Getting a Life on Planet Brazil

Alô, Companheiros. Yes, I am still alive and well on Planet Brazil, and back from my trip north to the state of Ceara. Sorry I’ve been so out of touch, once again. I decided I needed to focus on living life here for a while, instead of writing about it. And it has paid off. I have finally landed some volunteer work in Cabedelo, a fishing village and port town up the road from João Pessoa central, and quite a world away from the prosperity of the capital. It’s taken me this long to finally find someone who, when I inquired about volunteer work, didn’t look at me like I was from a different planet. (My theory is that Brazilians are still too focused on their own survival to worry about others quite yet.) Jane, a slight, energetic Brit, runs Cultura Inglésa, an English school, and also a creche (day care center) for poor children in the community who would not otherwise have meals. She arrived on Planet Brazil 25 years ago, accidentally, via sailboat, and managed to make a life here. Over the years, two babies were left on her doorstep, and she took them in; and now she is raising their grandchildren. She says she can use all the help she can get.

So I am teaching English to a class of teenagers, though sometimes it feels more like they are teaching me Portugues. They are timid to speak their new language, afraid of making a mistake perhaps, and of course I identify. But I’ve come up with a contest to encourage them, where they get minus points for Portugues and plus points for English, and the winner at the end of the week gets a homemade CD of ‘Anne’s Rockin’ Americana Mix.’ Fernando, a studious if not teacher’s pet type, won on the first week. And the following Monday, when I asked him how he liked the tunes, and which was his favorite, he stared at me blankly. His classmates started to laugh, and that’s when one boy named Junior ratted him out, proudly, in English: ‘He selled it, he selled it!’ I now picture my offbeat collection of zydeco, NOLA funk, and alt country being pirated and sold on the streets of Cabedelo. Thank god I didn’t put my picture on the cover. Here’s a photo of The English Killers – I had them brainstorm a name for themselves, their first brainstorm ever, and this was better then Junior’s choice – Sons of Satan.(Every class must have it’s Junior.)

I am also I teaching dance and movement classes at two creches, one for toddlers, and another for grade-schoolers. They are having a little trouble with the zydeco step, but love doing the hand dance to Kool & the Gang’s ‘Get Down.’ My favorite student is a boy named Victor who greets me with beijos and abracos and a big smile. He has the rhythm in his blood, and taught me a new dance from the Northeast called the ciranda.

The best part of all this is I now have someplace to go during the day, some purpose in my life on Planet Brazil. Who would have guessed that I would have such trouble lying around the beach sipping caiperinhas all day? On Mondays and Wednesdays, I take the bus, and my camera, and take-in life as a quasi-Brasileira, though I don’t fool the locals. The money–taker on my Cabadelo Directo bus picked me out of the crowd on my first day, and began trying to speak English with me. ‘Goodie day,’ he said proudly. ‘I speaky little English.’

‘E eu falo um poco Português, tambem.’ I replied. Tiago watches out for me now, and we exchange some words whenever we see each other. The other passengers, and the locals in general, still glance over at me, noticing my difference. But they tend to keep to themselves. I am not sure if it is out of respect, or fear, or maybe just a lack of curiosity. But I sense that Brazilians (from the NE anyway) are not so bold, and certainly not very direct. For example, the vendors are not pushy, ever – if you are not interested in their wares, they say thanks anyway and move on, and I appreciate that. Oftentimes this relaxed approach encourages me to call them back and buy their woodcarvings or castnhas or cheese on a stick, even if I’m not too hungry.

Other times, this lack of assertiveness is downright annoying, especially for a pushy Northeastern Americana like me. The other day, on the bus home from Cabadelo, the AC was broken (it’s rare that you get a bus with AC, then when you do, it’s broken). Unfortunately on the AC buses, the windows are sealed shut, so the only vent is a hatch on the roof, but this was closed too. After suffering for 5 minutes, and waiting for someone to get up and do something, I took matters into my own hands. I got up and approached the driver, and asked in my childlike verbless Portugues, pointing up to the roof, ‘Aberto, possival?’ And that prompted a tall man to stand up and help me out. And when the hatch finally popped open, the entire bus breathed a sigh of relief. (It’s officially ‘winter’ here, but the daily temperatures continue to hover around 90.)

Ok, so what’s the bad news? It’s been a tough few months trying to find my way here, trying to fit it, trying to find some friends, trying to get a new language to stick in my middle-aged brain. And now that I am finally settling into a rhythm (forro, not zydeco), I’ve discovered that I have to leave Planet Brazil on June 1! My tourist visa runs out after 6 months, and they won’t let me stay unless I get married or adopt a child. Unfortunately, I am not quite ready to make that kind of commitment to Brazil; but who knows what will happen? Spontaneity is the name of the game here, and I still have 6 weeks to go before I am booted out.