The taxistas of Pelourinho drive deliberately and without regard for the obstacles in the road. Weaving urgently around each bend, they ride in silence through the dead streets, speaking only to curse those who slow their course. Their stride remains unbroken until, riding the brim of a curve like a wave, they find a police cruiser sitting solemnly around the bend. With the flick of the wrist, they crack their knuckles together and mutter an ancient incantation as they ease themselves back into the speed limit, into the confines of law.
From the backseat, the wind lashes at my face, and when my eyes go cold I know how tired I am. Tired of nights lost in a haze of wine-colored smoke. Tired of having only brief moments of clarity to hold on to. Here, in Pelourinho, the fun is stacked on you like a thirty-car pile-up, and the only way out is up. Here, in Pelourinho, the night sky is always stained the color of wine, and nobody knows why.
There's a girl with a backpack full of explosives who wants to show me something amazing. She takes out two rockets, one for each of us, places them inside her denim jacket, and starts walking. I think I'll follow her and watch this city burn. Poised on a corner of the lower city, staring down the length of a dead, deserted street with a bomb in my hand, I think I'll take a picture of this moment and store it somewhere safe, where the anti-memories can't touch it; where nobody can see.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
XI. Berkeley, CA Summer 2009
SUDDENLY
My heart is painted with targets while you
READYAIMFIRE
And we’re exploding postcards:
Two dumb kids with wayside grins
Spin down the street like tops and are stopped
Presently, at the street’s end, by the corner Blackman,
Who merely requests the best of clothed critters:
“Don’t ever change this”
I laugh, in fact, and say to the parish
“Thank you sir but don’t be so garish”
While silently, I hope the same.
Floored,
In the corner consignment store, as
You examine a dress and request (flippantly)
My opinion;
You look like your mother
Or my mother
Or the relative of one of us
Indentured in, and perhaps yet again,
Reliving that youth,
Uncouth through covenants of love:
Contracts signed and underlined
Dotted eyes internalized
Like circles within squares
And up the stairs to that Teahouse where
I’m suspending you in water at dawn
And a dozen naked strangers look on
Because we’re naked also
And all our prose and all our tact
Nor the clothes on our back
Could ever hope
To change
That fact
My heart is painted with targets while you
READYAIMFIRE
And we’re exploding postcards:
Two dumb kids with wayside grins
Spin down the street like tops and are stopped
Presently, at the street’s end, by the corner Blackman,
Who merely requests the best of clothed critters:
“Don’t ever change this”
I laugh, in fact, and say to the parish
“Thank you sir but don’t be so garish”
While silently, I hope the same.
Floored,
In the corner consignment store, as
You examine a dress and request (flippantly)
My opinion;
You look like your mother
Or my mother
Or the relative of one of us
Indentured in, and perhaps yet again,
Reliving that youth,
Uncouth through covenants of love:
Contracts signed and underlined
Dotted eyes internalized
Like circles within squares
And up the stairs to that Teahouse where
I’m suspending you in water at dawn
And a dozen naked strangers look on
Because we’re naked also
And all our prose and all our tact
Nor the clothes on our back
Could ever hope
To change
That fact
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
X. Jack Kelly, 5'10 175 lbs
Excerpt from the (mostly) unwritten saga of Coachella '09...
***
It’s about 12:30 in the afternoon and we are sitting in a parked car in Indian Wells, CA. The heat is overwhelming, but Tom and I hardly notice. We are watching a stocky, bearded figure in a light blue women’s shirt disappear into a tent across the parking lot. About six miles west of us, Coachella has already begun, and I begin to tense up. We sit in silence, waiting to find out if our plan has worked, or if we are turning right around and burning nine hours back home.
Eventually, the bearded blue guy emerges from the crowd of people and moves directly for us, staring rigidly ahead. Behind his aviator sunglasses and profuse facial hair, I am unable to tell if there is good news or bad. He climbs into the driver’s seat and, without a word, turns around to show us an envelope containing half a dozen wristbands and parking documents. The wristbands say “Main Stage” and “All Access” on them.
We are staying in the desert.
Soon, the scenery begins to change. Sand-colored liquor stores, consignment shops and motels begin to overlap and bleed on to one another, most of them missing signs and any discernible features. The ones that do have signs are named in honor of the desert. Sun Motel, Palm Liquor. Do people survive this place? We pass trailer parks, gated communities, and teams of migrant workers. Tom is saying something to Max about his wristband.
“It’s too tight.”
I stare at my wrist. I’m inclined to agree with him, but I’m not about to complain.
“What?” he says.
“My wristband,” says Tom. “It’s too tight.”
Max stares straight ahead at the road. I’m not sure if he heard.
“You mean I just came up with this whole scam, and drove you 9 hours into the desert to get you to Coachella,” he takes his eyes off the road to look at Tom, “and the only thing you can say is ‘my wristband is too tight’?”
“Maxy, it was a great plan, and I thank you profusely for it, but my wristband is still too tight.”
More desert names pass us by. Red Roof Inn, Mirage Motor Park. We pass a cracked trailer on the side of the road with an assortment of clothes and rags on display. A garage sale, I think. Max is still talking about something.
“…phishing, off-shore accounts, knowledge of email spoofing and code… probably no one in the whole damn country could do what I just did for you, and you are complaining about your wristband being tight? Do you know how much trouble I had to go through to make the ID alone?” The growl of Max’s voice raises an octave. Self-admiration aside, he actually does have a point. Tom is unimpressed.
“Not very much, I’m guessing. It looks like shit—couldn’t you have at least laminated it?”
Max begins to defend himself, explaining how he had less than 40 minutes between when his flight got in from New York City and when he had to pick me up from the Amtrak station in San Jose, during which time he had to pack his bags for the weekend and procure an impromptu fake ID (because he hadn’t known he would need to pick up the wristbands in person, and of course he would use a fake name).
The ID flies into the backseat and falls into my lap as they continue arguing. Tom is right—it has an awful pinkish hue and feels like printer paper. I slip the ID into my wallet and think about how we would definitely be on our way home right now if the officials had cared to even glance at it. But we aren’t, and I am thankful. Thankful for the heat, the desert buildings, the wristbands, the palm trees—I think I am in a permanent state of thankfulness.
As the desert scenery continues to repeat itself like one of those old cartoons, I’m listening from the backseat and picking up bits and pieces of the conversation. But I’m looking at my wrist, and my thoughts are not there. They are going some where else, and slowly transforming our surroundings as we go along with them. Our slow, languid crawl to Coachella is almost over.
TBC
***
It’s about 12:30 in the afternoon and we are sitting in a parked car in Indian Wells, CA. The heat is overwhelming, but Tom and I hardly notice. We are watching a stocky, bearded figure in a light blue women’s shirt disappear into a tent across the parking lot. About six miles west of us, Coachella has already begun, and I begin to tense up. We sit in silence, waiting to find out if our plan has worked, or if we are turning right around and burning nine hours back home.
Eventually, the bearded blue guy emerges from the crowd of people and moves directly for us, staring rigidly ahead. Behind his aviator sunglasses and profuse facial hair, I am unable to tell if there is good news or bad. He climbs into the driver’s seat and, without a word, turns around to show us an envelope containing half a dozen wristbands and parking documents. The wristbands say “Main Stage” and “All Access” on them.
We are staying in the desert.
Soon, the scenery begins to change. Sand-colored liquor stores, consignment shops and motels begin to overlap and bleed on to one another, most of them missing signs and any discernible features. The ones that do have signs are named in honor of the desert. Sun Motel, Palm Liquor. Do people survive this place? We pass trailer parks, gated communities, and teams of migrant workers. Tom is saying something to Max about his wristband.
“It’s too tight.”
I stare at my wrist. I’m inclined to agree with him, but I’m not about to complain.
“What?” he says.
“My wristband,” says Tom. “It’s too tight.”
Max stares straight ahead at the road. I’m not sure if he heard.
“You mean I just came up with this whole scam, and drove you 9 hours into the desert to get you to Coachella,” he takes his eyes off the road to look at Tom, “and the only thing you can say is ‘my wristband is too tight’?”
“Maxy, it was a great plan, and I thank you profusely for it, but my wristband is still too tight.”
More desert names pass us by. Red Roof Inn, Mirage Motor Park. We pass a cracked trailer on the side of the road with an assortment of clothes and rags on display. A garage sale, I think. Max is still talking about something.
“…phishing, off-shore accounts, knowledge of email spoofing and code… probably no one in the whole damn country could do what I just did for you, and you are complaining about your wristband being tight? Do you know how much trouble I had to go through to make the ID alone?” The growl of Max’s voice raises an octave. Self-admiration aside, he actually does have a point. Tom is unimpressed.
“Not very much, I’m guessing. It looks like shit—couldn’t you have at least laminated it?”
Max begins to defend himself, explaining how he had less than 40 minutes between when his flight got in from New York City and when he had to pick me up from the Amtrak station in San Jose, during which time he had to pack his bags for the weekend and procure an impromptu fake ID (because he hadn’t known he would need to pick up the wristbands in person, and of course he would use a fake name).
The ID flies into the backseat and falls into my lap as they continue arguing. Tom is right—it has an awful pinkish hue and feels like printer paper. I slip the ID into my wallet and think about how we would definitely be on our way home right now if the officials had cared to even glance at it. But we aren’t, and I am thankful. Thankful for the heat, the desert buildings, the wristbands, the palm trees—I think I am in a permanent state of thankfulness.
As the desert scenery continues to repeat itself like one of those old cartoons, I’m listening from the backseat and picking up bits and pieces of the conversation. But I’m looking at my wrist, and my thoughts are not there. They are going some where else, and slowly transforming our surroundings as we go along with them. Our slow, languid crawl to Coachella is almost over.
TBC
Monday, May 3, 2010
IX. Racial Democracy
...flashing sirens...visions of Brazilian federal prison flooding the worst parts of my imagination. If they open my backpack, it's all over. How did I get here...?
Monday night. I had just picked up in Porto da Barra and was on my way home through the back alleys of inner-Barra. The time was late enough to worry about and I moved with a particularly bad case of paranoia. Lots of talk lately at school about violence and theft. Rumors afloat of a kid studying at PUC in Rio who wound up in a coma after refusing to give up his Blackberry to some wretched Carioca with a gun and a rotted brain. For some reason, I convinced myself that a bus was not necessary and cursed myself even as I did so, knowing that the $R2,3 bus fair was far less costly than the tolls that lay concealed in the shadows ahead.
I had reached the penultimate street and was beginning to feel my confidence inflate when there appeared in my path something more feared than any petty criminal with gun or knife, more sobering than the threat of any lawless vandal:
Polícia Militar.
The cruiser blew past me, stopped at the other end of the street, and reversed straight back in my direction until it was halfway down the block. The ever-feared blue and red sirens flashed to life, and three cops stepped out of the car armed with assault rifles. They began yelling at a group vagrants sitting around on some steps, and as I approached from down the street, the entire company turned to look at me. I hesitated in an overtly awkward fashion and tried to cross the street. One cop with a face like a granite fucking wall immediately barked something at me that I didn't quite catch beyond the words "federal police" and "inspection." I turned and approached closer to him at a straight angle with the full front of my body in his direction to indicate that I was a foreigner and that I had nothing to hide. Only one of those things was true.
"Desculpe. Nao entendi. Que?"
He repeated the command in a strange dialect that I still didn't understand, but I didn't need to speak Portuguese to understand his finger pointed to the wall. His voice, militant and devoid of emotion, left absolutely no room for negotiation. I obliged.
I entered the checkpoint area and attempted communication with another officer. This one, younger but no less belligerent in demeanor, looked like he had been chipped out of a slab from Granite Face's complexion. I tried my luck anyway, if only to ensure that they understood I was a foreigner learning their language. As I began to feel the inner processes of my brain speed up in accordance with the clawing need for a way out, a singular memory flooded back to me.
I'm in a classroom. I am reading a book by Brazilian sociologist Gilberto Freyre called Casa-Grande & Senzala. Theory: Brazil has escaped the racism and racial discrimination of other slavery-based countries such as the United States. Reality: Brazil has achieved a level racism that subverts main channels of consciousness so that those in power can propagate the claim that all are represented equally, when the Negro population (over 50% of the country) is marginalized via media, lack of education, and, (most importantly in this situation), police brutality.
The solution, it occurred to me, was to make my ignorant, white American-ness as abundantly-fucking-clear as possible.
"Desculpe, eu estou aprendendo portugues. Por favor, voce pode fala mais devagar? É este o ponto de ônibus onde é?"
The words did not have the intended effect, nor, it seemed, any effect at all. Granite Face Jr. pointed one hand at the wall and continued to stare imperviously in my direction. I turned my back to him and placed my hands against the wall, and Granite Face Sr. began the inspection process.
I felt his eyes slowly climb the length of my body, pausing only to take note of the marijuana insignia bracelet on my ankle. I continued to maintain a relaxed-yet-confused demeanor as, silently, I cursed myself to the inner-most circle of Hell for my monumental stupidity. Fucking great, I may as well have tattooed a target on my forehead. A slow grin creased his lips.
"Documentos?"
My voice wavered:
"N...Nao tenho. Mas eu moro na rua ao lado, se eu posso..."
He cut me off and turned away, obviously not interested in anything beyond the fact I didn't have my passport. He motioned to the others to watch me as he resumed searching the vagrants, who watched in dumbfounded silence.
I stood for a moment in utter peril. Granite Face was simply not interested in anything I had to say, and Granite Face Jr. was clearly on a mission to impress his seniors. Clawing now for a solution as though I were lost at sea, I turned to the last possible flotsom that could save me from a dark, watery death: the third officer.
This one was some how different. The features on his face were softer and more humane, and the angle of his eyes indicated... maybe not sympathy, but definitely something in my favor. Certainly this man was my only chance.
"Vocé é nao de aqui, neh?"
"Nao senhor. Americano. Estou aprendeno portugues aqui."
"Documentos?"
"Desculpe, eu nao tenho aqui. Mas se eu posso ir ao minha casa, eu consegui mostrar voce."
He hesitated, glancing at the other officers.
"Voce mora aproximo aqui?"
"Sim, senhor. Na rua ao lado."
Another hesitation, another glance. A bead of sweat poised on a blade of hair in front of my eyes. Please, just don't ask for the backpack...
"Abre sua mochila."
***
Flashback:
August 27, 2009; I'm walking with two friends through a small glade in Golden Gate Park. Around us, day one of Outside Lands is in motion. We pick a spot that appears to be hidden enough to roll a joint. We are wrong.
Bald, fat, goatee. Typical security guard. The fat fuck is searching through my backpack. Unlucky, I think to myself. Unlucky black backpack. He opens the main compartment and immediately spies the small pocket attached to the inner seam:
"Oh, what's this?" Even his voice is fat. I'm still sitting cross-legged, hardly blinking even as he procures a grinder, about an eighth of medical grass, and a small package that ostensibly contains two teddy grahams wrapped in tin foil (he becomes enraged when I won't admit what they are). Like some schoolyard bully, he declares with an air of superiority that the findings are now his. I listen with wan interest to some empty threats and watch his fat ass waddle away. I am thinking: "Consider it a gift..."
***
Fade into: Nearly one year later. Same backpack, containing the same contraband in the same pocket. Only this time: three federal Brazilian police armed with assault rifles. Unzip the backpack with a steady hand, without fear or waver. Angle it away from the flickering streetlamps so the pocket will be hidden against the black interior. Hand it over and pray; it's out of your hands.
Granite Face plunges a hand into the main compartment, coming up with a fistful of marked up exams and a book by Gilberto Freyre. Our eyes scan the cover in unison:
Casa-Grande & Senzala
Satisfied, he drops the book and papers back into my bag, when suddenly the understudy makes a whistling sound. The friendly one and his superior officer turn their attention away from me as Granite Face Jr. comes over and holds his plunder up to the light: a pencil-thin pipe with the tiniest amount of marijuana packed into it. Together, all three make a conjoined whistling sound. The friendly one touches my shoulder and makes a dismissive gesture as if to say "get the fuck out of here," and as I turn to go, I lock eyes for one brief instant with the former owner of the pipe. The vagrant's eyes gleam from the shadows with the sad knowledge of what awaits him. But as I recall the bulging contents of the plastic bag I have just purchased, the desire to escape overrides all thought, and then I'm gone. As I dash around the corner, each breath of air a victorious and intoxicating new swill, it is all I can do not to break out into a one-man parade down the next street. It is then that I remember the sad look of the wretch I have just left behind, and a sobering wave overcomes me as I scurry up the stairs to my home; to safety.
My nine lives are running out.
Monday night. I had just picked up in Porto da Barra and was on my way home through the back alleys of inner-Barra. The time was late enough to worry about and I moved with a particularly bad case of paranoia. Lots of talk lately at school about violence and theft. Rumors afloat of a kid studying at PUC in Rio who wound up in a coma after refusing to give up his Blackberry to some wretched Carioca with a gun and a rotted brain. For some reason, I convinced myself that a bus was not necessary and cursed myself even as I did so, knowing that the $R2,3 bus fair was far less costly than the tolls that lay concealed in the shadows ahead.
I had reached the penultimate street and was beginning to feel my confidence inflate when there appeared in my path something more feared than any petty criminal with gun or knife, more sobering than the threat of any lawless vandal:
Polícia Militar.
The cruiser blew past me, stopped at the other end of the street, and reversed straight back in my direction until it was halfway down the block. The ever-feared blue and red sirens flashed to life, and three cops stepped out of the car armed with assault rifles. They began yelling at a group vagrants sitting around on some steps, and as I approached from down the street, the entire company turned to look at me. I hesitated in an overtly awkward fashion and tried to cross the street. One cop with a face like a granite fucking wall immediately barked something at me that I didn't quite catch beyond the words "federal police" and "inspection." I turned and approached closer to him at a straight angle with the full front of my body in his direction to indicate that I was a foreigner and that I had nothing to hide. Only one of those things was true.
"Desculpe. Nao entendi. Que?"
He repeated the command in a strange dialect that I still didn't understand, but I didn't need to speak Portuguese to understand his finger pointed to the wall. His voice, militant and devoid of emotion, left absolutely no room for negotiation. I obliged.
I entered the checkpoint area and attempted communication with another officer. This one, younger but no less belligerent in demeanor, looked like he had been chipped out of a slab from Granite Face's complexion. I tried my luck anyway, if only to ensure that they understood I was a foreigner learning their language. As I began to feel the inner processes of my brain speed up in accordance with the clawing need for a way out, a singular memory flooded back to me.
I'm in a classroom. I am reading a book by Brazilian sociologist Gilberto Freyre called Casa-Grande & Senzala. Theory: Brazil has escaped the racism and racial discrimination of other slavery-based countries such as the United States. Reality: Brazil has achieved a level racism that subverts main channels of consciousness so that those in power can propagate the claim that all are represented equally, when the Negro population (over 50% of the country) is marginalized via media, lack of education, and, (most importantly in this situation), police brutality.
The solution, it occurred to me, was to make my ignorant, white American-ness as abundantly-fucking-clear as possible.
"Desculpe, eu estou aprendendo portugues. Por favor, voce pode fala mais devagar? É este o ponto de ônibus onde é?"
The words did not have the intended effect, nor, it seemed, any effect at all. Granite Face Jr. pointed one hand at the wall and continued to stare imperviously in my direction. I turned my back to him and placed my hands against the wall, and Granite Face Sr. began the inspection process.
I felt his eyes slowly climb the length of my body, pausing only to take note of the marijuana insignia bracelet on my ankle. I continued to maintain a relaxed-yet-confused demeanor as, silently, I cursed myself to the inner-most circle of Hell for my monumental stupidity. Fucking great, I may as well have tattooed a target on my forehead. A slow grin creased his lips.
"Documentos?"
My voice wavered:
"N...Nao tenho. Mas eu moro na rua ao lado, se eu posso..."
He cut me off and turned away, obviously not interested in anything beyond the fact I didn't have my passport. He motioned to the others to watch me as he resumed searching the vagrants, who watched in dumbfounded silence.
I stood for a moment in utter peril. Granite Face was simply not interested in anything I had to say, and Granite Face Jr. was clearly on a mission to impress his seniors. Clawing now for a solution as though I were lost at sea, I turned to the last possible flotsom that could save me from a dark, watery death: the third officer.
This one was some how different. The features on his face were softer and more humane, and the angle of his eyes indicated... maybe not sympathy, but definitely something in my favor. Certainly this man was my only chance.
"Vocé é nao de aqui, neh?"
"Nao senhor. Americano. Estou aprendeno portugues aqui."
"Documentos?"
"Desculpe, eu nao tenho aqui. Mas se eu posso ir ao minha casa, eu consegui mostrar voce."
He hesitated, glancing at the other officers.
"Voce mora aproximo aqui?"
"Sim, senhor. Na rua ao lado."
Another hesitation, another glance. A bead of sweat poised on a blade of hair in front of my eyes. Please, just don't ask for the backpack...
"Abre sua mochila."
***
Flashback:
August 27, 2009; I'm walking with two friends through a small glade in Golden Gate Park. Around us, day one of Outside Lands is in motion. We pick a spot that appears to be hidden enough to roll a joint. We are wrong.
Bald, fat, goatee. Typical security guard. The fat fuck is searching through my backpack. Unlucky, I think to myself. Unlucky black backpack. He opens the main compartment and immediately spies the small pocket attached to the inner seam:
"Oh, what's this?" Even his voice is fat. I'm still sitting cross-legged, hardly blinking even as he procures a grinder, about an eighth of medical grass, and a small package that ostensibly contains two teddy grahams wrapped in tin foil (he becomes enraged when I won't admit what they are). Like some schoolyard bully, he declares with an air of superiority that the findings are now his. I listen with wan interest to some empty threats and watch his fat ass waddle away. I am thinking: "Consider it a gift..."
***
Fade into: Nearly one year later. Same backpack, containing the same contraband in the same pocket. Only this time: three federal Brazilian police armed with assault rifles. Unzip the backpack with a steady hand, without fear or waver. Angle it away from the flickering streetlamps so the pocket will be hidden against the black interior. Hand it over and pray; it's out of your hands.
Granite Face plunges a hand into the main compartment, coming up with a fistful of marked up exams and a book by Gilberto Freyre. Our eyes scan the cover in unison:
Casa-Grande & Senzala
Satisfied, he drops the book and papers back into my bag, when suddenly the understudy makes a whistling sound. The friendly one and his superior officer turn their attention away from me as Granite Face Jr. comes over and holds his plunder up to the light: a pencil-thin pipe with the tiniest amount of marijuana packed into it. Together, all three make a conjoined whistling sound. The friendly one touches my shoulder and makes a dismissive gesture as if to say "get the fuck out of here," and as I turn to go, I lock eyes for one brief instant with the former owner of the pipe. The vagrant's eyes gleam from the shadows with the sad knowledge of what awaits him. But as I recall the bulging contents of the plastic bag I have just purchased, the desire to escape overrides all thought, and then I'm gone. As I dash around the corner, each breath of air a victorious and intoxicating new swill, it is all I can do not to break out into a one-man parade down the next street. It is then that I remember the sad look of the wretch I have just left behind, and a sobering wave overcomes me as I scurry up the stairs to my home; to safety.
My nine lives are running out.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
VIII. Share Diseases
I searched all I had, but I found
nothing good or bad, and then I find you
waiting on all fours
and my sickness becomes yours
I searched all I had, but I found
nothing good or bad, I'm slowly screaming
meaning is all gone
'til our sickness becomes one, and then I find you
spreading to me
explain it to me
spread it for me
dancing just to keep off the flies
you know it's all we got
though you may be bigger in size
you will never be a god-
fearing man, praise what you may,
we keep on fearing the sound
no matter what they say to us
we are dangerous
they say to us that we are dangerous
share diseases
fuck the vaccine
share diseases
keep on dancing
share diseases
fuck the vaccine
share diseases
keep on dancing
share diseases
fuck the vaccine
share diseases
keep on dancing
share diseases
fuck the vaccine
share diseases
keep on dancing
share diseases
share diseases
share diseases
share diseases
--Build Target
nothing good or bad, and then I find you
waiting on all fours
and my sickness becomes yours
I searched all I had, but I found
nothing good or bad, I'm slowly screaming
meaning is all gone
'til our sickness becomes one, and then I find you
spreading to me
explain it to me
spread it for me
dancing just to keep off the flies
you know it's all we got
though you may be bigger in size
you will never be a god-
fearing man, praise what you may,
we keep on fearing the sound
no matter what they say to us
we are dangerous
they say to us that we are dangerous
share diseases
fuck the vaccine
share diseases
keep on dancing
share diseases
fuck the vaccine
share diseases
keep on dancing
share diseases
fuck the vaccine
share diseases
keep on dancing
share diseases
fuck the vaccine
share diseases
keep on dancing
share diseases
share diseases
share diseases
share diseases
--Build Target
Sunday, April 25, 2010
VII. Sexual Tourism
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?
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?
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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