My dears,
I imagine that some of you may be worried about me, so I'm jumping "ahead" to the present to let you know I'm doing great! I am in Nova Olinda, in the northern Brazilian state of Ceará. Nova Olinda lies at the mid-way point on the "Chapada do Araripi," which is a low mountain range running north-south through three states. It is an important and well-known area for geological and archeological research, as well as the location of the important but lesser-known Fundação Casa Grande (Foundation Big House), where I started volunteering today. I'm sitting on the couch in I and C's front room/dining area, using a borrowed laptop and the wi-fi connection from I and C's daughter (who lives upstairs with her family). As has been the case every step of the way so far, I am surrounded by people who love with mind-boggling, heart-opening ease and generosity.
I have so much to reflect and write about, and hope to do some catching up while I'm here.
The tidbit I'll share now is an appetizer about the only problem I've had since my travels began. I have broken a number of the travel safety rules: on quite a few occasions I've eaten delicious and/or unusual foods sold by street vendors (when out with friends); in an area with malaria risk, I took a long mosquito-ridden walk with friends through a wet forest (all of us were in perpetual motion, swatting ourselves and each other, and trying never to stop walking); I took a long (7-8 hours each way) night-time bus ride for a day-trip from Porto Velho, Brazil to Guayaramerín, Bolivia (lots of bumps, very slow going most of the time, and the only "hold-up" was for the excitement of a middle-of-the-night roadside contraband search by the Federal Police). Through all of this, and perhaps just beginner's luck, the only difficulty I've had was from a baked item I'd bought in the Brasilia airport. That story involves significant diarrhea at inopportune times, and will likely be told in more detail in a future post. It was an uncomfortable adventure at the time, and by now (a few days later) is just plain funny -- to me, at least.
I guess I'll share one other tidbit. My Portuguese has improved enough that I've had one long conversation with the stranger sitting next to me in an airplane, and one long conversation with a stranger while waiting in an airport. Both conversations were completely delightful. If I'm not mistaken, the young man with whom I spoke at the São Paulo airport was the same as that of the mysterious and magical king in Paulo Coelho's novel, "The Alchemist." As we talked about our life philosophies, he said, "Meg, there are three things that lead to sadness: (1) not knowing and not asking; (2), knowing but not teaching; and (3) knowing but not practicing."
May we all ask, practice and teach.
with love, meg April 24, 2013
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Rio: Light & Darkness, Life & Death
I'm still here in Palmas (leaving tomorrow for Porto Velho), and ready to write about my time in Rio de Janeiro. I left Mazatlán on April 1st, and had to travel by way of Houston, TX to get to Rio. That meant exiting the airport in Houston, going through immigration and customs, and then re-entering the airport to catch my plane to Rio. All I can say is that the lines through immigration were long and slow; with an hour for the connection, I wondered if I'd actually make it -- but did! I didn't sleep well on the plane, so watched three movies and walked the aisles.
I arrived in Rio on April 2nd, and spent the next two and a half days visiting with friends. Though my 2010 visit with M in Australia planted a critical seed regarding my wish to travel and live differently, E and P are the ones who planted the seed for this visit to Brazil. We'd had a number of false starts about this, so it was a magical moment when I saw their smiling faces at the more northern airport in Rio, to which they'd taken the long drive to pick me up. I was here! With them!!
I met E and P through mutual friends in Felton, CA and we found a quick resonance with each other. They told me about the Fundaçäo Casa Grande (Big House Foundation) at which I will volunteer later this month, and encouraged me to experience it, saying that I would "get" them and they would "get" me. This was the impulse for my wanting to learn Portuguese, which has been a journey all its own -- and which is what eventually led me to Palmas. More on that when I write the actual Palmas post.
The Rio aiport is the most beautiful airport into which I've ever flown: endless green mountains, beautiful clouds and water everywhere. The airport itself is on an island, and there are many smaller islands throughout the bay. Leaving this particular airport, one drives past a long wall of what appears to be opaque glass with occasional images that look like they were stenciled on. My friends informed me that the wall was put up so as not to offend entering and departing tourists with a view of the poverty-ridden favela that lies behind it. (Somehow I'm reminded of the curtain that gets pulled between first class and coach on an airplane; is there something inherently unviewable about people with less money? Or are those in first class doing something shameful from which others must be shielded?) In relatively recent history, favelas have been unsafe places to visit, as well as to live. However, increased police presence and decreased crime have led to a trend toward favela tours. My friends reported that tourists take photos of the residents and their housing as if the people were not actually people. Listening to them, I was reminded of a friend's dissertation about the inherently political nature of photography. I will have to pay closer attention to my own use of my camera.
From the airport, E and P first took me to their lovely home in a cul-de-sac off a long cobble-stoned street. Their apartment is an amazement: deceptively spacious due to their design choices, richly intimate, clear and simple yet filled with life, color and art. It is a space in which one feels immediately at home, and it is a perfect reflection of their abundant, warm spirits. The doorway of the apartment opens into a welcoming multi-purpose room, where one is greeted by a breath-taking view through a continuous set of cantilevering windows. From a beautiful hammock hung from the walls, one can gaze out the windows at the massive, lushly forested Corcovado mountainside. At the top of this mountain, the statue of Christ the Redeemer (Cristo Redentor) looks over the city with his arms spread wide. E and P informed me that, although they live on the third/top floor of their building, they must take care with any fruit they leave out because the macaques living in the forest will readily scale the building, leap into their apartment, steal the edible goods and be gone in a flash.
My short stay in Rio was relaxing yet full of delights, as well as evocative and provocative experiences. Among these were a peaceful walk through parts of the Jardim Botánico (Botanical Gardens), an elevated view of the city from yet another lovely green area, monkey head trees out on the sidewalk, traffic traffic traffic, beautiful and varied architecture (sometimes reminiscent of Parisian art nouveau), green green green everywhere, the most delicous mangos I've ever tasted, the sight of a manguba tree in a parking lot (complete with two hanging pods -- I thought it was a cacao tree, but my friend in Palmas enlightened me), a walk around the historic former port area that is currently undergoing renovation, and a visit to an institute (IPN: Instituto de Pesquisa e Memória Pretos Novos - Institute of New Blacks Research and Remembrance) in a house that turned out to have been built over the Cemitério dos Pretos Novos (Cemetary of New Blacks).
It appears that the history of the slave trade is deeply embedded in and intertwined with the history of Rio. The Botanical Gardens is located within the huge Tijuca National Park, and includes a large mansion that now houses an art school, a smaller building about which there apparently is some controversy (stables? quarters for enslaved workers?), and a well worn stone washing area (known to have been used by enslaved workers). The Gardens have a tropical feel, and I went ga-ga over colors, as well as some of the spiraling root and choke-vine shapes that abound. I got to see how jackfruit grows: on short stems, directly from the trunk of the tree. (See link below for more information about the Botanical Gardens.)
The former port area is no longer under water, having been filled in over centuries and then built upon. If I remember correctly, the city was excavating and renovating in an area known during the 1800s as "Little Africa," for the large concentration of Africans living in it. In the process of excavation, the city discovered two levels of former plazas, one built over the other. I believe that the older plaza had been one at which arriving Africans disembarked from slave ships, and the one above it had been part of a more richly appointed area.
This takes me to the IPN, which was both remarkable and disturbing. A couple had bought a house in the former "Little Africa" area of the city, with the intention of renovating and living in it. When workers were taking up the foundation, their tools broke stone and, along with this, repeatedly brought up human bones. The couple contacted officials, and discovered that the house had been built above an old cemetary whose location and history had been lost and forgotten over time. The name, Cemetary of the New Blacks, was a reference to recently arrived Africans within the slave trade, many of whom died soon after their arrival in Rio (others having already died and been thrown overboard on the journey itself). Further, the term "Black" in Brazil is considered quite offensive when applied to a person, and I imagine may be more akin to our use of "nigger" in the US; I don't know the actual equivalent. Regardless, "cemetary" is an over-stated term for this place, which was described as a mass grave for 20,000 to 30,000 Africans whose bodies were thrown in, allowed to rot, hacked up to make room for more bodies, and then also burned. The couple was so moved by the discovery that they stopped renovation and have turned the house into an institute for research, memorial, community involvement and education. (See the link below for more information.)
I was grateful to my friends for taking me to these places as well as the more upbeat locations. As in the US, racism and racial segregation continue in Brazil. For example, I noticed that all of the park workers I saw in the Botanical Gardens were dark-skinned people. When I asked E about this, she said it was a lower-paying, lower-status job. This reminded me of the many outdoor work crews I had seen in planted street areas when I lived in Norfolk, VA, who were almost always African Americans. On the other hand, almost all of the probably thousands of travelers I've seen in the Brazilian airports so far (Rio, Brasilia and Palmas) have been lighter-skinned people. The legacy of enslavement appears to be predictably potent and complex.
To end on a lighter note, my friends twice took me to lunch in a large warehouse-type building full of small fruit and vegetable stands, eateries and other shops. The roof of the building looked like sheet metal, and I imagined what it would sound like in the rain. I got a quick lesson in the Portuguese names for various fruits and vegetables, and noticed how huge the avocados were. (In that moment, Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me!) The vegetarian restaurant at which we ate was small, open, friendly and exceptionally good. From my seat in the corridor, I looked toward the entrance of the building at yellow melons hanging overhead in fine plastic mesh bags; they looked like melon balloons floating in the air. On another day, I drank fresh, cold young coconut juice (as in México, directly from the coconut). On that same day, E made a point of walking me through an upscale market in the building so we could get an air-conditioned respite from the heat.
That same evening, we joined three friends of E's and P's for dinner outside the building, where I had my first experience with "chopp." This is a very tasty Brazilian beer. When it was first offered to me as a possibility on the menu, I started to ask what it was and then decided to simply say "yes" to the encouraging looks on their faces; I was glad I did! The topics of conversation over dinner included language (the linguist in the group specializes in the study of indigenous languages), travel and family. Everyone was extremely generous and supportive regarding my Portuguese, including the three at the table who could easily have engaged with me in English. Bolivia was recommended for its remarkable music. Hmmm. At the airport on the way out of Rio, I arrived at my gate at the end of a long hallway of gates. What was there but a small bar advertising chopp. Hmmm.
My entry into South America was rich with love, encouragement and support, which have so far been the constant pavement of the road I'm traveling.
meg 4-13-13
Jardim Botánico (Botanical Gardens) in the Tijuca National Park:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rio_de_Janeiro_Botanical_Garden
Cemitério dos Pretos Novos (Cemetary of the New Blacks):
http://www.foxnews.com/us/2012/09/14/brazil-cemetery-african-slaves-honored/
Here is an image of a monkey head orchid (I've never seen this, but discovered the photo while searching for the monkey head trees and couldn't resist posting it):
http://www.facebook.com/
I thought I might have some other photos ready by now, but that is not the case. I'll attach links in another post.
I arrived in Rio on April 2nd, and spent the next two and a half days visiting with friends. Though my 2010 visit with M in Australia planted a critical seed regarding my wish to travel and live differently, E and P are the ones who planted the seed for this visit to Brazil. We'd had a number of false starts about this, so it was a magical moment when I saw their smiling faces at the more northern airport in Rio, to which they'd taken the long drive to pick me up. I was here! With them!!
I met E and P through mutual friends in Felton, CA and we found a quick resonance with each other. They told me about the Fundaçäo Casa Grande (Big House Foundation) at which I will volunteer later this month, and encouraged me to experience it, saying that I would "get" them and they would "get" me. This was the impulse for my wanting to learn Portuguese, which has been a journey all its own -- and which is what eventually led me to Palmas. More on that when I write the actual Palmas post.
The Rio aiport is the most beautiful airport into which I've ever flown: endless green mountains, beautiful clouds and water everywhere. The airport itself is on an island, and there are many smaller islands throughout the bay. Leaving this particular airport, one drives past a long wall of what appears to be opaque glass with occasional images that look like they were stenciled on. My friends informed me that the wall was put up so as not to offend entering and departing tourists with a view of the poverty-ridden favela that lies behind it. (Somehow I'm reminded of the curtain that gets pulled between first class and coach on an airplane; is there something inherently unviewable about people with less money? Or are those in first class doing something shameful from which others must be shielded?) In relatively recent history, favelas have been unsafe places to visit, as well as to live. However, increased police presence and decreased crime have led to a trend toward favela tours. My friends reported that tourists take photos of the residents and their housing as if the people were not actually people. Listening to them, I was reminded of a friend's dissertation about the inherently political nature of photography. I will have to pay closer attention to my own use of my camera.
From the airport, E and P first took me to their lovely home in a cul-de-sac off a long cobble-stoned street. Their apartment is an amazement: deceptively spacious due to their design choices, richly intimate, clear and simple yet filled with life, color and art. It is a space in which one feels immediately at home, and it is a perfect reflection of their abundant, warm spirits. The doorway of the apartment opens into a welcoming multi-purpose room, where one is greeted by a breath-taking view through a continuous set of cantilevering windows. From a beautiful hammock hung from the walls, one can gaze out the windows at the massive, lushly forested Corcovado mountainside. At the top of this mountain, the statue of Christ the Redeemer (Cristo Redentor) looks over the city with his arms spread wide. E and P informed me that, although they live on the third/top floor of their building, they must take care with any fruit they leave out because the macaques living in the forest will readily scale the building, leap into their apartment, steal the edible goods and be gone in a flash.
My short stay in Rio was relaxing yet full of delights, as well as evocative and provocative experiences. Among these were a peaceful walk through parts of the Jardim Botánico (Botanical Gardens), an elevated view of the city from yet another lovely green area, monkey head trees out on the sidewalk, traffic traffic traffic, beautiful and varied architecture (sometimes reminiscent of Parisian art nouveau), green green green everywhere, the most delicous mangos I've ever tasted, the sight of a manguba tree in a parking lot (complete with two hanging pods -- I thought it was a cacao tree, but my friend in Palmas enlightened me), a walk around the historic former port area that is currently undergoing renovation, and a visit to an institute (IPN: Instituto de Pesquisa e Memória Pretos Novos - Institute of New Blacks Research and Remembrance) in a house that turned out to have been built over the Cemitério dos Pretos Novos (Cemetary of New Blacks).
It appears that the history of the slave trade is deeply embedded in and intertwined with the history of Rio. The Botanical Gardens is located within the huge Tijuca National Park, and includes a large mansion that now houses an art school, a smaller building about which there apparently is some controversy (stables? quarters for enslaved workers?), and a well worn stone washing area (known to have been used by enslaved workers). The Gardens have a tropical feel, and I went ga-ga over colors, as well as some of the spiraling root and choke-vine shapes that abound. I got to see how jackfruit grows: on short stems, directly from the trunk of the tree. (See link below for more information about the Botanical Gardens.)
The former port area is no longer under water, having been filled in over centuries and then built upon. If I remember correctly, the city was excavating and renovating in an area known during the 1800s as "Little Africa," for the large concentration of Africans living in it. In the process of excavation, the city discovered two levels of former plazas, one built over the other. I believe that the older plaza had been one at which arriving Africans disembarked from slave ships, and the one above it had been part of a more richly appointed area.
This takes me to the IPN, which was both remarkable and disturbing. A couple had bought a house in the former "Little Africa" area of the city, with the intention of renovating and living in it. When workers were taking up the foundation, their tools broke stone and, along with this, repeatedly brought up human bones. The couple contacted officials, and discovered that the house had been built above an old cemetary whose location and history had been lost and forgotten over time. The name, Cemetary of the New Blacks, was a reference to recently arrived Africans within the slave trade, many of whom died soon after their arrival in Rio (others having already died and been thrown overboard on the journey itself). Further, the term "Black" in Brazil is considered quite offensive when applied to a person, and I imagine may be more akin to our use of "nigger" in the US; I don't know the actual equivalent. Regardless, "cemetary" is an over-stated term for this place, which was described as a mass grave for 20,000 to 30,000 Africans whose bodies were thrown in, allowed to rot, hacked up to make room for more bodies, and then also burned. The couple was so moved by the discovery that they stopped renovation and have turned the house into an institute for research, memorial, community involvement and education. (See the link below for more information.)
I was grateful to my friends for taking me to these places as well as the more upbeat locations. As in the US, racism and racial segregation continue in Brazil. For example, I noticed that all of the park workers I saw in the Botanical Gardens were dark-skinned people. When I asked E about this, she said it was a lower-paying, lower-status job. This reminded me of the many outdoor work crews I had seen in planted street areas when I lived in Norfolk, VA, who were almost always African Americans. On the other hand, almost all of the probably thousands of travelers I've seen in the Brazilian airports so far (Rio, Brasilia and Palmas) have been lighter-skinned people. The legacy of enslavement appears to be predictably potent and complex.
To end on a lighter note, my friends twice took me to lunch in a large warehouse-type building full of small fruit and vegetable stands, eateries and other shops. The roof of the building looked like sheet metal, and I imagined what it would sound like in the rain. I got a quick lesson in the Portuguese names for various fruits and vegetables, and noticed how huge the avocados were. (In that moment, Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me!) The vegetarian restaurant at which we ate was small, open, friendly and exceptionally good. From my seat in the corridor, I looked toward the entrance of the building at yellow melons hanging overhead in fine plastic mesh bags; they looked like melon balloons floating in the air. On another day, I drank fresh, cold young coconut juice (as in México, directly from the coconut). On that same day, E made a point of walking me through an upscale market in the building so we could get an air-conditioned respite from the heat.
That same evening, we joined three friends of E's and P's for dinner outside the building, where I had my first experience with "chopp." This is a very tasty Brazilian beer. When it was first offered to me as a possibility on the menu, I started to ask what it was and then decided to simply say "yes" to the encouraging looks on their faces; I was glad I did! The topics of conversation over dinner included language (the linguist in the group specializes in the study of indigenous languages), travel and family. Everyone was extremely generous and supportive regarding my Portuguese, including the three at the table who could easily have engaged with me in English. Bolivia was recommended for its remarkable music. Hmmm. At the airport on the way out of Rio, I arrived at my gate at the end of a long hallway of gates. What was there but a small bar advertising chopp. Hmmm.
My entry into South America was rich with love, encouragement and support, which have so far been the constant pavement of the road I'm traveling.
meg 4-13-13
Jardim Botánico (Botanical Gardens) in the Tijuca National Park:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rio_de_Janeiro_Botanical_Garden
Cemitério dos Pretos Novos (Cemetary of the New Blacks):
http://www.foxnews.com/us/2012/09/14/brazil-cemetery-african-slaves-honored/
Here is an image of a monkey head orchid (I've never seen this, but discovered the photo while searching for the monkey head trees and couldn't resist posting it):
http://www.facebook.com/
Check out the close-up of the monkey head flowers! They were like wild animals with furry tongues. I haven't yet found a good photo of the fruit growing on the tree, so will have to take my own on my next visit to Rio:
http://www.portalsaofrancisco.I thought I might have some other photos ready by now, but that is not the case. I'll attach links in another post.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Pre-Real in Mazatlán
Where to start? I've just discovered that, on this keyboard, the key for full and semi-colons is what I had to use for the question mark in that first sentence. Though the question mark appears on the neighboring key, that key produces nothing that I can see. This strikes me as a lovely metaphor for the blend (co-occurrence, marriage, interplay, play) of familiarity and surprise I've experienced in my travels so far. Sometimes I feel like the main character in Shaun Tan's exquisite graphic novel, "The Arrival."
For those who want the cliff-note version, I am quite well and extremely happy!
I am now in Palmas, which is the capital of the inland state of Tocantins, Brazil. This is the third stop of my trip, following Mazatlán (on the western coast of México) and Rio de Janeiro. I am filled with (and sometimes flooded by) emotion. The love, nurturance, support and guidance I receive are so profound, freely given, ongoing and pervasive that I feel like a fish in the ocean of this experience. My mouth is open -- love-water inside, love-water outside, buoyed, suspended, flowing. My gratitude continues to grow and deepen, as does my experience of connection. Each moment is complete and full (without being filled).
In Mazatlán, I visited a friend and her family. I had met E the day of her illegal arrival in Santa Cruz, when her parents (my neighbors) introduced her to me. Her dad explained that she wanted and needed to work on her English, as well as to find a job. In the process of teaching English to E and helping out with the job situation, I came to know and appreciate her intelligence, warmth, strong spirit, humor, readiness for hard work, and loyalty to family and friends. In spite of our age difference (I am 26 years her elder), we became friends.
After several years in the US, E returned to México because her opportunities there (oh! no longer "here" for me as I travel) were so limited, and she wanted to complete her Master's degree in Education. After returning to México, E eventually married O, and they live together with O's 15-year-old son, O-R (O-cito). E teaches part-time at a local University and O owns and operates a successful motorcycle repair shop at which he works long hours.
In early March, E gave birth to beautiful, healthy fraternal twins. E's dad is already back in Mexico, but lives far from E and O. E's mom can't visit because of her illegal status in the US. I find this just incredibly sad, and only one of the hard realities of being an illegal immigrant most anywhere. O's parents live in Mazatlán, as do O's siblings, niece, nephew and other relatives. I stayed with E and O, who graciously picked me up at the airport, and I was given O-cito's room (one of four in the small house -- living room with dining area, tiny kitchen, and two bedrooms). When I said I'd be fine sleeping on the couch, O-cito insisted with a smile that he liked sleeping on the couch and then sneaked out of his bedroom with a laptop to continue nosing around on Facebook and Youtube. He is, among other things, a musician, and he has been working on his group's web site.
I want to clarify here that this is, by US standards, a simple -- even perhaps a poor -- house. The computers are old, and all items in the house continue to be used and cared for until they are completely worthless. "Worthless" has a meaning quite different from that in the US, where things often lose their value when they lose their shine. In this home, things have value as long as they are useful, and they are useful as long as hard work and ingenuity can compensate for diminishing or lost function. E and O have a beautiful home (as well as, I thought, a very lovely house).
My time in Mexico was spent almost entirely in Spanish, which was wonderful for me and less tiring than I'd expected. During my six days in Mazatlán, I had a chance to learn a great deal about babies, and I moved from feeling like I never held them well to feeling at ease with their ongoing care. It was pure mystery and joy (is that redundant?) to watch them change and develop each day. Baby E (named after her grandmom) is a diminutive girl who appears to have an old soul. Her level of presence and engaged observation is deep. Baby J is a strapping boy who is constantly exploring with his body. E and O are getting very little sleep right now. When I told O I couldn't imagine how he and E stayed upright and continued to function, O pointed to his babies and replied, "They are my batteries."
I had met O when I attended his and E's wedding, but this visit was an opportunity to get to know him. He is wonderful man, and a great partner for E -- intelligent, political and philosophical as well as tender, funny, hard-working and "solid." He is also deeply involved with his babies, which E noted was unusual in México. O's family was extremely welcoming, and it was heartening to experience our increasing comfort and warmth with each other. O-cito was absolutely delightful. He was sweet, funny, inviting and attentive, with none of the posturing I have encountered in some middle-adolescents in the US.
One day, when we were hanging out together, I asked O-cito when he felt most alive. He gave what is, in my experience, a typical teen answer -- "When I'm with my friends, playing music or using the computer." We continued our conversation and he spontaneously shared that he had been going through a difficult time about a month prior, when he discovered a web site that had changed his life. The video was "Say Yes," which as it happens is a central principle of improvisation. O-cito like the video, and he quickly discovered that, by saying "yes" to everything, he was happier and more engaged with the world. He commented on the positive experiences he'd gained by saying "yes." These included experiences prior to his discovery regarding the power of the yes-stance. One of these prior experiences was going to an animé, cartoon and video character Expo at which he'd met his current girlfriend and developed a new group of good friends. Dressed as a character from "Back to the Future," he'd gone to the Expo as the result of losing a bet, only to discover that it was a gift in his life. Needless to say, I knew I was sitting in conversation with one my life teachers.
O-cito invited me to join him and his cousin at this year's Expo (Copa Cosplay Pacífico), which I did. I found it quite enjoyable and fascinating, in spite of my not having much knowledge of the characters depicted by so many participants. The energy was upbeat, the participants varied (e.g., children to elders, most likely every sexual orientation and gender identity, all body types), and the community warm and accepting. Everyone, costumed or not, appeared to be ready to pose for a photo. Many had carefully studied poses that appeared, to my uneducated eye, to derive from specific well-known images. There were professional and home-made shows on the stage, during which participants sang and/or acted out character scenes. When, on occasion, I felt I'd had enough, all I had to do was walk around and I quickly discovered more to engage with and enjoy.
In Mazatlán, much of my time was happily spent sharing the daily activities of the family -- shopping, cooking, cleaning and baby care. However, E and O also treated me to a number of special outings so I could get to know some of this well-known tourist city. Without realizing it, I'd booked my flight to arrive a day before "Semana Santa" (the wild and holy week before Easter), so the downtown area was completely packed with cars and revelers. E and O drove me through so I could get a taste of this experience, but also took me to the wharf (El Muelle), an old plaza (Plaza La Mochada), and an old neighborhood up in the higher part of the city, from which I had a view of the port. In this area (El Mirador), there was also a huge old canon that had been used by the local people in the late 1800s to defend themselves against the invading French. E and I got together one afternoon with a friend of hers, R, whom I'd met at E and O's wedding, and we went out for what may have been the best cup of coffee I've ever had. The deliciousness of this coffee was surpassed only by the depth and breadth of the conversation we three women had, which ranged from babies to culture and politics to women's rights and issues to dreams and hopes.
The architecture of Mazatlán is quite varied, ranging from straight streets lined with small houses in beautiful colors (delicate pastels to rich day-glo), to grand old colonial-style buildings. I was struck by the gated windows, doors and front areas on most houses, which generally looked decorative rather than forbidding or cold. Many houses had gated-in front areas in which there might be only a car, but in which there might also or instead be a cozy sitting area, plants, and art or craft objects. Many houses had sweet balconies, and I was often reminded of the architecture of New Orleans.
The day before leaving California, I commented to a friend that things felt "surreal," and then I riffed, "sub-real, pre-real." During my time in México, my trip still felt pre-real, in that it was like a simple visit to a friend whose wedding I'd attended, and who had now given birth to her babies. This part of my adventure felt comfortable and familiar, in spite of newness and in spite of knowing that this was a beginning to the larger adventure travel. I laughed a lot and, not always knowing why, cried more than once.
meg 4-8-13
My first improvisation with links to photos was unsuccessful as regards allowing people to see the photos, though highly successful as regards allowing me to learn something about the process of linking to Dropbox. I think it will work this time! (and I know that, if it doesn't, many helpful people will let me know and give me useful suggestions)
https://www.dropbox.com/sh/
For those who want the cliff-note version, I am quite well and extremely happy!
I am now in Palmas, which is the capital of the inland state of Tocantins, Brazil. This is the third stop of my trip, following Mazatlán (on the western coast of México) and Rio de Janeiro. I am filled with (and sometimes flooded by) emotion. The love, nurturance, support and guidance I receive are so profound, freely given, ongoing and pervasive that I feel like a fish in the ocean of this experience. My mouth is open -- love-water inside, love-water outside, buoyed, suspended, flowing. My gratitude continues to grow and deepen, as does my experience of connection. Each moment is complete and full (without being filled).
In Mazatlán, I visited a friend and her family. I had met E the day of her illegal arrival in Santa Cruz, when her parents (my neighbors) introduced her to me. Her dad explained that she wanted and needed to work on her English, as well as to find a job. In the process of teaching English to E and helping out with the job situation, I came to know and appreciate her intelligence, warmth, strong spirit, humor, readiness for hard work, and loyalty to family and friends. In spite of our age difference (I am 26 years her elder), we became friends.
After several years in the US, E returned to México because her opportunities there (oh! no longer "here" for me as I travel) were so limited, and she wanted to complete her Master's degree in Education. After returning to México, E eventually married O, and they live together with O's 15-year-old son, O-R (O-cito). E teaches part-time at a local University and O owns and operates a successful motorcycle repair shop at which he works long hours.
In early March, E gave birth to beautiful, healthy fraternal twins. E's dad is already back in Mexico, but lives far from E and O. E's mom can't visit because of her illegal status in the US. I find this just incredibly sad, and only one of the hard realities of being an illegal immigrant most anywhere. O's parents live in Mazatlán, as do O's siblings, niece, nephew and other relatives. I stayed with E and O, who graciously picked me up at the airport, and I was given O-cito's room (one of four in the small house -- living room with dining area, tiny kitchen, and two bedrooms). When I said I'd be fine sleeping on the couch, O-cito insisted with a smile that he liked sleeping on the couch and then sneaked out of his bedroom with a laptop to continue nosing around on Facebook and Youtube. He is, among other things, a musician, and he has been working on his group's web site.
I want to clarify here that this is, by US standards, a simple -- even perhaps a poor -- house. The computers are old, and all items in the house continue to be used and cared for until they are completely worthless. "Worthless" has a meaning quite different from that in the US, where things often lose their value when they lose their shine. In this home, things have value as long as they are useful, and they are useful as long as hard work and ingenuity can compensate for diminishing or lost function. E and O have a beautiful home (as well as, I thought, a very lovely house).
My time in Mexico was spent almost entirely in Spanish, which was wonderful for me and less tiring than I'd expected. During my six days in Mazatlán, I had a chance to learn a great deal about babies, and I moved from feeling like I never held them well to feeling at ease with their ongoing care. It was pure mystery and joy (is that redundant?) to watch them change and develop each day. Baby E (named after her grandmom) is a diminutive girl who appears to have an old soul. Her level of presence and engaged observation is deep. Baby J is a strapping boy who is constantly exploring with his body. E and O are getting very little sleep right now. When I told O I couldn't imagine how he and E stayed upright and continued to function, O pointed to his babies and replied, "They are my batteries."
I had met O when I attended his and E's wedding, but this visit was an opportunity to get to know him. He is wonderful man, and a great partner for E -- intelligent, political and philosophical as well as tender, funny, hard-working and "solid." He is also deeply involved with his babies, which E noted was unusual in México. O's family was extremely welcoming, and it was heartening to experience our increasing comfort and warmth with each other. O-cito was absolutely delightful. He was sweet, funny, inviting and attentive, with none of the posturing I have encountered in some middle-adolescents in the US.
One day, when we were hanging out together, I asked O-cito when he felt most alive. He gave what is, in my experience, a typical teen answer -- "When I'm with my friends, playing music or using the computer." We continued our conversation and he spontaneously shared that he had been going through a difficult time about a month prior, when he discovered a web site that had changed his life. The video was "Say Yes," which as it happens is a central principle of improvisation. O-cito like the video, and he quickly discovered that, by saying "yes" to everything, he was happier and more engaged with the world. He commented on the positive experiences he'd gained by saying "yes." These included experiences prior to his discovery regarding the power of the yes-stance. One of these prior experiences was going to an animé, cartoon and video character Expo at which he'd met his current girlfriend and developed a new group of good friends. Dressed as a character from "Back to the Future," he'd gone to the Expo as the result of losing a bet, only to discover that it was a gift in his life. Needless to say, I knew I was sitting in conversation with one my life teachers.
O-cito invited me to join him and his cousin at this year's Expo (Copa Cosplay Pacífico), which I did. I found it quite enjoyable and fascinating, in spite of my not having much knowledge of the characters depicted by so many participants. The energy was upbeat, the participants varied (e.g., children to elders, most likely every sexual orientation and gender identity, all body types), and the community warm and accepting. Everyone, costumed or not, appeared to be ready to pose for a photo. Many had carefully studied poses that appeared, to my uneducated eye, to derive from specific well-known images. There were professional and home-made shows on the stage, during which participants sang and/or acted out character scenes. When, on occasion, I felt I'd had enough, all I had to do was walk around and I quickly discovered more to engage with and enjoy.
In Mazatlán, much of my time was happily spent sharing the daily activities of the family -- shopping, cooking, cleaning and baby care. However, E and O also treated me to a number of special outings so I could get to know some of this well-known tourist city. Without realizing it, I'd booked my flight to arrive a day before "Semana Santa" (the wild and holy week before Easter), so the downtown area was completely packed with cars and revelers. E and O drove me through so I could get a taste of this experience, but also took me to the wharf (El Muelle), an old plaza (Plaza La Mochada), and an old neighborhood up in the higher part of the city, from which I had a view of the port. In this area (El Mirador), there was also a huge old canon that had been used by the local people in the late 1800s to defend themselves against the invading French. E and I got together one afternoon with a friend of hers, R, whom I'd met at E and O's wedding, and we went out for what may have been the best cup of coffee I've ever had. The deliciousness of this coffee was surpassed only by the depth and breadth of the conversation we three women had, which ranged from babies to culture and politics to women's rights and issues to dreams and hopes.
The architecture of Mazatlán is quite varied, ranging from straight streets lined with small houses in beautiful colors (delicate pastels to rich day-glo), to grand old colonial-style buildings. I was struck by the gated windows, doors and front areas on most houses, which generally looked decorative rather than forbidding or cold. Many houses had gated-in front areas in which there might be only a car, but in which there might also or instead be a cozy sitting area, plants, and art or craft objects. Many houses had sweet balconies, and I was often reminded of the architecture of New Orleans.
The day before leaving California, I commented to a friend that things felt "surreal," and then I riffed, "sub-real, pre-real." During my time in México, my trip still felt pre-real, in that it was like a simple visit to a friend whose wedding I'd attended, and who had now given birth to her babies. This part of my adventure felt comfortable and familiar, in spite of newness and in spite of knowing that this was a beginning to the larger adventure travel. I laughed a lot and, not always knowing why, cried more than once.
meg 4-8-13
My first improvisation with links to photos was unsuccessful as regards allowing people to see the photos, though highly successful as regards allowing me to learn something about the process of linking to Dropbox. I think it will work this time! (and I know that, if it doesn't, many helpful people will let me know and give me useful suggestions)
El Muelle
El Mirador
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