Redemption

Prefatory note: There is a huge statue of Christ on a mountaintop here in Rio. It is called Christ the Redeemer and is one of the wonders of the modern world. Notably, a large statue of Christ has been built on a mountaintop in Cochabamba, Bolivia, where I will be spending a year. No, I have no plans for conversion…

START HERE

Today couldn't have been more perfect. I slept long and well. I awoke and spent the day on the hallowed sand of Ipanema, in the company of lovely people, under a proper sky, surrounded by Brazilians observing the sabbath in a sunbath. We watched the sun set itself in a particularly majestic position, casting its light up from behind the carioca mountains in an inverted pyramid. An eye-blink to the right, the Redeemer turned his back to the glory, with his head bowed toward the boredom in the North. Why was His stony glare elsewhere? Why did it not match ours?

This is a land meant to enchant. It is called the Cidade Maravilhosa, the "Marvelous City." All marvel at the climactic skyward stretch of the mountains and the song of the ocean and the urban life tucked all in between. No one, even the Paulistas (residents of Sao Paulo) who apparently in their own love of bustle degrade the Cariocas (residents of Rio) as lazy and carefree, can deny Rio a complement on its beauty.

It is the sort of beauty that makes the tourist mind forget. Yes, we miss our loved ones and wish they could share our experience, but the longing is not too strong, for the native Sirens call and content. Look at the view. Feel the breeze. Sip the coco water. Play in the waves. Close the eyes and rest. High strung? Then exalt in the Cristo, samba in the clubs, don a suit and bustle in the Centro, jog along the beach, hike in the rain forest. All are welcomed. Bem-vindo!

Now, you will be reminded that even a paradise allows for snake eyes. Those beggar children will come and ask in the practiced whine of a hungry child toward his mother, "I'm hungry." Tenho fome. Por favor. A twenty or thirty-something may catch you unaware and threaten you with a gun, or something meant to impersonate it. Somehow, we are not amazed that they might accept as an answer that we don't have anything on us. Indeed, when I revealed to one would-be thief that I had only change, he told me it wasn't worth it, apologized, gave me a hug, and walked quickly off. And the Brazilian women on the corner, in the restaurants, or on the street walking with single American men with hunched backs and misshapen thumbs, they are here, too. Ask, take, or fuck. Most of us do not know such need.

The tourist sees only the individuals in their pursuit of money. We are distanced from the systems. Remarkably, the hillsides that offer the best views also house the poorest people. These favelas are the Rio take on the shantytown and house at least 20% of Rio's residents. They apparently are run by drug lords, some of them more benign than others. Average citizens live under this sort of undemocratic sovereign, largely unchecked by the state. They come into the non-favela Rio on long bus rides or walks, enter a foreign country to make money, and return home. We dare not follow, even though we could. We--tourists and wealthier citizens--are bound by a wall of fear, of a harrowing reputation. If not the iron curtain, it is the sandpaper bikini.

The favelas are not only impenetrable, they are amazingly unreal. We drive by them on the way from the airport. They are visible from a distance in Ipanema, but they are too distant for even the ant-colony view. In Copacabana, we do not see the favelas unless we approach a particular street from a particular angle. Walking around the entire 4.5 mile perimeter of the main city lake, one sees not a single favela. Except for the rogue beggar, thief, and prostitute, we are shielded from perception. This is a land meant to enchant. For those few that are mesmerized by incantations of poverty rates, developmental economics, and competing interpretations of race, favela tours are available. Shall we go to the zoo today? And, what of the poor and lower class residents who do not live in neighborhoods that have the fancy appellation of favela. Where are they and what are their struggles?

If all this sounds bitter, perhaps it is. It is the bitterness of near-total enjoyment, of little worry and much engagement. It is the bitterness of knowing it's all unfair and being absolutely confounded by one's own position in it. What claim have I to any of my money, other than enough to fulfill my own, luxuriously-defined needs? Should I perhaps take more with me, perhaps to give the next thief a happy and memorable day (imagine him coming home that night with an unusually large cache--what would happen with the money? Would it be "heroically" used to feed a child, get some medicine, or stashed away for a rainy day? Would it be "wasted" on drugs or alcohol?). The thoughts make a joke out of monetary morality. Total selfishness and selflessness (perhaps the St. Francis kind) at least provide direction. Everywhere in-between leads to random, unpredictable outcomes. We might give once because we feel like it. What justice is there in that?

I am beyond the realm of my logic, which was already nearly broken by similar questions regarding giving to homeless folks in the U.S. At least there I had some notions of merit and cause, of thinking myself more able to discern the "worthy" from the not, of having the alternative of giving to organizations instead of individuals, of fear (based on knowledge gained in my work) of the money being used "poorly." Now, stripped of all such knowledge, I'm adrift. In a twisted way, this is my fun, my brand of tourism. I'm doing no better than any one else. I know "do-gooding" should not be done for the emotional kick, but I don't have another operating principle to guide my actions. Are tithers content with ten percent? More profoundly, what does freedom from self-satisfaction look like?

Perhaps the Redeemer on the mountaintop knows. Perhaps It is tired of all our odd glories. Or perhaps It tries to focus us somewhere else, towards the unremarkable, the plain, the un-noteworthy. Perhaps It means nothing, but simply stands there as a function of the city's boosters and cheap labor. Perhaps It is part of a majesty of which I have no grasp. I know only that mine eyes would see more simply were It not there. And then, I would be bereft of a puzzle and forlorn of joy.

Quilombos

Race and skin color in Brazil operate in interesting ways. First of all, there is a lot of space between the extremes of white and black. People of mixed descent are not simply classified as black, as they would be in the U.S. This makes commenting on "race" particularly difficult, as one's race is a fairly fluid concept. However, people who are white can pretty readily be identified.

Interestingly, there has been lots of intermixing between "races" such that having social contact between races does not seem to be a big deal. In the 20th Century (I'm still learning my history, so there could be some errors), there has been no state-sponsored segregation or state-condoned terrorism (like the KKK) against black folks. There was no Civil Rights Movement. The supposed racial harmony has allowed some elites in the country to maintain the idea that Brazil is a "racial democracy," where an individual's race or color does not work against him/her and where everyone is valued and given a chance at meaningful participation in society. However, when you look at data to determine well-being, there is a pronounced difference between the wealth and health of "whites" and everyone else. And, as in the U.S., darker folks have generally gotten the short end of the stick. If you look at poverty rates, family wealth, educational attainment and the like (incarceration rates, life expectancy, etc....I haven't seen these two figures for Brazil but have heard reference to them), you can't help but notice the great difference between whites and non-whites. Though many non-white folks have made it to positions of prominence and wealth, the individual successes prove to be exceptions to the general conditions of inequality. Black and dark-skinned folks seem to have the toughest time of it. Writing about all of that will probably take several blog entries. I'll keep it general for now.

The sources of the color mixing are pretty easy to identify. The Portuguese, who where white, came around 1500. They found Indians. They imported slaves, over 3,000,000 of them (by contrast, the U.S. imported only about 600,000 or 800,000; but, the U.S. relied much more heavily on slave-breeding to perpetuate slavery). In fact, slaves, who, with minor exceptions, were black, constituted a great majority of the population (I think around 75% at the time of emancipation). Slavery did not end until 1888. A feature of Brazilian slavery not found in the U.S. was the presence of quilombos. Quilombos were settlements set up by runaway slaves or ex-slaves. They varied in size from nearly 30,000 (in Palmares, the most famous quilombo and site of active resistance to the Portuguese) to areas with just a couple families. The quilombos were cooperative communities, and the residents grew crops or lived off of the local vegetation, raised or hunted livestock, and sent extras and handmade goods to nearby markets (if safe to do so).

Today, we visited two Quilombos. The first has been populated for a bit over 100 years (so, it was formed after slavery ended) and is located in what is now the heart of Rio de Janeiro. The city of Rio de Janeiro is now seeking to evict the folks on it. While the given reason is the desire to preserve valuable species of vegetation, this seems specious in light of the huge and costly condo development sitting two hundred feet higher on the hill. A more likely explanation is that the city wants the land in order to facilitate its development. Brazil has a large economy with wealth distributed highly inequitably. The upper and rising classes are seeking better accomodations, and occupied hillsides provide attractive spots (who knows what will happen in the coming days to favelas, which are basically slums that are built on hillsides offering amazing views?).

This quilombo has attempted to take advantage of a recent law that provides title to communities that can meet a statute-prescribed definition of quilombo. The various proceedings have apparently been going on for 40 years, but I am not familiar with the intricacies. I'll be keeping my eyes opened for more information on the efficacy of the land title law. While the law is neither reparation or restoration, it could be an interesting example of acknowledgement by the state of the law's role in supporting slavery and, consequently, oppression of blacks, for whom emancipation did not bring the chance for great upward mobility.

The second quilombo was about an hour and a half drive outside of Rio. This one dated to the days of slavery, and the head of the house welcomed runaway slaves into the quilombo. This quilombo is also trying to obtain title to the land. But, my attention here was diverted from the law and history and to the three cute kids in the picture at the top of this posting. Junior, the smallest guy, is 12. Jonathan, the middle-sized guy, is also 12. Nathan is 14 and tall and Jonathan's older brother. The three boys and I talked for a couple hours during our walking tour of the quilombo. They spokebasic English pretty well. I spoke Portuguese the entire time (except to fix their errors). It was a beautiful time, and I dragged far enough behind the group of students that my professors jokingly threatened to leave me behind unless I kept up the pace. Amazingly, it did not strike me as all that surprising that in the middle of a relatively poor (by our standards), rural area (to be fair, there was power, running water, etc.), they took my picture with a digital camera, asked if I was on the Brazilian version of Facebook (no), and then exchanged e-mail addresses with me. It's only a matter of time until we use our webcams to get on Skype...

Enough for now! I'd love to see your comments and questions.

The First Post

I'm not sure five days in a new country gives me much to share beyond the excitement of immersion and the initial shock of discovery. Yes, I can get by in Portuguese. No, it's not graceful. Yes, my class is interesting. No, I haven't partied myself stupid. Yes, Christ has busied his immense stone body with redeeming me through distant, cloud-filtered light. No, I have not gone to him. Yes, there are many beggars. No, I don't shoo them away. Yes, I have made friends (with people other than the beggars). No, I have not been robbed. Yes, coconut water is refreshing. No, I haven't seen many stinging insects. Yes, I like the food, always based on beans and rice and meat, with vegetables often given only enough thought to result in some lettuce and tomatoes as a bed for the meat. No, I'm probably not getting enough fiber. Yes, I have been here long enough to be regular. No, I haven't yet had a good conversation about prunes in Portuguese. Yes, I am continually amazed that I am here. No, I have no idea what "here" means yet.

Even if I don't fully grasp what it means to be "here," I'm much more familiar with what it means to not be "there," in the U.S. There's an unseen vest of cultural knowledge that I left at home--I knew how things worked, from toilets (don't flush toilet paper here) to grocery store lines ("that one's just for old people") to coffee drinking (only a small portion, maybe a shot or two, at a time) to eating pot roast ("I pour the olive oil on the meat?"). These are mere trifles--nothing that can't be learned quickly. But, they must be learned, through observation, repeated practice, and, in the case of the toilet, a heavy workout with the plunger. However small the subject, the lack of knowledge coerces a spirit of openness from me. Learning is now my job. And you all know there is little I like better than learning.

Always learning, I get to play, to tinker, to find what works. And, unlike a child, I know that I am doing it and know that it is special. I am studying to be a lawyer, but for now at least, I get to be an engineer.