My trip to Brazil started like this.
Man in security line-up to board flight to Rio (carrying large zinc studded rock with jagged edges): Wha'dayya mean Ah can't carry ma rock on 'a plane?
Security personnel: Well, sir it's dangerous.
Man: It ain't. It's just a souvenir.
Security personnel: Well, sir, we can't let you on the plane with that.
Man: Ah just don' see wha' not.
Security personnel (biting back a laugh):): Because you could hurt someone with it, by throwing it at them. [Please, don't explain. It's better he doesn't know!]
With a resigned shrug, the man profferred up his rock (which was probably the foundation of the Iguazu waterfalls) and said to his wife, who was busy trying to cram an apartment's worth of contents into a carry-on "Honey, they jus' ain' gonna let me take the rock on board."
These are the people they are letting into the country. Meanwhile I had to beg, bribe and badger my way to a Brazilian Visa!
When I first arrived in Brazil my very first thought was: 'My God. These people don't wear clothes.' Even arriving in Rio at one in the morning, the heat was beyond oppressive. Coming from India where shoulders and ankles cannot be exposed at any cost, even in 45 degree weather, it was something to see more skin than cloth. Luckily I had that buffer zone of LAX where I saw more booty and boobs in an hour than in the previous six months of travel. In Brazil, the L.A. Factor gets further extrapolated. You see it all. Beer guts and Jesus cuts. Tans and flans. Welcome to the home of the Dental Floss bikini.
So here are some post-impression word strokes on Brazil.
The Language
First of all, when I arrived in Brazil having pooh-poohed away the phrasebooks my brother had encouraged me to read while indolently lying about in the hammock, I was quite sure I could stumble along speaking Spanish as though I had a squishy banana in my mouth and get by. Very wrong. Sure enough, Portuguese is its own language! I had a rude awakening when I went to the juice bar and tried to order some kind of "vitamina" (smoothie). I had no idea what the woman behind the counter was saying, and ended up in some kind of ticket booth ordering an orange juice, because it was the only thing I knew how to say. And even at that, I had no idea that 'suco' was the word for juice. Or that 'naranja' is now 'laranja'. So I ended up drinking some weird purple concoction that tasted hauntingly like cough syrup (but which I later came to love and know and procure as Acai, the purple Amazonian berry). My first 'conversation' in Portuguese was with a random beach boy who talked on and on about 'perigro'. I didn't know what it meant but it seemed from the context as though it must mean 'to impale oneself upon a sharp object'. He said it happened to men a lot which seemed about right. It wasn't until later that night when I saw a sign of a man falling with the word 'perigro' emblazened across the top that I realized, 'Oh! Perigro. Like 'peligro' in Spanish. Danger.' The thing with Portuguese is that it is so similar to Spanish it almost trips you up more, knowing the Spanish. Kind of like how having a dance background in salsa or ballet trips you up when you go to learn Tango. You'd think it would help but your feet want to point toe-first instead of heel-first. [Damn muscle memory!] When I see a sign 'restaurante', I think of it in the Spanish way. For the first two weeks I had no idea what a 'Hestoranchee' was. You see the R's here in Brazil-Land all magically turn into H's. Who knew Rio de Janeiro is actually Hee-o de Janeiro. The Brazilian guy I am now dating (more on that to come) was asking me about a Canadian artist called 'Hickey Assley'. I said, "I have no idea who you're talking about, but I'm pretty sure there's no artist going around calling himself Hickey Ass." In a Skol-induced epiphany later on, it occurred to me that he was referring to Rick Astley. "Axl Hose" I figured out because of the Axl, but it still makes me chuckle. My favorite though was when he asked me , "What are your hobbies, as in past times, not as in 'Batman and Hobby'". I am just as bad, talking about 'ruas' which are actually 'huas'. I live on the Hua Ondina. Hu-ah! I love it. When I checked in for my flight, the attendant glanced at the computer, then back at me politely enquiring, "Janela?" I shook my head. "No. Jen-ni-fer." I later realized 'janela' means window and he was enquiring as to whether or not I would like a windowseat. My brother actually gave me the best advice on learning the language, which was: "Remember that weird expression everyone used to use when we lived in Chapleau, when they didn't get something? 'Yaoh?' Just add that to the ends of words.'"
Passion is the Fashion
Not only is this true at the Copacabana, but in fact everywhere in Brazil. I bought a book of plays by Nelson Rodrigues, figuring that studying plays would be a good way to learn the language, given the amount of sheer dialogue. (This was before I realized all of his plays were about the Electra and Oedipal complexes.) The two words I learned from that book that appeared over and over again were 'apaixonado' and 'joelhos' because the characters were always passionately on their knees.
There was a famous triple-threat Brazilian couple who committed suicide recently, Romeo and Juliet-style. Cibele Dorsa (the 'Brazilian Cindy Crawford') jumped off the same balcony as her drug-addicted boyfriend, Gilberto Scarpa, two months prior, because she couldn't bear a life without him.
Sexiness is obligatory in Brazil. Women everywhere, especially around Carnaval time have boob implants and butt implants. I have met an inordinate amount of beautiful, slim women in their twenties who have all had some form or other of plastic surgery. One day walking the streets of Rio I counted at least eight people with The Jackson Nose. I felt like I might quite possibly be the only person left in Rio who has not had surgery. What I find unusual though is that what gets characterized as sexy is subtly defined by the context of the country. Brazilians are the only people I know who can get away with making braces sexy. It's almost an accessory here. A flash of bling. And done with confidence it is somehow enticing. The other sexual icon that fascinates me are the tan lines. Tan lines are accentuated here. Women wear strapless dresses boldly exposing their tan lines as pseudo spaghetti straps. Even in paintings, womens' striped and shorn shoulders are revered.
I had to laugh looking at an ad denouncing smoking. Whereas in North America we focus on the deleterious effects of smoking on unborn babes or a shiny white smile, the Brazilian ads focus on impotence. A barely-clad beach boy with a frown has a large fist blocking out his privates with the thumb pointed down, simulating his (now dysfunctional) family jewels. Ingenious.
The cultural imperative on closeness weaves its way into the dating world as well. I was at a beach party with the guy I am dating, Nem, during Resaca (Hangover Week) on the island of Morro de Sao Paolo. At one point, he gave me a hurt look and asked if we were together at the party or not. I wasn't sure if this was one of those weird rhetorical questions or not so I simply responded with the obvious: "Of course we are." He then indignantly informed me that I hadn't touched him in an hour! Which in fact was the case, because I was mingling a bit downstream (with a gay guy and another girl, I might add). It's funny because I think on the Canadian spectrum I'm actually quite affectionate, but I can't compete with the Brazilians! I'm pretty sure babies were conceived at that beach party!
Beaurocracy and Bilheterias
Though you might think of Brazil as having this super relaxed beach culture, (and you wouldn't be wrong), it also has its beaurocratic side. A lot of times, when you go to buy something, there is a bilheteria, or ticket booth as an intermediate stepping stone in the purchase process. If you want to buy an orange juice, you have to first buy the Orange Juice Ticket at the bilheteria, and with this ticket, you can then exchange for an actual orange juice at the counter. It's a kickback to the barter system! I couldn't stop laughing one night when I was out at Sarkofo in the Pelourinho. My dormmate, Cathrine was trying to buy a simple caipirinha [best and most refreshing alcoholic beverage, bar none, with cachaca (fermented and distilled sugarcane juice), limes, ice and a truckload of sugar], but the bilheteria didn't have change (surprise, surprise. Welcome to the Land of Latin America, where no one has change. Ever). Her Portuguese was even more fledgling than mine, so I was acting as 'the translator' and deduced that what he had given her amounted to a scribbled IOU of 10 reais. Very official. I went back to use her IOU to get myself a caipirinha and the bilheteria man thought I was trying to contest his IOU, spread his hands out wide in a gesture of supreme desperation, and declared: "Nao tenho troco!" (I don't have change!)
Another night, I went to a fancy schmanzy night club called Dolce in Iguatemi, with my newfound friend Maiene. [I met Maiene and her boyfriend Vinicius on the Island of Morro do Sao Paolo, where I spent the Resaca with Nem. They were taking pictures of each other, and I offered to take one of the two of them together. They befriended me, and I ended up staying with Maiene in her apartment in Salvador on my way back from the Amazon.] So off we headed to the beautiful night club district in Iguatemi, where the clubs are harder to get into than the country. We started off as five, but lost Ale and Cathrine at the front door when they didn't have ID. Since I haven't needed ID for a decade and a half, it was by complete fluke that I even had a copy of my passport on me. After two security checkpoints, at which they input all of your data into their computer system, you are given a plastic card. I mistakenly assumed that this was a 'get a free drink' ticket, but it is a bar credit swipe upon which you can order all your drinks. Well, you can imagine how that goes. People treat the cards like Monopoly Mastercards, buying rounds, buying drinks they can't afford, losing their cards. At the end of the night, you line up at the Bilheteria to pay up. If you can't locate the card, it's a 600 reais (close to $400) penalty. I met some girls in Rio whose companions didn't pay up at one of these clubs, and there is a special 'pay up' room where they creatively encourage you to pay your bill. It ain't pretty. It also isn't much fun hanging out in an interminable line-up at 4 am with drunk and disorderly patrons incoherently arguing their bills.
Crack Kids
Sadly, in the Polourinho District of Salvador, in amongst the colourful cobblestoned streets, are the omnipresent crack kids. They are addicts from a very young age and live in the streets begging off tourists. They can become quite incessant in their demands and even aggressive. I had one run up to me and kiss my shoulder, but have heard of stories where they bite. My dorm-buddy Claire and I were going for a walk one day when a straggly kid of about eleven grotesquely flashed us, and then wanted a tip for the show! I was sitting on a shop stoop with Nem one night after supper, listening to some drummers in the street when a Crack Kid approached and begged Nem for money. Nem told him no and the child got quite indignant. Nem shook his head and said, "Hey, me too kiddo. I would love a beer right now but I don't have the money." This infallible logic actually seemed to get through to the kid, and he shrugged his shoulders and went away.
I was on the second floor at the Laranjeiras Hostel one evening washing my face, and I had set my facial scrub on the windowledge where it toppled into the cobbled street below. I ran down to get it, and wouldn't you know it, it was already gone! Scooped up by a crack kid. The security guard just shrugged his shoulders, as if to say 'What do you expect?' Some crack kid is probably trying to smoke the exfoliating crystals as we speak!
The Story of Nem in a Nutshell
They say you always meet someone when you're not expecting it and this was certainly true of me and Nem. I met Nem about an hour after arriving in Salvador, sweaty, tired and jetlagged, in a bathroom line-up. It happened like this. 10 minutes after arriving at my hostel, I met some cool people who invited me to go out to a street party with them. But they were leaving in 10 minutes. As such, I had no time to shower or freshen up and had to throw my hair in a ponytail and leave in what I was wearing, a tee-shirt and gypsy pants. We ended up in the Pelourinho, listening to a drumming contingent and then we split ways; I ended up at a salsa club with a couple of other girls. I met Nem in the washroom line-up (I didn't actually have to go to the bathroom, but was trying to elude this crazy guy, and thus apologetically had to slip out of the line-up and head for the terrace after the fifth girl asked me, “Are you in the line-up or what!”) Nem followed suit (although he actually did have to go to the bathroom, but he held it...that's modern love;) and we spent the whole night dancing and talking. Though I don't know how. We always joke that my Portuguese is like a five year old's and his English is like a five month old's. We speak 'Portunol'. Connecting afterwards was also a problem as he had given me his mom's number (he was staying at his mom's house for Carnaval) and when I called she had no idea what I was saying (I had only been in Brazil a couple of days at that point). To complicate matters, when he tracked me down at my hostel, he asked for 'Jennifer from Spain'. But we eventually figured it out. Since I was staying on the island of Morro, off the coast of Salvador, we had to commute back and forth on the Catamaran. Originally I had thought this would be a good opportunity to study Portuguese until I realized all my forces would be compromised just trying not to throw up. So we had some turbulent boat rides back and forth trying to meet. We have been dating for about two and a half months now and Nem surprised me by flying to Argentina to come and stay with me, my brother and his girlfriend in Buenos Aires, a couple of weeks ago. He's a Football Coach for kids/youth and is studying Physical Education as a mature student in Florianopolis. He also has a background in massage and cooking and has worked as a Masseuse in Sports Injury for an International Football team. He makes me laugh like no one can, and despite the language barrier (which is lessening) we talk about everything and anything and nothing under the sun. Our relationship is possibly improbable. But it is also for-sure-fantastic.
Carnaval
My reason for going to Brazil! I have always been curious about Carnaval but this was the first year I've had time off in that time-frame, so I jumped at the chance to go! Given that Carnaval is one of the hugest parties in the world with people in attendance not only from all over Brazil but from all over the world, you would expect sheer chaos and calamity. The fact is that the infrastructure of Carnaval is exceptionally tight. There are basically three ways you can experience Carnaval:
Camaroches
These are like temporal elevated mini-clubs overlooking the Carnaval. You can see the throng of plebian partygoers parading past without ever having to descend from your Rapunzel Tower. They are expensive (usually a couple hundred dollars), but are safe and all-inclusive. You can descend into the street and party whenever you want and then come back up to the Camaroche.
Blocos
These are groups of people affiliated with a samba school who party behind one Trio Electrico, which is a giant float with costumed dancers, singers and animators atop and on board. You buy a jersey for that bloco and bip, bop and boogy in the cordoned-off area (manned by body guards) behind the float. Only people wearing the jersey are allowed into this section (the abadas [jerseys] cost a little less, usually about $50 to $100 dollars.)
Fiz Pipoca
Literally this means 'to make popcorn' and from the viewpoint of the people up in the Camaroches, this is probably exactly what it looks like. This is the cheapest version, because it costs nothing. You basically fill in the blanks on the streets and party where you can, pipping up and down like popcorn, in the thick and schtick of it.
I hung out with Nem and his friends during Carnaval and we did a combo of Fiz Pipoca and Bloco Beijo (Kiss). We partied for 12 hours straight some nights, dancing, singing, merrymaking, eating Street Meat and drinking 4-for-5-reais Skol beer. I still have the beat from the “Superman Song” (the official song of Carnaval) in my head. It is a song mocking Superman for being a wuss, and even has a dance to go with it, not unlike 'La Macarena'.
The way that Brazilians recover from this week-straight of partying is by having a Resaca, or Hangover Week. Nem and I spent Resaca on the quaint island of Morro, at my brother's girlfriend's best friend and her fiance's pousada. Though I don't know how you're supposed to recover when every night there are foam parties, costume parties, live bands (Ziggy Marley!) and beach parties. Nonetheless, winding your way along the beaches in the daytime, eating eggburgers and sipping Fruitarinhas, does you in good stead!
So, that's a quick snapshot of life in Brazil. More to come on...the Amazon!
Man in security line-up to board flight to Rio (carrying large zinc studded rock with jagged edges): Wha'dayya mean Ah can't carry ma rock on 'a plane?
Security personnel: Well, sir it's dangerous.
Man: It ain't. It's just a souvenir.
Security personnel: Well, sir, we can't let you on the plane with that.
Man: Ah just don' see wha' not.
Security personnel (biting back a laugh):): Because you could hurt someone with it, by throwing it at them. [Please, don't explain. It's better he doesn't know!]
With a resigned shrug, the man profferred up his rock (which was probably the foundation of the Iguazu waterfalls) and said to his wife, who was busy trying to cram an apartment's worth of contents into a carry-on "Honey, they jus' ain' gonna let me take the rock on board."
These are the people they are letting into the country. Meanwhile I had to beg, bribe and badger my way to a Brazilian Visa!
When I first arrived in Brazil my very first thought was: 'My God. These people don't wear clothes.' Even arriving in Rio at one in the morning, the heat was beyond oppressive. Coming from India where shoulders and ankles cannot be exposed at any cost, even in 45 degree weather, it was something to see more skin than cloth. Luckily I had that buffer zone of LAX where I saw more booty and boobs in an hour than in the previous six months of travel. In Brazil, the L.A. Factor gets further extrapolated. You see it all. Beer guts and Jesus cuts. Tans and flans. Welcome to the home of the Dental Floss bikini.
So here are some post-impression word strokes on Brazil.
The Language
First of all, when I arrived in Brazil having pooh-poohed away the phrasebooks my brother had encouraged me to read while indolently lying about in the hammock, I was quite sure I could stumble along speaking Spanish as though I had a squishy banana in my mouth and get by. Very wrong. Sure enough, Portuguese is its own language! I had a rude awakening when I went to the juice bar and tried to order some kind of "vitamina" (smoothie). I had no idea what the woman behind the counter was saying, and ended up in some kind of ticket booth ordering an orange juice, because it was the only thing I knew how to say. And even at that, I had no idea that 'suco' was the word for juice. Or that 'naranja' is now 'laranja'. So I ended up drinking some weird purple concoction that tasted hauntingly like cough syrup (but which I later came to love and know and procure as Acai, the purple Amazonian berry). My first 'conversation' in Portuguese was with a random beach boy who talked on and on about 'perigro'. I didn't know what it meant but it seemed from the context as though it must mean 'to impale oneself upon a sharp object'. He said it happened to men a lot which seemed about right. It wasn't until later that night when I saw a sign of a man falling with the word 'perigro' emblazened across the top that I realized, 'Oh! Perigro. Like 'peligro' in Spanish. Danger.' The thing with Portuguese is that it is so similar to Spanish it almost trips you up more, knowing the Spanish. Kind of like how having a dance background in salsa or ballet trips you up when you go to learn Tango. You'd think it would help but your feet want to point toe-first instead of heel-first. [Damn muscle memory!] When I see a sign 'restaurante', I think of it in the Spanish way. For the first two weeks I had no idea what a 'Hestoranchee' was. You see the R's here in Brazil-Land all magically turn into H's. Who knew Rio de Janeiro is actually Hee-o de Janeiro. The Brazilian guy I am now dating (more on that to come) was asking me about a Canadian artist called 'Hickey Assley'. I said, "I have no idea who you're talking about, but I'm pretty sure there's no artist going around calling himself Hickey Ass." In a Skol-induced epiphany later on, it occurred to me that he was referring to Rick Astley. "Axl Hose" I figured out because of the Axl, but it still makes me chuckle. My favorite though was when he asked me , "What are your hobbies, as in past times, not as in 'Batman and Hobby'". I am just as bad, talking about 'ruas' which are actually 'huas'. I live on the Hua Ondina. Hu-ah! I love it. When I checked in for my flight, the attendant glanced at the computer, then back at me politely enquiring, "Janela?" I shook my head. "No. Jen-ni-fer." I later realized 'janela' means window and he was enquiring as to whether or not I would like a windowseat. My brother actually gave me the best advice on learning the language, which was: "Remember that weird expression everyone used to use when we lived in Chapleau, when they didn't get something? 'Yaoh?' Just add that to the ends of words.'"
Passion is the Fashion
Not only is this true at the Copacabana, but in fact everywhere in Brazil. I bought a book of plays by Nelson Rodrigues, figuring that studying plays would be a good way to learn the language, given the amount of sheer dialogue. (This was before I realized all of his plays were about the Electra and Oedipal complexes.) The two words I learned from that book that appeared over and over again were 'apaixonado' and 'joelhos' because the characters were always passionately on their knees.
There was a famous triple-threat Brazilian couple who committed suicide recently, Romeo and Juliet-style. Cibele Dorsa (the 'Brazilian Cindy Crawford') jumped off the same balcony as her drug-addicted boyfriend, Gilberto Scarpa, two months prior, because she couldn't bear a life without him.
Sexiness is obligatory in Brazil. Women everywhere, especially around Carnaval time have boob implants and butt implants. I have met an inordinate amount of beautiful, slim women in their twenties who have all had some form or other of plastic surgery. One day walking the streets of Rio I counted at least eight people with The Jackson Nose. I felt like I might quite possibly be the only person left in Rio who has not had surgery. What I find unusual though is that what gets characterized as sexy is subtly defined by the context of the country. Brazilians are the only people I know who can get away with making braces sexy. It's almost an accessory here. A flash of bling. And done with confidence it is somehow enticing. The other sexual icon that fascinates me are the tan lines. Tan lines are accentuated here. Women wear strapless dresses boldly exposing their tan lines as pseudo spaghetti straps. Even in paintings, womens' striped and shorn shoulders are revered.
I had to laugh looking at an ad denouncing smoking. Whereas in North America we focus on the deleterious effects of smoking on unborn babes or a shiny white smile, the Brazilian ads focus on impotence. A barely-clad beach boy with a frown has a large fist blocking out his privates with the thumb pointed down, simulating his (now dysfunctional) family jewels. Ingenious.
The cultural imperative on closeness weaves its way into the dating world as well. I was at a beach party with the guy I am dating, Nem, during Resaca (Hangover Week) on the island of Morro de Sao Paolo. At one point, he gave me a hurt look and asked if we were together at the party or not. I wasn't sure if this was one of those weird rhetorical questions or not so I simply responded with the obvious: "Of course we are." He then indignantly informed me that I hadn't touched him in an hour! Which in fact was the case, because I was mingling a bit downstream (with a gay guy and another girl, I might add). It's funny because I think on the Canadian spectrum I'm actually quite affectionate, but I can't compete with the Brazilians! I'm pretty sure babies were conceived at that beach party!
Beaurocracy and Bilheterias
Though you might think of Brazil as having this super relaxed beach culture, (and you wouldn't be wrong), it also has its beaurocratic side. A lot of times, when you go to buy something, there is a bilheteria, or ticket booth as an intermediate stepping stone in the purchase process. If you want to buy an orange juice, you have to first buy the Orange Juice Ticket at the bilheteria, and with this ticket, you can then exchange for an actual orange juice at the counter. It's a kickback to the barter system! I couldn't stop laughing one night when I was out at Sarkofo in the Pelourinho. My dormmate, Cathrine was trying to buy a simple caipirinha [best and most refreshing alcoholic beverage, bar none, with cachaca (fermented and distilled sugarcane juice), limes, ice and a truckload of sugar], but the bilheteria didn't have change (surprise, surprise. Welcome to the Land of Latin America, where no one has change. Ever). Her Portuguese was even more fledgling than mine, so I was acting as 'the translator' and deduced that what he had given her amounted to a scribbled IOU of 10 reais. Very official. I went back to use her IOU to get myself a caipirinha and the bilheteria man thought I was trying to contest his IOU, spread his hands out wide in a gesture of supreme desperation, and declared: "Nao tenho troco!" (I don't have change!)
Another night, I went to a fancy schmanzy night club called Dolce in Iguatemi, with my newfound friend Maiene. [I met Maiene and her boyfriend Vinicius on the Island of Morro do Sao Paolo, where I spent the Resaca with Nem. They were taking pictures of each other, and I offered to take one of the two of them together. They befriended me, and I ended up staying with Maiene in her apartment in Salvador on my way back from the Amazon.] So off we headed to the beautiful night club district in Iguatemi, where the clubs are harder to get into than the country. We started off as five, but lost Ale and Cathrine at the front door when they didn't have ID. Since I haven't needed ID for a decade and a half, it was by complete fluke that I even had a copy of my passport on me. After two security checkpoints, at which they input all of your data into their computer system, you are given a plastic card. I mistakenly assumed that this was a 'get a free drink' ticket, but it is a bar credit swipe upon which you can order all your drinks. Well, you can imagine how that goes. People treat the cards like Monopoly Mastercards, buying rounds, buying drinks they can't afford, losing their cards. At the end of the night, you line up at the Bilheteria to pay up. If you can't locate the card, it's a 600 reais (close to $400) penalty. I met some girls in Rio whose companions didn't pay up at one of these clubs, and there is a special 'pay up' room where they creatively encourage you to pay your bill. It ain't pretty. It also isn't much fun hanging out in an interminable line-up at 4 am with drunk and disorderly patrons incoherently arguing their bills.
Crack Kids
Sadly, in the Polourinho District of Salvador, in amongst the colourful cobblestoned streets, are the omnipresent crack kids. They are addicts from a very young age and live in the streets begging off tourists. They can become quite incessant in their demands and even aggressive. I had one run up to me and kiss my shoulder, but have heard of stories where they bite. My dorm-buddy Claire and I were going for a walk one day when a straggly kid of about eleven grotesquely flashed us, and then wanted a tip for the show! I was sitting on a shop stoop with Nem one night after supper, listening to some drummers in the street when a Crack Kid approached and begged Nem for money. Nem told him no and the child got quite indignant. Nem shook his head and said, "Hey, me too kiddo. I would love a beer right now but I don't have the money." This infallible logic actually seemed to get through to the kid, and he shrugged his shoulders and went away.
I was on the second floor at the Laranjeiras Hostel one evening washing my face, and I had set my facial scrub on the windowledge where it toppled into the cobbled street below. I ran down to get it, and wouldn't you know it, it was already gone! Scooped up by a crack kid. The security guard just shrugged his shoulders, as if to say 'What do you expect?' Some crack kid is probably trying to smoke the exfoliating crystals as we speak!
The Story of Nem in a Nutshell
They say you always meet someone when you're not expecting it and this was certainly true of me and Nem. I met Nem about an hour after arriving in Salvador, sweaty, tired and jetlagged, in a bathroom line-up. It happened like this. 10 minutes after arriving at my hostel, I met some cool people who invited me to go out to a street party with them. But they were leaving in 10 minutes. As such, I had no time to shower or freshen up and had to throw my hair in a ponytail and leave in what I was wearing, a tee-shirt and gypsy pants. We ended up in the Pelourinho, listening to a drumming contingent and then we split ways; I ended up at a salsa club with a couple of other girls. I met Nem in the washroom line-up (I didn't actually have to go to the bathroom, but was trying to elude this crazy guy, and thus apologetically had to slip out of the line-up and head for the terrace after the fifth girl asked me, “Are you in the line-up or what!”) Nem followed suit (although he actually did have to go to the bathroom, but he held it...that's modern love;) and we spent the whole night dancing and talking. Though I don't know how. We always joke that my Portuguese is like a five year old's and his English is like a five month old's. We speak 'Portunol'. Connecting afterwards was also a problem as he had given me his mom's number (he was staying at his mom's house for Carnaval) and when I called she had no idea what I was saying (I had only been in Brazil a couple of days at that point). To complicate matters, when he tracked me down at my hostel, he asked for 'Jennifer from Spain'. But we eventually figured it out. Since I was staying on the island of Morro, off the coast of Salvador, we had to commute back and forth on the Catamaran. Originally I had thought this would be a good opportunity to study Portuguese until I realized all my forces would be compromised just trying not to throw up. So we had some turbulent boat rides back and forth trying to meet. We have been dating for about two and a half months now and Nem surprised me by flying to Argentina to come and stay with me, my brother and his girlfriend in Buenos Aires, a couple of weeks ago. He's a Football Coach for kids/youth and is studying Physical Education as a mature student in Florianopolis. He also has a background in massage and cooking and has worked as a Masseuse in Sports Injury for an International Football team. He makes me laugh like no one can, and despite the language barrier (which is lessening) we talk about everything and anything and nothing under the sun. Our relationship is possibly improbable. But it is also for-sure-fantastic.
Carnaval
My reason for going to Brazil! I have always been curious about Carnaval but this was the first year I've had time off in that time-frame, so I jumped at the chance to go! Given that Carnaval is one of the hugest parties in the world with people in attendance not only from all over Brazil but from all over the world, you would expect sheer chaos and calamity. The fact is that the infrastructure of Carnaval is exceptionally tight. There are basically three ways you can experience Carnaval:
Camaroches
These are like temporal elevated mini-clubs overlooking the Carnaval. You can see the throng of plebian partygoers parading past without ever having to descend from your Rapunzel Tower. They are expensive (usually a couple hundred dollars), but are safe and all-inclusive. You can descend into the street and party whenever you want and then come back up to the Camaroche.
Blocos
These are groups of people affiliated with a samba school who party behind one Trio Electrico, which is a giant float with costumed dancers, singers and animators atop and on board. You buy a jersey for that bloco and bip, bop and boogy in the cordoned-off area (manned by body guards) behind the float. Only people wearing the jersey are allowed into this section (the abadas [jerseys] cost a little less, usually about $50 to $100 dollars.)
Fiz Pipoca
Literally this means 'to make popcorn' and from the viewpoint of the people up in the Camaroches, this is probably exactly what it looks like. This is the cheapest version, because it costs nothing. You basically fill in the blanks on the streets and party where you can, pipping up and down like popcorn, in the thick and schtick of it.
I hung out with Nem and his friends during Carnaval and we did a combo of Fiz Pipoca and Bloco Beijo (Kiss). We partied for 12 hours straight some nights, dancing, singing, merrymaking, eating Street Meat and drinking 4-for-5-reais Skol beer. I still have the beat from the “Superman Song” (the official song of Carnaval) in my head. It is a song mocking Superman for being a wuss, and even has a dance to go with it, not unlike 'La Macarena'.
The way that Brazilians recover from this week-straight of partying is by having a Resaca, or Hangover Week. Nem and I spent Resaca on the quaint island of Morro, at my brother's girlfriend's best friend and her fiance's pousada. Though I don't know how you're supposed to recover when every night there are foam parties, costume parties, live bands (Ziggy Marley!) and beach parties. Nonetheless, winding your way along the beaches in the daytime, eating eggburgers and sipping Fruitarinhas, does you in good stead!
So, that's a quick snapshot of life in Brazil. More to come on...the Amazon!
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