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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.