Three parts gunpowder mixed with iron, one part clay, the espada in my hands begs me to pervert the peace of an otherwise tranquil night in Salvador, Bahia. My last night in Salvador, Bahia, to be exact.
She waits until I have both hands firmly placed before kissing the ignition with the end of a cigarette (she is an asthmatic). There is a brief moment of calm before suddenly I am grappling for leverage against a ten-foot sabre of sparks. Uncontrolled, the fire lashes out at her face almost too suddenly, but she is quick to evade. Amazed, we watch the espada grow to its full wingspan, and she steps back in awe. I wish I could do the same, but the bomb is in my hands, so I advance a few steps forward, kneel down close to the street, and do my best to recall something that was told to me by my pirotecniquista many months ago:
There's a girl that I want to impress, so I pull out a small firework from my back pocket and invite her to play with fire. She takes it from me and laughs; a soft, breathy movement of air. "In my town," she's telling me on a warm night in Rio Vermelho as she examines the toy, "Wars are fought with these."
We sit atop a cliff overlooking the receding darkness of the sea. She holds up the miniature espada, no bigger than a cigar, that I had impulsively purchased earlier that day on a journey to the interior of Bahia, in a town called Cachoeira. "But," she pauses to giggle at the size of the thing, "they are much bigger, you know?" Somewhat emasculated, I impetuously decide to light the pocket rocket right then and there. It sparks to life briefly for a few seconds before the flame goes flacid and dies.
Sometime after this, I have the chance to visit this town. Everywhere, the villagers of Cruz das Alvas wax down taut lengths of rope that stretch along the streets and hang from trees. On a warm Sunday morning, on the way back from the market, we take a slow walk and observe the meticulous production of artisan explosives. She takes a moment to chat with a group of Brazilian rocket scientists as I stand with my arms full of groceries and gawk at an apparatus of pulleys and levees suspended from a tree. Half a dozen of them are huddled in a patch of shade with glasses of beer as one toils away in the sun, applying more wax to a length of rope and pulling it tighter still. Behind them, stacked several feet high, are stockpiles of thick shoots of bamboo about one foot in length. Too fascinated by the entire procession before me, I am not quick enough to catch the conversation occurring between her and the shirtless scientists, but I ask her about it as we continue on our way.
"What are those ropes for?"
"They use those to, ah, you know... soco a pólvora?" She makes a gesture as if to punch me in the jaw.
"To pack the gunpowder... I see. And the bamboo?"
"Those are the shells."
"Of... what?"
"Of the espada."
Recalling the toy-like size of the thing I had purchased for one real weeks earlier, I am taken aback. Could these people really be mass-producing homemade fireworks the size of torpedos? The answer, quite literally, was written on the wall: everywhere in Cruz das Alvas, up and down the streets, the buildings are scarred with spastic singe marks; permanent shadows of fires long extinguished.
The people, too, bear these marks. As we spend the following afternoon "barbecuing" with the local natives, my companions and I are inundated with villagers who perhaps have never seen a non-Brazilian face, let alone five that can all communicate in Portuguese. While my friends happily conduct an auspiciously-priced drug deal in broad daylight up the street, I am following a handful of children who lead me to a few men waxing down rope and a whole lot of clucking women lying in the shade. The women waste no time in calling me over to "brinca," which is a Portuguese word to mean fawn over my accent, my appearance, and the fact that I'm from a different country. I sit happily engaged in conversation with them as they pet my hair and offer me peanuts and cachaça.
As I'm extracting more information about espadas from the women, I learn, among other things, that they are extremely dangerous. To prove this, one of the elder women points my attention to a terrible scar that runs across her throat to her collarbone. I cannot find the words in any language to respond, so I continue listening.
I learn that the reason why these ropes are being stretched down every street and between every tree is because the entire town is preparing for São João, a festival that occurs on June 24. I learn that for two months, Cruz das Alvas will prepare espada after espada, only to ignite them all on this one night. I also learn, between the slurred words of inebriated females and the proud, stout syllables of the fabricantes, how they are made.
Espadas de São Jorge, as they are formally known, begin with a shoot of bamboo that is boiled in water and placed in the sun for two days. After they have sufficiently dried, they are embedded with a conservative to ensure the qualities of the plant and to prevent the possibility of explosion (this is, of course, impossible to do with any certainty). From this point, the details of each product remain in the confidence of the manufacturer, but there are certain universal properties shared by all espadas.
For example, each espada is divided into three, four, or, in some cases, five or more parts, though it should be noted that the more parts means the more likely the explosion. The base partition is made of clay to support the other segments, which are composed of gunpowder mixed with iron to create a brilliant white flame with minimal amounts of smoke. Each of these sections is punched down between 40-50 times by the manufacturer and made as compact as possible with the help of a wooden churn. Finally, the newly-filled shoot of bamboo is wrapped in wax-coated rope until the coils are as tight and close together as possible. The tighter the wrap, the safer (or, more accurately, the less dangerous) the espada. To ignite, cover both ends with tinfoil, use a key to open a small hole in the side opposite the end with the clay foundation, add flame and watch as a ten-foot rocket-blade distends from the hilt of bamboo. In the highly probable event that you are not able to hold on to the bomb, summon your best bowling form and roll it down a flat, wide-open street uninhabited by people, cars or glass. Sounds simple enough, right?
Back in Salvador, on the narrow curvature of a residential street, under the eyes of countless windows and densely packed apartment buildings, in the company of a girl with a backpack full of explosives, I'm learning just how far I am from home. I brace myself for ignition and nearly singe her face as the bamboo hilt in my hands stutters, stutters, and then explodes into an espada, into a sword of Brazilian fire. But something goes wrong. As I try to step forward, the strap on my sandal snaps. The angle of my pitch causes the fucking thing to hit the slope of the street and ricochet off the ground, angling it upright like a renegade rocket destined for some other planet. The espada, now airborn, flies into an alley, where it shoots off a couple of walls and sails past the bedroom windows of the second, third, and fourth story residents.
It is about this time, with no air traffic controller nor a pilot to help navigate this particular airspace, that I conclude that something went wrong, and that we should take flight ourselves for fear of policia. As I turn to her, our gazes lock momentarily, and with her eyes lit up in the reflection of the nearby bomb spiraling out of control, she seems at once terrified and delighted, and I know that, some how, I've been inducted into the War.
But as we take flight and run, the espada sails up, up, up, without regard for gravity nor the slumbering residents of the neighborhood, until somewhere around the seventh story the fire finally dies; extinguishing, along with it, my time in Salvador da Bahia.
Soul and Onward to Other Lands!
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
XIII. World Cup
The proceedings of the World Cup are, for all intents and purposes, diplomatic:
For a brief moment, language barriers fall and all are embraced for the Ball. Follow the Ball. Your language, your face. The people peer and jeer the disgraced, but their faces are grave for the sake of the game. Every four years we revere the boundaries of race and nation; fuck France! In a hostel somewhere in Montevideo, we take a moment for a mental video and cheer for a country that will never make it. Perhaps some time, four years down the line, a new temporality will take over and trash our beliefs. But, with a distinct lack of snacks we become too drunk to account for the moment, so we forget the unimportant and sand down souls;
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLLLLL
For a brief moment, language barriers fall and all are embraced for the Ball. Follow the Ball. Your language, your face. The people peer and jeer the disgraced, but their faces are grave for the sake of the game. Every four years we revere the boundaries of race and nation; fuck France! In a hostel somewhere in Montevideo, we take a moment for a mental video and cheer for a country that will never make it. Perhaps some time, four years down the line, a new temporality will take over and trash our beliefs. But, with a distinct lack of snacks we become too drunk to account for the moment, so we forget the unimportant and sand down souls;
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLLLLL
Friday, June 4, 2010
XII. Câmera
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.
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.
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
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