Observations on overnight buses. And Carnaval has begun! 5:44am, Friday 03.04.11

I start with my first travel blunder. I checked by bus ticket yesterday evening prepping for my departure from Ouro Preto to Rio and noticed that the ticket reflected I wasn’t scheduled to leave until tomorrow, not today. Big oops. After a nervous hour waiting for the ticketing person to get back from his nice, long dinner break (1hr, 45min?), during that time, rushing to the hotel and picking up my stored backpack, convincing the desk clerk that I had already paid and wasn’t trying to skip out on my bill, and catching a taxi to the bus station, the ticketing clerk told me he could change my ticket but the only bus leaving tonight was to arrive at Rio at 4:30am. Ouch. So be it.

Here’s the thing with overnight buses. If you’re lucky, you get a bus that has cush seats. But of course, there have been bus rides – too many to count in my travels – that are not cush in the least bit. They’re complete nightmares that have included freezing cold, wet A/Cs, people trying to break into your luggage, which you have to try and sleep with in your tiny coffin compartment, and bathroom stops at the most horrific holes in the ground you can imagine. Believe me, you don’t want me to get descriptive on this one. Fortunately, in this case, the seats were cush. That’s great. However, I’ve noticed in countries that don’t necessarily have a lot of money for civic improvements or upkeep, roads are typically not so smooth, in fact, really bumpy in parts like you’re traveling over a gravel road (which I think we must have been). And the route last night was snakelike – big switchback turns through most of the route so that even with a neck pillow, your head and body are rolling from side to side and you’re making unspoken, intimate friendships with the person sitting next to you. Combine that with the potent smells of human foot odor, body odor, and gas. To top it off, I’m a light sleeper. It makes for a less-than-restful way to spend a night, but an entertaining story at parties.

The bus stopped about mid-trip at a large and pretty posh bus station/rest area. When we stopped at this same place coming from Rio to Ouro Preto a couple of nights ago, there were maybe two other buses there. This time when I stepped off the bus, there were a tremendous swarm of them, packed like sardines in a too small can. And hundreds of 18-22 year olds were running around, gesticulating wildly at each other or standing in clusters trying to impress each other or pose to show off their best assets. All the girls were dressed in their clubbing finest and the boys were in their jams and even running around without shirts. The women’s bathroom was crammed with girls primping and preening in the mirrors and chatting and laughing loudly. Keep in mind that this was at 2am. It… was… a scene – a scene of the highest degree. Yes, it looks like Carnaval has begun. And what have I gotten myself into??

Now I’m sitting at the Rio main bus terminal (rodoviaria) and both of the two floors are absolutely packed with people. Again, keep in mind it’s 5:45am as I write this. The party is already so big it’s spilled over into every corner.

I can’t imagine what my experience of Carnaval will be considering my beer bong days are long past me and my body is no longer that of a 22 year-old who can recover from a night of hard partying with a few hours rest and a strong cup of coffee, only to launch into another night of hard partying and being the cycle all over again. I’ll just keep my headspace open and see what comes. Hey, if it’s just not my thing, I’m happy to scrap it and head in another direction. This is the beauty of travel, yes? Fluidity and flexibility can be challenging while traveling, but it can also (and this is true the majority of time, I think) be incredibly liberating.

I have four hours to kill until I can check into my hostel. What to do?

What does it mean to be an “honest” writer? Evening of 03.03.11

Something interesting has begun to happen without the input of my normal daily life routine. I’m thinking – a lot. In fact, it feels like a dam has been blown apart with a big bundle of dynamite. Millions of gallons of water have been unleashed and are rushing wildly and chaotically forward. Destructive? Don’t know. Exciting? Yes. Scary? Sometimes. Really, more than anything, it feels unfamiliar. My life is so full at home – I feel like I have so many commitments and in the past three years have taken care of and dealt with so much that there’s simply no space to be still and listen to what’s going on in there. Not like this – not at this volume and at this intensity.

What it does do is make me want to write. Voraciously. I sat in bed last night at 2:30am, 3:00am, 3:30am thinking of all the things I wanted to write, how I wanted to write them, what it meant to me to write, what it gives me, and what it demands. And one thing keeps coming up as I write these blog entries: what does it mean to me to be an “honest” writer? For the purposes of this blog, I see the merit of writing in order to create an understanding and a connection. So if I stumble here and there, please forgive. Regardless, it will sure be an interesting process getting there.

Homesick, v1 / Rio Carnaval Postoned? 03.03.11

I leave Ouro Preto tonight on the overnight bus back to Rio (why I think overnight buses are ever a good idea, I’ll never know, but that’s a story for another time). The afternoon monsoon is in full effect and the skies are as grey and flat as river stones. I’m annoyed at the steep, slippery hills and gutters swollen with powerful little rivers. I suppose I’ve forgotten to mention: Brazil is having an extremely wet Summer and in Ouro Preto, the rains in the past few days have been monsoon-like. Storms have been pelting southern Brazil since late January and have caused dangerous floods that have resulted in several deaths. In fact, I just heard rumor from a friend who lives in Sao Paulo that Rio carnaval might be delayed due to recent storms. Now there’s part of me that hears a similar and familiar rumor in my head from years past, “So I hear there are going to be, like, huge dust storms on the playa this year. I mean really, really bad!” And of course you get to Burning Man and yes, there’s a dust storm, but it’s not “like, really, really bad,” just your typical dust storm. So my hope is that this rumor is just that, a rumor. However, being a stranger in a strange land with no access to insider information, I’ll have no way of knowing until I actually get to Rio tomorrow. I’ve tried to look up any news of it on the web, but I’ve found nothing.

Maybe it’s three-day-long rain and grey skies, but today I’ve had my first real bout with an aching homesickness. I feel very far away and very alone. This even in the midst of everyone here in Ouro Preto gearing up for carnaval – people in high, party spirits, the sound of drum troupes practicing staccato samba rhythms in some house or garden just out of site, teams of city employees decorating the streets with huge, brightly-colored puppets, streamers, and lanterns on the streets… in fact it makes me feel even lonelier as I watch people having a great time with their friends. It’s interesting to me that one can feel so alone in a room full of happy people.

Right place, right time 03.02.11

I hired a guide to take me on a tour around several of the famous churches (iglesia) and a couple of the better museums here in Ouro Preto. The town has roughly 75,000 inhabitants, which is amazing considering the town hasn’t been permitted to grow and is built within a very steep valley pocket. The hills make San Francisco look flat by comparison and in fact, there are no flat streets here. None. So the goal here is to maintain the town in its original colonial splendor so as to support its history and encourage tourism.

My guide, Alex, was an interesting guy. At 54 and with five children (most of whom still live with him despite having families of their own) and stay-at-home wife, he decided to spend the last six years studying for his law degree in order to practice criminal law defending the poor. He takes his bar exam in just three weeks. But in the mean time, he still spends much of his time earning a living as a tour guide. I have to say that when I travel, I often feel ashamed of the fact that I only speak one language fluently. Alex? He speaks Portuguese, French, Spanish, and English. To be honest, I have a secret wish that, as the US declines in power globally, we’ll finally all feel it absolutely necessary to learn another or several other languages (Spanish? Chinese? Both? Something else?).

Regardless of my slight shame at being a citizen of a country where “we’re number 1!” I fully enjoyed the tour today. Four churches and two museums. There is a national hero here who is the town’s most revered pseudo-saint. Aleijadhino (translation: little cripple, real name: Antonio Franciso Lisboa), was the illegitimate son of a respected artist and architect and a former slave. He rose from no stature to become the greatest architect, carver, and artist in Brazil, commissioned by the church to build the most impressive and ornate baroque/rococo churches in the country. Most of these churches are located here in Ouro Preto, which was the former capital of the country. What I find most interesting about him is that he was an outcast, illegitimate, of mixed race, not classically trained in the rigid styles of his time, and eventually quite crippled by the time he reached the age of 22. Despite that, the stars aligned for him. At that point in history (around 1750), the Catholic church had determined that, in order to maintain and grow its base of believers and the revenue that they would generate for the church, it needed to try something new and different. This was the perfect pocket for Aleijadhino to realize his artistic vision, defying convention and inflexible modalities of art at the time, and creating something new, unique, and inspirational.

This story reminds me of a story some may be familiar with. Tell me if you’ve heard this one: There was this guy from Galilee. He has an interesting philosophy and a gift for oratory and becomes a teacher that is quite inspirational to many. He happened to be in the right place at the right time with the right idea and a solid set of backers… and the rest is history (or religion). These are just two of so many examples of this occurrence, of course, but when I hear them, I’m still constantly amazed.

Back to our story…

Now baroque and rococo aren’t my favorite eras for art. But you gotta give it to them: both are unique and both demand a high level of commitment by the artists. These are not wimpy art movements. In these churches, the ornamentation, the absolute dedication to detail, the sheer over-the-topness with all of the ceiling murals, tremendous amount of gold leaf, intricate carvings. Columns, altars, etc… they demand some amount of respect regardless of your tastes. While baroque is less ornamental than rococo, baroque could hold its own in a grand dame’s French palace. And the art and architecture that bridged those two gaps was odd and singular, as you can likely imagine. And Aleijadhino was the creator.

I wish I could’ve taken pictures of the interiors of these churches. Mere words can’t describe them… ornate doesn’t even touch it. Detailed, not even close. Outrageous, maybe. Darkness, light, inspiration, fright, magic, extreme craftsmanship, blood, hair, bones, tears, and awe. That’s my attempt at it.

Hair and blood and bones? So literally, many of the statues in these churches have real hair. When a worshiper was poor and had no money to give during tithe time at church, he or she would cut their hair and donate it to the church. That hair was styled and cut and put on the statues of Mary, Jesus, St. Francis and other Saints in the gallery. It makes the statues look pretty eerie. Their flat hair, inanimate and collecting dust like a mummified Cher. Yes, I just said a mummified Cher. Creepy imagery, isn’t it?

Blood? Well there are like a gajillion statues of Christ being crucified in the most bloody and horrific ways you can dream of. Quite arresting, take my word for it. Forgive me father, but what the hell is up with Catholics and the whole suffering thing? OK, let’s down girl, down.

Bones? On the wood floor of each churches there are numbers carved. Each number represents a family crypt underneath the floorboards. No joke, crypts right underneath the floorboards. Sorry for stepping on your eternal soul, everybody. I’m just here for the tour.

Sadly, none of the churches or museums allowed photos or you better believe I would be posting some right now – Matriz NS de Pilar (the oldest church herin Ouro Preto), Matriz NS da Conceicao de Antonio Dias, Ingreja NS do Carmo, Museo do Oratorio, Casa dos Cantos, Museu do Aleijadinho. It would take me days of writing to even touch the level of detail contained in these churches and in the items in the museums. Maybe even weeks. And even though I know you love me, I just can’t put you through it.

Alex, my guide, was quite knowledgeable and also interesting in that he shared some facts not included in the regular tour diary. Catholic religion is on the decline in Brazil, and Protestantism is on the rise, but like in the US, religion is declining overall. This shocked me considering the very Catholic reputation that Brazil has. Also, Brazil as we know it was built on the backs of slaves brought over from Africa (sound familiar?). But when I asked what the African-American population was in Brazil, he said that there was no such thing. The race populations are so mixed, at this point, that it’s hard to tell who’s “white” or who’s “black.” Not to mention the mixture of the indigenous population. I liked that. While my mind that lives in the world of ideals imagines that there is no race division in Brazil, I know better, but I love the idea that they seem a bit further along than the US as far as having to classify people as “this” or “that.”

The museums contained collections of clothing, furniture, weapons, and religious items. Even though I’m not big cheerleader for religion, back in the day, those guys had some serious cash that helped promote art and art’s evolution. I say hooray for that.

Wow, my blood sugar is tanking right now. Can… no… longer… write… brain… shutting… down. Must have food. More later.

First impressions of Rio

* It seems pretty poor, or maybe it’s just really run down and dirty?

* People generally seem nice and helpful… and those that don’t appear that way are pretty obvious so you can easily steer clear of them.

* The public transportation system is really good.

*I’ve been surprised to see a Subway, a Gold’s Gym, and a McDonald’s within several blocks of each other.  One cannot escape.

* The hills are alive with the sound of music.  No no, wait, that’s not right.  At least not yet.  When I come back in three days for Carnival, I have a feeling that statement will be utterly and absolutely true.

My flight from Charlotte to Rio was fine… except for the near fist fight between the head flight attendant and an unruly passenger.  Not honestly, I heard the flight attendant say several times, “So do you want me to go talk to the captain and tell him to turn us around and go back to Charlotte?”  He was having none of it. 

Other than that, my friend Ambien and I had a lovely visit and I awoke after ten hours in the air to the plane descending into Rio.

It’s *warm* here.  As soon as I made it through customs, I caught a cab to the main bus station to secure my tickets out of Rio to Ouro Preto and back again to Rio in three days.  The bus station is posh.  Much like a renovated airport complete with high-end clothing stores, a food court, and a good bookstore (granted, all the books are in Portuguese).

Tickets secured, I checked my backpack and started my day long adventure in Rio.  I headed down to Copacabana and walked to the beach.  I sat with my feet dug into the sand and read my book and watched the people go by. It was cloudy and it rained a bit, but it was lovely. The waves were large and crashing and it felt good to have some natural force seeping into my psyche after 24 hours of machines and recycled air.

I sat in a café and had a glass of cheap beer, I walked to the grocery store and checked out just how they do it there (much smaller but still thorough), and then caught the bus back to the main bus station where I now sit writing this blog entry after ingesting a very greasy but still somehow grossly satisfying cheese-filled croissant.

All in all, a very good first day on the road.  In fact, I’m pretty surprised at how quickly my travel legs are under me and seem to be nice and strong despite a three-year rest. 

Oi!  I see that my bus is just half-an-hour from leaving.  Off to Ouro Preto, a promisingly beautiful colonial town, and new adventures.

BTW, just read “Just Kids” by Patti Smith today.  Highly recommended.  God, how I love having so much time to read and write!  So luxurious!

It’s weird being served sushi by a waitress with a Carolina accent

I guess my foreign travels have begun.  Even though I’m only in the Charlotte, NC airport, I already feel a separation – a sense of observing in a way that I don’t have the time or space to at home.  For instance, Cinnabon.  I wonder about Cinnabon.  Are there Cinnabons anywhere except in airports?  And why does Cinnabon make me feel so sick?  I mean that literally as well as figuratively.  Somehow, the oozing sugar frosting smell wafts through the airport, overpowering even the BBQ ribs fast food stall.  I’m powerless against that frosting smell.  I get a roll and eat it and immediately feel sick.

 

Before Cinnabon, I ate at a sushi place on the main strip of the Charlotte airport.  My first thought, upon scoping the various fine eateries throughout the airport was, “Sushi in Charlotte?  That can’t be good.”  But after a thorough analysis and a sizing up of my chances, sushi seemed the best choice (can you imagine?) and I sat at the bar.  Now in defense of the sushi joint, it actually wasn’t too terrible.  Granted, I played it as safe as possible, nothing too exotic.  But to be served something I consider to be very Japanese by a chubby waitress with too much eyeliner, foundation that was just not quite the right color, and a thick Carolina accent, well, it made me feel like a stranger in a strange land.  It threw into relief just how odd it all really is.

 

Something about leaving the Bay Area has enabled me to see things differently.  And what’s so surprising is that it’s happened so quickly. I’ve been out of the Bay Area for about seven hours now.  Maybe this experience of really seeing things is available to me at all times?  Yes, I know that’s true. But somehow in the scuffle and demands of daily life, the ability to see escapes me – replaced by an overwhelm of the mundane… a lazy familiarity… a sleepy acceptance of the day-in-day-out grind of common life. 

 

And what if I decided to see my daily existence the same way I see the “Charlotte-beginning-of-my-three-months-traveling” world?  Could I stay sane?  Could I even make it out the door of my house?  Could I get my daily cup at Peet’s? How about working? Grocery shopping?  And what about much more complex and intricate experiences?  I wonder, should I feel grateful for the seemingly innate ability to turn down the volume of the experiences in my daily life so I don’t lose my noggin? 

 

The interesting thing to realize is that I have a choice, which feels a little like luck and maybe a little bit of my own practice.  I wonder, are we primarily disposed to experience life very deeply and learn to turn it down as we need to in order to maintain our sanity or are we primarily disposed to shuffling through life unawares and, if we’re lucky or crazy (or both) we see the opportunity to practice really experiencing life?

 

All I know at this point is that it’s weird being served sushi by a waitress with a Carolina accent.

The Last Two Weeks

I’m sitting in the airport.  I’ve checked my bags through to Rio and have settled into the fact that I am really leaving.

Not after more than a few tearful goodbyes in the last several days.

To say that the last two weeks has been filled with mixed emotions is an understatement.  In the midst of trying to stay focused on getting everything done that needs doing before my departure there has been the frightening situation of my close friend (and former roommate and current neighbor) Jennifer’s massive health scare.  A week or so ago, I stuck my head in the door next door to say hello and saw Jennifer home, shuffling around in her pajamas saying that she has a terrible flu – that this is the sickest she’s ever been. 

 

Me: I’m so sorry! Can I get you anything?  Soup or juice or something?

 

Jennifer:  (Pausing to consider) No, nothing, but thanks, honey.

 

Within 36 hours of that conversation, Jennifer was being checked into the ICU at Kaiser.  Within another 36 hours, she was sedated, intubated, had other tubes for fluid and nutrition intake and tubes for waste inserted into her body, and she was put on a respirator so that she could breathe and try to heal from an aggressive pneumonia that had filled her left lung and part of her right lung.  As each hour ticked on, the fear was one of life and death.  Her husband (also a very old and dear friend) was wild eyed, pale, panicked.  Questions of how to raise two very young boys alone pressed.  Grasping at how this situation would unfold and what could the doctors do all demanded attention and thought.

 

Over the last week, Jennifer’s health has taken some bad turns and a few good ones.  It’s been a roller coaster ride filled with coordinating support, checking in several times a day to see if any help was needed, worrying, questioning, watching, waiting, hoping, crying.  And in the mean time, both of their boys ages three and five came down with high temperatures and horrible stomach flus of their own.  Rushed trips to the doctor had to be coordinated.  Counters, bathrooms, sheets, and clothing scrubbed and disinfected.

I visited Jennifer in the ICU on Friday.  As soon as I saw her, I couldn’t stop the tears.  Her little five foot frame covered in tubes, machines surrounding her bed, her eyes sunken, and her face pale and sallow, the respirator pumping rhythmically, filling her lungs with air and pushing the air out.  How could this vital energetic woman fall so quickly into this place? 

 

After some deep breaths, I remembered my own words to Todd, her husband, the day before.  We need to be hopeful.  Hope is powerful and is healing for those supporting and the one or ones being supported. 

 

I remembered my mother, laying in her hospital bed in her bedroom… dying of cancer.  Even in the midst of certain death, hope has beauty, holds dignity, and provides comfort.  So hope is what I beamed at Jennifer. 

 

Since Friday, there has been good news: a CT scan has confirmed that meningitis is ruled out and that there are no lesions or growths in her brain or on her lungs.  Yes, the good news is that we’re dealing with pneumonia only as well as an additional secondary infection, which is being treated.  Jennifer will be brought out of sedation next week and the hope is that a long slow healing process will begin.  At the end of the day, it’s likely that Jennifer will have been in ICU for about two weeks and in the hospital for a total of one month.  And then the rebuilding of her strength and vitality will likely happen in the following several months.

 

In the midst of it all,  the planning for this trip.  Being excited to leave simply hasn’t been in my psyche.  Any jitters that would typically be part of leaving for journey like this have been amplified.  Instead of excitement – the rush of juice through my body and butterflies in my stomach – I’ve felt anxiety – the rush of shocks through my body and the sensation that someone just kicked me in the gut.

I’m also leaving to the fact that two of the people closest to me are without jobs and in difficult transitions on their lives.

 

Life keeps doing whatever it does despite our plans and schemes.  I continue to feel like all we can do is simultaneously hold on and let go: hold on to that lap bar on that roller coaster… and let go of all our attachments and expectations.   

 

Now I wait for my flight to Charlotte and then from Charlotte to Rio.  It’s a good time to write and try my best to articulate how bizarre, unexpected, chaotic, and unreal it’s all been.  I’m glad that I can write about it.  Somehow, articulating it all in writing brings me some sense of understanding… or at least an outlet to express my confusion.