Sunday, December 21, 2008

Salvador, Brazil

Beaches and Emergency Rooms in Brazil

Broken legs and Christmas cookies

We arrived in Salvador, Brazil a week ago and have been sitting on the beach ever since, soaking in the rays and shaking off the chill of the Peruvian highlands. The three sweaters we had each packed for the trip, which were in regular use in Peru, have yet to see daylight here in sultry Brazil. The three t-shirts, on the other hand, have begun a furious rotation. But mainly we spend the days in swimsuits on the beach; the abrupt change from mountain to muggy has left us too sluggish for anything else.

Salvador is the largest city on the northeast coast of Brazil and the capital of the state of Bahía. It’s also known as Brazil's capital of happiness thanks to its famed outdoor parties, including Carnival which is only a couple months away. Compared to Peru, it feels like party central. Though Brazilians are more boisterous, they seem to be less enamored by children, so the kids are enjoying a reprieve from constant attention and cheek pinching.

We’re all reeling a bit from culture shock—Brazil is different in every way from Peru. In addition to the obvious differences in climate, geography, and language, the streets here are full of music and laughter. Brazilians have no qualms about breaking into song and dance when the mood is right (which seems to be about any time). Peruvians do a lot of parading, of course, but it’s always for a good religious reason, and the only guy dancing and singing is the one who had a bit too much pisco after mass. And whereas Peruvians prefer to blend into a crowd, Brazilians would rather draw one. Perhaps they’re a bit more like Americans, so in that respect we feel more at home here.

It’s nice to be in a place where the people come in different colors; we like to think we blend in a little better. Or at least we’re starting to, now that the sunburns have subsided. The state of Bahía is steeped in African culture, which is the main reason we chose to come here. Back in the day, the slave trade brought more Africans to Bahía than anywhere else in the world, for the grueling task of working the sugarcane fields, and as a result around 90% of locals claim some degree of African heritage. Today Bahía is a colorful mix of indigenous, Portuguese, and African cultures, architecture, music, and dance.

We’ve rented a small apartment here in Salvador for two weeks, and we’ll stay through Christmas. We’re one block from the beach. Although the sound of the waves beckoning us (along with the chatter of the squirrel monkeys living in the huge tamarind tree outside our third-floor window) make concentration a bit challenging, each morning we begin with four strict hours of homeschooling and work. Then, in the early afternoons a young translator named Inae comes to the apartment for our daily Portuguese language lessons. We all speak Spanish relatively well but have no prior experience with Portuguese, so we find ourselves resorting to gestures quite often. The language sounds so much like Spanish (except I keep thinking they’re speaking it in Pig-Latin), that it seems like we should be able to just switch over. Easier said than done. We’re learning, but it’s slow going. The good news is that since the languages are so similar, after attempting a few garbled sentences in Portuguese I can usually switch over to a mixture of Spanish and gesticulation (which in the high-brow linguistic circles in which I often find myself, is known as Spanisticulation) and have a better chance of being understood. I’m not sure this is going to work in Tunisia.

As soon as our daily studies are behind us each afternoon, we hurry out to our neighborhood beach, Praia do Porta da Barra. After just one week, we’ve decided that Brazilians have nearly perfected beach life. Just show up in your sunga, which is the speedo-type get-up that all the men wear (I bought one for little Cruz who is too young to protest, but Cyrus and Jason refuse to join in the fun), or a G-string if you’re of the fairer sex (anything more and you’ll feel horribly overdressed), pick out your ideal stretch of sand, and bask in the sun. Or grab a couple paddles and challenge someone to a game of paddle ball (frescobol). There’s no need to take a cooler or snacks—vendors pass by with all the refreshments you could possibly want: cold water, beer, fresh juices (the maracujá—passion fruit—is to die for), slices of watermelon, pineapples, freshly harvested cashews, and our favorite new culinary find—quiejo na brasa—which the kids refer to as toasted squeaky cheese.

The selection of fast food on the beach is so refreshing that we never feel guilty about feeding the kids whatever happens to pass by. There are generally musicians strumming Bossa Nova from the seaside Pousadas, which set out beautiful chairs and tables and sometimes even canopy beds to entice beachgoers to plop down and enjoy the surf, for the price of a drink. If it wasn’t for the trash heaped all around, it would be close to paradise. The trash and the thieves, I should say. We have not yet been robbed, but I’ve been warned countless times to keep a tight hold on my camera. Apparently being mugged is a quintessential Brazilian experience, but it’s one I’m hoping to opt out of.

Of course, I realize it was inevitable that at some point during this adventure we would end up needing a doctor. I didn’t count on it happening four times, though, in our first week in Brazil. On our third day here, Bella broke off part of her tooth (into Jason’s skull) during a rowdy round of wave hopping in the surf. Jason, being the quick thinker that he is, grabbed the girl under one arm, waved down a taxi with the other, and used his best Spanisticulation to explain the situation and get her to a dentist for an emergency tooth capping. All this before I even had time to look up appropriate dental terminology in Portuguese. Unfortunately, the crazy glue the dentist must have used to adhere the cap ended up being faulty. The two of them were back in the dentist’s office a few days later for a replacement after the first cap fell off (this time into Bella’s quiejo na brasa).

The next tragedy took place yesterday evening as we were lounging in the upper city in the charming neighborhood of Pelourinho, which was the center of Salvador during the Portuguese Colonial Period. Pelourinho means pillory, and the neighborhood was named for the whipping post in its central plaza where African slaves were once sold or punished for any number of transgressions. The whipping post has long since been removed and replaced with a similarly effective torture device—the trampoline. My children, of course, were first in line for punishment. Only moments into the fun, little Cruz’s left leg crumpled beneath him. Cruz hates nothing more than to be left out when his siblings are having fun, but this was an exception. He hobbled off the trampoline and onto my lap where he remained whimpering until we decided it best take them home and put them to bed. When, hours later, he was still waking every few minutes and crying, we finally admitted to ourselves that he may really have hurt himself. Jason was out the door and in no time came back with a taxi, piled Cruz and Cyrus in the back seat, pulled out some new and improved Spanisticulation, and made his way to the emergency room. I stayed behind to watch over Bella, who slept in her bed peacefully unaware. I wiled away the hours making Christmas candies, researching broken-leg terminology in Portuguese, and awaiting any news. Around midnight, the front door swung open, and in stumbled a haggard-looking husband carrying a still-whimpering young toe-head with another at his side. I was a bit confused as to why there wasn’t a trace of relief on any of their faces—after all, the trauma was over and they were finally home. After a long moment, Jason was able to muster a few words: I think they put the cast on the wrong leg.

Apparently, after x-rays suggested a hairline fracture, the doctor began preparing a cast. Jason decided it might be best to let Cruz zone out during the procedure, so he queued up a movie on his iPod, and the boys both melted predictably in the face of precious screen time. The movie lasted through the procedure, the paper work, and most of the cab ride home, during which time both boys were captivated in silence. The moment the credits rolled, however, Cruz began to moan and clutch his left leg in the back of the taxi. Interestingly enough, Jason noticed, the cast was on the right leg. The taxi stopped in front of our apartment, and Jason lugged the boys up three flights of stairs, all the while hoping that I would not confirm his fears. Indeed, the doctor had put the cast on the wrong leg. Back into the taxi…

Tonight there are a dozen hermit crabs ambling happily about the makeshift kitchen saucepan / aquarium in the living room. Earlier this week, the same saucepan housed three soft-shell crabs. We learned that, while they are able to take the intense sunlight and pounding surf of the Brazilian shoreline, soft-shell crabs are less resilient in the face of the Cruz factor; only one of them made it back to the beach the following day.

Somehow, despite the nearly constant 95°F temperature, the calendar insists that Christmas is only four days away. We’re doing our best to get into the holiday spirit. The chocolate peanut clusters are melting under twinkling Christmas lights while the kids decorate sugar cookies. Our precious solitary fan is blowing the heat from the oven out our third-floor window onto the slumbering squirrel monkeys, who must be having visions of sugarplums. Jason is wrapping presents while nursing a frosty caipifruta. Just doesn’t seem quite right. Not that I’m complaining, but I’m finding it hard to imagine all the poor souls up north huddled by the fire, sipping hot cocoa and watching the snow fall. And I’m trying not to be jealous.