Missing…And Nothing More

A translation of my previous post in Portuguese:

Saudades.

A very special word for me.  Because I can’t say this word in English.  And because it reminds me of Pablo, Portuguese, and the people of Salvador.

In English, I would say that saudades means that I am feeling the lack of something.  But, it is more than this.  When I say “saudades”, I am recognizing the difference that exists without something.  But also, I am remembering.  I am remembering what makes this difference.  That is to say, when I am missing something, I not only have the lack, but also, the memory.  This is the beauty of the word.  The beauty of it’s meaning.

That’s why it is not so terrible to be missing my Brazil.  My experience there.  Of course, when I am dying of cold in the middle of the snow and ice here in Detroit, I am feeling the lack of the heat and of the eternal sun of Salvador.  However, I warm-up as I remember my time spent sprawled on the brown beach beside the sea.

When I remember more, my heart fills full of the happiness of the kids in the community project Siloé, where I taught English and where I was taught in the slang that is the true language of Salvador.

I arrived here two weeks ago, and I already I miss so much the people, places, and other things that I got to know during my time in Brazil.  Therefore, it is impossible to list off everything for you.  But I am going to start and continue each time that I feel the need to share more of the differences and memories that connect my experiences that make up life.

Thus, to start:

I miss my host mom, Aurea, such a caring and beautiful woman.

I miss the three bananas, two guavas, and one papaya that I ate every day.

I thought that I would never say this, but, I miss rice and beans.

I miss the community of IBAM (Metropolitan Baptist Church) and the hugs there.

I miss EBEC, the English school, where the CIEE study abroad program was located.

I miss the smile of Pericles, the doorman at EBEC.

I miss the way in which Pericles always would say: “It is such a delight!” about everything in Salvador.

Saudades…e Nada Mais

Saudades.

Uma palavra muito especial para mim.  Porque não posso falar essa palavra em inglês.  E porque me faz lembrar de Pablo, português, e o povo de Salvador.

Em inglês, eu falaria que saudades significa que estou sentindo a falta de alguma coisa.  Mas, é mais do que isso.  Quando digo “saudades”, estou reconhecendo a diferença que existe sem alguma coisa.  Mas também, estou lembrando.  Estou lembrando o que faz essa diferença.  Quer dizer, quando estou com saudades, não só estou com a falta, mas também, com a lembrança.  Isso é a beleza da palavra.  A beleza do sentido.

Por isso, não é tão chato ficar com saudades do meu Brasil.  Da minha experiência lá.  Claro enquanto estou morrendo de frio no meio da neve e gelo aqui em Detroit, estou sentindo a falta do calor e do sol eterno de Salvador.  Porém, estou esquecendo enquanto me lembrar meu tempo passado deitada na areia bronzeada ao lado do mar.

Quando me lembro mais, meu coração enchee até ele fica cheio da felicidade das crianças no projeto de Siloé, onde eu ensinava inglês e estava ensinada na gíria que faz a língua verdadeira de Salvador.

Faz um mês que cheguei aqui, e estou com um morro de saudades das pessoas, lugares, e outras coisas que conheci durante meu tempo no Brasil.  Portanto, é impossível contar a lista inteira para você.  Mas vou começar e continuar cada vez que sinto a necessidade de compartilhar mais das diferenças e lembranças que ligam minhas experiências que faz a vida.

Então, pra começar:

Saudades da minha mãe, Áurea, uma mulher tão linda e carinhosa.

Saudades das três bananas, duas goiabas, e um mamão que comia cada dia.

Achei que nunca falaria isso, mas, saudades de arroz e feijão.

Saudades da comunidade de IBAM (Igreja Batista Metropolitana) e os abraços lá.

Saudades de EBEC, a escola de inglês, onde fica o escritório do programa de CIEE.

Saudades do sorriso de Pericles, o porteiro de EBEC.

Saudades do jeito em que Pericles sempre falaria: “É uma delícia!” sobre todas as coisas de Salvador.

She Tells of Tree Tales

My friend Amanda tells me that the trees in Campo Grande talk to her.

She’s gotten to know them after many morning laps around the central city square in her matching spandex jogging suit that every baiana somehow squeezes into, their bodies painted in floral print that makes my fashion-forward friends want to puke.

I contemplated buying one for myself, but when I shared this thought, my other friends laughed so hard that I quickly stuffed the dream back inside myself before they found out that I was serious.

Amanda doesn’t care though.  She has a jeito all of her own—her ‘fro bobbing back and forth as she weaves beneath the trees, listening as they whisper wonders.

The big old giant on the corner always grumbles over secret sprinkles as his roots sit above the ground in separate sections, conveniently forming stalls that stand firm in the well-fertilized dark-brown dirt.

Peeing in public is nothing to blush over even in the middle of a bustling day downtown.  My friend once saw a weary walker sitting near a puddle in the square.  It wasn’t until she passed by that she perceived the puddle to be promptly pullulating, nourished by the trickle dribbling down the woman’s floral-printed pant-leg.

The tall, willowy tamarind tends to bemoan the boys and their white kite strings that slice through the sky only to snag themselves in her tresses, tangling their tails in the labyrinth of her swinging vines.

I once saw a boy flying a kite in the middle of a busy main street, dancing along while flapping his flimsy piece of plastic.  The two of them were dodging in and out of disinterested traffic until suddenly the string snagged straight onto the front of a passing car, whose arrested antenna arched back, bending beneath the tension created by the fierce grasp of the boy on the other end, who sprinted, shrieking behind the automobile, determined not the lose the tug-of-war.

The branches of the muttering mangoes mask the mugs of their macaco (monkey) members who meekly manifest themselves upon presentation of palatable provisions.  Their wisely whiskered faces win the hearts of all American estrangeiros sick of simply seeing squirrels skirt the sidewalk saplings.

Perhaps Amanda tells the truth about the treasures of the trees that are found just by listening to the language of their leaves.

***************************************************************************************************************

Check out these fantastic fotos of trees that my mom forwarded to me.  I especially like the image of the Jabuticaba, a Brasilian tree whose fruit grows directly on the trunk and branches.

Uma Semana Já

It’s been an interesting transition back to the United States.  Not only the present, but the past seems so foreign to me.

The Lydia I am now doesn’t seem to fit into this frosted world of frumpy coats and boots and frozen smiles.  When I click through old photographs, it is difficult to recognize the middle child of my family, to place myself in her unguarded eyes.  As the daughter of two missionary kids, I’ve heard the basics of Reverse Cultural Shock 101.  I knew that I was going to feel like an alien.  I just didn’t realize the extent to which I would feel unfamiliar unto myself.

Dad said I can’t just forget the old me.  I need to accept the chubby middle-schooler, the too-nice, naively people-pleasing high-schooler, the chubbier college freshman, the save-the-world, Spanish-speaking, orphan-hugging sophomore, and the invisible, love-sick, hidden hermit junior as all part of what’s shaped the present me.

So, instead of deleting the rest of all my unflattering old Facebook photos, I deactivated my account (again).  I decided that it’s all I can do to keep up with my face-to-face friends without trying to include past pages in the present chapter of my book.  Seriously, though, people.  There is always email.

In a rare moment of isolation and inspiration amidst the almost-Christmas bustle, I managed to pen this poem to express how quickly time and transitions can run away from you.

Uma semana já
Passou sem parar
Passou sem me permitir
Tempo pra pensar
 
Uma semana já
Passou sem parar
Passou sem mim ver
O sol nem céu azul
 
Uma semana já
Passou sem parar
Passou sem mim conversar
Na língua que me apaixonou
 
Uma semana já
Passou sem parar
Passou sem mim sentir
O rítmo do mar
 
Uma semana já
Passou sem parar
Passou sem mim andar
Nas ruas do meu coração

Creative Translation:

One week already
Passed by without stopping
Passed by without allowing me
Time to think
 
One week already
Passed by without stopping
Passed by without me seeing
The sun nor the blue sky
 
One week already
Passed by without stopping
Passed by without me talking
In the language that I’ve learned to love
 
One week already
Passed by without stopping
Passed by without me feeling
The rhythm of the sea
 
One week already
Passed by without stopping
Passed by without me walking
Through the streets of my heart

Word on the Street

There’s always some barulho in Salvador.  Vendors hawking their wares, friends yelling to their neighbor in the street, and people banging on the side of the bus to get it to open its back door.  Not to mention the beeping.

Here in Salvador, there is a unique culture of car horns.  At first I was taken aback by the licentious beeping.  I come from a culture in which honking is considered rude and only to be done in emergency situations–that is to say, “Watch out!”  No one likes the angry driver who is constantly blowing his horn.

Employing this same belligerent connotation to the unconstrained beeping that I heard on my way from the airport, I found it hard to believe those who told me that Baianos are among the happiest people you’ll find.  “If you’re so happy and full of sunshine,” I thought, “then why are you constantly blowing your horn??”

But after driving with my host mom, one of the nicest women on the planet, and losing track of how many times she honked her horn, I realized that I had misjudged the beeping barulho. 

In fact, the culture of the car horn is far more amiable than I had initially imagined.  What is generally viewed as “bad manners” in the United States is the tool that treats transit with far greater politeness here in Salvador.

Like a bicycle bell, Baianos use their beep to warn others of their oncoming presence, as well as to ask permission to enter traffic, to grant it, and to say “thank you”.  The cars thus converse with one another as follows:

*beep*: “Hey, can I back out into traffic in front of you?” 

*beep*: “Sure, go ahead!” 

*beep*: “Thank you!” 

and sometimes…

*beep*: “You’re welcome!” 

Each exchange of light, little tones–always the same intensity and frequency–communicates concisely, quickly, and clearly different information depending on the situation.

The creation of these conversations stems from the sharp turns, blind corners, and very nature of driving itself, in which lanes are invisible and red lights are optional.  Thus, for the motorcycle brushing up along the blind side of the bus, it becomes necessary to say, “Hey!  I’m here!”  Or for the bus bending around a sharp curve to say “Look out!  Here I come!” 

While this medley of Morse-coded messages may sound like the angry chorus of frustrated transit, the beeps are part of another language–a discourse driven by bus, car, and motorcycle alike, spoken out of the reality created by the shape of Salvadorean streets.

Sweet Vengeance

There are few foods that I could eat everyday for the rest of my life, and I have discovered that rice and beans is not one of them.

As the day to go embora is quickly approaching, I can almost taste the cottage cheese, Greek yogurt, and froyo that are always present in my parents’ fridge.  I don’t know why I listed all dairy products.  Perhaps because I still haven’t adjusted to the milk here.  It has this really strong distinct flavor that tends to go away a little if I mix it with enough water or with a banana and chocolate powder when blending up a vitamina.  I think my resistance to the taste might be related to the moment during the summer when I discovered where my host mom stores the excess boxes of milk—in the closet.

Not to mention the ants.  I swear the FBI should recruit these tiny creatures which can seek out the source of any and every piece of organic and possibly edible matter.  If I drop just one crumb on the floor or spill one drop of juice, in just seconds the colorful matter is completely eclipsed by a swarm of tiny ants, a black blob whose tail–the trail of still more ants anxiously arriving–extends across the tiles, dipping in the grouted valleys and winding along the wall, finally disappearing in a crack beneath the cupboard.  One of my morning rituals involves massacring a mountain of these insistent insects, my indignation rising when I find their little brown antennas wiggling through the bristles on my toothbrush.

The other day, I fastened a bag of caramels with a clip, wrapped it in a plastic bag, and stuck it in my carry-on bag, zipped shut, and put the entire suitcase inside my armoire on the top shelf and closed the doors.  But lo and behold, these little sniffing stinkers still somehow snuck inside.  When I opened the doors and undid all the locks and bolts, I found hundreds of little ants swarming inside my clipped-shut bag of caramels, many of which had already slipped within the individually wrapped candies themselves, their faces smushed between the plastic and pure sweet pleasure.  That was supposed to be mine.

Recently when working on a project with my friend Rochelle, she pointed to a blotch on her laptop screen, “Do you know what that is?”  “No, what?”  As I leaned in for a closer look, the broken brown body of an ant came into view, its squashed self fossilized forever—stuck behind her computer screen.

Apparently, one day while working on her computer, Rochelle saw this ant crawling across her screen.  When she tried to flick it away, it stayed, instead of skedaddling, smushed behind her screen.  It was then that she realized, that the ant had in fact snuck inside her laptop, and was wandering its way around on the other side.

Que bom,” I said, “Now you’ll always have a little smudge of Salvador on your screen.”

Out of Context

I don’t really know what I look like anymore.  I’ve been called so many different things that it’s hard to cling to one physical identity over another.

My previous personal descriptions have long been thrown out the window as I’ve struggled to understand the perceptions of my physical presence here in Brasil.  I have found that my mirror changes with each new place I go, as every community reflects (or perhaps projects) a diferente physical reality.

I left the United States as a brown-haires, brown-eyed, slightly-shorter-than-normal white girl with round cheecks that dimpled when I smiled and that unfortunately tended to squeeze my eyes shut in photos.  Long days at the beach have since bronzed my skin and bleached my hair, and yet, I still look more or less the same, and in the States would use the same physical description as before.

But in Bahia, the mirror is held with darker hands.  Here, my sandy-brown hair is briliantly blonde, my bronzed skin a betraying branco, and my hazely-brown eyes as good as blue.

I am a circle amidst a sea of squares, and I know it just as much as they do.  No matter how much I try to wiggle my tongue around the local gíria, or slang, speaking “bem baiano” at times, still I can’t seem to escape the question, “Você é de onde?”, which sometimes even proceeds an introduction.

One day when my friend Rebecca and I got on the bus headed to our afternoon English class in the bairro Lobato, reviewing our lesson in Portuguese, a man in front of us became convinced that she was from Italy.  When she said no, he proceeded to guess every country in Europe and Latin América, from France to Argentina–all except the United States.  Gleefully beside herself, Rebecca finally told him, “americana!”  For her, being an estrangeira from Argentina is at least better than being branded as American.

In the city or in the suburbs, on the beach, the bus, or in the classroom, everyone who sees me knows that I don’t really belong here.

In my whiter, lighter circles of friends, I’ll sometimes pass as brasileira, but never as baiana–only carioca (from Rio de Janeiro) or paulista (from São Paulo), if I’m lucky.

But on the streets of Salvador, my loira looks spark all kinds of unwanted attention, turning the tables on this seasoned observer, placing me in the uncomfortable position of constantly being watched.  When my personality would just like most to slip from one shadow to the next, unnoticed and unseen, my fairer skin screams instead, “Look at me!”  And when people look, they recognize, “Ah, ela não tem cara de brasileira, não.”  I know.  Here in Bahia, é óbvio, né?

However, all it takes is less than a two-hour plane South down the coast to Rio to completely transform the looking glass.  When I took a trip to Rio de Janeiro with my study abroad program a few weeks ago, I felt as if I had entered another world.  Another bigger, brighter, lighter, and whiter world in which all the buses were numbered and actually claimed to run according to some schedule (one which I never quite figured out in my 4 days there).  I felt as if I was in the middle of New York City and somewhere in Europe.*

The hardest part of Rio was trying to find its carioca residentes.  That city is filled full with foreigners, mostly European tourists and English teachers (of course, the fact that I stayed in an international hostel didn’t help my impression).  Besides the breathtaking beauty of the city itself, the best part about Rio was that I became Brasilian!  Or at least I was mistaken for one.  That or someone from Portugal, since my Bahian accent and introverted histency was confusing.

My bronzed branquitude blended beautifully in the chic neighborhoods of Ipanema, Copacabana, and Leblon as well as in the comercial center of the city.  There, if I avoided English, I passed and my fairer appearance was accepted at any corner juice bar, where I could order a deliciously cheap cup of açaí to-go like a local.

Yet, when my friend Rebecca and I hiked a trail behind the favela Vidigal which climbs the mountain on the far-right said of Praia de Ipanema (facing the sea), we quickly realized that we were the only two white people in the bairro.  Once we reached the trailhead, however, we passed mostly white-skinned Brasilian tourists from São Paulo and other parts of southern Brasil.  Back on the beach again in Ipanema was another story, and we would’ve passed for Brasilian if not for the fact that we brought napkin-wrapped sandwiches from the hostel instead of ordering food from the beach barracas.

The image in the mirror morphed yet again when our plane touched down in the city of São Paulo.  In the short walk from the plane to the airport, I was convinced I was dying from frostbite in the rainy, upper-fifty degree windy weather as all I had packed were shorts and tank tops.

I had never seen so many naturally blonde Brasilians in my life!  True to the stereotype, everyone in the airport was classily dressed in chic jackets, pants, and scarves (it was cold, people!), and as I looked into pairs of blue, green, and hazely-brown eyes, I felt simultaneously accepted and wierdly out of place as my bright Bahian colors and tan skin betrayed my foreignness as there’s no coastline in São Paulo.  Seriously though, I had forgotten how white people could get.

Rafting down the river beneath the Falls of Iguaçu and yelling in Portuguese to Rebecca as we raced back and forth along the border with Argentina towards the thundering waterfalls, we were baptized yet again with new identities.  While our very presence at the tourist centers of the city gave us away as non-locals, the fact that we spoke Portuguese convinced everyone we met that we couldn’t possibly be American.  Most often we were mistaken for/assumed to be Brasilians on vacation in Foz do Iguaçu.  One woman from São Paulo actually thought we were joking when we would say an English word here and there, as it is comman for Brasilians to play around and throw in an English word in conversation.  She didn’t believe us at first when we said that that was really our first language.

Being thought Brasilian, instead of merely being present in a Brasilian space is a wonderful thing.  And the sense of belonging that results from this recognized inclusion is a wonderful feeling.  Acceptance creates security for your soul.

That is why, as I boarded the plane to Salvador, I was filled with apprehension at the thought of losing this welcome misinterpretation of my national identity based on the south-eastern and south-western Brasilians’ social reflection (or construction) of my phsycial appearance and linguistic ability.  I didn’t want to give up these precious sentiments of acceptance that I felt due to the false conclusions of others as a result of their own social and racial norms.

As I bounced along the bus from the airport in Salvador to my apartment in the city’s center, I felt–even more profoundly than before–my foreignness.  I realized for the first time that while I felt as if I was coming home, to the rest of the bus I was just another blonde, blue-eyed tourist.  I have lived here for the past 4 months, dogonnit!  But as I looked into the dark eyes of the man next to me and felt the curious glances of the old woman two rows back, I understood just how irrelevant 4 months can be when all people can see is your reflection in their mirror.

While I’d like to be dramatic and end my story there, I have experienced more hopeful angles that keep me anticipating greater complexities in the outward understandings of myself.

The day after I got back to Salvador, walking along Rua de Graça, I heard someone call, “Moça!”  I looked up, startled from my concentrated navigation of my feet along the broken sidewalk tiles.  To my pleasant surprise, a woman proceeded to ask me directions to Campo Grande.  What was even more exciting, however, was that I actually knew what that was, where that was, and how to tell her to get there!

You couldn’t have stretched a bigger smile across my cheeks as I skipped and tripped along those same old broken tiles, my eyes no longer on my feet, but lifted high above the ground, as I headed back home.

*Disclaimer: I’ve never actually been to Europe.

Sand, Sea, and Salvador

One of my favorite conversation questions with people I meet is: “Qual é sua praia preferida?”  Or “What is your favorite beach?”  I never knew that there were so many different types of beaches until I came to Salvador.  The diversity of shore that lines this peninsula is astounding.  What is particularly amusing to me, however, is the way in which Bahians talk about and classify the different sections of shoreline, when to me, it’s really all one big long beach.  But just as each bairro has its own unique characteristics, so the look and feel of each piece of praia changes according to its location on the peninsula and the neighborhood that’s settled beside it.

The farther north you go, the more room you have to breathe in the air and spread out your conga in the sand without laying in someone else’s shadow.  These beaches, like Praia do Flamengo, or Itapuã, are still a feasible day trip away and are the preference of many Bahians that I talk to, who dislike the crowded beaches in the bay, describing Porto da Barra as “sempre cheia das pessoas” as they wrinkle up their noses and flap their hands like talking mouths.  While my introverted soul rejoices at the more “tranquilo” atmosphere of the northern  beaches outside the bay, I loved vibrant community feel of Praia de Boa Viagem which still hugs the curve of the bay in Ribeira, where the less “chic” Brasilians live, work, play, where funky blasts from bayside barracas (thatch-roofed seafood stands) and where young (and old!) men do flips off the crumbling stone dock.

While I have learned that every praia is unique, some things seem characteristic to any beach in Brasil: there’s always a soccer game played by buff guys whose butts are squeezed into skin-tight speedos, a paddle board game played by old, pot-bellied guys whose butts are also squeezed into the same skin-tight speedos, congas in the sand, kites in the sky, and of course, the beach vendors that hawk everything from picolés (popsicles), to caipirinhas, chilled água de coco (a coconut with a straw), and freshly fried cheese on a stick.
The infamous Porto da Barra.  I took this photo early in the morning, so the beach is still fairly empty.  Usually you can hardly walk through all the beach umbrellas and people sprawled on the sand.

The infamous Porto da Barra. I took this photo early in the morning, so the beach is still fairly empty. Usually you can hardly walk through all the beach umbrellas and people sprawled on the sand.

The view from Porto da Barra includes Ilha da Itaparica in the distance speckled with red barges and brightly colored fishing boats that sit close to the shore.  I took this shot during an aguathlon (running and swimming) that my friend Rebecca did.

The view from Porto da Barra includes Ilha da Itaparica in the distance speckled with red barges and brightly colored fishing boats that sit close to the shore. I took this shot during an aguathlon (running and swimming) that my friend Rebecca did.

Porto da Barra is about a 20-minute walk from my house--the closest beach.

Porto da Barra is about a 20-minute walk from my house–the closest beach.

A sand sculptor recovering some of his work after a storm.

A sand sculptor recovering some of his work after a storm.

Praia do Itapuã is much farther north outside of the bay.  You take the orla bus, which is all shoreline view as you wind your way up the peninsula.

Praia do Itapuã is much farther north outside of the bay. You take the orla bus, which is all shoreline view as you wind your way up the peninsula.

To the right of us, the peninsula and the city

To the right of us,  closer to the city

To the left, endless ocean shoreline

To the left, endless ocean shoreline

Fishing boats in Itapuã

Fishing boats in Itapuã

Farol de Itapuã

Farol de Itapuã

More lighthouse views.  There was a man fishing off the rocks

More lighthouse views. There was a man fishing off the rocks.

Silly shadow pictures

Silly shadow pictures

The sun began to set and we knew it was time to get home.  While I love the beaches farther to the north, it is safest to leave around 4 and not wait around until evening comes.

The sun began to set and we knew it was time to get home. While I love the beaches farther to the north, it is safest to leave around 4 and not wait around until evening comes.

Black and white view of Salvador

Black and white view of Salvador

Amanda being Amanda

Amanda being Amanda

Eu te amo meu Brasil!

Eu te amo meu Brasil!

Praia do Flamengo is the farthest beach to the north that can still be a day trip.  After church one Sunday (which is in the same direction), my friend Rebecca and I got back on the bus for what seemed like forever, until I didn't even recognize Salvador anymore.  There were actually houses instead of high-rises!  And quaint little communities of condominiums by the shore.

Praia do Flamengo is the farthest beach to the north that can still be a day trip. After church one Sunday (which is in the same direction), my friend Rebecca and I got back on the bus for what seemed like forever, until I didn’t even recognize Salvador anymore. There were actually houses instead of high-rises! And quaint little communities of condominiums by the shore.

There were a lot of tables in some areas, where most people were sitting and enjoying fish, clams, beer, and little, speckled hard-boiled bird eggs that are popular to eat on the beach.

There were a lot of tables in some areas, where most people were sitting and enjoying fish, clams, beer, and little, speckled hard-boiled bird eggs that are popular to eat on the beach.

Conga and Havaianas in the sand

Conga and Havaianas in the sand

The waves were a lot more rough because we were far from the protection of the bay.

The waves were a lot more rough because we were far from the protection of the bay.

Kites

Kites

Soccer and empty coconuts on the beach.  Often there's some dog going crazy trying to tear the coconut apart.

Soccer and empty coconuts on the beach. Often there’s some dog going crazy trying to tear the coconut apart.

Cute little boys.  There were a lot of families at this beach.

Cute little boys. There were a lot of families at this beach.

Walking along the beach, following the ruts of the picolé cart

Walking along the beach, following the ruts of the picolé cart

Parabéns: Turning 21 in Brasil!

Wow, what a birthday week I’ve had!

On Monday, the day before my birthday, I decided to make brigadeiros for my students at Siloé, the Christian, non-governmental organization where I teach English classes with my friend Rebecca.  Determined to keep stirring until my arm fell off, I cooked the brigadeiros too long, and when I retreived them from the fridge, they were hard as a rock.  The classic sprinkles that usually adorn these doces were not going to stick.  Still I molded the stubborn substance into balls of taffy-texture, placing them in the regular mini-paper muffin cups.  After Aurea gave up after one attempt to take a bite, I fled to the store hours before my class to buy ready-made chocolate doce de leite to form into brigadeiros with sprinkles.

After the most rhythmic rendition of the happy birthday song in English, my students eagerly reached for what I claimed was “taffy de chocolate”, a typical American candy.  I explained that it works best if you suck on it for a while, and that it is very popular in the United States.  Much to my surprise, they loved them!  And even after I passed out the store-bought version, the taffy-like brigadeiros were clearly the preferred candy.  Rebecca, however, insisted that I tell them the truth, which I did, much to their amusement–but I assured them that taffy really was a thing in the United States!

On, Tuesday morning, September 10th, my actual day of birth, I made brigadeiros again for my American classmates in Portuguese class that afternoon, before running off to an early morning meeting with a Toni, my presentation partner in communication class.  Unfortunately, he didn’t show up, but at least I got hugs, kisses, and “parabéns” from my other student friends on campus.  Ironically, to stand someone up is called “dar bolo”, or to give cake, so I guess Toni “me deu bolo”, or gave me cake for my birthday. :)

After Portuguese class at UFBA, the Federal University, my friends surprised me with a miracle–a dark chocolate and maracuja ICE CREAM CAKE!!!  I didn’t even know ice-cream cake existed here.  It was Rebecca’s idea to help me celebrate with ice-cream, since I always say I’d choose that any day over cake.

On Saturday, Rebecca and I took the bus to Praia da Boa Viagem, which is in Cidade Baixa, and we met some of her African friends from Togo and Benin who are here learning Portuguese and in her class at the University.  Far away from the high-rise apartments in the center of the city, I loved the feel of the community, the music from the barracas on the beach, and the clear turquoise waters of the bay.  As I sat in the sand, I watched some boys as they flipped off of a stone dock, that edged out just far enough so that they landed in deeper water.  The clouds deceived me and I skimped on sunscreen, which is why in the following pictures my face looks like, as Aurea calls it, a “camarão”, or shrimp.

There were two little boys with the cutest smiles who enjoyed giving us a show of flips and cartwheels in the waves.

There were two little boys with the cutest smiles who enjoyed giving us a show of flips and cartwheels in the waves.

View of the peninsula of Salvador

View of the peninsula of Salvador

Saturday night, my host mom Aurea insisted that I invite everyone from the study abroad program to my house for a party.

A true Brazilian birthday party with both sweets and salgados.  Aurea's sister made the most delicious brigadeiros I've ever had and a huge cake.

A true Brazilian birthday party with both sweets and salgados. Aurea’s sister made the most delicious brigadeiros I’ve ever had and a huge cake.

Thanks Amanda for my first bottle of wine!

Thanks Amanda for my first bottle of wine! (And to my host mom Aurea for my dress!)

Rachel, Aurea, Me, and Amber.  Rachel made M&M cookies for me!  They were my first cookies in Brasil. :)

Rachel, Aurea, Me, and Amber. Rachel made M&M cookies for me! They were my first cookies in Brasil. :)

Rochelle, Rebecca, and Amanda

Rochelle, Rebecca, and Amanda

So at my party, I was telling a funny story in my usual animated way, and my host mom

Even my reticent host brother Junior and his girlfriend joined us for song and cake, and gave me a gift of delicious Brazilian chocolates!

Even my reticent host brother Junior and his girlfriend joined us for song and cake, and gave me a gift of delicious Brazilian chocolates!

walks in, saying “I see you’ve already starting drinking the wine!”  Everyone bursts out laughing, knowing that I hadn’t had even a drop of alcohol yet!

After one small sip of wine (and four of five brigadeiros), I was giddier than ever, as I was so excited to find a drink that I liked.  Everyone else said it tasted like grape juice, which is why it was so good. :)

Finally, Aurea turned out the lights and everyone started singing “Happy Birthday”, first in English, then Portuguese, which I thought was never going to end….and just when everyone stopped singing, my host mom Aurea began with some song of blessing, with Junior and his girlfriend joing in too.  At last, I took a deep breath and blew out the candle in the little plastic cup that my mom held beside the cake, so that no wax would drip on it.  With big bowls of pipoca (popcorn), we sat down and watched Aladdin on my friends laptop, with everyone narrating their own version of the story, as the volume was too low to hear anything other than the voice of Genie.

The lyrics to some of the Portuguese version is below:

Parabéns pra você
Nesta data querida
Muitas felicidades
Muitos anos de vida!

Chegou a hora de apagar a velinha
Vamos cantar aquela musiquinha
Parabéns pra você (clap 3 x’s fast during the “pra você” part)
Parabéns pra você (clap 3 x’s fast during the “pra você” part)
Pelo seu aniversário.

Que Deus lhe dê muita saúde e paz
E que os anjos digam amém
Parabéns pra você (clap 3 x’s fast during the “pra você” part)
Parabéns pra você (clap 3 x’s fast during the “pra você” part)
Pelo seu aniversário.

É pique! É pique! É pique, é pique, é pique!
(first two are slower, last three are fast, each with their own claps)
É hora! É hora! É hora, é hora, é hora!
(first two are slower, last three are fast, each with their own claps)
Rá-tim-bum! (slow, clap on each)
(Name of the birthday girl/boy) 3 times

Cartwheels and Capoeira

It’s a dance.  It’s a fight.  It’s a form of art.  Like everything else in Brazil, the unique cultural mixture that is capoeira is hard to pin down into any one category.   The cultural influence of capoeira in Brazil is seen even on the futebol field in the graceful movements of Brazilian jogadores and the litheness with which they execute bicycle kicks that sometimes result in goals.

Capoeira originated in the Kongo/Angola region of Africa where indigenous men practiced kicking games for sport.  When brought into captivity in Brazil, the Afro-Brazilian slaves continued to perform capoiera in rebellion against the white, Euro-Brazilian’s abolition, adding choreographic elements as well as music in order to disguise the fight as a dance.

“But the capoeiristas say that in life, as in capoeira, you have to keep doing the ginga, dancing between the blows” (Delgado & Muñoz, 1998, p. 90). 

An example of the ginga thanks to Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Ginga_de_dos.gif).

An example of the ginga thanks to Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Ginga_de_dos.gif).

The first thing that we learned in our capoeira class was the ginga–the characteristic walk of the capoeirista–a continually swaying side-to-side step, similar to the rhythm of swing in jazz.  The ginga is part of the “elements of choreography” that were introduced by the early Afro-Brazilian slaves to disguise the sport’s more violent nature.

In Bahia, the birthplace of capoiera in Brazil, the sport is widely accepted as cultural art form and embraced as part of the national identity, as it is practiced everywhere from the streets of Pelourinho, the classrooms of mestres, to the health clubs of the elite.

The capoiera school that we visited--located in Campo Grande, the center of the city--practiced Angolan-style capoeira.  This older, more traditional style differs from the Regional style of capoiera, which was created in Salvador by Mestre Bimba in the beginning of the 20th century and places greater emphasis on fighting technique and is faster-paced.  While Regional-style capoeiristas wear white-pants, the colors of capoeira Angola are yellow and black.

The capoiera school that we visited–located in Campo Grande, the center of the city–practiced Angolan-style capoeira. This older, more traditional style differs from the Regional style of capoiera, which was created in Salvador by Mestre Bimba in the beginning of the 20th century and places greater emphasis on fighting technique and is faster-paced. While Regional-style capoeiristas wear white-pants, the colors of capoeira Angola are yellow and black.

We then added a move where you bend down and almost tap the floor as you sway from side-to-side doing the ginga.

We then added a move where you bend down and almost tap the floor as you sway from side-to-side doing the ginga.

After doing some stretches, we began learning some of the basic moves.  Here we are practicing the swaying step of the ginga.

After doing some stretches, we began learning some of the basic moves. Here we are practicing the swaying step of the ginga.

We then added a move where you bend down and almost tap the floor as you sway from side-to-side doing the ginga.

We then added a move where you bend down and almost tap the floor as you sway from side-to-side doing the ginga.

After doing some stretches, we began learning some of the basic moves.  Here we are adding a kick in middle of the ginga (side-to-side swaying step).

Here we are adding a kick in middle of the ginga.

A defensive move.  I felt like a lot of capoeira, especially for beginners, is learning to move defensively. You are constantly guarding your body.

A defensive move. I felt like a lot of capoeira, especially for beginners, is learning to move defensively. You are constantly guarding your body.

We paired up and practiced a kind of crab-walk around each other across the room.

We paired up and practiced a kind of crab-walk around each other across the room.

Ha, here I am trying to hop across the room in the position of a push-up.  The mestre literally just bounced--straight as a plank on his hands and tip-toes--across the floor.  I am literally dying because it was pretty much impossible!

Ha, here I am trying to hop across the room in the position of a push-up. The mestre literally just bounced–straight as a plank on his hands and tip-toes–across the floor. I am literally dying because it was pretty much impossible!

After learning some of the basic moves, we formed a roda, which is the circle in which capoeira is played between two people, while the rest look on.

After learning some of the basic moves, we formed a roda, which is the circle in which capoeira is played between two people, while the rest look on.

The musicians, whose rhythms guide the movements of the players in the roda.  In Angolan-style capoeira, the bateria, or row of instruments, is composed of three berimbaus, single-stringed instruments with a wooden bow and hollow gourd, two pandeiros, or cymbals, one agogo, or bell, one atabaque, or hand drum, and one ganzá, or rattle.

The musicians, whose rhythms guide the movements of the players in the roda. In Angolan-style capoeira, the bateria, or row of instruments, is composed of three berimbaus, single-stringed instruments with a wooden bow and hollow gourd, two pandeiros, or cymbals, one agogo, or bell, one atabaque, or hand drum, and one ganzá, or rattle.

While the musicians play, the rest of the roda chants along to the music, answering the call of the lead musician/singer.

While the musicians play, the rest of the roda chants along to the music, answering the call of the lead musician/singer.

Finally, my turn came to play against one of the mestres.  Oh boy.  You begin by squatting opposite each other, clasping hands, and then simultaneously cartwheeling to begin the game.  My goal was just not to get kicked in the face.

Finally, my turn came to play against one of the mestres. Oh boy. You begin by squatting opposite each other, clasping hands, and then simultaneously cartwheeling to begin the game. My goal was just not to get kicked in the face.

I played pretty defensively--it was hard for me as a beginner to pick up on her cues of what she was going to do next.  Good capoeiristas move in sync with each other, completely cognizant of the other person's position even when their back is turned, instinctively ducking beneath a swinging leg at the last second.

I played pretty defensively–it was hard for me as a beginner to pick up on her cues of what she was going to do next. Good capoeiristas move in sync with each other, completely cognizant of the other person’s position even when their back is turned, instinctively ducking beneath a swinging leg at the last second.

When the mestre stood on her head, I wasn't quite sure what to do, so I attempted a kick at her face....apparently, I was supposed to go up and bow my head at that moment, signifying respect...whoops.

When the mestre stood on her head, I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I attempted a kick at her face….apparently, I was supposed to go up and bow my head at that moment, signifying respect…whoops.

Here are some of the instruments: (from left) ganzá, agogo, 2 pandeiros, and different styles of berimbaus.

Here are some of the instruments: (from left) ganzá, agogo, 2 pandeiros, and different styles of berimbaus.

“As embodied play and an enduring social practice, capoeira is testimony to the many creative and potentially liberating ways, even within the severest constraints of social inequality, in which people re-shape their bodies, themselves, and their relationships to the world and those around them.” (Wesolowksi, 2007, p. 363)