My Traveling Body

I am here in Rio de Janeiro, after a month volunteering again at the Foundation Casa Grande (FCG, in Nova Olinda). Traveling from Lima, I arrived at FCG in good health, and that was the first time I didn´t get sick during longer (i.e., 24-hour-ish) travel. It´s time to write about my health experiences so far here in South America, including the promised story about my challenges in the Fortaleza airport (on my first trip to Nova Olinda, back in April). 

With limited daypack space, I can pack only so much food for a 24-hour series of connecting flights, and I figured I´d be safe buying something from an airport vendor. Wrong! Other than sweets, there are not a lot of vegetarian options in the airports here. I purchased "cheese bread" (a typical Brazilian item) at the airport in Brasilia, and started having intestinal rumblings and nausea some seven hours later in the airplane to Fortaleza. I thought I´d have to throw up in the plane, but landed without any up-chucks. 

During my overnight wait  in the Fortaleza airport, I felt increasingly ill and suddenly, urgently needed to throw up. The nearest women´s bathroom was unavailable because it was being cleaned. Fortunately, there was a separate bathroom for folks with disabilities and, when I told the attendant nearby that I needed to vomit, he let me in. Instead of throwing up, I had an explosive bout of diarrhea. 

I spent the next many hours running back and forth between bathroom and sitting area. Because I had changed airlines, I had my larger backpack with me along with my smaller daypack, and I got very good at loading up and moving fast. Over time I started to feel better, but the diarrhea -- which was now a thin brown soup -- continued. I was sore! Nothing in the airport was open, so it wasn't possible to buy any probiotics, meds, ointments, etc.

Finally, the check-in area opened and I got in line to check my large backpack for the next flight. The line was moving slowly and, about halfway to the counter, I had to leave the line quickly to run to the bathroom again. Mission accomplished, I returned -- to the end of the line. As I moved forward, I decided I should change my seat from window to aisle if at all possible, since I´d likely have to get up often in the plane. Within several people of the counter, I knew I´d need to use the bathroom again, and engaged in an internal (in all senses of the word) gamble about whether or not I´d actually make it through my check-in without incident. I decided to take the risk and continued waiting.

Though my Portuguese was fairly good by now, I was so sick and exhausted that I could hardly string two words together to explain my situation and request. Fortunately, the woman who was helping me at the counter was very helpful. Unfortunately, this also meant thorough, which in turn meant time. I lost my gamble and, as I was waiting for her to make the necessary changes, I felt my pants filling with whatever was still in my system. I tugged at my shirt in an attempt to cover my butt, and I tugged at the corners of my mouth in an attempt to execute a grateful smile. I don´t think I accomplished either. 

When the woman was finished, I made my way to the nearest bathroom where I confirmed that my pants were soaked. Unfortnately, it hadn´t occurred to me to pull out my other pair of pants while waiting to check my backback, so I was stuck with what I had on. I dumped my underwear and did my best to clean and dry my pants with toilet paper. As well as I could tell, I was not stinky, which was either a miracle or profoundly wishful thinking. I put on my rain jacket (also to protect the seat) and waited the remaining hours for my plane´s departure. As soon as the airport pharmacy opened, I bought some med to stop further diarrhea, along with some probiotics.

In the plane, I continued wearing my rain jacket, and looked around me for signs that my nose was deceiving me. I found none -- but was that a HazMat team running toward my seat as I left the plane??? I´ll never know....  By the next day, all of this was a funny story for me, and remains what might have been a comedy of diapers had I had any..

That was the worst health experience in my five months of travel so far. My arrival in Peru was marked by nausea and vomiting that persisted for hours. On occasion I´ve had the runs but nothing too awful. In Palmas I was perfectly nailed by my friends´playful cat, whose claw landed in a vein that gushed blood above and under my skin, but responded well to cleaning and pressure. On one occasion I badly pulled a muscle in my back, but careful moving and the passage of time healed that situation. Over the past few months, I´ve learned how to properly clean all fresh foods, and to pay closer attention to hand hygiene. I suspect that this last item (inadequate hand hygiene) was the actual culprit in the Brasilia airport. 

About a month into my stay in Brazil, I discovered that toilet paper here is neither biodegradable nor safe for Brazilian plumbing; the situation is the same in Peru. My discovery came when I was answering questions about the US at a rural school outside Nova Olinda, and one of the students said he had read about a boy who was jailed for urinating in his own backyard. After I expressed my doubts, the teacher who had arranged for my visit commented on the toilet paper policies. I suspect that her comment was the result of the school´s staff having found no toilet paper in the pail next to the toilet after I used their freshly prepared bathroom earlier that day. (That, itself, was an experience. The school's director had suggested I wait until after the students had finished their break, so that staff could clean the bathroom. Outside the bathroom, I was greeted by a line of people: the woman who had cleaned the room, the teacher in whose classroom I had been teaching, and the school's director. One of them handed me some toilet paper as I entered, and all of them greeted me again when I exited.)

I was horrified to think that I´d been violating cultural, plumbing and environmental norms up to that point, and I guess that none of my hosts had felt comfortable enough to tell me. Since being enlightened, I´ve wiped, folded up the paper when necessary (use your imagination), and deposited it into the wastebasket near the toilet. Having learned how to change my relationship with what goes into my body, I have now quietly changed my relationship with what comes out of my body. 

Over time, in the absence of a gym (as well as self-disciplne), I´ve lost a good deal of muscle mass and flexibility. When I first joined my current gym in California, I had laughed when they told me that my membership included the use of gyms in major cities around the world. I thought, 'Yeah, right. Like I´m going to travel to Paris or some other great city and then spend my time in a gym!' I´ve got a different take on that situation now and, in Nova Olinda most recently, I was thrilled to discover that there was an affordable little gym near my friends´ home. (In Lima, my friend´s brother told me about his quite excellent gym nearby. However, I was spending about 14 hours a day volunteering and/or traveling to volunteer sites, and the gym was too expensive for my limited availability.) I started using the gym in Nova Olinda a few days after arriving, and immediately felt much better. I regained some strength and flexibility while there, and enjoyed getting to know the owner and some of the members.

Vegetarianism has not presented too many challenges so far. People are always accommodating, and I have relatively relaxed standards regarding the company my vegetables keep in the cooking pot. My policy has always been that, if I arrive in someone's home and they've cooked a meal for me, I´m going to eat the part that isn't an animal. On one occasion in Lima, I attended a birthday party and, when the food came out, I was presented with generous chunks of meat accompanied by yucca root and rice with meat sauce. I didn't want to offend my host nor waste the meat and rice by simply leaving them on my plate. I explained that I didn't eat meat and asked if it would be possible to just have some rice and yucca. The gracious host apparently felt that this was simply too plain a dinner offer, so came back with a plate of yucca, rice and meat sauce -- minus the chunks of meat. Of course, I ate it all.  

During my stay in Nova Olinda, I visited the historic home of several very delightful sisters. On the first visit, I was invited to return for lunch -- a very special and meaningful honor. I happily accepted and, in order to avoid surprises, explained that I was vegetarian. I honestly stated that I love Brazilian rice, beans and yucca, as well as vegetables. At lunch, there was a great deal of discussion among the family about my choice not to eat animals, but it did not appear to be a problem. When I returned once more to visit, earlier in the day, I was again invited to stay for lunch. The sister who was making lunch was truly eager for me to taste the chicken she was cooking.

I found myself considering my reasons for vegetarianism, which include the inhumane treatment of the animals themselves and of the people who spend hours each day killing and processing these animals in US factories. In this situation I was aware that the sisters themselves had raised and killed the chicken humanely. One sister had then plucked the feathers, and the in-law who had driven me to my visit that day had offered to gut the chicken and cut it up for cooking. (More about all of these remarkable people when I write about my stays in Nova Olinda.) I had listened to what sounded like small pebbles falling into the metal sink as he prepared the bird; the sound turned out to be hard corn that the bird had eaten prior to its death, some of which was still in its throat. I decided that there was no significant reason not to have a small piece of chicken on this occasion, which made the sister very happy. I enjoyed it and, at the same time, I had no urge to eat more.

In Lima as well as on the occasion above, I have had the odd experience of appreciating, though not enjoying, the sight of whole dead animals. While often wondering what the animal's life and death had been like, I appreciate the realness and directness of the relationship people have with the meat they eat. They know that the meat is part of an animal and, if not slaughtering the animal themselves, they see most everything and purchase the parts they want to use -- head, organs, feet, particular cuts. In the street markets of Lima, people freely handle the meat that is hanging on hooks or sitting on trays. This is done in order to assess the freshness and quality of the meat, and no one appears to be concerned about potential hygiene risks; people know they will be cooking the meat that day or the next.

It is a far cry from the meat sections of contemporary US supermarkets, where the animals are already cut up and packaged as meat in plastic, ready for purchase. I can't remember the last time I saw a pig's head in a US supermarket, or a whole chicken with feet still attached. I know there are places in the US where people routinely slaughter their own animals, or go to a farm to select the animal they want to have butchered. The reality of animals was true of the butcher shops of my childhood. It's just not part of my life as I live it in the US, and it isn't part of current mainstream US meat consumption.

As I write this, I have my first cold (which yesterday felt like flu, but isn't). As in the US, I want to sleep and try to drink lots of fluids. Although I'd be taking a decongestant in the US, I haven't used meds here; I don't have to go to work, and it isn't draining to walk around. In Lima, my friend and her mother had a great deal of useful knowledge about herbal and vegetable approaches to health challenges (e.g., boiled quince and its liquid for diarrhea, as well as chewing orange peel). There is a kind of tea in South America called "boldo," which is used for upset stomach and/or intestines; after reading about it, I have drunk it and found it helpful. On the other hand, I did not share my Lima friends' belief that standing in front of an open refrigerator after showering or first thing in the morning would make me sick -- and it never did, to my knowledge.

Odds and ends:

*  My ankles swell most of the time in Brazil -- the heat? I often use the special compression knee-socks I brought with me, which means a second pair of socks to protect this expensive item, as well as pants. It's crazy, but it works.

*  My favorite body product is the Tom's Original deodorant I brought with me: it has no fragrance, is outrageously effective (without being an anti-perspirant), was very affordable, and has already lasted four months.

*  Yogurt has sometimes been hard to find, especially yogurt that isn't packaged sweet (sugar, corn syrup), artificially thickened and chemically laden. Additionally, yogurt is generally sold only in the small "one-portion" containers, which is an environmental and budgetary bummer. Lima was the exception so far, where I was able to buy "house-made" yogurt by the liter in a health-food store near the local street market.

*  In the US, I used a bite guard at night because I was clamping my jaw. One night in Mexico (my first week of travel), I forgot to use it and woke up with no sense of pressure or cramping in my mouth. I realized that I might not need the bite guard while traveling, and this has been the case for most of my past five months. As was the case in the US, my need for clamping protection is tied to my stress level, and this has generally been negligible or even non-existent -- but higher when I am in cities. That's a whole other story that I will start to tell when I write about Nova Olinda.

Till then, with love, meg           August 14, 2013

Porto Velho - The Generosity Continues

I am still here in Lima, Perú where, for the first few weeks, my volunteer opportunities were up in the air and full of possibility. Suddenly there was a flurry of activity; for the past two weeks, I’ve had a schedule that runs from about 7:30 AM till 9:30 PM, Monday through Friday, and I also volunteer on Saturdays. I am having a wild time, and it’s time to finish writing about my visit to Porto Velho, Brasil! I apologize for the ‘book.’

My friend in Porto Velho, L, is another person I had met through Livemocha. She has a calm, strong, sweet and sparkling energy, as well as bright eyes and a fantastic smile. She is smart and funny, warm and generous. We initially skyped on a weekly basis, but that dropped off when L started traveling for various family events. Nevertheless, we stayed in touch by email and continued getting to know each other. L invited me to visit her and her family in Brazil, and I was eager to do so.

Although I had confirmed my arrival and departure times with L, I had not communicated clearly after pinning down my flights to Porto Velho. L learned that she would be out of town on the night of my arrival (after midnight), so she emailed me that her parents would pick me up at the airport. Her parents and I had met each other briefly by Skype on one occasion many months earlier, and I sent a photo so they would recognize me. It turned out that they never saw the photo; nevertheless, they quickly picked me out from the crowd (my gringa appearance? my backpack?) and greeted me very warmly. In spite of all the progress I had made with my Portuguese under R’s tutelage, I was exhausted and had trouble expressing myself. Nevertheless, we conversed in the car on the way to their home and, when we arrived, we all talked for a good while at a huge wooden table in the veranda area outside the house. When I was taken to my room, it turned out to be a lovely, simple space with its own bathroom – the height of luxury!

L lives with her parents (Sr. G and Sra. L), as well as her husband (A) and their son (J, age 5). Also living in the home are L’s sisters, (N and Lv), her brother (F), and N’s daughter (Ln, age 7). N and her husband (T) are in the process of buying a small apartment (‘Meg, If you stretch your arms out, you touch the walls on both sides’), and her husband lives separately for the time being but visits often. A listing of family members does nothing to describe the energy in this home. L had ‘warned’ me that there was always a lot going on, and I had told her I would feel very at home with that. We were both right. The two children are delightful: active, funny, playful, creative and curious. Ln in particular was incredibly articulate and engaging. By L’s report, she was eagerly awaiting my arrival. The first time she met me, having just arrived home from school, she walked right over, stood directly in front of me, leaned in and started playing with my hair, interviewed me with interest and told me about herself; I was completely charmed. A third child arrived toward the end of my stay (G, age 3, another of the grandchildren), and he is a boy who has been diagnosed with Autism. He is also very socially engaging and loves to be cuddled; I imagine this is in response to his whole family’s very loving engagement with him as well. (As an aside, it seemed that many people I met in Brasil had a family member with Autism, or knew of someone with a family member with Autism. I don’t know what this means or reflects, but I noticed it.)

In Brazil, it seems that many, many people are working hard to improve their lives: at all ages, they are in school to further their educations, they are training for specialization, they are applying for better jobs (including those that would require them to move), and they are starting or upgrading businesses. L’s family was absolutely representative in this regard. Having dropped out of medical school to raise her son, L was on the verge of re-entering medical school – or perhaps going into a dentistry or architecture program. In a country in which there is an extremely high level of competition for a limited number of spaces in professional (as well as other) programs, she had achieved top scores and had a range of options at her fingertips. She then discovered that she was pregnant and chose to focus on her pregnancy (and eventually the raising) of her 2^nd child. When I asked her, L acknowledged that it was challenging to put off her education again, but she was also very clear about her values. L’s husband, a professor of anatomy, was in the process of interviewing for jobs at better universities. In Brasil, public universities are superior to private universities, and his goal was to land a job at a public university. (He has since landed such a job, but is interested in finding yet a better public university. L has since started studying for further exams that she’ll take during her 8^th month of pregnancy, because she does not want to lose her options.)

Lidi’s sister, N, is a psychologist, and was preparing for the exams that would help determine her placement in the search for a better job. Currently, N is part of a team that also includes a doctor, nurse, physical therapist, and sometimes also a speech and language therapist. The team literally goes door to door assessing the needs of people in the community. They knock on every door, and the professionals talk to and evaluate the residents in order to determine their needs and make referrals. Remember that these services are all free. Imagine such a service in the US!

Lidi’s other sister, Lv, is completing her degree in psychology. The educational system is different in Brasil, so she will be able to work as a psychologist without a Master’s or a Doctorate. When we spoke about her studies, she appeared to be very well versed in many theories as well as in psychological assessment. She was starting her practicum placements, and will be finished in about a year. In truth, apart from her lack of hands-on experience, she appeared to be well prepared. (When I skyped with her recently, she was working in a placement with the family court system.)

Lv took me on a tour of her public university, which was simple by US standards. The library appeared to have older books and journals, a large study area of round tables with chairs, and a total of about 10 computers for use by all the thousands (?) of students. There were separate buildings for the various subject areas, a few bathrooms (single toilet, no toilet paper), and a couple of mini-cafeterias (more like coffee shop counters) with a limited food selection. The campus was very open, with lots of covered outdoor connecting walkways. It sits at the edge of, and includes, a large and lovely jungle-like forest with dirt roads; there are papaya trees at the edge of the campus.

L’s brother, F, is working on a degree in computer technology at the same university. He is not thrilled with his choice, but is interested in having a job that pays well. F is a Buddhist, and we talked for a while about how he might be able to maintain a vegetarian diet in a very meat-centered country. I didn’t have any trouble in this regard.

L’s father, who is in his 60s, completed his law degree last year and is now in private practice within the family home. He was one of over 550 (?) authors who wrote the current Brasilian Constitution, about which I’ll write more later in this post. Sr. G and Sra. L share very strong moral and socio-political values, which have been imparted to all of their children. They also set a warm, conversational, caring, spiritual and laughter-filled tone as the heads of their family. Sra. L, who works in an administrative office, took the week off to be able to spend time with me during my visit. As with R in Palmas, I was stunned by the generosity of her choice. More so, because she didn’t even know me, I was struck by her interest.

On an almost daily basis during my time in Porto Velho, I was toured around the city and the surrounding area by various family members. We visited the Rio Madeira (Wood River, so named for the tree trunks that are pulled long by its strong current) and waited a while to see if we could find enough other people to be interested in a river tour (the boat needed at least 10 for a tour). I started approaching strangers and inviting them to join us, but to no avail, so we got permission from a ship captain to just hang out on board for a while to enjoy the cool breeze. On one occasion at the Rio Madeira, Lv pointed out an Amazon pink river dolphin – they really are pink!

We also drove to the area across from a hydroelectric plant that was built on the river amidst strong protest by local residents, who had previously been able to enjoy the beauty of the river at this spot, with its large boulders and the spectacular sunset view. I was told that the local fishing community had been moved to housing, where they would be given a small stipend for five years but no job training or support for making the transition to a non-fishing lifestyle. This reminded me of a different situation I had read about in Brasil: http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2013/apr/03/brazil-dam-activists-war-military

The park near one part of the Rio Madeira was an endpoint for the steam engines that previously ran between Porto Velho and Guajará-Mirim, Brasil, across the river (Rio Mamoré) from Guayaramerín, Bolivia. Sra. L’s father had been the person who stoked the wood-burning fire on the locomotives. Sra. L wanted me to see the museum (a warehouse) in this park, but it happened to be closed on the day we visited. When she discovered that the museum keeper was around, she explained that I was visiting from the US and convinced him to open the museum for about 20 minutes! I loved the place, which was full of beautiful, dusty artifacts such as the huge wooden molds used to cast the various iron parts for the train. The museum included a section with, e.g., an old cot and coat tree, which were part of the former hospital in Porto Velho. This hospital had had a reputation for its experience and success in treating malaria victims, who arrived from all parts of Brasil to be saved.

At Sra. L’s suggestion, we took a one-day trip to Bolivia, where she wanted to do some pre-shopping exploration. Apparently, the prices in Guayaramerin are so low that many Brasilians pay for and take the long (6-8 hours) bus trip in order to make purchases there. Virtually all of the Bolivians in that town are bilingual in order to support their business with Brasilians. Sra. L finds the town unattractive, but I thought it very charming. We wandered through the extensive market (streets lined with shops, all of them protected from the sun with large sheets or blankets hung on the street side of the sidewalk). I was impressed by the shoe repair men who had their tables set up in the street, replete with sewing machines, various hand tools, and pieces of tire for replacing shoe soles. Sra. L and I made a stop at a cultural center undergoing renovation, and were allowed to visit regardless. We showed enough interest that the woman in charge took us to meet an author who is researching the social, political and economic aspects of the regional rubber tree history.  José Luís Durán Mendoza is a Bolivian author-illustrator who spent a great deal of time with us explaining the history (in Portuguese), showing us written and other artifacts, and generally inviting us into the inner workings of his process. When I answered his question about why I was visiting South America, he told me that there was a great need for help in Bolivia, and we exchanged email addresses. Time will tell….

Other highlights of my time in Porto Velho included a walk through a mosquito-infested sub-tropical area in which I discovered the importance of constant motion. We all walked in single file, swatting at each other and waving our arms. The few times I stopped to take photos, I was immediately besieged by mosquitos, and that was were more than enough for me. The area was part of a former zoo from which all the animals had been passed along and/or let loose following some kind of scandal. We were told that we’d be able to see, e.g., macaques in the trees if we returned early the next day, but we weren’t able to do so.

The family was delighted when I tried coarse yucca flour with milk, which I liked. Interesting but less of a treat was a kind of soup that is made with broth, yucca goo (highly gelatinous and viscous) and a kind of leaf that literally puts the mouth to sleep. I liked the broth and did okay with the leaves, but couldn´t handle the goo. This was probably the oddest food I tried while in Brasil, and it sealed my reputation for being willing to try most anything.  

Without a doubt, the Brasilian fruits continued to be an ongoing revelation. The range of flavors and forms is astonishing. The most remarkable – and indescribable – was the tucumã, which has a very thin layer of yam-orange fruit around a large pit. The texture is incredibly buttery, and the taste – probably influenced by the color and texture -- was like a combination of carrot, butter, yam, caramel…. It was heavenly.

The night before I left Porto Velho, Sra. L asked me to join her on a quick trip to the mall. While there, I had to sneak in a way to buy a very simple gift for the family, explaining that it was for someone else, and asking Sra. L's opinion. The gift selection itself was one of those experiences of buying something that will please someone else, though it does not particularly please me. I wanted to get something truly wonderful, but felt that an expensive gift would be excessive and therefore offensive. (There's a whole post that needs to be written by me at some point on the topic of money.) I decided on a vase, and chose the one that pleased Sra. L (but not me), all the while feeling cheap and inadequate. I had received so very much from this family, and had had to sneak in ways of helping out around the home. I was allowed to pay for the trip to Bolivia only after begging, in tears, for an opportunity to contribute in this way. I continue to have a hard time accepting the  deep and endless generosity that is extended to me with such ease.

When we returned, the family was in a flutter putting together an arch of balloons. I already knew from my exchanges with L that this family likes to throw parties for events such as birthdays, and I was told that it was G’s birthday. I joined the family knotting balloons together, and learned (at last!) how those arches are made. The family moved the balloons to the outdoor dining area, and L’s husband told me that he wanted to share some youtubes of famous Brasilian comedians. When we joined the family outside, they all shouted ‘Surprise!’ and I discovered that the party was, in fact, for me. In addition to the balloons, there was a hand-made good-bye sign on fabric, Brasilian pizzas (I finally got to try the Brasilian chocolate-and-cheese pizza), and a local speciality cake. Needless to say, I burst into tears. Crying, I did my best to thank the family in my still-developing Portuguese; this was certainly one of the times that I wished I were more fluent.

Before going to bed that night, I spoke with Sr. G about his part in the writing of the current (7^th) Brasilian Constitution. The military government that preceded this constitution had been welcomed when it replaced the government that came before, but had become highly dictatorial. People were being hauled off, imprisoned and/or killed with some regularity, and it was forbidden to speak out. People were afraid to express themselves, but eventually decided it was time to do so. They starting talking to each other, and gathering in the streets; this continued for years until the people succeeded – without any violence whatsoever – in arriving at the point of writing a new constitution. The two-year+ process began with the military government still in power. The participants were Congressional senators and elected deputies, of which Sr. G was one. He had run on a shoe-string budget, and it had not been believed that he could win, but in the end he did so. Anywhere I was with him in Porto Velho, he was recognized and greeted with warmth and respect.

The group of people rewriting the constitution took months to determine their process and the time they would take to complete their task. There were groups at every level: local, regional, state, federal. The smaller groups worked with each other to develop and present policy to the larger groups, and so on up the ladder for further review. The entire Brasilian population was invited to identify issues, and to offer their thoughts and suggestions, and the entire process was transparent (i.e., ongoing notification of the public regarding policy and progress). Because smaller states (such as those of the poorer Brasilian ‘interior’) had fewer deputies, these states banded together and ended up having considerable power to form policy on behalf of poor people. The current Brasilian Constitution is highly detailed, because its authors did not want to write something simple or open enough to be easily changed. The result is a constitution comprised of basic principles, extensive articles, and actual laws. Some of the laws were written with termination dates, whereas others were written as permanent. When the current Constitution was finished, the country voted on it.

This is the Constitution that made my friend R cry when he read it, because it is so beautiful. Though there was general agreement that its reality does not yet live up to the document, Sr. G said that things are improving. L and her siblings agreed that young people speak openly now regarding their discontents, having grown up in a different culture regarding free expression. I was told that, although most people do not know the Constitution itself, they are aware of and demand their rights. There are offices to which people can go to request free information from well-informed staff, regarding both rights and legal process.

I was deeply impressed by the richness and openness of the process through which the current Brasilian Constitution was developed, and by the time that was taken.  When I left, Sr. G presented me with a copy – a small book – that he had inscribed for me.

I come from a large family that has its share of tension and animosity, as well as its share of love and joy. One of the deepest gifts of my time with this family was an opportunity to experience a large group of siblings who truly loved and enjoyed each other. They hung out with each other daily, asked for and listened to each other's thoughts with real interest, and laughed easily and often.

Odds and ends:

The movie ‘Ironman’ just isn’t the same dubbed into Portuguese. The sight of Dengue fever information and warnings on local plastic shopping bags was a reminder that Toto and I were not in Kansas anymore. There is an ‘Itsy-Bitsy Spider’ song in Portuguese. N’s daughter, Ln, taught me a couple of girls’ hand-clapping songs. In Porto Velho, people’s large water tanks are filled every other day; if people use up their water, there is no more until the next filling, so some people have reserve tanks. L and her family have a momma cat who apparently was led to their home – with her kittens – by a male they had taken in. The kittens were adorable, and I was reminded of how much I love these small animals. Local handcrafts included beautiful purses made with flip-tops from soda cans. Sra. L and Sr. G have a huge backyard that they planted with all kinds of fruit trees: papaya, jabuticaba, mulberry, several kinds of banana, and others. The name for 'humming bird' in Portuguese is 'kisses-flower.' My fascination with South American mannequins has officially begun. When Lv and I returned late from a tour around town, everyone was concerned because we hadn't called. Laughing, they shared their thought that they would have to explain to the US government how the visiting American had gotten lost or injured while in their care.

with love, meg               June 15, 2013

Friendship in Palmas

I`m now in Lima, Peru, after nearly three weeks of volunteering at the Foundation Casa Grande (FCG) in Nova Olinda, Brazil. I arrived two days ago after about a day of travel, and was met at the airport by my friends. Once outside the airport building, we were immediately surrounded by taxi drivers offering a series of competitive bids for our fare, and I learned a lot just watching my friends negotiate the situation (by walking away until an acceptably lower fare was offered).

I finally have an opportunity to write about my time in Palmas with R, M, their two daughters (I, age 7, and baby M, 5 months), and their cat, V. I’ve known R for about 15 months now. He was and is my first Brazilian-in-Brazil friend.

You may remember E and P of Rio de Janeiro, who had recommended that I “experience” FCG. In preparation for an eventual visit there (until two days ago, “here”), I started learning Brazilian Portuguese. I was very fortunate to have a bilingual, bicultural Brazilian friend in Santa Cruz who was willing to get me started (thank you, B!). Meanwhile, other friends had recommended an on-line program (“Livemocha.com”) used by their son to further and deepen his mastery of Japanese (thank you S and B!). After getting some Portuguese basics from B, I decided it was time to check out Livemocha.

Livemocha provides useful, free on-line lessons in a wide range of languages. Each time one submits a written or audiotaped exercise, it is sent to the community of native speakers of that language, who can choose to correct the exercise. At the same time, someone else’s exercise shows up for correction in the native language of the person who has just submitted an exercise. If people like the nature of each other’s corrections, they can formalize Livemocha “friendships.” These can be used for correction of exercises only, but can also lead to skyping and/or emailing for further language and culture exchange.

My friendship with R began in this way, and I remember how much we struggled and laughed during our first Skype call back in February of 2012. R and I skyped just about weekly thereafter until I left the US. Since we first met, we have also exchanged birthday presents, taught and corrected each other, sent links of interest, and shared our stories, dreams, disappointments, worries, jokes, laughter and tears. The experience of ongoing, shared struggle and joy is always powerful; the building of relationships that bridge language and culture divides is a particular gift. R is an attentive teacher who is always concerned for the details of my learning experience (e.g., pronunciation, grammar, culture, vocabulary). He is also a great student who does lots of extra work on the side.

R works for the Brazilian Federal Police, and is studying law with the goal of becoming an attorney. R’s wife, M, is a social worker at the main hospital in Palmas; her area of specialization is work with children who have cancer. When planning my visit to Brazil, I arranged to be in Palmas toward the end of M’s six-month maternity leave, during which time R would also have a couple of days off. I was blown away when R told me that, in spite of the pressures of his job and studies, he had decided to move his vacation so he would be free during my entire visit.

R is one of the most tender men I’ve ever met. He loves spending time with his daughters, and has great joy in sharing their lives as they grow up; he knows that this time will pass all too soon. R takes his older daughter to school each day because he loves holding her hand as he delivers her to the building, remembers how his mother held his hand on the way to school, and imagines that his daughter will do the same with her children one day. He cries when moved by something – including, he said, by the beauty of the Brazilian constitution when he read it. R reads others’ feelings well, and speaks openly about his own.

M is a smart, stylish yet down-to-earth woman who has an endless capacity for play with her children. Brazil strongly supports the reality of breast-feeding and mother-child connection – thus the fairly standard six-month maternity leave. In M’s case, connecting is what she does naturally, and I was full of admiration for her ability to spend endless hours really being with her children. M has a relaxed and grounded quality about her. She is also a terrific baker.

I is a smart, creative, imaginative and talented girl with a great capacity for entertaining herself. She seemed a bit leery of me, or perhaps just disinterested. She loves to make her baby sister laugh, and she’s good at it. Her baby sister, M, is a sturdy, healthy girl whose face lights up when she laughs, which she does often. R and his family are all very beautiful.

Much of my time with R and his family was spent simply enjoying family time: meals, shopping, running errands, cleaning up, etc. I practically had to beg to be allowed to help out around the house, as there was a notion that I needed to rest and should not be bothered with such things. At R and M’s home, I got my first taste of traditional Brazilian meals. I have to say that I particularly love the Brazilian beans, as well as M’s wonderful arugula-and-mango salads!

R made every effort to introduce me to as many Brazilian fruits as possible, in many forms: fresh, as popsicles (the best I’ve ever tasted) and in blender drinks (yum!) Knowing that I didn’t like my fruits sweetened, he made açaì with and without sweetened condensed milk so I could sample both. This fruit has an extraordinary taste that is difficult to describe: it is fresh, rich and spicy, like a blend of blueberries, allspice and chocolate. I could happily eat it all day every day.

In addition to being a way to spend time with the family, the errands themselves were fascinating cultural outings for me. For example, there was a trip to a store that mostly sells items in bulk; for those of you who know Costco, this place made Costco look like a small neighborhood market. It sold a wide range of items, accompanied by overhead speaker announcements and a man who walked around hawking particular items on sale. The store was packed!

The most interesting part was the check-out. Brazil has a system in which four categories of people have priority in all lines and in all service situations: pregnant women, women still carrying babies or young children in their arms, people 65 and older, and people with physical impairments. (As was explained to me some time later, Brazil still has a notion that women are frail and need extra attention. Men carrying babies do not get priority service.) Although we were in the priority line, the store was so crowded that it took us a full hour to get to the cash register. The store was designed in such a way that it was difficult to maintain any kind of order in the lines, which were backed up quite a way into the already congested aisles. Nevertheless, there was no grousing or even negative attitude during the wait; people simply waited. Some stools were made available for people who were in the priority lines, and these were shared.

There was also a trip to a local clinic, where baby M received a vaccination that was due. This was a simple place: an open area with chairs under a roof (with no walls), where people could show up and be seen by a nurse or doctor in one of the rooms. M explained to me that such clinics are used for routine or preventive care and small health issues, as well as for getting referrals to specialists or for particular procedures when warranted.

While I waited, I read a large banner about the push for six months of breast-feeding, followed by another 18 months of both mother’s milk and formula. The banner explained the many health, relationship and economic benefits for baby, mother and family. I was struck by the difference between this approach to breast-feeding and that in the US, where we also know about the benefits of breast-feeding but seem to view it more as the road to droopy breasts. As a feminist doctor once said in response to a statement that breast-feeding will ‘ruin’ a woman’s breasts, ‘Ruin your breasts? What are they for?’

Apart from such daily-life outings, there were also special outings. Among these was a tour of I’s school, which is a private school serving children aged two to 17. I found it simple, clean, organized and full of light. The school’s director explained to me that the older children are not allowed to mix with the younger children, that there is a program in place to address and minimize bullying, and that children with special cognitive needs are generally served within the general education classrooms. There is a ballet class for girls and a soccer class for boys, but any child can take either class. There are some schools with classrooms that specialize in the care and education of children with cognitive difficulties. M and I talked about the difficulties of making decisions re: the placement of a child with particular cognitive and/or developmental needs, and these difficulties appear to be the same in Brazil as in the US.

M also took me to visit the hospital in which she works. Although it is a public (i.e., completely free) hospital, it is supplied with modern equipment and has specialist doctors and departments. On the other hand, by US standards, it was a low-key place – not necessarily a bad thing. M took me through a particularly crowded section where the hallways were lined with people in hospital beds, along with their family members. M explained that there simply were not enough rooms for everyone who needed attention, and she said that the situation was much worse in the earlier morning when everyone first showed up for care. People in the hallways were those with non-critical needs. I met briefly with the social workers, all of whom greeted M as the long-lost friend she was. M explained to me that the social workers’ job is to educate people – particularly poor people – about their care options and available resources. I later (in Porto Velho) found out that, in Brazil, health care is a constitutional right.

M also introduced me to one of 30 (count ‘em!) thirty psychologists who work in the hospital, who explained to me that the psychologists do various neuropsychological evaluations and other kinds of testing, but provide little in the way of therapy. The psychologist showed me how truly tiny the spaces were for the evaluations, and said that the hospital felt these spaces were enough. In addition to her work at the hospital, this particular psychologist serves 50 (yikes!) schools, where she works with the teachers in order to assist children with emotional and/or behavioral difficulties.

R took me to a local park where he and many others like to take walks around a lake. As was the case in every part of Brazil I have visited, there were lots of bats that came out at dusk. I quite like bats, and I loved that this important mammal was as normal a part of the bio-diversity as were birds. More remarkable than the bats were the capybaras in and around the lake! They are the cutest rodents I’ve ever seen, and I couldn’t believe that this animal – for me, an exotic animal – was simply swimming, walking and chomping about in a community park. The babies were beyond adorable. Look them up!

After the first outing to the park, R took me to a huge open-air but roofed market filled with tables full of fruits, vegetables, cheeses, prepared foods and every imaginable form of yucca. I was very taken by the method for displaying and selling heads of butter lettuce: lined up sideways on a long metal skewer, so that the ‘flower’ of the lettuce faced outward. Enthusiastic as ever to introduce me to new tastes, R purchased a wonderfully delicious pudding for me to try, made from fresh corn with cinnamon sprinkled on top.

It had started to rain quite suddenly toward the end of our walk in the park, and the market was my opportunity to experience the sound of the rain I had only imagined in Rio, pelting down on the corrugated metal high above us. It was stupendously loud. At one point, all of the lights went out briefly and there was a simultaneous exclamation from everyone in the crowd (including me); R was surprised that I had made the sound along with everyone else, and asked me if people do this in the US, too. It reminded me that some sounds are actually quite culturally specific; I later learned (in Nova Olinda) that, for Brazilians, a sharp inhalation is a sign of admiring wonder rather than one of fearful surprise or concern as it is in the US.

The crowning glory of my outings with R was a trip to a set of waterfalls. The drive was often spectacular, with views of green and rocky bluffs and a huge sky filled with huge clouds. The walk to the waterfalls was a ‘wow tour,’ with all kinds of amazing vines, seed pods, and various other botanical life. Here was where I learned that termites are a big fact of life in some parts of Brazil. Their nests in the trees take many shapes, and I saw sizes up to 20 inches in diameter.

On the way to the waterfalls, R and I met a cheerful couple, G and L, and we quickly established a chatty relationship. The second waterfall had a lake under it and was suitable for swimming, with sweet, soft and refreshingly cold water. G and I did a little water ballet while L took photos. I tried to swim closer to the waterfall itself, but the ‘wind’ coming off it (from the water impact) was so strong as to make that impossible – for me, at least. R commented that, when in places of such natural beauty, he always feels they are evidence of God’s existence. I was reminded of my mom’s dad, who had said something similar the first time he stood in a redwood forest on a visit to California. Though I don’t believe in God (in the sense of a person-like being), I do believe that this world is bigger than I am, and that the sheer force of life is a marvel with an unfolding logic all its own.

In strong contrast to the beauty of the open spaces in Brazil is the reality of houses built behind walls. Everyone explained to me that this is a response to crime. Some of the walls have electric wires above them, and others have glass shards. Many of the walls have a section with a large metal door that slides open to allow people to drive their cars inside. All of this creates a barren and forbidding appearance on the streets that I found quite unattractive. In R’s relatively newer (but not new) neighborhood, all of the streets are still unpaved; they are dusty with red clay, and are deeply rutted. R explained that the mayor has promised to pave the streets, but won’t actually do so until he is running for re-election. I guess some political tactics are international.

Once behind the forbidding walls, one finds lovely homes, gardens, and verandas. R and M’s home is modern, streamlined and filled with light. It boasts a recently added outdoor area, including a kitchen with built-in grill, and a swimming pool that I never used because I was having too much fun doing other things. R and M were consummate hosts.

One of the humor highlights of my time in Palmas was when R and M had a long talk that included the word for clock: ‘relogio.’ When they finished, R turned to me and asked if I had understood their conversation. I smiled and replied, ‘relogio,’ which truly was the only word I’d understood. It became our code for, ‘I don’t understand anything you said.’ I’m on a mission to get that expression into the Brazilian vocabulary.

There were many lovely and interesting conversations with people to whom I was introduced. This alone – the happy introduction to family and friends – really stands out for me in the Latin-American culture. People are really eager to share the visit, and to introduce the visitor to others. Topics of conversation have often included politics, and I’ve done my part to correct the image of people from the US as arrogant world-dominators. In one discussion (with M’s brother-in-law), I was asked what I had found most strange in Brazil, and R answered for me: avocado with sugar. It’s true. I was able to drink a blender drink with sweetened avocado (it was buttery), and I enjoyed the creamy sweetness of the avocado popsicle, but I still find it a strange combination. R and M enjoyed the guacamole I made in an attempt to introduce them to my norm: avocado as a vegetable rather than a fruit.

The same discussion with M’s brother-in-law took us to the topic of gun violence. I was informed of a law forbidding people to leave their homes with a gun. Some Brazilians had objected to the law, using the same argument as many in the US (including the NRA): ‘But then only the criminals will have guns!’ This has not turned out to be the case, and violence has, in fact, gone down since the law was enacted.

The most challenging experience during my visit to Palmas was when I joined my friends at their Presbyterian church. There was a great deal in the service that I didn’t understand at all, but I did understand the part about marriage being only between a man and woman. I told R that I found this difficult, as well as inconsistent with the notion of an all-loving God. He agreed with me and commented that it’s a sensitive topic. I don’t know if people made any assessment of my sexual orientation, and I found the community itself very warmly welcoming. This has always been an important challenge for me: knowing that people with beliefs so different from my own – so wrong in my opinion – can be such lovely people. I hope I’m also cut some slack when on the receiving end of that equation: ‘Oh that Meg! You know, she’s so wrong on the topic of _____, but she’s a good person.’

The most surreal experience of my trip to Palmas was when R and I watched ‘The Shawshank Redemption’ together. I had never seen it before. R loves it, and really wanted to share it with me (which I'm so glad he did). At some point toward the end, having been completely pulled into the movie, I suddenly realized where I was. I thought, ‘OH, I’m here in Brazil, watching an older American movie, in English, with my Brazilian friend, R! He recommended this movie to me, and now we are watching it together! Here in Brazil!’ It was crazy and disorienting and beautiful. R and I both cried.

As I sat in the plane after my tearful good-bye with R, crying again, I realized that I hadn’t said good-bye to V, the cat. V had been an important part of my visit with R and his family, a small connection with my own cats. I realized how much I had enjoyed and been nurtured by the daily contact with this animal, with whom I had also established a small relationship. I know that all of these good-byes bring up other important good-byes in my life, of all kinds, spoken and unspoken. What a journey this is!

With love, meg      May 15, 2013

I’m currently trying to resolve some problems with Dropbox, so only this photo for now….

Asking, Practicing and Teaching

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

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/WasteLessLiveMore/posts/523613217656068

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.com.br/alfa/sapucaia/sapucaia-2.php

I thought I might have some other photos ready by now, but that is not the case. I'll attach links in another post.

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)

El Muelle

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/tb45gw04ewx8w1t/lWccRf9WF0

Cosplay
https://www.dropbox.com/sh/a4bgc8vi85je0u2/pzg3vEbpGT

El Mirador

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/fr9snn9jte51zsb/zj7k96B92l

Mid-Wived into the Adventure

I am sitting on a bed in my friends' home in Mazatlán, Mexico, using a borrowed computer to write this entry. The gated window is open for a breeze, and the sounds of neighborhood partying mix with the periodic barking of a neighbor's dog. My friends' twins, not quite one month old, have stopped crying. 

At the corner of the bed sits one friend's 15-year-old son, who is playing the "Sleeping Dogs" video game he loves, about under-cover police sleuthing. This really lovely young man has eagerly invited me to try this video game and "Minecraft" as well, both of which I have indeed tried to his great delight. Of the two, I found the former, though violent, more interesting to play. Hmmm.

My almost complete lack of coordination with the controls was quite funny for both of us. My figures moved about as if drunk: they walked into walls, wandered in circles, bumped into vegetable stands, and generally jerked about. On one occasion, without intending to do so, I made a figure slam someone else's head against a wall, leaving a blood spatter. I was horrified. Such is life in the early days of my adventure.

                     -------------------------------------------------

The final days before my departure were a wild ride. The company managing my apartment got a new property manager shortly before I left. She reversed the prior manager's decision that I would not have to clean my carpet because it was due for replacement, and I got this word the Friday before my Monday walk-through. Ten minutes before closing time that same day, I also got a list of cleaning requirements that I was seeing for the first time, and that appeared to demand a level of cleaning fully inconsistent with the condition of the apartment when I had first taken it. I have to admit, to my own disappointment, that this whole experience was the breaking point for my prior calm and positivity; I was not pleasant with or grateful to the new manager, who received a full dose of my frustration and intensity. The experience was a great lesson in the importance of approaching the rental scene with camera in hand and detailed written record co-signed by both parties.

In the final week prior to leaving, I probably got about 20 hours of sleep total as I alternated between cleaning and packing, with some travel organizing thrown in for good measure. There were a couple of nights that I didn't sleep at all. I was perversely fascinated by the gradual deterioration of my own cognitive capacity: slowed thinking, inability to sustain attention -- even for the completion of a single sentence, let alone a single thought -- and word-finding problems (beyond my norm, I must add with a -- what's that word? -- wry, yes, a wry smile). Fortunately, I did not slide into psychosis, but I thought a lot about the sleep deprivation approach that is sometimes used in interrogations and/or torture.

I also thought a lot about the use of stress positions in interrogation, a practice that has been questioned as regards whether it "really" is torture. My knees ached from constant kneeling on the floor and/or sitting on the single low stool that I had kept for working on papers and packing. I can tell you from my years as an artist's model that it hurts to return to any single position repeatedly, even with breaks. The body knows quite exactly, "I was here," when it hurts. I cannot imagine what it is to maintain any body position for hours on end without a break, though I am certain that it is torture.  

The cleaning and packing did get finished, thanks again to the extremely generous help of many others, and of one friend in particular. I simply would not have been able to complete this process alone and I believe this is true of anything significant in our lives: development after development, we are mid-wived by others into what matters. 

Meanwhile, as the cleaning and packing proceeded, I was trying to work out the acquisition of a four-month "travel supply" of my daily medication. Whereas I'd previously gotten this medication through a mail-order pharmacy, with a minimal co-pay, this was now impossible because my COBRA had not yet been finalized. I checked with a local pharmacy and discovered that I could get the extremely expensive medication fairly cheaply by joining their pharmacy program, and the pharmacist said she would order the medication I needed because it was not common enough for them to have it on hand. I was good to go with my Plan B -- or so I thought. 

To make a long story short, I did not prioritize picking up the medication because I saw it as a sure thing. However, when I went to the pharmacy the day before leaving in order to pick up the prescription, I was told that it had been sent back because I hadn't come to get it earlier. When the clerk investigated further, she discovered this was not the case at all. It turned out that the pharmacist had somehow forgotten to place the order in the first place. Interestingly for me, I was not angry about this; it was an unfortunate error, but an error nonetheless. The pharmacy called around, and I was told that the store in Sunnyvale was the only one with the necessary quantity in stock. That night, my friend drove me to Sunnyvale -- 50 minutes away -- to get the medication. For me, it was a much appreciated opportunity to visit with him the night before leaving the US.

One important detail that did get addressed before I left the US was the discussion of my Advanced Medical Directives with the friend who is first in line to oversee their implementation if that becomes necessary. Ever since the Terri Schiavo case, I've worn a "Do Not Resuscitate" bracelet. The guiding principles for my end-of-life wishes turned out to be: (1) though there is a great deal I would like to experience, work on, learn, etc., I've lived a good enough life already; and (2) I wouldn't want to burden or obligate others with my long-term care if I were significantly brain-damaged. It was personally valuable to have this discussion because it required a level of clarity I might not otherwise have achieved in my thinking about the matter of my eventual death. I recommend the process!

There were many more final details to which I had to attend that night, and others to which I did not get. It made me think of the Buddhist retreats about which I've read, where, when the bell rings (say, for lunch), one simply stops what one is doing. The broom, for example, is laid down mid-sweep -- and so it is with life. I worked through the final night to complete as much as possible, and was so very glad that my friend had insisted I get some sleep the prior night! At 3:20 AM on the morning of March 27th, my friend was driving me to the San Jose Airport while teaching me how to use the iPod Touch he had lent me for my trip.  

All this story and so little about the travel itself. My next entry will be about the beginning of my actual out-of-country travel, I promise.  

meg  3-30-2013