Mangabeiras and the old folks

Hello there! Well, it’s been another eventful week here in Belo Horizonte. My classes are going well, I’m getting better at understanding the professors, but it’s still sort of hard to put their words into meaningful concepts. For example, in my Art and Society in Brasil class we’ve been talking about the modernist movement in the 20’s and 30’s in Brazilian literature and art, and how the art being done at that time was “modern” because it was distinctly Brazilian, it wasn’t trying to copy European techniques and themes. So, I’ve got that, but I’m having trouble seeing how it fits into the rest of the course. I think part of the reason I’ve having this trouble is that in Brazil, not all teachers hand out syllabi. In Art and Society I know we’re being evaluated based on a research project, the proposal of which is due in a couple of weeks, but I’m not sure if we’re having some sort of final test too, or if we’ll have to write an essay synthesizing the main ideas of the readings or the lectures - I just don’t know, so that makes it hard to know how closely I should be paying attention. I didn’t catch the year that foundation was created, but do I care or not? That’s the tricky thing.

For Brazilian Anthropology, she hasn’t given us any clue at all what our grades will be based on, and it’s the same for my Portuguese class. We have a quasi-syllabus for Press, History and Politics in Latin America (it lists all the readings we’ll be doing), and the professor has told us orally that we’ll be writing summaries of two of the readings and then having two take-home essays based on class material, so that’s nice. My Sustainable Development class still hasn’t met, we were supposed to have class last Wednesday but it was canceled for some reason, so I don’t know how that one will be. However, I’ve gotten all of my professors’ emails and sent them an email asking for a syllabus, because without one I’ll have a hard time getting credit for what I’m taking back at USF. Hopefully they’ll get on that quickly, so that I’ll know what’s expected of me. I guess getting used to a different education system is part of what you learn studying abroad - I don’t mean to complain, I just hope I’m getting what I’m supposed to out of the lectures and reading and that I won’t get to the end of the class and be surprised at the details I should have remembered but didn’t. I’m recording my classes on my digital voice recorder, just in case, but it would be nice to not have to go through and listen to them all the week before some giant final test I wasn’t expecting.

Capoeira is going really well, I feel like I’m learning a lot and getting better and stronger every time, and the teacher and the other students are really nice. I don’t feel very graceful, but that will come later, I guess. I also find myself getting really frustrated sometimes that I can’t do everything perfectly the first time and that I’m not a cartwheeling, jump-kicking, awe-inspiring capoeira master yet. I know that it takes years and years to be as good as some of the other students in the class are, and I’ve had a grand total of three classes so I shouldn’t feel bad, but I guess I’m used to more instant gratification - there aren’t many things I do that are hard for me. That’s not to say that I’m good at everything, of course, just that I don’t usually do stuff I’m not good at. I’m a horrible soccer player (well, I’m pretty bad at every sport, if you want to know the truth), but I also don’t play very often; I’m pretty good at knitting and crocheting, and I do that frequently. I’m definitely going to stick with capoeira, but it’s not easy and the challenge and slowness of learning it is contributing to my personal growth.

Friday I didn’t have capoeira because the teacher had to travel suddenly, so I slept in and then went to Parque das Mangabeiras, the same place I went with Mariana my first day in Brazil. I walked to UFMG first, to see if the Brazilian Anthropology teacher had put tomorrow’s reading in the Xerox (she hadn’t, so this is the second week I haven’t been able to do the reading for that class, but it’s not my fault so I don’t feel too bad), and then I took the bus into the city center. After that I got on another bus, which I thought would take me to the park, but it turns out I was wrong, and the money-taker told me where to get off and which bus I should actually be on. When I got off to wait for the right bus, two middle-aged guys did too. We weren’t really standing together, but I could hear them speaking English to each other - one with a British accent and one with an accent that sounded faintly German. I asked them where they were from, and the British guy told me he was from England and the other guy was from Finland. We talked a little, and I learned that the British guy had been in Brazil since March because his Colombian girlfriend is getting her PhD at UFMG, and that once she graduates they’re going to England. I’m not sure why the Finnish guy was here, he didn’t really talk to me, but it was nice to have company while we were waiting for the bus. It finally came, and we got to the park without any more trouble.

When we got there they went one way and I went another. I walked to the place we’d seen the monkeys before, but they weren’t there, so I chose a trail and walked into what I thought would be a lovely little hike through the forest. I went up one big hill and then my forest trail opened into a cobblestone road with a bus stop, and the two guys were waiting there. They told me they were hoping to catch the internal bus to the lookout point, but that they didn’t know when or even if was running. I like lookout points, so I decided to wait with them. After awhile we decided that the bus wasn’t coming and that it would be better to try to walk - only problem was, we had no idea where we were in relation to the lookout point. We chose a direction, and ten minutes later ended up back at the entrance of the park. They wandered off to try a different trail, and I went to the information booth to inquire about a bus. The lady working there called the bus driver, and he came over and said that he’d take me, and maybe we could find some other people to go too. I looked for my new friends but couldn’t see them, but there were other people waiting for the bus so we all piled in. I guess my buddies (whose names I never learned) weren’t too far away, because just as the driver was about to leave they came running up and got in too. While we were waiting to amass a group, the driver and I had gotten to talking. He’s been working at the park for 15 years, and is collecting postcards from all 50 of the United States. He doesn’t have California yet, so he gave me his address and I promised him that when I got home in December I’d send him a postcard for his collection. He was really nice, and we kept chatting the whole way. He took us to the lookout first, and then a pond thing with some little waterfalls and bridges (at which I saw a monkey really high up in a tree and took a not-that-recognizable photo), and then another pond thing, and then we drove past the sports area with tennis courts and the playground and then back to the entrance to the park. By that time it was around 4:00, and I asked him if he knew when the next city bus would arrive. He told me it would be 20 minutes or so, so I decided to have some ice cream and see if I could find any closer monkeys while I waited. I bought my ice cream cone and then headed back to where I seen the monkeys the first time, hoping that they’d been napping or something before.

Well, they weren’t there, but the place was overrun with quatis, which look to me like a mix between a raccoon and an anteater - they’re about the size and shape of a raccoon and have a long striped tail, but their nose is really long and skinny. I thought they were adorable, and hoped I could get close enough to one to take a decent photo. That didn’t prove too hard - apparently these guys, like raccoons, are scavengers, and they were very interested in sharing my ice cream cone with me. I was considering feeding the one that was closest to me when all of a sudden 7 more started advancing on me, and the one I had been looking at before looked like he was ready to crawl up my leg to get to the ice cream. I flapped my arms around and yelled, “Shoo, raccoon-things!” but that didn’t deter them much. At this point, more of them seemed to be noticing me, maybe because of all the racket I was making, and I decided it would be best to not pass go, to not collect $200, to not give them any ice cream cone, and get the heck out of Dodge. I ran back to the bus stop, got on the bus, and counted my blessings that I hadn’t stuck around any longer. They’re not big animals, or particularly scary looking, but I’ve developed a healthy fear of wild animals who don’t shy away when you wave your arms and yell.

When I got on the bus, I learned that it went all the way to Shopping Del Rey, which is where I was planning on going next anyway, to try to buy a pair of jeans. I’d never taken this bus before, but the driver assured me that Shopping Del Rey was the final destination, so I staked out a good seat (I had my pick, being the only one on the bus except for the driver and money taker) and got comfortable. An hour and 10 minutes later, after a lovely and unexpected tour of the biggest favela in Belo Horizonte, I arrived at Shopping del Rey. By this time it was 5:45, and it gets dark here around 6:15, but I thought I might have time to grab some jeans and get on the bus back to campus before then. Well, here’s the thing about Brazil - like I’ve mentioned before, the people here are skinny. I have no idea what size pants I wear in Brazilian, but 44 is the largest most stores carry and they’re too small in the legs. I tried on a skirt that was 44 and it fit fine, but I can’t get the pants over my knees. I went everywhere I could find, but no one had anything bigger, so I went home without them. I asked Bea about it, and she said she’d go with me next weekend and we’d find some, so I hope she knows magic/where the plus-size stores are. After my unfruitful shopping excursion I took a lovely dark bus ride to UFMG and walked home from there.

I arrived home just in time, because Bea was about to leave for Niels and Kelib’s housewarming party, which I was also going to. She assumed, when she got home from work and I wasn’t there, that I’d already gone to their apartment, and had I arrived any later she would have been gone (she probably would have come back for me, but it was nice not to have to go through all that). I changed my clothes quickly and then we headed out. The party was small but nice (just like their apartment) and about 10 we went to the Biology building for their Friday night live music thing.

Today I slept in again, and when I was checking my email Bea asked me, in Portguese, if I wanted to go to a picnic that she and some friends were having at 1:00. At least that’s what I thought she said. I agreed, and we left the house promptly at 1:20. We drove for about 15 minutes and she parked in the middle of a sort of run-down neighborhood. Not a grassy hill or picnic table in sight. Then she rang the doorbell of a large building, and in we went. I was utterly confused, but didn’t want to sound stupid by asking her where the picnic was, so I just followed along.

When we got inside, there was an old man with his legs all wrapped in Ace Bandages making his way up a short flight of stairs, and Bea greeted him and helped him up the last few. Then she pointed down the stairs and told me that that was where the men stayed. I saw someone who appeared to be nurse come around the corner and go down into the men’s room, and that’s when I figured out where we were. Bea volunteers at a retirement home every Sunday, and I gathered that that's where we must be. I wasn’t sure what this had to do with a picnic, but I’d been meaning to ask her if I could go with her some Sunday, so I was fine with the change of plans (at least in my head). We walked up some more stairs into what seemed to be the dining room, and then down a hallway into the women’s room. Now, I haven’t spent much time in nursing homes, but this was like nothing I’d ever seen before. There were 9 beds in one big room, all of them occupied by a very old woman. Each bed had a little nightstand by it and a tile over the head with the occupant’s name and birthday, and some of them had religious posters on their piece of wall too. Most of the women were sleeping, but the ones that weren’t Bea introduced me to. A few of them were very alert and lucid and recognized Bea and recognized that they didn’t know me, but others of them looked to be on their very last legs, and one of the sleeping women looked like pictures I’ve seen of corpses. There was another who was so skinny I could count the bones in her fingers and see her shoulder joint clearly, but she was talking and seemed cheerful. I haven’t spent much time at all with sick, old people, and it was a little bit of a shock at first. I was feeling really sorry for them, all sitting in that room together in various states of decay, but then when I got to talking to one of them, Laura, who woke up about 10 minutes after we arrived, I started feeling better. She told me that she wasn’t going to go on the picnic today (apparently I had heard picnic right, but just hadn’t caught that we were picnicing with the nursing home folks) because her arm and her back and her leg were hurting her, but that she had been up and had watched some TV earlier and that she was enjoying the warmth of the sunshine coming through the window right by her bed. She started telling me gossip about some of the other women (apparently the one across the way from her has reconnected with an old flame and he’s been visiting her) and that she was looking forward to mass that night. Bea told me that a lot of the people there don’t have family that come to visit them, so she likes to go and spend time with them every week and that they miss her when she doesn’t. At first I thought that the shared room was pretty bad, because in other nursing homes I’ve been in they’ve had private rooms, but hearing Laura talk about the others showed me that they have a sort of community and that they keep each other company. None of the women were feeling up to going out, but three of the men decided to go, so when some other volunteers had made their rounds and said hello to everybody, we got the participants in cars and set off for the park.

When we got there we found some nice benches in the shade, and everybody got a cup of diet soda and a pão de queijo. The three men who came with us were all very different from each other - there was the guy with the bandaged legs, who can walk but not very well and who I could not understand when he spoke for the life of me, and a guy who could get around just fine but wasn’t really interested in talking to any of us (he went and sat by himself the whole time and couldn’t be persuaded to rejoin the group, but at least he seemed to be enjoying being outside). There was also a guy, Manuel, who was in a wheelchair because he’s missing his left leg, who was very talkative and who I happened to be sitting next to. I couldn’t understand everything he said, but he told me that he was raised by his sister because his parents died when he was two months old, and he didn’t learn how to read or write until he was 30, and where he used to live in the countryside he would get up and start working at 2AM and they’d have lunch at 8AM and coffee at 11AM and dinner at 1PM and then go to bed by 7. He also explained that his leg had been amputated in 2002 because if it hadn’t been taken off he would have died, but I didn’t really understand why. I think he may have served in the military for awhile, but I’m not sure. He also told me that he likes to eat black beans and rice and meat, and that they didn’t have much food when he was a kid so he ate every little grain of rice on his plate. When I first told him my name he said something and then everyone laughed and he explained that it was a joke so I laughed too, but I didn’t understand a word of it. After we had dropped everyone off back at the nursing home, I asked Bea what he’d said, and she explained that when someone is sick and they’re getting better, the verb for getting better is “sarar,” so when he heard my name he’d said that I was always welcome when he was sick. Pretty clever, and I learned a new word too. Even though it was shocking at first, I’m really glad I went to the nursing home with Bea, it was a lot of fun talking to Manuel, and I’d like to go with her again sometime, if she invites me.

Now it’s general observation time! First of all, along with being the land of parties and samba and pão de queijo, Brazil is the land of lizards and condensed milk. Not together though. Lizards, because every time I walk between my house and UFMG in the afternoons, I see at least one lizard, and sometimes as many as five. They’re between 3 and 8 inches long, brown, and they scurry around under bushes and up stone walls. It’s kind of fun to try to spot them. Now for condensed milk. The only time I’ve ever come into contact with the stuff before coming to Brazil is when making 7 layer cookies at Christmastime, but here it’s a dietary staple. At barbecues they always have grilled banana with condensed milk drizzled over the top and sprinkled with cinnamon (it’s REALLY good), there’s condensed milk flavored ice cream, and Carolina mixed it in with some passionfruit jello she made. A lot of drinks have it too. I’m getting really used to it, and I think I might have condensed milk withdrawals when I go back to the US. But, at least it will be Christmastime and I’ll be able to get my fix in the 7 layer cookies.

Another general observation I have to share with you all is that it’s really weird trying to get used to thinking about time and day in another language. To start with, a lot of times here are given in 24 hour time, which is fine for everything before noon, but when a poster says that a concert will start at 19:00, it takes me a little while to figure out when that is. I’m getting better at it, but it’s odd.

Days of the week are still tripping me up too. In Portuguese, Monday is segunda-feira (literally, second-market), Tuesday is terça-feira (third-market) and so on until Friday, which is sixth-market. All my life I’ve thought of Monday as the first day of the week, or at least the first of the weekdays, and it’s tricky to get myself to think of it as the second (segunda). Again, I’m working on this, but when someone says, “Hey, what are you doing quarta-feira,” the first day I think of is Thursday, which it’s not. Quarta-feira is Wednesday. I think I’m having a lot of good brain exercise trying to switch this stuff.