Friday, February 27, 2009

Arraial d'Ajuda, Brazil

Festering Spuds and Blubbering Farewells

On homesickness and wax body parts in Brazil

Our beloved landlord, Marco, seems to have beaten the dengue thing. The fever has subsided, and he has recovered his strength. Most days he’s back in action on the property—tending to his banana trees, stapling quilted padding to plywood boxes and trying to convince us that they’re Brazilian mattresses, deriding us for letting little Cruz explore the garden too freely, etcetera. I was kind of hoping that at least the symptom of fatigue might linger a bit longer.

I try to compensate for any devastation that the garden may be suffering at Cruz’s hands by stealthily inseminating the property with seeds from the little sachet I’ve begun filling with my favorite veggies from each country. I realize, of course, that with only two weeks left here in Brazil, I won’t be around to see my surreptitiously planted seedlings push their little heads above the surface. Even so, planting somehow seems to be fulfilling a deep need. I miss my garden back in Santa Fe so much that I need all the dirt-time I can get to placate my pioneer roots until I’m reunited with my own soil. I had intended to plant a few of the potatoes from the box I filled in Peru. Upon our arrival in Arraial, however, I shoved the box absentmindedly under our padded-plywood-staple bed, just until I have the chance to ship them home, I told myself. Last week, Marco finally broke down and brought us a real mattress. As Jason and I were lifting our padded-plywood-staple torture contraption and bracing ourselves to fling it out the window, I set eyes on the forgotten spud box for the first time in two months. I opened it anxiously only to find that inside all that remained of the three months I had spent gathering potatoes in Peru was a putrid glob of tuber goo. Much like my husband, who also melted during our first months in sultry Brazil, spuds apparently don’t take kindly to the abrupt climate change between mountains and beach. *Note to self: Notify the sisters of this latest discovery. They (who have always referred to Jason lovingly as Mr. Potato Head given that his figure—long in the torso, short in the legs, and with no butt whatsoever—so closely resembles our favorite childhood toy) will be interested to know that he has more in common with potatoes than previously supposed.

Cyrus is kicking butt in capoeira. Literally. He has spent the past month studying mangrove forests and is putting the finishing touches on a big homeschool report with his research. When we’re not homeschooling, we’re on the beach. (You would think that sand might grow old, wouldn’t you? Not so.) Jason and I are getting pretty stellar at playing frescobol, known in English as paddle ball. (Envision a game of ping pong—two players, each with a small paddle smacking a little ball back and forth. Good. Now, remove the table from the picture and instead insert a beach between the players. Right. Finally, replace the jeans and t-shirts with speedos and g-strings. OK, now you’ve got it.)

Cruz continues to focus his efforts on herding hermit crabs and building sand castles, when he’s not uprooting Marco’s garden. Bella’s favorite days of the week are when she has riding lessons with Gustavo. Thanks to two months of full sun exposure between the stables and the beach, she and I have both broken out with freckles in places I didn’t even know we had places.

And here’s another thing that too much beach time will do to you: I have absolutely fallen in love with Brazilian Bossa Nova. It’s nothing like the blues guitar I grew up listening to Pa play, but it is incredible nonetheless. Whereas blues is deliberately simplified and jazz is wall-to-wall improvisation, Bossa Nova is just plain cool. It was born here in Brazil and is quieter and more polite, with syrupy melodies and harmonies. Last month I was fortunate enough to stumble upon a local musician who has since become my guitar hero. The first time I heard Neto play, the kids and I were in the midst of a mad game of frescobol on the stretch of sand in front of one of our favorite cabanas on Praia Pitinga. When the sweet dissonant guitar chords began to flow onto the beach, I dropped my paddle in a trance and gravitated toward the cabana where Jason, Grandma Norma and Grandpa Jim had already staked their claim, and four caipirinhas, on a table next to the music. Wow, this guy was clearly a Bossa Nova maestro. I was in awe. Grandma watched my eyes glaze over and urged me to approach him between sets to see whether he might be willing to give me lessons. After a few songs (and one caipirinha), I decided that I had nothing to lose, so I took her up on her dare. Neto has since been giving me lessons three times each week. Bossa Nova is intriguing and so different from any style of music I’ve ever studied that it’s not coming easily. My lessons with Neto progress so quickly that I have to go equipped with my camera and audio recorder in an attempt to capture each new chord and progression. Each night after kiddos are tucked in, I spend hours on the front porch vainly attempting to reconstruct that day’s lesson on the beat-up guitar that Marco has kindly let me borrow. Neto insists that I’ll be a Bossa Nova queen by the time we leave. Pretty sure that’s not going to happen, but with any luck I might just walk away from Brazil with a new tune or two in my arsenal.

We’re all keeping up with our Portuguese language lessons, and Jason has continued concocting local dishes with our teacher, Luis. We recently discovered our new favorite gastronomic delicacy—pao de queijo. It’s a cheesy puff bread that’s made with manioc flour and cheese. It is absolutely to die for, especially when it’s fresh out of the oven. Even Bella loves it since it fits in nicely into her all-white diet, which is composed mainly of white bread, white meat, plain yogurt, white cheese, vanilla ice cream, and white sugar (which she covertly eats by the spoonful whenever luck leads her to each new day’s hiding place in the cupboard).

Yesterday was a monumental day for all of us—perhaps the worst day thus far on The Big Field Trip. After a month of domestic bliss resulting from having our very own family therapist in the house, Grandma and Grandpa packed their bags and returned home to the US. Now all of the sudden we’re out here alone again. Their departure didn’t come to us as a surprise, of course. We could all see the date fast approaching on the calendar. But we were in denial, until yesterday morning when Jason and Cruz piled them into a taxi and headed for the airport. Cyrus, Bella, and I stayed behind with the intention of getting some work done. But instead—as the taxi pulled away leaving a rut in Marco’s grass—the three of us sat around the kitchen table and sobbed like babies. I seriously underestimated how much we would miss home during this ludicrous quest. After four months alone on the road, it has been so wonderful to have family here to share the experience with us, however briefly. We’ve made lots of new friends along the way, of course, but you can’t make new family along the way. (Well, I guess theoretically you can, but that would complicate things a bit.)

What on earth gave us the foolish notion to jump from country to country anyway? In some ways, it would have been so much easier if we had penciled into the itinerary a brief reprieve at home between countries. Then again, that would have been wicked expensive (and the global footprint even more absurd than the current travel route). Not to mention the fact that we may never be able to coax our kids back onto the plane once we set foot at home. In any case, all five of us are feeling a bit lonely today knowing that we’re out here all alone again. The discussion regarding whether this harebrained idea was at all sane is back on the table. Even Jason and I are starting to have second thoughts. (Just starting, you say? Pipe down. Nobody asked you.)

On a happier note, we managed to send Grandma off with presents for everyone back home, in addition to a backpack filled with the souvenirs we have thus far accumulated for ourselves (minus one putrid box of tuber goo). We sent Grandpa off with a bottle of cachaça and a pretty good case of the gout by which to remember us. If all goes as planned, they’ll be joining us again—six countries down the road in India.

For now, though, our motley crew is back down to the Smirkman Five. We’re bummed but committed to making the most out of our remaining time in Brazil. It’s hard to believe we have only two weeks left. There’s so much we still want to do! Like go to the beach. And go to the beach. And then, maybe, go to the beach. (Ahem, I think Ma got a new computer this week, and she may be reading this.) And after going to the beach, we’re thinking about dropping by our local church to learn more about the Brazilian version of Catholicism.

Speaking of Catholicism, actually, back home Lent starts on Ash Wednesday, doesn’t it? And the faithful are supposed to halt Marti Gras celebrations after Fat Tuesday, right? So they can commence sacrificing for the next forty days in preparation for Easter? Somehow, I don’t think the Brazilians got the memo on that. Carnival came and went—along with Fat Tuesday—but around here people are still parading all day, cavorting all night, and raising hell just about all the time. Come to think of it, I’ve noticed that Brazilians seem to approach Catholicism altogether differently from how I learned it growing up, in more ways than one, and this has been eye-opening.

My favorite illustration of this has been the life-size body parts that vendors sell at holy sites around Bahía. This tradition caught me a little off guard the first time I witnessed it at the Igreja de Nosso Senhor do Bonfim (Church of our Lord of the Good End) in Salvador. The church is believed to have curative properties, and hanging from the walls and ceilings is an eerie collection of hundreds of wax and plastic arms, legs, eyes, organs, and other miscellaneous appendages. Apparently, church-goers have left these body parts over the years, either as petitions for divine intervention or in appreciation for having been cured of a particular ailment. Either way, it struck me as a particularly exotic practice and most likely one of which Ma would not approve. So much for getting brownie points for going to church.

We’re starting to plan and look forward to the next stop on our itinerary, North Africa. Wow, our first time visiting a Muslim country—Tunisia. That will be a huge change! For one, I’m pretty sure we’re going to have to get used to wearing more than our standard beach attire. But at least our sarongs might double as head scarves.