things left behind

so this is it: the dreaded day that i am moving back to amsterdam.
2 suitcases packed. still some lose stuff lying around that needs to be found a last nook or cranny in my backpack.
why do we people collect so much rubbish?

and yet, i am leaving so much behind!
some clothes that needed to be thrown away in the first place. some books i have read and do not want to reread. a worn down pair of sneakers. of course the plants and furniture that i bought stays behind.
and memories can not be packed. you carry them with you, until you forget them. and some i leave behind, right here as i step out of the house: the bad ones i am more than eager to forget. about the suffocating heat, bad hangovers, the dirt in our house, the congested traffic, too much rice n beans. gone, the moment i have left.
oh, i leave so much behind.

and still my bags are full.
clothes and shoes, books, cd's, a whole plastic bag full of electronics (oh, these wires!), a puppet i made, a puppet i brought. so much to take away from here. it makes me feel like a homeless person, pushing around all his belongings in a shopping cart.

but how easily i would leave it all behind, all of it - my dearest shirt, my favorite jeans, the murakami book i so much enjoyed, the camera, laptop, cell phone, really i wouldn't think twice - if i could only carry with me to amsterdam the one thing that is no longer mine: my boyfriends love.

the trip

the name of rio's train station, central do brasil, is rather grander than reality. sure, it is not small, but neither is it big. and if you think it connects rio to the rest of the giant hinterland... well, no. a small network of 5 commuter lines feathers out from here, the longest stretch being 30 kilometers at the most.
still, there is a lot of movement in and around the station. on the side of it there is a busy street market. stalls with cheap plastic toys, second hand cell phones, fruit. each stall plays a different tune on full blast. well, they have to; after all, the stall next door is also playing music on full blast.
the station is in the rather dilapidated center of rio. from here you can see christ in profile.
it is 11.30 and i am here to catch the 11.45 to belford roxo.
i am going to meet the boyfriend at his work.

as the train leaves the station the crumbling houses and buildings of downtown quickly make way for the first of a long succession of favela's. improvised 2 story houses build out of unplastered brick, often with seemingly random add ons. probably build as some more money became available. dogs digging in the dirt, kids flying their kites.
christ quickly turns his back on this part of the city.
and as the brick houses are replaced by wooden sheds, and the kids by crack smoking adults, christ has long disappeared out of view. this is then how a large part of the inhabitants of rio live.

i had postponed this trip for weeks. always something came up. and when no good reason stopped me, there was always laziness to prevent me from going out here.
but now, i must go. for i only have one more week left in brazil before moving back to amsterdam.
oh yes, it is over between me and the boyfriend. and so staying on in rio makes no sense to me.

the carriage is neither full nor empty. opposite me there is a couple - he is quite good looking, she clearly takes care of herself but is not particularly pretty. a somewhat strange couple as she is quite a bit older than he is. hm - on second thought, perhaps they are not a couple at all but a young mother with a mature looking son. could be.
there is a lady constantly on the phone. a pink phone. she is wearing pink too.
at the next stop a young woman gets on board wearing diminutive shorts. her belly shows underneath her faded purple shirt. when she sits down next to me her shorts disappear completely under her belly and it looks as if she is naked from the top down. her fleshy legs shake softly like bread dough when the train continues it rattling journey out to belford roxo.

we pass 2 giant deserted industrial buildings. people seem to have set up home in the buildings, like a family of mice building their houses in a mammoth carcass. around it stand rusting cranes on guard.

as i look at the people around me on board i realize there is a lot of work in the world for the boyfriend. he is a dentist you see and this group of men and women here alone could provide the boyfriend with months of work. pulling the mother's/girlfriend's gray rotten teeth - all of them. making an implant there in the gap that guy has instead of a front tooth. instructing the guy next to me to polish his teeth at least every now and then. oh, heaps of work.

the boyfriend... where did we go wrong i wonder.
i stare out at the never ending maze of the favela's. i imagine us running round in them, me and the boyfriend, our conversations as complex and unmapped as these streets. i am chasing him, calling after him 'wait! i want to tell you something'. but he runs away. we catch a glimpse of each other every now and then, at the end of an alley, in the reflection of a window. there he is, up on the roof. and if ever it looks from above as if he is running after me, look again: that is when he is trying to chase me away.
'stop following me', he says.
'only if you stop running away from me', i answer.
he is speaking to me, something about freedom and independence. about other guys. about secrets and privacy. i only half hear the words. i am too busy catching my breath and at the same time calling things back at him. about respect and oh, the usual crap. i don't even understand it myself. i mutter 'yes,but i moved to rio for you'. yes, i did. so what?

we get tired and pause leaning against each other.
'why are we doing this?'
some friendly words. we laugh. we cuddle a bit. and just when i want to hug him he runs away again.

the course we have run is just as untraceable and twisted as the electricity wires above our heads in this unfriendly neighborhood.
every time we try to untangle our arguments each of us pulls at their loose end and we end up making the knot ever tighter.

the lady with no pants wakes me out of my daydream. she offers me a sticky sweet. 'obrigado.'i could do with something sweet now.
she herself pops the last sweet into her mouth, puts the wrapper back into the plastic sweety bag, now full of empty wrappers. only then does she throw the whole bag on the floor of the train. oh well, it is a start.

we must be getting near to the final destination, to belford roxo. and even though the improvised houses now make way for regular, 'real' houses, there is hardly any improvement. rubbish everywhere. poverty. somehow it does not feel as if we are 'getting' anywhere.
but here we are. final stop.

what a strange trip this has been - just now, but also the past few months. enjoyable, though not always beautiful. friendly people all around me, but sometimes rather harsh. an interesting view, always, even if sometimes painful. it has been one hell of a ride.
i took it alone though, i think. never was i in the same train as the boyfriend. he didn't want to come on board of my train and did not let me on board of his.
does he not realize you can travel on the same train and still have your own journey? look at different things, even sit apart sometimes?

so i have come all this way to this strange place that does not feel like a destination. but as a friend once told me: the journey is the destination!

i find the clinic easily. the boyfriend greets me with a smile. not a kiss.
'lets go for lunch', he says.

we walk in silence.
the boyfriend is no longer 'the boyfriend'. he is that guy that used to love me. my ex. that friendly dentist with perfect teeth. that crazy idiot that held out with me and my nagging for so long. he is andre.

we walk back past the station.
there is a whole row of minibuses next to the station, waiting to take people even further away. on to the next destination: parque são joão, OMCB (whatever that may be), b. vermelha, locaretti. exotic.
i too must catch a minibus or a train or walk - to the next destination.
i will go there alone.
even though i still hope andre will (somehow) be able to join me.

wired

it is difficult to take any picture in rio without wires on it.
electricity wires.
telephone wires.
tv cables.
wires to keep everything together.
wires to wire up wires.

so i decided to take a picture of wires.

tropic-arctic

it is winter.
in rio that means it rains sometimes.
some evenings i wear a (light) sweater: 16 degrees is too cold for shorts and t-shirt.
it means it only gets warm enough to go to the beach once or twice a week.

brazil, however, is more than rio.
the north is tropical. it still heats up to 30+ degrees there.
and in the south - it actually gets cold.
very cold this year.
below zero.
this is news.
not in 20 years has it been this cold.

one newspaper opened with the headline:
'european temperatures'

funny. guess they will be surprised to hear about these temperatures as being european in say, greece and italy.
next winter, when the frost sets in in scandinavia, the newspapers there should open their editions with:
'brazilian temperatures'.

just like brazilians should not think of the whole of europe as 'just below the arctic' neither should europeans think of the whole of brazil as a tropical country.

though i must say, today it is sunny in rio. hm, beach later today perhaps?

ps i added a new link under my favorites to the right: 'gilberto gil - chiclete'. an amazing live performance. fantastic to see somebody perform and be so completely 'in the moment'.

no beach, no samba, no bikini

everybody knows carnival. to many people this fest even captures the essence of brazil: sweating bodies, dressed in flimsy but colourful costumes, dancing to the irresistible beat of the samba, the beach never far away, plenty of beer and caipirinha flowing to heigthen the spirits (and lower the already rather low social and sexual barriers).





but how many people know this other big celebration, the festa junina? (read the wikipedia article for some background)
in many ways it forms the opposite of carnival. it is mainly, but not exclusively, a party for children. it is celebrated throughout the months of june and july (hey, why only have 1 month of parties if you can also celebrate 2 months?) the party originates from the interior of the north-east of brazil. this part of brazil is like carnaval: hardly any foreigner knows anything about it.
well, all countries have a province, a state or a region that they like to make fun of. in brazil it is the north-east. a dry, backward region, full of hicks and goats.
and during the festa junina the whole of the country dresses up like the north easterners (well, of course an exaggerated version of it), wearing straw hats, checkered shirts and funny old fashioned little dresses. they play brasilian country music (oh yes, it exists and is just as awful as the north american relative of it) and eat typical north eastern sweets and food.
during a party the grounds of the party are just like a fazenda in the north east. on these giant farms the boss had the right to marry people - and to put them in prison. so sure enough, a festa junina is not complete without a prison and a priest, wedding people for the duration of the party.
no beach, no samba, no bikini's.

for me, it just shows how huge and varied this country is.
i just finished reading braziliaanse brieven, (thank you, tom!) a great account of life in brazil through the eyes of a european. on returning from one of his trips to brazil the author is asked by a friend if he likes brazil. he is briefly puzzled by the question. the country is too complex to like or dislike. there are too many aspects to a country as vast and diverse as brazil. he replies: "do you think europe is a nice continent?"

what's in a name?

i met jeanne d'arc a few weeks ago. she lives right here in my neighbourhood.
ben hur lives just down the street.
messias lives quite a bit further away, in vidigal, a favela near ipanema.
jesus lives there too.
hanibal lives in a different state. as does teorema.

names in brazil are literary fantastic. they are as varied as the skincolour of the brazilians, as their hairdo's, as their ancestry (the latter of course partially explains the diversity in names).

sure, a lot of people have names i can recognise and handle. names you expect in latin america. like fernando, monica, carlos and maria.
but then there are plenty of pretty weird names.

first there are the classical names. marcus-antonio, flavia, thiago, regina, homero, attilio, cesar. i like these names. they keep alive a cultural heritage. i think it is a pity in holland not more names like this are given to our babies. there is nothing wrong with 'rembrandt' or 'artemis', is there?

also classical, but typical of brazil are the indigenous names. these however are just as rare as all other traces of indigenous life in brazil... also, they are too strange for me to remember.

more history, i think, is hidden in 'vander', 'vanderlei' and names as such. clearly they are derived from dutch (or german) surnames. these often start with 'van der' or 'von'. some completely unbased ethymology makes me suspect that this part of the surname has been given to (descendants of) slaves as a first name.

the next category of bizarre names in brazil has much more to do with spelling than with anything else. for example ueslei. read it out loud. exactly - wesley! other 'misspelled' names i have read are uetney (whitney), jhon, ualter or valter (walter). in a way these name form the opposite of the above category: by changing the spelling they take away the ethymology, the roots of the name. oh well, whatever...

also good for a surprise are names referring to almost anything american. a not uncommon name here is washington. of course washington used to be a name in the usa as well, but what about ualtdisnei (yes, walt disney..)?

the most spectacular names however are the completely made up names. as if 3 random names have been written on a piece of paper, the paper has then been shredded and reassembled to form a complete new name. and oh boy, the results are amazing! there are some patterns - like endings in '-son' and '-ton' for guys and '-ia' and '-ildes' for girls. but really, anything goes...
some examples? adilson, ivanildes, cleverton, helton, hercilia, ...

please try to brazilify your name in these 3 easy steps.
step 1:
change the first vowel of your name for another vowel.
step 2:
add a letter at random somewhere in your name. if this is difficult, remember you can always add an 'h' somewhere...
step 3:
for guys: add -ton, -son, -ei or -lei at the end of your name.
for girls: add -ia, -(i)ldes or -(a)cia at the end

let's try with my own name...
eric --> aric --> arnic --> arnicson.
a friend's name...
merel --> murel --> murtel --> murtelcia
perfectly brazilian.

alternatively you can swap around syllabes, add your second name in the middle of your first name, feel free to experiment.

it is of course exactly this feeling free to do whatever they want that has happened with brazilian names. sure, they have a heritage - of portugal, italy, europe, of the indigenous population - and a reference - of the usa, of britain and france. but these are no more than guidelines. brazil is now no longer a colony, it is no longer part of any culture or heritage. it makes up its own history and its own culture.
including its own names.

super troopers?

1. ipanema beach. people are yelling. a guy is running away, stepping on towels, treading on people. more yelling. sure - i would yell too if someone steps on me! the police is chasing the guy. the police catch him.
but... it does not stop the yelling. it causes even more yelling. fore the people were cheering on the guy in his escape. how naive was i to think people were shouting at the guy; i was simply assuming the thug running away was the bad guy, the police the good guys - and the crowd would be on the side of the good guys, right?
wrong.
now that the thug is caught begins the next chapter. the beach go-ers start throwing all kinds of stuff at the police; empty bottles and beer cans filled with sand, coconuts (it is still a tropical country), shoes.
more police appears.
more shouting.
more throwing.
even more police.
so many policemen.
wow! where do they come from?
policeman with hand on gun.
oops - getting scary now.
police wins the battle. thug and 2 other guys get taken away.
crime of the bad guy? smoking pot.

2. 2 handsome cops. one black-black, one latino-black.
black cop is backing up the car, onto the pavement. he is not very agile, perhaps also because he is on the phone.
the latino-black guides his colleague. he is not very good at guiding his colleague, because he is checking out the results of the illegal lottery - a list pasted to the house that the police car just hit...

3. we get stopped by a cop. a 'blitz': several policemen, randomly stopping cars and mopeds, checking papers, license plates, etc. routine.
also present are some guys from the municipality, ready to tow away cars should the paperwork not be what is desired.
the boyfriend forgot his papers. no problem. we are not far from our house. i will jump into a taxi to retrieve the papers.
as i get back 10 minutes later the boyfriend is on the phone. i hand him his papers.
'what's a matter?' i ask him.
'i will tell you in a minute'
boyfriend shows papers to cop.
cop nods, points out that license will expire this month and then sends us off, on our way.
100 meters after our release the boyfriend stops the moped.
'these guys from the municipality - they don't tow away cars or mopeds at all. they just ask for a bribe and then let the people go. ofcourse they split the bribe with the policemen.
i have seen 3 or 4 people escaping fines and getting towed away - just now in 15 minutes!'
(i guess what is shocking to me most is not only that these guys explicitly ask for bribes, but also that people are so easily prepared to pay the bribe. corruption only works if the ordinary people participate...)
the boyfriend calls the special department against police crimes ans bribes.
no one answers the phone...

all creatures great and small

let's start at the top of our house. near and on the roof live the caged and uncaged birds. it is the caged ones that drive me nuts. particularly mr. pavarotti - the non-stop singing bird. cut it out will ya. we've all heard you and no one is going to let you free. so please stop your nervous tweet-tweet and la-la-la.

mosquitos - tell me what they were good for again? not only do i dislike them for biting me, but also for leaving behind a blood-red stain on the wall when i kill them with a newspaper.

then there are the ants. they come in 2 sizes: tiny and huge.
would the big ones even recognise the small ones as their species? would they consider them 'unter-ants'? or would the small ones think of the big ones as posers?

the tiny ones live in the kitchen.they are as big -or small- as a pixel and carry away our bread- and cookie crumbs, our left over lasagna, grains of sugar. one day we will wake up and the entire kitchen will have disappeared to their underground hiding place.
the big ants live in our patio. near the plants. they love marching in 3-4 lanes. always busy demolishing. left-right-march-march. i think they are up to an evil plan. perhaps they are slowly digging away at the foundations of our house, but strategically. we will notice nothing, until one day - KABUM, the whole house will disappear into a huge hole. people will wonder how it was possible nobody ever noticed anything. and the ants will giggle their mean little giggle.

the centipedes and millipedes have no plan. they simply live under the plants. once in a while when i pick up the pots to water the plants (which i should do more often), they wriggle and squirm, afraid of the daylight. dumb asses.

look at your thumb. well, that's the size that the cockroaches get here. and bigger. hey, it is a tropical country! they make a loud crunching sound - under my slippers. disgusting creatures.

our weirdest animal visitor in the house is the bat. yes, it comes into our house. late at night it flies in through the open window, circles around the lamp a few times and then flies out another window.
not so nice that he shat on the wall the other day. he should not do that.

there's only one creature living here that i actually have sympathy for: the lizard. it makes no noise. it does not bite. it does not seem to shit. it just seems to be happily leading his own little live without bothering me. every now and then he does scare the hell out of me when i pick up something from the shelve and he is sitting there. at least he is also scared - quickly scattering away to hide behind the next object on the shelve.

sometimes i think i am not really living in this house; it is all the animals that are living here. i am simply tolerated here by them because i provide them with food and shelter. they only need to change their mind and turn against us and the boyfriend and i will be out of this house within a day.
better be nice to them...

footloose

i guess informal economies work better in countries where the sun is always shining. can you imagine all these people working on the street in rainy places like amsterdam or london?

of all the strange street vendors and other people working on the street in rio, the guy i saw yesterday takes the prize: a legless shoe repair guy, working his way through a pile of shoes as high as his legless body on the beautiful palm lined square largo do machado.

yes we can(s)

there is one littering i allow myself here in rio: empty cans. i don't throw them just anywhere on the street, but i place them somewhere on a ledge, on the side of the pavement or -preferably- near a waste bin. it is guilt free littering as empty cans are worth a tiny little bit of money. minutes after leaving them behind on the street someone carrying a huge plastic bag will come along to pick it up and add it to his/her collection. these can collectors can make a living of this, but it does not pay well; a quick look at the way they are dressed gives this away.

one thing i do not understand is why most people insist on throwing their cans away in rubbish bins or in their household trash. the can collectors will dig in piles of rubble looking for their low value gems, cutting open bags, making themselves and the pavement dirty.

but now here's a dilemma i am facing: should i stick to my -supposedly- more social disposing method? or should i also throw my cans in the rubbish bins, thereby at least rewarding the collectors for their dirt digging?

of course i think it would be nicer if the can collectors do not have to look for their income in my waste. but as long as other people think (or at least behave) differently, shouldn't i join this dumb majority?

a third option would be to collect all my own cans and then with the money i make of that pay, let's say, health insurance or schooling for one of the can collectors.
i would need an awful lot of cans for that though... quickly, let me get myself a beer from the fridge!

trying to do the right thing is never easy.

águas de março

some songs you can listen to again and again.
this is one of them: águas de março. this is my favorite version, performed by 2 of brazils greatest artists ever, tom jobim and elis regina - both deceased.
the title means 'waters of march'. it refers to the rain that usually falls in rio in march (though this year the águas de março seem to fall mainly in april...). the song does not tell a story. it is much more a collage of images, references. it gives the impression of life passing, of things inevitably coming to an end - just like the rain in march marks the end of summer in rio.
tom jobim made an english translation and recording of the song. he stuck to the title: waters of march. of course it rains in march in england (and in every other month of the year). these rains however are spring rains. they announce the end of winter, the awakening of nature, of new things to come. some sadness of the brazilian version is thus lost in the literal translation of the title.

traveling between rio and amsterdam i never really suffer jetlag; the time difference is after all only 3 to 5 hours (depending on summertime/wintertime here/there; can't even be bothered to explain). i do suffer from seasonlag though.
whereas here in rio, with the arrival of the águas de março the summer is making place for a cooler few months, without the madness of humidity and heat, carnival and masses of tourists, in europe people are crawling out of there houses and take to the terraces.
easter might be a christian holiday, but to me it is a badly disguised pagan spring fest: obviously eggs as symbols of fertility, the coming of the season of growth and reproduction in nature. here in rio this spring fest makes no sense to me.
when i travel to the netherlands in 2 weeks i am sure my autumn mood will clash with the happy feeling of awakening that will be present all over amsterdam. isn't it -

now it has begun to rain and i must take the hammock inside.

papers, forms, documents, signatures

there is a scene in the film 'brazil' where the character played by robert de niro -a heroic, rebelious plumber, no less!- gets attacked by documents, and actually disappears in a storm of forms and papers. he is literally devoured by paperwork.
i never really understood the title of the film. but now that i live in brazil i am starting to understand; bureaucracy in brazil is of the highest sophistication i have ever come across, only surpassed maybe by india's.



1. i usually make my appointments at the whole or the half hour. sometimes a quarter before or after the hour. to be more precise than that simply makes no sense. there are too many factors that get in the way of making it on the exact minute: traffic, public transport, chance meetings on the way and of course leaving too late and laziness.
official organizations might work differently though. particularly in brazil. who am i to know?

i had to apply for a fiscal number. so i went to the office. an impressive office. huge building. many guards, with guns. “nobody steals our paperwork!”
they made an appointment for me, a few days later. they also set a time for my appointment: 16:46. sixteen forty six! exactly. not quarter to 5. not roughly 5. not anywhere between half past 4 and 5. no. 16:46!


needless to say, on the appointed day and hour i had to wait for about half an hour (37 minutes, to be precise). but i liked the attempt.

2. i needed a light bulb with a small fitting. not something you buy in a supermarket here. but this specialized shop was bound to have it. sure enough – there it was. displayed in a glass show case, sitting happily next to its red, green and flame light bulb brothers and sisters. inches away from my nose.
a lady appeared. she picked the chosen light bulb out of the display case and ... put it on a shelf behind her. what i got was a handwritten note, illegible to me. “now you have to take this note there”. she pointed to a window some meters away.
at the window i handed over the note and a 2R$ banknote. i got a new note, printed, a receipt and some coins change.
with the receipt and the new note i could go to the counter right next to the window i had just left.
now i had to hand over this new note and show the receipt. only then did the light bulb materialise.

3. i am sure it is easier to buy atomic warheads in vatican city than to get an internet connection in rio.
only 1 provider operates in our neighbourhood: oi, which means hello. well... hello?! oi simply decided to stop making more internet connections in our neighbourhood for the time being. and nobody knows how long this “time being” will be. could be 2 months. could be forever. hello?!

there is an alternative: mobile internet. 3G. plug and surf. you are only 3 easy steps away from total freedom. check your mail on the go. the future is now. wow. a totally new life lies ahead of us.

so of we went, the boyfriend and i. to the telephone shop. flashy shop. many terminals, young, smiling attendants, all so healthy looking.
the boyfriend had his little folder with him. in it all documents you need in brasil to get anything done.
and then this smiling, healthy looking bitch decided to ruin it all. one document was not good for her: the rental agreement of our apartment did not have a certified signature on it. so off we went. me to get a sandwich and to swear a little bit. the boyfriend to a little office to get his signature certified. this means that a guy or girl in an office looks at it and says: yes, this is indeed your signature. then he/she will put a sticker and a stamp next to it. and then he/she will charge you 15R$ and wishes you a good day.

my stomach filled and anger cooled, and armed with the certified signature nothing could go wrong now. and, amazingly, nothing went wrong. it just took another hour or so.
now 2 smiling attendants helped us. photocopies were made. forms were filled in. a long phone call was made – to the manager, the head office? to the ministry of defense? we paid. i got a receipt. i had to give the receipt back. a photocopy was made. we were given 2 boxes with hardware. and we were out off there!

when i bought my apartment i had to hand over less documents than the boyfriend had to to get this internet connection... seriously!

but now we have internet. mobile, but very slow. the boyfriend is already making phone calls about it, little folder sitting on his lap. and always they manage to ask him for a number or a bit of information which he does not have – probably because it doesn't exist in the first place.
“ah, but we need to know the fiscal registration number of the company that produced the modem. and the shoe size of the neighbour of your brother in law. good afternoon to you too.”

a piece of string

this unique space saving waste bin is a must for every kitchen. the 'soft touch' closing makes opening a joy. and with the removable plastic inner bucket, it's even easy to clean. the special ventilation holes in the inner bucket prevent vacuum when removing the filled bin liner. the bin is made of durable corrosion-resistant materials. the plastic protective bottom rim prevents damage to the floor.

this, of course, is the description taken from the brabantia website. but i must say, being the proud owner of a brabantia 40L waste bin, the description is pretty accurate. it truly is a good and decent piece of design. it should thus be no surprise that the boyfriend thinks of this waste bin as my most valued possession in my apartment in amsterdam. he loves the simplicity of it. he loves the soft touch opening mechanism - which is exactly at the height of where your fingers are when standing up. well thought through.

and like the waste bin, the rest of the netherlands is well designed. everything has a function, a plan. no traffic light is out of place, no piece of cutlery is left untouched by the design police. every thing has a master plan behind it. the entire public space is designed, planned, re-ordered, re-mastered to suit the dutchmen's and -women's needs.

hm - how about rio de janeiro? well, if ever there was a master plan, it got lost. maybe somebody needed it to scribble a phonenumber on it. maybe a child folded it into an airplane or a hat. oh there is design, there are plans, there are ideas. but most of the time the plan is not entirely accomplished. or the plan itself is faulty. like building a clock but forgetting -or simply not bothering- to put the hands on it. or, like i have seen in the beautiful parque do flamengo, putting plans of a park all over the park, but not indicating anywhere on the map where you are. simple enough, no?

instead of design the cariocas rely on salsicha. salsicha means fixing your car with a piece of string, repairing a window with cardboard, propping up your bed on a pan, turning an empty can into a cup or a lamp or a vase or a piece of art or a radio. salsicha is the art of improvising. not just for a temporary solution, no for a permanent solution (well, or however long it takes for the piece of string to snap). in a way, salsicha is the ultimate anti-design.

so now, after a period of 2 weeks in a perfectly designed environment, i have come back into the realm of improvisation. of things being held together by strings, elastic bands, tape and goodwill.

but don't get me wrong. going from design to salsicha is not a step back. nor is it a step forward. it is a step to the side. for a society based on salsicha does ofcourse mean you sometimes get annoyed, because things do not work the way they could or should do. but it also means i have moved from a society where everything functions according to a plan to a city where everything is a possibility; an invitation to be creative, a chance to do things your way. i traded a country where even spontaneity requires a -well designed- form to be filled in for an urban jungle with little rules, and what little rules there are can never stop the music and the joy and the people from simply happening. so what if it is held together by a piece of string?

gold medal

always when i see the statue of christ in rio (cristo redentor) i think he is about ready to jump into the bay of botafogo, make a beautiful double summersault and a twist - or whatever the professional terms are for it - and dive into the blue water with a tiny little splash.

better yet would be ofcourse if he would land on the water and walk away. if that does not give him a gold medal, what would?

random rumbers

who doesn't like lists? they give you the feeling that you're in control. so, here's a list of random numbers, composed back in amsterdam after 6 weeks in rio.

88228535 - my telephone number in rio. something tangible and real. a connection to the outside world. several numbers already stored in the memory - the careful beginnings of a new circle of friends.

1000's - sandgrains i brought back to the apartment from ipanema beach. they're everywhere. in my clothes, my bag, my book. sometimes one wonders how it is possible that there is any beach left, what with so many visitors to the beach each bringing back home so much sand. slowly the whole of rio ought to turn into one big beach.

702 - the apartment number where i have been living the past 6 weeks. where i have been writing my previous blogs. where i have woken up with a hang-over. where i have learned to like my boyfriends strange, favorite breakfast (mashed bananas with oats). where carlos has woken me up during carnaval with coffee - and coca cola. where a certain mike has stayed over. and carol, after the manu chao concert. where i have felt lonely, watching the godfather parts 1 and 2, whilst the boyfriend was away in far far away curitiba (eventhough i could still appreciate the quality of the films). where i have felt so hot. where i have solved quite a few sudoku's. where i have not been able to enter a certain night, because the boyfriend had lost the key. where we have been living in the dark for 2 days because we got cut off from electricity. where i have made a start.

123 - the favorite busline of the boyfriend and me. for a mere R$2,20 (€0,75) it is a true tourist attraction. open the windows and enjoy the fresh air in your face. the 123 races from the centre past the flamengo parc and the beaches of flamengo, botafogo and copacabana - straight to ipanema.

41 - degrees celcius. the hightest temperature in rio since i arrived so far.

30 - protection factor of the sunlotion i use. i want to stay nice and white - and also: not get skincancer.

5 - entrance fee in reais to the botanical garden. a true tropical paradise. in a city with too much noise and dirt it is a blessing to have a place where you can get away from it all. and eventhough i did not get to see the monkeys that i was promised by the guidebook, i did get to see squirles and orchids. nice too.

2 - number of keys gone missing. 1 lost by the boyfriend, 1 stolen from me.

0 - regrets i have so far of this adventure.

123456789

we should all be allowed to have one addiction. most people choose cigarettes or coffee as their preferred addiction. or alcohol. chocolate is another favorite. or buying shoes. or simply buying things. many addictions are less innocent though - like gambling, heroin, cocaine, lying.
i am not a psychologist - but my idea is that addicitons serve to temporarily take control of your thoughts and emotions. and in doing so they stop your mind from thinking about other, more urgent questions and worries that might be running around in cicrles in your brain.
my preferred addiction lately has been quite harmless. but whereas coffee or cigarettes do not cause shame usually in its users, mine makes me blush - a little bit.
my weakness, my shelter, my friend has been: the sudoku. sure i solved sudoku's before, but more as an innocent passtime. they are perfect, for instance, when working in a studio; in between scenes there is often a 5 minute break. too short to read a book, too long to do nothing. so... sudoku is the answer.
here in rio though it has been a secret joy of mine, displaying all the signs of an addiction. the little book of sudoku's i was given by friends at my farewell party in amsterdam has truly served as a friend. exactly the way a lot of people will talk about their cigarettes... somewhere in between making a joke and embarassment.
a fresh sudoku immediately engages me. where is the start. let me see. i scan quickly. quite a few 7's. so where does the 7 go in this square? top left corner. yes!
there's a 6 there, and a 4. another 4 there. wait - a 3 and a 1 here, so in this square there has to be a 9.
etc.
my mind is off. no more thoughts other than 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9. trying to fill in the empty boxes as fast as i can.

what does my friend the sudoku stop me from thinking?

i have no work. still no clear idea how to obtain a visa. will i be able to cope with the heat? how long will it take before i feel comfortable enough speaking in this wonderful new language? i am living on my savings - and i can tell you that i have never been an overzealous saver... will i get used to the raw edges of this city? to the dirt, the crime, the stupid bureaucracy, the corruption?
hm - plenty thoughts line up the moment i put my sudoku booklet down.
this morning i had to solve 4 sudoku's before i was ready to go out of the house.

still always better than shooting up or having 3 cachaças before being ready to face the world. guess i am not doing too badly after all...

"it is like that"

if cities have a gender, rio is certainly female. she is a lady for sure - but one with 2 faces. there is the beautiful face, the one with a smile, with the beaches in the background, sun always shining, with an eternal bossanova as a soundtrack. and there is the other face of rio. the ugly face, that people prefer to ignore, forget or look away from when seen. the face with warts and scars, an empty toothless laugh, yellow piercing eyes that do not blink. let's have a look at that face.

1. they are everywhere. and most of them are quite happy and resourceful. they will try to sell you peanuts, gum or sweets. they will polish your shoes for a few pennies. or they will simply ask you to give them a coin or 2. often they are playful - racing eachother for an empty can on the street (a bag full of them is worth 2 reais/65 eurocents!). some of them take care of younger brothers or sisters, sometimes carrying a baby on their hip just as comfortable as a mother would. yes, most of the kids living on the street in rio de janeiro seem quite content there.
but not this one.
he must have been 7 or 8. too old anyhow for the dummy he had in his mouth. he had the look in his eyes of a child that is beyond crying. lost. looking for someone.
his eye then caught her: his mother. she was walking, no rushing into the crowd. beer in one hand, cigarette in the other. she did not look back for the boy. she did not wait. she had the aimless nervousness in her behaviour that addicts sometimes have. restless legs, vacant look in her eyes.
the boy quickly lost his mother in the crowd. he stood there frozen, in the heat, between all these people drinking, making noise, talking loudly to eachother, flirting.
after a few minutes i wanted to go over to him. but right at that moment the mother reappeared. this time rushing off to the other side of the street. again without looking left or right - and certainly not looking for or even at her son. this time the boy had more luck though. he caught hold of the mother's skirt and held on tight. the mother did not seem to notice the boy. but the boy held onto the skirt with all his might, sucking even harder on his pacifier.and everything in the boy said: take me home. give me a bed. shelter me. care for me.
i was close to tears. the boyfriend held me in his arms and whispered in my ear: it is like this, it is like this.

2. it is like this, the boyfriend tells me, as we make our way through the packed street - away from it all.
it is like this, the boyfriend's friends tell me, as i tell them what has just happened.
what has just happened is that i have been pickpocketed.
a textbook example: a very busy street, with a lot of movement. too many people pushing and leaning into eachother. then there is a couple nearby, shouting. she seems to panick, yelling at her husband. he tries to calm her down, to hold her. she tries to escape his hold on her, thereby pushing people into eachother, into me. the couple draw a lot of attention. a guy bumps into me.
and oddly enough, 2 seconds later i realise i have been pickpocketed. cards gone - credit card, bankcard, drivers license- and the key to the house. what a motherfucking pain!
now the whole crowd seems hostile to me. i want to leave this place as soon as i can.
ofcourse i am upset. particularly because i always thought i would notice being pickpocketed. it would not happen to me. it could not, because i always pay attention. i put my cards away in that difficult pocket, that sometimes even annoys me when i have to take things out - precisely because it is so difficult to get things out!
it is like that, my boyfriend tells me.

for me 'it is like that' is a starting point - to amend, to make things better, to change.
here it is an end point. it means: there is nothing we can do about it.

difference in opinion? i guess.
oh well, it is like that...

pinch, squeeze and hold

ruy castro has written an informative and funny book about rio and the carioca's - as the inhabitants of rio are called. according to him, carioca's are good at bars, flip-flops, beach-tennis, caldinho de feijão (dish with black beans) and nicknames.
i have discovered at least 2 other things carioca's are good at.

firstly, there are some great graffiti artists here. normally i don't like it so much, but here sometimes it really cheers up the city.

the other quality carioca's seem to excel in is the art of handling one's dick in public. not just at the beach, but everywhere you go the carioca's are busy adjusting, re-adjusting or simply holding their dick. now i know that in hot surroundings, when things down there might get sweaty and sticky, every now and then one might want to move things around a little bit. but really, this carioca quality has nothing to do with that kind of natural adjustments.
the most common moves include the following:

- the casual full hand on dick, thumb just above the dick, full hand around it and supporting the balls. the hand can be left there for as long as you want, preferably during conversation. really not a move - but here the dick just forms a resting platform for the hand.
- the stroke. also preferably performed during conversation. seems to be an alternative to the movement described above. place full hand on manhood. stroke slowly. kind of self-caress; better known as dry masturbation.
- the traditional left to right shift or vice versa. use one hand to move the dick to the other side of the underwear. plenty fumbling. moving the bum backwards during this move helps to create manoevering room in the trousers. the shift can be performed both from the outside of the trousers and with the full hand and part of the arm inside the trousers. often there is a dubble shift, where the penis is shifted from one side to the other and then back again. sometimes the shift will go on indefinetly
- the quick squeeze. can be used both in conversation or when passing someone on the street. simply grab what you have and squeeze it lightly and quickly. emphasizes the existence of manhood - and the size of it.
- the prolonged 2 fingered pinch. an all time favorite of the carioca's. get a hold of the tip of the dick between thumb and one finger through your trousers. then slowly move fingers back and forth, thereby rolling the tip of the dick. pause and repeat. this movement is as natural to the carioca as walking or swimming and can be performed anywhere and everywhere.

ordem e progresso

i like the brasilian flag. it is colourful, the colours match, it is graphic, without having too much going on at the same time (rectangle, diamond, circle)
it is certainly not boring; the little stars take care of adding just a little panache to it.
it is really a flag that suits the country. the green for amazonia, the yellow for all the beaches, the blue for sea and rivers, the stars representing the states. perfect.

well, almost perfect.
for there is one thing in the flag that always makes me giggle. just a little bit. it is the motto. ordem e progresso. that's right - order and progress. now i do not want to be nasty about brasil at all, but if there is 2 things that i would not immediately associate with this great country it is order and progress. sure, since the flag was introduced great strides have been made both in order and progress. no doubt about it.
but i only need to look outside my window to see disorder.
and progress? well, let's put it this way: brasil has not exactly put a man on the moon.
thinking of brasil, other motto's come to mind: cheerfulness and spontaneity. or sun and beach. or black and white (and all the shades in between). or caipirinha and beans. or foot- and volleyball.

maybe it is better to see the motto as an ideal.
"oh come on people, please let's live a bit more orderly. no, don't park your car there and don't shoot your neighbour. and don't have too much fun; every now and then let's try to get things going, ok?"

actually not a bad idea to put an encouragement to the people in your flag. other countries could think of similar motto's. the usa could have the words modesty and peace printed on one of the stripes. india's new credo could be we're all born equal in a quiet surrounding. belgium: good governance and unity. saudi arabia: democracy and equal opportunities. netherlands: subtle, yet flamboyant.
etc. etc.

eggs and dance

many great things come from the favela's, like lively carnaval, certain fashion (http://www.daspu.com.br/putique/ - a fashion brand for/from prostitutes) and.. well, a lot of other things too.
the latest trend to have arrived from the favela's on the main streets is a music style called baile funk. (apparantly it has even made it to the top of the charts in holland: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0SOx2GkLqM)
now i happen to be living on a main street. and one night the baile funk indeed made it there.

the boyfriend and i had gone out that day for a late lunch with a delightful friend of ours. she is funny and sweet and witty and full of stories and funny little observations.
she has lovely red curly hair, just as jumpy and happy as she herself is.
and this day she was thirsty too.
and when a girl drinks it would be impolite to let her drink alone. so we joined her for a few beers over lunch. however the boyfriend and i had set ourselves one task that day: to buy tickets for manu chao's concert next week.
so after lunch the three of us set out to accomplish this task, which luckily turned out to be rather easy. nontheless we felt we deserved to celebrate our fine achievement and so we had some more drinks. we watched the friendly match italy-brasil in a local establishment. the fact that my new fatherland won added to our joy. and what made it even better was that there was 1 italian present in the bar, who quickly took of his azzuri t shirt after the match to change it for a more neutral looking shirt. oh, there is nothing like schadenfreude.
in the end we got home at around half past ten, ready for bed.

and then there was the baile funk.
the block behind our apartment building is a little maze of improvised houses and sheds and car parks and other structures with less defined functions. in a way a miniature favela. so it should be no surprise that there would be a baile funk there.
we could not only hear the baile funk (rather hard not to hear it), but we could also see it. some 10 people had gathered on a balcony, dancing, drinking and talking loudly over the music. plenty children there too. shouldn't they be in bed? well, i guess it makes no sense to put them to bed with music playing like that...
the boyfriend and i got rather annoyed by this completely selfish party (they least they could have done was to invite us). and so i started yelling from our balcony in my best portuguese that they should stop the music. stop the fucking music even. stop for fuck´s sake. yes, this vocabulary i have quickly picked up here.
the boyfriend does not like shouting too much. he wanted to resort to different measures. and so there he was at the balcony holding an egg.
'should i throw it?', he wondered.
'sure', i said 'you won´t make it to them anyhow'
'yes i will'
'no you won´t'
the boyfriend was in doubt. i had dared him ofcourse. but i was also genuinely convinced he could not throw the egg that far. the boyfriend believed -and still believes- he could have. he was mainly concerned about hitting one of the children.
after plenty deliberations and plenty more yelling from my part, the boyfriend decided to do the civilized thing: call the police.

then out of the blue the baile funk ended. did the police arrive? did the yelling work? i think they were simply done with their little explosion of joy and went home.
silence returned; well, silence... now at least we could hear that stupid dog barking again. and the cars. and the airco of the hospital nearby.

as we were a little bit peckish i decided to make an omelette. much better use for eggs than throwing them at the neighbours.

rise and shine

ways of waking up:

1. traffic. so many cars are trying to make their way through the streets of this neighbourhood. and so many cars find it necessary to stop in the middle of the street. result: constant symphony of horns.

2. planes. the planes fly very closely over our house, as if they are trying to land on the square one block away from here. sometimes you can even hear the purser on the intercom: "cabin crew, prepare for landing". seriously.


3. the dog from hell. somewhere in the maze of sheds and make shift houses behind our apartment block there lives a dog from hell. it barks. barks. barks. it is hoarse from barking. but it keeps on barking. night and day. if ever i meet this dog, i will put it out of OUR suffering.


4. the heat. oh, we do have a fan next to our bed. but 35°C, bright sunlight and not a breath of wind is no competition for our brave little fan. we simply sweat ourselves awake sometimes.



but by far the worst way of waking up - which alas happens all too often:




5. garlic. yes... garlic. i love garlic. but not at 7 in the morning. our downstairs neighbour thinks differently. so he/she fries garlic early in the morning. and this scent will float into our little bedroom... goodmorning!





let´s look at the positive side: we do not really need to bother with an alarm clock.

carmen miranda

today is carmen miranda's 100th birthday. she came from portugal, but was as brazilian as pelé, caipirinha and the girl from ipanema. she gave brazil a face in hollywood - or at least, she gave brazil the face that the outsiders wanted it to have: exotic, beautiful and fruity, very fruity (carmen miranda usually wore a fruitbasket for a hat).

for me she epitomizes brazil perfectly in a way, for she unites the 3 continents that make up brazil. she is after all from the old world, became famous in (latin-)america and sings music which has its origins in africa.

last sunday the boyfriend and i saw several carmens mirandas. one urged us to taste the melon around her hips, which was already conveniently opened up (indeed both at the front and at the back sides of her body.)

we also saw snow-white, a nurse and margaret thatcher. they did all have one thing in common: they were all men. the occasion: a banda de ipanema - a march of a traditional carnaval band along the beach of ipanema.

i think in the next few weeks to come i will see many carmens mirandas, both male and female.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERYKzez97lA

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carmen_Miranda

chocolate paste

you pack your bag, book a one-way ticket - e presto: you have emigrated.

the big adventure can begin. new country, new people, new language, new city, new news. obvious, no? however the big adventure lies in the small things. because there are so many small things you have to learn. all these small things that were obvious or even routine in your home country. like which bus to take, how and what to order in a restaurant, how to walk through a crowd, to cross a busy road, to greet people you don´t know.

so now i feel like a child again, having to learn all these small things, one step at a time.

learning is fun ofcourse. just remember what it was like when you learned to ride a bike. whoa - the feeling of mastering that machine! the speed! the danger that came with it.

and then you fall.

so learning can be tiring and difficult as well. another thing learned.


today i am learning: the supermarket. ah - here are the vegetables. no matter that i have no clue what all these strange looking fruits and leafs are. there is the bread. let me take these festive looking rolls. now all i need is chocolate paste to give myself a real treat.

here is the jam, next to the bread. there is the honey. so... the chocolate paste can´t be far away... no, not here. here are the diet products. and then pickles.

i decide to look in the least obvious place: detergents. no - not there. well that would have been silly. though i also fail to see why the tea deserves to be next to the detergents - and not next to the coffee where it should be - or where i feel it should be.

let´s look somewhere else. i fight my way through the busy place. hm - dried meat. more dried meat. here is the cheese. but no chocolate spread to put on these delicious looking rolls.

i ask the kind looking girl with the ridiculous shop uniform.
'excuse me. i is look for chocolate for bread. nutella?' and then i make the universally known gesture for spreading somehting on you bread - one hand being the bread, the other the knife spreading the much sought after product.
she looks at me vacantly. so i repeat.
'chocolate. bread.' and the gesture that clarifies it all.
the lights seem to go on in the girls head. somewhere there is activity in her pea sized brain. yes, now she walks away and signals for me to follow.
ok - chocolate milk powder. not bad. but not what i want.
she smiles triumphantly and deserts me.

oh come on people - there must be chocolate paste in this place! damn! it should be next to the jam. it wants to be there. i am sure. but it is not there - even if i check again.
and how i wish that child would STOP screaming. and why do people leave there carts in the middle of the pathways? and why is that couple standing in front of the cereals -forever!- where i now know i will find that fucking chocolate paste. not. and will you guys please clean up that broken beer bottle! and please don´t push me in the queue. and could you use deodorant - damn you smell. and why are you not wearing a t-shirt? and why are all the american films on tv dubbed? and why does the cheese not taste like cheese?
what is the cashier lady saying to me? and why is she saying it to me again- loudly? can she not understand that i do not understand? no - i do not have any change. and even if i did you would not get it.
get out of my way stupid old fool! don't stand in the door! hey - i know it is a car park but i am walking here. just because you have the right off way does not mean you have the right to kill me.

it is too hot. there are too many people. too much noise. and: i have no chocolate paste.

so today i have learned about the supermarket.
i have learned that there is a different logic here. (different - not worse, and not better. must keep on telling myself this) i do not understand it yet, but one step at a time i will learn it.
perhaps today i tried to take one step too much: to find chocolate paste.
maybe better luck tomorrow.

learning how to cycle takes a few attempts as well. today i fell of the bike.

look who i met today!

much to my surprise barbie lives in rio de janeiro.

i know where she lives.

and i know where she goes to church every sunday.

ofcourse all i have to do now, is to find out where ken is.

34°C and humid

the sweating man´s dilemma 1a:
walking gives the sweating man a bit of ventilation. but walking ofcourse causes sweating as well.

the sweating man´s dilemma 1b:
if the sweating man walks, he provides himself a whiff of ventilation, but the excercise makes him sweat.
if he stops walking, eventually he will stop sweating, but only after the outburst of sweat, caused by the lack of ventilation, has passed.

the sweating man goes into the bank. he does not need cash. he is not going to open an account. he just stands there and stares at the map in his guidebook. he knows where he is though, so he puts the guide away. he looks at the leaflets in the bank. mortgages, poupança (what the hell is that?), internet banking. nothing that concerns the sweating man. he hums a little tune. watches his cell phone; nope, no new messages. the sweating man sighs and leaves the bank. 'man!', the sweating man thinks, 'this bank had an even better airco than the previous one. i must remember this bank'.

the bus is not moving forward, which means no ventilation, which means the sweating man is sweating. he stares outside. 'i wish i was that man', thinks the sweating man. 'that man over there, carrying that heavy bag in the full sun. carrying it on his shoulder, touching his cheek, balancing it with both hands. that heavy heavy bag full of ice'

the sweating man´s dilemma 2: to sweat and sleep or to sleep with the noisy fan on - that is the question.

the sweating man likes ipanema. he likes the shops there. he does not even have to go into them. if only he walks closely passed the entrances, he can feel the cold airconditioned air streaming out onto the pavement.

if he would walk any slower, the sweating man would stand still. and still he is sweating. not fair.

the sweating man´s dilemma 3: to dance and sweat or to not dance and still sweat?

the sweating man wants to point out the church.
'look people', he wants to say. 'look a church.' and then point at it.
'there. that is a church. right there. yes, it is a church. that building is indeed a church. let me point it out for you. just watch my finger. there, i am pointing right at it. over there...'
just to get some fresh air under his armpit.

beans and boys

´you like beans?´, she asks me as she sets down in front of me the lunch i have ordered.
i do not get a chance to answer.
´i like beans. love beans. always when i was in europe i miss beans. aaahhh, i think. beans beans beans. black beans. not european beans. they, well.. different, no? and this is quiabo. qui-a-bo. in the sauce of tomato. you see? vegetable. from africa, but now here.
after meal you can see the restaurant. rafael will show, ok?
i am manager assistent, valentina. enjoy the meal. so i hope you like the beans.´

so do i. and i hope i can now finally enjoy my meal.
nope. not yet.
a friendly looking guy with bambi eyes brings me salt and pepper and 3 bottles of identical looking sauces.
´my name rafael. ok?´
´ok!´
now will you please stop looking at me whilst i eat?

i am having lunch alone, as the boyfriend is away for a few days. he is tying up some loose ends of his life in curitiba. people in curitiba don´t like loose ends. here in rio, keeping loose ends loose is a way of life.

i choose this restuarant because from the outside it looked as if the airconditioning would be working well here. it does. the music system does not work well, which does not stop them from continuously trying, resulting in 5 second snippets of a song, followed by a random interval of silence.

just when normality seemed to have returned, the cook makes his entrance. broad smile. long explanation about the meal i would very much like to eat. very long explanation. in portuguese.
a girl appears behind the cook. not clear if she is working here. she smiles. points at the food.

...and there is rafael again.
´other drink?´
´no thanks´
´coffee now?`
´no, no coffee now.´ maybe friggin´ later if i can finish my meal.

these people circle me like flies trying to settle down on a cow!

some 15 minutes later i have won the battle. i managed to down my meal! i pay what i am due.
now comes the tour. in 3 minutes rafael shows me the rest of the recently renovated place. the 2nd floor is a lounge area. the top floor is reserved for special events - i think...
ah - and the place has a bathroom aswell. perfect.
after my short visit there, it is time to say our goodbyes.
no less than 5 people bring me to the door.
valentina seems to want to kiss me.
´so you like? you come back with friends?´
´sure´
´take this. is reduction next time.´
she gives me a leaflet: picture of the restaurant, address, menu, etc. wow! written in 6 different fonts. desktop publishing has reached brasil.

when i walk away from the restaurant i hear someone behind me. rafael!
did i forget something? no, just more leaflets.
´to share for your friends.´
´thanks and goodbye.´ i turn around and want to walk away.
then i see a different piece of paper in the little pile.
in huge letters and numbers:´RAFAEL TELEPHONE´ and then his number.
also to share with my friends?
i look back. rafael waves and gives me a fantastic smile.

man and chair

just because the man does not have a home, does not mean he does not have a chair.

water drops, coffee and choque de ordem

an apartment in rio can be found in the newspaper. the sunday edition of o globo is the best newspaper for this purpose. like so many weekend editions of newspapers it comes with more than 10 sections - and somewhere in these sections (but why does it always have to be the last that you check?) are the ads for apartments for rent.
the boyfriend and i like to sit in a café to check out the ads. there are some factors to be considered: the price has to be right, the neighbourhood, number of rooms, the size of the apartment. this complex sudoku of wishes and what is offered narrows down the list to some 10 places we might like to see.
then comes the fun part. calling the phone number mentioned in the ad.
'yes, hello this is renate here. ah, the apartment! yes! please call back after 3 and ask for reinaldhino. he has the phone number of frança. she probably still has the key. i am not sure she works today though. or tomorrow. her mother is very ill, you know?'
'thank you, renate...'

in between the phone calls we sip large quantities of coffee. and as the boyfriend is making all the calls (so far his portuguese is still a little better than mine; also i think his patience with all the bullshit you have to put up with coming from the other end of the line will always be bigger than mine) i read the other sections of the newspaper. some international news, interviews with carnaval dancers, letters to the editor.

here´s an interesting letter. what you should know: recently rodrigo bethlem got elected as the new mayor of rio. his main agenda was the promise of ´choque de ordem´ - something like bringing law and order back to the city. this letter addresses an urgent problem that mr. bethlem needs to tackle.

'... for years now i have fought against the problem in my building of air conditioning dripping water onto the pavement. i have taken this serious problem up with my neighbours, but to no avail. with the election of the new mayor i have new hopes.´
thus spoke lydia de aguiar moraes correia.

funny, there´s even a word for the specific problem that lydia fights against so passionately: ´gotejamento´ - something like drop-forming.

here i was thinking that the choque de ordem was aimed at problems like the many many homeless people on the street. on the one hand they deserve housing. on the other hand they create a mess, they commit petty crimes, they piss and puke and shit on the streets and in the parks (well, if the street is your house, some part of that street is bound to be your bathroom, no?). mainly the children living on the street i think should urgently be taken care of: give them a home, schooling, health care.
or what about the littering of the city? people leave their rubbish where ever they desire. in small piles, medium size piles or in huge piles.
squatting: another problem that needs choque de ordem. beautiful mansions crumble in front of your eyes as they are turned into miniature favela´s.
ah, yes. then ofcourse there are the favela´s. large chunks of the city are run by drug gangs. not entirely lawless, but just, you know, with a law of their own...
don´t these problems need choque de ordem?
not according to lydia.

as i finish reading the letter and turn my attention to the boyfriend who has just ended another bizar phone call, he asks me if i want more coffee.
not here in this café, actually. coffee here is bad.
because contrary to what one might think, most of the coffee made in brasil is awful. once they even tried to serve us an instant cappuccino. brr.

so we up and leave. let´s go to that nice café in the bookshop? yes, but the airco does not work well there. and outside there is that terrible stench all the time.
so the quest for a good coffee place continues.

we have no house, no job, we live on our savings which will not last forever, i am not sure if i will get my visa. i do not speak the language. but what i worry about most right now is finding a decent café.

lydia is right after all. is it surprising that in a city with such huge problems, like unemployment, pollution, crime, homelessness, dirt, favela´s and drugs, you should worry about the small things?
perhaps if you can not manage the big problems in life, one should focus on the small problems.

´dear mr. rodrigo bethlem. we strongly agree with your agenda of choque de ordem in this city. the coffees served in most bars is APPALLING. this is unworthy of this beautiful country of BRASIL. where is the pride in serving good quality of our national drink? please deal with this problem URGENTLY.
furthermore, fix the airconditioning in the coffeeshop in the bookshop on praça floriano, get rid of the smell there. oh and is it too much to ask for the waitresses to smile every now and then.
this city has been in dire need of ordem for too long.
our hope now lies entirely in your hands. do not disappoint us.
sincerely yours, eric and the boyfriend´