Cariocas pride themselves on their “most honest approximation” of Montmartre, the neighborhood of Santa Teresa. Unlike the more touristy beach neighborhoods of Copacabana and Ipanema, Santa Teresa lacks sand and is perched just above the city’s gritty historic center. Rio’s “bohemian” (no, those quotes are not ironic—more on that later) music scene, Lapa, is within spitting distance of the street car’s trek across the remains of the city’s aqueducts dating from the mid 1700s. The street car, known as a bonde, rides the narrow aqueducts for only a short time before it arrives in the lower streets of Santa Teresa. The iconic, yellow bonde (only about 60cents, cheap!) offers the mostly Brazilian and European tourists a delightful respite from first world rules and regulations regarding personal safety. While traversing the aqueduct, French limbs and Brazilian heads protrude from the bonde’s every orifice just one too sweaty palm away from a deadly drop into a pool of vomit and urine marinating in Lapa’s “bohemian” streets. Your fearless faux carioca felt obliged to ride the boards at least once on one of her several visits to the neighborhood. She found it remarkable that more people aren’t dashed to the ground. It would seem that fear is a powerful glue.
After crossing the aqueduct, the bonde begins its ascent up the hill where children jump on and off the moving vehicle. On one trip, the faux carioca seemed to be the only person to notice that there were children making sport of holding onto the lower bits of the bonde and dragging their flip-flopped feet on the street. While your delicate adventurer has enjoyed her share of idiotic pastimes, she failed to see what was so entertaining about being dragged beside a relatively slow-moving streetcar. Fortunately the children had the decency not to inconvenience the other riders by getting themselves crushed beneath the clattering metal wheels.
Santa Teresa itself is made quaint by its steep hills, meandering cobbled streets, and lovely colonial architecture. There is not much in the way of commerce here, but there are a surprising number of restaurants for such a residential neighborhood. Cuisine ranges from indigenous to Asian fusion to regional Brazilian. A tight budget meant dining in Santa Teresa was not usually an option, though the prices seemed reasonable for the average American who can afford to fly down to Rio. A generous Mexican stranger with the company credit card treated the faux carioca and two other companions to lunch one afternoon in Santa Teresa. Unfortunately one of your gentle traveler’s less gracious, omnivorous companions failed to humor the faux carioca’s unwillingness to eat pork. This person—an uncouth twit, really, but probably a decent human being—devoured most of the fish leaving yours truly with little to eat. At least the balcony view outside of the washroom was lovely.
Of course what you really want to know is if Santa Teresa is Rio’s answer to Paris’ Montmartre of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Perhaps. There are hills, some churches (though no Sacré Coeur), and artists seem to live there. There do not appear to be bars on every corner and only a few coffee shops that are on the bourgeois side of things. Speaking of bourgeois, this seems like a fine time to mention that Santa Teresa is one of those neighborhoods considered “dangerous” by many Zona Sul (Ipanema, Leblon, Copacabana) residents. Perhaps it was simple ignorance, but this is one neighborhood in Rio where the faux carioca felt supremely comfortable. It struck her as familiar with its odd assortment of people and vaguely abandoned aspect on weekday afternoons. Of the few shops that do exist in Santa Teresa is a clothing boutique called Favela Hype (www.favelahype.com). The shop has a pink VW bug parked out front and sells original designs for women constructed by nearby favela (translation: slum) residents. Many of the clothes (often in pink and black) include elaborate embellishments, screenprinting, and have an ironic cute sensibility—as you might have already guessed from the brand name.
But back to the task at hand.
Is Santa Teresa Rio’s “most honest approximation” of Montmartre? Well, of course we only remember the greats who came out of Montmartre, don’t we? We don’t recall that Montmartre was likely teeming with hacks and no-talent drunks in addition to its more famous hunchbacked, limping little people (was there more than one?). In early July, Santa Teresa hosted its 18th annual Open Doors event during which 43 “ateliers” and 12 museums and cultural centers exhibited a range of work. Most of it bad. While some event attendees were clearly interested in seeing art, many were there to eat street food and have a drink or two. And why not? Much of the art, we must repeat, was remarkably bad. Boring crafty stuff, ugly paintings, well-constructed rugs in disruptive (not in a good way) colors. Among the better work was a collection of charcoal and ink abstract drawings by a recent Vietnamese immigrant. Interestingly, there appears to be a small clothing-as-art movement. Most of the garments were screen printed T-shirts, embroidered T-shirts, bedazzled T-shirts, painted T-shirts, handbags and totes—nothing terribly remarkable that one couldn’t find among the DIY crowd in the U.S.
Bless them all for trying, but the Open Doors were not nearly as inspiring as the faux carioca had hoped they would be. Rents, however, seem to be cheap and the neighborhood is quaint . . .
This is the final entry (for now) of Waxing Brazilian. There is a possibility that your faux carioca will return to Rio for further research. If she does, she will renew her life line to the gentle readers.
For now, you must content yourselves with a new blog on dress:
www.insideoutdress.wordpress.com
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
St. Lose Blues: Wake up and smell the yeast!
Dedicated American beer swillers may have heard about the recent sale of Anheuser-Busch to the international beer giant InBev. In a human interest story (“Anger and Dismay at the Sale of a City Treasure”, New York Times 7/16/2008) that took readers to the heart of the USA (also affectionately referred to as “flyover” country by coastal snore meisters), a reporter spoke with St. Louis blue-collar workers concerned about the future of their jobs. People expressed a sense of betrayal over the St.Louis-based company’s promise not to sell the brewery and reflected upon the imminent demise of days when a laborer could achieve the American Dream with hard work and company loyalty. Now St. Louisans must face the bitter reality that Detroiters faced years ago. Bad beer and gas-guzzlers sometimes lose in the global marketplace.
But hope is not easily quashed in the American heart and with InBev promising not to close any of its US breweries, a Teamster can dream. Better to devise Plan B, says the faux carioca. This is business. Big business.
The New York Times represents InBev as a Belgian company. While its headquarters are in Belgium, the company is truly a round table of international business sharks with Brazil serving as the biggest fish in the sea being the primary producer of Brazil’s (bad) beer. InBev was created through a merger of the Brazilian company AmBev and the Belgian Interbrew in 2004. Moreover, its CEO is the aggressive Brazilian and Stanford MBA, Carlos Brito. When he worked for AmBev, Brito was known for his tough driving market-expansion, moneymaking skills. One way he effectively cut costs was by cutting jobs. Teamster brewers are advised to check the expiration date on their benefits.
But hope is not easily quashed in the American heart and with InBev promising not to close any of its US breweries, a Teamster can dream. Better to devise Plan B, says the faux carioca. This is business. Big business.
The New York Times represents InBev as a Belgian company. While its headquarters are in Belgium, the company is truly a round table of international business sharks with Brazil serving as the biggest fish in the sea being the primary producer of Brazil’s (bad) beer. InBev was created through a merger of the Brazilian company AmBev and the Belgian Interbrew in 2004. Moreover, its CEO is the aggressive Brazilian and Stanford MBA, Carlos Brito. When he worked for AmBev, Brito was known for his tough driving market-expansion, moneymaking skills. One way he effectively cut costs was by cutting jobs. Teamster brewers are advised to check the expiration date on their benefits.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Angry Asshole
In the U.S., to talk about a fondness for bidets indicates either a) a pretentious disposition or b) a preference for being sodomized (a clean butthole does not guarantee but may facilitate anal exploration by others). An American's love of the bidet may also suggest that one is both pretentious and likes to be buggered (e.g. bourgeois gay white male). Yet these are not absolutes. Is it not possible for any semi-old American to enjoy the daily pleasures of a cool, soothing anal cleansing? The Protestant disposition that pervades even among non-Protestants in the U.S. denies one the admission of such Dionysian pleasures so let us shift to another approach.
The bidet is so much more hygienic than rough dry toilet paper. So uncouth and oddly primate-like to crouch over a bowl scraping and wiping. After the bidet hose-down one pats dry with a clean, re-usable towel at the ready reducing the use of toilet paper/Sears' catalogs/leaves. Not only is this more civilized than scraping with thin paper squares, but it is also more environmentally friendly since the fluffy towel can be washed and re-used. And did we mention that the bidet is healthy? A lack of chafing reduces the incidence of hemorrhoids.
The asshole grown accustomed to a daily springtime rain freshness afforded by the bidet grows angry and puckers its mouth into an inflamed pout, "How did a country so obsessed with cleanliness come to cultivate such a nasty means for cleaning the seat of its constitution?"
The bidet is so much more hygienic than rough dry toilet paper. So uncouth and oddly primate-like to crouch over a bowl scraping and wiping. After the bidet hose-down one pats dry with a clean, re-usable towel at the ready reducing the use of toilet paper/Sears' catalogs/leaves. Not only is this more civilized than scraping with thin paper squares, but it is also more environmentally friendly since the fluffy towel can be washed and re-used. And did we mention that the bidet is healthy? A lack of chafing reduces the incidence of hemorrhoids.
The asshole grown accustomed to a daily springtime rain freshness afforded by the bidet grows angry and puckers its mouth into an inflamed pout, "How did a country so obsessed with cleanliness come to cultivate such a nasty means for cleaning the seat of its constitution?"
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Map, what map?
The faux carioca has returned to the too-tight embrace of Blow-me-ton where she languishes under the scourge of a nasty Brazilian cold and grows impatient with her wounded ankle. The good news is that an x-ray revealed no bones were broken or cracked during her assault on the other guy’s head. The bad news is that the ankle’s most important ligaments were sprained during the impact and it will be another 2-5 months before a full recovery. Strengthening the muscles in the foot is a good thing until it starts to hurt. When the hurting begins, so too shall the final installments of Waxing Brazilian.
So what does a gal have to do to get around Rio de Janeiro if she wants to add a little toxicity to the environment--and we’re not talking about a post beans and beer stroll by the beach. Well, she might drive a car or take a taxi but there is also the bus, the various illegal vans, or the Metro.
What is interesting about the bus and the vans is the lack of posted schedules or maps. Anywhere. While this makes sense for the contravans, it defies logic for the bus system. Buses are numbered and have destinations posted in the windows, e.g. Praça General Osorio via Barato Ribeiro. If the picky traveler wants to know whether a bus is heading near her destination, she must ask. She asks other riders, the bus driver, the money-taker that sits by the bus’ turnstile, but ask she must. Sometimes she receives correct, incomplete, over-detailed, or just plain wrong information. Yet Brazilian culture is very much shaped by oral tradition and there is a logic in the system of navigating buses by talking to other people. One Brazilian perspective might consider the individual mapping out her travel plans in solitude as lonely and weirdly antisocial. There is no reason to be so self-sufficient when there are other people on the streets who know how to get to point B from point A. The independent American spirit resists this reliance upon others, but is eventually served its humble pie (the only kind in Brazil) when in Rio--dropped incidentally, on the filthy bakery floor.
For a few centavos more, the city trekker can ride the clean and bourgeois Metro. Why bourgeois? Because the Metro includes so many useless ‘perks’. The thrifty carioca will regard the Metro as a needlessly expensive alternative to the vans and buses. Vans and buses range in price from R$2-2.40. The Metro, on the other hand, is R$2.60. For what does one pay up to an extra 60 centavos? Sure, there’s a map of the system in the subway cars (not very useful for someone trying to decide which train to board while wavering on the platform—better to ask someone). What’s more, the Metro plus its connecting buses are all air-conditioned. Air-conditioning, in case the gentle readers did not already know this, is a sign of civility. Over air-conditioning is the height of luxury that no self-respecting Third World elitist would dare complain about. But perhaps the greatest useless perk of using the Metro that serves to remind its riders of their bourgeois status is the music. Each air-conditioned bus and Metro station plays uninterrupted classical and jazz music. The rubes could never appreciate such refinement. Appropriately enough, crime is very low on the Metro. No one jumps the turnstiles or moves between subway cars. There is no one trying to sell socks or candy on the Metro. The homeless and the mentally ill steer clear. Truly the Rio Metro is a bourgeois paradise that is begging to be discovered by a savvy hustler.
So what does a gal have to do to get around Rio de Janeiro if she wants to add a little toxicity to the environment--and we’re not talking about a post beans and beer stroll by the beach. Well, she might drive a car or take a taxi but there is also the bus, the various illegal vans, or the Metro.
What is interesting about the bus and the vans is the lack of posted schedules or maps. Anywhere. While this makes sense for the contravans, it defies logic for the bus system. Buses are numbered and have destinations posted in the windows, e.g. Praça General Osorio via Barato Ribeiro. If the picky traveler wants to know whether a bus is heading near her destination, she must ask. She asks other riders, the bus driver, the money-taker that sits by the bus’ turnstile, but ask she must. Sometimes she receives correct, incomplete, over-detailed, or just plain wrong information. Yet Brazilian culture is very much shaped by oral tradition and there is a logic in the system of navigating buses by talking to other people. One Brazilian perspective might consider the individual mapping out her travel plans in solitude as lonely and weirdly antisocial. There is no reason to be so self-sufficient when there are other people on the streets who know how to get to point B from point A. The independent American spirit resists this reliance upon others, but is eventually served its humble pie (the only kind in Brazil) when in Rio--dropped incidentally, on the filthy bakery floor.
For a few centavos more, the city trekker can ride the clean and bourgeois Metro. Why bourgeois? Because the Metro includes so many useless ‘perks’. The thrifty carioca will regard the Metro as a needlessly expensive alternative to the vans and buses. Vans and buses range in price from R$2-2.40. The Metro, on the other hand, is R$2.60. For what does one pay up to an extra 60 centavos? Sure, there’s a map of the system in the subway cars (not very useful for someone trying to decide which train to board while wavering on the platform—better to ask someone). What’s more, the Metro plus its connecting buses are all air-conditioned. Air-conditioning, in case the gentle readers did not already know this, is a sign of civility. Over air-conditioning is the height of luxury that no self-respecting Third World elitist would dare complain about. But perhaps the greatest useless perk of using the Metro that serves to remind its riders of their bourgeois status is the music. Each air-conditioned bus and Metro station plays uninterrupted classical and jazz music. The rubes could never appreciate such refinement. Appropriately enough, crime is very low on the Metro. No one jumps the turnstiles or moves between subway cars. There is no one trying to sell socks or candy on the Metro. The homeless and the mentally ill steer clear. Truly the Rio Metro is a bourgeois paradise that is begging to be discovered by a savvy hustler.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Proper Burial Forthcoming
Dear gentle readers,
The faux carioca had such grand plans to be your correspondent from Brazil. Over the next two weeks she was going to report dutifully on food, people, and practices. Alas, the system is down. The computer in her host mother's apartment protested said mother's recent departure for a two month stay in France. Things went awry less than a week into the faux carioca's unlimited access to 21st century technology. The CPU now squeaks mournfully when it is turned on and the screen remains black.
So it goes.
The faux carioca must regretfully put Waxing Brazilian on hiatus. While the she shudders at the thought of maintaining a blog on a regular basis, she is disappointed to end this one so abruptly and unexpectedly. Your trusty correspondent will do her best to file last reports when she has returned to the US. Oh sure, she could write now and again from Rio but the truth is she is tightening her belt to make the budget last and Internet cafes are cheap though not free.
Speaking of returning to the US, does anyone know someone interested in breakfasting or brunching with the faux carioca on Wednesday July 16 in Houston? She will be arriving in Houston at 5:20 a.m. with a connecting flight to Indianapolis scheduled for 4:15 p.m. That's a long ass time to spend reading magazines and drinking cocktails in an over air-conditioned stinkhole. Charming as the Houston airport might be, the faux carioca would love a respite after an overnight flight from Rio. Please advise via e-mail on people to call and places to visit!
Beijos.
The faux carioca had such grand plans to be your correspondent from Brazil. Over the next two weeks she was going to report dutifully on food, people, and practices. Alas, the system is down. The computer in her host mother's apartment protested said mother's recent departure for a two month stay in France. Things went awry less than a week into the faux carioca's unlimited access to 21st century technology. The CPU now squeaks mournfully when it is turned on and the screen remains black.
So it goes.
The faux carioca must regretfully put Waxing Brazilian on hiatus. While the she shudders at the thought of maintaining a blog on a regular basis, she is disappointed to end this one so abruptly and unexpectedly. Your trusty correspondent will do her best to file last reports when she has returned to the US. Oh sure, she could write now and again from Rio but the truth is she is tightening her belt to make the budget last and Internet cafes are cheap though not free.
Speaking of returning to the US, does anyone know someone interested in breakfasting or brunching with the faux carioca on Wednesday July 16 in Houston? She will be arriving in Houston at 5:20 a.m. with a connecting flight to Indianapolis scheduled for 4:15 p.m. That's a long ass time to spend reading magazines and drinking cocktails in an over air-conditioned stinkhole. Charming as the Houston airport might be, the faux carioca would love a respite after an overnight flight from Rio. Please advise via e-mail on people to call and places to visit!
Beijos.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Update
Regular readers will have noted the lack of postings lately. The faux carioca is reaching the end of her language and culture program so she has been very busy. In the next week she will try to get you caught up on the following:
- Oral tradition in Brazil and what this means for public transportation.
- Hillbilly month in Brazil (June).
- Capoeira as a butch form of dance.
- Her fresh-juice-a-day mission.
- The ankle is on the mend, but the faux carioca is still gimping around. A few days with absolutely no walking--being carried on a litter would be appropriate--would expedite her recovery, but this simply cannot be accomplished.
- Research at the Carmen Miranda Museum has been going well, but won't be complete by the time she returns to the U.S. (Has the faux carioca told you lately how incredibly helpful the museum staff are?) Interviews are on the horizon for sometime between July 1 and July 15.
- The movie "Control" has beautiful cinematography.
- Oddly enough, drag shows in Rio seem to start on time. This was bad news that the faux carioca recently received when she was functioning on Brazilian time and had planned to catch a show of impersonators singing songs from various divas including, she had hoped, Carmen Miranda.
- Of the 10 students in her program, the faux carioca and one other person (the guy she kicked in the head--the faux carioca's magic is contagious!) are the only people who have not been robbed, had a knife held to their throat, identity stolen, etc.
- Last week was Fashion Week in São Paulo and bloomers made their appearance again. The pendulum of fashion has a tendency to swing from one extreme to the other. The thong, Brazilian freaks and the faux carioca agree, is better left in the bedroom. The faux carioca wouldn't dream of denying anyone the right to sport a filo de dental (dental floss), but she must confess that she is a bloomer radical for all occasions. Sexy and comfortable!
Letter from Brazil to Barack Obama
Dear Barack Obama,
Though your hands be as soft as a baby's bottom from many years of laboring with the mind, the honeymoon is over. The faux carioca still loves your sparkling eyes and admires your optimism, but she's disappointed with your position on corn-based ethanol. Who doesn't want to help out the Midwestern farmer? How could we deny assistance to friendly folks who get their kicks from building sculptures out of butter at the state fair? The rub, golden boy, is that these same nice people are growing a food staple that provides a good portion of the world's diet. Fine. Subsidize the growth of these crops. But does it really make sense to give farmers support to turn that same food staple into fuel that will feed the American gas guzzler?
You have also proposed maintaining the tariffs on Brazilian sugar cane ethanol. The energy ratio of sugar cane ethanol to corn is 8 to 1. The math here is simple. Moreover, unless you're Chrystal F. (and there can be only one Chrystal), sugar cane is not essential to anyone's diet.
We need to find other solutions to the high cost of fuel. At the risk of sounding like an idealist, the faux carioca suggests that in addition to the use of more energy efficient sugar cane ethanol, we consider alternatives to the car. Why not provide subsidies for increased bus service, for example? Or perhaps provide municipal bicycles as the Parisians have done?
Stay in touch and please try to do the right thing,
Faux Carioca
Though your hands be as soft as a baby's bottom from many years of laboring with the mind, the honeymoon is over. The faux carioca still loves your sparkling eyes and admires your optimism, but she's disappointed with your position on corn-based ethanol. Who doesn't want to help out the Midwestern farmer? How could we deny assistance to friendly folks who get their kicks from building sculptures out of butter at the state fair? The rub, golden boy, is that these same nice people are growing a food staple that provides a good portion of the world's diet. Fine. Subsidize the growth of these crops. But does it really make sense to give farmers support to turn that same food staple into fuel that will feed the American gas guzzler?
You have also proposed maintaining the tariffs on Brazilian sugar cane ethanol. The energy ratio of sugar cane ethanol to corn is 8 to 1. The math here is simple. Moreover, unless you're Chrystal F. (and there can be only one Chrystal), sugar cane is not essential to anyone's diet.
We need to find other solutions to the high cost of fuel. At the risk of sounding like an idealist, the faux carioca suggests that in addition to the use of more energy efficient sugar cane ethanol, we consider alternatives to the car. Why not provide subsidies for increased bus service, for example? Or perhaps provide municipal bicycles as the Parisians have done?
Stay in touch and please try to do the right thing,
Faux Carioca
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Photos from Daspu
The woman with no shirt is a well-known "actress" in Brazil who appeared in the fashion show. There was a top that completed the ensemble, but she decided to remove it and feature the shorts instead. The demure dress on the right is from an official Fashion Rio event.
Daspu
CONTINUED FROM THE PREVIOUS ENTRY ("NIGHTLIFE").
When the faux carioca arrived at the apartment building of her new friend, the real carioca met her in the lobby equipped with two large rolls of tape. They descended into the parking garage where the friend settled on the shabbier of her two cars and began to alter a '6' into a '0' on her license plate. Although the faux carioca did not understand the explanation for this handiwork, she decided to trust her more experienced companion's judgment.
Traffic was not as bad as they had anticipated and they arrived at the samba school just before the scheduled start time of 8:00. Of course, the only thing to start on time in Brazil is quitting time at work. So for the next hour and a half they chatted and looked at previous seasons' garb being sold in a booth at the entrance to the performance space. The room where the event was being held was really more of a small arena or very large mechanic's garage--a concrete affair with large rolling door entrances and a balcony area on three of the four sides. Plastic tables and chairs were scattered on either side of the catwalk.
The real carioca suggested they wait until after the show to buy any clothes since new stuff might be brought out to the booths at the end. As the space began to fill with people, the faux carioca grew nervous that the booth would be sold out of goods before the end of the evening (she was right). So she insisted on making her purchases before the program began. Afterwards, the two women stood next to the booth observing the crowd. A roving TV journalist made eye contact with her and before she could turn away, a bright light blinded the faux carioca and a microphone was in her face. So it happened that the faux carioca was interviewed for Brazilian TV and gave the journalist the fodder he sought by saying that there were no hooker designer labels in the U.S.
So who attended the event? All manner of people including middle-class slummers, the press, gay men, friends to the ladies, hipster lesbians (hookers? stage managers? both?), artsy types, and a random fag dork. The event began with several poetry and performance pieces that were 'beautified' by a middle-aged queen channeling Galliano who danced around the catwalk and stage with 3 meters of sheer fabric. After the performances a funk band (guitarist, bassist, drummer, keyboardist, a vocalist, and a guy scratching on two turntables) played. The band (whose name the faux carioca never learned) was kick ass and part of a Brazilian soul tradition. The crowd went wild when they did their own version of a song by the legendary Tim Maia (the Brazilian Barry White). For readers curious to know various Brazilian political opinions regarding the forthcoming U.S. election, you might be interested to learn that one singer wore a T-shirt that read, "Barack Obama for President."
After the funk band, a minister of arts talked for too long while nobody listened. The fashion show proper was preceded by members of the samba school, Tijuca, dressed in what appeared to be Elizabethan jester attire. They came out from the shadows and rafters and crept around the space before they began to dance samba as members of the bateria played music. Next a group of about 20 queens in Renaissance attire carrying swords made their dramatic entrance to "O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana. No doubt the gentle reader wonders about the men in centuries-spanning European tights theme. Daspu's latest collection (casual wear and attire for people in the sex industry) is called, "Cruzadas Batalha" (Fighting Crusaders) whose theme is "as cruzadas--entre o botão e a espada" (crusaders--between the button and the sword). Button here means clothes button, but it may very well also be a slang term for a lady's naughty bit.
The collection itself--modeled mostly by prostitutes, one gigantic transvestite, and a telenovela sex symbol--was not as racy as you might imagine. Brazilian fashion-loving prostitutes and the faux carioca agree that super low slung pants are a trend that has been around for far too long. Daspu's collection for spring/summer 2009 included very high-waisted satin bloomers along the lines of a 1930s chorus girl in a Busby Berkeley film. Where it got Brazilian was in the rear with the lower bits of buttocks hanging out, though less extremely so than what one sees on the beaches here. Brass buttons marched down the ass-crack from the waist to further emphasize the much beloved Brazilian bunda. A number of such bloomers and similar trousers were featured along with loose, logo-emblazoned, jersey knit shirts and dresses ornamented by long, thin, gold leather belts wrapped multiple times around the body in a Greco-Roman fashion. One of the faux carioca's favorite pieces was a onesie shorts jumpsuit that looked like an early 20th century bathing costume. In terms of styling the collection, the designers have clearly been minding their Miuccia Prada and coordinated colorful knee-high stockings to be worn with many of their very wearable ensembles.
The faux and real cariocas stayed around afterwards to watch the samba school perform. Your gentle writer has long suspected that carnaval in Rio would be a nightmare for her. This tiny taste of the sambodromo affirmed her suspicions that one hour of eardrum shattering tinny drum beats and countless naked silicone-enhanced asses shaking but not jiggling would be quite enough.
The entire 20 minute drive back to Copacabana the real carioca talked about all of the danger surrounding them--"this area is very dark and dangerous so we can't come to a complete stop, you should never ever go to that place, over there is where the son of a famous surgeon was murdered, look at these dangerous people over here, now we're entering the tunnel where roving gangs stop cars and assault people, I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I'm afraid to drive by myself after I drop you off, etc." All in all it was a disturbing ride that left the faux carioca no worse for the wear.
When the faux carioca arrived at the apartment building of her new friend, the real carioca met her in the lobby equipped with two large rolls of tape. They descended into the parking garage where the friend settled on the shabbier of her two cars and began to alter a '6' into a '0' on her license plate. Although the faux carioca did not understand the explanation for this handiwork, she decided to trust her more experienced companion's judgment.
Traffic was not as bad as they had anticipated and they arrived at the samba school just before the scheduled start time of 8:00. Of course, the only thing to start on time in Brazil is quitting time at work. So for the next hour and a half they chatted and looked at previous seasons' garb being sold in a booth at the entrance to the performance space. The room where the event was being held was really more of a small arena or very large mechanic's garage--a concrete affair with large rolling door entrances and a balcony area on three of the four sides. Plastic tables and chairs were scattered on either side of the catwalk.
The real carioca suggested they wait until after the show to buy any clothes since new stuff might be brought out to the booths at the end. As the space began to fill with people, the faux carioca grew nervous that the booth would be sold out of goods before the end of the evening (she was right). So she insisted on making her purchases before the program began. Afterwards, the two women stood next to the booth observing the crowd. A roving TV journalist made eye contact with her and before she could turn away, a bright light blinded the faux carioca and a microphone was in her face. So it happened that the faux carioca was interviewed for Brazilian TV and gave the journalist the fodder he sought by saying that there were no hooker designer labels in the U.S.
So who attended the event? All manner of people including middle-class slummers, the press, gay men, friends to the ladies, hipster lesbians (hookers? stage managers? both?), artsy types, and a random fag dork. The event began with several poetry and performance pieces that were 'beautified' by a middle-aged queen channeling Galliano who danced around the catwalk and stage with 3 meters of sheer fabric. After the performances a funk band (guitarist, bassist, drummer, keyboardist, a vocalist, and a guy scratching on two turntables) played. The band (whose name the faux carioca never learned) was kick ass and part of a Brazilian soul tradition. The crowd went wild when they did their own version of a song by the legendary Tim Maia (the Brazilian Barry White). For readers curious to know various Brazilian political opinions regarding the forthcoming U.S. election, you might be interested to learn that one singer wore a T-shirt that read, "Barack Obama for President."
After the funk band, a minister of arts talked for too long while nobody listened. The fashion show proper was preceded by members of the samba school, Tijuca, dressed in what appeared to be Elizabethan jester attire. They came out from the shadows and rafters and crept around the space before they began to dance samba as members of the bateria played music. Next a group of about 20 queens in Renaissance attire carrying swords made their dramatic entrance to "O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana. No doubt the gentle reader wonders about the men in centuries-spanning European tights theme. Daspu's latest collection (casual wear and attire for people in the sex industry) is called, "Cruzadas Batalha" (Fighting Crusaders) whose theme is "as cruzadas--entre o botão e a espada" (crusaders--between the button and the sword). Button here means clothes button, but it may very well also be a slang term for a lady's naughty bit.
The collection itself--modeled mostly by prostitutes, one gigantic transvestite, and a telenovela sex symbol--was not as racy as you might imagine. Brazilian fashion-loving prostitutes and the faux carioca agree that super low slung pants are a trend that has been around for far too long. Daspu's collection for spring/summer 2009 included very high-waisted satin bloomers along the lines of a 1930s chorus girl in a Busby Berkeley film. Where it got Brazilian was in the rear with the lower bits of buttocks hanging out, though less extremely so than what one sees on the beaches here. Brass buttons marched down the ass-crack from the waist to further emphasize the much beloved Brazilian bunda. A number of such bloomers and similar trousers were featured along with loose, logo-emblazoned, jersey knit shirts and dresses ornamented by long, thin, gold leather belts wrapped multiple times around the body in a Greco-Roman fashion. One of the faux carioca's favorite pieces was a onesie shorts jumpsuit that looked like an early 20th century bathing costume. In terms of styling the collection, the designers have clearly been minding their Miuccia Prada and coordinated colorful knee-high stockings to be worn with many of their very wearable ensembles.
The faux and real cariocas stayed around afterwards to watch the samba school perform. Your gentle writer has long suspected that carnaval in Rio would be a nightmare for her. This tiny taste of the sambodromo affirmed her suspicions that one hour of eardrum shattering tinny drum beats and countless naked silicone-enhanced asses shaking but not jiggling would be quite enough.
The entire 20 minute drive back to Copacabana the real carioca talked about all of the danger surrounding them--"this area is very dark and dangerous so we can't come to a complete stop, you should never ever go to that place, over there is where the son of a famous surgeon was murdered, look at these dangerous people over here, now we're entering the tunnel where roving gangs stop cars and assault people, I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I'm afraid to drive by myself after I drop you off, etc." All in all it was a disturbing ride that left the faux carioca no worse for the wear.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Nightlife
Gentle readers may have heard that Rio de Janeiro is a dangerous city. What you have heard is true. At night people in cars tear through traffic lights to avoid being attacked by roving gangs of thugs while their cars are stopped. Certain parts of the city are to be avoided altogether. This is not easy to do considering the city's topographically-influenced way of separating the rich from the poor. There are a number of mountains scattered throughout the city called morros. On the morros are the favelas (slums). In the valleys in between the morros are the shops and the middle-class who must pass through tunnels under the mountains to travel between work and home, etc. Of course not everyone who lives in a morro is a thug. Most people are simply the working poor. Still, it is the drug lords and the thugs who control what happens in the favelas. Though lately it seems the drug lords are being replaced by armed militia-for-hire who have connections to dirty politicians and the police. [See the following recent article: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/13/world/americas/13brazil.html?pagewanted=1&tntemail1=y&emc=tnt]
The faux carioca explains all of this to you so that you understand why she seldom goes out at night. Even the major thoroughfare where her middle-class Copacabana apartment building is located is considered very dangerous after a certain hour (let's call it 11). Oh sure, she could go to Ipanema or Leblon and take a cab back home. But boring, overpriced nightclubs don't interest the faux carioca and she doesn't know anyone who can accompany her to the more interesting bohemian night spots. Still, your faux carioca is nothing if not resourceful when she is determined. Last night she simply had to attend the prostitute fashion show on the wrong side of the city's longest tunnel.
Daspu (www.daspu.com.br) is a fashion line created by a group of prostitutes. "Daspu", of course, being short for das putas (from the whores). In yesterday's O Globo, the faux carioca learned that Daspu was putting on a fashion show so she ditched her plans to crash another fashion event. Readers should note that it has been fashion week in Rio for the spring/summer 2009 Brazilian collections and the faux carioca wanted to catch at least one show. Perhaps not surprisingly, Daspu was not invited to participate in Fashion Rio and so created their own show calling their event "off-fashion." But however to get to the gig?
The faux carioca could find only one person willing to join her and sadly he is a walking target for all manner of assaults. Thankfully there's some kind of magic in the Carmen Miranda Museum. The museum and its staff have been like a charm to your gentle writer. When the faux carioca's target companion realized that it would be safer for everyone if he didn't travel so far afield, she told the delightful staff about her dilemma. The museum's director expressed an interest but had another comittment. One dear woman said she would go and that she had a car--considerably safer than public transportation or trying to find a taxi in the neighborhood after the show ended.
So the two women drove to São Cristão just north of the Sambodromo where the event was being held in a samba school.
To be continued.
The faux carioca explains all of this to you so that you understand why she seldom goes out at night. Even the major thoroughfare where her middle-class Copacabana apartment building is located is considered very dangerous after a certain hour (let's call it 11). Oh sure, she could go to Ipanema or Leblon and take a cab back home. But boring, overpriced nightclubs don't interest the faux carioca and she doesn't know anyone who can accompany her to the more interesting bohemian night spots. Still, your faux carioca is nothing if not resourceful when she is determined. Last night she simply had to attend the prostitute fashion show on the wrong side of the city's longest tunnel.
Daspu (www.daspu.com.br) is a fashion line created by a group of prostitutes. "Daspu", of course, being short for das putas (from the whores). In yesterday's O Globo, the faux carioca learned that Daspu was putting on a fashion show so she ditched her plans to crash another fashion event. Readers should note that it has been fashion week in Rio for the spring/summer 2009 Brazilian collections and the faux carioca wanted to catch at least one show. Perhaps not surprisingly, Daspu was not invited to participate in Fashion Rio and so created their own show calling their event "off-fashion." But however to get to the gig?
The faux carioca could find only one person willing to join her and sadly he is a walking target for all manner of assaults. Thankfully there's some kind of magic in the Carmen Miranda Museum. The museum and its staff have been like a charm to your gentle writer. When the faux carioca's target companion realized that it would be safer for everyone if he didn't travel so far afield, she told the delightful staff about her dilemma. The museum's director expressed an interest but had another comittment. One dear woman said she would go and that she had a car--considerably safer than public transportation or trying to find a taxi in the neighborhood after the show ended.
So the two women drove to São Cristão just north of the Sambodromo where the event was being held in a samba school.
To be continued.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Care for queijo?
The faux carioca wishes she knew more about Brazilian cheese. From what she has been able to sniff out thus far, fresh cheeses are more common than aged cheeses. Minas Gerais cheese (named for the state) is especially popular. While the cheeses here are tasty, they are flavorless compared to the sweaty-old-socks stinking French cheeses. On a recent trip to the grocery store the faux carioca noticed a whole host of pricey French cheeses. Yet she couldn't quite figure out if the cheese was unpasteurized. For those of you acquainted with this particular axe that the faux carioca likes to grind, you will know that the unpasteurization of the cheese is key. 'Impurities' breed deliciousness. She hesitated to splurge because the brie was carefully preserved in a refrigerated bin--a no-no in France. For the French, cheese is alive not dead. To put the living edible in a refrigerator is to suggest that the cheese is a corpse bound for the morgue.
The faux carioca will investigate cheese further.
The faux carioca will investigate cheese further.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Tristes Tropiques, Poliéster Tropiques
After receiving a WTO ruling in its favor, the Brazilian government recently announced that it was going to seek retaliatory trade sanctions against the U.S. government for cotton subsidies it is required to pay. Money paid to the U.S. to protect the American industry has resulted in higher cotton costs in Brazil. No doubt this explains the proliferation of polyester clothing here.
Some variations of polyester fibers are better than others but ultimately it remains an impractical textile for clothing use in a hot, humid climate. True, it does not hold wrinkles and is easy to care for. But often, though not always, it is ugly and it simply does not breathe.
The faux carioca recently learned that there are several raw materials used to manufacture a range of polyester types. One of them is petroleum, though she is not sure if this is what goes into the making of textiles. Certainly, a fashionable environmentalist's strongest argument in favor of sustainable natural fibers such as cotton and bamboo is not wanting to support the manufacture of petroleum-based polyester clothing. This argument allows her to be both a textile snob and self-righteous. Charming qualities, to be sure. However, this being Brazil, one wonders if the colorful polyester tops that abound aren't running on ethanol.
Some variations of polyester fibers are better than others but ultimately it remains an impractical textile for clothing use in a hot, humid climate. True, it does not hold wrinkles and is easy to care for. But often, though not always, it is ugly and it simply does not breathe.
The faux carioca recently learned that there are several raw materials used to manufacture a range of polyester types. One of them is petroleum, though she is not sure if this is what goes into the making of textiles. Certainly, a fashionable environmentalist's strongest argument in favor of sustainable natural fibers such as cotton and bamboo is not wanting to support the manufacture of petroleum-based polyester clothing. This argument allows her to be both a textile snob and self-righteous. Charming qualities, to be sure. However, this being Brazil, one wonders if the colorful polyester tops that abound aren't running on ethanol.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Beach Antics
Before the faux carioca explains the ugly picture in this posting she wants to get on the good foot and send out birthday wishes. May birthdays included Nicole B., Sharon G., Kristy J., and Brian T. In June Debs C. and Anna K. will celebrate birthdays towards the end of the month. Happy birthday to all. Remember that you have to get down in order to get up.
Sigh. The ugly, swollen and bruised left foot in the photo belongs to the faux carioca. Regular readers may have already guessed how this happened. The will is stronger than the body for the faux carioca and, yes, capoeira, it would seem, serves only to remind.
It was a picturesque sunny Monday at the beach on the island of Morro de São Paulo. Gentle waves, few other tourists, cocktails delivered when the beach bum so much as considered having a drink. Best of all there appeared to be little crime on this part of the island where residents are largely dependent upon tourists for their income. The anxieties and violence of Salvador seemed more than a 2 1/2 catamaran ride away. Yet the faux carioca couldn't simply settle into the sand and sip a caipirinha. She had seen her share of capoeira in recent days and was ready to give it the old college try. Foolishly she decided to practice with someone as inexperienced as she. They both screwed up--he didn't duck, she didn't have sufficient control of her movement to stop--and she spun around to kick the other fellow in the head hitting him squarely with her left ankle bone. The shock of the impact shot up her leg as she tried to walk it off. Her partner assured her that he was fine and was ready to give it another try. Absurdly enough, for a few moments she considered doing so before reason, self-preservation, and sheer pain kicked in.
For the remainder of the afternoon the faux carioca lay on the beach icing her ankle. When one clever fellow noted, "That's not right. You were the aggressor and yet you were the one who got hurt" her mood took a bitter and self-pitying turn. As the sun began to set behind the dark cloud conjured by her gloomy state of mind, the faux carioca limped along the beach silently cursing everyone who failed to notice and help. True, she was too idiotic to swallow her pride and ask for help but anyone could see she was in bad shape. She considered that a thong or a wig might have made her a more appealing wounded bird. At the beach's end, at the bottom of a hill the faux carioca's professor saw her and offered assistance back to the pousada. She gratefully accepted but realized after climbing two steps that she was going to hurt herself more if she had to walk the whole way back. Her only option was a wheelbarrow ride.
There are no cars on this side of the island and resourceful men-for-hire move through the hilly, wet sand streets offering to wheel luggage for tourists between the dock and the pousadas. So the old bag crankily dumped herself into a wheelbarrow and scowled at everyone who did and did not smile at the site of her. Now she is reduced to wearing flip flops everyday and trailing her gimpy left foot behind the rest of her corpse.
Is the ankle broken? Probably not since the foot can be moved but she's ready for the pain--wigless and thongless--to go back to the beaches of Morro de São Paulo where she found it.
This tale should really end here but the excitement of the following day cannot be omitted. In the morning the faux carioca enjoyed a limpy stroll on the beach with her real carioca Portuguese instructor. Along the way, they stopped to have some delicious coconut water straight from the coconut. Mmm mmm good. They stumped to one end of the fourth beach and stumped back to the second beach where lounge chairs and umbrellas could be rented. It could have been the heat. Or maybe it was the coconut. It may also have been the constant pain in her left foot that caused the faux carioca to feel nauseous by the time she sank into her wooden chaise.
Over the course of the next hour or so the faux carioca rapidly hop-stepped to a nearby bathroom when she twice felt overcome by the urge to vomit. Each time proved to be a false alarm. Thank gourd the third time is a charm. As the sun rose higher in the sky someone nearby ordered a plate filled with odoriferous seasoned fish. Another person puffed on a cigarette. A man reeking of stale body fluids stood too close. Wild-eyed and in a sweat, she sprang up from repose and looked around frantically for something to heave into between the chaise and the bathroom. Nothing. Uncontrollably she heaved anyway. Ever mindful of the other beachgoers' meals, she accomplished a feat she had not thought possible and hastily carried a mouthful of vomit to the bathroom where she continued to retch.
Sly Civility
The faux carioca has just returned from a week spent in close quarters with eight undergraduate students plus one nice graduate student with whom she has little in common. The faux carioca does not like to be in close quarters with anyone for an extended period of time and certainly not when she is in potentially dangerous situations. All things considered, she managed to keep the violence to a minimum by only going off on one student, snapping at a second, kicking a third in the head, and restraining from slapping a fourth.
The week-long 'vacation' began in Salvador, Bahia. As many gentle readers may already know, Salvador was a major slave port well into the 19th century. Today African-descended people and culture constitute a vibrant presence here. Because the culture course for our program is very much concerned with matters of race, culture, and national identity, a visit to the historic Pelourinho district in Salvador was not to be missed.
The Pelourinho is an old colonial part of the city with narrow cobbled streets, brightly painted buildings, gorgeous churches and other structures built on the backs of slaves. The churches in particular are meticulously crafted. The facade of one was carved entirely by hand using small dental-type tools. After the churches were built, African-descended people were prohibited from attending mass. The gentle reader protests: Wasn't an important aspect of Portuguese colonization the Catholic project of converting so-called heathens? But some details--like church facades and numbers--are more important than others for the Catholic church. A practicing resemblance to Catholicism that white folk didn't have to look at was A-OK. In a region where many people shared Yoruban or Angolan heritage and remained in contact with each other, elements of earlier African practices were kept alive. This was true in a variety of ways including in the Brazilian religion of Candomblé, which incorporates elements of Catholicism and Yoruban beliefs. Some have argued that Candomblé evolved as a way of masking the Yoruban belief system where some saints have become almost interchangeable with orixás. This is debateable. Yet there is no denying that today elements of Yoruban and Catholic religious practices comingle in Candomblé.
Today Candomblé is not only Afro-Brazilian but also an important part of much of Brazilian culture. Deities/saints regularly materialize through possession of human bodies and can be called upon, supplicated to grant healing, protection, wishes and so on. Truly it is a very rational and hopeful belief system that can hold little appeal for those who see little logic in the ways of the world (world including the material and anything else you like).
On a different note, it is provocative to consider that Candomblé evolved as a form of--if the faux carioca's recollection of Homi Bhabha is correct--sly civility in which the oppressed find ways of resisting oppression while giving the appearance of submission. This perspective is an interesting one when considering Salvador today. The historic Pelourinho district lost its romantic luster made famous by Jorge Amado sometime in the 1960s or so when it became a seedy, violent area. In the 1980s a project (by the city? the state?) was begun to turn the area into a tourist destination. Buildings were renovated, undesirables moved out, and police brought in. This project has been quite successful until very recently. In the past year there has been a trend to return the Pelourinho back to the people. The method for doing so includes removing police from the streets after a certain hour (who knows when?) so that poor people feel comfortable visiting the neighborhood. Unfortunately, many of the poor in Salvador are literally starving to death and are understandably desperate. Imagine this recipe.
Recipe for violent crime: Less than 2% of the city's inhabitants are 'middle-class' the rest are poor and many live on the streets. People are desperate and hungry. Tourists in the Pelourinho are rich and easily identified. Currently we are in the low tourist season. There are no police on the dimly lit streets after a certain hour.
The faux carioca went out dancing one night in the Pelourinho within a four block radius of her hostel. There were five people in her group including one real carioca. The clubs were teeming with young Baianos looking for tourist women to have sex with and probably garner a few drinks or dollars in the process. The faux carioca had a delightful time learning how to dance farol (from the English phrase 'for all') with a handsome gentleman hustler who left her alone when he realized he would not be procuring dollars or sex from her. Everyone seemed to have a delightful time. Just this side of fun's peak, the faux carioca wanted to go back to the hostel. One of her rules of thumb is to leave while she's having a good time because the evening will only end in disappointment. But she was hungry and so were the others so they went to a restaurant on the square. The food took too long to arrive and the 'mathematician' in the group took too long to calculate (to the penny) how much each person owed. Meanwhile, food vendors packed up carts, the streets emptied, and desperate children walked back and forth looking at the people seated on the right side of the sidewalk planters.
The real carioca told the group that they had to walk the two blocks back to the hostel extremely fast. She bolted out of the outdoor cafe and the faux carioca quickly reached her side and locked arms with her. A man immediately approached the cariocas and the real one gave him her water. They wove in and out of scattered carts and people at a speed walker's pace. The faux carioca wondered if the others were behind but couldn't pause to look back. About 18 feet from the hostel she heard one of the others yelling for one fellow to catch up. The cariocas stopped and turned to see a scuffle and someone rip the silver chain off of one of the party's necks. Going back would have been foolish (as it was for the shouter) so they high-tailed it to the hostel where the others caught up. It was at this moment that the faux carioca wanted to slap the straggler for being so slow and not recognizing the danger that he put himself in as well as the rest of the group. The faux carioca has never experienced such an intense 25 yard walk. The faux carioca is not easily frightened but in that five minute walk a violent end did not seem an unlikely prospect.
There's more to the desperate pulse of Salvador. There's always more, but this tale will have to be continued later.
The week-long 'vacation' began in Salvador, Bahia. As many gentle readers may already know, Salvador was a major slave port well into the 19th century. Today African-descended people and culture constitute a vibrant presence here. Because the culture course for our program is very much concerned with matters of race, culture, and national identity, a visit to the historic Pelourinho district in Salvador was not to be missed.
The Pelourinho is an old colonial part of the city with narrow cobbled streets, brightly painted buildings, gorgeous churches and other structures built on the backs of slaves. The churches in particular are meticulously crafted. The facade of one was carved entirely by hand using small dental-type tools. After the churches were built, African-descended people were prohibited from attending mass. The gentle reader protests: Wasn't an important aspect of Portuguese colonization the Catholic project of converting so-called heathens? But some details--like church facades and numbers--are more important than others for the Catholic church. A practicing resemblance to Catholicism that white folk didn't have to look at was A-OK. In a region where many people shared Yoruban or Angolan heritage and remained in contact with each other, elements of earlier African practices were kept alive. This was true in a variety of ways including in the Brazilian religion of Candomblé, which incorporates elements of Catholicism and Yoruban beliefs. Some have argued that Candomblé evolved as a way of masking the Yoruban belief system where some saints have become almost interchangeable with orixás. This is debateable. Yet there is no denying that today elements of Yoruban and Catholic religious practices comingle in Candomblé.
Today Candomblé is not only Afro-Brazilian but also an important part of much of Brazilian culture. Deities/saints regularly materialize through possession of human bodies and can be called upon, supplicated to grant healing, protection, wishes and so on. Truly it is a very rational and hopeful belief system that can hold little appeal for those who see little logic in the ways of the world (world including the material and anything else you like).
On a different note, it is provocative to consider that Candomblé evolved as a form of--if the faux carioca's recollection of Homi Bhabha is correct--sly civility in which the oppressed find ways of resisting oppression while giving the appearance of submission. This perspective is an interesting one when considering Salvador today. The historic Pelourinho district lost its romantic luster made famous by Jorge Amado sometime in the 1960s or so when it became a seedy, violent area. In the 1980s a project (by the city? the state?) was begun to turn the area into a tourist destination. Buildings were renovated, undesirables moved out, and police brought in. This project has been quite successful until very recently. In the past year there has been a trend to return the Pelourinho back to the people. The method for doing so includes removing police from the streets after a certain hour (who knows when?) so that poor people feel comfortable visiting the neighborhood. Unfortunately, many of the poor in Salvador are literally starving to death and are understandably desperate. Imagine this recipe.
Recipe for violent crime: Less than 2% of the city's inhabitants are 'middle-class' the rest are poor and many live on the streets. People are desperate and hungry. Tourists in the Pelourinho are rich and easily identified. Currently we are in the low tourist season. There are no police on the dimly lit streets after a certain hour.
The faux carioca went out dancing one night in the Pelourinho within a four block radius of her hostel. There were five people in her group including one real carioca. The clubs were teeming with young Baianos looking for tourist women to have sex with and probably garner a few drinks or dollars in the process. The faux carioca had a delightful time learning how to dance farol (from the English phrase 'for all') with a handsome gentleman hustler who left her alone when he realized he would not be procuring dollars or sex from her. Everyone seemed to have a delightful time. Just this side of fun's peak, the faux carioca wanted to go back to the hostel. One of her rules of thumb is to leave while she's having a good time because the evening will only end in disappointment. But she was hungry and so were the others so they went to a restaurant on the square. The food took too long to arrive and the 'mathematician' in the group took too long to calculate (to the penny) how much each person owed. Meanwhile, food vendors packed up carts, the streets emptied, and desperate children walked back and forth looking at the people seated on the right side of the sidewalk planters.
The real carioca told the group that they had to walk the two blocks back to the hostel extremely fast. She bolted out of the outdoor cafe and the faux carioca quickly reached her side and locked arms with her. A man immediately approached the cariocas and the real one gave him her water. They wove in and out of scattered carts and people at a speed walker's pace. The faux carioca wondered if the others were behind but couldn't pause to look back. About 18 feet from the hostel she heard one of the others yelling for one fellow to catch up. The cariocas stopped and turned to see a scuffle and someone rip the silver chain off of one of the party's necks. Going back would have been foolish (as it was for the shouter) so they high-tailed it to the hostel where the others caught up. It was at this moment that the faux carioca wanted to slap the straggler for being so slow and not recognizing the danger that he put himself in as well as the rest of the group. The faux carioca has never experienced such an intense 25 yard walk. The faux carioca is not easily frightened but in that five minute walk a violent end did not seem an unlikely prospect.
There's more to the desperate pulse of Salvador. There's always more, but this tale will have to be continued later.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Fun is just another word for mirage
The real cranky faux carioca is growing tired of talking about herself. For your pleasure she includes some photographs. You will note that she has not included photos taken out-of-doors. This is because whipping out fancy digital cameras here is an invitation to trouble unless done with great care.
The first photograph is of a showdown between the duck cleanser and the duck hairbrush one recent Friday night.
The second photo was taken from her bedroom window. In the background you can see posto 6, an old person's beach in Copacabana.
The third is completely gratuitous (unlike the others) and includes the faux carioca's towel for drying herself after the refreshing use of the bidet. You will note that the towel says, 'Mãezinha', which is an affectionate way of saying mom.
The last photo is of a delicious hunk of chocolatey goodness.
******
The language program has been keeping the faux carioca very busy and has prevented her from writing charming or dull blog entries. This Wednesday the group is traveling to Salvador where no doubt people will be herded from one place to another and assured that free time is on the horizon. The excursion is a week long though sadly only several of those days will be spent in Salvador. The other days will be passed at some resorty type place staring into the sea, listening to the siren's song that beckons you to walk in and never leave.
The faux carioca grows old and wears the bottoms of her trousers rolled.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Cranky Carioca
Having only the most basic language skills in a foreign country is not unlike being a two-year-old. You know what you want but grunting, gesturing, and using all of your limited vocabulary just doesn´t seem to help. Yours truly nearly had a meltdown in her capoeira class yesterday afternoon.
The faux carioca had woken up in a foul humor and was crabbier than usual when she arrived to her language class that morning. It was only a matter of time before she lost patience with her impatient classmates who found her slow manner of speech impossible to listen to. Each time she began to speak the other students (more 'advanced' than she) talked over her. Finally she left the discussion to get a drink of water and collect herself so that she would remain civil. During this break she contemplated the delight she would experience in pretending to crack heads and ribs in capoeira class later that day. Sadly it was not to be. Somehow all coordination escaped her. This clumsiness resulted in extra attention from the mestre who yanked her limbs hither and thither and barked orders that she didn´t understand.
Only the day before your gentle blogger had been considering how charming it was to be yelled at in Portuguse. She thought to herself, "How much more charming to be yelled at in Portuguese than in English since I can´t understand a thing that´s being said." Not so this time around. The two-year-old's lack of comprehension and frustration at not being able to communicate made the faux carioca's lower lip quiver and her eyes well up with angry tears. Incidentally, this seems to be an effective way to frighten a black belt capoeirista though it does little for one's morale and self-esteem. In any case, she managed to avoid a full-blown tantrum. Still, this was by far one of the more unpleasant days thus far in Rio.
Your faux carioca knows how to take care of herself so instead of leftovers (aipim--more on that later) she went out to eat in a restaurant to forget about the day's irritations. Afterwards she went to a cafe and paid handsomely to eat a pastry that the worker had dropped to the floor. Yours truly saw her drop the pastry on the floor and asked if it had fallen. The worker looked the faux carioca straight in the eyes and lied. Baldly. Pleasantly. Rather than argue or simply leave, your delicate blogger accepted her defeat for the day and ate the pastry.
********
One gentle reader wonders what real cariocas listen to in the way of music. People listen to hip hop (pronounced 'hippy hoppy'), rock ('chockey'), funk ('funky'). Do Brazilians listen to Bossa Nova? Somewhat. But it´s often very bad. Today the faux carioca heard a CD in a used music/book store that seemed to consist entirely of Bossa Nova versions of popular American music from the 70s and 80s including Donna Summer´s 'On the Radio.'
Tomorrow night the faux carioca is going to a nightclub to listen to traditional samba music. She promises to report back.
********
Last Sunday was the faux carioca's first day of rest in weeks and weeks. What a delightful day it was! According to plan, the weather was perfect for the beach. Most of the day was spent at Posto 9. (The beaches in Rio are numbered.) Posto 9 is in Ipanema (near where the song 'The Girl from Ipanema' was written) and is known to be the gay beach. While there are a smattering of faghags and the random pairs of lesbians (for those of you who may not have heard, lesbians apparently only come in pairs unless one gets lost in the dryer and then the solitary lesbian is largely useless), Posto 9 is raining men. Europeans, men from North and South America, Brazilians. Mostly these men are frighteningly fit. The gay tourists take endless photos of the comely Brazilian men as they lie in the sand, frolick in the surf, bend over to pick something up, etc. I post no photos here because there are no doubt pages and pages of such stuff on the Internet for those interested. So the faux carioca passed the quiet Sunday afternoon watching the men watch each other.
After lounging and peeing in the ocean several times, the faux carioca went to the market for dinner. There she bought delicious fare from the Baianas--acarajé. Acarajé is a kind of open-faced sandwich that consists of a deep-fried ball of mashed beans. The ball is cut in half and slathered with hot sauce, some kind of lentil-type concoction, and vatapá. Vatapá is a mixture of shrimp, cashews, and tomato sauce that includes onions and various herbs. Delicious!
*********
Tonight a futebol (pronounced 'foo-chee-bol') game is on the agenda. The faux carioca trembles at the mania that awaits her.
The faux carioca had woken up in a foul humor and was crabbier than usual when she arrived to her language class that morning. It was only a matter of time before she lost patience with her impatient classmates who found her slow manner of speech impossible to listen to. Each time she began to speak the other students (more 'advanced' than she) talked over her. Finally she left the discussion to get a drink of water and collect herself so that she would remain civil. During this break she contemplated the delight she would experience in pretending to crack heads and ribs in capoeira class later that day. Sadly it was not to be. Somehow all coordination escaped her. This clumsiness resulted in extra attention from the mestre who yanked her limbs hither and thither and barked orders that she didn´t understand.
Only the day before your gentle blogger had been considering how charming it was to be yelled at in Portuguse. She thought to herself, "How much more charming to be yelled at in Portuguese than in English since I can´t understand a thing that´s being said." Not so this time around. The two-year-old's lack of comprehension and frustration at not being able to communicate made the faux carioca's lower lip quiver and her eyes well up with angry tears. Incidentally, this seems to be an effective way to frighten a black belt capoeirista though it does little for one's morale and self-esteem. In any case, she managed to avoid a full-blown tantrum. Still, this was by far one of the more unpleasant days thus far in Rio.
Your faux carioca knows how to take care of herself so instead of leftovers (aipim--more on that later) she went out to eat in a restaurant to forget about the day's irritations. Afterwards she went to a cafe and paid handsomely to eat a pastry that the worker had dropped to the floor. Yours truly saw her drop the pastry on the floor and asked if it had fallen. The worker looked the faux carioca straight in the eyes and lied. Baldly. Pleasantly. Rather than argue or simply leave, your delicate blogger accepted her defeat for the day and ate the pastry.
********
One gentle reader wonders what real cariocas listen to in the way of music. People listen to hip hop (pronounced 'hippy hoppy'), rock ('chockey'), funk ('funky'). Do Brazilians listen to Bossa Nova? Somewhat. But it´s often very bad. Today the faux carioca heard a CD in a used music/book store that seemed to consist entirely of Bossa Nova versions of popular American music from the 70s and 80s including Donna Summer´s 'On the Radio.'
Tomorrow night the faux carioca is going to a nightclub to listen to traditional samba music. She promises to report back.
********
Last Sunday was the faux carioca's first day of rest in weeks and weeks. What a delightful day it was! According to plan, the weather was perfect for the beach. Most of the day was spent at Posto 9. (The beaches in Rio are numbered.) Posto 9 is in Ipanema (near where the song 'The Girl from Ipanema' was written) and is known to be the gay beach. While there are a smattering of faghags and the random pairs of lesbians (for those of you who may not have heard, lesbians apparently only come in pairs unless one gets lost in the dryer and then the solitary lesbian is largely useless), Posto 9 is raining men. Europeans, men from North and South America, Brazilians. Mostly these men are frighteningly fit. The gay tourists take endless photos of the comely Brazilian men as they lie in the sand, frolick in the surf, bend over to pick something up, etc. I post no photos here because there are no doubt pages and pages of such stuff on the Internet for those interested. So the faux carioca passed the quiet Sunday afternoon watching the men watch each other.
After lounging and peeing in the ocean several times, the faux carioca went to the market for dinner. There she bought delicious fare from the Baianas--acarajé. Acarajé is a kind of open-faced sandwich that consists of a deep-fried ball of mashed beans. The ball is cut in half and slathered with hot sauce, some kind of lentil-type concoction, and vatapá. Vatapá is a mixture of shrimp, cashews, and tomato sauce that includes onions and various herbs. Delicious!
*********
Tonight a futebol (pronounced 'foo-chee-bol') game is on the agenda. The faux carioca trembles at the mania that awaits her.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Faux Carioca Talks Back
A certain Mr. Cranky Pants (speaking in the first person plural--King David?) has protested against the Faux Carioca´s use of the third person. This is a fair objection. The problem with the blog and contemporary popular culture in general is the emphasis on confession. Writing in the first person carries a whiff of the confessional that gives the FC gas (but what doesn´t?). She needs to maintain her analytical distance from herself for fear of falling down the rabbit hole of Too Much Information. Confessions will be reserved for face-to-face encounters and then King David will be sorry.
The average beachgoer in Rio is better looking than the average Midwesterner.
The average beachgoer in Rio is better looking than the average Midwesterner.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
A Fruit´s Fruit Paradise
Your gentle writer never meant to be a blogger, but even this analog moll must admit that it´s a fine way to stay connected to people when you´re on opposite sides of the world. A letter or collage sent through the mail would be so much more personal and interesting to create, but who has the time? On the other hand, these things only happen when we make them happen. If someone asked this delicate blogger to write to them she most certainly would.
For those of you who may not already know, your faux Carioca arrived in Rio de Janeiro on 11 May to take language and culture courses through Duke University for seven weeks. During those seven weeks she plans to do some preliminary research for her dissertation--talking to people about Carmen Miranda, looking at costumes in the Carmen Miranda Museum. When the program ends the faux Carioca plans to stay until the middle or end of July. How long she stays depends on how the research goes. She is interested in talking with people who impersonate the star about what is essential for their performances. How do they craft their costumes, persona, etc.? Impersonators interest the faux Carioca because they can provide some insight into how people think about Miranda as Brazilian national icon now. (This project begs for comparison in the U.S., by the way.) So far the faux Carioca has met with Prof. Ligiéro who wrote his dissertation for NYU on Miranda as an Afro-Brazilian paradox and she´s met with the director of the Carmen Miranda Museum who provided some key contacts.
But the gentle reader is likely not terribly interested in the too-too academic side of things and so your faux Carioca solemnly promises that this is merely a way of positioning herself in Brazil and providing context.
What the gentle reader wants to know is, 'Are there black people in Brazil?' No wait. It was our president who posed that query. No. The gentle reader wants to know about produce.
Such fruit! Good heavens! Your delicate blogger delights in (so-called) New World foods and some day plans to make an entire meal of items indigenous to North and South America. For your pleasure here is a list of fruits lately encountered:
banana da terra--different and larger than the banana typically found in U.S. grocery stores this fruit should be cooked.
maracuja--passion fruit
mamão--there are at least two different kinds. One is exported to other countries and might be recognizable to you as a papaya. The other is from Bahia and is larger than the one for export.
aipim--a type of root vegetable. Peel and cook in water with a bit of salt until the center opens up a bit. Delicious for breakfast with butter or cheese.
abacate (pronounce 'ah-bah-cah-chee')--this is like a giant avocado (see above photo). The Carioca´s host mother prepared it by peeling it and blending with about a 1/4 cup condensed milk and half a lime (to prevent it from blackening). Mmm, mmm good.
Gentle reader: Do you want to know what people wear on the beach, how to use a middle-class bidet in a third world country, whether Brazilians are better looking than the average person from the Midwest? This blog promises to be interactive. Tell your delicate blogger what you want to know and she will do her best to oblige.
For those of you who may not already know, your faux Carioca arrived in Rio de Janeiro on 11 May to take language and culture courses through Duke University for seven weeks. During those seven weeks she plans to do some preliminary research for her dissertation--talking to people about Carmen Miranda, looking at costumes in the Carmen Miranda Museum. When the program ends the faux Carioca plans to stay until the middle or end of July. How long she stays depends on how the research goes. She is interested in talking with people who impersonate the star about what is essential for their performances. How do they craft their costumes, persona, etc.? Impersonators interest the faux Carioca because they can provide some insight into how people think about Miranda as Brazilian national icon now. (This project begs for comparison in the U.S., by the way.) So far the faux Carioca has met with Prof. Ligiéro who wrote his dissertation for NYU on Miranda as an Afro-Brazilian paradox and she´s met with the director of the Carmen Miranda Museum who provided some key contacts.
But the gentle reader is likely not terribly interested in the too-too academic side of things and so your faux Carioca solemnly promises that this is merely a way of positioning herself in Brazil and providing context.
What the gentle reader wants to know is, 'Are there black people in Brazil?' No wait. It was our president who posed that query. No. The gentle reader wants to know about produce.
Such fruit! Good heavens! Your delicate blogger delights in (so-called) New World foods and some day plans to make an entire meal of items indigenous to North and South America. For your pleasure here is a list of fruits lately encountered:
banana da terra--different and larger than the banana typically found in U.S. grocery stores this fruit should be cooked.
maracuja--passion fruit
mamão--there are at least two different kinds. One is exported to other countries and might be recognizable to you as a papaya. The other is from Bahia and is larger than the one for export.
aipim--a type of root vegetable. Peel and cook in water with a bit of salt until the center opens up a bit. Delicious for breakfast with butter or cheese.
abacate (pronounce 'ah-bah-cah-chee')--this is like a giant avocado (see above photo). The Carioca´s host mother prepared it by peeling it and blending with about a 1/4 cup condensed milk and half a lime (to prevent it from blackening). Mmm, mmm good.
Gentle reader: Do you want to know what people wear on the beach, how to use a middle-class bidet in a third world country, whether Brazilians are better looking than the average person from the Midwest? This blog promises to be interactive. Tell your delicate blogger what you want to know and she will do her best to oblige.
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