Waking With the Sun

I'm awake and watching NPR Music videos. I glance quickly at the time--4:20 AM. The sun rises early around here, and I give the idea some thought.

Today I will rise with sun, then make her my bedmate for the rest of the day.

I gather my camera, extra batteries, and the five dollar Havaianas bought in the little grocer next door. With my keys and a dash of motivation, I'm out the door and through the heavy red gate that separates me from the outside world. In some lights, I appreciate this gate. My door is rarely locked while I sleep, and there are never uninvited guests to instill uneasiness as I do my day to day. The other half of me despises this gate. Just another wall that screams, "You're not welcome here. At least not without a key." Attaching the gate is a heavy brick wall with electric wire that buzzes rhythmically with electricity, singing its songs of solitude and repellance.

I open to the street and the stillness that comes with the minutes just before dawn.

East. That's the direction after all. I blame my elementary teachers for asking this question mentally too many times over the course of 22 years. Each time, I recall song lyrics, which have tritely pasted over the individuality of each sunrise.

I pass the Petrox station a block down and lock eyes with the fuel attendant. He stares at me like he's never seen a gringo walking alone at 4:30 in the morning. Okay, so he has reason.

Another block and I look ahead to end of the street, still darkness. I'm beginning to question the idea and wonder if I may have misread the time. Still, I continue walking. I'm conscious of my pace, a little too fast. I'm in no rush, so I steady my feet and attempt to absorb my surroundings.

Again. Here I am. Walking to arrive. My destination is the beach, and my 21st Century mindset has typed the word into my mental GPS. But my mind is not a GPS, and I don't want it to be. Such navigation shows only destinations and the means to arriving at them. I need to see more than the means. I need to notice what's absolutely irrelevant to my arrival. In fact, I flat out need to stop thinking that I'm arriving anywhere and let my destination become pleasantly surprised when I land mysteriously in its hands.

Two horses grazing in a block of pasture. This isn't too
typical, but there is another one about two blocks from my
apartment. People use the horses for hauling construction
waste. People hire a man, his horse, and a small wooden cart
to haul away the waste during and after a project. I see at least
a few horse carts on the streets each day.

I hear the stock sounds of a rooster and a brotherhood of barking dogs, both reinforcing the hour. A little farther along, a man lies asleep in the empty flowerbed of what appears to be a condominium. He's wearing a bright blue cap that would fit in well inside a tourist shop along the beach. A fitting orange tank top covers his upper body. His head rests back on the granite edge of the flowerbed with his mouth gaped open as if he were screaming at the sky. Within five blocks I can hear the clash of the water and sand, fighting for position even in darkness. The water always retreating, but not defeated as it tries again and again.

The next street smells like sewage and a long dirt road extends to the south. To my left I hear something rustle the bushes in an empty lot. I scan the lot suspecting its a bird. A short tree top shakes, and I move my eyes downward to see a horse nibbling on its lowest branches. Above the horse is a billboard, a strange symbol in my mind. While the horse stands below signifying the ways of the past, the billboard rises up above him announcing the pervasiveness of consumerism.

View of the Navy lighthouse across the street from the beach. 

Just beyond I look down the street and watch a rat scurry from under a streetlight and into some taller grass. The breeze is stronger now and sticky with salt. I gaze upward at a lighthouse of the Brasilian Navy just over the thick walls topped with electric wire.

Still not a hint of daylight.

Crossing the street there is no traffic, and I can only hear the waves now. I reach the sand and flip my sandals off to walk barefoot the rest of the way. Another rat. This one takes a moment to notice me and then makes his way into some grass under a palm tree. Thirty yards more and I make myself a seat in a bank of sand.

My camera won't be too kind with such low light, but I decide to try anyway and snap some photos of the lighthouse, struggling to keep my hands still since I've set the shutter speed high to collect more light. They turn out well, and I take a few videos of my surroundings to watch if they still exist when I'm 60.

The sun doesn't seem to want to rise. I swear it rose yesterday. And I think it did the day before. But then again, I didn't see it, so did it really happen? How do I know it didn't start in the middle of the sky yesterday? I can thank my ancient Greek friend, Plato, and his philosophy of Realism for giving me hope that it truly did rise each day before. To borrow an idea from my current read, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, even the dumbest and most incredible of men can be the messenger in telling you the sun rose yesterday, but that doesn't mean it didn't actually rise.

I snap some more photos and exchange the batteries for a new pair as they die.

View of dawn over the sea side and Avenida Santos Dumont.

I can see it a little now. The sky is slowly illuminating. I don't see any bright colors, just the sky becoming what looks like morning. I'll wait for the sun to appear and cast its brilliance on me.

Some cars and a city bus pass on the street behind me now. The world is awakening. They may be awakening with the sun, but I woke her up today. She's rubbing her eyes and trying to rise above the layer of clouds that meet the horizon.

I wait longer. Still nothing. It's beginning to look almost like midday. Why isn't she brilliant this morning?

Even longer. It's bright now and the oranges, reds, and dark yellows I'd hoped for don't seem to be with her this morning. She's awoken alone today but with the intent to share herself with the world. I think that in itself is her brilliance.

I gather my sandals and start toward home.

View down the street that leads back to my house. To my back
is the previous photo. If I walk 10 blocks down this street, I end
up at my apartment.

Unplanned Hospital Tour

A planned beach day turned into an unplanned hospital day. Fortunately, I wasn't the ill party around here.

One of my friends here has battled hemorrhoids for years, and today the immune system decided to kick into overdrive. Fever, vomiting, and all of that good stuff was not exactly what I signed up for this morning, but a trip to the hospital was interesting in its own way.

Another friend and I decided to make the trip to the hospital and provide some moral support. For some reason I thought the hospital would be so much cooler than it was. But then again, when have hospitals ever been cool? I think I supposed it would be different. Different how? I'm not exactly sure. Turns out, a hospital is basically a hospital.

In Brasil, the healthcare system extends coverage to everyone through public hospitals, but my friends have told me I'd rather die at home than go to a public hospital. No one can tell me exactly what's different. One person informed me they aren't dirty but gave the impression they're crowded and without the same level of treatment capabilities. Therefore, today we were in a private hospital, something even "ordinary" people can't always afford without a generous benefit package from their employer.

When I heard all of this I started thinking about the conundrum we've created in the process of providing and receiving healthcare. Looking at Brasil, the government makes a very bold and expensive move in providing healthcare to anyone that needs it, but instead creates a division between Healthcare 1 and Healthcare 2. You can see it through both a positive and negative light.

On the one hand, all people have access to some degree of healthcare. Whether it's a facility that provides lower quality care in terms of capabilities or not, at least access exists. 

The other hand isn't quite as reassuring. While access exists, more qualified doctors tend to work in private hospitals for a few reasons. They have access to the resources they need to perform to the best of their abilities. Presumably, this access would lead to better performance by the doctor which boosts self-satisfaction in the workplace, and in turn reinforces the doctor's reason for working there. And on top of all of this, financial reasons also lure some of the more qualified doctors to private hospitals.

The conundrum here is that while all people have access to healthcare, the system has been manipulated such that certain people don't have access to the healthcare they deserve. We allow paper money to influence human well-being, which is just a difficult concept to understand when mixed with even the smallest grain of compassion. Evidence of yet another human invention degrading the human population.

While waiting, we found it quite difficult to sleep or do much of anything in the bedside chairs, so we ditched. Not the most compassionate thing to do for someone we care about, but if you dislike hospitals the way most people do you might understand. Our solution? Ice cream.

I had an intense course in language immersion for the afternoon while my friend, Neto, and I had ice cream and wandered around a while. I ordered a cheesecake milkshake, which turned out to be a little different from the cheesecake ice cream I had expected. I determined "strawberry cheesecake" should actually read "strawberry lime cheesecake" because of an extreme sour lime kick. Imagine a sour key lime pie mixed with strawberries. It wasn't terrible but not what I expected.

He pulled out his mp3 player and we listened to some United States pop music. The worst part about listening to popular music from the US is that people usually know more words than I do. I'm "out of touch" for not knowing the newest Miley Cyrus song or singing the wrong lyrics to Lady Gaga songs.

After a couple hours of killing time we checked back in at the hospital to our lonely patient. While we'd been wandering around, he'd been feeling left for dead by us--well, not completely. So what did we do? Explained our absence and got out as quickly as possible again. This time we accompanied another friend, Ivo, to the mall where they wanted me to get something to eat since they'd already eaten lunch. I found a place called "Habib's" that served weird looking pizza and ordered something in the realm of a quesadilla and pizza fusion. Not bad at all, and super cheap.

The rest was mostly a jumble of walking and waiting, but we did run into Mickey and Minnie Mouse walking around the mall in big costumes. The guys got a kick out of them for awhile, and we took a goofy picture that is unfortunately stuck on my friend Neto's cell phone.

When we were leaving, Ivo decided to get a milkshake in the mall. We went to "Bob's Burgers" (very Brazilian, huh?) and while he ordered we talked in English in the line. Ivo has taken English classes for years and has some friends from the US and Europe, so he speaks English fluently. As he talked I paid less attention to his words than to the reaction of the young employees beyond the counter. They were all fascinated by us, and I noticed them whispering and smiling with each other while we waited. All trips to the mall so far have been the usual festival of staring at the gringo. I definitely can't fool anyone around here.

A Man. A Cart. A Pineapple.

The last few nights outside of my apartment gate, I've seen a man. He stands maybe 5'5" with skin that matches the clay roof tiles atop every house around here. Rummaging through a wire trash bin on the corner of my block, he takes breaks to nibble on the edible pieces. Alongside him sits a shopping cart overflowing with what looks like garbage to someone like me living a different reality. But I'm guessing there's meaning and significance, or he'd have no reason to move all of it from place to place. Cans, plastic bottles, and bags--all waiting for a use or redemption to be transformed into the day's lunch money.

On top of his head rests a worn straw hat, contrasting his dark sun-beaten skin. He squats on the street to tear apart a discarded grocery sack from inside the trash bin. Here in Aracaju I've rarely seen metal dumpsters, and instead people place household garbage inside large bins made of rusty rebar or small steel containers that look like rest stop grills. He must be under 30 years old, but his face tells a different story. A mustache combined with his tired skin make him look at least a decade older.

The first night I noticed him, he noticed me as well. Either out of nervousness or practicality, however, he decided to grab the plastic rope attached to his cart and begin pulling it down the street. He walked barefoot, his feet pointing outward as he went.

Tonight, here he is. Rummaging, snacking, and repeating. And here I am. Fresh off of a trip to the grocery store with bags enough to line both arms. Is it guilt? Or is it more of a realization? Maybe the realization already existed; yeah, I think it did. So what it is it? I feel something.

I see a reversal of roles. Tonight I'm playing the ashamed, and he's playing the confident. He hasn't moved. Not only does he know I see him, but he knows I'll be walking by. It's my route. It's my home. It's not moving anywhere. In that he has the advantage on me. Every night he knows where I'll be. But what about him? Could I ever find him if he weren't rummaging?

I feel a little sick at the thought of walking by with arms overflowing with food and drink. His cart overflows with the unwanted materials of others; mine, on the other hand, overflowing with goods in such high demand that people will travel from all over the city, wait in lines, and exchange money earned by their own labors to acquire. I can't do it. I can't walk by pretending I don't see him. He's there. He's really f---ing there. I can't close my eyes to that. I can't ignore it. He's there.

For a second my mind skips to the idea of my ground beef getting warm. What am I doing? Am I serious? Why do I care about the temperature of my meat right now?

I try to put the scenario into perspective. I imagine myself sitting on the curb right in front of me. The ground is white with snow and more falls heavily in the wind. I sit without a coat shivering and pale. My back is bare. To my left a man walks down the street, the snow crunching beneath him. His skin is red like clay but smooth. He looks a little older than me with a thin well-groomed mustache and nice clothes, especially his coat. A thick brown coat covers every part of his upper body. I can't tell if it's fur or synthetic. It must be fur. The warmth is enviable.

He nears. Step by step. God, I'm cold. I need something. Isn't there anyone out here? This guy! What are the chances a man with such a fancy coat would cross my path when I sit in such dire need? Here he is. He's almost upon me. There must be something bigger playing here. He must be sent from somewhere high up in the...

He walked passed? Did he not see me? I have no coat. It's snowing. I'm freezing. He passed me by?

I find myself back in the 84 degree evening heat looking in the rear view mirror once again. He's still there. What am I doing? I'm wasting time. What am I doing? I didn't buy anything he'd like. Did I really just think that? He's digging in the trash.

"We could give him some of those cookies you have inside," Laís says. "You didn't really like them anyway."

"What do we have?" I ask. "I'm trying to think. Maybe that pineapple?"

"The pineapple? How much was it?" she asks. Her face appears unsure.

"Well, it's not really a matter of how much," I reply. "The guy is eating out of the garbage right now. But it was probably 3 or 4 reais."

"That's kind of expensive."

"We just spent 80 reais on shit we don't really need, and we're debating whether or not we should give him a pineapple? Will you ask him if he wants it?"

Laís walks slowly in his direction. His back is turned to us now and he's hunched over the frame of the trash bin.

"Sir? Sir." she says in Portuguese. He turns to face us. She's too far to hear the conversation now, but I see her motion to the car.

He nods. We have confirmation. I grab the pineapple and walk in their direction. I ask to make sure he really wants it, and he confirms he does. With a quick thumbs up, he places the fruit in his cart.

"Obrigado, senhor." He seems unsure. This may not happen every night.

I grab my grocery sacks, fumbling with a small case of beer I'd bought for the weekend. With my left arm loaded I walk slowly past him, extending a boa noite or "good evening" his way. Another thumbs up.

___________________

And here I sit. A moment of reflection. One pineapple down and thinking.

I feel even ashamed the want of a pineapple came over me for a moment since I've come inside. Evidence of the hierarchical structure of society being engrained in us even when we don't want it to be. It's mine. I bought it. With money. And I earned that money from hard work. That guy just doesn't work hard enough for a pineapple. If he wants it, he can truly have one. That's society. That's us. Even those of us that don't think it's us, it's us--just in varying degrees.

Now the guy has a pineapple. And tomorrow his pineapple will be gone. Hopefully by mid afternoon, it's the best time of day for a pineapple. I'm left to examine what actually resulted from this quick exchange. 

On the one hand, I think he'll be without a pineapple tomorrow, the next day, or at least some day in the near future. He'll either eat it, give it away, or let it spoil. Regardless of when, there will be a day when that pineapple is gone. And therefore, my thought of providing any assistance will disappear with it.

WIshfully thinking, however, maybe he was so moved by the presentation of a pineapple that his confidence in humanity and brotherhood increased by 100%, hoping it wasn't at zero already. In fact, maybe he takes that pineapple and marches his pineapple riches to his friend with no pineapple and alternates slices. Or maybe he presents that pineapple to a man in need of a pineapple and receives the man's sandals in return. And then perhaps he walks further this Saturday as a result of his new sandals which leads to a greater number of beer and soda cans collected for recycling redemption. From those extra cans, he receives a little extra money with which he buys a couple pineapples. 

So the struggle continues. Almost all of us have been unfortunate enough to have our societal norms and the importance of personal desires burned into us--something we may never be able to move apart from. I think it's possible for anyone, but they have to truly want it. And when I say truly want it, I mean want it beyond our understanding of wanting it. I'm not there. And if you're reading this, you're not either. It's not a bad thing exactly. I'm not pointing my finger at anyone. I'm only saying that each of us has work to do. Each of us has a goal to fulfill every day when we wake up. And I'm here to remind both of us that the biggest goal for the day, month, or year doesn't always have to be for ourselves.

We're bound by recognition. Some more than others; some almost none, others almost always. But each of us has some of this desire. It's only natural. But forget it as much as you can and begin doing things for the sake of doing them. Begin doing things because you feel happier making someone else happier. That doesn't make you selfish. That doesn't make you wrong. It's make you human. And it makes you truly alive. When your life and happiness is bound up and knotted into the happiness of humanity, you're truly alive.

We have a long way to go. Hell, I should have given every grocery bag to the guy. I have pasta in my cupboards. It would have sufficed. But I didn't. Do I regret it? Yes and no. But what will I do about it? I guess I'll ask you:

Where will you put your pineapple today?

A Full Day

For the first time in a while, my day was full today. I woke up a little late--as usual since I've been here--and went straight for lunch at Laís' house. I'm not sure if the word "maid" is politically correct in the US anymore, but for lack of a better word I think I'm going to use it. While "housekeeper" seems adequate, I could argue that it doesn't completely satisfy the work these women do (not that "maid" does either). Sure, she "keeps the house," but if we're going to get technical it's an apartment. So should I use "apartmentkeeper?" No thanks. Plus, I feel like cooking and parental responsibilities fall into a realm beyond "keeping." Therefore, I'll use "maid." If you're truly unsatisfied with this word or have thoughts or suggestions, I urge you to comment or email.

Getting to the point... We had a delicious lunch consisting of some of the usual: salad, rice, beans, and some chicken. Cris, her family's maid, had prepared lunch for us after returning to work from a recent surgery. I won't get into those details since I'm talking about food. Each time I visit, I seem to relate very well to Tunico, their small poodle. Maybe it's because he doesn't speak Portuguese and ask me questions that feel impossible to understand. Before we left, I took a look through her father's collection of books and found some very interesting titles. And thank God, some books in English!

I'd recently spent some free time wandering around Wikipedia reading about history and finding some answers to random unanswered questions. We may curse the internet and the negatives it brings, but I am yet to find a more enjoyable resource than Wikipedia. About a week ago, I read about Che Guevara, an Argentine revolutionary and guerrilla leader who played a significant role in the Cuban Revolution of the late 1950s (among plenty of other major historic events). If you don't recognize the name for some reason, take a look at the popular image below.

 Che Guevara's popularized image. Photo Credit: http://www.fatamerican.tv/
t-shirt-archive/t-shirt-archive-images/ernesto-che-guevara450x.gif

If you still don't recognize the name or the image, sorry.

Not to bore too many of you with history, but Che Guevara led an interesting life. At the age of 22, he set out alone on a motorcycle trip across his native Argentina. A year later, he and a close friend traveled much of South America by motorcycle. This trip inspired his journeys filled with philosophical insight and social commentary, which are now called The Motorcycle Diaries. The book has also been made into a film of the same title. If you haven't seen it already, please do. And I emphasize the word "do" here.

Now I've ranted about Che Guevara, and I'm beginning to sound a Los Angeles yuppy who boasts his beret-wearing Che t-shirt. You know, that group of people who would wear it after hearing about Guevara at a Reggae festival downtown and still have the nerve to answer his friends' questions with "Are you serious?! You don't know who Che Guevara is?" I don't want to be that guy in many regards.

But really, there's a point to the rambling. Since it's getting complicated and long now, I'll draw a diagram.

seeing motorcycles in Aracaju --> desire for motorcycle --> thought of traveling around Brazil by motorcycle --> reminder of Che Guevara --> Wikipedia article --> desire to purchase the book, The Motorcycle Diaries --> realization that an imported English copy costs $30 here --> dissatisfaction

There. That's a diagram.

So I had this dilemma. The book was more than I wanted to pay. But lo and behold, rummaging through the book closet today, I discovered a title that seemed to be an offered compromise: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Zen. Motorcycles. Good enough.

I took the book, along with a copy of the Dhammapada, which contains Buddhist scripture describing a "Path to Virtue", and we set off to the Universidade Federal de Sergipe (Federal University of Sergipe). While Laís sat in class, I laid on a bench under some palm trees and the shade of another unknown. This seemed like a better option since I'd gone to a physics class with a friend a couple of weeks ago. I sat for nearly an hour and understood only the pictures the professor drew. I can summarize that one hour in four words: "ball rolls off table". The rest I didn't quite catch.

So I began this book, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, accompanied by a can of Coca-Cola. The first page described a journey on a motorcycle headed Northwest from Minneapolis toward the Dakotas. Seriously? I run into this in the middle of Brazil? Dwight, if you've stood by all of this drudgingly long post, the book really reminds me of the NY Times article you sent a while back about "working with your hands". And those of you that were old enough to read in the 1970s (most of you) may even remember it. Apparently it was a bestseller. I'm only about 40 pages in and fully engaged--from motorcycle maintenance to Chautauquas.

I took a quick break and dove into the Dhammapada. I'll definitely put more time into these.

As you can see, I struggle in omitting details. On the way back from the university, we stopped at a friend's workplace. He works in a clinic. I'm not sure what he does there, but he wears a white lab coat, smokes too many cigarettes, and he made sure we went out the door with some medication. He told me the box he gave me was for anytime I get headaches despite reading "PRESCRIÇÃO MÉDICA," or "prescription medication." I decided to look into things on my own. 

Apparently, the main ingredient is dipyrone, or metamizole sodium, a drug banned in the US since 1977 for its tendency to lower white blood cell counts. After some reading, it sounds like another medical debate with decent evidence on both sides, but these pills are used similarly to ibuprofen in the US. There is also more caffeine than a cup of coffee and an almost equal dosage of a main ingredient used in migraine headache medications in the US. I think if I get a headache, I'll just wait it out.

Despite the medication, he gave me two papayas and some crackers--the best trip to the clinic I think I've ever had.

We went straight to Laís' workplace at an English school near her house. I'd been there once before but didn't encounter anyone that actually spoke English well enough to converse. Tonight, however, I met a few other teachers and talked for an hour or so while Laís was teaching a class, and eventually I was invited into the owner's classroom.

He had a class of about 10 students from 14-17 years old that were finishing the course after about 5 years of studying at the school. I was invited to the classroom so they could practice conversational English. I built a little perspective after an hour of the school's owner asking if I could recite the Lord's Prayer in English and how he could obtain a medical degree at the age of 65 were he to travel to the US. Aside from his strange questions, the students were a refreshing dose of something I've missed since leaving the US. Not only was I able to interact with young people, which I truly enjoy, but I was able to TALK to someone without sounding like an idiot!

At the end of class, another teacher told me he'd mentioned my visit to his classroom: "There's an American at our school today." The students asked, "When is he coming to our classroom?!" So I've been invited back, and I hope to be back soon.

So here I sit. Late at night writing about motorcycles, prescription medication, and Buddhism. I've also added some post-dated posts that weren't up yet, so be sure to check those out too.

Thanks again, and email me if you're bored at nmhaugen@gmail.com

Tchau for now!

Downtown & Julia Roberts

We went downtown today to buy some candy. Initially, it didn't make sense for me, so I'll do my best to explain.

From what I understand, Maneco's aunt, Rosi, prays to a Catholic saint on a regular basis. In exchange for her prayers, she buys candies for the poor children and distributes them at the relatively poor city of Areia Branca, of which I've written about in past posts. I found this really interesting and hope I'm able to see the result. I suppose it's similar to the idea of karma.

We walked out with over $30 in candies and explored a downtown cathedral and square. I was told it actually used to be a zoo, and I was amazed to see the cages and dry ponds consumed by the new layout. They are all still there, some incorporated and others not.

We also stopped into the Bureau of Tourism, which turns out to be a small room of handmade crafts from local artists alongside a shop filled with replicas of the same works. Maneco and Laís said they spent their childhood playing around this building. At that time it was actually a small mall area filled with toy stores and shopping. And before that, it served as the nightlife center in the 1920s. The building was fascinating architecturally and I'm hoping to find my way into the basement someday. I could see in from the outside, and it looks to have been closed off since the days of Charlie Chaplin--all the more intriguing. Hopefully we'll visit downtown again soon, and I can write some more thorough posts with more photos.

Later this evening I went to the mall for a movie since it's cheaper on Mondays. I went with Laís and Maneco to see "Eat. Pray. Love." with Julia Roberts. When I heard her name and recognized the name of a book read by every 16 year old girl and her mother, I ruled out the idea of the faintest bit of enjoyment. But I was wrong. It happens.

Julia Roberts plays a gutsy, independent woman that realizes her life is at a standstill. Life is not life at all. Life is work. Life is obligation. So she sets out on a journey of self-discovery. I seem to like those kind of movies. Maybe it's a lazy road to self-discovery for myself. But not really, I like to think I'm actively searching. Plus, she plays a travel writer, the ideal job.

Anyway, if you're interested in world travel, spirituality, or Julia Roberts, it's a must see.

Downtown square. Formerly a zoo.

Cathedral downtown surrounded by the square. 

Old zoo building now with graffiti and attempted

incorporation into the downtown square.

A wooden totem sculpture in a small gallery

inside the building of tourism downtown. He is 

the safe keeper of boats, but I don't remember

his name.

Election Day In Brasil

I will give a rundown of Brazilian presidential candidates for anyone that truly cares, but for now I have attached a video of some of the campaign tactics used for Brazilian elections.

Today is election day and the past month has been filled with obnoxious cars blasting campaign jingles and streets filled with candidate flags and street campaigns. Hopefully the video works for you. I took it while driving in a car and it shows some of the street, the "Shopping Jardins" mall in the background and the honks and yells of campaigners that line the street. This moment was especially loud as a caravan of cars supporting one governor candidate passed through a street lined with flags and supporters of the other popular governor candidate. Lots of "thumbs downs" and dirty looks from one to the other. Try to watch it if you can. It's only 20 seconds.

I'll also try including some photos of an election gathering I visited this evening where they project results by the minute.

The screen showing election results. Everyone in red was a
supporter of Déda, a candidate for governor of the state of
Sergipe. Presidential results came in with Dilma winning 46%,
Serra with 33%, and Marina with 19%. Again, I'll give more in
depth explanations of the presidential race for anyone that cares.

Bowls of açaí seem to be a weekly ordeal. Mine on the left
has açaí, bananas, peanuts, strawberries, whipped cream,
and chocolate shavings. The one on the right has Neapolitan
ice cream, açaí, and nuts.

Day At the Beach

We went to the beach today. As usual, everyone thought I swam too far out for safety.

While sitting on the beach, people are constantly coming by trying to sell something. Peanuts, bootlegged DVDs, cheese, popsicles, ice cream, you name it. We had to bite on the peanuts and toasted cheese though. The peanuts served by these vendors are popular at bars and the beach. They'll walk to your table and give you a sample of about three peanuts, just hoping you'll buy. I can't say I'm too fond of them since they're soft and squishy inside instead of crunchy. I've been told they're boiled in salt water, not roasted like we typically have in the US. But they were cheap. And we ate and ate.

We also bought plenty of cheese. The sweetest looking old woman came buy selling cheese on a stick. She carried a coffee can full of coals that hung from a twisted hanger in her hand. She would take sticks of cheese, roll them in oregano, and toast them over the coals. Absolutely outstanding. I'll post a photo below.

There's not much more to say than that. Look at these photos!

Divas, Maneco, Me, and Rafael

Maneco getting our toasted cheese from the sweet lady.

Sunset as we left the beach.

Laís, Divas, Maneco, and Rafael (Laís' brother)

The Inevitable

If you've paid much attention to my postings lately, they're beginning to sound like they belong on the food network, or maybe Bizarre Foods on the Discovery channel. Common sense would then say you could have predicted this post.

First of all, I need to clarify one thing. Upon further discussion with our cook, Tia Rosi, I have been informed that charqui, or at least her charqui was NOT horse meat after all. There you have it! I can still admire my Black Beauty VHS without her screaming, "Hypocrite!"

Second of all, regardless of whether I gnawed on Mister Ed's thigh or not, this whole eating organs thing has led to the inevitable. Last night I was awake until 5am tossing and turning with a wrenching stomach ache. As is natural, I thought, "Hmm... What did I eat?" I stopped the thinking right there. There really wasn't an "Ah hah!" moment at all--more like an "Ah crap..." moment.

It could have been the chicken heart churrasco I ate a couple nights ago. Or maybe the gristly chunks of beef and sausage on a churrasco stick that seemed a tad bit undercooked. Hmm... I did eat some stomach with beans and rice the other day (NOT recommended, although it's a local favorite). Beef liver? Maybe. Then again, it could have been the tripinha do porco (fried pork intestines) we ate at a an outdoor venue a few days ago. You know, it could have been the sausage with chunks of fat in it I fried and put in spaghetti sauce. And if it wasn't any of those, maybe it's because I tend to wash my vegetables in the same tap water that tends to smell like sewage now and then in my bathroom. Yeah, maybe it's one of those.

The scary part is that the stomach feeling and loss of appetite resemble what I came home with from Honduras about 2 years ago. That lasted almost 3 weeks until it finally cleared up a few days into my classes starting again.

Despite the diarrhea... Oh, too much information? I think we're headed to a bar tonight to watch a futebol ("soccer" for us United Statesians). Bars here are definitely different from bars in the US. The word "bar" is used for almost any place that serves beer. And since literally every business, gas station, street vendor, and restaurants sells beer, they seem to be everywhere. The atmosphere is a little different, though. We don't stand or sit at a bar stool like we would in lots of places in the US. Instead, we grab a table and start the conversation. In the US, I feel like the bar experience is a condiment for inebriation, while here the bar experience is the experience and inebriation depends on how long the conversation goes.

Some side notes...

I bought some cookies and a soda at the gas station today. The lady asked if I wanted a bag. After a few times saying "Oi?" (same as "Huh?"), I told her in my toddler-level Portuguese that I would actually like a bag. Then she asked if I wanted a straw... Oh jeez.

I walked to the beach today and just roamed around. I saw a guy fishing and a super-high man drawing a 30ft x 30ft map of the world. It wasn't a good map. His scale was completely off. He needed a cartographer's tool and less marijuana. And the US was labeled (translated to English) "The United States of Nuclear Bombs and Biological Weapons"--roughly. There were also rough sketches of police boats, helicopters, and laptops west of Australia. I tried talking to him and then pretended I knew what he was telling me until I finally walked home.

The exchange rate for the Brazilian Real (Brazil's currency) has gone down substantially. I checked again today and saw it dropped about 5 centavos since I've been here! In only 15 days! The graph below shows the exchange over the last 10 years. When the line is low, it's bad for me. When it's high, it's good for me. As you can see, I'm traveling in the wrong year.

I'll write more very soon. Thanks to all who have been reading!

Horse, Tripe, and Heart

Thursday Laís and I were invited to our friend Divas' house for dinner. His mom had been eager to meet me for quite some time. We arrived around 6:30pm and walked into an entryway filled with maybe 10 birds in an equal amount of cages. Their place was upstairs, and the room opened up to a nice sized flat with three bedrooms and an open setup. His house was busy with his mom, grandma, two sisters, brother in law, father, niece, and us--a total of nine people. Once again, I made an effort with my Portuguese throughout the night but usually found myself lost. 

His mom had made two dishes; one with bread and cream cheese with olives and cilantro, and the other with meat and cream inside of a pumpkin. The pumpkin did not look like what we would consider a pumpkin in the US, and I told them we would most likely call it a squash.

When I talked with Laís yesterday about the meat we ate inside of the pumpkin/squash and in the mashed macaxeira, she threw me an unexpected curveball. I'd noticed both were the same type of meat, a salty and stringy bright red meat. The best way I could describe it would be if bacon bits were reverted back into meat but in a salty stringy form. Hmm... I guess that would be called bacon, huh? Okay, bad analogy. It wasn't bacon.

In fact, the meat is called charqui. Don't follow the link before you read on. Nonchalantly, Laís told me it was horse meat.

"Hey, what's that meat that we ate at Divas' house and in the macaxeira at Rosi's place?" I asked.

"Oh, charqui? It's horse meat." she said.

"Seriously, horse meat?" I was a little disgusted.

"Yeah, well usually horse meat. Sometimes it's beef too, but it's never all beef. There's at least some horse meat." 

If you chose not to follow the link, Wikipedia informed me it's a salty jerky usually made from horse, llama, or beef and common in South America. I'm glad I didn't know what it was when I ate it, or I would have flashed back to our horse, Babe, and Medora trail rides. I would have had dreams of prancing through a rodeo ring and laying in meadows with Seabiscuit while the Budweiser Clydesdale's catered our picnic. Alright, not true. I'm not too worked up about it. But I truly am glad I didn't know at the time.

Last night we went out for some beers with Tuca and Maneco at a bar we'd been to once before. They serve something called torres, or towers, of beer. Follow that link for a photo. Maybe it's more common in the US than I know, but I had never seen them before. They're two- or three-liter cylinders of beer that cost a fortune on a Friday night (R$ 30 each, or $18). Other nights, not so bad (R$ 15, or $8). But don't go on Friday. But again, compared to the US I suppose the price isn't outrageous.

We were getting hungry, so Maneco and Tuca ordered some french fries. Later on, Maneco ordered some delicious sushi, putting him more in the credit card debt he'd showed me earlier in the day. But don't worry folks, he's making the minimum R$ 12 ($7) payments each month. He should be out by the year 2090.

Another dish found its way onto the table. I couldn't quite tell what it was. The pieces were brown and crispy and looked a little like fried dog treats. I asked Maneco what he ordered and he told me, "É tripa ('It's tripe'). From inside." Laís confirmed it. The dish was a pile of fried bite-size chunks of small intestine. Maneco insisted I try some, and I took a piece. It was gritty, crispy and failed to hit me in whatever part of the brain that says, "Hell yeah!" In other words, unimpressed. I took another piece, a little smaller, and it tasted like the pieces of chicken breading left in the fryer at the end of frying. A little better, but not worth buying, in my opinion.

Afterward, we took Maneco and Tuca to a Reggae music festival in the rain, while I stayed high and dry in the car at 2am. When we got a hold of them by phone, we took off and went to a sandwich place for a bite to eat nearing 3am. On a Friday night, nothing seems to close or stop. I definitely feel United Statesian when I seem to fizzle out by 11pm. I think their bodies have adapted to long nights of parties or dancing. 

Even more difficult is the fact that the sun rises at 5am, an hour different from Minnesota, due to our location very near the equator. Such a location also means the sun goes down before 5:30pm. When I left Minnesota in August, the sun would set around 8pm, giving us plenty of daylight into the night.

Anyway, we stopped at a sandwich place and Maneco and Tuca went inside for sandwiches. Feeling a little like we'd spent our lives away at the bar, Laís and I decided to try a churrasco vendor across the street. I'd seen them before but never bought. She asked what he had, and I heard "só coração," or "only heart". Chicken heart.

I remember my dad cooking up the innards of chickens or turkeys separately when I was younger. One time he gave me a piece of the heart and I actually thought it was good. There's something about that pericardial tissue that seals in a salty, rich taste for a burst of flavor. We bought two heart kabobs, each with about 5 hearts, and walked back to the car. Verdict? Delicious.

I have some more photos, but I still need to get them from Maneco's computer. I'll share more as soon as I can.

And to provide evidence I'm beginning to feel the difference in place, last night I dreamt that I gave a woman US money and she gave my change in US currency. And it was a big deal.

Even better, two nights ago I dreamt of flying between my old elementary school and high school gym. No one believed me, until I showed them I could just rise up and take off. Seemed a little ironic considering the title I chose only days before.

Thoughts, Gathering, and Açaí

Today I didn't do much besides set up this blog, so I thought I'd comment on a few things I've experienced in Aracaju.

Driving -- My dad could never live here. If you know my father, he's actually a very good driver. But here good means bad in terms of driving. All the good drivers are actually awful drivers. Make sense? Red lights are oftentimes only suggestions to look both ways before you speed through. Motorcyclists graze your arms if you choose to stop at red lights while they shuffle their way to the front between stopped cars. U-turns are a given. Power steering is uncommon. Manual transmission is 90% or more, and an equal amount aren't sure how to properly use one without jerking and jolting around. I've also been told not to stop at red lights at night because it's dangerous. People could approach your car, and that's a bad thing.

Communication -- People speak so loud! Have you ever heard of what we call "cell yell" in the US? Double that, and you'll have a friendly conversation in Aracaju. I've even had my friends tell me, "You speak so softly."

Politics -- Elections are coming up in October and that means campaigning. The voting process, however, is a little different. Instead of using paper ballots and viewing the names of the candidates you want to choose, you must remember their number. Each person is assigned a number and the voter needs to punch in that number at the ballot place. Such a system has led to some extremely annoying (albeit, creative) campaigns. Television runs political ads non-stop and cars, bikes, and trucks attach walls of speakers to blast jingles in the streets, usually containing the number of the candidate. The people I've talked to are just as curious as to how effective such ads actually are.

Food -- People eat much more often than I typically have before. Breakfast is always eaten as a relatively large meal compared to the typical bowl of cereal or toast in the US. Lunch is the main meal of the day and activities center around how, when, or where people will get lunch. Dinner seems to be a large meal as well. Food is typically less expensive than in the US. Street vendors are very cheap, and the smaller the establishment usually the less expensive the food. Price does not dictate taste, though! I've eaten some very cheap things that have tasted so amazing!

Independence -- I've also been surprised at the young people my age being surprised that I can actually function on my own. People are surprised when I tell them I'll cook, wash clothes by hand, or navigate the city alone. Most of them still live with their parents. It's completely common for people to stay at home through university and oftentimes until they get married. Many of the people I've been surrounded by have maids as well. Maids seem to be a given for any family of middle class status. Both of these facts leave only some room for young people to learn some of these activities. Also, along the lines of independence, albeit completely different, yesterday was Brazil's Independence day. I was absolutely surprised that I heard only one mention of it all day, and that no one seemed to care. Apparently, it's not a major holiday in Aracaju, although businesses are closed.

[Front Row] Tigolinho, Gafo, Aline
[Back Row] Dioclese, Aunt Rosi, Maneco,
Laís, Nate, and Karlinha

Two nights ago, we had a going away party for Gafo at Maneco's house. He flew out today bound for Porto Alegre after staying with Maneco in Aracaju for about 10 days. He was a great guy, and we'll all miss his company. Below is a photo of the crew gathered at Maneco's last night. The food was great as usual. Mashed macaxeira with meat, lasagna, and a chocolate peanut cake that Laís, Karlinha, and I bought at the mall. All washed down with Guaraná and Coca. Everyone here calls it Coca, never Coke or Coca-Cola. 

Last night Laís and I went out for coxinhas because I couldn't stop craving them. We went to a place called Baviera Haus along the beach. It's a chain restaurant that serves some great food. We ordered a coxinha and cachorro quente em pão (literally, hot dog in bread). It was a Bavarian twist on a hot dog that turned out to be really amazing. With two cans of Guaraná, our bill came to R $17 ($9), not bad for two people.

While we ate, we were approached by all sorts of people. My skin tone seriously makes me stick out like a white egg. People tried selling pirated DVDs and begging for spare change. It's happened a good number of times so far when we're out. Some young boys, presumably brothers, came to our table and asked if they could have some Guaraná. Laís poured a little more and gave them half of the can. She looked and felt bad as they walked away and the three of them shared the small amount left in the can. She told me she sees these kids so thin and worries about how they're making along. The boys gave the littlest one, about 2 or 3 years old, a few drinks of the soda as well. We told each other we'd buy them hot dogs at a nearby vendor when we were brought the check. Unfortunately, they had walked out of the area without us being able to catch them first. I guess it wasn't meant to be at the time. Maybe another time.

Gafo, Nate, and Maneco at the farm last weekend

Afterward, we randomly found Laís' sister, Ligia, with her friend, João, at a nearby stand drinking coconut water. We agreed to get açaí at a place nearby. Most of us in the US hear a lot about açaí. It's in every tea and every diet pill advertised, or at least it seems to be. But tonight I started to realize I really have no idea what it meant to "eat açaí" in Brasil. The berries of the açaí palm are cultivated, blended, and frozen into a soft serve sorbet served with small side cups of granola, sweetened condensed milk, and honey--an absolutely delicious dessert or snack. Click HERE for a picture. The cost was similar to an ice cream treat in the US at about R $5 ($3).

Hot Showers!

My Shower Head -- Yeah, I seriously put a
picture of it here.

A day of revelation. I've finally learned how to provide myself a HOT shower--follow me.

The shower head in my apartment is a self-heating unit that uses an electric heater to heat the water immediately before it comes out of the shower head. When I first saw a line covered in black electrical tape running into the same shower head that dumped water on me, I was pretty skeptical. Never have water and electricity gone well together in my books. Even worse, the second shower I took gave me quite the shock. Well, 2 shocks. The first being the cold water that refused to heat, and the second coming from trying to adjust the heat on the shower head. It gave me a nice little zap. The funnier part was when I described what I did to my friends, they acted like I was dumb for touching a shower head while I showered. "Yeah, don't touch it when it's on," they said.

My New Room

Anyway, today when I complained about never having hot water in the shower, Laís told to keep the water pressure low so the water could heat before falling out of the nozzle. Genius, huh? I would have taken cold showers for 3 more months and never have thought of keeping the pressure low. I still find it funny that everything is so obvious to my friends and so new to me. When I showered at my friend's house a few days ago, he told me their water was really cold. He was absolutely right. No hot water. I guess it wakes you up pretty well each morning. I feel so lucky to finally know how to get hot water!