After living somewhere for a while it’s inevitable that one establishes a routine, right? I find myself these days totalmente sem tempo...What about the hours I’m supposed to be baking on the beach? I haven’t done that for weeks! Is this what it really means to be Carioca? (*Interesting etymological note: oca, in Tupi, the indigenous language that was spoken before the Portugues arrived, means big house. Kari means white man. So Carioca means house of the white man, and that’s what people from Rio are referred to as).
Where am I spending all of my time? Mostly on the train. That lumpy bumpy uncomfortable train of plastic seats. Why oh why do they curve the seats right in the middle of the back? It hurts so much when we lurch or jolt- a hard crack to your back bone. And the carcophony of vendors. I like a few: the guy who has colorful make-up cases and always hangs his display from a hook off of the hand-bar above where I sit, so it hits me in the face. And the young energetic water guys are pretty cool. Everyone loves the sorbette sellers, but one in particular has hawked his way into my heart. He sells plastic water bottles with a freezable ice-cube thing attached to the lid. He has a laminated newspaper article about his wonderous water bottle that he shows us, his captive audience, and he’s quite gentile, yet convincing, in his pitch. Today a man with a mullet bought one even though the only color that was left was pink! And my vendor has really nice muscles.
The reason I’m on the train so much is because I go to Parada de Lucas so much. Today a few of us put the masa up on the concrete walls in preparation for painting. The first time we attempted this, the masa was ruin, so it was hard, frustrating work. This time, the masa was perfect: fluffy, white, beautiful! It was so easy to spread across the walls with the metal spreader tools. So, today masa-ing was um prazer. We got a little kooky in there with the radio, too: dancing forro, singing “Eu se pego” and “Nossa alegria”, trying to get the Swiss guy to stop swearing, sliding around on the wet tiled floors.
Yesterday I was at P de L to teach English. I’ve got a group of 5 crianças, aged 10-19. They are a joy! I must have gotten better at teaching ‘cause these kids get there early and don’t want to leave when class is over. Yesterday was the day before Easter holidays. Easter here means big chocolate eggs decorated in shiny plastic, and I think that you’re supposed to buy them for any children you know. I bought grapes instead, and they liked them, because we played that game where you stuff as many grapes in your mouth as possible (learning how to count in English was the excuse). The Swiss guy’s parents also visited recently and guess what they brought? Chocolate. A bar was donated to my class, and I distributed it at the end. Most of the kids went for it and ate like normal kids eat chocolate. But Julia, a skinny 12-year-old who is wired most of the time, savored it like a connoisseur. It was so cool: she took tiny little bites and let it melt with her eyes closed. She only ate a bit and saved the rest for her mom. So elegant!
Parada de Lucas...I’ll write about it later, tá?
On the way back today, after paying our train ticket and entering the platform, me and the Swiss guy realized had a long wait ahead of us, so we tried to let the train lady to let us out to buy some ice cream. She couldn’t let us out and then let us back in for free, but she did give us a key to a secret door down by the tracks. We had to jump down into the tracks and climb up to the other side, where there was this door...but we couldn’t get it to open. Too rusty. Oh well. I don’t really need any ice cream. Getting back up onto the platform was an adventure enough.
On the ride back, I always try to look through the scratchy windows for the people on the tracks. The crack guys are still down there smoking (not in Parada de Lucas, another train stop). Their neighborhood is Manguinhos, and it looks like it’s being knocked down slowly. The houses facing the tracks are often missing walls. I used to be so fascinated by this area, but now I’m not. I think this has something to do with riding through Centro Barranquilla every day for a year. Even though I’m in Brazil and I’m in Rio de Janeiro and it’s fantastic and amazing, everything is not as exciting as the first time I was here. I think I’ve reached a new level of traveler.
No comments:
Post a Comment