Perdida no Quotidiano Brasileiro

Saying Goodbye

2010-10-16T16:08:00.001-03:00

I've held off on saying goodbye to this blog for a long time now. I guess I wanted to end with something deep and profound and well...here I am some months later, integrated back into my life in the United States and marveling at the memories of people in a place that I was privileged enough to experience this year.

And so as a goodbye, here is a link to the site I put together of the photography and writing of the youth I worked with in Porto Alegre, Brazil. Please, please leave them comments and thoughts on their work. I'll be sure to translate your words into Portuguese too, hoping that not too much gets lost in translation:

FOTO YOUTH

As for where I am now, I'm feeling the urge to start blogging again about life and times in Austin, Texas. In the moments, when I'm able to translate that urge into actual blog posts, you'll be able to find them here:

LOST IN THE TEXAN QUOTIDIAN

Obrigada por tudo e até mais.

The Back-in-Texas To Do List

2010-06-01T15:20:00.002-03:00

At some point soon, I will actually end this blog...and begin another...It's a bit hard to let go. A voicemail from my former housemate A. on Sunday made me a little sad and full of saudade. Then there are the "scraps" left by Brazilian friends on Orkut (the most popular online social network in Brazil) and the updates from former colleagues. For example, there was some money left-over from the photo project we did with the kids and I donated it to one of the youth programs. They just used some of it to take the youth to the movies. For some of the teenagers, this was their first time seeing a film in the theater. Awesome. Wish I could have been there with them.

However, given that I'm no longer in Brazil, I'm not exactly living in some sort of Brazilian quotidian anymore. Although, this morning when I tried to use my Spanish to offer the Mexican house painter some water with ice, it certainly sounded like I was still lost in the Portuguese language. The guy looked at me with a bemused expression and kept saying, "It's cool, it's cool. Don't worry" as I mourned my inability in Portuguese-heavy Portoñol (or is it Portunhol?) to say things the way I wanted.

So, that's one thing on my Back-in-Texas To Do list: recover my Spanish!

Luckily, I am the type of person who likes to add things to my Back-in-Texas To Do list that are easy to check off that list. So far so good.

#1 Graduate
I checked that off the list about 10 days ago, walked across the stage during two different graduations (the University of Texas Graduate School graduation and the University of Texas School of Social Work graduation), got hooded, got handed pieces of paper saying that they'd mail me my diploma, got pictures taken, enjoyed the hugs and love and attention of family and friends, and felt thoroughly content to be back in Texas.

The two years it took to get my Master's in Science in Social Work were long and hard and fun and full of ridiculous amounts of learning and now, from a distance of a few weeks, seem to have absolutely flown by. I still haven't completely grasped that I'm no longer a student. I get to temporarily be in fun stage called, "Being done" where I still feel somewhat protected from the realities of what that actually means.

#2 Go to the Beach
Luckily, I am not yet able to check this off the list because I'm still here in South Padre Island enjoying a real vacation with my boyfriend. I'm savoring the "Being done" stage, while I am still in it. Biking, swimming, strolling down the sea shore, eating lots of fresh fruit, hanging out with my boyfriend's family that live nearby, reading all the New Yorkers that arrived when I was in Brazil. [Note: This is my second time at the beach this year. The last time was in the beautiful state of Santa Catarina. As gorgeous as it was, I unfortunately came down with pneumonia. This time my plan includes not getting sick. I hope to abide by that.]

Ah, isn't the beach beautiful? Before moving to Texas, I didn't fully grasp that the state has beaches, and living here, I am so grateful that it does.

#3 Begin the Job-Search
This will begin in earnest next week when I'm back in Austin.

The last time I searched for a job, I was fairly indiscriminate. It was March of 2005. I had recently moved to Austin from France, sans either gainful employment or an apartment to call my own. It took about a month, during which I filled out applications for any possible job, ranging from secretarial work to working at Einstein's Bagels. I would have worked about anywhere that would take me, except for perhaps a fast food restaurant. And no, Einstein's Bagels did not call me back for an interview. It appears that my college degree placed me in an odd no-man's land, either overqualified or underqualified for the task at hand. Luckily, an idealistic law firm took a chance on me based on being impressed by my Brown University degree, my ability to speak Spanish (darnit, I've got to get that ability back) and my Nantucket roots, and took me on board. They forever changed my impressions about lawyers, client advocacy and about what my life's work might entail. From there I ended up in Social Work school. From there I ended up in southern Brazil in an amazing internship with youth in conflict with the law.

This time around, the job search feels like a much weightier thing, sure to inspire a few existential crises along the way, as I try to find where I belong. Any hints, tips, suggestions, ideas as to how to go about this process are very welcomed!

And now, back to taking it easy for a few more days...ah, self-care, what a lovely concept that's even better in practice.

Rainy Days in PoA

2010-05-25T17:20:00.001-03:00

It rained a lot in Porto Alegre.

Perhaps I should have taken it as a clue when I first arrived and the airplane had to circle the city for quite some time before landing.

But, I liked the rain.

Except when it soaked through my shoes and into my socks.

And except when cars surfed by on the road and splashed me on the sidewalk.

Except for those things.

There was just something almost romantic and adventurous in setting out, armed with an umbrella, to hop through a downpour on my way to the bus...

It did feel like hopping. There were all sorts of gaping puddles to avoid. And there were also strange pieces of sidewalk, where it appeared that square foot tiles had been placed upon uneven dirt. Sometimes you'd step on the wrong tile to discover that it was only loosely covering a well of water that would promptly come raining down upon your ankle and foot.

Nice.

But, no, really. It's not just romantic conjecture now that I'm no longer there and am recalling my time tere wistfully.

I did enjoy the rain. The sound of it battering the windowpanes as I slept. How Cipote would always want to cuddle because it scared him. How big the drops of water were. How absolutely saturated and green the world became.

The happy reflection of the sky on the wet ground in between showers...

Ah, so beautiful...

Walking the Wall

2010-05-25T16:18:00.000-03:00

Cais do Porto, is a port on the lake/river (depends on who you ask) Guaíba in downtown Porto Alegre...the views of the water are lovely.

But the bliss-inducing reason for going there, is to walk down the ridiculous long wall outside the port and fall in love with the street art.

I think even my camera was overwhelmed with the fabulousness of these artists' work. So much so that it stopped working on my walk back to the public market and it took some hours before it would turn on again.

---

P.S. Some of the artists' painted their websites on the wall too, if you'd like to view more of their work. Also, more of the pictures I took of this wall can be found here.

Reasons Why I Love Austin, Texas

2010-05-25T13:53:00.001-03:00

Coming Back to Texas

2010-05-19T22:38:00.003-03:00

Who knew it could be so hard to say goodbye to a place. That heavy, choked up feeling in your chest. Pressing my hand against the window as though I was leaving a lover forever. In a sense it's true. I may come back, but it will be a new experience. I was saying goodbye to an amazing four months over a certain time in a certain place that will never exist again. Yup, eyes welling up. A few tears.

And I was also ready to be going home. I began to note the language transition after I landed in São Paulo and everyone spoke to me in English, despite me (unconsciously) responding in Portuguese.

Then all of a sudden there I was in Houston and making small talk was effortless again because it was in my native tongue. Though also, the lovely sound of Portuguese was still there too: several Brazilians set across from me discussing the (lack of) internet connection. Across the way, I overheard conversation in Spanish. Ah, the United States. Gotta love the language blend.

With a ringing in my ear (nothing like flying when you've got a cold), I drank coffee and watched the sky light up with morning and played Sudoku on my iPhone.

My sweet boyfriend greeted me at the Austin airport with a mug of my favorite tea with evaporated milk and we stopped for breakfast tacos at Taco Deli before heading home.

I am back and actually already unpacked.

But, I'm not ready to be done with this blog yet. More posts to come!

Rainy Day Goodbye

2010-05-18T15:06:00.000-03:00

Sigh.

It's Tuesday afternoon and soon, verrrry soon, I'll be heading to the airport.

It's raining cats and dogs. My fingers are crossed that my flight leaves on time for São Paulo.

Drinking a cup of black tea. Bags packed. Petting Cipote. Oh Cipote, I'm gonna miss you.

It feels a bit surreal.

I have been running around, going non-stop, trying to get everything done. And so, as I write, the kids involved in the photography project are on their way to the Santander Cultural for their exposition. N., T., & E., who collaborated with me on this have promised to take photographs.

I wish I could be there, but I am also ready to board my flight home.

Here are some pictures of the setting up of the show.

I was there just a few hours ago, helping with the final touches. But it was really T. & N. who devoted their entire day to getting this ready yesterday. They are amazing, and yes, somewhat indecisive too. Ha. Two indecisive creative people trying to decide where to hang photographs.

I can only imagine! I was with them until about 1 PM yesterday and couldn't return until 5:30. They were crazy at that point after being cooped in the museum basement all day long. Lots of giggling ensued.

I'm going to miss them. And I am so full of love and affection for the kids who took these photographs.

Stay tuned for more pictures!

Gilberto Gil, I love you

2010-05-15T10:33:00.004-03:00

Dear Gilberto Gil,

I'd like to tell you about last Thursday, if you don't mind.

It was one of the last days of my internships. I say "one" because the last "last" day keeps being postponed. And now Monday, the day before I fly back home to Texas, will be my last day. I'll be hanging up kid's photographs in Santander Cultural, giving a presentation to a juvenile court judge about my impressions of the juvenile justice system here in Porto Alegre (!) and then hightailing it back to the Módulo Partenon for one last goodbye to the Pro Jovem Adolescente youth group.

Anyway.

G., one of the "social educators" at the Módulo Partenon, had asked me, "So you're leaving, Libélua Azul? Tell me, did you get to spend much time in the communities?" And by "communities," he meant vilas, aka the neighborhoods that people are afraid of entering if they do not live in them.

And I said, "No, unfortunately. I visited one vila briefly, but I haven't really been inside them."

"You have to," he said, "You can't leave here without doing this."

And so we made plans for him to take me on a quick "tour" on Thursday morning of the vila Conceição where many of the center's clients reside. Of course Thursday morning was also officially my last morning with my supervisor, M. I was supposed to be with her during interviews with kids in conflict with the law complying with their juvenile probation. But, I thought it would be ok. I could give her my gift. We could chat. I could say goodbye to the kids I knew. And somewhere in there I could carve out a little time to go to the vila.

Only that this Thursday morning was absolutely jam-packed with kids waiting to see M. Too many for her to be able to see them all. So, she asked me to meet separately with some of them.

I met with a few kids.

And there was one that I had never met before until now. I started asking him some basic questions about his life, who he lived with, what he liked to do, what he wanted to do in the future. These questions were really hard for him to answer. He squirmed even about what he liked to do. He stopped going to school years ago. He didn't work. At one point I asked him, if he'd ever tried drugs. He said yes, but just pot. How much did he smoke, I asked. Was it a lot? Like every day? He laughed. "So," I said, "You get up in the morning? Do you smoke then?" Yup. "And in the afternoon?" Yup. "And at night?" Yup.

I've never thought about marijuana as a very serious drug, but I gotta tell you when you meet kids who smoke it 24/7 and can't tell you what they like to do and can't tell you what they'd like to learn how to do, you start to wonder. Obviously, there's other things playing into this too, but marijuana is seriously helping them self-medicate and almost numb themselves to everything else. It's a survival mechanism I imagine, a way to continue existing through all the hard stuff that just doesn't go away. And it breaks my heart to see a youth without passion for life coursing through his/her veins.

He admitted to me that he didn't like talking, he didn't like conversing. I thanked him for putting this much effort into speaking with me, given that it wasn't easy for him. I asked him what he did to calm himself down, or what he did when he was feeling angry or upset? Did he have people to talk to? Nah, he said, what he did was smoke pot. His friends were okay, but then again, sometimes it sucked to be around them.

And I told him that in his next meetings with M. that she wouldn't be forcing him to talk. But, that perhaps he should start thinking about things that he likes to do, things that he might like to do, maybe even going back to school. Because these would be things that she'd bring up. These would be things that she could help him with. He nodded.

He left. I watched him walk away in his brand-name powder blue sweatshirt.

And in the end, there was a sliver of time for a "tour" of a vila Conceição with G.

G. had grown up in this vila and knew everyone there. He walked us around introducing us to everyone, to the cooks in the community kitchen, to the group of woman sharing chimarrão on the sidewalk, to the drug dealers counting big wads of cash on street corners. By drug dealers, I mean young men, probably all under the age of 20. The views that this vila had of the rest of the city were incredible. The colors of their houses were bright and cheerful. Dogs roamed the streets. Streets that were tight, but could sometimes fit a car.

Children played on their father's parked motorcycle making vroom-vroom sounds and giggling.

Laundry hung out in the sun.

A man in a wheelchair sat in the middle of a stone road.

A child dashed by.

G. pointed out a day-care center.

We came across a second group of drug dealers counting cash openly in a corner. The scent of marijuana wafting through the air.

Different dealers for different drugs.

G. introduced myself and E., the manager of the social service centers where I've been interning. And I saw the blue sweatshirt of the kid I'd been meeting with scarcely an hour earlier. He looked me in the eyes with a slightly startled, slightly bemused, yet subtle expression.

"Oi," I said to all of them.

G. said that in the late afternoons, traffic picked up. There were lines of people waiting for drugs.

So, really that kid did work. Just not the kind of work that he wanted to tell me about.

G. took us to a memorial for a woman who had been murdered in a situation of domestic abuse. A spot with a plaque where people left offerings. A spot intended to speak out again the victimization of women. A spot overlooking the corrugated rooftops of the vila houses and the tall buildings of the city in the distance.

And so we left. I think E. was crying.

"You don't have to be worried about danger when you're with me," said G.

"I could tell," I said, "I wasn't worried."

But that wasn't entirely true. There was this strange shiver that went through me, walking through that group of kids dealing drugs, our backs to them as we walked down a tight road. But feeling their strong presence behind us.

What I think what it was though was this feeling of wow, this is all so big. How do you begin? Here I am leaving. Here I am done with my internship. And everything I have seen is nothing. How do you work within a community for change? You can't just be on the outskirts. You have to be inside. But, how. And what do you do when dealing drugs is a more viable, lucrative alternative then going to school and getting stuck with a minimum wage job which pays you a barely livable salary that will get you nothing and nowhere. How do you work with this? How do I work with this back in Texas?

Scratching the surface, really. So many little steps to get anywhere. A moment of feeling utterly overwhelmed.

And in the late afternoon I was at a court proceeding. For a kid utterly enmeshed in the juvenile justice system for years now. A kid who keeps getting last chances. A kid who just got another last chance. And the question is, what will he do with it? Can he manage it? Or will he end up in kiddie prison for another year of his life? Sweet kid. I'd met him a few times when he'd been locked up. We hugged and kissed each other on the cheek, because that's what you do here. [Sidenote: I really appreciate the politics of touch here. They're so much more humane, so much more sensitive.] "This is the last time I'll see you," I said, "But, when I talk to my supervisor, V., I want to hear from her that everything is going great with you." He winked at me and nodded, "Ok," he said.

"Tudo de bom," I said wishing him everything good in life.

And then I left. I ran out of the court house because I wanted to be done. Done for a little while. Waiting at the bus stop. Just being. Riding on a crowded bus. Just there. Not thinking. Because this is my life. This will be my life. No matter what, no matter who I'm working with. My life involves fervently believing that all of us have the right to discover our true potential and trying to build and be part of the community of people necessary to help individuals and communities find their true potential. And it involves strongly hoping that people can grab onto those little chances that life gives them and start finding that true potential. Some people unfortunately only get a few chances, unlike someone like me who practically gets served these chances on a silver platter...And it involves seeing all the times when this doesn't happen, when the chances don't come, or when, for whatever reason, people don't grab onto them. When life is unfair. Because life is most definitely unfair. And it involves continuing to hope and believe and struggle for something better.
...

So, Gilberto Gil, you're probably wondering what any of this has to do with you. It does, I promise.

You see on Thursday evening, my colleague and artist friend T. invited me to go see you perform at the Brasil Rural Contemporâneo event going on downtown. Of course I accepted.

I was wearing painful shoes, but I hardly noticed. You were amazing. Simply amazing. I understand now why you are an icon. Your presence alone is fantastic.

And your music frees the soul just a little bit. I felt in love. I felt transported. And it was evident that the rest of the crowd felt the same way, as we swayed and danced and smiled and grinned and cheered and clapped and sang. I have no idea how the security guards, who had to stand with their backs to you, their eyes on the crowd, could do it.

Thank you Gilberto Gil, for the reminder that life is full of contradictions, at once searingly painful and unjust and at once painfully beautiful and full of so much goodness and love.

Obrigada,

Libélula Azul

Morning Greetings

2010-05-10T22:12:00.002-03:00

Rainbow Portrait of My Umbrella
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

This morning I didn't yet know it was going to rain all day long. I was walking to the bus to head out to Lomba do Pinheiro for the last time...the last time this trip anyway.

The ground was wet from the rain the night before.

I saw a man on the ground in the shadow of the hospital, covered by many blankets. And I wondered, if he'd slept this way, wet and damp, throughout the downpour. Had he been up all night moving until the rain ended? How did he bear the cold? And I saw he was cuddling with a sweet puppy.

He saw me looking at him and he looked me in the eye and said, "Good morning." I felt touched. I didn't know if he was calling me out for staring at him or if he'd seen the smile on my face, but I appreciated his words all the same.

"Good morning," I said back to him, thinking about all the people who affect us positively and don't even know how much their kindness matters.

The Youth of Pro Jovem Adolescente Exhibit Their Photography

2010-05-09T13:59:00.001-03:00

On Friday, the youth program located in the Partenon neighborhood of Porto Alegre, celebrated their one year anniversary. We invited their family and our colleagues to an afternoon of good food, good music.

Everyone gathered around to give their attention as each youth talked about their wonderful artwork such as the beautiful mural they created together a few months ago.

They had a first showing of their photography and their interpretation of the "Drugs: Impact on Our Lives" theme that they had chosen. Each youth was chose their top three favorite photographs and wrote about them. They'll also be writing biographies. They're still coming up with "artistic names" so for the moment I'll have to use just initials.

These are A.'s photos.

I took this photo because I saw a lot of tagging and I saw the nature. There are a lot of trees, the building there on top, a lot of plants. It's just the entrance to go down stairs.

I took this photo because it is interesting. There are a lot of robberies and assaults here. It is violent day and night. Pass through in the morning and one can be assaulted. The photo is important because of Cachorro Sentado, a vila. I don't live in the vila. I just took a photo.

I thought the shadows that I saw while walking were interesting. I took the photo on the street. I was with people. It is an art.

These are B.'s photos.

This one has a story but I prefer not to tell it. This photo signifies cruelty that today isn't so common, stepparents are raping innocent children that don't even know the word "sex," children die almost every day as victims of rapes, if people were smart enough they would know who to leave their children with and that's all I wanted to say.

I chose this photo because I thought it was interesting to speak about it. Trash is something that we all produce, but there are people that think the place for trash is on the ground, and it isn't, the place for trash is in the trashcan, because trash outside of the trashcan brings many awful things and some of those are rats and cockroaches, that are very disgusting and sometimes they end up even bringing sicknesses that are not cool.

Graffiti is a divine thing, and there are people that think that graffiti is a crime, because it is very similar to tagging. Graffiti is a cool thing to do because sometimes it is a portrait of some sad realities and other times it is a portrait of cool things like cartoons and other things.

These are E.'s photos.

The graffiti that we in Pro Jovem did, this graffiti is more or less the same, in the letters and in the wild-style.

It was fun to be able to play football and have various friends and be remembering the playing that we did.

I did this design based on a sunset. It is a beautiful flower. It is pretty sunset and a work of art.

A. N. & R. shared a poster board for their photographs.

A.N.'s photos.

In this photo, marijuana is being prepared for smoking.

Shocking moment he is smoking a pitico. What is a pitico: (marijuana, crack and tobacco). Don't follow this example.

In this photo marijuana is being rolled.

R.'s Photos.

This beautiful landscape is giving a beautiful look at a world without violence totally clean.

With inspiration I was able to take but one that called my attention a lot was the graffiti in the light of the sun.

With music we totally forget our problems. Music brings a lot of happiness and joy.

"Ka$h" hadn't turned in her camera yet to be developed, so she wrote her biography instead:

My name is Ka$h, I live in Morro da Cruz with my mother, stepfather and three brothers. I am 16 years old, I go out, study and do Pro Jovem. My oldest brother is in jail. I like to go out on Fridays after school to converse with my friends. I smoke cigarettes and I drink on the weekends. I live with a drug user but I don't use drugs. Where I live there are drugs all over the place and if I wanted it would be easy to just use them, but I am the fight against "crack."

I love my life and I am never going to use "CRACK."

These kids are awesome and I feel so privileged to have been able to meet them, get to know them and see their wonderfully creativity.

Next up: their photography exhibit at Santander Cultural!

I didn't bring my camera this time

2010-05-06T11:19:00.000-03:00

There was a moment on Sunday evening when I couldn't take it any longer. I'd been sitting in front of my laptop, typing away for the entire day, trying my damnedest to finish one paper so I could start another.

And words started spinning in my brain and I thought I might explode. Yes, yes, had I begun writing this thing months ago, it wouldn't have been this unpleasant. Beginning early would have been an excellent idea. But I used my time on other things. And besides, time sensitive deadlines can provide necessary motivation to get 'er done. Right? Or so I have rationalized.

I think it was around 6 PM. The sky was getting darker. It was almost dusk, but not quite. I threw on my flip flops, stuffed my house keys in my pocket and said to A., "I have to go out."

"Yes, yes you do," she agreed as Cipote laid on her lap and looked at me as he always does when he's next to A. It's sort of a "Don't you come any closer. She's mine!" kind of look. And he will follow it up with a bark or a growl if need be. Of course, if A.'s not there to give affection, he will come looking for me with his adorable I-need-some-love eyes.

Out I went, just trying to get the mess of thoughts in my head to slow down a little. I walked a block and crossed through the bus lane to the street adjacent to the park. It's always full of vendors on the weekend selling organic produce on Saturday and arts & crafts all the rest of the time. They were all closing up their stalls, getting ready to leave for the day.

The street was blocked off to traffic and teeming with people. I made my way to the park entrance. Parents and children and strollers. Popcorn vendors. Men with poles of cotton candy. Chimarrão all around. Teens. Cyclists. Dogs of all shapes and sizes. Elderly couples walking arm in arm. Young couples making out as if their lives depended on kissing. People sitting on the grass, on park benches, strolling, laughing, talking, smiling, running, moving, just being there.

And I was so gratified by how easy it was to just meld into this huge sea of humanity enjoying the park on a Sunday evening. With the sun far behind the trees, the sky almost dark but still light enough so that you could see everything.

I came upon a group practicing capoeira near a fountain and stopped to watch getting lost in the fluidity and grace of the movement of all the participants of all ages and sizes. Their bodies flowed in and out of a dance of complex movements, actions, reactions as if it was that easy to defy gravity. It was amazing. I watched in awe.

This may have been the best "break" from academic work that I have ever managed to take. Of course it choked me up a little too because it just felt so beautiful, because I kept thinking -- as one always does when an 'end' is rapidly approaching -- that I hadn't taken advantage of this nearly enough. But there I was, at least then, on that evening, in my t-shirt that was too thin for the weather, with 5 centavos in my pocket and a sky getting darker and darker with every minute.

Photos, Funny Accents & Pine Trees

2010-05-04T19:42:00.000-03:00

Today the first group of teenagers got to see their photos and some of the writing began. Writing about their favorite photos. Writing biographies for the exposition. Fun and challenging and all that good stuff. I love learning from and getting to hang out with these guys and girls (we're up to 2 girls in this particular group now!).

Here's a photo of Negão (the "artist name" that one of the kids chose for himself) comparing one of his photographs with its subject:

We had a number of new adolescents entering the workshops today and luckily enough leftover cameras so that they could participate in the project too. One of them did not know what to make of my accent. I can hardly imagine how I sound to a Brazilian ear especially as I mangle pronunciation of words and verb conjugations. I was working with the kids individually on their writing and talking about their photos so I wasn't aware of this particular kid's fascination and bemusement, but apparently he kept repeating quietly to one of the coordinators, "She talks so strange! She talks so funny!" Then he sat next to me just so he could listen to me speak. Ha.

In the meantime I am feeling utterly swamped and in the mood to sleep for a week straight, but I have a mountain of work to get done before that can happen. (And since I've got so little time left I can't imagine I'll be letting myself sleep in too late even if I technically can). So this is my quick post while I'm boiling pinhões (singular form = pinhão) which taste kind of like chestnuts but come from a pine tree for (part of) dinner. They taste good but I have to say that the leftover shell ends up looking slightly like squished cockroaches, a thought I have to banish from my head when eating.

Then I've got to work, work, work on a paper...at least until my televnovela starts that is. I've been watching it almost religiously (or actually much more than religiously since I've never attended a place of worship between 3-6 times a week) and it's ending this week! Gotta have priorities, right? ;-)

Blind Assumptions

2010-05-01T16:37:00.004-03:00

I watched The Blind Side here in Brazil where it's titled O Sonho Possível (The Possible Dream). I get that it was based on a true story about football star Michael Oher, an African American who grew up in multiple situations of risk and vulnerability and was adopted in his late teens by an Anglo couple. However, there were a number choices made in the presentation and filming of this movie that made me disappointed, sad and angry.

One of the things that got to me was its depiction of neighborhoods. There was the rich neighborhood that the protagonists lived in - with its beautiful trees, enormous houses, white people and children who did all their homework. Then there were the housing projects on the other side of the tracks where the black people lived and where it appeared that no one ever laughed or was nice to each other. Just guns and drugs and violence and bad memories. So, uh, why did the director (and everyone else on board) chose to make these neighborhood realities so...black and white? Wasn't there some awareness of how awful and racist this comes across? Is this movie really saying that every single aspect of this young man's life was hellish before he came to live on the good side of town? That there was no good or beauty or love in his world?

And since I'm looking at strength-based and resiliency theories right now for a "Social Work Inventory" that I need to write for my last class of master's education, it's got me back thinking about this movie and how frustrating this all is. First off, I just find it hard to believe that this young man could have made it to his late teens and be the wonderful young man that he was if there hadn't been some special, nurturing people there at least at some points during his life. And some of those people likely would have lived in that housing project...and if that's the case, then there was some good and beauty there that the film doesn't show us.

The other aspect of this presentation of dichotomies (good/bad, safe/unsafe, etc.) when it comes to these two neighborhoods is that it doesn't create a space for the people who live in the unsafe neighborhoods to thrive and succeed. And then it blames them for the choices they are making without looking at potential root causes for those choices.

Here in Porto Alegre, it's true that there are a lot of neighborhoods that if people don't live in them, they are fearful of entering them. I can't imagine how on earth The Blind Side would choose to depict them, but it wouldn't be pretty. But real people live in them. And many of those people are the youth that I work with in my internship, youth that are in conflict with the law, for a variety of reasons. When I talk to these kids and ask them about the spaces where they feel safe, accepted and included they often mention their homes and their neighborhoods. The very spaces that so many people living outside of these neighborhoods think about in terms of fear.

The other day when we gave youth group #2 their cameras for the photo project, we all took a walk together through part of the area where they live. Of course this area is a mixture of the very rich and the very poor, almost side by side. And there were these beautiful praças [plaza/square/parks] shaded by trees that everyone uses. We were there playing and taking pictures. The more intrepid among us were also walking off the beaten paths into the woods where homeless encampments were located. Trash littered some areas showing signs of recent drug use. There was a beautiful field for soccer playing. The sky was blue. The sun was shining. The foliage was dense and green. I got to play the part of tourist and the kids showed me some of the beauty in where they lived. I took pictures but so did they and those are the pictures that will likely have much more to say.

And then they took their cameras back home for more picture-taking of their worlds through their eyes.

I know that I'm on my high horse here, full of indignation about a movie, comparing it to real life, which of course it is supposed to be based on. And I know that I'm coming from the space of a white girl who has lived a very sheltered, privileged life. I've had my white guilt phase and know that it's a place of paralyzed inaction. Looking at the world's issues and thinking "My God this is too much. It's too overwhelming. There's no way I can make a positive impact. I'm sorry!" Sometimes I still feel guilty, like when I pass the one-armed beggar on the street corner outside the pet store and he looks me in the eye and I don't want to give him money and I hate that I want to do something but don't know what. And I still perhaps try to take the easy way out. Even the easy way when it comes to discussing this movie. Normally I hold back my rants when I hear people gushing about it.

But, I have social work school to thank for the fact that I can no longer watch a movie in peace and blindly enjoy it. As well as for the knowledge that if I've got this privilege, then I better try damn hard to do something good with it. More than try, I better act.

Life is just never as simple and clear-cut as The Blind Side made it out to be. It frustrates me that the makers of that movie didn't think about representing any nuance or showing how much gray area there is in everything. But that of course begs the questions, who are the people who are telling the story and whose story are they actually telling?

Starting to Say Goodbye

2010-04-30T19:16:00.000-03:00

Funny how you can get nostalgic about a place before you've even left. With less than three weeks before I fly home, I've already entered into that territory. In no time I'll have graduated and I'll be looking for a fulfilling, challenging and inspiring job (if anyone has any leads, by all means let me know!). I'll have adapted back to the rhythm and flux of Austin, to daily life with my boyfriend, to breakfast tacos and Barton Springs and delicious potlucks with my friends, to driving a car again. And my time here will start to feel like something that happened in a sepia-tinted dream.

Soon I'll be that girl. The one who instead of saying, "This one time at band camp..." will be saying, "This one time in Porto Alegre..." to anyone who will listen. Of course, I've still got a lot between me and my 6 PM flight on May 18. A LOT. Some of which I should be attending to this very moment instead of writing a blog entry. But hey, this is how I always operate, putting off the important stuff. I'm in this time period that my mother described as, "...such a whirlwind and a wanting to stay longer, yet feeling the rich fullness of the time." It's this moment where I want to grab onto everything and make it last, but where I'm also ready for home.

I've been talking to some of the coordinators of the youth groups I've been working with, saying that I hope, hope, hope to find a job working with adolescents back in Texas (fingers crossed!). And then if that's the case, oh the possibilities. With a glint in our eyes we imagine embarking on projects of cross cultural exchange where the kids here can learn about the kids there and vice versa...like wouldn't it be so cool for kids to share pictures with each other about their lives, lived 5,000 miles away from each other?

The connections I've made won't be cut just because I leave the country...it's just the nostalgia I have for the little moments, all the walking around this city, all the waiting at bus stops, all the cafezinhos, daily greetings with doormen, finally knowing exactly where the coconut juice is located in the supermarket, always feeling pressured by the huge clock in front of the hospital, that time a little old lady asked me to help her across the street, how soft the skin of her hand felt against mine. It's a nostalgia for a place and time that can't be revisited because each time I return (and I do want to come back) will be a different experience. The deep colors of the graffiti that I took pictures of will have faded. Likely there will be new graffiti in its place.

And so it goes.
[Thank you Kurt Vonnegut for that oft-repeated phrase in Slaughterhouse Five which struck me as profound when I first read it at age 13 and has stuck with me ever since].

Adventures of O Cachorrinho

2010-04-29T22:01:00.001-03:00

I met O Cachorrinho [the puppy/cute little dog] for the first time in a shopping mall. He was the toy inside my Easter chocolate egg. It was love at first sight. Actually that's a lie. I couldn't figure out how to put the little pup together and had to rely on the expertise of a mathematician. So it took a while for me to see what he actually looked like. But from our first shared grin, O Cachorrinho and I went everywhere together. He enjoyed traveling in the side pocket of my shoulder bag. Every once in a while I'd take him out so he could check out the view.

Inspired by my friend Finchy's fun photos with her pet piggie, I figured I should start documenting O Cachorrinho's outings, which I've done here.

Poor little guy hasn't gotten to go anywhere exciting (yet!), but regardless he always has a smile on his face.

Day Out at the Museum

2010-04-28T21:14:00.001-03:00

Yesterday we all had a fantastic time when we went with the the guris (Portuguese slang for "young people") to a photography exhibit at a museum.

They were hanging outside the room in the morning before the oficina (translation: "workshop" - essentially the youth groups), some were using up the remaining photographs on their cameras by taking some shots of the view out the window.

Today was the day for them to bring the cameras back so that I could get the photographs developed in time for the next oficina.

We saw photographs by Henri Cartier-Bresson...

...and watched a video talking about the art of his photography...

...and we even added our own art to the art we were seeing :-)

When asked at the end of the oficina about their favorite part, they agreed that it was all fun, that they loved seeing all the photography. And now none of us can wait to see their photography.

Eye of a Goat

2010-04-25T18:07:00.000-03:00

I bought these beans at the ecological farmer's market yesterday because I thought they looked pretty.

Would they taste good? I had no idea, but I hoped so. Silly me, totally judging a book by its cute cover.

They're called Olho de Cabra or "Eye of Goat" so that made them seem even more curious to me. I don't recall the last time I looked a goat in the eye, so perhaps someone can enlighten me: are these what goats' eyes look like?

Today I put them in some water and boiled them for an ungodly amount of time.

And the verdict?

They looked a little less appealing (aka cute) when cooked.

But! They tasted just like lima beans, one of my favorite childhood foods. (Is that perhaps a vegetarian version of saying they taste just like chicken?) So of course to complete the tasty meal, I added some other childhood favorites on top: nutritional yeast and soy sauce. Nothing like a good old fashioned vegetarian upbringing (thank you Mom and Pop!) translated to Brazilian food options.

I'll definitely be keeping an eye out for these guys at the next farmer's market.

Take a Deep Breath

2010-04-25T16:52:00.003-03:00

Last week, we officially started the photo project with one of the youth groups. We began with everyone talking about their journey from home to the youth group (which is how every group begins). Then I introduced them to a breathing exercise. We played with paper "cameras" and talked about how they affect how we look at the world. We read over "Terms of Responsibility" and they signed agreeing to the terms. We gave the adolescents the cameras, designed possible photos and brainstormed together about ways to take photos that would follow the "Zoom" theme that the group has been working with.

Phew! It was a lot and it was fun.

Next week, after taking the cameras home with them, they'll be bringing them back for development and we'll be making a field trip to Santander Cultural to check out the FestFotoPoA, the International Festival of Photography in Porto Alegre. Cool, exciting stuff! There's a part of me that's always a bit nervous about projects like this. Really, there's a lot of juggling and timing and hoping it all comes out well while you're looking up at all that stuff you're trying to keep in the air. I can't wait to see how it all turns out. No matter what, I think it will be good. Especially because this photo project is truly a collaborative, group effort. I am in awe of all the fantastic people who are making this happen.

And so, at the end of the youth group, I asked two questions that I like to ask (ever since working at Communities in Schools (CIS) last year that is). I asked the group members to each tell me their favorite part of the group and their least favorite part. I love these questions because the answers are rarely what I expect. Unsurprisingly, it was difficult for them to come up with "least favorite" parts because of that human tendency to want to be polite I'm sure. It takes a while to be able to respond to this question.

But their favorite part, as expected, was unexpected. Almost unanimously, they all agreed that it was that thing we did with our stomach, with shaking our hands. Yup, what they liked best was the breathing exercise.

Before I started the exercise. I talked about how to breath into one's belly because not everyone knows how to do this (and I've finally stopped assuming that they do. Yup, as my dad has told me, when you assume, you make an ass out of u and me. Or, people just don't know what they heck you're talking about when you blather on about this deep breath nonsense).

There's an image I once heard someone using that I really like and subsequently borrowed. (I think I borrowed it from the woman who taught an awesome yoga class to our Hope & Healing group at CIS last year). Basically, it's imagining you're swallowing an elevator, it's going down your throat and descending all the way to your belly. Yup, put your hand on your stomach to feel it expand as the the elevator comes down. That's inhaling. Now to exhale, imagine your sending that elevator all the way back up.

We did this a few times and they said they'd gotten the gist of it. So we moved on. I co-opted this particular breathing exercise from a role play of a Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) group performed in my Group Therapy class last spring (thank you CBT group!). Everyone plants their feet flat on the floor and sits up straight in their chairs. Then we begin to shake our hands and stomp our feet, increasing the rapidity of the agitation as we go. It looks totally silly, so it helps when everyone else is doing it too. We move faster and faster...and faster...Until I say, "Okay stop." Then we all breathe together, deep inhalations into the belly, deep exhalations, a certain number of times. This time I happened to choose 6. That's it.

There are usually a few seconds of silence that follow this. A pause. It's just enough time to "be" with a slightly stiller, calmer mind...It was nice.

And I totally love that this is what they liked best because all of us (myself very, very included) could use some skills (and frequent reminders) to take a step back and slow down even if just for a minute or two.

Next week we'll do some more breathing, since I'm thinking they'll be up for it, and hmmmm...perhaps I'll be able to throw a yoga posture into the mix too...

Cipote is 1/3 Cat

2010-04-22T21:31:00.000-03:00

Last night I sat at my computer typing an email. Cipote approached and looking up at me with puppy dog eyes. I motioned for him to jump onto my lap. He geared up and landed with aplomb. Usually he likes to sit with his back to me, staring out at the world around us or reading what I'm typing. Barking at at the bats living in the non-functioning air conditioner (story about bats to come one of these days!).

This time though he couldn't get comfortable. Or perhaps, I wasn't reacting the way he wanted? He kept putting his front paws onto my shoulder and trying to climb up my torso as if I were a ladder. Initially I felt confused, but then I thought, "Does he want me to hold him? Is that it?"

And so I picked him up and held him in my arms. This made further typing impossible. So I walked with this little dog-cat-baby in my arms into the living room to sit down on the couch. Oh, Cipote. He stayed in my arms, fluttering his eyes, occasionally snoring a little, for the next 30 minutes, until A. scooped him up when she went to bed. I love this creature!

Being Here

2010-04-20T20:21:00.002-03:00

Right now, in this moment, I feel over-tired, over-caffeinated and very content.

Life has been this wonderful whirlwind lately where I have been happy to go along for the ride (and not just bus rides). In a way it feels like a humble surrender to the flow and to the unknown. Except that the unknown doesn't make me quite as nervous anymore. In other ways it feels that all the effort I have been putting in since my arrival over three months ago has been so very, very worth it. All of my time here has been good in its own ways, but it hasn't always been easy either. I can't say it's "easy" now, but I can say that it's awesome.

So many stories deserve their own blog post but life is speeding up and I am busier than ever. Instead, I'll try to share some pieces and some moments of the last week.

One of my favorite moments during my professor's visit was during the free time we had between meetings. We ate a healthy lunch, hopped a bus downtown and meandered in the general direction of our next meeting. In a cute little plaza, a shoe shine man offered his services. Now, I don't wear the kind of shoes that require shining (perhaps I should?), but my professor does. We had time to spare still, so we shrugged our shoulders and said, "Why not?" As my prof says, it's in these interactions with folks where there is all this time to talk that you can learn so much. This man had been shining shoes in this plaza for over 20 years. He had lots to share and lots of questions about the US of A too. And he left my prof's shoes nice and shiny.

And here is a photo of the most delicious, rich grape juice I think I've ever tasted. Yummy! I'm salivating just recalling it. A Friday afternoon and the manager of where I intern whisked me away to see another social service center in the southern part of the city. It had such a relaxed vibe that I felt like I was on vacation.

And the street art knocked my socks off. Oh yeah, it did. Or it would have had I been wearing socks.

And then I'm back at the center and I hear the sounds of capoeira. They're practicing rhythm and singing today, not martial arts. They make room for me in the circle and I join in for the next hour, clapping until my hands are practically numb. There's a lovely breeze wafting around us as we stand and sing in the shade of ancient trees. Young children, teenagers and young adults. Where else would a person want to be on a Friday afternoon?

That evening, as the sun set over the rooftops, I ended up with my colleague trying "Active" meditation for the first time in a center. In Portuguese. 1/4 vibrating, 1/4 free-form dancing, 1/4 sitting on a cushion in a traditional meditation, 1/4 lying savasana-style on a mat. Fifteen minutes earlier I had no idea I was going to do this and the spontaneity made it the perfect experience.

The next morning, I went with the flow and let a hairdresser totally cut the heck out of my hair. I'd seen myself in photos, my hair pulled back and I thought, "My God, I look far too serious. I don't feel that way so why am I presenting myself that way." So when he showed me a photo and said, "How about something like this?" I said, "Sure." And I didn't even flinch that much seeing half my hair on the floor being swept away.

Oh right. And then there was the meeting I had that afternoon. At a museum downtown about possibly getting to show the kids' photos from the project we're doing with them. I am working with two different youth groups on this project. With one of them, I am collaborating with the awesome T. and this was all his idea (and a fabulous one at that). I thought that the both of us were going to meet with one of the coordinators at the museum for a little chat. We get in there and find ourselves in a room outfitted like a lecture hall. "So," says T., "You'll just have to speak for a few minutes."

"I what?" I say.

"Just about your experience last year when you did a photo project in Texas. This is a class they're giving and the director would just like you to share a little before the photographer gives her talk...I didn't tell you this?"

So, I have a good laugh about that one, looking at T., raising my eyebrow at him and then just cracking up. And not long later find myself with a microphone in front of a room of 30+ educators and artists saying, "Well, this is definitely the first time I've talked in a language that is not my own in front of so many people."(And yes, there's a wall in the basement next to the cinema where we're going to get to show our kids' photos!!!)

And then there was Sunday when I got on a bus and rode it to the end of the line. I was going to meet with Nati, one of the fantastic coordinators of the other youth program. We were going to plan out the project together and because she just had one of her wisdom teeth removed, I offered to make the hour-long trip out to her. I stared out the window the whole time. The mother in front of me drank a beer, gave her young daughter a banana and chatted with the friendly bus clerk. We drove past Inter fans arriving at the stadium for a game. Past houses and beaches and green trees and arrived in another part of the south of the city with a pervasive air of tranquility. And we drove more. And more. I was entranced and loving the scenery of the world rushing past me out the window.

Finally the bus driver advised me it was the end of the line. The clerk who collected my money got off with me and accompanied me to a nearby bar to ask where the street was where Nati lives and pointed me in the right direction.

Later Nati said that she'd gotten the text I'd sent when I got on the bus. She said she started imaging how the trip must be for me, going to some place that I had never been before, how the feeling must have been so nice of moving through a mostly new environment and just going with it.

"Yes," I said, "You're right on. It was exactly like that." And not only did I have that lovely bus ride, but then I got to enjoy an afternoon in a cute red house with sweet people and delicious food. I rode home through the darkness later that night with a happy stomach and a smile on my face.

The Tapered Effect

2010-04-17T10:12:00.001-03:00

Dear Mom,

I thought you would be interested to see the effect that Brazil has had on your daughter.

I bet you never expected this!

After all these years, seeing your daughter wearing tapered jeans for the first time in her life. And not just tapered, but not blue either. Of course they're not that tapered in the grand scheme of things, but you know your daughter. Wearing pants like these is practically revolutionary for her. Can you imagine? No, she's not being forced to wear them. And they're not borrowed from someone else after spilling something on clothes she was originally wearing.

It's simply that she was in a store not so long ago and a sales guy convinced her to try them on because they were on sale. She laughed at him and said, "I don't wear pants like that." He raised his eyebrows and said, "Why?" so she humored him. Besides they were better than some of the other options, such as harem jeans, which she doubts will ever, ever look good on her, especially because she will feel as though she is wearing an over-sized diaper.

And then she thought upon trying them on, "These don't look so bad..I do need new pants..."

She actually bought them, if you can believe it. Of course, the whole time she was thinking, "What has shifted in my brain that has caused me to actually like these pants...Is something wrong with me?" So Mom, what do you think your daughter, age 10, would have to say to her 28-year-old self? I mean you know what it was like in the 80s and 90s to even find pants that weren't tapered. Yet, your daughter held her ground. She steadfastly refused to wear clothes that she didn't like, such as shirts that would have to be tucked in and of course, pants that weren't bootcut. I hoped she wouldn't be too disappointed to learn that her future self, under some sort of spell in Brazil, threw all that steadfastness away and -- paying money for it -- walked over to the dark side of tapered pants.

Sincerely,
Libélula Azul

Sometimes the Bus Whispers Love Poems in My Ear

2010-04-16T22:45:00.001-03:00

Dear Municipal Bus of Porto Alegre,

I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate that you always have poems on your windows. Not all the windows of course. You still leave ample room to see the landscape whooshing past. But, I like that you give me just a little something to read while I'm hanging on through all your funky twists and turns and jerky braking, waiting for my stop to come. And not just one poem repeated, but dozens of different ones.

Book are expensive here. In all sincerity, my beloved Portuguese translation of Twilight (Crepúsculo) cost me about $22 US dollars, if not more. So, it makes me all the more enthusiastic about the free bus poetry that you provide us passengers.

This one, "Passenger Love" by Alcir Nicolau Pereira roughly translates to:

The bus braked at the stop
And she came on board
She stayed close by sitting
And won over my heart

Lovely and beautiful passenger
Talented young woman with a pretty complexion
I tried out gallant prose
Leaving her serious, very distressed

Startled and very nervous
She warned: please, do not persist
Speaking softly and timidly:
My husband is the bus driver

So thanks again Bus, and I look forward to the next poem.

Sincerely,
Libélula Azul

P.S. Perhaps you can throw in a poem about vampires or werewolves to satisfy my high literary taste??

Street Sleeping

2010-04-15T18:11:00.003-03:00

On the Street
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

A common sight on the streets of Porto Alegre is sleeping men and women who appear to be homeless. Sometimes they stretch out with nothing between their bodies and the pavement. Other times they have cardboard. Often though, they lay on mattresses. I'm curious where they find these mattresses. And, I find myself wondering if this complicates movement from one place to another. Once I saw a mattress stuffed in a tree, perhaps waiting for its owner to return. I imagine it must require effort to maintain possession of one's bed. Passersby (myself included) just walk around the people on the ground, more often than not, barely noticing them or pretending not too. They are usually sleeping and so there is no eye contact. It seems accepted that they use this public space like this - I haven't seen anyone asking these people without a roof over their head to move along.

Visiting

2010-04-14T08:04:00.001-03:00

My faculty liaison (professor responsible for helping me set up my internship here) from the University of Texas at Austin has been visiting this week. And so, the days have been full:

Meetings with the wonderful people who have been facilitating my internship (that's Vera, one of my fantastic supervisors to the right of me). And isn't my posture good?! That's how I react when there's a photographer there I guess...

And showing my professor some of the things I get to do every week. Such as hang out in youth groups with awesome teenagers. The young woman who is looking back in the photo is Nati, one of the fabulous coordinators. (I'd love to show photos of the adolescents that actually include their faces, but I'm not allowed to do so by law...hence all the backs).

And of course time for meeting (and re-meeting) friends.

So, all this to say that there will be longer, more in-depth blog posts to come once I catch up on sleep!

Etiquette in the Bathroom

2010-04-12T20:04:00.004-03:00

I had been at my internship for a few days. At some point I absentmindedly read the sign located on the door to the bathroom stall. It asked me to kindly throw my toilet paper in the trash can. "Ah ha!" I realized, suddenly able to visualize all the little trash cans I'd seen next to toilets since I'd arrived in Brazil. All full of toilet paper. Yup, used toilet paper. The plumbing system did seem to have a hard time flushing the stuff down the toilet, that was for sure. "Oh my!" I realized, "I'm the person this sign is intended for. I'm the one lacking manners."

After this flash of enlightenment it took me quite some time to train myself to do this instinctively. You spend a lifetime throwing toilet paper in the toilet bowl and it's hard to change old habits. But, now? Now, I'm a pro. If that's something to be proud of, I guess. Of course in about five weeks time, when I return to the US, I'll have to retrain myself not to do this any longer. For the meantime however, I'll mind my manners and pay better attention to what the bathroom signs ask of me:

- Don't urinate on the floor

- Throw toilet paper in the trash can

- After using, flush the toilet

KEEP THE BATHROOM CLEAN

Sweet, I think I can handle all that! I'm so totally Miss Manners now, at least when it comes to bathroom usage.

A Post for D.

2010-04-11T20:42:00.008-03:00

My brother's girlfriend D. is a pretty awesome. She's sharply witty, a fantastic cook, hates to wear the color black, finds conversations about bath products just as interesting as I do and has no compunction about making fun of me. Needless to say, we get to laugh a lot together. What could be better than that? I love her even though she doesn't agree that Northern Exposure is one of the greatest shows ever. If I can overlook that, then she must be cool, right?

And so, a few minutes ago, while chatting on Skype, my brother and D. informed me that my blog posts are waaaaaaaaay too long.

So, this blog post is for you D.

Conferencing about Mental Health

2010-04-10T17:16:00.004-03:00

So, a woman came up to stand behind me in line. We were waiting to sign in for the third day of a municipal conference on mental health here in Porto Alegre.

"Oh!" she said, "The conference hasn't started yet!? I thought I was running so late. I was really worried."

"No," I said, "They said it was starting at 8 this morning, so I figured showing up at 9 would be fine."

"This conference! These people! They're so disorganized!" she said a bit huffily, "I can't believe it."

I laughed.

Yes, the conference had been disorganized. The location was announced at the last minute. Only a percentage of attendees could actually fit in the room. People were upset. Tensions ran high. I thought my head might explode. I think it was/is the general frustration of the mental health crowd who finds itself without the resources and support to do the work it needs to do in the manner it feels best. It seems that logistical issues with conference were just too symbolic of disregard and disrespect for people not to get annoyed.

You can see from this picture that people are looking pretty darn serious (even today), but they're there on a Saturday morning -- when a majority of them have worked all week long -- because they want to improve the arena of mental health.

Today -- in a new space that fit everyone -- I realized how impressed I was by the experience. Of course there was everybody's resilience and ability to keep on powering-through despite the obstacles. There was that. But there was also this strong democratic spirit, where everyone got a voice and everyone was truly participating in the writing of a report of proposals to be accomplished in the field of mental health in the city. This is the kind of democracy I don't think we have enough of - though I can see why too - it's arduous and time-consuming and sometimes you wish some people would just stop raising their hand with something more to say. Seriously, we even voted about whether or not to take a 30 minute lunch break or keep on soldiering on (Verdict: no break). I'd heard a bit about Porto Alegre's participatory budgeting before I came here and it's neat to see that this model of engagement is utilized beyond budgeting.

Yesterday, I had coffee with some psychology students attending the conference. "This is what all the conferences here are like," one of them said, "It's always the same style of conference. It's always the same thing happening and the same people talking. And nothing ever changes. I'm a pessimist about it, I don't see it changing."

"I do!" said the other student, "I have hope. Things will get better."

And so, we'll see. One pessimist. One optimist.

This was the first municipal conference in the city in almost a decade. Fingers crossed that the recommendations produced over the past three days will make a difference. At least there are many good, concerned, passionate people behind them.

Appreciation

2010-04-09T19:09:00.000-03:00

This photograph makes me happy.

The afternoon may have begun with a little chaos and confusion, but that's all to be expected, especially with a group of energetic teenagers. What really amazed me was not only that things calmed down, but how engaged everyone became in what they were doing. Some were working on the project we'd given them, writing and illustrating the life trajectory of a child (in this case, they named him Douglas) who started using drugs. Some were doing their own thing. But, really, I think that just being able to attain such concentration and focus is what matters.

Street Corner Offerings

2010-04-08T18:56:00.003-03:00

I like to take photographs of random things that I come across when I'm out walking. Indeed this includes dead animals and abandoned food. That's just how I roll. Often it produces interesting pictures and perplexed stares from the people around me. Sometimes, it seems, I learn something too.

For example, the other morning I had just gotten off the bus and was walking to the courthouse for some proceedings involving some juveniles. I'm crossing the street and I spy what looks like spilled food in the road. My reaction? Duh. Pull out my camera.

I snap a quick shot, traipse across the street, and then get stopped in my tracks again. More food. I snap another picture. Of course.

Then I notice the white candles, slightly burnt by the side of the food. Then I notice the colored paper. Then, I'm thinking, huh, this isn't just someone who didn't like the food they were eating. I bet this is actually a food offering to an Orixá.

Orixás are incarnations of deities who belong originally to the Yoruba religion. When Africans were originally brought to Brazil as slaves, they brought their religion with them, sometimes representing their Orixás as Catholic saints so that they could practice without persecution. Candomble and Umbanda are some of the religions active today in Brazil (and many other countries) that worship Orixás. The presence of these religions is not as obvious here in southern Brazil as it is if you go further north.

So I was curious who might be the intended recipient of these food offerings. I went online (I love you, internet!) and did a little searching.

I found out that:

No. 1 There's a good likelihood that whoever left these offerings was practicing neither Candomble or Umbanda as I'd assumed, but actually practicing Batuque. I hadn't actually heard of this Afro-Brasilian religion until today, but from what I'm reading, it was founded in the state of Rio Grande do Sul (where I'm living right now) in the 1800s with influence from Nigeria and Guinea.

No. 2 It's likely that intended Orixá was Bará. He's at the top of the Orixá hierarchy and apparently offerings must be made to him before any other Orixá. But, my reasoning is more specific than that. Apparently, offerings should include popcorn, roasted corn, 7 roasted English potatoes and palm oil. His color is red. So, looking at what was left of the offerings, I think this is a good possibility, especially since he's associated with crossroads and that was where the offering was left. Of course, if I'm way off track, please let me know!

Here's a little bit more about Bará translated from this webpage:

"Principle Orixá of movement and connection. The messenger of the Orixás.
Bará can be the most benevolent of the Orixás if he is treated with consideration and generosity.
Identified as the devil by peculiar characteristics of behavior such as:
irreverence, superiority, arrogance, cunning. He is the owner of the keys to doors, crossroads, and paths. His greetings, obligations, and cuts, should always be done first."

It's interesting too - and I'm sure not coincidental that these crossroads also happened to be by one of the courthouses.

I'll leave you with some images that I found of Bará.

Apparently, he's also known as Exu...and carries around quite the scepter...

Crazed Enthusiasm with Rubber Chicken

2010-04-06T20:33:00.004-03:00

Crazed Enthusiasm with Rubber Chicken
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

I can't get enough of Cipote, as my multiple blog posts about this creature attest. Indeed, in the words of a friend on flickr, he is full of crazed enthusiasm.

Here he's looking at me and saying, "Play with me! C'mon, try and grab this chicken from me. It'll be fun! C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! You don't have to worry. It'll be safe! And fun!"

Of course, if you do try to grab that chicken, he will growl and try to bite your hand. But, he will do so with a huge smile on his face. And if he starts to play too rough, he'll usually realize it pretty quickly and apologize by trying to lick your toes.

Love at a Payphone

2010-04-03T21:26:00.002-03:00

"I'm going to have to write a post about you answering the phone when we were on the way to the park," I said to A. last night, "I love that you are the type of person who can't pass by a ringing payphone without answering it."

"Well yeah," said A., "You never know who it's going to be. And he was a nice guy."

"Exactly!" I said, "It's like the beginning of a movie, I think."

"Not a romantic one!" said A., "He said that he was of a 'certain age' which certainly means he was old."

"No, no, it doesn't have to be like that," I said. "Let's see, it starts like it actually happened, but I think we'll cut me out of it. You're out for a stroll with Cipote. On your way to the park you pass a turquoise Oi payphone. And the phone is ringing. Immediately without thinking twice you answer it saying, 'Alo?'"

"It's the man on the other end, The Man of a Certain Age," says A., "And he's asking if I had just called him, was I responding to the personal ad he'd placed? 'Oh no!' I tell him, it wasn't me. It couldn't have been me since I have a boyfriend...but maybe it was my friend, I know she's interested in something like that."

"Right!" I say, "And then instead of it ending with you politely wishing him good luck, hanging up the phone and going to the park with Cipote to watch kids playing in the fountain --"

"Ok," says A. "We'll forget about how joyful the children were when they were playing with abandon in the fountain."

"So, instead of that tranquil ending, you hear how much loneliness is in the voice of The Man of a Certain Age. And since you're the type of generous person that will accompany strangers to the pronto socorro emergency hospital, you agree to meet this man. And a beautiful friendship blooms between the two of you. Now you want to find him a partner...so you're setting him up on all these dates with your single friends...But, unfortunately something goes wrong on each of these dates. Something funny of course, since this is a comedy....But you're at the end of your rope and you don't know what to do for this poor Man of a Certain Age. You're out walking Cipote again one afternoon and all of a sudden a Woman of a Certain Age starts telling you how much she loves your dog!"

"The woman who we really did talk to right before I picked up the payphone!" says A. laughing. "She was so funny. Do you remember how she said that at her age she wasn't jealous of anyone except people with dogs for pets. She told us that she had been married for 50 something years and made us guess how old she was. She was 80, right?"

"Something around there."

"She looked great for her age! And her husband who wouldn't let her have a pet. And she, for love, decided it was better to keep the peace than fight for one. But she told her husband, 'The day after you die, you know there'll be a dog living in this house!'"

"And so...in this movie, you run into this woman again. You've been trying to set The Man of a Certain Age up with eligible women for months with all these wacky mishaps and nothing's working out. And this woman is now out walking her own little dog and she compliments yours. You realize in a flash that her husband has died. She confirms this and says that she's been a widow for many months now. She always thought a dog would help her fill the void, but it hasn't. She feels lonely still. And looking at her you realize that she is the The Woman of a Certain Age who would be perfect for The Man of a Certain Age, who conveniently happens to adore pets. You set them up. It's love at first sight! The movie ends with you walking down the street leaving the two lovebirds and their pets to fall in love. You're walking down the street with Cipote and the same payphone rings again. You look at it and raise your eyebrows. We're left wondering if you will answer the phone again...The end."

"Oh my gosh Alison," says A., "I think you're really tired. You better go to bed."

Donations Gratefully Accepted!

2010-04-02T14:06:00.002-03:00

NOTE: Since writing this blog entry, I have received enough donations to reach my goal (and indeed go a bit beyond it). My thanks to all of you for your support!

Dear readers of this blog, friends, family, colleagues, professors, classmates and all-around wonderful people,

While interning at Communities in Schools at Travis High School in Austin, Texas last year, I had the idea for a photo project with the students. With your support, we were able to pull it off! (If anyone would like to see a copy of the report on this, please email me at: lostinthequotidian@gmail.com).

This spring, as an intern at a social services agency in Porto Alegre, Brazil, I am excited to be embarking on a second project and I am writing to ask for your support.

I am collaborating with two youth programs run by energetic and enthusiastic people. We love the idea of promoting self-expression and enhancing self-esteem through photography with these creative, smart and passionate youth. An example of their creativity can be seen here in a mural they produced:

One program, ProJovem [ProYouth] is intended for youth whose families have monthly incomes below $80 American (R$140 Brazilian reais) and/or who are in conflict with the law. We presented the group with several options for the project’s theme, including self-portraits and graffiti. They chose “Drugs: Impact on our lives” because, in their words, they live with the reality of drugs on a daily basis. They brainstormed titles for the project including, “Be happy without crack” and “Crack: the destruction of dreams.”

The second program, Programa de Prestação de Serviços à Comunidade da Universidade de Rio Grande do Sul [Program of Community Service of the University of Rio Grande do Sul] is for youth in conflict with the law who are ordered to complete community service. Operating out of the education department, this program sets youth up with places to perform community service and also facilitates a youth group for them. We’ll begin the discussion with them about the theme for their photography project soon.

In the end, we hope to bring both programs together by inviting their family and friends to view their work at a final show.

Due to a generous donation of 25 one-time use cameras from the SNAP Foundation, we have a strong start. However, we also need to raise money to pay for the development of film, printing of photographs and enlargement of some of the photographs for the final show, as well as other costs (customs fees for the cameras which we're trying to get lowered, materials hanging the photos for the show).

There is heartwarming support for this project at the social service agency and the programs (both directly and indirectly involved) are assisting as they are able financially, but budgets are limited. My colleagues are creative and know how to achieve a lot with a little. However, the more resources we are able to raise, the higher the quality the final show will be able to attain. It’s a question, for example, of printing 8x10 photographs on photography paper or printing the pictures using a color printer and regular paper.

Therefore, I am writing you to ask for any donation you might be able to give. For example, $3 will pay for enlarging one photo for the final show. $10 will pay for the printing and developing of one camera. You can rest assured that we will be shopping around as well as further negotiating these prices with the photography store that we decide to use, but these numbers are based on quotes from stores that I spoke to yesterday. I have set up a Pay Pal account for facilitation of donations, which you can reach by clicking on the "Donate" button on the right side of this page. [This button has since been removed because, wonderfully, I have reached my donation goal].

Although I did not anticipate it last year, one of my favorite parts of the experience was the final show. The students got to bask in the admiration of their friends, family and community for their creativity, efforts and visual/written expressions. They were glowing. Their pride in their work was beautiful.

I love how photography gives a person a way to capture their vision of what they see and to share that vision with others. I am honored (and excited) to be able to see the images of the world that will be produced by the awesome youth participating in this project.

The project ends in mid-May, a week before I return to Austin, Texas to graduate. Soon after, I will send out a report, complete with pictures, of course, to anyone who is interested.

Thank you for your support and please don't hesitate to email me with questions!

Abraços (hugs) & gratitude from Brazil,

Libélula Azul

Even the Mall Gets It

2010-04-02T09:00:00.001-03:00

I can't say the mall -- or as they call it here, shopping -- is my favorite place to eat. However, when I was at Bourbon Country Shopping last night, I couldn't get over certain details. Namely that our pizza was served to us on real plates....with real cutlery, including knives sharp enough to actually cut the pizza. Talk about sustainable! Yes, yes, they did give us plastic cups for our plastic bottle of water, but c'mon, this is definitely impressive. I wish malls in the US would be so inspired. My guess is that malls here don't even think twice about this, that this is just how things are done and that labor is affordable enough (i.e. someone's gotta wash all these plates later) to sustain this sustainability.

Daily Constitutional

2010-04-01T18:50:00.000-03:00

Almost every weekday morning I walk fifteen minutes down a long street to catch the buses I need to get where I'm going. Most afternoons I get off at that same stop and walk the same route home.

I'm can be the kind of person who needs to change my routine frequently. When I was a gardener in charge of the maintenance of various houses, I'd frequently have to switch up the order in which I watered all their plants, just so I wouldn't go out of my mind with the sameness of my trajectory.

And so, it's funny to realize, that after months now, I still am happy walking up and down the same street. I could certainly vary it up and take other routes to get to the bus stop. At times I change my path in little ways, but nothing significant.

It just seems that every day there's some new detail to observe. And when I take pictures they help me to remember and continue appreciating the old details at the same time.

Like Letter, No. 2

2010-03-31T19:04:00.001-03:00

Dear Municipal Bus of Porto Alegre,

I didn't expect to be writing you again so soon. However, after yesterday's events, I am certain that you read my first letter and were determined to test exactly how much I liked you. Or at least how much I was willing to let go and enjoy the ride.

It all started when I rushed out of the Cesmapa office located way out there practically in the countryside, and I saw you driving away. "Run!" said the girls at the bus stop and so run I did, crossing the street, past folks enjoying the afternoon as they sat in chairs outside the convenience store.

Unfortunately, I'm no Forrest Gump and away you drove around the pretty sunlit corner leaving me panting in the distance. The folks looked at me from their chairs with bemused expressions as I walked past them again, a block back to the bus stop.

I sighed and laughed. You wouldn't be coming by again for another hour. I was going to miss my appointment. But what could I do? I didn't know. I couldn't afford a taxi that's for sure.

I grinned sheepishly at the girls as another one of you pulled up. "This one's going to the center too," they said, "...eventually." They drew maps with their fingers of all the twists and turns you would take before you even started heading where I needed to go, which was already good 30-40 minute ride to begin with.

I was a little concerned about this, seeing as I needed to be at a meeting at the university in exactly one hour and 15 minutes. I asked your driver how long he estimated this ride might take. "Don't worry," he said, "In a bit I can drop you off at a bus stop that will have other buses passing through going straight to the center."

"Ok" I said and laughed at my silly situation as I gave my money to the clerk. Well, it wasn't that big of a deal, really. Hadn't I always said that I wanted to have the time to get on random buses and get tours of parts of the city I'd never seen before? True, I had. You must have read my mind and wanted to give me this gift. Ha, or at least that's what you're saying now.

And for a half hour it was lovely. Really, I mean it. We were rattling down red dirt roads with little shacks and green trees. It was hard to remember that I had woken up that morning in a city because I certainly wasn't in one now. As those girls had illustrated quite correctly, our path was not a straight line. The bus even had to back up several times to get out of the roads it had gone down.

Eventually, after twists and turns and a return to paved roads, your driver stopped and walked off you with me, telling me that from here I could catch a bus downtown and it would be much quicker this way. He brought me to a man in uniform with a clipboard listing all the buses and the minute they'd arrive, who nodded in agreement that this was the place for me to be if I wanted to get where I wanted to go.

This bus stop stood in the median of a gray stone road, open to incoming and outgoing traffic. I couldn't see far because of all the foliage and had no idea what this road led to. It looked like a grand colonial style building off there in the distance. Nearby, a man was selling grilled meat under tent. Another man with no legs, in a wheel chair, with a pile of dried herbs next to him. People were everywhere. On the sides of the road. In the median. Some looked like they were just there for the entertainment and might not actually be going anywhere.

An older woman asked many questions of a little girl, her parents standing nearby but not participating, practically ignoring the older woman. Stray dogs wandered amongst the people. Sometimes barking at each other, then running off together. People kept inquiring about buses with the man with the clipboard. "It'll be here in 3 minutes," he'd reply in a friendly tone. Generally, he was close to right. There were just so many of us on this covered platform and we all seemed a bit odd. I felt as though at any moment I might discover that I'd just walked on the set of a surreal play.

Eventually (leaving me only 30 minutes to get to my appointment) another one of you pulled up at the stop. The man with the clipboard, pointed at you and told me that you were the one for me. And on I went. I sat through this ride intermittently recognizing where I was. But I also started to wonder where exactly in the center of the city you might leave me. As you know, downtown Porto Alegre isn't that small. I might have to take a cab. And I didn't have a phone number for the woman I was meeting. I had no idea if I'd arrive on time.

I was a little nervous but also just amused. Staring out the window. Staring at my watch. Crossing my fingers as we got closer to the center that you would go down roads that I knew. And you did! I have to like you for this, don't I? You didn't have to be so nice to me. But you took me right to the bus stop I needed to get to and you let me off with five minutes to get to my appointment. I briskly walked to the department, jumped in the elevator and strolled into the 6th floor office at precisely 6:00 PM.

Wow. Was I cool or what? Yeah, yeah, I know that it's really due to you, testing me and all that to see if I really trusted you. Well, I did trust you. I mean, what choice did I have?

But the best part of all of this was that when I opened that door to the office, my colleagues looked up at me. Then they looked up at the clock. Then they laughed and said, "My God you're just like the British. Look at you walking in here exactly on time. To the minute!"

I looked at them and said, "You have no idea!" And then told them all about my adventures with you.

I appreciate that you took it easy on me today during my four bus rides. That was compassionate of you. Though -- and please don't take this as a sign to increase the rate of adventures I have while on you -- yesterday was fun.

Sincerely,
Libélula Azul

A Tree for a Saturday

2010-03-30T12:35:00.001-03:00

It was a Saturday morning. I stood outside the Lomba office with my supervisor. There we were, ready to immerse ourselves in paperwork that was hard to get done on weekdays.

Except we couldn't get in the building. The gate was locked with a thick chain and padlock. The guard was nowhere to be seen. "Why is it?" I asked, "That you don't all have keys?" I was curious, since life seemed much more complicated this way.

"I do have keys to our office room inside," said my supervisor, "But out here, it's a question of security."

I hadn't realized that there was supposed to be a guard in the building 24/7. Except at this particular moment, the guard wasn't there. My supervisor was on the phone trying to figure out what was going on. And there was little I could do to be helpful, except wait.

I looked up and saw the most lovely tree.

How could it be that I'd never observed its splendor before?

Admiring this tree, I finally observed that we were standing outside in the midst of a delicious day. It felt good to be waiting on this sidewalk with a big blue sky overhead. Instead of pointing out this revelation to my supervisor and interrupting her phone conversation, I contained myself by taking a couple of photos.

A few minutes later the doorman arrived, walking down the sidewalk towards us, apologizing: "Sorry, I just stepped out for a quick cup of coffee at home."

We left the sunshine outside and went inside to our work.

A Like Letter

2010-03-29T13:56:00.002-03:00

Dear Municipal Bus of Porto Alegre,

Have I told you that I've grown to like you of late? It's not quite love, but it's definitely like. I'm sure you didn't notice, but in the beginning you really intimidated me. I knew you'd take me for a ride and I wasn't certain that I'd like that ride. I was especially nervous about where it would leave me. I guess I've still got some control issues going on, you know. I'm not always so good at enjoying the journey because I keep thinking, "If I don't know what it looks like where I'm going, how on earth will I know when I get there?" It's hard to let go and just enjoy the ride.

And I guess that it's it really. We've spent so much time together by this point, at least a couple times a day, that I've grown more accustomed to you. I've been able to let down my guard a little. I actually enjoy standing there on brisk weekday mornings, carrying a heavy bag over my shoulder, waiting for you to arrive, wearing my glasses, of course, so that I can actually see you when you do arrive and flag you down so that you'll stop for me.

Of course I've already got my fare ready, waiting patiently in the side pocket of my bag or in my jeans. I know in advance to hold onto something so I don't fall when the bus driver takes off with a jolt while I'm waiting to pay the clerk located further inside. I know to hold my bag up so I can squeeze through the turnstile without feeling like a puzzle piece that doesn't fit.

Then I must squeeze through people in search of a seat, preferably close to the exit so it'll be quicker to get off later. Sometimes I have to stand and hold on to something and try prevent my body from swaying too much with the rhythm of the bus. If I let go, I'll fall into people and chairs. It feels like I'm pretending to surf. But if I can manage to snag a seat, I will.

Then I just get to watch and be. I don't read. I don't take photos obsessively with my camera. I don't even glance at my wristwatch that much. I'm just there and I realize that you give me this wonderful period of time just to meditate, space out, watch, exist. I look at the different people on the bus and hear them chatting and hear the music coming from teenagers' cell phones, but I'm not really listening. It's all part of the noise of the bus combined with rattles and squeaks, doors opening and doors closing. I watch the streets flow past, the numbers on buildings, words on stores, tagging and graffiti on every available space, people and colors. And I enjoy that everything looks interesting to me. Even if I've watched it through your windows a million times before, there's always something new to see.

Eventually, even if I've never been there before, I begin to realize that my stop is getting close. I begin to prepare and think about getting off. If I've asked the clerk to advise me when I get to a certain location, I start looking towards him (rarely her). He'll make eye contact with me and nod or sometimes give me a thumbs up. And I'll know it's time to get out of my seat, to squeeze through the crowd to the exit. This is really comforting to me.

I like anticipating the stop, waiting for the doors to open slowly. I like that freeing feeling of jumping out onto the pavement of the bus stop and then having to orient myself. I feel like I've just accomplished something, been somewhere, stilled my mind. I also feel good just to be on my feet, walking again.

And so Bus, this is my like letter to you. I still like you even though I wish you were more affordable for all the citizens of your city. I do also wish that one of your drivers, after picking me up from a bus stop in a part of town that I didn't know and seeing that I didn't really know where I was, hadn't tried to pick me up (ummm, not cool). But, I get it, no one's perfect and there's always room for improvement. I can honestly say that you are the first municipal bus that I have ever felt this comfortable with, that I have ever grown to enjoy this much. And for that I say thank you.

Sincerely,
Libélula Azul

Lost in Language

2010-03-28T16:13:00.005-03:00

Living in a land where everything is conducted in a language that's not my birth tongue gives me very different sensitivities. It's harder to pick up on subtleties and details. I have to ask a lot more questions or just be content with not completely knowing. Sometimes I realize that I don't know the rules of certain types of conversations. I find myself wondering things like, "Would it be more appropriate to continue expressing some sort of sympathy right now or should I just be quiet?" "Was that supposed to be funny? And if so, why? Should I be amused or saddened?" Also, while I can't shut off my ability to process English, if I accidentally (or not-so-accidentally, for example, when I'm on the bus) space out, Portuguese words can become like background noise.

On another level, I am so much more sensitive to emotions. Operating in a language that's not my own makes me more vulnerable. And if I switch "on" and really listen to what people are saying, which I try to do most of the time, I sometimes "feel" what they are saying even more easily than I can pick apart individual words. And when I'm in this space of "feeling," everything hits me deeper.

Recently I was in an interview with a boy, deeply addicted to drugs. He was uttering something like, "I've tried to stop, but I can't." Exactly what he uttered evaporated for me after I heard it, but the meaning behind the words felt like a physical punch, especially as they crossed the table and hit the boy's mother, who was trying, trying, trying to contain her own sea of emotions.

It's as though I'm watching the words acting on the people saying them and receiving them. And hours after the meeting, the feelings stick to me and become something I must ponder and untangle and make some sort of sense of before I can free myself from them.

And, when I am tired, Spanish words sometimes come to mind quicker than Portuguese ones. This is funny to me because right now, with both languages rattling around in my brain, speaking Spanish is difficult. When I'm tired it's hard to pronounce Portuguese without sounding like I'm swallowing words. Sometimes I do really feel like the words are fighting me, trying to jump down my throat exactly as I'm trying to push them out of my mouth. I'm certain that my vocabulary has improved since I've gotten here, that I'm speaking less Portuñol and more actual Portuguese. But I also feel less confident at times, wondering if perhaps it's because I realize how much more there is to learn, how much more there is to understand of this beautiful, melodic language.

I think that we exercise different parts of ourselves with each language that we speak. I'm curious to pay more attention to how I am when I'm speaking English vs. Portuguese vs. Spanish. Right now I seem to enjoy it most, after long days in Portuguese, when I'm talking with A. and our conversations weave in between Portuguese and English, with Spanish sprinkled in every once and a while. Perhaps that's why Spanglish has always felt so comforting. Maybe I just don't like to choose between one thing and the other but to mix it all together into an interesting, ever-changing concoction.

Street Art in POA

2010-03-27T14:05:00.007-03:00

The street art of the city of Porto Alegre is rich and fascinating and all over the place. In fact it seems that the majority of photographs that I take here involve art that I come across while moving around the city. While I can tell basic differences between graffiti, murals, stencils, sticker/posters and tagging, I don't always understand the subtleties, politics or meaning behind what I am seeing. There's so much to learn!

I intern in a region of the city called Partenon, where there is a very active drug trade just a few blocks from the office. As a result, I haven't wandered around too much outside of the main streets on my own. But even within the area that I've seen, there's all sorts of great stuff to appreciate on my way to work:

Recently, I was discussing a potential photo project with a couple social workers at the office. One social worker, L. mentioned that she thought having the kids document the graffiti of their neighborhoods would be a great project. She talked about how graffiti and tagging has been such a problem in the area, that shop owners have taken a different tactic. In an effort to prevent their shops being covered with graffiti, they pay graffiti artists to paint murals on their walls.

I love this response, which creates such a different relationship within the neighborhood. As for the photo project, we decided to present the kids with several different ideas and ask them to choose which one they prefer. In any case, I bet it's going to turn out cool!

Filling Up

2010-03-27T12:17:00.006-03:00

Once Estrela took me to see a beautiful view of the city of Porto Alegre from Morro Santa Teresa, more commonly referred to as T.V. Hill because there's a television station there.

But on the way there, she realized the gas tank was low so we stopped at the nearest station.

As the attendant filled up the tank, Estrela's friend told me that Brazilians absolutely require the service of gas station attendants.

He said that's how it always was. At some point, gas stations tried to make the move to self-serve, but people wouldn't have it. If they drove into a gas station and saw that they would have to get out of their car to fill up, they'd just drive away and find another one.

And so the gas stations said, "Fine, we'll give you gas station attendants. You'll just have to pay more."

The drivers weren't having any of that either. If they pulled up to a gas station and saw that the prices were raised, they'd drive off and wait until they could find a station with less inflated prices.

Gas stations had to give up. And that's how it is: regular prices and gas station attendants.

The service can be impressive too.

On our return trip from Santa Catarina, Samosa and I stopped at a gas station because the car was nearly on empty. A moça (young woman) filled up the tank, washed our windows and then when we were paying the bill inside the station, served us cafezinhos [espressos].

And she did this all with the most incredible kindness, to the extent that despite feeling awful (yup, I was coming down with pneumonia - woo hoo!) she transformed my mood and I wanted to hug her and everybody else at the gas station and wax poetic about how beautiful fellow human beings can be and how maybe there's hope for us after all. (I settled for saying thanks and waving goodbye with a big grin, guessing that perhaps a hug might have freaked her out a little).

I know, I know, that it was her job to be nice, but she was doing a wonderful job at it. I think she just fit into the category of person who just exudes love no matter what they're doing. I may be exaggerating, but I'm not sure - considering that this took place almost a month ago and I still remember. And so, I am grateful that I got the chance to cross paths with her. ( And yes, Samosa agreed that she was nice too).

The Exotic American

2010-03-26T20:16:00.004-03:00

Photographer Photographing Photographer
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

I never suspected that I would be exotic here in Brazil. However, it appears that I was wrong and Mario Quintana was right.

For example, the last time I went to an emergency hospital here in Porto Alegre, the nurse was totally smitten with the idea of my foreignness and my ability to express myself in Portuguese. He was super friendly as he took my blood pressure and my temperature. And then later, as I passed by in the hall, he made sure to happily announce to other hospital staff, "You know she's American, don't you?!"

The other morning at my internship, I sat drinking a cafezinho in the kitchen with E., coordinator of a program for adolescents that I participate in.

We were talking about the difficult situation that one of the kids was in, how hard it could be to see this, how sometimes one felt one's actions were ineffectual or just not enough.

"Yeah," I said, "That reminds me of a conversation I had with a cab driver last night. He asked me, 'Why on earth would you choose to be a social worker?!?' and I said to him, 'Well you have to have hope, you have to believe in something you know, even if --'"

And E. stopped me, "Wait!" he said, "Why did the cab driver know that you were a social worker?"

"Well, I told him," I said, "It's part of the general conversation for me, you know. I get in a cab. They say, 'You have a funny accent. Where are you from? Why are you here?' and it goes from there. I don't think this guy had ever met an American before. He had lots of questions for me such as what poverty looks like over there, how people act, what their customs are...I get to be exotic here."

E. started laughing at me, "Exotic, ha! You, exotic?!"

Ha, okay, so not everyone considers me exotic that's for sure, but I've run into quite a few people here who have never seen one of me before.

"I know, I know," I said, blushing a little, "Not something I ever expected to be."

"Don't you mind having to answer all these questions all the time?" E asked.

"Nah," I said, "I mean usually people are really nice. I think they're just curious. So I might as well be a good ambassador."

E. raised and eyebrow and looked at me skeptically. Then someone came in and asked an administrative question and the conversation went to other places. But I have to say that it's kind of fun to be a little exotic, a little different, especially in a place where I can actually manage to blend in...until I open my mouth and start talking.

This is what Mario Quintana has to say on the matter:

I'm suspicious of those tourists that consider the places they've visited to be exotic. They stay outside, seeing the picturesque in everything: the houses, the clothes, the customs, the beliefs...
And they aren't even suspicious that only exotic note in those defenseless countries is precisely themselves!

(Desconfio desses turistas que consideram exóticos os países visitados. Ficam de fora, vendo o pitoresco em tudo: nas casa, nas roupas, nos costumes, nas crenças...
E nem desconfiam que a única nota exótica desses indefesos países são precisamente eles!)

So, a Tire Walks Into a Bar....

2010-03-22T23:05:00.006-03:00

Borracharia
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

It's true that Spanish and Portuguese have a lot in common. But as this photograph illustrates, they are definitely not the same.

This Brazilian tire is advertising a Borracharia:
Borracha [tire/rubber] + ria [an ending put on to a word to convey some sort of speciality store] = a store that will change your tires

So, why am I getting into all of this?

Well, because every single time that I see a borracharia, usually when I'm on the bus, I laugh. Sometimes out loud. Yup, that's me, the easily amused foreigner, chuckling to herself as she looks out the window.

You see in Spanish, borracha does not mean tire.

Borracha (or borracho, depending on gender) means drunk.

So in Spanish, which follows the same ria = speciality store logic as Portuguese, a borracharia would be something like a "drunk-ery", ie a place to go get drunk. I kind of like the frankness of the statement. Why go to a bar when you can get straight to the point and go to a drunkery?

My goodness, there are a lot of drunkeries all over Brazil...or conversely, one could imagine that when the bars close in Spanish-speaking countries, there are quite a few tipsy tires rolling through the streets.

Yes, this is the kind of thing that I spend my time musing over...

Salsa-Dancing with Peruvians

2010-03-22T20:51:00.006-03:00

Last weekend, due to A.'s organizing skills, a group of us took over a table at a Peruvian Salsa Party. We were an international table representing different regions of Brazil in addition to Uruguay, El Salvador, the United States and I do believe that Samosa was the first Pakistani ever to grace their halls.

There was yummy food (even for a vegetarian such as myself!). A little group singing in honor of International Women's Day. A performance of traditional Peruvian dancing.

Then a live band and a jam-packed dance floor (you know you're not in the US of A, when it takes a mere 30 seconds after the band starts playing for the dance floor to fill up).

I had to take it easy on the dancing (yes, yes, eventually I will stop talking about the after-effects of this lung-scarring pneumonia), but that was okay. I was just so happy that Samosa would get to meet many of the people in my life here in Porto Alegre, who are helping make the city a beautiful place:

A.'s father (who lives on the 3rd floor of her apartment complex) and his companion T. about to show us how elegantly salsa-dancing can be done. T. used some of her Reiki training on me a few days earlier and helped me stop being so frustrated about pneumonia and just relax a little bit.

I. & O., who live right around the corner, are super sweet, have great taste in music, and first introduced me to the delights of fried polenta. We even got the pleasure of watching them dancing a little samba together!

N. & A. who live in the happening neighborhood of Cidade Baixa and yes, are such sweet people. Of the rival Porto Alegre soccer teams, they're on the side of Inter.

N. went out of his way to find some soccer tickets for us, but the only game going on was being played by Grêmio (the other team). We asked if he'd like to come with us (this was before I got diagnosed with pneumonia and couldn't go). "I'm not allowed," N. said. "Not allowed?!" I asked. "No, no," he said, "I can't go to their game. It's not my beach." I'm translating literally because I just like that line, "Not my beach."

And then we have the lovely C. on the right, who I first met while enjoying some tasty Uruguayan pizza (who knew Uruguayans had a hold on the pizza market?). C.'s just got this wonderfully relaxing energy that's so great to be around. And the fabulous, ever-generous A. who (with Cipote) has opened her home to me and has helped me through so many varied situations that I will be forever grateful.

And here is brightly-shining Estrela who I got to meet last fall in Austin, Texas and her elegant mother. Estrela is awesome, has always been up for showing me around the city and gave Samosa and I an important lesson in how to make chimarrão. Estrela's mother reminds me how much I love the Spanish language and also happens to make a really delicious eggplant dish.

And here is the American and the Pakistani. You can note the strangeness of the American by the yellow balloons she has chosen to wear in her hair and her odd facial expression. The Pakistani is transcending language barriers ("You don't speak Portuguese?...How about Spanish?...Uh no, no Spanish either?...Um...well we can smile at each other then!) by just drinking in all the good vibes and energy of the party.

The Cultural Gardener

2010-03-21T19:26:00.003-03:00

Before Samosa left town to go back to the States and after I'd followed doctor's orders and stayed inside for a week, we caught a bus downtown. I wanted to get out of the house and I wanted Samosa to see a little bit more of Porto Alegre.

First stop, the Mercado Público (Public Market), a grand yellow building chock full of merchants selling meat, fish, vegetables, fruits, materials for chimarrão, tea towels and religious items (Catholic saints and Orixás):

Second stop, the Casa de Cultura Mario Quintana. I thought this would be the perfect place to relax and enjoy a drink on the rooftop cafe. And it was as pretty as I remembered.

Later, well hydrated (in my case) and full of caffeine (in Samosa's), we started to explore this lovely building to see what other beautiful spots it might contain.

We peered out a window and saw a funky looking garden a few floors below. I couldn't believe I'd missed this awesome spot during my last visit.

Turns out it was Jardim Lutzenberger, named after a gaúcho environmentalist from Porto Alegre, José Antonio Lutzenberger. The website says (in translation) that Lutzenberger was, "a lover and great defender of natural landscapes, he saw in gardening a singular tool for stimulation of the individual sensibility for environmental preservation."

This garden was created as an homage to Lutzenberger with the intent of "integrating the environment, art, culture, giving tribute to Lutzenberg and contributing to the formation of a culture more conscious and responsible for the great diversity that life gives to our land." It includes a wide variety of plants native to Porto Alegre and southern Brazil. And it's fun and creative!

Plants in bathtubs! How could you not fall in love with a garden such as this one?

And of course, because after all this was a visit to the Casa de Cultura Mario Quintana, I'll close with a line from one of his poems that was cited on the Jardim website:

"O segredo é não correr atrás das borboletas... é cuidar do Jardim para que elas venham até você."

"The secret is not to run after butterflies...it is to care for the Garden so that they come to you."

Roadtrip to the Beach, Part II

2010-03-20T19:52:00.001-03:00

Mmmm...fresh papaya

to be enjoyed as we looked out the window at this view:

A drive through the island to town

to enjoy fresh coconut juice

at Tenda Tio Ique. Where after a little persuasion, they let me use the phone because there was no place to buy calling cards and no pay phone. I gave the waitress R$2, which was more than enough. She warmed up a bit after that.

And, we left to return to Porto Alegre, we were a bit stymied by a cow in the road.

This picture looks like it's easy to cross. But for the first five minutes the cow was higher up the hill. The rope was taut across the road preventing us from driving ahead. We sat and laughed and wondered what to do. Was this an angry cow? Would she mind if we nudged her back to her side of the road? Eh, then she moved to greener pastures and driving across her rope became an easy task.

Then we greeted this lovely owl perched on a fence post nearby, potentially quite amused by our silliness.

And so went our first trip (but hopefully not our last!) to the beautiful state of Santa Catarina.

Brazilian Chic

2010-03-17T21:06:00.000-03:00

In Porto Alegre even the pups dress up to represent Brazil:

This particular one got noticed despite her small size and made it onto the international "Dog-Gone Chic!" blog, where all the happening hot dogs are showing off their stuff.

Take a look and check out all the dogs gone chic including this Brazilian beauty.

FYI, in Portuguese, "chic" is pronounced "shee-kii."

Dreaming & Waking

2010-03-17T20:35:00.002-03:00

To-Go Garudasana
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

Last night I had a dream so vivid that it took me a while after waking up to realize that it hadn't actually happened.

I was taking a class with all the young boys that I work with at my internship. Our teacher was the director of the fabulous Street Yoga program. (Last fall, some friends and I had the wonderful experience of participating in a training he put on and got to meet and learn from this great guy).

In my dream he spoke Portuguese fluently and beautifully. The kids were responding well. And it took me about half the class to realize that he was teaching us yoga.

I'm not sure what it had seemed like before, just something else. Something good, no doubt, but just an experience like I'd never had before. It took a long time to realize that what I was doing was already familiar to me.

"This is crow pose," I thought as he brought us into the posture, "This is yoga! And the kids love it! I love it too!"

Afterwards, putting my shoes back on I was filled with excitement about the possibilities of working with these kids.

When I woke up, I felt elated.

Once I got over the fact that it was just a dream, it seemed the message was a strong one. Before Samosa left we were having lots of conversations about my internship. I was anxious and stressed out, primarily because I'd missed so much time being sick. I was worried that I couldn't make all this lost time up, or that I would have to make it up in ways that weren't fulfilling to me, just scrambling to get the hours I needed for my degree. And then what would be the point? I wanted it to mean something. What if it didn't? What would I do? And on and on and on. Samosa did the best he could to comfort me in my spiraling thoughts on the matter. But really since it was all just conjecture on my part, I had to wait until I got healthy again and my pneumonia was gone, before anything at all could be done.

Today was to be my first day back at the internship. Finally!

And it seemed to me -- as I got ready for work this morning -- that this dream was saying that although not everything I'm doing right now seems obvious to me (i.e. doing yoga and not realizing it's yoga), it's all good stuff and it's all beneficial in ways I may not yet be able to appreciate or understand. I just gotta go with it and enjoy the journey. I've got to remember what my professors always said and "Trust the process."

Trust the process. And try and enjoy it too.

It was a good day.

Roadtrip to the Beach, Part I

2010-03-16T19:44:00.001-03:00

The day after Samosa and I returned from Foz do Iguaçu, we rented a car and headed up the coast to the state of Santa Catarina. One of my internship supervisors has a pousada on the beach up there with her husband. She invited us to come stay in one of the apartments for a few days. How could we say no to that awesome and kind offer?

However.

Thinking that one can easily fly into town around midnight and then leave on a six-hour road-trip the next morning in a country that's not your own is perhaps pushing it. In retrospect, we both wonder if the trip wasn't the wisest of ideas.

We were pushing our luck. I was exhausted and getting sick, though I wouldn't admit it. Therefore I was acting with a single-minded stubbornness that made the various melodramas that we encountered while we were just trying to leave all the more difficult. Nothing in and of itself was insurmountable and much of it I had brought on myself. However, the entire day felt somewhat like wading through molasses.

Suffice it to say that we left the city limits at 4 PM in our little rental car, slightly later than our 10 AM anticipated departure time.

Luckily, the scenery quickly turned from cityscape to lush greenery. It was lovely. Our moods improved as we drove through this and drank in all the beauty.

We also got to observe a dump truck, weighed down just a tad too much by what it was carrying:

Ah, beautiful & green & hilly, oh my!

After dark, things got a little more treacherous. Several hundred kilometers of highway were under construction and we were forever weaving in and out of the highway and the frontage road, following lots and lots of signs and arrows.

We made it to our exit in good time. Then the adventure started. We crossed a bridge to an island-like location where the majority of roads were dirt and had no signs. We had directions but they weren't doing us any good. It was late. I'd accidentally forgotten my cell phone at work and had been unable to find it before leaving (another one of the earlier little melodramas). It was dark and late-ish. No one was around. We drove in frustrated circles, seeing lots of cute little pousadas, but not the one we needed to find.

In the end, we were saved by Samosa's iPhone. Seriously. I once had an angry person yell at me on the street in Austin, shouting that my iPhone wouldn't save me. But, in this situation, it did. Ha ha.

Before we'd left Porto Alegre, Samosa had meticulously documented each leg of our trip according to Google Maps by photographing each picture with his iPhone. Genius. Therefore we literally went through the pictures one by one, following the various curves of each road that we had to take to ensure that we were on track. I'll admit that I was useless in all of this. It was all Samosa's doing. The driving and the navigating. I was utterly confused and disoriented.

However, we thought things were going well, despite my lack of assistance, until we realized the road that we were following ended on the shore of the beach.

Ummm...

"Well," I offered, "My supervisor did say that the pousada was on the beach. I didn't realize it was a literal statement, but..."

We cautiously edged out on to the beach. The sand was firm. We saw a building in the distance we drove towards it.

"Maybe?" I said.

I got out of the car. Two guys were walking by with fishing gear and a fluffy dog.

"Um, excuse me?" I said timidly, "Um, are we in Praia do Luz?"

Have I mentioned before that I don't like asking strangers questions, especially when I'm lost and it's dark outside? I fit the stereotype of a typical guy when it comes to this matter. I know it's dumb and certainly something for me to work on. Samosa is much more rational and easily asks questions. However, he couldn't speak Portuguese, so I had to overcome my resistance and do all the talking.

"Yup, this is Praia do Luz," one of the guys said. The other stared. Phew. At least we were at the right beach.

"Do you know if this is Pousada do Luz?" I asked.

"I dunno," he said.

"Are there other buildings around here that could be?" I asked.

"I dunno," he said.

They walked on.

A young woman was supposed to meet us here but we were much later than we were supposed to be. I think we'd spent a good 45 minutes lost on the island's dirt roads too. I had no number to call her at and no phone anyway to do the calling.

Samosa stayed with the car and I wandered behind the building.

A group of men sat smoking cigarettes and playing cards at a small table. Light was diffuse. They stopped their conversation and looked up at me. I was reminded of some sort of painting. Or the opening scene of a movie. I just couldn't figure out what kind of movie that might be.

"Hi," I said, feeling foolish, "Umm...is this Pousada do Luz?"

They nodded.

Sweet! On the right track.

"So, uh, I'm friend's of Luiz and someone was going to meet us here. But we're late and I'm not sure where the girl we're meeting would be."

A man kindly offered to take me to the girl. We wandered around back to the front of the buildings. He went up some stairs and told a guy that some Argentinians were here to see him. Eventually that guy got us to the girl and she had the key to the place where we were going to stay. We had made it. It was dark. We were exhausted but excited to see what things might look like in the morning.

And when we woke up to birds chirping, this is what we saw. Yup, this is the road we came up the night before after driving down the beach.

And this is the magnificent beach. Praia do Luz (Beach of Light) is right.

"Oh my goodness," I thought, "It was all worth it!" Almost as though the utter gorgeousness of it all was quickly erasing all the tiredness and the mini melodramas from the day before.

Amazing.

We wandered bare feet on sticky sand down the shore, so very happy to be exactly where we were.

Airport Goodbye

2010-03-16T13:17:00.001-03:00

Samosa left yesterday to fly home to the States. Initially I had planned on returning to my internship that afternoon. We discussed the idea that I'd put him in a taxi to the airport and then myself grab a bus to the office. It sounds a bit heartless I know. How could I not be there for as long as airport security would permit me? I felt a bit guilty about it and I also had a lot of pent-up I-have-missed-one-week-already-I-NEED-to-go-back-to-my-internship-NOW energy.

I called my supervisors that morning. I told them I was feeling better and was ready to start. They said, "That's nice. But, please, please, get some confirmation from a doctor that you indeed are better. Get some x-rays done. Make sure the pneumonia is gone.

Hmmm. They had a point. The locations I was working in and some of the places I'd be eventually visiting (i.e. kiddie prison) weren't exactly the healthiest spots to hang out in. If I was weak and still highly susceptible, chances were good I'd just get sick again.

So I said, "Ok, I'll do that." Of course, I didn't really know how I'd do that, but I'd deal with logistics later.

Now I had a free pass to take my boyfriend to the airport. I had been feeling kind of bad about not going with him. Here was a way to go and not feel about about not going to the internship either. Seeing as they weren't actually letting me come back to work yet.

Not that I'm any good at goodbyes. And neither is Samosa necessarily. Suffice it to say we were sad and made silly jokes to cover up some of it. And found them funnier than usual. I felt like crying. I remembered fellow classmate's post about a visit from her boyfriend where she's interning in Tanzania.

In some ways I think there are some existential questions that arise during moments like this: when you're utterly involved and immersed in something temporary but saying goodbye to someone permanent. They run the simple lines of what am I doing? Where am I supposed to be? I'm happy to be here in Brazil and excited to be at this internship. At the same time saying goodbye to my boyfriend at the airport makes me feel as though it's not real. Of course, I imagine that when I do return to Austin, Texas in a few months that it won't feel quite real at first either.

And so, I waited outside security while Samosa went through. The groovy but slightly dangerous-looking owl sculpture that he'd bought at the Brique da Redenção caused some consternation when it showed up in the scanner. I could see various hand gestures as the security guard and Samosa tried to communicate despite language barriers. I could see Samosa having to unpack the entire backpack and unwrap the owl and the security guards examining it. I wished I could be there to help out with translation. But in the end, they let him re-pack and go on his way.

I gave him a questioning thumb's up. He returned it. Phew. All okay. We waved goodbye and blew each other kisses and waved goodbye some more. Then he disappeared to find his gate. I didn't feel quite ready to hop on a bus back to my neighborhood, so I wandered up to the third floor of the airport. Turns out it was a mall, complete with cinema, cafes and restaurants, clothing stores, a post office and a number of banks. Wow. It was surreal, especially the cinema part. And amusing considering my prior musings. I figured it was a good time to buy stamps for the postcards we'd written.

The sweet lady in the post office chose the prettiest stamps for me, ones with colorful birds adorning them. They had no adhesive on the back though. And I watched as she patiently ripped out two stamps at a time along their perforated images. She brushed glue across them and carefully pasted them onto each of the seven postcards.

I thanked her and slowly made my way back down to the ground floor. I walked outside the airport and crossed a lane of cars picking up loved ones. I stood against a concrete column waiting for the T5 bus to arrive.

Gratuitous Shots of Waterfalls

2010-03-15T16:47:00.001-03:00

It's already been over two weeks since we were in Foz do Iguaçu, but I keep remembering how wonderful it was just to watch the waterfalls in awestruck enjoyment. For those who haven't had enough of the falls either, here are a few more pics for your viewing pleasure:

Last Day in the Iguaçu National Park

2010-03-15T16:35:00.000-03:00

We had an evening flight back to Porto Alegre from Foz do Iguaçu and we were determined to make the most of the day. We packed our bags, checked out of the hotel, caught a bus to the Parque Nacional, stuffed our luggage in a locker and set out to enjoy the sunny day

The bus system, by the way, is easy to use. For those on a budget, I'd highly recommend it. R$2.20 per person versus a cab ride that's going to run upwards of R$30 to get from the downtown to the waterfalls. For those not on a budget, the cabbies are pretty nice guys and often willing to make deals instead of letting the meter run.

In the park, we opted for a package that began with a 9 kilometer bike ride through the rain forest.

The others on the tour were a local tour guide taking two neighbor friends to see the park. One of them had never ridden on a bike before. Much hilarity ensued. Usually too far behind us for us to actually see it. Though we could hear the laughing.

Our tour guide (who'd also been our tour guide on the boating trip we'd taken) would stop every once and a while to give these sweetly goofy guys a chance to catch up.

He also liked to point out the wildlife. Such as excitedly picking up this little dude and trying to take a picture with his camera phone at the same time.

Looks cute doesn't he? Or at least like some unassuming funky colored moss. Well, as we learned, do not mess with him. Just don't do it. Don't even let him brush against your skin. Because if you do you will have 48 hours to get to the hospital, or...you will die. No kidding.

Perhaps, it's not surprising that the rest of us weren't quite as eager to get close to the little dude.

Then, we saw another sight. A poor snake that had been run over (accidentally? not sure...) by a jeep. Our tour guide was really upset about this, especially at whoever was responsible, but determined that the poor guy was going to survive and shooed him back into the underbrush.

Then, I became a wuss.

I'm not sure how far we'd biked, but eventually the tour guide called the jeep to come pick up the other guys because they were having too much fun to keep up. We picked up our pace. The path got muddier. And a few kilometers in I was exhausted, breathing a bit heavy and dripping with sweat.

And I kept envisioning my bicycle tire slipping in the mud and bringing me down with it. The jeep puttered behind us for a while and eventually I waved a white flag saying, "You know, what the heck, we might as well get a ride the rest of the way." I hated giving up, but the tour guide seemed totally fine with the change of plans.

Upon later reflection, there's a possibility that the origins of my pneumonia lay somewhere in this last day at the waterfalls. Truth be told outside of a tremendous amount of walking in Porto Alegre, I hadn't been doing much exercise in Brazil prior to this bike ride. And considering the deadly caterpillars, who knows what I could have unknowingly subjected myself too in a slightly weaker state. Hmmm...

We trucked along until we reached the lake. Then we climbed in a boat and glided along the water checking out the scenery including baby alligators and toucans.

Then, just to add a little more exercise in, we jumped into inflatable kayaks and bumbled through the last kilometer on our own. The three guys shared a kayak and kept doing 360s, water from their oars splashing everywhere. They made Samosa and myself appear positively full of athletic prowess even though we could barely kayak in a straight line. We all couldn't stop laughing. The tour guide and the boat driver were also pretty amused as they observed from a distance.

Later we caught the second to last Parque Nacional bus back to the entrance.

Even the gift shop was closed. Everything was quiet and sunlit. We retrieved our bags and changed into dry clothes for the flight. The beautiful red mud of the state was all over our legs and feet and shoes.

We waited for the local bus with park employees and got off at the airport stop.

Time to go home to Porto Alegre.

Twilight in Foz do Iguaçu

2010-03-12T11:55:00.003-03:00

On our second to last day at the waterfalls we had planned to return to the national park. It was Samosa's birthday so we figured we'd celebrate with some biking through the rain forest or maybe rappelling with a view of the falls. Something fun.

We woke up and it was pouring outside. Buckets of rain.

Downstairs the woman at the front-desk confirmed, "Yes, it's going to be like this all day." She agreed that a trip to the waterfalls might not be worth it, "You won't even see them through all the mist."

I asked her if she could recommend anything else to do. Perhaps there were some museums downtown worth getting lost in for the afternoon?

"Have you been to Itaipu?"

Check.

"Have you been to the bird park?"

Check.

"Hmm.." she thought for a moment, "Well there's always the Shopping." Literally "Shopping" is the Portuguese word for "Mall." As in shopping mall. They took the first word and we in the USA decided to stick with the second. Here in Brazil, everyone hangs out at the Shopping. [Here in Porto Alegre there are a crazy amount of Shoppings, 16 I think. Of which I've been to 4 already, meu deus]

And in some ways, I think this day turned out to be my favorite day in the small town of Foz do Iguaçu. Okay, maybe not that small of town. There are around 300,000 residents there, but when you walk the empty street at night, it doesn't feel that big.

It's just that there's something about a day when your expectations are wiped clear and you've got a blank slate. You can't go do the grandiose, marvelous stuff, so you might as well enjoy the small things:

Like walking through the main street trying to share a tiny umbrella between the two of you, nearly knocking each other out in the process. No matter how much you love a person, trying to squeeze both bodies into the space offered underneath tiny umbrella is just not easy.

And getting to observe some Foz do Iguaçu street art.

Enjoying lunch at an shawarma cafe where the hummus tastes like chalky paste but the waitress is nice. Where the man at the cash register, who refused to talk to you earlier, presides over the place in the same manner as the man in the ginormous poster above his head. A man dressed like a king who sits fully waited upon by a young lad, putting more coal on his hookah, and a young lass serving him drinks.

Where you get to marvel again at the utter deliciousness of a fresh passion fruit and milk smoothie at a little roadside stand while Samosa downs an espresso. And the two young women who work there are so kind and just laughing all the time.

Where you realize nearly slipping across all the slick sidewalks that your old flip flops have finally had their day. And luckily, the Shopping has a rainbow selection of new ones (with the Brazilian flag on the straps of course) so the walk home won't be so treacherous.

Where finally you realize your dream of finding "Twilight" in Portuguese (Crepúsculo) at a bookstore in the Shopping. And your boyfriend is thoroughly embarrassed by your literary selection. "Hey," you try to rationalize, "I've wanted to read this book for some time now, ever since the kids I worked with in the high school gushed about it so much. And my friends all admitted to having a hard time putting it down. So, I figured that the best way to do it would be in another language - that way I'm technically learning at the same time as indulging in a guilty pleasure."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah" says Samosa, rolling his eyes, not buying any of it and aghast at how much this frivolous book cost in Brazilian reais.

Where you think you know where you're going as you walk the wet streets but in fact you don't. Neither of you do. The maps only mention the big streets anyhow. And you walk several more miles than necessary. But in fact it's great because you "discover" a totally different neighborhood you never would have seen otherwise. And you're both taking pictures and just having a good time.

And when in the late afternoon the sun starts to come out. You recognize where you are because you saw the Hotel San Juan, glowing blue, when you swam in the rooftop pool of your hotel the other night.

Yup, nerds having fun on a mostly rainy day in Foz do Iguaçu.

Happy birthday Samosa!

Meanwhile, in Porto Alegre

2010-03-10T17:35:00.004-03:00

Studying with Cipote
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

I am following doctor's orders, convalescing at home and hoping that if I'm good about healing, this pneumonia will never return. The anxious part of me that is calculating internship hours has me reading about academic conceptions of Brazilian youth for a portion of every day.

Luckily, Cipote is here to keep me company through all of this.

Actually, I'm convinced that he's at least 1/3 cat the way he'll just twist himself around so that we can both fit on the couch. Also, like a cat, he'll often just plop himself right down on the notebook that I happen to be writing in.

In his own way, I think he's monitoring both myself and Samosa, making sure we don't study too hard. Or at least that we don't get so engrossed in our thoughts that we don't take a break to give him some love and affection.

However, at the end of the day, it's obvious who his true love is.

His ears begin to perk when he knows it's around the time that she'll be coming home. He gets just a little on edge, unable to fully get comfortable. Usually around this time, he'll also start patrolling the city from the top of the orange couch of this seventh floor apartment, peering down at the rooftops, barking a little when necessary to keep the calm. And when he hears A's keys turning in the lock, he becomes a happy dog indeed.

And now: A few waterfalls!

2010-03-09T23:58:00.003-03:00

We started on a little tour through the rainforest.

It included frequent sitings of scary spiders. This photo is thanks to Samosa and his zoom lens and bravery for looking up and admitting that there were tons of spiderwebs overhead.

The guide said that we shouldn't worry about these guys, sure they'd bite and it'd hurt (like a mosquito), but they weren't poisonous. No big deal. Still, I'm not sure I'd be so rational if one landed on me. Apparently though they are the masters of strong web weaving and fisherman have used their gossamer threads when fishing. So I've been told. By a tour guide. On this tour.

So a car tour. Then a walking tour. Then...

...an American, a Finn and an Indian get photographed by a Pakistani as they suit up for the boat ride.

And we get close to some of the waterfalls.

They hand around a waterproof bag and we drop our cameras inside. Then we get really close to the waterfalls. Like, really close. We go right underneath them. Water, water, everywhere. Shouts and laughter. You try to look around you but you can hardly see. Then they're gearing up and they take you under the falls again. And again. And again. They almost look placid from a distance, but feel a little more intense when they're raining down upon you. Kinda amazing. Definitely fun.

I was pleased I'd had the foresight to leave my shoes on the dock. Though that felt like kind of an after-thought considering all my clothes and underclothes were soaking with waterfall water. But, luckily I'd brought more clothes. Actually, due to some crazy-running-to-get-to-the-tour-on-time, I hadn't changed into my bathing suit and old t-shirt on time. But, I was grateful for the dry bathing suit to put on.

So, after this whole-body drenching experience, we followed the signs to more waterfalls!

Ah, look, these are our waterfalls-viewing-smiles-of-contentment!

Yup, this is the kind of thing we're looking at:

Then for the fun of it, we got misted again when we went out past the End Polio Now sign onto the walkway and got even closer to it all (as close as you can get on the Brazilian side, I'd say). This time I was happy for this "raincoat" and keeping my bathing suit dry(ish).

It was lovely. If you want to see more, I've been posting photos less discriminately on my flickr site.

And luckily we didn't get hit on the head by any falling rocks at any point during the day's activities.

We left the park that Friday afternoon completely thrilled to devote our entire Saturday to more time with the waterfalls.

Except when we awoke the next morning, there was a torrential rain storm outside our window...

...on the Planet!

2010-03-08T12:12:00.003-03:00

Everything's bigger in Texas? Forget it! Everything, it seems, is bigger in Brazil!

As part of Samosa's symposium, they loaded us all onto buses and brought us to see the Itaipu dam: "the largest hydroelectric power plant on the planet" (p. 329) according to the Lonely Planet guidebook for Brazil. Well damn, even Texas can't beat that. That just seems like something a superhero should announce loudly and proudly. Or just as easily perhaps, a supervillain could utter this rather craftily and sneakily, maybe with signature hand gesture.

Length: 8 kilometers
Height: 65 stories
Energy Production: Enough to cover 22% of Brazil's consumption and 90% of neighboring Paraguay's (they share the dam)

The pictures below (and believe me, my camera does the scene absolutely no justice unfortunately) show just the run-off surplus water. Yup, my glasses got all fogged up even from this distance.

On the one hand, the dam provides amazing clean energy. It's magnificent. And of course, it's now involved in all sorts of environmental and educational good works.

On the other, serious damage was definitely done when making way for this dam including destroying approximately, "700 sq km of forest...Several species of plant life...driven into extinction. Many native Guarani and Tupi settlements were destroyed, as was the impressive Sete Quedas waterfalls." (Lonely Planet, p. 329). It feels like one of those things where now we're supposed to just enjoy the thing, proudly tout it, and totally wash over (hah, no pun originally intended) what was done to get to this point.

We were given a tour of sorts. Mainly it involved some informative talking over the bus loudspeakers and then the bus letting us off at various places. We'd get off, wander into them and take lots of photos. There wasn't too much explanation until the smiley, happy yay-Itaipu! documentary of the dam that we were shown on a pavilion with an expansive view of the dam.

[Interesting note: the engineer's building is built right underneath the dam - perhaps to remind them that if they screw up in any way all this water is going to come toppling down on them first?]

Then they showed us a light show since it was well after dark. There was dramatic classical music playing, so for some reason, I thought I was in for something. But, then they just switched on the floodlights, some tinted with colors, one by one. With everything glaringly bright now, the music ended and that was it. The guidebook described the experience by employing the word "hokey." People continued taking pictures and others walked towards the buses.

The last picture I took that night, because it amused me, was of this chair in the Itaipu ladies bathroom intended for "elderly and pregnants."

From there we quietly filed into our buses and headed through the darkness to a churrascaria in the downtown for meat, more meat, caipirinhas, more meat and last-minute confusion about the drink bill. The buses took most of the engineers back to the resort, while Samosa and I walked back through silent but generally well-lit streets to our more modest lodgings. (Modest yeah, but how about those towels?!)

---

Brazil. Lonely Planet. January 2008, 7th Edition.

An Iranian, an Indian and a Pakistani walk into a ...

2010-03-07T13:09:00.003-03:00

... bird park. I rounded out the group as the American contingent. We'd hopped on a bus to get there, after skipping out on afternoon electrical engineering talks at their conference.

Some of the birds at Parque das Aves were a bit wary of us...

Luckily however, we happened upon a friendly toucan who offered to show us around and introduce us to all the birds.

Including some birds not so thrilled about their cages (hard not to sympathize),

And others, who didn't feel quite so caged in.

We said thanks to the birds for their hospitality and headed to the gift shop.

And now that we knew the bus route, the next day we would know exactly how to get to the waterfalls, located not much further down the road. Hopefully, we would run into some of their relatives there...

The Doctor's Diagnosis

2010-03-06T15:47:00.005-03:00

Unmade Bed at 6 PM
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

My awesome friend Ilene, who's interning in South Africa, was recently forced to her bed by a primary and secondary sinus infection. So, I'm wondering, if perhaps in some sort of misguided subconscious attempt at solidarity, my body decided to join hers in feeling miserable...

Yesterday evening I finally agreed that a visit to the Pronto Socorro [emergency hospital], was a prudent idea.

My symptoms began at the beach four days earlier and included a headache, a fever that would come and go accompanied by chills and shivering, nausea, loss of appetite and an aching body. Not the best of times for a six-hour car ride back to Porto Alegre, but so it goes. On Thursday, my fever went down, but I started coughing and my chest felt tight.

On Friday, I was just absolutely exhausted. I put in a little time at my internship (due to some mis-communication, ending up at the farthest location all by myself where I attempted some reading). Later in the day I knew something wasn't right when my boyfriend accidentally elbowed me in the ear as we got up from a couch and I couldn't prevent myself from bursting into tears. "I think I need a nap," I said and fell asleep with Cipote as soon as we returned home.

That evening I checked my temperature and I had a fever again.

I'd been traveling. There were mosquitoes. Who knew, really, what this could be? Dengue? Malaria? Better not to wait any longer.

So, I don't have to keep calling him "my boyfriend" I'll use the alias he chose (perhaps unwittingly?) back in January: Samosa.

Samosa, A. and I, prepared with snacks, water and reading material crossed the street to the pronto socorro. Ready for a long night.

We made it past the door-woman, who would have preferred that I went to another hospital because she really didn't think this was an emergency. But, a nearby nurse, upon hearing of the travels, deemed that it could be, and gained us admission to the line.

"What's been going on?" said the lady who took my passport and was entering it into the computer. "Well, I've had a fever for four days and..."

The lady held her hand up, "That's enough," she said indicating that was good enough for entrance into the facility. I laughed. A. and Samosa reminded me not to smile so much. Gotta look serious about this illness business. All my information from my last visit came up.

Crazy, huh? I mean I have NEVER gone to an emergency room in my life and here I am in southern Brazil and this is my SECOND visit in less than 2 months?!?

We were directed to a second waiting room and eventually A. was allowed to come in with me to help when the intern questioned me. This was invaluable. The intern would have been ready to send me out the door but with some of A's coaxing words to him and the supervising doctor, they agreed to run some tests.

Up we went to the third floor. I thought walking the flight of stairs would be okay, but man was I winded. "Hmmm, perhaps that scary elevator is the way to go after all" I said. A vibrant, curly-haired nurse gave me a cup to pee in. Then, she took my blood. She chatted with me about where she wanted to go in the US: New York and Orlando ("I have to go to Disneyworld") and I admired the vampire figure on the door.

Then, down we went to the second floor for chest x-rays. Here there were two male nurses who seemed to be playing the role of good-nurse bad-nurse. One scowled and told us we wouldn't get the results until tomorrow morning...if we were lucky. He seemed mad just that we asked how long it might take. The other said it would be likely sooner than that and that we could go sit out in the waiting room until they called me name.

Ah, yes, when I appear after they call, "Alison" I still get weird looks. Spelled "Alisson" it's very definitely a man's name here and I don't ever fit the part. Luckily, I got good nurse for the x-rays.

A. chatted with the other patients in her friendly-way and learned about their lives. Most people's injuries served as a reminder to me that whatever I was going through, it wasn't that bad.

We waited about an hour for the x-rays to be read. The results spoke about a concentration of something in the right lung.

Then we took the elevator back to the third floor for the blood and urine results. These were unintelligible to us. We had no idea what to expect. Enough to make a person nervous.

We took all this new material back to where we began and waited for it to be interpreted by the doctor.

"You know," I said to Samosa, "It's one of those situations where of course you want to be well, but if you're well then it doesn't explain why you feel so awful."

A. and I peered over the doctor's shoulders as he read the results. "You have pneumonia," he told me, "You have to stay home for a week."

I felt angry and upset and ready to cry. Later an email from my mother described my problem perfectly. It wasn't exactly the pain of being sick, which of course is no picnic in the park. It was more that, "Being stopped so abruptly in your well-planned and scheduled life is damn hard."

As I processed this news (at least I didn't have dengue or malaria!), I was amused to overhear the intern asking the doctor, "Don't they vaccinate against pneumonia in the States?" in evident surprise that I, as an American, could come down with this illness. I smiled thinking how impressive this was -- this whole experience in the emergency hospital, which was FREE for me, even as a foreigner. I didn't think they realized that I probably wouldn't have even gone to the ER in the United States. Oh, USA, can't we figure out a better health care plan for our country?

And so I'm still raging against the fact that I'm not allowed to go to my internship next week and I feel awful that Samosa has to spend his last week in Brazil as a nurse to me as opposed to being a tourist. However, on the plus side I'm in the best of hands (A. and Samosa are awesome) and A's apartment is the best place I could imagine to recuperate.

Also, it feels really good to finally have an explanation why the last four days of my life have felt so impossibly challenging.

Waterfalls everywhere, but I'm showing you towels

2010-03-05T19:10:00.004-03:00

Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

This was one of the groovy towels that greeted my boyfriend and I when we made it to our hotel room in the quiet town of Foz do Iguaçu.

A flickr reader named NoNo Joe described this creation in the following manner: "Looks like it sucked on a lemon."

The housekeepers created these fancy towel formations for us on the first day. And the second. But on the third day?
On the third day, they folded them like normal. Did we fail to show our appreciation of towel origami, I wonder?!

And yes, I have some pictures of the beautiful scenery of the area (hint: expect some photos with waterfalls. I'll try to control how many I post), but I'm still feeling a bit under the weather, despite the gorgeous sunset outside the window.

Therefore, just as we were greeted with the artistic vision of these towels at least one day before we were awed by the natural wonders of the area, I will also start y'all with this random piece of my adventures as a tourist and then move onto bigger things.

Back in Porto Alegre

2010-03-04T18:39:00.002-03:00

Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

We drove into the city last night in our rental car. We'd made good time from Santa Catarina. And then, in some apparently subconscious attempt to counteract that, we spent at least 30 insane minutes trying to access a gas station to fill up. From there we hopped a ride ride back home to A.'s with an angry cabbie who refused to make a U-turn to the correct side of the street.

Ahhh, it felt so nice to be back! Especially since I'd somehow managed to come down with some sort of flu-like sickness while at the beach (Seriously?! Getting sick at the beach. Not cool!). I was so grateful to have a comfy bed to lie down on to sweat away some of the sickness.

But, the real question of the day was: will A's dog Cipote, who notoriously does not like men, get along with my boyfriend? They had met each other briefly the morning we left for the beach, and Cipote had warmed up to him, surprising both A. and myself. We crossed our fingers that this was a good sign.

However, Cipote's vigorous, threatening barking as soon as we walked in the front door did not bode well for their relationship. "Oh no," I thought, "This may be difficult."

Luckily, my boyfriend first bribed Cipote with food and then took the time to give him lots and lots of affection (after Cipote deemed it okay, of course). This morning I walked into the living room to see the two of them hanging out together on the couch. I think Cipote has allowed my boyfriend to be an exception to his no-men rule!

---

P.S. After what feels like absolute ages away in Foz do Iguaçu and Praia do Luz, I have LOTS to write about and many photos to share. More posts to come!

Time to Get Touristy!

2010-02-23T23:18:00.002-03:00

My boyfriend flew into town this afternoon with only a backpack.

Because his bags hadn't followed him quite as quickly.

So, they'll be delivered to where I'm living in Porto Alegre sometime after we arrive in Foz de Iguaçu, where he's going to a symposium on circuits and systems and we're going to enjoy some amazing waterfalls.

This meant that for his first afternoon in this lovely city full of beautiful green trees, we had to do his least favorite thing: clothes shopping.

Seriously, I'm not sure he's actually gone clothes shopping since 1979. (And no, it's not because I've been buying clothes for him).

I haven't paid too much attention to men's clothing here, so I dragged him into a C&A downtown with blaring pop music (oh yeah, Spice Girls was on the playlist) just because it was cheap and I figured there'd be some basic options.

Poor man.

I tried to help him get it over with as soon as possible, and considering his zombie-I've-just-been-traveling-for-21-hours-how-am-I-supposed-to-figure-out-my-clothing-size-in-a-foreign-country state and my you-like-it-let's-buy-it-let's-go-let's-go-let's-go state, we did pretty well.

LUCKILY, he's already got some gaucho culture under his belt. Before we ventured into the shopping insanity, we stopped by the travel agent to rent a car for the first few days of March. And there, he was able to try his first chimarrão. Everyone looked at him anxiously and asked, "Did you like it?" I'm not sure if his "Yes, it's good, I like anything with caffeine" was as enthusiastic a response as they desired. But, he did drink it all.

We fly out of here at a god-awful early hour tomorrow. And, surprising as it may appear, I'm not bringing my laptop. And yes, I do anticipate some separation anxiety. I figure I'm going to really test out this enjoy-being-with-my-boyfriend-and-detox-from-the-incessant-need-to-obsessively-check-the-internet-far-more-frequently-than-called-for thing.

So, see y'all a few days from now!

Park Day

2010-02-22T22:56:00.002-03:00

We Are All Without School
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

Monday (segunda-feira) is the designated "sports" day for the youth group that I get to hang out with.

And so, we went to the park. Armed with those popsicles - the kind that come as heavily-sugared juice in plastic the size of a bookmark that you have to freeze - we all stood at the bus stop waiting for the right city bus. You have to tear them open with your teeth. The first time I tried, bright orange juice went everywhere. But that's just how I roll.

Imagine a line of teenagers all with bright blue or bright red or bright orange popsicles in their mouths waiting patiently and laughing quietly with each other.

We sat in the asphalt at the park, did a little breathing, did a little stretching and then the teenagers got to play as they pleased. A game of soccer began with some of the boys. Those who were wearing just flip-flops took them off and played barefoot. I saw broken glass on the edge of the court. I hoped to God no one was going to step in it.

The girls taught me a game with a volleyball.

It was hot, even in the shade.

One girl walked with me up a hill to the edge of the park to show me the water. We looked across the street towards the shimmering Guaíba. Some insist it's a river, but really, it's a lake. This girl told me earlier that she is 16 and the last time she went to the beach she was 4. And now she was telling me all the places she wants to see in her country and around the world.

Part of me was thinking how it wasn't fair that I so (relatively) easily could travel here. And once here, could so easily travel to places she's never been. And part of me was hopeful just to listening to her. I love to hear people dream out loud, because if you can put words to them, then I think you're one step closer to them, even if you're still a million steps away.

Meaning Behind Hot-Pink Flowers

2010-02-21T12:42:00.002-03:00

Hot-Pink Flowers
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

On Saturday morning I walked through the organic farmer's market. I saw these funky hot pink flowers for sale in one of the stalls. But I didn't buy them because it would be some hours before I got home and I feared they would wilt.

Later, walking back via that same path, I saw a little girl holding one bouquet of these flowers in each hand. Probably a street child or living in very poor circumstances. And she was cute. She was the kind of girl with long flowing locks that would get chosen to be in some international end-poverty TV commercial. Just send money and you can help her live a better life because now she can buy books for school. Or something like that. I wonder if she goes to school...

"Flowers?" she asked me.

I paused.

After all, I had wanted to buy them earlier.

"Two reais" she said (about $1.10 American). "This bunch of flowers, there's something wrong with them," she added pointing to the bouquet in her left hand. Indeed, the stalks looked a bit bruised.

"Hmm," I said, "I think I'll take the other bunch." I felt a tad guilty about not taking the flowers that looked like they would die in a few hours.

It's just that doing the math, even she managed to sell both of these, she'd make only a few dollars. I wondered where this money would go. Did she have parents or family members? Would she keep it for herself? What would she spend it on? To me, it was some spare change that I could afford to give away. But, to her...

Walking down the path, I saw more children emerge holding bouquets of flowers. Somehow I hadn't noticed them before, but now -- perhaps because of my interaction with the girl moments before -- they now were visible to me. All the flowers were distinctly similar to the options for sale earlier during the organic farmers market.

Visions of orphans from Oliver Twist flooded my brain. And I wondered how they got these flowers. Did they pick up the left-overs on the ground from the market? Did the folks just give them left-over flowers at the end? Did they get a five-finger discount? In any case, another creative way to try and make a few cents.

The flowers look pretty in a vase in the kitchen now. And I wonder where that little girl is and if she managed to sell the second bouquet.

Words on a Page

2010-02-19T17:52:00.006-02:00

Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

Back in Texas, people are generally literate.

Here illiteracy is more common.

Yesterday a parent came into a meeting with her son. I watched as the young man laboriously signed his name on a sheet of paper proving his attendance. When it came time for his mother to sign, I watched as she slowly copied each curve in each letter of her name, constantly using what was written on another piece of paper for reference.

Her son looked out the window, tapping his fingers against the wall.

His mother continued to write out her name, carefully forming each letter. Spending innumerable seconds trying to make what she was creating conform with what was on the other paper.

"That's perfect," said the coordinator when she finished, several minutes later, "Thank you."

And Then I Sweetly Misspoke...

2010-02-17T23:15:00.005-02:00

Sunday
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

I got to participate in another youth group this afternoon. It involved more painting and in my standard style I managed to get white paint on my jeans, my bracelet and of course way up inside my fingernails.

It was fun!

Before everyone left, E., the coordinator, asked me to teach an English word to the teenagers that I thought might have some resonance. So I chose "sweet" explaining how though it literally refers to yummy-tasting food it also can be used to describe good things. Saying "That's sweet!" can be like saying, "That's cool!"

Everyone thought it was a sweet word and repeated it out loud (sometimes adding a bit of a vowel sound at the end because that's what Portuguese speakers like to do to all words that end in consonants). Sweetchi!

As we continued to talk about it I said that it was kind of like saying "bacana" (great).

Except that everyone paused and looked at me strangely when I said "bacana."

The art coordinator, T. said, "Uh, no that's not the same I don't think."

I realized that I had put the emphasis on the wrong syllable.

Instead of saying bacána, I had said bacaná.

"No, no, I meant to say bacána," I quickly added.

Everyone started laughing, initially I think in surprise, then it got louder but remained pretty good-natured in tone. Still, no mistaking it, they were definitely laughing at me and not with me.

I realized that what I said had sounded just a little too close to comfort to the word, bacanal.

But, truth is, I didn't know what bacanal meant. I just knew that everyone was laughing so that clearly I'd stumbled accidentally upon something inappropriate.

I said, "Hmmm, I'm guessing that I should be embarrassed by what I just said, shouldn't I?" Some kids nodded. No one explained to me what I had said. I couldn't help but blush as I started laughing too.

Still, while I turned a darker shade of red I mused that there's nothing like embarrassing yourself in front of a group of teenagers. I hoped and rationalized that they would see that I could handle it and keep on going on.

Whatever it was I said, it must have been funny.

E. gracefully made some comment about all the craziness of carnival from the weekend messing with our brains and, laughter subsided, we moved on to another topic. They certainly didn't force me to stay with my embarrassment too long. One kid even asked me how the war was going in our country...I certainly had to pause before responding to that one, but came up with a decent answer I think based on the kids' body language while I was talking.

"See," said E. "With Alison we can talk about silly things and we can talk about serious things."

When leaving one girl wanted me to write the word "sweet" down for her so she could remember. All in all, I left feeling good about the afternoon and looking forward to seeing everyone again.

When I got home I looked up "bacanal" online (it wasn't in my Harper Collins which I find rather prudish of them) to see what I'd compared the word sweet to.

So, as it turns out, it means....orgy. Yes, orgy.

I told 15-year-olds that saying "sweet" is very similar to saying "orgy." Meu deus!

I turned bright red and had a return laughing attack as I sat here alone in my room in front of the computer, thinking perhaps it was better that I only find out now what I had so sweetly misspoken before.

The Boy That Pixou

2010-02-16T21:46:00.005-02:00

Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

Once I asked colleague at my internship if all this stuff with juvenile justice was at all polemical in Brazil. If there were folks who weren't so into the fact that a crime committed by an adolescent under age 18 was not actually a "crime" but an "infractional act."

And she said yes.

She then proceeded to relate an incident to me that occurred in Porto Alegre last year that happened to be incredibly controversial. Listening initially to the story I kept wondering where the controversial part would come in.

Seems that a kid put graffiti on a wall at the school he attended. Pixou (as in the title) is the past tense of pixar: "to graffiti" more literally "to spray."

He was caught. By the vice-principal of the school who also happened to be his teacher.

As punishment, she made him re-paint the wall. Someone filmed this with their cell phone and posted it. A scandal erupted. Some were on the side of the educator. Some on the side of the law, which she went against when she administered a punishment instead of turning it over to the courts.

So, I'm thinking, "Huh? This a big deal?....Why?"

I kept imagining this happening in the United States. To me it would make sense (and be preferable) that a school deal with an incident like this on their own without calling the police. Jeez, there are just sooo many incidents that could be dealt with by the school without involving a kid in the juvenile justice system who doesn't necessarily need to be there.

When I expressed that reaction, I was told by my colleague that problem was:

The teacher went against the Statute of Children and Adolescents by bypassing the law and dealing with this kid's infractional act on her own terms. Had he gone through the system he would have likely been given six months of community service to perform. In any case, the point is, that this is the law and you've got to follow it.

Still, I wasn't entirely convinced.

Later, my supervisor said that the bigger problem was that the teacher was actually further aggravating the situation by publicly humiliating the 14-year-old boy. She was making him clean the wall in front of other students and was calling him a "fool" and things like that. The other kids were laughing. Apparently the boy was embarrassed and didn't want to go to school after that.

And, in the statute, Chapter II, Article 18, children and adolescents indeed have the right not to be humiliated:

É dever de todos velar pela dignidade da criança e do adolescente, pondo-os a salvo de qualquer tratamento desumano, violento, aterrorizante, vexatório ou constrangedor.

It is the duty of everyone for the dignity of the child and of the adolescent, putting them in the safety from any inhuman, violent, terrifying, shaming/upsetting, restricting/embarrassing treatment.

After a little searching I found an article (actually the teacher responding to the scandal) that has the video posted (you have to scroll down aways to get to the video).

To me, it's an awkward situation. The kid does seem quietly embarrassed, pulling his baseball cap down over his eyes. The teacher does seem upset by the mistreatment of the school represented in the kid's actions. And justifiably so - she felt that this kid wasn't respecting limits and wasn't suffering any repercussions for his actions. I wonder if perhaps this was the straw-that-broke-the-camel's-back for her? That maybe this one act on the kid's part was one too many for her?

Still, he would have had some consequences in the court system. And really it does seem that this kid, under law, should not have been subjected to embarrassment. Though, as a side note, I still find it curious this whole thing about 'embarrassment' - I would like to find out what incident(s) caused this to be part of the Statute.

I don't think these responses really leave a person that satisfied as regards this incident. Not me, anyhow. But that's because the debate is much bigger than a response to a kid doing something wrong. It's about how why kids are committing these acts in the first place and what's failing them before that? Unfortunately those questions -- and possible answers -- are huge, multifaceted and complex. Sometimes it feels easier, and less defeating, to stay in the details of one tiny incident, even if it doesn't really solve anything.

Anyone have any opinions or initial gut reactions to this that they'd like to share?

A Case of the Second-Market Days

2010-02-15T21:06:00.003-02:00

Segunda-Feira
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

It was raining when I went to bed last night and rain woke me this morning, tapping against the window panes. The electricity went on and off until the early afternoon.

The day was gray and wet. I watched people outside as they dashed across puddle-filled intersections, hiding underneath umbrellas. It was a good day to study, which is what I mostly did.

It felt like a Monday. Or I guess, segunda-feira, as they say in Portuguese.

Which leads me to a question of the language of days. In Spanish learning the days of the week was a snap. But, in Portuguese - even years later - it's a different story.

The days of the week are as follows:

Monday = Segunda-Feira [Translating literally to second-fair/market - essentially second market day]
Tuesday = Terça-Feira [Third market day]
Wednesday = Quarta-Feira [Fourth market day]
Thursday = Quinta-Feira [Fifth market day]
Friday = Sexta-Feira [Sixth market day]
Saturday = Sábado
Sunday = Domingo

The weekends I get. No big deal. (Besides, they're the same in Spanish, so I'm really covered there).

However...when some is saying to me, for example, "Let's meet on Fourth-Market day," I truly have to take a few seconds to count through the days in my head to arrive at what day that might actually be, "The second day is Monday, the third day is Tuesday then so ah, right, Quarta-Feira would have to be Wednesday. Got it!" Sometimes I have the desire to start counting the days on my fingers.

I always feel a little worried in the back of my mind that I'm going to mix up the days and show up on the wrong day for something because these days of the week just don't stick in my head.

The problem - according to The-Man-Who-Came-From-Italia (who counts Spanish as his favorite language) is that these numbered days could be perfectly acceptable, but why, why, why did they have to begin on the second day?!

I would assume that Sunday is/was a day for God and so, clearly not a day for going to the market. Hence it doesn't have feira in its name. Even if you want to believe that Sunday starts the week, it doesn't count in the numbering of market days.

And, it's not just foreigners (Italians, Salvadoreños and Americans at least) who take umbrage at Monday being a Second-Market day. I was pleased to discover in the poetry of Mario Quintana, that he too, in all his Brazilian-ness, might also be sometimes taken aback by Mondays. As he wrote in his poem titled, "To Awaken the Imagination" (Para Despertar a Fantasia):

"O pior da segunda-feira é que a gente sempre chega atrasado: "Meu Deus! como é que eu fui a perder a primeira feira?!"

"The worst of all about second market day (Monday) is that we always arrive late: "My God! How is that I went and missed the first market day?!"

I now feel properly vindicated in my slowness to understand the movement of the days of the week.

Wishing a wonderful whatever-you-want-to-call-this-day to you all!

Carnaval, Restinga-Style

2010-02-14T16:34:00.007-02:00

I took a taxi to Pão dos Pobres at 1:15 in the morning. Considering it's a non-profit that works with children and adolescents (and that some actually board there), the taxi driver had a hard time believing anything could be happening at that late hour and insisted on driving me inside the compound. (Sidenote: I'm appreciative that taxi drivers here are always quite nice about me being a single female - when they'd drop me off at the hostel, for example, they'd always wait until I'd been buzzed inside before leaving.). I was relieved (and a little proud that I knew what was up) to see people milling about outside.

Inside there was dancing and drinking (beer, energy drinks, Pepsi, water) and lots of sweating. I even broke down and had a Pepsi (getting a bit wild and crazy, huh?) even though I don't normally drink soda. Most of these folks were going to be marching in a carnaval parade. I'd had the pleasure of getting to practice the routine with them a couple days ago.

At about 3:30 or so we started crowding on the bus that would take us to the parade grounds. We got on early enough to get seats, which was a good thing since it was a 30 minute ride. At each bump and twist or turn a sea of people would make exclamations such as a wave of "Ohs!" Energy was high. People chanting, shouting, singing and banging with their fists on the ceiling of the bus all the way there. Outside, the city was dark and empty and quiet. Inside the atmosphere was raucous and bursting from the seams with enthusiastic people.

And the chorus -- of course with a samba beat -- goes:

Eu sou tricolor, sou da zona sul
Meu povo é de fé e comanda o show
Seguindo o balanço da minha bateria
Por um caminho que me leva até a China

I am tricolor, I am from the southern zone
My people are of faith and command the show
Following the swinging/balance/beat(?) of my drums
On a path that brings me to China

Now, repeat this about 10,000 times at the top of your lungs, swinging your arms in the air, at least for the duration of reading this post (you can always go back to the top of the post and begin again if you haven't made it to 10,000 by the time you finish) and you will start to get the feel of the experience.

Restinga, by the way, is technically a neighborhood in Porto Alegre. However, it just happens to be a neighborhood with over 50,000 inhabitants. When we were arrived preparations for the parade were occurring all over the place. I think the whole neighborhood may have shown up for the festivities.

Eventually some of us separated from the marchers and set off on a quest over gravel walkways (I can't imagine what it felt like for the women in heels to walk through this!) towards our seats. Only problem was that I didn't have a ticket allowing me into the box seats. My friend E., who was marching, had been concerned about this and making phone calls. She'd gotten a text message "ok" from someone, but we still had to get me in. Time to commence operation Get-Alison-From-Texas-Into-the-Show. Luckily I had two women prepared to help me.

Amazingly they got me through round 1 of ticket presentation/bag searches by confusing the ticket collectors and saying I'd already showed my ticket. I proceeded, surprised but trying to hide it, to get my bag searched.

However, round 2 was going to be more difficult since my name had to be checked off a list. Hmmm...They kept saying, "But she's from Texas" and dropping a name of someone. A man near the list-checker-offers said, "Ok, well you have to talk to the German down by the gate." The German looked more Asian than German and said to me (in English), "You speak English."

"Yes," I said, "And Portuguese."

"Right now," he said, taking my hand, "You just speak English, ok? It has to look like you can ONLY communicate with me."

"Ok!" I said allowing myself to be led back to the list-checker-folks where a funny circular conversation with several them, including the fact that I was from Texas, occurred, ending with one of them, eventually, dispiritedly placing a yellow "Invited" band around my wrist and mumbling something about not having the authority.

Woo hoo! I made it thanks to some awesome people helping me through all that! Later telling this to E. and her boyfriend they told me it was the "Brazilian way." Yup, check out that yellow band. 'Cuz people are great here about making sure I get included. And 'cuz I'm from Texas. ;-) (and Massachusetts. That was initially mentioned as well when introducing me to folks but dropped later on because pronouncing that state's name in Portuguese is about as challenging/impossible as me actually getting the nasal intonation in "pão" correct).

Once inside we had to stand on plastic chairs to see over the heads of people in front of us.

China-themed floats and costumes and blaring music, oh my!

Whirling colors and dancing and fireworks too!

Remember to keep singing that chorus:

Eu sou tricolor, sou da zona sul
Meu povo é de fé e comanda o show
Seguindo o balanço da minha bateria
Por um caminho que me leva até a China

Eu sou tricolor, sou da zona sul
Meu povo é de fé e comanda o show
Seguindo o balanço da minha bateria
Por um caminho que me leva até a China.

I believe it necessary to give some props to the men responsible for actually pushing these floats. Who cares if they're on wheels. Those things are huge!

And the cute kids dressed up like pandas. Awwww.

And lots and lots of scantily-clad women...

And yay for the pretty-much naked men too (except for an artfully placed version of a fig leaf).

And here was our group! I almost didn't recognize them.

But the pants gave it away. I had no idea about the light-blue and yellow parts of their costumes. It seems that neither did they until it was time to put them on.

Eu sou tricolor, sou da zona sul
Meu povo é de fé e comanda o show
Seguindo o balanço da minha bateria
Por um caminho que me leva até a China.

And a woman clad in feathers in between a fire-breathing dragon and a media crew. Shaking it, shaking it, shaking it with a huge smile on her face.

And an acrobatic dragon.

Of course, the royal court.

Even the people in orange sweeping up behind seemed to be marching.

The parade over, we began the task of leaving the grounds and looking for our bus.

And nope, we're not done singing yet (though if you need, you don't have to use quite as much energy or sing quite as loud at this point).

Eu sou tricolor, sou da zona sul
Meu povo é de fé e comanda o show
Seguindo o balanço da minha bateria
Por um caminho que me leva até a China.

The sunrise was beautiful.

Going International

2010-02-13T11:45:00.006-02:00

Airport Waiting
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

I am just one of a handful of Social Work master's students from the University of Texas doing my final field internship abroad, so I thought I should give a shout-out to those who are also writing blogs about their adventures across the world:

In South Africa:

how do you say blog in tswana?
and
Ilene's South African Adventures

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In Tanzania:

Musings from Tanzania

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In Armenia:

Bigfoot's Carbon Footprint

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In Mexico:

Ana V. Portillo's Blog

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In China:
Though not a social work student (that I know of), he's definitely studying abroad:

¡Keller's Cogitations!

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These blogs are awesome, fun and definitely worth checking out :-)

Living the Vida Vegetariana in PoA...

2010-02-12T23:27:00.004-02:00

Can You Tell I was Hungry?
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

...is actually not hard at all.

However, I did learn his week when trying to get into the habit of bringing lunch to my internship that the pita bread here (called Arabic bread) just isn't strong enough for slices of tomatoes. Yes, my colleagues looked at me kind of funny when I pulled these falling-apart sandwiches out of my bag and asked me, "What IS that?" Oh well. As an American I get to do (and eat) strange things I guess. Unfortunately I don't think anyone would have considered those limp sandwiches to be exotic...

Oh, and where to find the tofu? In a thick disc-shape next to the ricotta in the cheese aisle where it's billed as "soy cheese." But it's there. And sometimes supermarkets have a couple of shelves devoted to healthy food. There are some little health food stores that always make me happy because they're tiny, reminding me of the hippie health food stores of my childhood pre-Whole Foods, and all their offerings are delicately packaged almost as though they were science projects.

There are some fabulous vegetarian restaurants in my general vicinity too. The musician parents of a wonderful woman (who I met on Facebook through a friend of mine who went to college with her - gotta love 6 degrees of separation!) took me out to a tasty Chinese vegetarian buffet downtown when I first got here. They had tiny little eggs that I'd never seen before and initially mistook for buffalo mozzarella. Oops! Not quite. Later I saw them bottled, next to the olives in a supermarket, so I assume they're somewhat common down here though I'm not sure what bird they belong to.

I also just checked out a cute vegetarian cafe called Bonobo and had a tasty chocolate-banana smoothie there. It was like a real cafe with the option of sitting on a couch and lovely wooden tables. I first noticed them when passing by. I was first attracted by the vibrant red of the building and then by a cute little planter with a message about making the world a better place on it. Hard not to go for that kind of thing.

This picture featured on this post is from one just a block away from the park called Prato Verde (Green Plate). As with many eateries in the city, food is served buffet style. Here you pay when you enter and then you are free to eat as much of the delicious offerings as you can. And as is obvious from that picture, I didn't hold back! Included in the price is fresh juice. This time I had mango. Then lime. Delicious!

I was planning on going there for lunch tomorrow after walking through the organic farmer's market in the park, but was saddened to discover on their website that -- like many, many other stores -- they are shutting their doors until next Wednesday. Sniffle, sniffle. But people warned me that this is what happens during carnaval. I better rush to the supermarket soon to stock up on necessities such as water, water and more water, delicious fruit and of course tofu from the cheese aisle.

Samba Rehearsal

2010-02-11T22:07:00.002-02:00

Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

The other night I went to a rehearsal for a group that's going to be marching as part of carnaval in Porto Alegre. I won't get to join them in the parade, but I can watch and I think I'm going to go along for the ride (or shall we say, the walk). I guess -- for reasons I do not yet understand -- they're marching at 5 AM on Sunday morning and therefore, all meeting up at midnight beforehand to be merry together in preparation. So, although I'm usually a fan of sleep, I think this may be one occasion where if I can tag along I will, camera in hand.

The rehearsal was fun. People had gathered hours earlier to eat churrasco (yup, Rio-Grande-do-Sul-style the food offerings were bread and grilled meat), drink beer (and water and soda) and dance a little. I joined my colleague on the dance floor. Another friend of hers laughed an said, "An American dancing samba!"

"One that does not know what she is doing either!" I responded. I stared at everyone's feet trying to get an idea how to move mine.

At 9:30, after some welcomes speeches, rehearsal began with a guy playing a little guitar-like instrument that sounded like a ukulele to me and another man leading us through the words of our song. Apparently a bunch of folks from China are crossing the ocean to come join the fun too, so the song is in tribute to them, including some idealistic lines (at least in my opinion) about how China is "valuing and preserving ecology."

I was grateful for a xeroxed copies of the words to the song, since I hadn't exactly memorized them, to hold in my hand as we waved our hands in the air back and forth during the chorus, held our arms out in a "T" fingertips nearly touching our neighbors at different points. Together we belted out the words to the song over and over again until our body movements generally corresponded to what we were supposed to be doing at that point in the song. Then, sweaty and happy, we applauded ourselves and called it a night.

Convivência (Familiarity) with Teenagers in POA

2010-02-10T19:39:00.007-02:00

Mural
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

I have been meaning for quite some time to write more about my internship.

So, here I go...finally.

Since I've left the main office and have been brought into the field, it has felt like a bit of a whirlwind. Often I come home and my head is spinning, so full of images, new words, feelings, thoughts and experiences to be processed.

And so if I had to choose one word to describe my experience thus far, it would be FULL.

My supervisors truly have the intent of providing me with a rich experience. They want me to leave here with an ample understanding of the reality of adolescents in conflict with the law in Porto Alegre, Rio Grande do Sul, Brasil. Wow. It's a huge undertaking and their view is systems-oriented. They know that I can't begin to grasp the reality of these youth if I only see them inside an office space. So they want me to see everything I can: juvenile justice in the courthouse, the process of these youth through their offices, the process of community service, the families of these youth, the places where they live.

Writing those sentences fills me with overwhelming gratitude because I have already seen so much and because people have been so open to letting me in.

The region of the city where I am interning has two offices. One office is close to a vila known for its drug-trafficking. The word is used in Rio Grande do Sul to mean the same thing as favela. English approximations of this word include slum and ghetto.

The other office is a greater distance from the city center and is in an area that 20 years ago was largely undeveloped. Slowly the urban poor were displaced from more central locations and came to reside further away. Even now though, it looks almost rural and it's hard to believe you're still in an urban setting.

So, what have I been doing lately?

I have been observing (sometimes participating too) my supervisors as they meet with youth who committed or carried out an 'offending act' (I'm trying to translate somewhat literally here to convey the feeling of the language) who have been ordered to Liberdade Assistida (LA). Literally this means Assisted Freedom. Basically, it's a Brazilian version of juvenile probation and it lasts six months. Sometimes these youth are also assigned to Prestação a Serviço a Comunidade (Repayment of Service to the Community aka Community Service) which is also generally performed 4 hours a week for 24 weeks.

The youth on juvenile probation have to meet with their coordinator once a week. During this meeting, which often a parent attends as well, there's a check-in about how the youth is doing. If they're under 18 then they need to be enrolled in school and there's help with that. Also, they may get enrolled in youth programs. Sometimes there are certain courses available in the city for them to take for free, such as a year-long computer course too. Additionally they may need to do something regarding drug addiction or therapy. And of course, community service might be on the list. In order to get to all these commitments, they are given bus passes. They are also given bus passes to come to and from their meetings with their coordinator.

How are the kids and their parents? Immediately my mind tries to find similarities between them and the youth in conflict with the law that I have worked with in the United States. Of course there's always the kid who doesn't say much or express much emotion, the kid who is always smiling with a mischevious look on his face or appears bashful or slightly embarrassed, the kid who puts up a good show, saying everything he thinks we want to hear, the kid who looks like he couldn't give a damn, the mother who does everything for her son including speak for him, the parents who really need an outlet for themselves, and on and on.

But, that's just the surface. I'm still learning what that might mean. There are so many other levels and the reality of their daily lives is so different. The monthly minimum wage here is R$500. That's about $270 American dollars a month. It's really NOT that cheap here. I'm not sure how you'd even survive on that, but these families do it. And many survive on less than that.

My emotional responses vary when meeting with these adolescents. Sometime I have a surge of affection, sometimes I just feel curious, sometimes I feel sad in a way that's difficult to verbalize. I guess it's just the enormity of the trajectory that they often appear to be on, and those age-old questions about how we break free from the harmful cycles and patterns existing in all our lives. All in all, I just am looking forward to the opportunity to get to know these kids more, perhaps even to be helpful to them in some way.

So, what else have I been up to?

A little bit of challenging paperwork that made me want to tear out my hair. Ah well, it didn't last long. No hair lost either.

I have also gone to several meetings with different agencies that provide community service opportunities for these kids. These include a university (that I'm connected with through this internship), a parks and recreation service, a religiously-affiliated organization in a vila (I'm not actually sure yet what they do) and a book archive. The regional coordinators meet with these agencies on a bi-weekly basis to discuss how everything is going with the youth doing community service.

And then there are regional meetings where a lot is discussed as well including how to adapt to some recent changes in social work in Brazil (I'm still learning about what this really entails). There are more meetings to come.

Today I also went on my first home visit with two social workers and an intern. We are driven to these visits in a van with a driver. This weirds me out slightly even though it shouldn't. It seems that the vilas can be precarious places and so drivers are the way to do it. We visited a husband and wife and their kids in their new home. Their new home consisted of what appeared to be several abandoned structures, with an outhouse (with real toilet, not sure about plumbing) in the yard in between. There was a bit of crumbling disrepair, trash in the yard, yadda yadda yadda. Contrasting this, a line of colorful freshly-washed clothes flapped brightly in the breeze. Then there were the children with sweet smiles and teeth that had never seen a dentist. The husband was happy to give us a tour of their new dwellings. Apparently where they had lived before was incredibly small. This was good living now.

The husband was excessively thin and had tuberculosis. I think he had been hospitalized to try and treat his illness but had left in order to continue drinking. We stood in his bedroom/living room, two of his young children on the couch/bed and he talked about what was going to happen if/when he died. Damn. I wondered what the kids were feeling or if they were used to this kind of talk.

Later the intern told me that what I had observed here was nothing in comparison to what I would see. Still, perhaps it's better that I progress towards the 'harder' stuff day by day. As it was I felt an intensity in my chest that I hadn't really expected. When I told my supervisor about the visit she said that it was good that I see this reality, that I start to see where these kids are coming from. I wholeheartedly agree.

In the vila (or really the outskirts) I was in today, I noticed lots of dogs running. A stark contrast to the neighborhood where I'm living where everyone is constantly out walking their dogs on leashes and carrying plastic bags to scoop up their poop if necessary. I noticed more bars on windows and high metal gates in front of houses (though this isn't only synonymous with poor neighborhoods). But, again I don't think I've really gone in yet. Today when leaving the office with my supervisor, she had to drive through some back roads to get to the main road due to how she'd parked. There were clusters of men on various street corners. "They're trafficking," she said. It was a little before 5 PM. The office closes at 5 for that reason.

However, in case anyone is reading this who is worried about my safety, really it's all okay. I'm not going to be hanging out alone in any areas that aren't safe. The bus stop that I take is on a busy thoroughfare and the office is just around the corner.

However, to leave things on a more positive, strengths-based note, I'll explain the origin of this post's picture. This was how I spent 2 1/2 hours of my afternoon, painting a mural in the backyard of the office with a bunch of neat teenagers who I can't wait to get to know more. There's a youth group offered at this office for teenagers who are involved in the various family services. It's more prevention oriented but I think some kids in conflict with the law may also get involved. One of their projects has been the beautification of this wall out back and I think it's looking awesome. They had done the bulk of the work some weeks ago, but now a lot of details remained to be filled in. I got to help paint things white for example. Everyone was absorbed in their tasks. It felt meditative.

At one point I was conversing a little with a young man painting next to me. He wanted to know what I was doing in Porto Alegre. Was I on vacation? I was talking about how I was here to learn and that I bet they had a lot to teach me, how I was here with them so that I could come to a...I paused, trying to think of a good word to describe my intent. "Convivência?" he offered. It's a word that's used a lot here that I hadn't really known, meaning something like familiarity and intimacy. "Exactly," I said. This describes so much of the feeling I'd like to eventually have here. A tall order for sure, but one that everyone seems to be trying to help me achieve. Already I know that it will be hard to leave.

Thank You, I'm Female

2010-02-09T23:22:00.005-02:00

Portuguese is one of those languages that likes to express whether a person is male or female through its words. Basically if words you are using to describe yourself end in "a" you're expressing yourself as a female, if they end in "o" then you're indicating your maleness.

I don't know if any folks have come up with any other alternative ways to express one's gender identity and there isn't a truly neutral option that I know of for people who would rather not place themselves so firmly in one camp or the other.

To say "thank you" in Portuguese, you say "obrigado" if you identify as male and "obrigada" if you identify as female. In other similar languages (Spanish for example) "thank you" is a gender neutral sentiment, but in Portuguese the word literally translates to "obliged" which is therefore an adjective and requires a gender identity choice.

We can assume, for example, that the mall trash receptacles in the picture below happen to be male (and potentially twins?) because of their use of "o" at the end of obrigado:

And, as a woman, therefore, I always say "obrigada" whenever I happen to be thankful for something, which is much of the time here.

So.

All that said and all my assumptions made, it came as a surprise here in Porto Alegre to hear many women actually saying "obrigado" with the "o" ending.

Since I'm good at questioning myself, I started wondering if I'd been doing it wrong all along.

And maybe I was wrong about those trash receptacles too! Perhaps they were female and I made a wrong assumption because they had nonchalantly used the "o" ending?!

Finally, I decided I better ask someone. A young man about my age told me that really it didn't matter, that women saying "obrigado" was just following along the typical lines of a macho culture. He told me, "The only women who say "obrigada" are feminists."

"Oh," I said, "Well, I'm a feminist, so I guess I better keep saying 'obrigada.'"

Hmmm, so if those trash receptacles were female, then they definitely weren't feminist females. And what if a person who identifies as male also wants to express that he's a feminist. What then?

Afterwards I found myself musing on this (at least the feminist part) and was curious to confirm this theory with others. However, everyone else said something along the lines of, "Ah, people just feel lazy and don't always pay attention to proper grammar. You're doing it right. Keeping saying 'obrigada.'"

Hmmm, so perhaps those trash receptacles were just lazy females disregarding Portuguese grammar?! Or perhaps I should just ask them. Or perhaps it really isn't that important...this effort to reduce people (or things) into gendered categories seems to be a little more nuanced than I initially thought in Portuguese 101.

So I could be displaying my feminist tendencies or my rigid adherence to proper grammar or simply conveying to the world around me that I happen to be female, all when I utter the simple word "obrigada." Who knew that saying "thank you" could potentially imply so many things besides gratitude?

Cup of Tea at Sunset

2010-02-08T21:38:00.006-02:00

Cup of Tea at Sunset
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

A few weeks ago, I enjoyed a cup of chocolate-mint tea in the rooftop cafe of the Casa de Cultura (House of Culture) Mario Quintana. The beautiful pink building in downtown Porto Alegre was once the Hotel Majestic, where I have been told the poet Mario Quintana used to reside.

Yesterday while in one of the city's gazillion malls, I happened upon a book of his poetry and thought it only appropriate that I buy a copy.

And here is a snippet (translated likely roughly, by me - feel free to offer better more nuanced translations!) of a poem titled, "Para olhar por outro ângulo" (For looking from another angle") that I thought was amusingly appropriate to all my musings about the new, sometimes different, sometimes seemingly "exotic" things I'm experiencing here in Brazil...

I'm suspicious of those tourists that consider the places they've visited to be exotic. They stay outside, seeing the picturesque in everything: the houses, the clothes, the customs, the beliefs...
And they aren't even suspicious that only exotic note in those defenseless countries is precisely themselves!

(Desconfio desses turistas que consideram exóticos os países visitados. Ficam de fora, vendo o pitoresco em tudo: nas casa, nas roupas, nos costumes, nas crenças...
E nem desconfiam que a única nota exótica desses indefesos países são precisamente eles!)

I'll leave you with a photograph of the poet himself inside the Casa de Cultura.

My First Churrasco

2010-02-07T18:07:00.004-02:00

Yesterday evening V. and her husband invited me and others (including Estrela) to their lovely house for some churrasco. They live on the outskirts of town with a view of the biggest hill in the city. Due to V.'s good directions, I was successfully able to make it there on the bus.

When I arrived we sat outside on the front patio sharing chimarrão and enjoying the sunset and V.'s roses.

So, it is kind of funny, that I, a vegetarian, would first move to Texas, aka land of BBQ and cowboys, and then come to the state of Rio Grande do Sul, aka land of churrasco and vaqueros (cowboys), for a stint. It's all about meat here! Churrasco is when the meat is put on a metal stick and grilled. Yup, that's one big slab of meat.

My hosts were sensitive to my strange practices and made some accommodations for me. Yay for grilled onions (on the left)!

And of course there was lots of other delicious food to enjoy too: potato salad, tomato & onion salad, garlic bread, salad with carrots, beets & tomatoes, yummy dessert and amazingly delicious homemade wine. V.'s husband has been making wine (both white and red) for decades now and it's really good stuff. It was a great evening with great company (luckily they ate more meat on my behalf) and delicious food.

Bus Tour No. 2

2010-02-07T17:21:00.001-02:00

On Saturday morning, V. and I went on another tour of the city, this time of the center. (You can check out the first tour here). I made sure to liberally apply sunscreen before leaving the hostel.

I've been walking around the center of the city for a few weeks now, so luckily, I was fairly-well oriented at least some of the time. At the moment, it's a good feeling to be able think, "I kinda know where I am right now!"

Driving down beautiful avenues...this one I definitely need to recognize because it's in the area where I live.

Past a kid juggling in the street...

It turns out I'm not playing the part of the tourist well enough. I really need to look up more at all these cool buildings.

And of course, as always, past some neat street art...

Another fun tour! Thanks V.!

Juggling for Spare Change

2010-02-07T11:25:00.003-02:00

If you're stopped at a red light at an intersection, there's a chance that someone will be entertaining you while you wait for the light to turn green. I've seen clowns here and they kinda scare me, as clowns tend to do. Folks will also get creative though and use their skills as best as they can in hopes that you will give them some money in exchange.

The photos here are not remotely representative of this young man's ability in juggling tennis balls. He was actually quite skilled. Unfortunately, my camera snaps a photo approximately 1/2 a second after I press the shutter. So, action shots are nearly impossible. Because I'm stubborn, I keep trying anyway, taking as many photos as I possibly can in hopes that one -- just one (please!) -- will show what I'm attempting to capture. In this case, I wasn't too successful unfortunately.

I think that these instances at stop lights, be it with panhandlers or those sharing their skills, always make those of us in the idling cars a little uncomfortable. And there's the immediate response to make sure all valuables are secure and not able to be grabbed though an open window. So from the start we don't trust the person. It's also a confrontation with someone else's reality, which is much less privileged than ours. I feel a little guilt. I also have an instinct to pretend I don't see them.

Back in the US, I didn't want to hand out money. So, I eventually responded to these feelings by carrying around bottled water to give out and at least having conversations with the panhandlers, to try and express some degree of our shared humanity. It might be more for me than for them, to alleviate my feelings of guilt, but also to force me to lessen my fear and distrust and increase my openness to others who are different from me.

Here, I haven't figured out how to respond exactly because there's so much more emphasis on being cautious. I have a lot of respect for this young man, out in the hot sun, trying to do something to make a little money. And he's good at it too. Unfortunately, the chance that Cirque du Soleil will come along, see his skill and train him, is rather slim. Likely the odds are against him. I wonder what his options are. Where he lives. What possibilities he has in life. What possibilities he thinks he has in life. What he cares about. Who he loves. Who loves him.

And then the light turns green and he's left behind as we drive away. Waiting for the light to turn red again so he can continue juggling for the next line of cars.

Polenta

2010-02-06T11:11:00.001-02:00

Polenta down here is usually served in fried sticks that make me think of a cross between thick french fries and mozzarella sticks. As with most things that have been fried, it's quite tasty. Crispy on the outside, somewhat soft on the inside, a little salty and with that nice flavor of corn that I associate with polenta.

The other night however I was out to eat with friends. We ordered a plate of polenta. We had no idea what was in store for us! Also, most of the other dishes were meat-based so I helped myself amply to these delicious morsels of polenta. Below is a picture of what remained after SIX of us ate as much on the plate as we possibly could. In the background is another plate that included polenta on the side.

Given that I was raised with the importance of not wasting food, I elected to package this and bring it back to the hostel. Unfortunately, I had eaten so much already that I needed a little break from the stuff and couldn't eat them the next day, or the one following...or at all...within a week or so I think I'll be ready for some more, perhaps in smaller amounts though.

Brazilian Teenagers After a Downpour

2010-02-05T17:40:00.007-02:00

Rain
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

A week ago today, I got caught in a terrific downpour on my way home from my internship. Of course, I hadn't remembered my umbrella. Worse than that, I'd considered taking it, but thought, "Nah!" Eventually I stopped caring about getting wet (it was too late for that) and just started enjoying myself.

A few blocks away from the hostel, with the rain subsiding, I found myself behind a group of teenagers, dressed mostly in black clothing. They were giggling and doing silly things (pressing all the call buttons outside an apartment building and then running away, for example) and skipping over puddles. Like me, they were soaking wet.

One of the girls turned to me and said, "Will you give me a hug?"

I paused for a second to comprehend and then said, "Ok."

Inwardly, I felt a bit nervous. Everyone I talk to is reminding me to take precautions, to be careful.

But at the same point, I didn't want to deny a hug. It was part of the fun that she was half joking and half genuine.

We hugged.

I was quite aware of how my bag was hanging and aware that no movement was being made towards it. Though I'm sure in that moment someone could have pick-pocketed me without me noticing. So, I was a little tense. But, I was trying to overcome that because it just felt like extra, unnecessary weight.

"Don't worry," said one of the other boys, laughing, and reading my subconscious fears, "We're not going to assault you."

"No, we love you" said the hugging girl and then repeated in English this time, "I love you." They were laughing. I laughed.We smiled. I felt a lot of love for them.

Our paths parted ways.

And I just smiled to myself about that little encounter. Who knows what they were intending. Really, it didn't matter. I'm sure it was a spontaneous part of their antics. The energy behind it was silly and sweet. Reminding me that sometimes it's good to let down our guard a little, just to trust in a wet hug with a stranger on a street corner, because maybe that's exactly what we need.

Coindence on Bus No. 348

2010-02-04T23:20:00.002-02:00

Bus!
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

Yesterday, my supervisor was going to pick me up and give me a ride to the place where part of my internship will be spent. But, things worked out differently. Instead she gave me directions over the phone about how to take the bus.

I was standing on the street corner, so I had to try to hear her despite the rumbling of trucks passing by. I repeated the information back to her a few times just to make sure I understood. I had the name of the bus. The name of the street, the # of the building and the cross-street.

So, I waited. And it was hot. Yes, it's still hot here. Really hot. Like Robbin-Williams-talking-about-how-hot-it-is-in-Good-Morning-Vietnam hot.

I have some fear to overcome regarding buses: Essentially, when you don't know where you're going, how do you know when you've arrived?

This makes me nervous. And so if I can avoid taking buses, and I'm no different in the United States, I will.

Also, bus stops here do not list the numbers or names of the buses that come through them. Neither do they announce stops.

So, it's a challenge. One that I do want to overcome. It's a matter of personal pride. I also would love to get to the point where I can pretend it's always been easy-as-pie get around on buses in Porto Alegre, especially since this is apparently one of the best bus systems in Brazil.

I found a bus map a few weeks ago and initially I was thrilled. But then I realized that I still couldn't understand it. Ha! Today over breakfast I brought it out again just to take a look. I was mesmerized but not comprehending much.

One of the students at the hostel, from southern India, saw me in the kitchen staring at the map. He asked me if I was American. He told me he thought I wasn't Brazilian, something in my face gave it away...and also the fact that I had unfolded a huge map of the bus system onto the breakfast table. That too had clued him in, he told me.

So, there I was waiting for my bus to come in. I desperately wanted to take out my bus map even though I knew it won't help me and clearly would make it really obvious that I wasn't from around these parts. [Side note: Part of the advice I get it about city-life here is to try and look like I'm not foreign when traipsing around the streets of Porto Alegre. That and don't wear gold jewelry or stuff that looks expensive. And always carry my bag over the opposite shoulder and in front of me.]

I didn't know the bus number at the time, just the name, Bento Gonçalves. It's also a street name. So there were lots of other buses passing through that listed Bento Gonçalves as one of their stops. I kept getting tempted but I held out until this specific one arrived.

Luckily, it did. When I got on I asked the bus driver if he was going by this certain cross street. He directed me to the cashier, who I paid R$2.30 and asked to please advise me when the cross-street was reached. He nodded looking somewhat non-committal.

So, after some twists and turns on different roads, we starting driving down Bento Gonçalves, As I understood it, the building I was looking for would be on this street. I was pretty excited to see that many of the buildings were clearly numbered. Ha! This would be a piece of cake. I could totally do this on my own! I'd probably be getting off in about 20 blocks exactly.

And indeed, right about the time that I stood up, thinking I should get off the bus, the cashier advised me that this was my stop.

I was a few blocks past where the building should be and so I backtracked. Only to discover that at the number I was given was a mechanic's shop. No building on either side or nearby that looked like it might work with youth.

Hmmm....

Then, I realized that the building I was going to must actually be on the cross street and that would correspond to the number my supervisor gave me.

And so it was.

It was a complete coincidence that the street numbers on Bento Gonçalves were so similar to the cross-street.

In the end, I certainly needed the help that the bus cashier gave me. Amazing that it worked out so well. However, without that lucky coincidence and the assistance of the cashier, who knows where I could have ended up, sweating under the hot Porto Alegre sun?

But, point is, I made it. And I later made it home, on a different bus, that had a different bus stop, but at least it was one where I could orient myself and get to where I needed to go.

So perhaps, I shouldn't be so scared of these buses. They'll always get me somewhere and slowly I'm learning to recognize when that somewhere is close to where I live or want to go.