XV. Language Burial

I´m told that good writing comes from being out of your element. The problem is, I´m not sure that I recognize where or what that is anymore, nor if it recognizes me. The sight of a human being eating and sleeping in refuse, of sexuality being violently and publicly treated as commerce, and of the general desolation that arises from the reification of a touristic culture; some how these things have become mundane to me. Like a strip mine, I see Brazil being ravished deeply by the images it chooses to espouse of itself, until every potentially profitable resource has been extracted and sold.

If I could just find a moment to unload my head, perhaps I could myself extract sense out of this confusion of images that has been accumulated over four and a half months of living, traveling and exploring this strange, strange land. Yet, some how, it seems that no length of time would be sufficient to understand a thing like Lapa.

The day began with a staggering loss...

Miguel and I are trying to cross an avenue in Rio de Janeiro, but napalm airstrikes are detonating all around us, and we cannot see where or by whom. We´re trying to compose ourselves, to find our way to the oversized public telescreen in Coppacabana beach to meet our friends, but Brazilians are storming the avenues in bus-loads. A van scrapes around the corner, nearly taking out Miguel´s foot, with it´s passengers screaming in wild ecstasy. Over the sound of more bomb detonations, I can just barely make out their cry: ¨Fuck the Orange, Fuck the Orange!¨

Eventually, we manage to frogger our way through traffic, and as we reach the other side Miguel has a poignant observation: ¨This must be what a military coup is like.¨

This is the Cupo do Mundo in Brazil, and it´s ubiquitous humm follows us everywhere like a cloud of angry insects. The cities have erected superstructures for public viewing purposes, the ladies are done up in gold and green nail polish, and the street vendors are confident and lucrative in the business of selling loud, garish things to children and tourists. Me, I´m catching the game glimpse by glimpse, connecting frames and fragments between public televisions in restaurants and cafes and bars as we make our way to the front lines of this war. Suddenly, Robinho is on a breakaway, and the city erupts in triumph before the ball has even left his foot: 1-0, Brazil.

But soon, something goes wrong. Brazil`s initial burst of energy slowly evaporates when Melo makes an own-goal. Slowly, the arid confidence of the cheers dies down, until it becomes apparent that we are watching more than just a game. When the Dutch score on another cross, I look around and realize there are no more bombs or noisemakers or drunken hollering--just the hushed whispers of friends and family reeling in eachother´s confidence. As the remaining time slowly disappears, so does the fantastic dream of Rio de Janeiro, and, for a moment, I feel like people are people again, grounded in a common defeat.

As we make our slow, trudging exit with the rest of the crowd, passing toys, soccer balls and flags abandoned in the sand, we begin to formulate our plan for the night.

Disappointed though not deeply affected, we were mainly concerned that this loss would have a dampening effect on our ability to have a proper Friday night in Rio de Janeiro. This could not have been further from the truth...

As we are filing into our restaurant, which was purported by one Stephanie Kasten to have the ´best sandwich in the world,´ we chance into one of her Brazilian friends who joins us for dinner. Augusto, as I learn he is called, seems very high and can´t seem to understand my Portuguese, but he gives interesting responses in broken English and has an excellent taste in beer, so I take a liking to him. I ask him if he is sad because of the futebol game earlier, and he responds in a slow, blunt tone of voice, "Fuck futebol." We continue interrogating him on the subject until our sandwiches arrive. Incidentally, they turn out to be the world´s best.

Satisfied from a fine amount of food and drink in Laranjeiras, we are rounding the curvature of a dead, deserted avenue, and slowly descending upon the arches of Lapa. The sound of the procession begins to reach us; the confused inscrutable roar of bad commerce. The party has begun.

STREET

As soon as we step into the street, I can feel them watching. My extraneous and exclamatory perception vehicle, the one that can detect the direction of another person´s stare, is inflamed. We travel to the far side of the concession stands to find Stephanie´s preferred caiprinha vendor, and thus begin the night with a rather delectable caipifruta com abacaxi e creme. ¨Forte, muito forte,¨ I tell the fabricante behind the bar, and watch with the intensity of a hungry dog as my cup is filled with bad cachaca. Though I am right in front of him, I get the sensation of being at a great distance.

Naturally, one empty plastic cup turns to another and another, and excess consumes us. Under the lamps of a very crowded street, we lose ourselves in a procession of tourists, thieves, and beggars. A one-armed man with an acutely curved spine politely interrupts our conversation to ask if our beer cans are empty. I receive a bump from behind, and turn to find a Brazilian girl staring up at me with a deformed mold covering the plastic surgery on her nose, the smell of the paroxyde in her hair almost tangible even from this distance. She stares at me like a frightened animal and slowly back away from me into the crowd. In the back of a broken-down horse carriage, a blanketed form shakes and convulses with the need for sleep. And I feel the pull of their stares from everywhere. Walls of them, waiting for the alcohol to get the best of us so they can move in. And it´s not a long wait.

BENCH

Several hours pass of standing, drinking, conversing and watching. We finally find a moment, the four of us, to seperate from the others and find a respite from these exhausting activities to enjoy one of nature´s wonders; a bench. It´s not long before a middle-aged Brazilian woman takes interest in us: she is wearing a mini skirt and is carrying a drink in both hands. I watch her eyeing Kevin and Stephanie for several minutes before she asks us if we have a camera, because we look picturesque sitting on our bench together. We answer in the negatory and spend the next several minutes chatting her up. She asks what we are doing on Saturday night, and we tell her we are exiting Rio that afternoon. She doesn´t seem to understand, and persists in telling us that there will be a great party there on Saturday, and that we should all go. "Sabado, sabado," she keeps repeating. "Sabado, sabado." I can´t tell if she´s crazy, but she seems quite nice. Eventually, we move on, and she follows. As we are walking somewhere else, she offers us a cigarette, one of Stephanie´s friends makes the mistake of accepting, and then the pact is sealed; she is with us for the rest of the night.

As my friends leave to procure a bathroom and more drinks, I find myself confined to our bench, feeling quite alone except for our new friend, who has never blinked nor stopped talking at me for some amount of time. She is trying to guess my nationality, but I am watching the crippled, bent form of a drunk brasileiro wearing a pink graphic shirt that reads ¨Honor and Solitude¨ alternate between wrestling with his friends and leaning on them for support. She is trying to communicate something to me, but I am counting every confused, glassy-eyed white girl being led to the wayside by leering brasileiros. Communication... there is no communication here. I feel like I could pick any of these squirming forms out of the crowd and run the same script about culture, Brazil, futebol, drugs, women, life, death... and ultimately nothing would be communicated.

¨Voce e italiano!¨ the woman points a knowing finger at me, her eyes fixed like big, mechanical moons.

From our bench, I´m watching a guy purchasing drinks across the way. He bears an impeccable resemblance to a friend of mine from back home; his clothes, his hair, his face... As the woman with two drinks steadies herself against a pole, now enjoining me to teach her English, I´m thinking about how long it´s been since I´ve spoken to my friend, and how our relationship has atrophied in that time. I feel like I could go right up to this guy and say, ¨You know, man, you look like my friend Jesse from back home. He´s an actor, man. In Hollywood, he´s the real thing.¨ And maybe he would say something like ¨Hollywood? Let me tell you a thing about Hollywood...¨ And thus our nights would be conjoined as we followed a common thread together, leading us from this crossroad to a dozen others, which in turn lead to a dozen more. A labrinyth, wherein we find a new reality fabricated with each person, each conversation, each decision which we choose to realize.

¨Ensina-me sua lingua!¨ the woman with two drinks chimes like an old clock, breaking my daydreaming. I watch her squirm against her pole, struggling for balance, and I let slip a laugh. She cocks her head and looks at me expectantly, like a confused puppy who understands that a good thing has happened but cannot comprehend why or how.

Soon, Miguel returns looking extremely weirded out, his eyes even wider than usual: ¨That guy over there just tried to grab my junk!¨ he exclaims. I follow the point of his finger and see a Brazilian guy leaning unconsciously against a metal pole, balancing his weight on his forehead. His friends surround him and laugh, pointing in our direction.

¨Was he successful? Nevermind. What are we going to do?¨

¨I don´t know,¨ he responds as we both watch the American girls we came with get caught between a pack of roving brasileiros, each of them working to pull their prey towards a direction just a little less crowded. ¨But we can´t stay here.¨

¨Voce fala portugues?¨ chirps the clock with two drinks.

¨Agreed,¨ I say after some time, wishing more than anything for a little privacy and a lot of marijuana. Fortunately, Augusto shows up at that moment and offers us both:

¨Do you want... to see the Escadas da Lapa?¨ he mutters at us, just barely audible over the surrounding clamor. Miguel and I look at each other for only a moment before agreement is reached.

¨Sabado, sabado!¨ the clock chirps, and follows closely in tow.

STAIRS

From atop the ornamented stairs of Lapa, we peer at a safe distance at but a small window of the great picture below us. At this elevation, with these people, I feel myself returning to normality. As I savor in opening my lungs to delicious smoke, we sit and listen to a very drunk Stephanie attempt to relate to us what it´s like to teach English to Brazilian adolescents in a favela in Rio de Janeiro.

¨I can´t believe how they act sometimes. They don´t respect anything. They´re like...¨ she hesitates.

¨Animals?¨ I exhale, watching formless figures squirm at the foot of the stairs. A silence passes as we consider this conjecture and pass around the only thing that is keeping us in comfort. Finally, it is Miguel´s voice who offers a positive break to this tension:

¨Well, you´re teaching English in a favela, and I´m pretty sure you´re doing an amazing thing.¨

This I can agree to, and as I revel in another hit I offer a nod and my limited advice:

¨As long as they learn, that´s the only thing that matters. If they´re not entertained, then fuck ´em.¨

Soon, the joint dies, and we are pulled back into the pit below. As we descend, I can feel myself becoming further and further alienated with each step. As if in affirmation, a group of ragged Brazilians breaks off from the side of the stairs and begins to follow us, shouting something to Augusto I can´t quite catch. He turns and fires back with an incensed response, ¨Robinho faltou!¨

This creates a mass of heated confusion, and it soon becomes clear that we may be getting robbed over a soccer argument. This ends when we reach the foot of the stairs and lose ourselves anew in a sea of sickly yellow street light. The woman with two drinks, who, in this time, has procured two more drinks, recognizes us out of the crowd and rejoins us with a sigh of relief: ¨Voces vao no sabado! Sabado!¨ Drunk, confused, and now rather stoned, we falter at the bottom of the stairs with no plan or course of action. We are in the center stage of a brightly lit intersection, surrounded by sharks. Every so often somebody shoulders past me, accompanied by several fingers dipping into my pockets. They´re moving in now.

It is then that Grace, another of Stephanie´s American friends, appears, looking oddly illuminated in the unrealistic yellow bath of street lamps. The circles under her eyes are dark and wet with tears, but she is choked with laughter. Several minutes pass before we figure out what happened.

¨This guy,¨ she sputters, her eyes maniacal. ¨He tried to grab my purse... but I punched him! I punched him right in the face!¨ her giggling erupts into convulsions, and she grabs her sides, drawing even more attention from the shifting figures repositioning themselves around us.

Realizing that something needs to be done, I grab Miguel and pull him aside. Leaning against a graffiti´d wall, our faces half-concealed by shadows, perhaps we´ll seem a little more dangerous.

¨Listen man--¨ I´m cut off as the woman follows us to the wall, staring eagerly at both of us as though she were included in our desperation. I stare at her blankly and continue.

¨Listen. We need to do something... we´ve gotta get out of here. I can´t take this.¨ I can feel more hands and fingers squirming in my pockets. My extra-tight and extra-outlandish pants allow me to feel the movement of every finger fishing for coins, bills, passports, whatever. It is then that I realize the money in my pocket is already gone, though everything else I have in there remains. I´m starting to lose it.

¨Fala, fala!¨ chirps the woman. ¨Speak, speak!¨ But I can´t speak. Not English, not Portuguese. I cannot speak any language. There is no communication here. There are only a handful of people in this crowd with whom I can communicate, and the alcohol is quickly robbing us of that ability...

I´m burying my language deep within this procession of starvation, where any communication is made impossible by the internal embargos of culture. We happily lead ourselves along the horsetracks by these reigns, which are at once fabricating and fabricated by our own sensibilities as products of a global market. There is starvation all around me, existing both in the wretched characters who make their livelihood off the refuse of this wasteland, and in those who preserve the existence of such refuse with their leverage over a weaker culture.

This, I realize as a group of drunk brasileiros publicly humilitates two passing transvetites, this is Brazil. Not candomblé. Not capoeira. This is the Brazil that the world pays to see.

Recognizing my loss of words, Miguel is quick to act. ¨Let´s talk to Stephanie,¨ he concludes, and takes me and the woman with two drinks to find a course of action with the help of the one who brought us here.

¨Stephanie, I think we´re gonna leave. We´re not getting any more comfortable out here, and it´s not getting any less shady.¨

Stephanie, her eyes fluttering and struggling not to roll back in her head, fails to understand.

¨So let´s go to a club!¨ she says, and disappears into the crowd, immediately getting swarmed by friendly brasileiros trying to guide her somewhere else. We´ve hardly even heard her, nor has Kevin hardly even perceived the hordes of men with their hands on her, before we´re at the entrance to a club underneath the arches of Lapa. I´m shrugging at Miguel and handing my money to a girl of perhaps eight years old sitting behind a table. ¨This is fine,¨ he is saying to me as we are ushered through the entrance. ¨We just need to play by different rules here.¨ It is then that I remember that, since the beginning, this has all been a game, and every game has rules...

...and then I´m enveloped in sound. ¨Bye!¨ the woman squeaks from the edge of the door, and fades away almost as quickly as she came.

CLUB

Soon, the language of dance replaces inferior verbal communication, and I feel restored. I take out the last thing from my pocket--a cheap, plastic ring that flashes a colorful strobe light, and allow myself to be lost in it´s glow. I can still feel the wall of watchers all along the perimeter of the dance floor, but with my pockets empty, I feel free. I feel like performing for them. A brasileiro dances up behind me, and Miguel watches and narrates every one of his moves as he feigns and lunges for my back pocket, as though I were stupid enough to keep a wallet there. I turn and laugh in his face and his embarrassment is evident even in the poor lighting of the club. I gesture for him to dance with me, but he shies away, vanquished. I feel victorious, without the need for violence or anger. Perhaps these people just need to eat, I am thinking. Perhaps they simply need the means to survive like I do. I realize that I am having a good time when the rest of the group decides that now is the time to take flight.

EXIT

As we finally reach the decision to retreat from this war, I am weaving with my friends through the figures in the crowd and receiving only scattered, fragmented images of faces. A scowl, a seductive smile, a glassy stare. We blow through a gaggle of prostitutes, and they begin to coo, ¨gringo, gringo!¨ There is a tug at my shirt and I turn to find a girl, maybe nine years old, wearing a halter top and staring at me seductively from the knee of a very seasoned prostitute. I do my utmost to block the image from my mind as we all jump into the getaway vehicle and escape the streets of Lapa.

And as we round the streets, becoming further away by the second, I can look up and see Christ the Redeemer, His face illuminated upwards by sickly green lights, His wide embrace encompassing everything below. And thus we pass under his auspices to watch the sun rise anew on the shores of Brazil, for perhaps the last time before we set sights for other dark corners of the world...