Land!
Trip Start
Feb 07, 2007
1
11
50
Trip End
May 15, 2007
Salvador, Brazil
Saturday, February 17, 2007
An artist and I
. More about that in a minute. After we went quickly through Brazilian customs, we thought we were fast on our way. However, we forgot about the minor detail of the port briefings. At each port, a representative from the government of the country we're visiting is invited onboard to discuss current issues with us and welcome us to the country. The governor of Puerto Rico had the right idea with these briefings. He was brief. He thanked us, welcomed us, and did a ceremonial walk through the ship and a nice wave and let us be on our merry ways. The woman from Brazil, however, took a little too long for my fancy. I must say, it was mostly because I was anxious to get off the boat and meet Alberto. We'd agreed to meet him at nine, but the representative didn't even begin talking to us until 9:10, so before she even began she was already taking too long. However, beyond that, she just repeated everything we'd spent the last week of Global Studies discussing. Which is fine, we knew all the answers to her questions but when you're in a hurry to go feed hungry orphans it seems like a waste of time. After thirty minutes of sitting and listening to her spiel, we decided to go wait at the gangway so we could be the first to get off. Another fifteen minutes passed by before we could finally get off. We were sure at this point that Alberto would have left. We'd sent crew members down to look for him and they'd reported back both times that they hadn't seen him. Depressed but also excited to finally be in Brazil, we got off the ship and touched foot in South America for the first time
Dancing with Maria
. The first thing I noticed about it was the smell. At first I thought it was just the harbor that smelled awful because of the mixture of trash and fish, but as we continued on we realized the whole city smelled of trash and other things. Thank goodness my nose isn't as sensitive as my Mom's or I would have been in trouble the entire time, and from what I hear India is the worst in regards to smell. Women dressed in traditional Carnaval dresses, colorful with huge skirts and just as colorful headdresses. These women tied ribbons on all of our wrists that have a prayer of good luck, and as I sit and write this I realize that four days later almost everyone that walks by is still wearing them. After taking in the smell and the sights of the worn-out harbor, we made our way through the red tape and outside of the iron gates that stood between our ship and the city of Bahia. Awaiting us was a sign that read Matt Thompson, held by our sought-after Alberto. A charming Brazilian, he joked about his looking more like a "Gringo" than a Brazilian and that he'd dealt with for all of his life the comments and calls from darker-skinned Brazilians asking if he was lost. But he promised he was a native of Salvador and that he knew his way around, and he'd be happy to take us to visit Maria and anywhere else wanted to go. Being a skeptical American, I was wary of his generosity and willingness to help at first. I couldn't imagine that anyone would be that nice without expecting someone in return. Driving five college kids whom he'd never met before around the city at no cost? No way
Maria and I
. But I really wanted to visit the orphans, so I didn't say anything. We decided to stop at the grocery store to buy food to take to Maria, and Alberto was pleased with the suggestion. Maria is an 85 year old woman who takes care of forty-seven children. Some live with her, some visit her every day, some visit her infrequently. Some she's only known a few months, and others she has raised from infancy. Aside from the children, she lives alone in a rough part of town. Becca found her through a website online when we learned we hadn't gotten any of the service trips we'd wanted in South Africa or India, and she e-mailed Alberto asking if we could visit, and he promptly replied saying Maria was more than happy to have visitors. So we arranged to have him pick us up, and were grateful that he waited for us, even though we were an hour late. He acted as a tour guide through the streets of Bahia, taking longer routes to show us the beaches and the favelas, or groups of houses where the poor live, either built up on the hillside or at ground level. He drove us through a popular shopping area for the locals, and once again I was surprised at the feeling of recognition of home. Buses in Bahia blast their music so loudly that as we drove by I felt like I was back in the nightclubs at home. Even more so than Puerto Rico, the difference between the rich and the poor in Brazil is phenomenal. The favelas and falling-down wooden homes that cover the hillsides more than grass are sometimes offset by a brand-new cement church or office building
Maria's house
. The shops that line the street, however, are most often frequented by the poor and middle classes of the city. I don't think I saw anyone who looked like he lived above a lower middle class lifestyle. I suppose it makes sense that the five percent who control all of Brazil's wealth don't live or work in Bahia. We finally pulled into a parking lot guarded by a man dressed in fatigues and holding a gun, and Alberto had to explain to him that he was driving students to the grocery store to pick up food for an elderly woman. After we were granted clearance, we found a parking spot and went on our way. Immediately, I knew that I was out of place. From the moment I stepped out of the van that day to the moment I boarded the ship after our last day in Bahia, I knew I didn't belong. I was stared at by men, women, teenagers, and children alike. At a grocery store I completely understand because what would white tourists be doing at a grocery store in the rougher parts of Bahia. We stuck by Alberto, however, and tried not to act as out of place as we felt. The store itself was really cool, though, because you had to walk up an incline to get to it, and for the carts was a moving walkway. I'd never seen one of those before and I hardly expected to see something like that in a place like Bahia (and I have to interject that as I write I am standing at the side of the ship watching the favelas and churches of Salvador drift to the right as we pull out of port. I can't believe how much more quickly five days on land passes than seven at sea, and also that we're having honking wars with the cruise ship Sky Wonder that remains at the dock)
Shopping!
. But I've also learned to expect the unexpected. After picking up eight bags each of rice, beans, corn meal, flour, candy, and cookies for the kids, Alberto disappeared for a few minutes as we stood in the long Saturday afternoon line at the Brazilian version of WalMart. Soon after, he returned carrying five cans of Skol, the local beer. We asked him if we were allowed to drink them in the car because we couldn't bring them on the ship, and he laughed at us, telling us to drink them as we waited. So there we were, fresh off the Atlantic drinking beers in a supermarket in Brazil. After we finished paying, we loaded up the van and headed to Maria's. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw there. At first I thought we were just driving through the area to get to Maria's. The streets were empty and no wider than two cars side by side, the homes had no doors, holes in the walls, and sometimes no roofs, people slept on the sidewalks, and stray dogs wandered in front of the van as we drove along. It wasn't until we pulled over on this street that I realized this was our destination. As soon as I got out of the car, I was greeted by a man who was sitting with his back towards me, sitting in a chair that faced where his front door would have been, his left leg in a cast and propped up on the stoop, the rest of his body naked and a pail of water in his arms. A beautiful woman with dark eyes, long curly brown hair, and a small brown shirt and cut off jeans stood over him, her arms propped on the sides of the door frame. The five of us stood around awkwardly, trying not to stare at the man with the broken leg and the woman in the door, as we waited for Alberto to go inside the house next to one that belonged to this pair. Katie tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around to look at the wall opposite the row of houses and saw paintings of teletubbies on the wall, presumably done for the children at Maria's home. As I took a picture, I heard a throaty but boisterous voice speaking in Portuguese. I turned around to find a woman who barely cleared my chest, had short and tight gray curls, too few teeth even for an eighty-five year old, bare feet and a plain blue dress that reached her ankles. She chatted animatedly as Alberto translated, and she grabbed my hand and kissed it, tears in her eyes, and pulled me to her. I could wrap my arms completely around her and my palms could still rest on my elbows. She pulled away and next went to Katie, taking off one of her many necklaces and put it around Katie's neck. She did the same for the rest of us, giving each of us one of her hand made necklaces to thank us for coming. We stood there, the six of us, myself, Katie, Lauren, Matt, Becca and Maria, Maria between Katie and I and holding our hands, as Alberto began to unload the food. We went to help her but Maria tried to insist we let her do it because we'd already done enough by bringing the food, that we didn't need to carry it as well. As some of us stayed near her and the others unloaded, she couldn't stop telling us how much she appreciated us, how blessed she felt for the help because her only help with the forty-seven children she cared for came from people like us. She never once had a free hand; it was always holding at least one of ours. After we stood around in awe together, her of us for our generosity and us of her because of the amazing thing that she has done, she invited us to come into the house. It wasn't until this point that I realized how close by some of the other residents were. One man was sleeping on her doorstep, another was sitting on a plastic chair eating what looked like plain corn meal out of a tupper ware container, and two other men, probably in their early twenties, sitting on the sidewalk, watching us. We passed by the sleeping man, who did not stir a bit as we shuffled by him, under an open archway and across a kind of bridge covered in standing water that led to the entrance to her house. It was dark, as the only light came from the afternoon sun. We piled the groceries and toys we'd brought onto a table covered in plastic bags stuffed with I don't know what, and she took Katie's hand and led us into her house. I have no idea how big her house really was because all the space she had was a walkway from the front that curved to the left slightly then went straight back to a pair of bunk beds, where a single fluorescent light left the sleeping space dimly lit. The rest of the space was filled with junk covered over with tarp and rope. The wooden beams in the ceiling had sheets stuffed with more junk hanging from them. The little path also had standing water in it, that Maria walked through barefoot every day. Maria and Katie were at the front, and I hung back taking pictures of the place. When she realized what I was doing, she called for me to go back to meet her, and pointed at two children sleeping in one of the bunk beds, and then at my camera. I took pictures of them, and then she posed next to the bed, then with Katie next to the bed. She then motioned for me to get in the picture. I'm not sure what her motive was, if she had one at all, but she wanted it all on film. After taking a few pictures we turned to leave, and I ran into Matt because Becca had stopped to avoid a rat that was crawling on the floor. As we started moving again I felt something crawl across my foot. I tried not to scream because I didn't want to offend Maria, but when I looked down I saw a cockroach scurry into one of the crevices between two of the piles of stuff against the wall. I reached the door and was about to go outside when I heard Maria call to me to take a picture of the young woman sleeping on a bed across from the entrance in a bra and shorts (of course all of the exact requests and comments we got from Alberto, who translated for us the whole time). I snapped a few more photos before following her out the door. I walked back across the bridge and this time I looked over the side to see a drop of about fifteen feet and the floor covered in trash. Maria and forty-seven children call this place home at least some of the time. A place where the walls crumble, old water stands still around and in her house, bugs and rodents roam free, children sleep on box springs, and you can't see the inside walls because stuff is piled so high and so deep. But at least she has a home, and what she has she gives to children who have nothing at all. As we resumed our places outside of the house, standing in the street, Lauren and I began to cry. We hugged her and she kissed our cheeks, and only in retrospect do I realize that she began singing to comfort us, dancing to cheer us. She held our hands as tears ran down our face, and she began to sing. For a frail eighty-five year old, she can belt it out. Before long, all of the men lounging outside of her house began to sing and one picked up a bucket and began drumming on it while another grabbed an empty water bottle and a stick. Together they started a beat and Maria began to dance. As was her style, she took our hands and had us dance with her. Before long, everyone outside of her house was dancing and singing, except we couldn't sing because we didn't know the words, or even understand what she was singing. I was utterly amazed Maria during every moment I spent with her. This woman is not just elderly, but old and frail. But she has more energy than even I did in smoldering heat and unimaginable living conditions. She not only lives in a terrible neighborhood, but her home is absolutely filthy. She took in forty-seven children all together to feed, spend time with, read to, take care of, house. After we got in the car to go I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't believe that in the midst of her own troubles, her own struggle to survive, that she could take care of so many others, put so many others before herself. Of course I am much younger than she is, but I still get wrapped up in my own life sometimes that I can't even begin to think about other people. At least that how it feels to me sometimes. But meeting her and seeing first hand the things that she is doing and the conditions in which she is doing it is truly humbling. She also takes care of three dogs, and any other stray dogs that wander near her house. Whatever she can do to contribute, she puts forth effort to do it, despite any of her circumstances. I've been reading The Alchemist in which the main character strives to find his personal legend and the happier he is, the more he knows he's getting closer to his personal legend. This woman, despite it all, was genuinely happy. She sang and danced when we brought gifts for her. She thanked us and thanked God for the blessings in her life and for her capabilities to do what she does. She doesn't complain about anything. She is happy, so according to this book she's reaching her personal legend. She raises children in extraordinary circumstances, and she is happy doing it. It makes me think about all of the things that I want to do to make an impact on the world. I have such huge ideas about how I want to do this, but then I look at someone like Maria who lives like this, taking care of so many children. It goes unnoticed by most of the world, but to her world it means the difference between life and death for some, and between a life on the streets or having shelter and someone to receive care from. Perhaps there is something to this personal legend idea, that no matter what it is it will make our lives and the lives of those around us better when we are on the right path towards it. God's plan, fate, destiny, freedom of choice, call it what you will, looking at her it seems valid. She was truly an inspiring woman, and my trip to Brazil could have been complete had it only been one afternoon spent with her. After visiting Maria Alberto took us to Pellerina to do some shopping and sample some local liquor. The streets of the area were beautiful, narrow and cobblestoned with cute little shops in the nicer areas. After wandering he took us back to the ship and we dropped off our purchases before going to dinner at a restaurant above the main marketplace near the ship. We ate beef fried in bananas and shrimp in a special orange sauce and drank Skol. After dinner we went back to the ship to change for our evening of Carnival. It was absolutely incredible. I couldn't have done it more than one night, like Katie and Lauren did, but I had a ball. We walked from the ship to town and on the way we saw everything from slutty girls to transvestites. Our favorite was the man dressed like Catwoman who purred at us from her car as she passed by. Once in town, we took the elevator that takes you up to the upper city for the first time, and the upper city is where the party really began. Street vendors every ten feet sold beer. Boys, girls, men and women in elaborate costumes crowded the streets as they performed. Trucks rumbled from the volume of the music. The drunk and sober alike pushed and stumbled because the streets were so busy, and that wasn't even the extent of the party in Rio. We walked around in a huge group through the streets, listening to music, drinking Skol, and watching performers in bright colors and other partiers all night long. Aside from the partying aspect, the most significant part of my night was meeting Jackson in Jesus Square, a square with four beautiful, elaborate churches on each side. Jackson was a ten-year old kid and if any of you have ever seen Beyond Borders with Angelina Jolie and Clive Owen, and remember the character JoJo, that's exactly who Jackson looked like. Jackson was literally skin and bone. In America, he would be the equivalent of someone with severe anorexia. Every bone in his body protruded, and the shirt he was wearing that a healthy ten-year old would wear he swam in. He had no shoes on. We met him because he came up to us asking for our beer cans to collect and turn in for money. Because there was a big group of us with cans, he followed us around the square for awhile, just waiting for our cans. He spoke broken English so we started talking. He asked all of our names, and we found out that he was selling cans to support himself because he lived on the streets. I know there are too many of these street children to count, but talking to him I felt horrible, so I gave him the ten reals I had on me. He was clearly in need but instead of running around to all of the partiers he was collecting cans from us to make money. He also picked up the cans from the streets, picked through the trash. He kissed my hands and both of my cheeks, and then kissed them again and hugged me. The grateful look in his eyes I will never forget. The money won't last very long for him, and I'm just one of thousands of people he approaches, but I'll always remember him and the connection we made in that moment. 
