn’t understand anything. Matthew called to me and said that she wanted to leave and not come back. I felt bad for her. She is only 16, and I think back on all the shit I did in my adolescence and how cool people were with me… So, I walked inside to her and told Matthew to translate verbatim.
“it’s the choices we make that create the people we are. We all make mistakes, but its how you choose to deal with those mistakes that builds our character. You can’t always run away from uncomfortable situations. (emotional silence here) I would like you to stay, but be honest and upfront with me.” So she looked at me and smiled, I smiled too and she stayed. Then an hour later, she came to Matt and said she still wanted to leave. At that point, we paid her and she left…
As I hang up the load to dry, I can’t help but feel weird about it. I think I am feeling that old martyr feeling again. That same ol’ rut that kept me in a terrible relationship for so long-- (Scarlet O‘hara voice: “I can change him, I know I can”). I think I didn’t want to fire her because I thought I could make her a better person. Sometimes, you just can’t… Welp, at least I saved all the whites except for Matthew’s Eddie Bauer socks, they will have to remain a nice rendition of the 80s IZOD-pink.
10.30.2006
Dona de Casa: Part Two
Today marks one month in our new home. A routine has established and I’m feeling much better about having the help around here. However, there are some things that are disturbing about having someone underfoot. Before I delve into the oddities of having someone around all day, let me rant for a minute.
First off, Lana’s name really isn’t Lana, its Nana. She never corrected me. About two weeks into her employment, she told Matthew it was Nana. It took me a few days to get it straight and Grace still calls her Lana. Secondly, for all of you who are wondering if Nana is pregnant, she is not. It did come out that she is on fertility pills, which is disturbing to me, since she is only sixteen. Does the government pay for fertility treatments? How many treatments are you allowed?, who qualifies? If she doesn’t, How can she afford this? Interesting thread here, considering people in the US pay beaucoup bucks for said treatments. Questions I would love to ask, again I feel mute…
This revelation does disturb me, but not as much as the day she communicated that she has been married for three years. I stared at her in amazement, as I slowly understood what she was saying. I reiterated what she said as best I could by making hand gestures and using broken Portuguese to make sure I understood that in fact she got married at thirteen. “Da, da, certo” (yes, yes, right) she said. I was, I AM, appalled! I felt like a great injustice was done to this girl. She quit school at thirteen and got married. I’ve been trying to understand this but having two girls, I don’t think I can swallow this bitter pill. I know I’m being ethnocentric here and yes this does happen in the States, but usually the girl is pregnant…but even then, thirteen is pretty much on the young end of the spectrum. To my credit I did talk to Francimar about this, to get a local perspective and she agrees that, as she says, “its disgusting” to allow a 13- year-old to get married, not to mention against the law. I prodded her a bit more and she went on to say that sometimes parents will go with the couple to the court and state that they are okay with the arrangement, then a type of adoption occurs, where the husband to be adopts the girl.
Brazilian law states that girls can marry at sixteen with parental consent, and Cosmo believes that if she did get married at thirteen, it was not a legal ceremony, or it was an adoption type arrangement. I also found out that children are not allow to work until they are 18, they must apprentice for two years before starting to work. I think Nana would have benefited from apprenticing, but since she is married she is exempt from this policy.
Okay, moving on to having someone in your stuff all day. After a month of having someone here, this is what’s bothering me. First of all, she shoves all of our personal stuff into all kinds of places, off of the counter surfaces and out of sight. She was probably told to keep all surface areas cleared of nick-nacks. So when we go to find, oh, lets say, a set of keys that were on the bureau, we have to hunt in all the drawers. Second, when I’m home, for example, the other day I was showing Gracie pictures on the camera, and I looked up and she was standing at the door staring at us. Then twice, I went to find my flip-flops and she was wearing them!! And to top it all off, I noticed she has been dipping into my facial cream--the movie Single White Female came to mind (those of you too young to get this reference here’s the link). So what, you might ask. Yea, so what, maybe I‘m being paranoid. So, she may be a little weird, a little young and I don’t want to say dense, but sometimes, yes, dense. Like washing my purple velour hand-towel with my white cotton bath towel (which is a lovely shade of lavender now)or putting fabric softner into the steam function on the iron because the bottle said "helps with ironing". But hey, she keeps my floors clean, has the coffee made by 7 every morning, and has lunch on the table everyday at 12:30. I’ve got nothing to complain about…except for the flip-flop thang, that’s kinda weird.
First off, Lana’s name really isn’t Lana, its Nana. She never corrected me. About two weeks into her employment, she told Matthew it was Nana. It took me a few days to get it straight and Grace still calls her Lana. Secondly, for all of you who are wondering if Nana is pregnant, she is not. It did come out that she is on fertility pills, which is disturbing to me, since she is only sixteen. Does the government pay for fertility treatments? How many treatments are you allowed?, who qualifies? If she doesn’t, How can she afford this? Interesting thread here, considering people in the US pay beaucoup bucks for said treatments. Questions I would love to ask, again I feel mute…
This revelation does disturb me, but not as much as the day she communicated that she has been married for three years. I stared at her in amazement, as I slowly understood what she was saying. I reiterated what she said as best I could by making hand gestures and using broken Portuguese to make sure I understood that in fact she got married at thirteen. “Da, da, certo” (yes, yes, right) she said. I was, I AM, appalled! I felt like a great injustice was done to this girl. She quit school at thirteen and got married. I’ve been trying to understand this but having two girls, I don’t think I can swallow this bitter pill. I know I’m being ethnocentric here and yes this does happen in the States, but usually the girl is pregnant…but even then, thirteen is pretty much on the young end of the spectrum. To my credit I did talk to Francimar about this, to get a local perspective and she agrees that, as she says, “its disgusting” to allow a 13- year-old to get married, not to mention against the law. I prodded her a bit more and she went on to say that sometimes parents will go with the couple to the court and state that they are okay with the arrangement, then a type of adoption occurs, where the husband to be adopts the girl.
Brazilian law states that girls can marry at sixteen with parental consent, and Cosmo believes that if she did get married at thirteen, it was not a legal ceremony, or it was an adoption type arrangement. I also found out that children are not allow to work until they are 18, they must apprentice for two years before starting to work. I think Nana would have benefited from apprenticing, but since she is married she is exempt from this policy.
Okay, moving on to having someone in your stuff all day. After a month of having someone here, this is what’s bothering me. First of all, she shoves all of our personal stuff into all kinds of places, off of the counter surfaces and out of sight. She was probably told to keep all surface areas cleared of nick-nacks. So when we go to find, oh, lets say, a set of keys that were on the bureau, we have to hunt in all the drawers. Second, when I’m home, for example, the other day I was showing Gracie pictures on the camera, and I looked up and she was standing at the door staring at us. Then twice, I went to find my flip-flops and she was wearing them!! And to top it all off, I noticed she has been dipping into my facial cream--the movie Single White Female came to mind (those of you too young to get this reference here’s the link). So what, you might ask. Yea, so what, maybe I‘m being paranoid. So, she may be a little weird, a little young and I don’t want to say dense, but sometimes, yes, dense. Like washing my purple velour hand-towel with my white cotton bath towel (which is a lovely shade of lavender now)or putting fabric softner into the steam function on the iron because the bottle said "helps with ironing". But hey, she keeps my floors clean, has the coffee made by 7 every morning, and has lunch on the table everyday at 12:30. I’ve got nothing to complain about…except for the flip-flop thang, that’s kinda weird.
10.26.2006
Bolivia
Our trip to Bolivia was somewhat of a let down. When Cosmo picked us up bright and early for our trip to Bolivia, I had so many cool expectations. I had imagined brightly colored textiles, women with long black braids and broad faces, with babies wrapped on their backs, weaving beautiful rugs…this wasn’t exactly what we encountered.
We piled into the red VW Golf and flew to a Shell gas station to fuel up (you think gas is expensive in the states? Try six bucks a gallon!). The trip would take about three hours. The road had the familiar bumps I’ve come to associate with Brazilian roads, but instead of winding, it stretched out straight in front of us, like a long zipper. We were flanked with wide open farm land, accented with white cows. I noticed there were tall trees with plumage at the very top. A tree that looked as if it was once part of the forest canopy, but looked naked, vulnerable, standing by themselves dotting the horizon.
Cosmo noticed me looking at the trees and told us that Brazil passed a law, making it illegal to cut down the castanha tree (the Brazil nut tree). So what we saw, was the deforestation of the jungle, all except the fortunate castanha tree…or the not so fortunate, if you ask me.
I couldn’t wait to get to Bolivia and buy fresh tortillas. Once we got to the border town of Cobija, we stopped at a restaurant for a bite to eat. Cosmo had never heard of tortillas and Matthew asked the waiter if they had them in Bolivia. He said yes, and that got us even more excited. Its funny but before we left the states, I would have never expected to miss tortillas!! I guess, for us, it is a household staple. Grace insists on having quesadillas so I have to make her a grill cheese sandwich, cut off the crusts and tell her its made with Brazilian tortillas! The food at the restaurant was Brazilian food, which was a disappointment I guess it’s the same in all border towns, the borders become blurred after while (a good example of this would be San Ysidro).
After lunch, Cosmo took us to the center of town, where all the action was. My heart sank as we drove down the street and I looked out the window. What I saw was basically Tijuana for Brazilians. For those of you not familiar with Southern California, Tijuana is where Californians go to find a plethora of “brand name“ items at a fraction of the price. I parentheses brand name, because its assumed that these items are forgeries. We walked down one side of the street filled with one shop after another selling the same things, designer perfumes, kitchen wares, toys and electronics, oh and least not, fake Christmas trees adorned with snow spray… what a bummer. Although, I did see one older woman with long braids down her back, that were tied together and dreaded out at the bottom. I imagined she had never cut her hair, this was a far cry from what I had imagined. I guess nothing is ever how we imagine it to be, right?
Anyhow, we did our best to buy up crap we didn’t need and settled for the small indigenous experience of drinking fresh squeezed orange juice from a woman peeling and squeezing on the corner. She had a hand crank peeler, which cut the peel into one long curling strip as she churned the hand crank. It made for a lovely orange colored fringe around her cart. I imagine that she dries the peels and uses them for tea.
We ended our trip by purchasing about 15 pirated DVDs, and we’re excited at the prospect of watching Pirates of the Caribbean II. However, once home, only five of the fifteen DVDs worked (serves us right for buying pirated copies!)…that pretty much sums up our trip to Bolivia.
We piled into the red VW Golf and flew to a Shell gas station to fuel up (you think gas is expensive in the states? Try six bucks a gallon!). The trip would take about three hours. The road had the familiar bumps I’ve come to associate with Brazilian roads, but instead of winding, it stretched out straight in front of us, like a long zipper. We were flanked with wide open farm land, accented with white cows. I noticed there were tall trees with plumage at the very top. A tree that looked as if it was once part of the forest canopy, but looked naked, vulnerable, standing by themselves dotting the horizon.
Cosmo noticed me looking at the trees and told us that Brazil passed a law, making it illegal to cut down the castanha tree (the Brazil nut tree). So what we saw, was the deforestation of the jungle, all except the fortunate castanha tree…or the not so fortunate, if you ask me.
I couldn’t wait to get to Bolivia and buy fresh tortillas. Once we got to the border town of Cobija, we stopped at a restaurant for a bite to eat. Cosmo had never heard of tortillas and Matthew asked the waiter if they had them in Bolivia. He said yes, and that got us even more excited. Its funny but before we left the states, I would have never expected to miss tortillas!! I guess, for us, it is a household staple. Grace insists on having quesadillas so I have to make her a grill cheese sandwich, cut off the crusts and tell her its made with Brazilian tortillas! The food at the restaurant was Brazilian food, which was a disappointment I guess it’s the same in all border towns, the borders become blurred after while (a good example of this would be San Ysidro).
After lunch, Cosmo took us to the center of town, where all the action was. My heart sank as we drove down the street and I looked out the window. What I saw was basically Tijuana for Brazilians. For those of you not familiar with Southern California, Tijuana is where Californians go to find a plethora of “brand name“ items at a fraction of the price. I parentheses brand name, because its assumed that these items are forgeries. We walked down one side of the street filled with one shop after another selling the same things, designer perfumes, kitchen wares, toys and electronics, oh and least not, fake Christmas trees adorned with snow spray… what a bummer. Although, I did see one older woman with long braids down her back, that were tied together and dreaded out at the bottom. I imagined she had never cut her hair, this was a far cry from what I had imagined. I guess nothing is ever how we imagine it to be, right?
Anyhow, we did our best to buy up crap we didn’t need and settled for the small indigenous experience of drinking fresh squeezed orange juice from a woman peeling and squeezing on the corner. She had a hand crank peeler, which cut the peel into one long curling strip as she churned the hand crank. It made for a lovely orange colored fringe around her cart. I imagine that she dries the peels and uses them for tea.
We ended our trip by purchasing about 15 pirated DVDs, and we’re excited at the prospect of watching Pirates of the Caribbean II. However, once home, only five of the fifteen DVDs worked (serves us right for buying pirated copies!)…that pretty much sums up our trip to Bolivia.
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