Little Germany: Part III

After the trek to see a beautiful waterfall, we went into town. It was a perfectly maintained place.

With cute hydrangea street signs.

We walked under a lovely green canopy.

 

 

And since this was the kind place where every other store was selling delicious chocolate, we had to take a look at how it was made.

Including a groovy machine with a sign asking you to please not touch the controls...makes you kind of want to touch a button, doesn't it?

And then I took in the afternoon with this lovely gentleman.

Then it was time for a ride back through windy mountain roads with pretty views.

Little Germany: Part II

From Nova Petrópolis, we drove to Parque do Caracol in Canela. In the dictionary, caracol translates as snail, curl (of hair) or spiral staircase. Hmm...I should have asked C.C. and M. what it was meant to refer to in this situation...

Here we saw another interesting cast of characters.

Including a lazy frog.

And a traveling bee. (Luckily it wasn't a wasp or I would've taken off running.)

We walked through the woods.

We passed by signs though I'm not sure we were following them. This one in particular is telling us where we can go for a picnic.

The Portuguese word for picnic is Piquenique, which is pronounced "Picky-nicky." It always makes me happy to hear that. Similarly, Brazilians pronounce "Hip hop" as "hippy-hoppy." That also makes me happy.

We made our way to the top of a waterfall.

Then we walked around to view the waterfall in all its splendor.

After oohing and ahhing, we made room for the children behind us to see too.

Then, hot and tired, we settled down with bottles of water to cool off and relax.

Clearly this man was of the same mind as us.

Eventually, we jolted ourselves out of our pleasant stupor and returned to the car for part III of our adventure...

Little Germany: Part I

 Welcome!

 

Bet you thought I was in Brazil, huh? Well, so did I, until today made me think otherwise.

I'm splitting this post about my travels into several parts because otherwise I think I'll overwhelm y'all with photographs!

Little Germany: Part I

Today I was picked up by C.C., friend of a wonderful woman I met in Austin who just happens to be from Porto Alegre. This woman just happens to be the only Brazilian in a capoeira group that also contains a friend of mine, who just happened to see a post I put on Facebook about going to Brazil and got the two of us in touch with each other. And after that meeting this lovely woman got me in touch with C.C.

Life can be really cool that way sometimes. Or really, lots of times.

C.C. brought along her friend M. and the three of us set off in her car to explore mountain towns a few hours outside of Porto Alegre.

First stop: Nova Petrópolis

We took a stroll through the Parque Aldeia do Imigrante, the Village Park of the Immigrant. What immigrant, you ask? Why all the German immigrants who came to southern Brazil in the latter part of the 19th century, of course.

We saw a few of these Germans...

Their creativity...

And the buildings they used to live in...

...where I nearly kidnapped a kitten to come live in the hostel with me.

But s/he seemed a little attached to the peacock. So, a bit forlorn, I parted ways with the lovely creature...

We then ate lunch in a rather German-looking place. It was tasty stuff. The dessert table was a little insane, offering us something like 20 different choices. Yes, I got seconds.

Then we got back into the car and continued our adventures...stopping not much later for a necessary photo opportunity. ;-)

 

And then onward, to Part II!

Citizen Gardeners

This morning I stood outside my hostel waiting for friends to pick me up to go on an excursion outside the city. 

An older lady was outside sweeping the sidewalk. Otherwise things were pretty tranquil, as they often are at 9 'o' clock on a Sunday morning. Earlier in the week, I'd noticed these cool soda bottles tied to a tree on the sidewalk.

Now I started noticing the creativity in the median. I took a picture of a plant growing from a tire, stepping out into the middle of the empty road to do so.

The lady approached me, broom in hand. She told me that she was responsible for these awesome plant-filled medians. "Even those bottles on the tree?" I said. She smiled and said yes. She'd taken it on herself to do this task to help beautify the place. Her name was Iolanda.

She told me how she'd planted fruit trees so that people passing by could pick the fruit. She picked a pitanga berry and patiently pronounced the name several times for me so I could understand it and repeat it back. She told me that I should let it ripen to a darker red and then give it a taste.

The berry, after ripening while traveling in my bag up into the mountains for the day and then back again, was really tasty. I am keeping the seed. Iolanda said I should bring it back home with me and plant it.

She was awesome and inspiring.

Weren't you supposed to be doing an internship in Brazil?

Why, yes. With youth in trouble with the law.

So, it is a good point that perhaps I should start writing about it.

PART I.

First though, we have to travel back to 1990, when the Estatuto da Criança e do Adolescente [Statute of the Child and Adolescent] came into existence in Brazil, which essentially gave specific rights to children and adolescents, based on their "condition as persons in development," including their absolute right to "life, health, nourishment/food, education, sports, leisure, professionalization, culture, dignity, respect, liberty and living with family and community." This Statue is very important and a big deal. So much so that often when I have told Brazilians about my internship, their first question is, "Have you read the Statute?" Indeed, I was gifted a copy of the statute not long after my arrival, and my reading of it became the beginning of my internship.

The Statute also created the structure for a juvenile justice system that would be rehabilitative in nature and not punish adolescents in trouble with the law in the same manner as adults. Unlike in the United States where children accused of heinous crimes can be transferred to the adult system, tried as adults and made subject to the death penalty, this can't occur in Brazil. (Brazil also does not have the death penalty.) Of course, what's written in statute is not always what occurs in reality, and there are opponents of this system, but I'm not going to get into that in this particular post.

Suffice it to say that it is always a challenge, in any country, to live up to its ideals. Implementing and maintaining a system of juvenile justice that aims to rehabilitate children and improve their lives is a huge undertaking. However, the system here appears to recognize that there are many structural issues (poverty and domestic violence to name a couple) that are integral parts of why children and adolescents may become involved in illicit activities in the first place.

Essentially when a kid gets caught committing a crime they will be entered into the juvenile justice system. Depending on the severity of the act (and of course, whether or not they actually committed it), they will often be given medidas socioeducativas (socio-educational measures) usually consisting of community service, sometimes combined with a form of probation (as I understand it). This service will usually performed over a period of six months usually consisting of four hours a week. However, there is an entire system, run by social workers, set up to help these youth with this as well as other needs they may have. Additionally, depending on their needs these kids may also get drug treatment or psychological evaluations, etc. So, kids aren't just told to go volunteer at any random place. They are assigned to a location near where they live, with social workers, and from there, they will complete their time. I am definitely simplifying this, but I just want to get the gyst of it across.

And it is with this social service system that I will be interning here in Porto Alegre. It operates underneath a larger social service umbrella agency and has eight offices located throughout the city (it's a big city). A week ago Friday,  I went to the central office for a meeting with two of the coordinators. I was thrilled that I could walk there (it took about 25 minutes), thrilled that I managed to both find the place without getting lost and relieved to arrive on time, albeit a little out of breath. This is a picture (below) of the river dividing the road where the central office is located. 

And so, despite the fact that the coordinators had a slightly different understanding of my internship (they thought I was there to do research and that I would be there much longer than four months), they were incredibly gracious, welcoming and open to changing their game plan to meet my learning needs. Master's level Social Work students in Brazil all do research. However, for those of us studying Social Work in the United States, the emphasis is on gaining experience in the field. It was decided that I would spend the following week in the central office gaining a bigger picture perspective of the work that they do and from there I would be assigned to one of their other locations to begin working directly with youth in trouble with the law.

Ways In Which I Am Obviously Foreign: No. 1

Things That Make me Happy
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

There are clearly many ways in which I'm obviously not Brazilian. These ways become evident from the moment I open my mouth and say something (and sometimes before).

However, there are other more subtle ways, that I hadn't anticipated, and am slowly discovering.

Way No. 1: I like milk in my tea.

This is incredibly strange here.

I remember when I first brewed up some chai in A.'s kitchen. When she saw me putting milk into it, she said, "Oh, milk?! I don't think I'll like that." She didn't try any.

I thought it was just her personal taste until a few days later I went out for coffee with a professor and a doctoral student at a university cafe. I asked for black tea and when they served it with sugar packets on the side, I wondered aloud if there was any milk.

Both the professor and the doctoral student smiled broadly. "That's not normal here," they said, "You'll have to make a point to ask for milk."

"Wow, you're just like my grandmother," said the professor, "She too liked milk in her tea, despite what anyone else said."

And then last night I was hanging out with a Brazilian who is considering doing a Master's in counseling in an English-speaking country. We ordered some herbal tea at a beautiful cafe with a view of the water.

"So you see," I said, "I've recently discovered that I do some things considered weird here."

He looked at me waiting for whatever "weird" thing I was going to say.

"For example," I said, "I like milk in my tea."

He started trying to suppress laughter.

"See!" I said, "You're laughing too."

"Yeah," he said, "I think I used to have milk in my tea as a young child, but not anymore. What kind of tea are you talking about?"

"Well, black tea," I said.

"Is it different from our black tea?" he asked.

"Nope, it's the same. I just like milk in it."

He shook his head, amused.

And there you have it.

Ways In Which I Am Obviously Foreign: No. 1

Brazil Combats Nicotine

I recently got to see a Brazilian package of cigarettes up close and personal. I was quite intrigued by the anti-smoking warning.

As you can see they have decided that images speak louder than just words. Just writing that smoking causes impotence doesn't seem to have the same effect as this unhappy man here looking down at his crotch.

Here's another image for your contemplation that translates to "Suffering." Essentially, don't smoke or you'll get lung cancer and leave your serious wife and adorable son to mourn as you die.

Dude, I think these images do kinda kill the mood, or at least cut back on the film noir glamor of smoking. But then again, I don't smoke. I don't even smoke apple-flavored tobacco from a hookah because the next day I wake up with what feels like an ugly hangover. Point being, I don't need to be convinced. So I'm curious to know: would these images cause you to think twice if you were trying a cigarette for the first time? Or the 547th time? What reaction would you have?

Just in Case...

Walking to Receita Federal
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

...you were worried that with my registration with the federal police completed there was nothing left on my to-do list outside my internship, you can cease worrying. Really that was just one piece of the scavenger hunt, which I do believe the country of Brazil has constructed in order to help foreigners orient themselves to their new cities.

Of course, I didn't realize that before I came here. Yes, I was aware that I had to register, but I didn't bother to ask what that entailed and the Brazilian consulate in Houston believed that a simple line in my visa advising me about this would suffice. I had this assumption (yes, I know, don't make assumptions) that I'd just show up, say "hi" to the police, they'd take a cursory glance at my passport, note my name down and that would be the end of it.

Ha!

As y'all may know, that wasn't the end of it. Indeed, I hadn't thought to bring the original copy of my visa application with me because I assumed that the pretty visa pasted into my passport would get me everywhere I needed to go (again, I know, don't make assumptions). So I left the application at home with my boyfriend.

I was wrong.

I wish I had been right because then I could have gotten this whole process started my first week here instead of during the beginning of my internship.

As luck would have it, my friend Estrela was flying back to PoA and in the nick of time my boyfriend was able to deliver the visa application and a copy of my birth certificate (gotta be able to show who my parents are) to her to bring to me here.

Phew. Thank you to my boyfriend and thank you to Estrela!

So once I had my papers in order, I got my registration over with in a mere 4 hours.

However, no rest for the weary. The next day I went to the Banco do Brasil (Bank of Brazil) for Step No. 2 in the process: getting my CPF number!

Basically this is like an American social security number. I had tried to obtain this number prior to registering with the police, but was sent away. Clearly this constitutes proof that this is a scavenger hunt - you have to progress one step at a time in order to get all the required clues to bring you to the next step.

So, yesterday, armed with a passport stamped by the police (and a stamped slip of paper, bookmark-size) and proof of residence (thank you A.!) I went to Banco do Brasil.

As usual I bumbled through security (my bag always sets off alarms) and confused the guards. I grabbed a ticket and waited for my number to be called.

Luckily, I had grabbed the right ticket! (The first time in the Banco do Brasil, I'd gone to one desk after waiting 20 minutes only to be given another number and told to wait some more).

The guy was friendly and began rapidly entering my information. "Ok, ok," he said, "Just one more thing...maybe it'll be here."

He opened my passport.

"Nope," he said, "Not there. I need something with the name of your parents."

"Uh..." I said. I wanted to smack myself on the forehead because I hadn't thought to bring my copy of my birth certificate with me.

"Well, we can do it this way," he said, "How about you just tell me their names?"

"I can do that!" I said, "How about I write them down?"

Phew! Obstacle surmounted.

He collected some money from me (just a few dollars) printed out a receipt and said, "Ok, you're done."

I was thrilled.

"Now starting tomorrow afternoon," he added, "You have to go to the Receita Federal to finish the process."

"I can't go today?" I said. I had taken the afternoon off my internship to go the World Social Forum and was trying to fit these "errands" in so I didn't have to take any more time off.

"Nope, tomorrow."

Sigh...."My God, they're going to think I'm such a slacker," I thought and was very relieved to discover later on Google Maps that the address was actually relatively close to my internship.

---

So today, I set out at 11:30 AM to walk to the next step in my Scavenger Hunt: Receita Federal.

It only took a half hour for me to get there and I confirmed with the guard that I was indeed at the right location (there was nothing written on the building).

I went to the information desk. They directed me to another room. I waited in line and then was given a CPF number and told to go upstairs. There was a huge waiting room packed with people and a monitor listing numbers (not just CPF numbers, all sorts of other numbers - I have no idea what they were for).

There was also a TV playing the news with the volume just loud enough that you think you can understand the words, but you can't really. I sat and stared. Luckily the numbers were moving considerably faster then with the federal police.

It only took 30 minutes for them to reach my number: 67. I jumped up and strode as fast as I could to desk number 53. "Alo!" I said.

The man looked up and smiled. I handed him the stapled bundle of papers from the Banco do Brasil.

He asked for my passport. He looked up information and confirmed with me who I was, who my parents were and where I was living. He printed a piece of paper with my CPF, gave it to me, and said I could expect the actual card a really long time from now.

I was ecstatic. I made it back to my internship, having been gone only an hour and a half (the normal amount of time they take for lunch).

This CPF number is a pretty groovy part of my Brazilian scavenger hunt. With it I can do such exciting things as open a bank account, buy as many cell phones as I please AND, move onto Step No. 3 in the scavenger hunt: obtaining a Student ID card.

The student ID card will give me a 50% discount on buses among other things. Of course I actually have to be enrolled in the university to get this card and the semester doesn't begin until March. So, I have a little bit of time to spend just being happy that I exist somewhere in a Brazilian database...

Ficha Estrangeira No. 32

Ficha Estrangeira No. 32
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

When I was waiting my turn to register with the federal police, I got to watch lots of Brazilians getting their passport photos taken. They'd brush their hair, apply a little lipstick, position themselves just-so. Then the employees would show them the photo afterward to make sure they approved.

Indeed when I went to get my 3x4s taken for the registration, the process was different than what I'm used to.

What I'm used to is very quick picture taking. You're in, you're out. It's done. Who cares how awful you end up looking in the photograph because it's a given that you won't look your best. It's like a law or something.

However, it was a different situation here. The man in the key-making/passport photo store walked me to the portrait room. In one corner was a mirror with brushes and combs below it.

"Take as much time as you need. Do you want to put on any lipstick? Whatever you need to do."

My initial reaction, of course, was, "Oh no! Do I look that bad that I need to fix myself up?"

I put on chapstick, hoping that was close enough to lipstick. I tried to run my fingers through my hair.

He sat me in a chair surrounded by all sorts of lighting equipment. He kept either adjusting me, especially the positioning of my face, sometimes my shoulders, or the lighting equipment.

"Smile," he said, "Try to smile."

I tried to smile. He took a photograph.

He came back and adjusted the positioning of my face again.

"Ok, now this time," he said, "Try to smile but keep your lips closed. Don't show your teeth."

He took another photograph.

"Now if you'll please wait outside, it'll only be a few minutes," he said.

I outside on the bench and looked at all the different keys on the wall and watched cars pass by on the street outside.

He arrived with the photos.

"I think you look good in these!" he said, "They came out well! You look pretty!" He sounded proud.

Even that amused me, since I've never had a discussion with people taking my photo for my license or passport about whether or not I appear attractive in the shots. But this man took his work seriously; he wanted his subjects to look good.

He was a professional. It seems that this is how things are done here.

Vespas Brasileiras, Part II

Chairs
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

Yesterday I got to experience two Brazilian systems: the federal police and the hospital pronto socorro (essentially a hospital version of the United States emergency room).

One took 4 hours.

The other took 20 minutes.

When I walked into the federal police building, I was given a Ficha Estrangeira (Foreigner ticket) with the number 32 printed on it. I was there because I was required to register with the police within 30 days of my arrival.

I sat down in what felt like an airport seat staring at the backs of people's heads. Frequently people's names were called, but no numbers. It took a while for me to figure out that two different systems were occurring simultaneously. Brazilians (whose names were being called) were here for passport related stuff. The estrangeiros (foreigners) were here to register, among other things.

It took at least 30 minutes for a Ficha Estrangeira number to be called. Number 9.

"Oh damn," I thought, "This may take a while."

And indeed it did. I'd been planning a nice lunch and instead I was spending it eating crispy, cheese-flavored fried things from the vending machine.

I finished the book I was reading.

In between staring into space, I even started reading my Portuguese-English dictionary.

I made friends with a woman who was born in Afghanistan, moved to India when she was 7, came to Brazil with her abusive husband, learned Portuguese and with the support of a neighbor divorced her husband and is now here working to support her two teenage children (who are both in school). And she never was given the opportunity to learn how to read and write. She was number 40. She got someone's attention and explained her situation to him -- that she was afraid she might lose her job if she stayed here all day. She got helped.

I was especially interested in how many very young (early 20s?) women were working here and how casually they were dressed. Tank tops and flip flops and too-tight pants. 

It was always amusing when someone came out to call a new number saying "Estrangeiro número 17" essentially, "Foreigner number 17."

3 hours after I arrived, my number was finally reached. I jumped up and practically ran into the room. The man took out a list and started telling me all the things I needed to register. "Yup, got that," I kept saying. He looked surprised. "How did you know you needed all this?"

"The university told me." Inwardly I was thinking how grateful I was to the university because if I had to wait 3 hours just to be told, "Go get this stuff and come back and wait again another day," I might have exploded.

He sent me back outside to fill out an application form, which I filled out, making some less than educated cases, which later had to be corrected when I returned to his desk. For example, instead of putting down my passport number, I put down my flight number from Houston. "Huh?" said the man, "What on earth is this number." I blushed.  Uh, perhaps my brain was a bit muddled after all that waiting?!

Then I was sent back outside to wait some more.

A different man came and handed my passport back to me with a little strip of paper with an official stamp, some numbers, a bar code and my photograph. Then he took me into a small room and coated my fingers in thick black ink for fingerprinting. Luckily, they had stuff in the ladies bathroom that got it off.

And that was it. Exactly 4 hours later I was free to go.

----

So...needless to say, although a visit to the doctor seemed prudent because the rash from the wasp sting on Sunday was continuing to grow in size (after all, I have no idea what these Brazilian wasps are capable of), I kept putting off going.

I walked over hill and dale to register for the World Social Forum (post to come about this), even got on a bus by myself (woo hoo!), wandered around the indoor market downtown and then, since nighttime was fast approaching made a move for the hospital.

I didn't know exactly what would happen or even if they'd accept me because this wasn't really an emergency in my mind. And I also didn't know how much they'd charge me. I wasn't thrilled about that prospect either.

I brought along my international insurance information just in case that could do something. Though I doubted it.

I went to the information desk. They told me to go sign in. I handed the guy my passport and he clicked away on his computer and asked me for my address and my phone number.

Then he said, "Follow the yellow line to room number 6." I did with "Follow the Yellow Brick Road" playing in my head.

The doorman to room number 6 directed me to sit in the waiting room nearby. "Here comes the waiting," I thought and started to send a text message to A. since she lives nearby.

Before I could finish it the doorman was calling out my name. Incidentally, "Alison" is a man's name here in Brazil, so everyone is a bit confused when I respond to it (such as the lady in the shoe store when I presented her with my credit card. "But you can't be Alison?" she said reading the name on it).

Inside, room number 6, I was asked simple questions about why I was there and what had occurred.

"Where are you from?" asked the doctor after finishing the medical questions.

"The United States."

"And how long have you been here?"

"Two weeks just about."

"Wow, you speak such good Portuguese."

I didn't mention that I'd studied the language for about 2 years, so I better speak decent Portuguese. I like to bask in the lie that I could have picked up all this Portuguese in 14 days time.

Then I was directed to another waiting area. This one was filled with unhappy looking people. There was one woman who could barely sit and was moaning in pain.

A few minutes later a nurse/doctor motioned for me. "We're going to do an injection," she said and directed me to the other side of the room, past sick people in hospital beds, to a small space behind a curtain.

She pulled out a needle.

"Where?" I said.

She smiled. "Your bunda [bottom]."

I winced considerably because it felt that the needle would never end.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" she said kindly (if that's possible).

"Yup!" I agreed.

She motioned for me to go sit back down.

The moaning lady was still there across from me, half in her seat, half out. 

Then the first doctor spoke to me again. She said that if the shot hadn't been enough that I should go pick up a prescription that she'd written on my form.

"Tomorrow morning," she said emphatically, "Not any sooner."

"Okay" I agreed. 

The doorman asked me if I was ready for the liberação (liberation). I laughed and said yes - I felt ready for liberation - and he opened the door for me.

Oops, he wasn't joking. Literally, I had to go to a window marked "Liberação" to give them my medical form and sign out.

No money charged.

Wow.

I looked at my watch and all of this had transpired in approximately 20 minutes.

Wow.

Now of course, I should preface this by saying that I've heard stories that not all visits to the pronto socorro are so easy. However, this experience is a far cry from what would have happened had I shown up in an emergency room in the United States with an allergic reaction to a bug bite.

Truth is, I wouldn't have gone in the first place.

And good news too! Today the rash has subsided quite a bit.

Woo hoo for painful shots in the bottom!

Enjoying the Afternoon

Enjoying the Afternoon
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

I love that so many people -- often of my grandparents' generation -- just pull a chair onto the sidewalk outside their house and just sit and enjoy the afternoon. I've seen the lady in the middle out there many afternoons in a row, often enjoying some chimarrão...

Bus Tour

I met the wonderful V. at 8:30 AM on Sunday morning for a tour of Zona Sul, the greenest part of Porto Alegre. V. (who's Brazilian) and I met in Austin when she was doing research at The University of Texas and so it's been fun to hang out again on another continent. One of the things I appreciate about V. (and need to learn from) is that she is never afraid to practice English, even if she knows it won't be exactly perfect...who cares, it's the communication that matters!

 

V. was right about the earlier bus tour, because the weather was still pleasant. And we had seats on the top of the bus!

The tour was mostly in Portuguese, with some intermittent English thrown in. We got to see the stadiums of Porto Alegre's rival teams and their accompanying blue and red colors. I was told that I better choose a team quick, neutrality is not looked upon kindly. 

And then there was the wonderful water (though apparently you shouldn't swim in it).

And a beautiful view of the city...

...From a church high up on a hill....

...that we all had to take lots of pictures of...

...And of course I had to take an obligatory graffiti shot...

A great way to spend a morning.

An hour and a half later, we returned back to where we had begun. The sun was getting increasingly hotter. And so it seemed the perfect time to embark on the insane quest of finding an ATM machine that would accept my debit card (not such an easy thing here, let alone on a Sunday). V. was awesome enough to accompany me through the quiet downtown center to help me fulfill this mission.

Next time, a tour of the downtown...perhaps after that one, I'll know where the ATMs are by heart...