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.