Primary Objective Number One,
Reports indicate,
Has incurred a string of successive failures
To which I attribute the scene before me:
That familiar American whiskey
In a strange Brazilian airport--
11AM.
Fucked (non-fortunately) and
Floored by fluorescent ceilings
As tremendous self pressure seals
Packages and sells
The fourth wall, enclosed.
When your inner actor emerges with
The Carioca dawn in one hand,
Will you use the other to redraft
The Producer's script,
Or become His right hand man
As He strokes It with the left?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
VI. Morro de Sao Paulo
At long last, Easter break afforded the students our first adventuring opportunity. While the neatly-trimmed and postured beauty of Morro de Sao Paulo is hardly a trek through the jungle, it certainly sounded more appetizing than accompanying the 20+ other American students on their trip to the beautiful-yet-boring colonial town of Lencois. Our trip did, however, appeal to my sense of adventure in that we had absolutely no plans or expectations beyond actually getting to our destination. The day before leaving, we decided on our anthem for the trip, which would be repeated many times to many confused people: "Não plano concreto."
Another show of good fortune contributed to our adventure: my friend Ikumi was making her way through Brasil on spring break and decided to join us. I had met Ikumi during the beginning of my third year at Davis, when a sudden influx of foreign exchange students expanded my social circle, and to my surprise, I found we were taking the same introductory Portuguese class. Ikumi immediately fascinated me; a Japanese girl who learned English in Indonesia, then traveled to America to learn Portuguese, and then decided to come to Brazil for... practice? I'm still not sure. But with the two of us, a lovely Austrian girl named Lillian, an Afghan fellow named Ali and an Israeli kid named Adam, we numbered five of the most conspicuous tourists on the island.
The cheapest route to Morro de Sao Paulo from Salvador consists of four legs: a boat departing from Pelourinho to Itaprica, a bus from Itaprica to Valenca, another bus from Valenca to a location I'm not sure of, and finally a boat from mystery spot to Morro proper.
After about six hours and twenty five reais' worth of PTS (Public Transportation Syndrome), you will be greeted by a scene of cinematic beauty. Many times during the weekend I was confronted with landscapes redolent of Pirates of the Caribbean, and rightly so: during the colonial period, Morro de Sao Paulo was a notoriously popular spot for pirates looking to profit from the many French and Dutch attacks on the island. An ancient cathedral oversees the main harbor where boats come in and out, and the thick jungle perimeter of the island is broken only infrequently by private beaches and villas. Dockworkers rush up and down the pier with wheelburrows, guides offer their services to take you to hidden locations, and everyone generally wants your attention.
One noise you will not hear, however, is that of a combustion engine; cars are strictly prohibited on the island. If you want to get around, you can pay someone to take you via boat or tractor, but otherwise you are confined to your feet, which rather suited me. During the rainy season, torrential storms wash through the village, and the "streets" begin to look more like muddy walkways. You will find most tourists turtle-walking their way through the sticky mud, trying to keep the sandals on their feet. We quickly abandoned our shoes and embraced the fact that our feet would not be clean or dry again for the rest of the weekend.
There are four main beaches, each with their own poussadas, bars and restaurants. Praia segundo is the most lively, frequently hosting live music and parties at night. It was there we met a tattoo-coated Israeli fellow named Leoch who invited us to a game of futebol and, after speaking with Adam and admiring my dermacidal decor, he loudly pronounced that he had a room for us for 20 reais a person. His poussada was hidden behind a line of restaurants about 100 meters from the water, where a colony of Brazilians, Israelis, Argentines, and other miscellaneous migrants were drinking, smoking, and conversing in voices not quite as loud as his.
It didn't take long for us to befriend a group of local brasileiros, who immediately inquired as to whether or not we liked "elle-esse-jeh" (LSD). I answered in the affirmative, and one of them took out a cell phone, removed the battery cover, and procured a tiny strip of tabs--for each of which he wanted 40 reais. I laughed and politely dismissed the notion. They protested, trying to convince me that it inherently costs more here because its imported, but none of us were interested in paying more than twice the Californian standard. They did not press the issue; the guy with the cellphone had already eaten at least a few and became distracted by a nearby cat. His friend gave us entry coupons for a beach party happening the next night and told us to come see him DJ, implying that maybe his tunes would change our minds about the tabs. We finished smoking a spliff and parted ways.
The rest of the day was spent in an island-induced stupor as the ocean's temporality slowly became our own. We napped, woke up, walked on the beach, napped again, etc. This continued into the night until we mingled our way into a party happening on the second beach and began alternating between drinking, dancing and huddling under vendor umbrellas during intermittent flash storms. During one such storm, I took a moment to purchase a caipirinha and note some details of the dancefloor. Some conclusions:
After downing the rest of the cup, I removed my anthropology hat, donned a sparkly headband with blue and gold stars that I received for my birthday and joined the procession. I happened into my "elle-esse-jeh" amigo again, who updated me about his adventures with the cat, and gradually the night became a satisfying blur. Unfortunately my headband was lost to sea at some point.
The next day was spent loitering around the island, checking into a new poussada, chatting with any local who made eye contact, and generally being indecisive about what to do. We decided to set out for another part of the island to find a certain beach that was reputed to have regenerating mud instead of sand. We took the ferry to another shore and began following a stretch of beach with fine grains of sand that felt like flour underfoot. The scene here was much more isolated and pastoral than we had previously encountered; children and dogs played in front of small huts, little anchored ships rocked gently in the water, and the few restaurants and bars we found hardly seemed interested in us or our business.
When we finally found the place, it was even nicer than rumor had let on. The mud was actually sand and water mixed with the protruding remnants of an exposed cliff, forming red, yellow and purple swirls in the cliff face that could be luxuriously applied to our skin. As we caked the mud on to ourselves, we lamented about not having purchased the acid, and then I remembered I had a joint with me. We took care of it and spent the remaining daylight applying layers of mud, washing them off, swimming, and then caking on more layers.
As the daylight began to fail, we stood on the shore watching a lightning storm rage in the distance. Soon the only light we could see by was the dying campfire and hanging oil lanterns of a nearby restaurant. The sound of the wind was interrupted only by the intermittent crash of wave on rock, and stars began to reveal themselves where they had previously been hidden behind the light of the village. All was tranquil.
That is, until we saw the ferry returning from Morro, and realized that it was the last one of the night. As we took off sprinting, another storm cloud cracked to life over our heads, and suddenly our romantic beach scene turned into a tumultuous dash through the rain. We made it in time and were fortunate enough to get a vessel with a good sound system and a captain with a competent choice of music. We spent the ride feeling our newly softened skin and nodding along to deep house.
When we returned, we found the night had just begun. We returned to the room and gathered supplies for the beach party. Lilian, Ikumi and I napped and were awoken presently by Ali and Adam coming through the door. I felt groggy and was about to resume sleeping when they told me something that snapped me to life: our feline-fascinated Brazilian had given them a free tab. We took care of whatever caipirinha remained and were about to leave when I realized that, with my sparkly headband lost at sea, I would have to resort to other means of frivolity. I was leafing through my wallet when I found the perfect thing: a garishly oversized American flag sticker. I found the safari hat I had purchased earlier in the day and placed the sticker perfectly over the Brazilian flag embroidered on the front. With that, we were ready to proceed to the meat market.
Except for the 10 reais it cost to get in, the party was not much different from the previous night's, with a couple of notable exceptions. There was a real dancefloor, a real lighting rig with real lasers, and a real shitty DJ. He went down the same list as his predecessor, invoking the same synchronized shows of sexuality. As I searched the grounds for my brasileiro, peripherally keeping track of the many tanned brobots approaching Ikumi, I noted somewhat sadly how attracted Brazilians are to displays of ostentation. Growing up in Santa Barbara, I was confronted with a similar cultural obsession and learned to adjust to it, but never to this degree. If you throw a rock in Brazil, chances are you will hit a dude with bronze, tattoo'd skin wearing a glittery, undersized t-shirt that loudly proclaims his "statement" of individuality. This guy will probably know capoeira, samba, or at least two other forms of dancing. Ironically, every Brazilian guy is trying to proclaim his individuality with gaudy clothes, muscles and tattoos, but I don't think there is a Portuguese conception of irony, so this isn't a problem for them. I slipped past several dozen more of these types, tipped my new hat at them, and continued my search.
Fortunately, this DJ didn't last long, and as the night progressed, so did the quality of the music. I even heard a Chemical Brothers track at one point. I was just beginning to cut some rug on the dance floor when I heard a familiar voice approaching: "Oi! Spongebob Squarepants!"
He slipped a tab into my mouth practically before I could even get a greeting out.
For the next several hours, I vascillated between dancing, conversing, and giggling in the corner. Our night continued to get better until suddenly it wasn't night anymore. I walked with Ikumi back to the room and realized with abrupt sadness that she had to leave Morro de Sao Paulo in a few hours to get back to Salvador for her afternoon flight back home. I also realized, just as suddenly, that I was beginning to peak. She decided to crash for a few hours before departing, and as she and Lilian slept, I lay alone, experiencing inner turmoil and weird thoughts. I was examining a tree outside the window when Ali stumbled through the door and saved me.
We adjourned back to the house of the DJ and his friends, all of whom were fried and happy to see me with a bag of the green savior (which, incidentally, is mostly brown in Brazil). We smoked, chatted, and giggled some more, but eventually they all passed out, and I was left alone again as Adam slept and Ali took to his journal.
I guess I must've slept for some time, because the next thing I knew Ikumi's alarm was waking us all. She packed her things, and the two of us stepped outside for a walk to the harbor in the gray morning rain. We proceeded in silence; perhaps it was some stage of the drugs, or the colorless morning light, but I was feeling sullen, and I got the sense that I wasn't alone. We reached the docks and she purchased her ticket, but before we parted ways, I declared that the only logical course of action was for me to visit her in Tokyo. I meant this, but the consolation it offered me was uncertain at best; I don't even have a plano concreto for traveling back to finish school, let alone to Japan.
Trudging back through the mud alone, I tried to think of something to sing. Because I no longer had a band to practice with, my desire to sing had long since remained unsatisfied. I settled on Minus the Bear's "White Mystery," and quietly hummed the lyrics as I made my way around more turtles with their sandals stuck in the mud.
In the end, Morro de Sao Paulo offered the loveliest experiences I've had in Brazil thus far, but the real beauty was uncovered only when that carefully postured image of Brazil was stripped away. The next night, as Ali and Adam caught up on sleep, Lilian and I were scouring for something to do, when suddenly the power to the entire island died. We found ourselves feeling our way through deserted streets, and I realized that, for the first time since we arrived, we couldn't hear music. We couldn't hear people bartering or shouting. We couldn't hear anything; just the rain as it washed away all previous traces of being.
Another show of good fortune contributed to our adventure: my friend Ikumi was making her way through Brasil on spring break and decided to join us. I had met Ikumi during the beginning of my third year at Davis, when a sudden influx of foreign exchange students expanded my social circle, and to my surprise, I found we were taking the same introductory Portuguese class. Ikumi immediately fascinated me; a Japanese girl who learned English in Indonesia, then traveled to America to learn Portuguese, and then decided to come to Brazil for... practice? I'm still not sure. But with the two of us, a lovely Austrian girl named Lillian, an Afghan fellow named Ali and an Israeli kid named Adam, we numbered five of the most conspicuous tourists on the island.
The cheapest route to Morro de Sao Paulo from Salvador consists of four legs: a boat departing from Pelourinho to Itaprica, a bus from Itaprica to Valenca, another bus from Valenca to a location I'm not sure of, and finally a boat from mystery spot to Morro proper.
After about six hours and twenty five reais' worth of PTS (Public Transportation Syndrome), you will be greeted by a scene of cinematic beauty. Many times during the weekend I was confronted with landscapes redolent of Pirates of the Caribbean, and rightly so: during the colonial period, Morro de Sao Paulo was a notoriously popular spot for pirates looking to profit from the many French and Dutch attacks on the island. An ancient cathedral oversees the main harbor where boats come in and out, and the thick jungle perimeter of the island is broken only infrequently by private beaches and villas. Dockworkers rush up and down the pier with wheelburrows, guides offer their services to take you to hidden locations, and everyone generally wants your attention.
One noise you will not hear, however, is that of a combustion engine; cars are strictly prohibited on the island. If you want to get around, you can pay someone to take you via boat or tractor, but otherwise you are confined to your feet, which rather suited me. During the rainy season, torrential storms wash through the village, and the "streets" begin to look more like muddy walkways. You will find most tourists turtle-walking their way through the sticky mud, trying to keep the sandals on their feet. We quickly abandoned our shoes and embraced the fact that our feet would not be clean or dry again for the rest of the weekend.
There are four main beaches, each with their own poussadas, bars and restaurants. Praia segundo is the most lively, frequently hosting live music and parties at night. It was there we met a tattoo-coated Israeli fellow named Leoch who invited us to a game of futebol and, after speaking with Adam and admiring my dermacidal decor, he loudly pronounced that he had a room for us for 20 reais a person. His poussada was hidden behind a line of restaurants about 100 meters from the water, where a colony of Brazilians, Israelis, Argentines, and other miscellaneous migrants were drinking, smoking, and conversing in voices not quite as loud as his.
It didn't take long for us to befriend a group of local brasileiros, who immediately inquired as to whether or not we liked "elle-esse-jeh" (LSD). I answered in the affirmative, and one of them took out a cell phone, removed the battery cover, and procured a tiny strip of tabs--for each of which he wanted 40 reais. I laughed and politely dismissed the notion. They protested, trying to convince me that it inherently costs more here because its imported, but none of us were interested in paying more than twice the Californian standard. They did not press the issue; the guy with the cellphone had already eaten at least a few and became distracted by a nearby cat. His friend gave us entry coupons for a beach party happening the next night and told us to come see him DJ, implying that maybe his tunes would change our minds about the tabs. We finished smoking a spliff and parted ways.
The rest of the day was spent in an island-induced stupor as the ocean's temporality slowly became our own. We napped, woke up, walked on the beach, napped again, etc. This continued into the night until we mingled our way into a party happening on the second beach and began alternating between drinking, dancing and huddling under vendor umbrellas during intermittent flash storms. During one such storm, I took a moment to purchase a caipirinha and note some details of the dancefloor. Some conclusions:
- Brazilians like coordinated dances, especially ones that incorporate lewd gestures
- If one brasileiro demonstrates enough enthusiasm and physical prowess to get others to line up behind him, he can become the leader of one such coordinated dance. This process usually begins with him goading his friends into imitating his moves.
- There seems to be one standardized list of songs that is acceptable for Brazilian DJs to play
- This list invariably includes Pitbull's "I Know You Want Me," a Portuguese version of Black Eyed Peas' "I've Gotta Feeling," and an unidentified song whose only lyrics are "Revelacion Boom Boom." These songs are usually played at least twice.
- Brazilian DJs also love to play songs with pre-recorded crowd noises, as well as overdubs of people yelling things like "Hey DJ! Bring it on!" etc. I'm guessing that Brazilian party-goers don't know the difference and get excited when they hear all the cheering.
- As the only Asian gal in sight, Ikumi was more popular with the brasileiros than a Texan prom queen
After downing the rest of the cup, I removed my anthropology hat, donned a sparkly headband with blue and gold stars that I received for my birthday and joined the procession. I happened into my "elle-esse-jeh" amigo again, who updated me about his adventures with the cat, and gradually the night became a satisfying blur. Unfortunately my headband was lost to sea at some point.
The next day was spent loitering around the island, checking into a new poussada, chatting with any local who made eye contact, and generally being indecisive about what to do. We decided to set out for another part of the island to find a certain beach that was reputed to have regenerating mud instead of sand. We took the ferry to another shore and began following a stretch of beach with fine grains of sand that felt like flour underfoot. The scene here was much more isolated and pastoral than we had previously encountered; children and dogs played in front of small huts, little anchored ships rocked gently in the water, and the few restaurants and bars we found hardly seemed interested in us or our business.
When we finally found the place, it was even nicer than rumor had let on. The mud was actually sand and water mixed with the protruding remnants of an exposed cliff, forming red, yellow and purple swirls in the cliff face that could be luxuriously applied to our skin. As we caked the mud on to ourselves, we lamented about not having purchased the acid, and then I remembered I had a joint with me. We took care of it and spent the remaining daylight applying layers of mud, washing them off, swimming, and then caking on more layers.
As the daylight began to fail, we stood on the shore watching a lightning storm rage in the distance. Soon the only light we could see by was the dying campfire and hanging oil lanterns of a nearby restaurant. The sound of the wind was interrupted only by the intermittent crash of wave on rock, and stars began to reveal themselves where they had previously been hidden behind the light of the village. All was tranquil.
That is, until we saw the ferry returning from Morro, and realized that it was the last one of the night. As we took off sprinting, another storm cloud cracked to life over our heads, and suddenly our romantic beach scene turned into a tumultuous dash through the rain. We made it in time and were fortunate enough to get a vessel with a good sound system and a captain with a competent choice of music. We spent the ride feeling our newly softened skin and nodding along to deep house.
When we returned, we found the night had just begun. We returned to the room and gathered supplies for the beach party. Lilian, Ikumi and I napped and were awoken presently by Ali and Adam coming through the door. I felt groggy and was about to resume sleeping when they told me something that snapped me to life: our feline-fascinated Brazilian had given them a free tab. We took care of whatever caipirinha remained and were about to leave when I realized that, with my sparkly headband lost at sea, I would have to resort to other means of frivolity. I was leafing through my wallet when I found the perfect thing: a garishly oversized American flag sticker. I found the safari hat I had purchased earlier in the day and placed the sticker perfectly over the Brazilian flag embroidered on the front. With that, we were ready to proceed to the meat market.
Except for the 10 reais it cost to get in, the party was not much different from the previous night's, with a couple of notable exceptions. There was a real dancefloor, a real lighting rig with real lasers, and a real shitty DJ. He went down the same list as his predecessor, invoking the same synchronized shows of sexuality. As I searched the grounds for my brasileiro, peripherally keeping track of the many tanned brobots approaching Ikumi, I noted somewhat sadly how attracted Brazilians are to displays of ostentation. Growing up in Santa Barbara, I was confronted with a similar cultural obsession and learned to adjust to it, but never to this degree. If you throw a rock in Brazil, chances are you will hit a dude with bronze, tattoo'd skin wearing a glittery, undersized t-shirt that loudly proclaims his "statement" of individuality. This guy will probably know capoeira, samba, or at least two other forms of dancing. Ironically, every Brazilian guy is trying to proclaim his individuality with gaudy clothes, muscles and tattoos, but I don't think there is a Portuguese conception of irony, so this isn't a problem for them. I slipped past several dozen more of these types, tipped my new hat at them, and continued my search.
Fortunately, this DJ didn't last long, and as the night progressed, so did the quality of the music. I even heard a Chemical Brothers track at one point. I was just beginning to cut some rug on the dance floor when I heard a familiar voice approaching: "Oi! Spongebob Squarepants!"
He slipped a tab into my mouth practically before I could even get a greeting out.
For the next several hours, I vascillated between dancing, conversing, and giggling in the corner. Our night continued to get better until suddenly it wasn't night anymore. I walked with Ikumi back to the room and realized with abrupt sadness that she had to leave Morro de Sao Paulo in a few hours to get back to Salvador for her afternoon flight back home. I also realized, just as suddenly, that I was beginning to peak. She decided to crash for a few hours before departing, and as she and Lilian slept, I lay alone, experiencing inner turmoil and weird thoughts. I was examining a tree outside the window when Ali stumbled through the door and saved me.
We adjourned back to the house of the DJ and his friends, all of whom were fried and happy to see me with a bag of the green savior (which, incidentally, is mostly brown in Brazil). We smoked, chatted, and giggled some more, but eventually they all passed out, and I was left alone again as Adam slept and Ali took to his journal.
I guess I must've slept for some time, because the next thing I knew Ikumi's alarm was waking us all. She packed her things, and the two of us stepped outside for a walk to the harbor in the gray morning rain. We proceeded in silence; perhaps it was some stage of the drugs, or the colorless morning light, but I was feeling sullen, and I got the sense that I wasn't alone. We reached the docks and she purchased her ticket, but before we parted ways, I declared that the only logical course of action was for me to visit her in Tokyo. I meant this, but the consolation it offered me was uncertain at best; I don't even have a plano concreto for traveling back to finish school, let alone to Japan.
Trudging back through the mud alone, I tried to think of something to sing. Because I no longer had a band to practice with, my desire to sing had long since remained unsatisfied. I settled on Minus the Bear's "White Mystery," and quietly hummed the lyrics as I made my way around more turtles with their sandals stuck in the mud.
In the end, Morro de Sao Paulo offered the loveliest experiences I've had in Brazil thus far, but the real beauty was uncovered only when that carefully postured image of Brazil was stripped away. The next night, as Ali and Adam caught up on sleep, Lilian and I were scouring for something to do, when suddenly the power to the entire island died. We found ourselves feeling our way through deserted streets, and I realized that, for the first time since we arrived, we couldn't hear music. We couldn't hear people bartering or shouting. We couldn't hear anything; just the rain as it washed away all previous traces of being.
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