Striking Transitions

Transition
The past month was marked by the preparation for transition. Transition from one culture to another, one language to another, away from some friends, closer to others, a new home, a new town and a new job.  As I have been through this many times, I was able to recognize the emotional signs of preparation apart from the approaching end date of my time here in Brazil.  The realization truly hit me was when I applied for my first job.  I had been talking with a friend on the phone and I had asked her if her agency was hiring.  She responded that she thought something just opened up.  I went online to see which positions were available and discovered that the initial application was short, something that I could complete in five minutes.  So, I did.  Then, it hit me completely and fully that I would be leaving in two months.  Up until this point I had just been compiling lists of possible jobs but unconsciously was putting off applying for them.  The flood gates were now open and I no longer hesitated in further applications. 

At the same time, I am constantly aware that while I am looking towards the future, I need to remain present.  I don't want my last few months here to be disconnected and distracted, even though that has happened some already.  It is a difficult balance to maintain but is something that I practice daily. 

Strike
Among all this internal processing of change, there were external forces at work as well.  The truckers of Brazil went on strike.  As far as I understand it, the government made a change which based the price of gas in Brazil on the US Dollar.  In my time here $1 USD has been roughly about $3.25 BRL.  Recently, however, it jumped to $1 USD = $3.81 BRL.  Although I'm not entirely sure how it works, the truckers must have to use some part of their salary to pay for the gas used in transportation because now they were earning much less than they were before.  So, in protest, they went on strike.  It was a very effective strike.  Apart from necessities to hospitals and the like, basically all transportation stopped as the majority of good are moved by truck in Brazil.  Friends told me that the supermarkets were out of eggs (I shop at the farmer's market and they had eggs), at church's General Synod, there were no limes to make caipirinha and the day I was preparing to make pizza with friends, my oven ran out of gas.  I called several places to order a new canister but the phone just rang and rang.  The one time someone did answer, I communicated that I needed gas and he answered that he did as well. 

This was new for me in Brazil because the advantage of having a gas stove is that when the power has gone out here, I can still cook as long as I have a match.  At first I thought, well it will be like camping or when Hurricane Irene hit a few summers ago and we had no power.  Soon, I realized that it was not like that experience at all.  First, I had no way to cook outside.  Many Brazilian homes are equipped with barbecues (using wood or charcoal) on their balconies, garages or patios.  My apartment is not.  I had no equipment to cook in my patio, such as a container to make a fire.  And then it dawned on me that the other huge difference between this situation and Hurricane Irene was that I still had power. Instead of experiencing the beautiful silence of electronics, the various appliances in my home and in others still hummed regularly .  But, in realizing that, I remembered that did have a microwave, blender and a sandwich press.  (Don't worry, this analysis took about a minute, I wasn't trying to figure this out over a span of a few days).  For the week that I was without gas, I learned that the microwave and sandwich press are quite versitile.  I grilled marinated vegetables on the press, made marinera sauce and pasta in the microwave and mixed breakfast smoothies in the blender.  Clean up was much simpler as I only used one glass bowl in the microwave. Currently, the truckers and the government have reached an agreement, and I hope it works well.

Capoeira 

In the past few months, my capoeira group as also undergone a bit of a transition.  We have many new students two of which are women.  So, in the first time of our group's history we formed an all women band.  We play terribly, but each time we improve and are grateful that our group allows us to mess up with no shame and patiently listen to us plink, plunk and twang our ways through the songs as best we can. 

Sharing

Throughout the month I am generally am on the look out for something to blog about; often I am surprised how the smallest of things impacts me while larger issues don't seem to produce the same effect.  This month, yet again, a small instance looped together several experiences for me and the story begins with a book case...


My neighbor had  had an old box spring sitting awkwardly on our landing since I had moved in.  I had often wondered about it, but it never occurred to me to ask if she needed help disposing of it or what her intentions for it were. One afternoon, a friend of mine was visiting and the idea of using it as a bookshelf occurred to him and he mentioned this to me.  I looked over the course wooden structure and observed that if stood up on the short end it did truly look like a bookshelf. All that it was missing were the shelves themselves.  As is typical with  me, I dragged the whole process out.

Two weeks passed before I asked the landlord at the church if the bed were his (at the time I didn't know whose it was). He said that it was my neighbor's.  Two weeks after that, I knocked on my neighbor's door and asked her permission to appropriate the crude assemblage.  Permission granted, I left it right were it was.

Mom's visit, we did do fun stuff too

I don't remember how much later it was that my mom came to visit.  Once arrived, she completed her motherly duties of making sure I had everything I needed in the apartment (buying pillows for the couch and some wall decorations).  At one point while passing the box spring, she asked about it and I explained my plan.  She then made the plan concrete by saying she would help me tear off all of the matressy beddy part of the frame leaving me with just the wood.  So, one rainy afternoon, my mom is in BRAZIL and helping me tear whatever-the-heck-matress-are-made-of off the wood.  It was hard work; everything was well stapled on and stuff reminiscent of insulation flew up into our eyes and burned our fingertips.  We finally got the main parts off, scooted the frame into my apartment and cleaned up.

A few weeks later, I moved the futures bookshelf into my room and during the next few months I told any visitors of the future plans.  My idea was to ask at the grocery store for any wooden boxes they stored produce in (in Brazil they still give these out for free, in CT they do not), pull them apart, borrow a hammer and nail on the slats of wood.  My plan never got beyond thinking, "maybe I should ask for boxes today...."

Months later, the bookshelf was still there and I had a friend over for lunch.  It was the first time she has been in my house and I gave her the tour, dutifully explaining the future of the box spring.  She was in the process of moving in with her boyfriend (who lived across the street from me) and mentioned that she had a piece of furniture that she was getting rid of.  I could take it apart and use it for shelves.  I accepted.  A week goes by and I see her again and she tells me that the furniture is at her boyfriend's old place and I can coordinate with my other friend there to pick it up, which I do a week later.

I realize that even though I have five months left in Brazil, I really only have three left in this apartment because two of the months I will spend elsewhere.  This bookshelf must become a reality.  But as I look at the piece of furniture, I am becoming doubtful because I am going to need a lot more than a hammer to make it work.  Fortunately, I am reminded that I have friends through caopeira who are well equipped to handle such circumstances; even better, they'll do it for me!!!  So, the same day I pick up the piece of furniture (I call it this because I actually have no idea what it was supposed to be), I contact one of my capoeira colleagues (actually I got confused and messaged the wrong one first; but eventually it got straightened out) and two days later he came over to assemble my bookcase.

Now is the part of the story where I tell you that the bookshelf has absolutely nothing to do with my reflection apart from that my friend was putting the bookshelf together for me, and it was an interaction that we had that inspired the reflection.  I just really wanted to, and enjoyed explaining the story of my bookshelf for you all. 

While working, my friend accidentally stabbed himself with a nail and went into the bathroom to clean it up.  When he came out, he commented on the smell similar to incense within, and jokingly asked if I was a macumbeira.  I had no idea what he was talking about and he reminded me that it was his religion; I then felt quite silly because I have been told the name of his religion numerous times.  I explained that I had essential oils in a jar with two wooden sticks dispersed the scent.  I also commented that I do frequently burn incense as well. My friend started a bit, looked at me and asked, "Doesn't your religion prohibit it?" I responded that, no, it didn't and in fact many Episcopalian churches will burn incense during the service.

Mentioned capoeira trip

This, the smallest of interactions was what impacted me.  Nothing more than a few sentences, but sentences that drew out other memories.  A few months ago, I was heading to a capoeira event with three other capoeiristas including my bookshelf making friend when I remembered, after months of meaning to ask, that two of my colleagues were macumberos.  Being of an extremely curious nature, I began the interrogation.  For probably about an hour I asked as many questions as came into  my mind about Macumba. Once I finished, I turned to the remaining friend and asked, "So, what do you believe?" He responded, "I am an atheist." I laughed and smiled thinking of the interesting religious mix we had in the car that were all united through capoeira.

Research team minus one member at a conference in 2015

On the same day as the book shelf project I was also working on an article from some research I had worked on back in grad school with one of my professors and some fellow students.  We were trying to finally get something written based on our findings.  The research method was based on reflexive writing we had done as researchers while actually completing our investigation.  Again, this theme of shared stories and experiences surfaced.  All the memories I had while researching came up, the experiences we shared together, the exchange of ideas, stories and moments.

In Spanish, the word "compartir" means "to share", same as in English, but it can also be mean as in to share time or an experience.  My friends would often invite me to hang out just to "share," to share our time and moments together.  It was always and expression that I found lovely.  In Portuguese I haven't learned a word that has that same meaning, but they have another word that is very similar, "conviver," to co-live, live with.  I've never looked up the exact definition but I understand it to mean, to live our lives in a connected, interlocking way.

To me, these three experiences: bookshelf building, religion swapping and researching, were all just that, sharing moments of our lives, sharing parts of ourselves, accepting the shared parts of others and learning.  They were moments in which I felt like a bit of something larger, where someone tried to understand a bit of my humanity and I attempted to do the same.

The finished book shelf

A Slow Romance

Since I have arrived, Brasil has been slowly beguiling me, little by little, spoon feeding me tastes of honey and later dousing my tongue with vinegar.  Some of this has to do with the usual challenges of adjusting and adapting to a new culture.  Some of it was because I was expecting something different.  For example, I found little written material about the southern culture of Brasil and was more familiar with more tropical cultures.  And some has revolved around personal struggles and lessons.

But, I've been working, chipping away that the shell of a pecan, glimpsing the sweet meat inside as I get to better know the people here and their culture.  Those glances inside have helped me to maintain my determination to chip and crack my way through and taste the true flavors of southern Brazil. My close friends can attest to the roller coaster that I've been riding since my arrival; the growing pains I've endured. And then several months ago, on a day of no particular note or festivity, I unexpectedly ran into a friend on the street.  We greeted each other, made a few jokes, wished each other a good rest of the day and went our separate ways. As I walked away, an inexplicable joy, peace and happiness surged up from pit of my stomach and through out my body.  It was a soft electricity reminiscent of butterflies in the stomach but with a definite positive spin.  I said to myself, "Brazil has won me over.  I belong here.  It feels normal. Natural. I am happy."  It was then that I knew I wanted to extend my stay.

The program in which I am participating is supposed to be only a year long, but all the participants knew that there was the possibility of staying on longer and this idea has been tumbling around in my head like a building blocks in a car trunk since I've arrived.  There have been times when I've wanted to teleport home and other times when I've been so happy I couldn't even think about the future.  Its been a year that has not just knocked me on the ground, but picked me up, swung me around and catapulted me on to the ground.  But each time, I've learned new ways to stand up, different tricks on how to crawl to my knees and discovered how to stand up already dancing.  Maybe it doesn't come as much as a surprise, but Brasil has convinced me to stay.  No, not forever, but I have received enough chocolate and flowers with a pinch of adventure that I am happy to call Rio Grande do Sul my home for six additional months.