A Long Time Coming

Well, my dear family and friends, I have been waiting nearly a month for the many shards of my experience here in Bolivia to coalesce themselves into a mosaic that I might describe to you. Yet, the only sense I can make of my experience here is senselessness. That is not to say that the experience is bad, just imperfectly comprehensible so at to leave me somewhat disoriented and uncertain. I am not in order, but rather disordered, freed of course from the psychological implications of the term.

I walk on dirt roads past dark brown women wearing hats and carrying heavy buckets of goods bought from a vast open air market who are dressed in many colors and wear a rainbow wrap around them that in the back forms a place to carry babies. They smile a "buen dia" and reveal missing teeth, or even present teeth edged in silver or gold. This experience does not exist in the U.S., at least in the worlds I've traveled. It reminds of a my first and only time in Venice, when I told a dear friend, an Italian who passed many years in Venice, that the only way I could relate Venice to my existence was through Disneyland. There, Mickey and Minnie might be able to show me something similar or even invite me to partake in some approximation of it. My normalcy was insufficient to account for what I saw. So it is here, but without the aid of Donald and Goofy, or even the local Indian reservation with the statue commemorating a time and fashion disappeared but for occasional ceremonies.

The limits of my normalcy of course challenge me. I am comfortable with my family here, the professors and staff at the language institute, my fellow students, the lady who runs the internet place and her family, the pharmacist and her 4 year-old daughter who is starting to learn English. These are all aspects of a world familiar to me--a purpose (study), a basic social structure, tools of communication, buying necessities from a store--and I am having lots of fun within them. Yet, this world of comfort feels so insular, so small in comparison to the much greater foreignness of labrynthine markets, directions given by landmarks instead of addresses, hordes of stray dogs traveling in mixed-breed packs, the feel of cobblestone rocks pressing through the soles of shoes, packed buses where passengers are too scared to tell you that someone is picking your pocket, mountains made of broken rocks without trees where llamas and sheep graze in the wild and that reach so high into the sky that you need to chew coca leaves to climb them, trucks with the body of oil transports that instead are filled with water to take to the places the infrastructure doesn't reach.

In Brazil—or at least in Rio and Salvador, just two cities of a vast country--I did not feel so foreign (I might have if I would have wandered off into the more rural areas). Certainly, the language was different, as were some customs. But the dress, the daily activities, the roads, the scale of business, even the poverty were at least cognizable. The racial makeup probably didn't hurt, as I was in the midst of lots of people of various shades and, even when the only white person, I could be comforted by the familiarity of the blackness that was around, even if culturally different.

This disorder, perhaps, is culture shock, and I am feeling it in the country’s third largest city with a metropolitan population nearing a million. It inspires fear. Fear inspires the desire for refuge. At last, four weeks into my year here, I am afraid enough to write to all of you.

I Am Crying Now...

Where the dead sleep, and where the living visit, a tree with purple flowers violently bloomed. Its trunk and roots burrowed through the brown of earth, its boughs parted the particulate brown of dust and smog, all while shielding death itself from the unyielding gaze of denuded brown mountains. My host mother and her daughter carried red flowers to the cubby hole bearing the remains of their recently departed husband and father.

My dad wasn't placed in a cemetery. He was burned and then collected into a box. Mom and I rationed him to friends and family so that each could say goodbye in his or her own way. We can no longer visit Dad. I don't remember precisely where I scattered him, though I know many places where I might have.

Dad died soon before turning 58. Since I must place him in terms I can more readily understand, he died when I was 24, nearly five years ago now. Mom was 53. Her hair was slightly less white than it is now. Dad wouldn't have minded.

Strangely, death doesn't stagnate the departed's influence on the living, but rather provokes it. For in place of definite reactions, uttered words, and recordable moments lives an imagined world. Certainly, I know my dad from childhood and adolescence--even as a semi-adult visitor. I know his guffaw and the scowl that his forehead wore so unnaturally for such a gentle-hearted man. I remember his interest in beginnings, be it our family or whatever town we happened to live in. I see his stuffed pockets and bulging backpacks and filled car-trunks, always prepared with first-aid kits, binoculars, compasses, flashlights, space blankets, hand warmers, and spare food. He always seemed to be rummaging. And, I hear both his frustrated words for a recalcitrant computer and his sweetly sung "Swing Lo."

However, my knowledge of myself outpaces my knowledge of my father. What would he think of my current trip? Would he laugh if he found out that I've come to love Gordon Lightfoot, the folk singer I so often teased him about? Would he have enjoyed the food I cooked, and, if not, could I at least rely on the non-finicky nature that so benefitted Mom to make me think he did? What would he have looked like after finally losing the hair that still allowed him a part on the left side, as I often wear my own? Would he have been as thrilled as I was during Obama's campaign? Could he still throw a baseball well? Could he have ever explained to me his unyielding joy in birdwatching?

I want to know more than the one thing I do--that he would have been loving and supportive and proud. I want to know details, not themes. Mostly, I invent them. Sometimes, though, through means I cannot control, I stumble upon Dad.

I did so on Saturday. While circling an unheated pool at a nearby restaurant/resort getaway in the comfortable air of a Cochabamba winter, I saw first his blindingly white legs, with their hair patterned more after a high-mountain meadow than his more forest-like chest. I saw his left hand and the gold band, perhaps a centimeter wide, that never came off a finger more man-like than my own. I saw his pacing gait, waiting to discern the right moment and place to make his leap from the side. And, when I most needed a bit of courage to take the swim I so wanted to take, I saw his goofy smile generating enough force to compel his unsculpted body forward into a splash bursting in firework form. I leapt after him and, finally rising from the jump, let out a scream of shock that he never did. We laughed together. I played. Getting out and drying my head with my old tattered towel featuring the logo of a football team I once fanatically cheered with his parents, I felt my dad's fingers rubbing my head in his so-happy-to-be-a-dad way.

The trickle of tears started soon thereafter, though the presence of relative strangers shut the water off at the faucet, if not at the main. I used to cry mostly when I imagined my mom dying; now I also cry when I realize Dad is dead.

Neither myself, nor my host mother, nor her daughter shed any tears at the cemetery today. Their relatively easy-going demeanor clashed with the air of solemnity I had adopted to display respect in this foreign situation. They simply changed the flowers (though the mother thought the daughter cut the stems too short), talked a little bit about other acquaintances residing there, and even chuckled some at statements I paid little attention to. On the way out, lagging just a bit behind my companions, I looked again at the purple-blossom tree and noticed that there were no birds in it. So, I placed some there--not paying much attention to their species or characteristics--hoping that Dad might spot them.

Hey! Whatever Happened to the MCs? (Time done changed for the MCs...)

Though urban poverty is known the world around, the 1970's New York version of it spawned what is now known as Hip Hop culture. Starting as block parties in neighborhoods facing poverty, domestic fallout from the Vietnam War, loss of blue collar jobs from deindustrialization (and the economic crisis of the early 70's), limited realization of promises of the Civil Rights Movement, backlash against the Black Power movement, and a popular music culture increasingly glitzy, Hip Hop would be put on record, promoted, popularized, and exported as both culture and music to other parts of the world. Its international reach seems amazing. Many rappers who are relatively obscure ("underground") here testify to the ability of Japanese audiences to recite every word of their songs. South African cab drivers from rival syndicates used to identify themselves with 2Pac and Notorious BIG. A friend was doing doctoral research on Hip Hop in Cuba. Far too often reduced to mere music--the most popular of which is often thought vulgar and limited--Hip Hop seems more a way of seeing the world. It involves listening to the stories of the folks that, for one reason or another (though often those reasons are race or poverty), reside on the margins of society. Hip Hop centralizes, through words, dress, sound, murals, dance, film, attitude, and politics, segments of worlds that are popularly ignored.

While I may have internalized this centralizing tendency of Hip Hop culture, the music does not play a central role in my social life anymore. I used to spend several hours a week either improvising or writing rhymes. Now, I don't. I used to spend hours talking about lyrics and beats and engaging in silly arguments and discussion with friends. Now, with only one or two people I can really talk about it with in law school, I talk mostly with myself, pondering the music on my nightly walks, one thing amongst many. I grow excited for the latest release from a favorite artist in a bubble. I haven't had enough moxy, motivation, or time to create my own little Hip Hop zone in Seattle. It, like the best friend (not a Hip Hop head) who is busy and lives elsewhere, is influential, but peripheral, and thus so dearly missed.

Thankfully and surprisingly, I found a couple of American Hip Hop heads with me on the program, and we'd trade occasional thoughts. But, I didn't encounter any Brazilian heads. Those that knew or liked Hip Hop were only familiar with the most commercially successful artists who, while not necessarily bad, don't well represent the depth of the music or breadth of styles. Their familiarity with Brazilian Hip Hop was limited. I, of course, had the relatively stale route of asking for good Brazilian Hip Hop in a music store. There, too, I was given a name or two, but not any enthusiasm for the music.

I arrived in Salvador in the middle of a huge, week-long festival celebrating John the Baptist. I do not know if heavy drinking and empassioned dancing were part of the ancient baptism rituals, but I'll assume they were and thereby see this festival as a conservative rebellion to overthrow sanitized tenets of modern religion and restore those of an exalted past. Whatever the meaning of the festival, I grew accustomed to the varied rhythms of forro, axe, and samba. One night--Wednesday--tired of both partying and trying to acclimate to foreign sounds, I relaxed in my hostel bed and read of the coming of the Third Reich, enraptured by the tale. At some point, I noticed that I was bobbing my head slightly, rhythmically, without thinking. My mind left my eyes and arrived at my ears. Sure enough, not 100 feet from me, speakers were blasting some Hip Hop. Disregarding my style-less clothes, I threw on my shoes and went out to find the music. A Brazilian Hip Hop trio (two MCs and one DJ) was rocking the crowd. I didn't understand a damn word, but I knew the beats were dope, and I could follow the universal command to "throw your hands in the air" (in Portuguese, it's "ao cima," e.g. up, or to the top). My body went into dope-concert-mode, not quite dancing, but definitely gesticulating. The show ended with the group inviting up a lot of the Bahian (the state where Salvador is located) Hip Hop community who was in the crowd up on stage for the last song. The crowd appropriately showed its love and dispersed.

I killed a few minutes while the performers and their friends were backstage. Then, I saw a couple of the dudes who were on-stage for the last song--they weren't performing, but they had been called up there by the performers. So, I figured they were part of the local scene. I approached them and in a limited but oh-so-enthusiastic Portuguese, introduced myself, told them I was American and was a huge Hip Hop fan and wanted to get to know the Brazilian scene. They were real cool and responded well. They started telling me how Hip Hop is really a niche genre in Brazil and that a lot of folks don't really know anything about it. One guy told me some of his favorite artists. When he mentioned Common, I told him (again, in broken Portuguese) about the time I got to rhyme on stage with Common in front of 10,000 people at the Greek Theatre at Cal. We all chatted for a few minutes. Two of the guys, both MCs, gave me their phone numbers and told me to call them tomorrow. I left giddy and roamed around trying to burn off the excitement. I shared the story with any hostel-mate kind enough to listen.

After a day or two of telephone wrangling (not having a cell makes it difficult to get in touch; then, when in touch, it's really difficult to understand what someone is saying), I was invited to come out to the home of one MC, Calibre. He waited for me at the point the bus dropped me off, a solid 35 minute ride from the tourist area. The area looked like favela, which doesn't necessarily mean danger, but it does mean poverty. The nicest building in the area was the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, a beige building undramatically steepled with the proud distinction of being fully painted without having any paint visibly peeling. (much love to my Mormon friends reading this).

He took me to a friend's place, where they all smoked (I always "just say no," a lesson for which I must undoubtedly thank the committed efforts of Nancy Reagan and the irrefutably successful War on Drugs, which has helped the U.S. achieve the enviable position of having the highest incarceration rate in the world), and soon thereafter we left and chopped it up about music and life.

Unlike me, who had a friend's older brother around to introduce me to the music, Calibre had only the relatively slow trickle of American Hip Hop provided by Brazilian MTV and radio. Liking the style, sound, and attitude of artists like Jay Z, DMX, and Dr. Dre, he started rhyming and making beats around 1997 or 1999, at about the age of 15 or 17. After a few years, he started performing and has been doing so off and on since. His next show was to be a week after I left Salvador. However, here, Hip Hop is mostly a hobby, with very little chance (even less than in the U.S.) of making a full career from music. Thus, he is committed to his regular job of being a capoeira (a Brazilian martial art) instructor. The two interests merged nicely when he was invited to Italy to teach capoeira and made a cool, if basic, music video out there.

I wanted to hear some of his music--and he wanted to play it for me-- so we went to his place and he started playing me his recorded stuff, all made on Fruity Loops or a similar program. He was particularly excited because he had made a beat that incorporated Brazilian musical styles (pagode and axe) into a Hip Hop context. He said nobody had done anything quite like this and that this would be the way to break Hip Hop to a wider Brazilian audience. The percussion on the song was crazy and unlike anything I had heard before. I recommended listening to some Timberland for crazy drum patterns. Other than this song, most of his music was heavily influenced by the recent years of the South. The beats sounded like Lil' Jon or T.I. or Ludacris might rhyme over them. He kept them interesting by changing up the beats in little ways. There were a couple beats that were really dope and I could imagine myself rhyming over (that is, if I still wrote rhymes…). The lyrics, to the extent I could understand his explanations, were varied, with songs ranging from heartfelt stories about favela life to some catchy joints about money and women.

Music shared, we went to the local beach, a narrow strand of sand with kids playing, a middle-aged guy swimming, and older folks walking by. One of Calibre's friends, Guido, is a vocal instrumentalist (i.e. he can play a trumpet sound with just his mouth), and played some music live for me. He also sweetly sang me the lyrics to his most recent Reggae song, a nice little bit about children renewing the world. With that in mind, and the beach positioned on the bay to allow the sun to set over water (because Rio and Salvador are situated on the east coast, the sun rises over water and sets over the land in the west), we watched the day die. They then took me to the bus stop and waited with me. We traded hugs and thanks, and I hopped the bus back to my headphone world.

A Penny for Your Thoughts, A Dollar for Your Blessing?

The evening Tuscan sun rises on this Bahian city, irreverently making the old whipping post the most lovely place to endure the slight sting of this last nightfall here. It is a testament to this city that I have done so little. Prominent churches were left unvisited, day trips unmade, beaches uncombed--all without regret. Something here bespoke comfort and welcome, inviting me every few steps to listen to a good story and share some moments in the unique bonds of gringo and Bahiano, branco and negro, buyer and seller, patron and beggar, and grieving Michael Jackson fans. Except with one hostel-mate, I don´t think I ever got beyond these nascent relationships and into the realm of friendship, but my sentiment is that I would have, given a bit more time.

There may be too much sun to brood very well here, but I encountered enough feelings ofpowerlimited-ness (because I´m not necessarily powerless) to substitute nicely for the Seattle clouds. My hostel manager labors from 8 a.m. until at least 11 p.m., attending too few guests for his boss to approve some help, but too many guests to allow him any uninterrupted period of calm or rest, let alone a day off. My beggar patronees roam and once fixated, ask, plea, beg, kiss to get someone to buy them food, but they quite realistically refrain from mentioning the longer-term improvement. My bartender doesn´t know how he can raise the extra $75 per month (that´s a lot of money here; just for reference, the minimum wage is about $230 per month...and the necessities of life aren´t that cheap) needed for the lowest quality English classes that might enhance his employability. My coconut seller wonders about migrating to the U.S., but is discouraged by the idea that he has to do it illegally. My aluminum-can collector, one of many so engaged, is paid 50 cents for 2.2 pounds (1 kg) of cans, a weight which requires about 70 empty sodas or beers (that go uncollected by others), an amount which requires lots of thirsty people who are often lacking in the low season.

The feeling of powerlimited-ness is not, and indeed should not, be new or depressing to a former social worker, tutor, mentor, dementia-care activity worker, and bureaucrat. Yet, the feeling can and should be striking and recurrent and vexing. For, it questions our responsibility toward others. The nature of such responsibility, as best as I can tell, is the most compelling question in my life (it implicates history, economics, law, religion, ethics, psychology, science, etc., etc.). Obviously, I lack the means to answer in any comprehensive way (I imagine a religion might help...not blaming you, Mom). Thus overwhelmed, I get to experiment in little ways (I´m leaving aside systemic issues here).

Often, I give money to beggars who ask and don´t think it a noteworthy deal. Last night, however, I sought out the beggars and just offered them some money without them asking or approaching me. It caught two kids (ages 12 and, I think, 13), at different times, off-guard enough that they each released a toothy smile and extended their hands to give me daps. Of course that made me feel good, and feeling good is cause for some alarm in my line of work. Seeking the good feeling is most definitely not the primary way to go about do-gooding, for it elevates the do-gooder´s satisfaction too basely above the desires and goals of the person being ´´helped.´´ And, yes, the do-gooder´s satisfaction is often different from that of the person being helped. Here, though, my own satisfacation seemed to align with that of the kids, and I allowed myself to enjoy the happiness.

After I had given away the planned amount of money, I refused many others who asked. And I did so with much less regret than if I had given nothing at all or than if I had given after being asked. I guess I bought myself some peace of mind. The peace, like most things, came for much cheaper here--$1 per head--enough for a salty pastry that not would not serve as anything more than a snack for me.

(P.S. I know that you are a whole bunch of thoughtful people concerned with such questions...chime in with ideas and stories...)

(P.P.S. I´m sure this piece reveals some arrogance, ungrounded assumptions, and ego-centric holding-forth. Please feel free to criticize and point all this out--the whole point of this blog/trip is for me to think...you all help me do it)

(P.P.P.S What am I ignoring???? That I´m profiting from partaking in an economic system that works for some and now feel guilt at the visceral and undeniable realization that it doesn´t work for--even exploits--others and am buying my peace with the cheap sentiments expressed above? Is it the whole question of do-gooding that is a problem?)

The Flip Sides of Fear

I´ve come to a city with white cabs and black faces, red beans and tanned rice. The nights are the color of streetlights shining on smiling faces. Waiting and watching under a strong sun bleaches the days. The 35-cent coconuts grow in purchase from green to the paler shades of flesh and sweet water. The buildings look their age, with varying hues of paint peeling from buildings more proudly than the plain skin from much-handled onions. Beige-bricked shanties are too expensive for some, so rusted nails mix with sotted wood to form shacks. This was once a great city to colonial eyes, the capital of this rich colony. For the slaves who powered it, Salvador was a waypoint in hell. It now claims its riches from the spirit of those 70% of residents visibly descended from slavery. Slaves couldn´t copyright samba, forro, or capoeira, but they apparently bequeathed an inimitable soul to the city.

This spirit, this soul doesn´t win enough visitors to feed or house all the children or, for that matter, all the adults. So, too, wales the spirit of need. Kids beg, at first in the normal tone of a question, and, upon refusal, dramatically switch to the distended syllables of a plea. Hustlers at the same time kind and forceful push blessing bracelets and protective jewelry; buying one and loudly displaying it is the only protection from the other venders. Couples partner in the collection of cans thrown on the street. Hear the fall of the can on the street, locate, crush, bend over, pick up, place in bag. Just tonight, the poor husband was left to an angry and tired wife. She sat and pointed out cans for him to collect. Just when he´d finish a round and come back, she would point out one that he missed, just as a mother might note the spot in the bathtub missed in her son´s scrubbing. Trinkets are everywhere and are shaken at the passerby to garner attention. Many look, but few seem to buy. Rent-to-own stores whisper usurious but hopeful promises of newness. The usual bustle of grocery markets rings loudly in their absence. And, of course, there are the furtive gestures and loud, striking words of property crime--´´assalto,´´ ´´dineirho,´´ ´´camera.´´

It is this reputation for property crime that compelled my guidebook, my hostel manager, and several actual guides (who, spotting me from a mile away, offered all sorts of advice that they mistakenly hoped would not be free) to discourage gringos from taking the walk that I did this morning. I went to the Cidade Baixa (the low city) and walked about 5 miles to a famous church. I, of course, knew that the walk was discouraged, but a good walk leads itself, and I simply follow. After all, the worst that could happen was that someone would take the $15 in my pocket. If he (I´ve not heard of female muggers) were particularly sharp, they might grab the $10 from my right sock. It´s nothing personal, so I don´t much fear the emotion dimensions of robbery.

Whatever small risk in money was worth it. I ate a wonderful lunch in a spot that sees ´muito pouco´ (very few) gringos. I drank a coconut with the lovely family that sold it to me from the inside of a bare-walled building unfurnished but for the coconuts, the cooler, a few chairs, one table, and the blanket and makeshift child´s bed on the floor. The father Davy asked me whether it´s possible for Brazilians to make it and work legally in the U.S. His wife Alinni hacked the coconuts open for other customers. Their son, Matheus ran around with the curiousity of any 15 month-old. Their cousin RosaMary invited me to a particularly cool festival tomorrow (though I doubt I´ll go) and asserted, while asking her cousin to buy her another beer, that she was wonderful company.

After these nice people encounters, I had another 3 miles to go. I perceived, true or not, lots of stares, but nothing malicious. There were a couple points, though, when there were few people around and I felt a bit of fear. But, I made it safely to my church. Inside, the left wall was decorated with the picture titled ´´The Death of the Just´´ in which the dying man was surrounded by angels and loved ones. Opposite this was ´´The Death of the Sinner,´´ which prominently featured some horned creatures. And, at the head of the church, Jesus hung in all his pale glory, as white as I am. Turns out that on the far side of fear lies a white Jesus. For Christians, that may be poignant, but to my literal eyes, it was funny. The scene stripped any doubt about the emergence of black syncretic religions.

Later on that night, after a safe return to the confines of the tourist world, I went to the fourth night of the week-plus long festival of Sao Joao (St. John) of Bahia. The festival is a huge street party enveloping the whole of the downtown area with live music (four or five different stages), street food of all types, plenty of alcohol, families, young people, and the aged. It is a good time for all. People dance, preferably together, but alone as well. Whatever strange ignorance allows me to wander through dangerous parts of cities doesn´t translate into the ability to easily ask strangers to dance. I´d like to think part of it is just timidity because I don´t know these particular dances, but it´s really deeper than that. I have to will myself to the question in a way that I rarely have to do for other things. So, after much waiting and strategically targeting girls (making sure they´re not with a boyfriend, etc.), I ask. The first girl isn´t from the area and doesn´t know. A half hour passes and I get a drink. In line, I met some women from the area. One spent a couple minutes teaching me the basics and then encouraged me to ´´train´´ on the other girls nearby. I didn´t. I did manage to fall in with a group of older women and learn the basics of another step. But, mostly, I stood and watched, enjoying as best as I could a complacent gaze into the looming face of a silly but firm fear.

Going to a Go-Go...

The Rio program is over. It's a time for goodbyes--they're leaving and I'm staying (another month in Brazil before going to Bolivia). Physically, these are the goodbyes of warm embraces, awkward hugs, hearty handshakes, half-credible “keep in touch” utterances, and the "I didn't get a chance to see…before I left" refrains. Emotionally, these are the goodbyes that leave the left party stripped of his blanket in the middle of a autumn night--it's not cold enough to shiver, but it's too cold to sleep the whole night through. Electronically, these are the goodbyes that keep me checking e-mail and Facebook neurotically for some sign of that something in the cosmos acknowledges my existence. Unforgettably, these are the goodbyes that contain one goodbye that came far too soon.

There's an old phrase from my teenage years that goes "game recognize game." It basically means that people with particular affinities or characteristics can spot other similar folks with relative ease, without working at it. Most often, it's used with regards to some particular competence. For example, a writer might recognize the strength in someone else's words, a visiting cook in the host's own culinary magic, or a nurse in the web of comfort spun around a patient by a colleague. I like to use the phrase in another way as well, instead referring to the sympathetic ways two individuals play the broader game of life. The sensation is not a matter simply of acknowledging shared interests, but rather something baser and more basic, something instinctual. It's knowledge without thinking, acquaintance without introduction, admiration without experience. And it runs both ways.

In this latter sense of the term, recognition occurs only rarely. Most of our friendships or acquaintances involve acclimation to the other through the slow revelation of common ground made through repeated exposure to one another (such as is afforded by work or school). But, when recognition happens, lightning strikes a cloudless sky.

Well, recognition happened somewhere within the last two weeks. But it did so without the ability to consummate--the two souls never had a chance to dance anything more than bits and pieces of songs. The memory of the synchronized steps inspires and haunts. For there is someone to dance with, but she rests in a place where the bands don't play Samba.

Four favelas, three days, two bubbles, one night...

(Sorry for the delay in posting. As you'll see, I had a lot of material to put together).


I remember telling a friend that I would be going to Bolivia, which, depending on the count, is either the poorest or second poorest country in South America. He responded, quite hilariously, "Damn, Kev, you really love poverty." He's right (at least in certain ways…). And Brazil has been quite the paramour.

I have spent a fair portion of three of the last seven days in favelas. These neighborhoods loom as caricature, almost as "the ghetto" does in our U.S. context: It's a place you generally don't go unless you have to; they are wretched places of misery and violence; bad people, or trapped people, live there; buildings are unfinished, unsound, and ugly. One can almost imagine a young child being persuaded to act right by a threat of getting dropped off in the middle of the favela and being left to find his way home--it's like a deadly and magical forest, the haunts of ghouls and beasts.

This caricature obscures the very real daily life of millions of people who come and go and live and die and lust and love and cry and laugh. Life may be as ordinary and as predictable as the dualities I used in the last sentence. People persist.

Nonetheless, I am interested to see what becomes normal, acceptable, and unremarkable. It is the clash between normalities that reveals particular ways of life to be produced and mutable, not natural or inevitable. Things can go other ways.

So, what sense have I of what is normal in the favelas? Not much. Parts of three days isn't a whole lot of time to get a sense of anything. But, I'll relay my impressions and perhaps reveal something in so doing.

Two of the three visits were daytime visits. We had destinations and guides and scheduled stops. The first daytime visit was to an organization called Acao Comunitaria (literally, Community Action). This serves as a neighborhood center for youths and adults. Young girls learn ballet. Older boys break dance. Teenagers while away time on computers. Adult women design clothes and learn the skills needed to sell them. Kids can head to the small library to do research. Kids of all ages learn capoeira (the Brazilian dance/martial art). Folks know one another. It's a friendly place.

Acao Comunitaria is a bit of an island in the favela. The front entrance gate is locked and opened only when someone known is coming in or going out. The police, who will randomly raid the favelas with guns blazing (it's war…), do not conduct raids there. The drug corporations do not interfere with their activities. More "reputable" corporations and foundations sponsor it. The computers came courtesy of Canada, the classroom a gift from Coke. The government chips in some. In the view of all, the organization is well-respected. The staff, the volunteers, and the participants all love it. The scene is filled with teasing and easy laughter. Here, a Child is tended.

But, if it is an island, it is only a short swim from the mainland. Money is tough. As always seems to be the case for grassroots sorts of non-profits, funding is never stable or secure. The staff is constantly writing grants. In lean years, certain programs have to be cut and fewer folks served. More dramatically, many of the kids who've at some point been part of Acao Comunitaria have died in the drug-related violence. When this happens, the center closes for a day or two for mourning and recuperation. It then opens it doors again and the tide rises and currents sweep out to sea those who fish for hope or happiness.

The second daytime visit was led by a kindly and talkative man who worked for a company imaginatively called "Favela Tours." This company was founded in 1992 by an Argentinian who had come to Rio and lived in the favelas for some time. The company builds relationships with certain favelas to make it safe for guided tours. Part of the proceeds from the tours helps to support a local community center, similar in substance to, but much, much smaller than, Acao Comunitaria. Our group of 18 hopped into two separate vans. The kindly man used a microphone and fed us all sorts of information that would be interesting to a "socially conscious" tourist. We heard of the education system, the migration to the cities, the mandatory voting provisions, the attempts at affirmative action, urban growth control, expanding infrastructure to favelas, the history of the drug corporations, the projects of the new mayor, and the gap between rich and poor.

We went first to one of the smaller favelas in Rio. Villa Canoas has been touted as a "model" of favela development. It started when workers at the local golf course grew tired of commuting so far every day and decided to live closer to work. They picked a plot of land that happened to be right across the street from nice homes with plant-covered walls too high to see over (I don't know how they managed to hold onto that land…it wasn't "bought" through proper channels). A street--not even a very big one--is all that separates the people who work at the golf club and live in the favela from the people who belong to the golf club and wish the favela weren't there (you know, property values). No drugs are sold in this favela because the drug corporations have not allowed it. They want buyers to go to a different, more-fortified favela nearby. The only violence here is petty crime.

We were planning to stop at the company-sponsored community center, but another tour group was there. So, we went up the hill a bit, got out, and bought a refreshing beverage from a local bar-tender. Then, we wound our way through the interior of the favela. At their widest, the streets in this favela accommodate two adults side-by-side. A surprising courtyard held an old slide and just enough room to draw in chalk boxes for a skipping game. There's always enough room for dog crap. There's no discernable plan to the layout. This is a place that is not meant for outsiders, instead founded on a knowledge that immediately marks a person as a neighbor or as a stranger. Everyone greeted our guide with smiles--the little girls threw in some kisses for good measure. Space is tight. Buildings grow up, designed and built by the hands of residents who work in the construction industry. Some of the stucco exteriors were adorned with shards of glass and tile reclaimed from the local trash dump and arranged into comely mosaics. As the tour guide pointed out, himself engaged in the battle against caricature, the residents lack neither intelligence or skill.

We saw some things that led some of my classmates to wonder what is so bad about favela life. Some homes had satellite dishes. One man was smoking weed while sitting in front of a 30-inch flat-screen TV in a nicely furnished interior. One woman who had walked by had gone to college. It apparently shocked some people that poverty can have its luxuries, that it is not wrought wholly of deprivation.

Though they didn't mention their surprise until well after the guide had left us back in Copacabana, the guide gave us some information that explains the variation when I piece it together. Buying a nice TV is a much less costly proposition than buying a good education. And, the difference between living in a favela and living in non-favela housing is a significant. So, people may not have enough money to move out, but some may be able to save enough make their favela home nice. Thus, there is a realm of consumables that are available to favela residents. Other consumables, those that tend to be more empowering (education) or safer (non-favela neighborhoods), are largely out of reach. Just because favela life can be decent does not mean that people wouldn't move out if given the opportunity. Nor, I suspect, does it mean that my classmates would be willing to live there.

We eventually ended up at the company-sponsored community center. A sympathetic Italian-descended family had given money to build and run the center. Other local businesses now help out. The center was nice. We bought some handicrafts. One of my classmates played soccer with some of the kids. There were computers. Having wrapped up our tour of the "nice" favela, we were to head off to Rocinha, the biggest favela in Rio.

Rocinha houses anywhere between 60,000 and 100,000 people. It is a city within a city, governed by rules that are partly shaped by resident organizations and partly by the drug corporations who control the favela. During the rainy season, flash floods and hill slides cause destruction and some death. On this day, police had started a major operation in the favela. Helicopters were flying above. The entrance was barricaded, so we could not go in as had been hoped for and planned (the company does not give refunds if it is unable to take a group into Rocinha…the consumer assumes the risk of a police operation because it happens so often). We watched from afar, on a walkway constructed to allow residents to cross over the busy street. The walkway, fashioned from metal lattice scaffolding, swayed with the weight of its human burden. Yes, the people who later said that favela life wasn't so bad were here. I don't know if they were paying attention.

Now, finally to the part that will be the most frightening. Mothers and grandparents and aunts may wish to stop reading here…………………

So, I was out at a three-stoy club last Friday night with about 40 other Americans from the program. The ground-floor restaurant-style area was crowned by two floors of music. On the second floor was a live band playing "pagode," a type of Brazilian music. On the third floor was a DJ spinning mostly American music, r&b, hip hop, techno, and the like. The Americans grew tired of the live band and went upstairs for the familiar. I stayed on the second floor. Within five minutes, I was in a half-English, half-Portuguese conversation with a group of six young Brazilian guys in their early twenties. After some nice conversation and laughs, they invited me out to a party on Saturday night. This sort of party is called "Baile Funk" (pronounced buy-lee fun-kee) and it was to take place in the birthplace of Brazilian funk music--the favelas of Rio.

Well, I was a little mistrustful at first, as I didn't know why these guys were being so friendly. But, after hanging out for a while, I figured I could trust them. I left the club with an address and a phone number to call the next day to work out all the details.

Now, favelas are places to which non-residents rarely go. In fact, the only non-residents who go regularly into the favelas are wealthy folks who want to buy drugs, the police who seek to raid them, and do-gooders who work there. Gringos (which here just means non-Brazilians) don't go there. So, knowing that I could go where no gringo has gone before (I know that's probably not totally true, but let me have my drama…), I resolved to go. I called up my buddy Will, who was born in Brazil, raised in the U.S., and speaks Portuguese . We recruited two other cool, low-key folks from our program so that we could fill a cab. The few others we did invite didn't want to go--the one or two people who would have gone weren't enough to fill a second cab. Word slowly spread through the program what we were doing, and almost everyone thought it crazy. That just made us more excited. So, after paying a visit to the American party of the night and leaving a rough sense of our destination with a trusted friend who was staying behind, we left.

The cab ride took us through some rough areas--the border streets of favelas--but dropped us off on a well-lighted strip of restaurants and shops. Nothing scary. My Brazilian buddies from the club met us there and walked with us up the hill (remember, favelas are often built on the hillsides). We met up with some more of their friends in a big apartment complex. Then, we walked to the far end of the apartment complex and encountered a high wall with a white door in it. We went through and walked into a noticeably different world.

The buildings were light brownish bricks covered in places by stucco. Tagging marks were everywhere. Motor scooters whizzed by, honking horns to order the pedestrians out of the way (there's no pedestrian right of way here). People were kickin' it on the sidewalks outside of the many small bars and fried fish joints. Street vendors were hawking salty pastries, beer, liquor, and cakes, with nearly every inch of each side of the street occupied. I didn't see my first gun for at least five minutes. I wouldn't see my last gun until hopping in the cab at about 4:30 a.m.

Walking up the hill a little ways, we arrived at the party spot. One "dance floor" was a courtyard, probably used during the day for blacktop soccer matches. The other "dance floor" was just up the hill where the road turns in switchback style. Here, I saw a wall of speakers, at least 15 feet high and 30 feet wide. The speakers were hooked up to the nearest light pole. This was not the first thing that would make me think that here I was to see something like the early days of Hip Hop.

The girls were gorgeous, but strictly off limits. My Brazilian friends and guides told us that guys do not dance with girls they do not know. This reserve is needed to avoid beef with potential boyfriends.

People had fun in different ways. Some drank beer and whatever liquor was being poured. Clouds of weed smoke hung in the air. Some people had droplet bottles and were putting a few drips of god-knows-what into Red Bull (Oma and Grandpa, Red Bull is just a non-alcoholic energy drink that can be bought from any grocery or convenience store). For my part, I didn't do anything more experimental than try mixing some Red Bull into my beer. Save your taste buds the adventure.

All this drinking makes a person have to pee. The guys went into a little shack and pee'd on walls, which had a two-inch "trough" at the bottom. I didn't give much thought to what the girls did.

So, the night went on, the music picked up, the throngs poured in. A woman hanging her laundry out watched from a rooftop just a bit up the hill. There were at least 300 more feet of favela-laden hillside above us--we entered only the bottom portion. The longer the night went on--meaning the more intoxicating substances folks had consumed--the more guns came out. I saw assault rifles, machine guns, single-barreled shotguns, double-barreled shotguns, chrome plated pistols, and ordinary black pistols. We must have left too early to see the rocket launchers.

At first, we'd see only the occasional dude walking around with a gun in hand. By the end of the night, small columns of armed men would parade around rhythmically in semi-formed lines with their guns raised in the air or hung off their shoulders. The size of your gun appeared to be connected to your status. One of my Brazilian friends saw one of his friends there. The new dude came over and let my friend hold his pistol. My friend proudly put it in pocket and tucked his shirt just right so that onlookers could see the gun tucked into his waist. Gun ownership is illegal in Brazil. But these folks obviously have a firm belief in their right to bear arms.

Here, massive armament made some sense, as it did for the Cold War containment strategy. The great minds figured out that if everyone has enough firepower to blow everyone else up (at least in terms of nuclear war), nobody will use it. So it went here. I felt perfectly safe the entire night. In fact, I perceived fewer strange stares in the favela than I do riding the metro or walking along the beach.

Now on to the dancing. I didn't do much of it, but many of the guys don't. Baile funk is mostly about the girls dancing provocatively. The music is drum heavy. The thump aids the sense of trance.

Entranced and enchanted, I had a wonderful night. Part of it was the fun atmosphere. Part of it was the sense that we did something that few others do. This was exotic to me, but to my Brazilian friends, to the people who live here, this was a normal Saturday night.