Memorial Day, 2007

A motorcycle ride to bathe in the Jefferson Pools in Warm Springs, VA--

And dinner with Mom and Antonio. Aren't we just the height of coolness?

It was a complete blast.

A whirlwind tour of Rio.

It was to be my last weekend in Brazil....that is, until Frank informed me on Friday that Britaldo had asked him to send me back to Brazil for a month. We’ve got a cattle model to finish, too few people, and not enough time. So, a return trip to Brazil en route to Africa.

“Wait to tell her until after her trip to Rio...” Britaldo had apparently told Frank, but I was quite glad to know on Friday and to talk to my landlord about hanging onto my room for a while longer. I am pleased that I don’t have to sacrifice time with my family, with my friends and with Jeremy, and will still get to see an elephant and get to spend time in the field.

A (rather too) friendly Brazilian youth that I met in the bus station traded seats to get to sit next to me on the bus. I was in for a long bus ride to Rio. When my taxi driver dropped me off at my hostel on Friday night, he remarked that I had chosen a very safe neighborhood that tourists don’t generally frequent. “How did you find this place?” he asked; I just credited my dear friend, the Rough Guide.

One with the Wright Brothers
I awoke on Saturday morning, somewhat annoyed to find that the hostel didn’t serve breakfast until 8:30, which was after I was to be picked up to go hang-glide. A guy picked me up and drove me to the landing area for all the hang-gliders, where the beach refreshment stands were just opening. I signed my life away in a release form and headed straight for a little beach kiosk, where I snagged a water and a granola bar. I asked if he had any fruit—he said no. Then, he thought about it—and asked me what kind of fruit I was thinking of. “A banana!” I said. The kind man gifted me one of his own bananas, true sources of potassium and of hang-gliding fortitude.

I hopped in a car with an Australian couple and a (different) guy drove us to the top of the mountain. I enjoyed hearing about the Australians’ visit; when asked what their favorite part of their trip was, they both enthusiastically said “favela tour!” in unison. I was curious but taken aback. More reflections on favela tours shortly.

Up at the launch area, I watched each hang-gliding pair prepare for take off, while waiting for my pilot to show. A cute little Portuguese woman showed up, and she was very nervous. She chattered to me about her grandchild that is to be born next week, and wondered out loud whether her shoes would fall of. “What do you think? Have you ever done this before?” she asked. “Nope.” I said. But I tried to smile a lot and reassure her that the probability was high that she would live through the experience and get to meet her grandchild and would hang onto her shoes. My pilot showed up. He was very tall, and we got suited up and practiced running together. I promised I would not grab his arm or get in the way of his steering. That seemed like a no-brainer…I guess people will do lots of counter-intuitive things when scared.

We stood on the launch pad for what seemed like forever…the wind was not cooperating. Several times, he lifted the glider and said: “prepare to run.” After what seemed like forever (my nervousness was totally gone by this point) we ran off the edge into nothingness. It was an incredible feeling. The ride itself did not last as long as it might have on a day with good conditions, but was unbelievable. And landing…man. What a rush!

Preparing for our landing....

I got dropped of back at my hostel, and, first things first: found a cup of coffee. I wandered around the neighborhood of Urca for a little bit, and then caught a bus down through Copacabana to Ipanema.

In search of the best sushi in the world

My uncle Diego (Antonio’s brother) lived in Rio for quite a while, so I knew when I asked Diego what there was to see and do in Rio, I might be in for quite a list. Sure enough…Diego provided me with all kinds of options, and lots of local contacts. Since I only had two days, I had to narrow it down a bit. Sushi is one of my very favorite things—thus, when Diego said the best sushi he had ever eaten was in Ipanema, this made the list of priorities. Especially since my hang-gliding adventure had left me hungry. There was only one problem: I knew the name of the restaurant, but had neglected to write down the name of the street.

Brazilian cities, like those of many other nations, are peppered with newsstands, or bancos de jornais/revistas. First thing I did was walk into one and shop for a map, while asking the guy about this restaurant. He had never heard of it, but gave me a general idea of where the restaurants were located. Off I started, in a Z pattern up and down the cross-streets of Ipanema. Bikini-clad beautiful women in cover ups, noisy tourists, hippie beach bums, freckled Scots, and small children. Arms laden with shopping bags from high fashion boutiques. Flowers on street corners. Man at newsstand number two (which was in front of a very high class mall…and was air conditioned), 20 or 30 minutes later, was much more helpful. I told him I was looking for the best sushi in the world at ‘Madame Butterfly,’ and his face brightened. “Two blocks that way, and take a left.” He said, after talking to me for a bit. It wasn't quite that easy, but thirty minutes later and a couple of conversations later, I had found it. It was nearly 3 PM by this time, and my lucky banana was not quite cutting it.

I partook of what may have truly been the best sushi in the world (thanks for the birthday gift of an expensive meal in Rio, Dad and Laura), while listening to a man and his daughter speak alternately in French and Portuguese over the savoring of their Japanese food. She was probably 8, and delicately opted for the fork.

Extremely satisfied, I headed out to the beach for the last couple of hours of daylight. Boys bounced soccer balls off of brown chests, and beach vendors selling all kinds of goodies…sundaes, grilled cheese on sticks, coconuts, beer, lemonade…paraded tantalizingly past. What a great place to people watch. I stripped down to my bikini and my whiteness and did just that.

Eventually, I tried to discreetly dig out the camera. I took a few pictures and tucked it away. A couple of minutes later, the middle-aged man sitting near me says: “Excuse me, but are you Brazilian, or are you a gringa?” I laughed, and claimed my nationality. He explained that he didn't think I had picked that camera up in Brazil. Turns out, he was an entrepreneur and had lived in Cambridge, MA for a while. We chatted for probably 30 minutes, and then I asked him to take my picture. We parted with hugs, and a promise that I would check out his website.

I caught a bus back to Urca, and called Ana, the personal assistant to Zeca, a friend of Diego’s who I had communicated with by email last week. Ana said that she and a friend would pick me up at nine for dinner.

Ana and her friend took me to a Lebanese restaurant by the lake. We ate lots of hummus and meat, and talked about the state of the world. When asked what they thought of favela tours (still on my mind from the Australian couple), I got the following response (paraphrased) from her friend: “I think they are disgusting. Poverty is something we should be ashamed of here in Rio—and instead, we are selling it to tourists who pay money to ride around in a jeep as if they are on a safari looking at animals. Except they are not animals. They are people. And their reality is not one that we should be advertising with rose-colored glasses.” I was glad I had trusted the uncomfortable sensation in my stomach when I thought about a ‘favela tour’.

The next day, I awoke and ate breakfast with a Brazilian guy and his French girlfriend, and another French guy who was a math teacher in Paraguay. When I told him what I was working on, his mouth dropped open: “I did my master’s thesis on the disappearance of cattle ranching traditions in Paraguay! Do you need any more people to work on your cattle project?” He asked. I laughed, and left him with my email, and the Woods Hole website. The whole conversation was an amusing mix of French, Portuguese, and Spanish—I was reminded to speak in Spanish with my Mom, Dad, A etc. while home.

I met up with Ana again around 11, and we took the cable car to the top of Pão de Azucar. Fantastic views, and continued great conversation with Ana. We decided that we were going to go to Porcão (one of the best steakhouses in Rio) for lunch…but alas, when we arrived there after picking up my bag, we remembered it was mother’s day. We settled for a mediocre churrascaria, and I enjoyed some good meat and the discovery that mother’s day is not so very different in our two countries. Yes, the grandmothers are led around with roses pinned to their flowery dresses that are in a one-size-too-large print—the mothers soak up the extra attention from their children, and everyone hangs on each other and comes together over the eating of too much rich food. Occasionally you hear little family eruptions that also occur on such occasions. We did not get offered the roses that were being awarded on our way out the door...I suppose we did not look motherly enough.

The view was so dazzling that I had to close my eyes, lest I be blinded by the splendor...

I could not have hoped for a better weekend in Rio. I am left with enough of a taste to know that I will want to go back. Special thanks go to Diego for hooking me up with excellent companionship when I would have otherwise been alone in a strange city. Alone, that is, if one can ever be truly alone in Brazil---

A celebration...

Of my birthday (belatedly) , Paulo's visit to BH, and my departure (preemptively).
A non-dark picture with me in it might be forthcoming from Britaldo.

odds and ends

A new york times article today had a close tie-in to one of my very favorite books: The Bridge of San Luis Rey. It temporarily made me think about changing professions and going into archeology. But I think I prefer real, living people.

I have been sitting in front of a computer a lot and do not have too many interesting tidbits to report from my own life, though, I am going to Rio de Janeiro this weekend before coming home next week, and I am going to HANG-GLIDE! Which has been a dream of mine for a very long time.

50 km and a bucketful of joy later--

It’s gonna be a long one, so hold onto your hats.

Occasionally I have what can be considered the best possible sort of travel experience: the sort where you read about it in a guidebook, you go there, and then can’t decide whether to tell the whole world about the spot, call the Rough Guide and tell them to play it up, or savor it and keep it oh-so-secret. Talk about it only with your favorite people, in the hopes that it will remain exactly as you left it—unmarred by the push and pull of the conflicting pressures of development, of money, and of time and modernization themselves. Call me selfish, miserly, conservative.

In the Fall of 2005 I discovered the Santuario do Caraça in the mountains of Minas Gerais. I was traveling alone for two months as part of my master’s research (a rather peripheral part…), and needed to come to Belo Horizonte to meet with Britaldo. I planned a trip to Caraça, because it seemed like the kind of place that just might strike my fancy. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I had come from the far western part of Brazil, the state of Acre, where the countryside was literally up in flames during the drought of 2005. My throat was itching, my sinuses screaming, and my lungs were thanking me profusely when I arrived in Minas Gerais. By the time I got to Caraça, I was thinking I might truly have arrived at the gates of heaven or somewhere equally pleasant.

Disbelief pretty much summed up my first trip to Caraça. From the summiting of a peak with João (who has been guiding in the mountains of M.G. for 35 years) to hiking with Lucia (who reminded me a little bit of my mother when I was alone in a foreign land), the only thing that lacking from my first trip was photo-documentation. My camera was lifted from my room in a cheap hostel a week or two later during a stay in Belém.

Photo-documentation will not be lacking from this account.

So, to sum up the history in a way that does not do it justice, Caraça was, for hundreds of years, a school run by an order of the Catholic church.

(Sidenote: I did also want to be a monk for a while as a child. Monks did all the cool things—chanted, gardened, got to live near cloisters. My parents tried delicately to tell me that women could not be monks and probably also noted that I was lacking in the self-discipline necessary to be any kind of devout religious individual, let alone one of the wrong gender. So maybe this could account for some of the appeal of Caraça for me—all the pluses of cloisters and mountains with none of the implications for personal self discipline.)

Moving on…there was later a fire in the school, and at some time after that, the area was turned into a Sanctuary and private reserve with a working hotel of sorts. It continues to be an active Parrish. Forgive my lack of the correct Catholic terminology here, somebody (Laura? Antonio?) leave me a comment to alert me of my slipups. The park itself is not enormous (10000 ha or so), but has areas of Mata Atlantica (atlantic forest), successional pasture, and great mountains and waterfalls! There is a particular type of wolf that lives in the park, the Lobo Guará, and who has become somewhat habituated to being fed on the church steps every evening. Aside from the rather sketchy ecological implications of this, it is kind of a neat thing to see. And fun to sit around with everyone in the evenings waiting for her (in this case) to show up.

Ok. So, to sum up: My first trip was so amazing, that I needed to go back.

I arrived at Caraça in time for lunch on Friday. Contemplating whether to be solitary, or outgoing. No choice—Caraça seems to attract people seeking solitude, but friendly ones. I gravitated towards some young-looking people who I had seen arrive with mountain bikes at lunch, and by the time we were done with our first plate of food, we had decided we were going to do a peak on Saturday. João the guide shows up (who rocks my world) and says he will take us to the Pico do Inficionado on Sat. Right on!

I decided to go to the Cascatona (literally, the big waterfall) on Friday afternoon, and my newly befriended mountain bikers (Anita, Marcelo and Dinei) headed out to get some biking in. This, my friends, is the Cascatona:

It is pretty darn big. And, get this: I was the only person there. The only person on the trail, the only person at the waterfall. My friends in wilderness recreation know that, if I were taking their surveys, solitude would be an important part of my wilderness experience. And, along with my love for solitude, comes a love for skinny-dipping in waterfalls. Here I am, ¼ of the way to being completely solitudinous and naked.

There was also a beautiful little shrine that I discovered on the hill near the Cascatona.

Friday night we drank a bottle of wine and saw the wolf. Pretty sweet.

Saturday morning was looking foggy but beautiful--we toasted our breakfast sandwiches on an enormous wood-fired cast iron cooking stove, and talked about the plan with João. Nine o'clock and we were on our way--the first four km or so of the hike were through the valley.

Anita is a photographer, and we quickly discovered that this meant it was not to be a rushed sort of expedition. I like tough, outdoorsy people that don't rush.

We drank from streams, and stopped at every photo opportunity. The flowers that grow at elevation in Brazil are spectacular, which you might have also noted in the trip report from Britaldo's fazenda.

These guys really don't smell at all, but I could not resist sticking my face in them.

Somewhere between kms 4 and 6, our stroll turned to bouldering. Probably 2 km of that, and then it got slightly more manageable. Here we are, running for the timer:

We ate lunch on the peak, and then went to check out the largest quartzite cave in the world. We went about 50 m into the entrance--enough to let me know that I want to go back again--just to cave!



We were the definition of 'beat' by the time we got back for dinner. Despite this, Marcelo and Dinei made it up to mountain bike this morning, and I set out for a hike pretty early in the rain. We crossed paths in Campo de Fora...they were moving faster than I was.

I was drenched and grinning when I made it back for lunch, and we all traded email addresses and plotted our picture exchanges. João gave me lots of lift-off-the-ground hugs, and I promised him multiple times I would come back for another peak. Nothing like a weekend of good people, good food, mountains, and being battered by the elements.

Dinei saved me a taxi ride back to Santa Barbara, and I am stiff and sore and ready for a hot shower, in Belo Horizonte.









Hope this made up for my lack of postings, and that you now are wanting to go to Caraça. Note that I'm only telling you about it because I like all of you...

Shhhh. Just promise to keep it our little secret.

An april without a season.

I think it is becoming winter here, but everything manages to feel like summer. I am quite sure, however, that it is April--a fact that reminds me that time is passing quickly despite my seasonal confusion. Something tells me the seasons on Cape Cod next year will be more clearly delineated.

Apologies upfront for having left you hanging in the past weeks with my lack of funny anecdotes about cultural differences or colorful pictures about my adventures. Truth be told, I've been busy, and been enjoying my work!

I have been becoming reflective, however, as my time in Brazil is drawing to a close. If I think long and hard enough, I can remember what it felt like to transition in September: the whirlwind of thesis-finishing. The excitement and sense of independence I tried to project (and the fears that I shared less readily). The occasionally paralyzing sense of self-doubt when I found myself in a country that was not mine, without a place that felt comfortable, and detached from my support network of friends and family to buoy me in those moments.

The manic highs of cultural contrast--the blissful moments when I have felt that I have completely captured what it means to live, freely. Warmly. Always growing towards an unknown, yet grounded in my relationships and my experiences. The conversations with strangers that sometimes put things into perspective so quickly and strikingly. The exploration of what it means to make my own work schedule, set my own goals, and be a member of a research team (often by Skype or over coffee or beers in airports or hotels).

The introspection that comes with an overabundance of alone time. The anxiety and projections of insecurities that fill the empty spaces, that I have learned, more frequently, to toss away. Or to share...and then to gently release. There are bigger and better things to do with my mental energy. My inner tug-of-war: do I let the people and events of my life wash upon me with the tide--or do I grasp tightly to an oar and paddle...paddle hard?

As always, it can usually be summed up in one word for me: balance. But without a sense of my limitations and boundaries and a renewal of my concept of the vastness of possibility, it is a difficult concept to entertain. I need these times that shake me up to find those lines. To lean against them, push them outward, and find that the fear of falling is not enough to keep me from returning every-so-often to an edge that, in turn, may help me find my equilibrium.

I suppose what I am trying to say is that it was a good idea to be in Brazil this year. Those of you that know me well know that I seldom will retrospectively address any decision with regret, so this could hardly be an exception. But beyond my general sense of unwavering optimism, I feel, at the same time, that I have become more tough-skinned and sure-footed--yet more susceptible to eerie chills in moments of beauty, and more prone to smiling for no reason at all. Always, always, I become more appreciative of my family, my friends, and the people who choose to tie their lives up with my own, in varying degrees. I am looking forward to being able to share time with and do tangible things for the people who are close to my heart, but who have been geographically distant. Argue, banter, hug, make music, stare at campfires, be silent.

Loyal followers of my ramblings, I promise that after another weekend and week of work this week, you will have fun pictures from my adventures next weekend, if not before. Know that your patience is contributing to the quality of a cattle rent model predicting patterns of Amazon deforestation. And, since---guess what? Have you heard the world is warming? (You would have had to have buried your head in the sand of late to avoid being enveloped by the news media in their unfurling of banners and climbing enthusiastically onto the climate change bandwagon.) Send all contributions motivated by guilt for culpability of global warming to the Woods Hole Research Center. I can promise you more concrete results than your contributions to Al Gore's campaign fund ;)

Whatever you do...don't plant trees in Canada. Or Greenland. It seems new research shows that the world might have no change in temperature, even if we clearcut the entire planet! And that you might especially be contributing to global warming if you plant trees in the arctic (something to do with albedo and reflection of solar warmth, cloud cover formation, etc) How's that for mind boggling?

Você pode casar.

Me, to Sara as she returns from her Easter vacation:
"Hey Sara--I made enough shrimp risotto yesterday for at least six people, so help yourself---"
Sara: "I will accept some of your shrimp risotto...let's see if you can cook."
Sara, while eating my shrimp risotto, points at the dish and exclaims:
"Você pode casar."
(Translation: "You will be able to marry.")

I didn't know whether to laugh hysterically or be deeply relieved.

The slightly-out-of-focus beautiful lagartixa who hunts on my ceiling

*

Hopefully I didn't traumatize him too badly or ruin his night vision with my flash. I can just see him having an off-night of hunting...missing all those dengue-carrying mosquitoes with his lightning-fast tongue by an inch and cursing my name....so far, so good. He's still moving stealthily about, upside-down on my ceiling.

Our spokesperson.

An interview with John Holdren that summarizes the work of the WHRC and his perspective on climate change.

It's cold!

No, not the weather. I am referring to...the refrigerator! Hurray. Thanks to a very skilled fridge technician, we once again have a working one. As much as I think that tunafish is delectable, I am pleased to have the comforts of modernity (even if 70s-style modernity) in addition to internet access.

Grandmother knew best...

Dear Grandma Bowman,
As one of the most devout readers of my blog that I am aware of, I wanted you to know that after the events of the last week, I have carefully re-thought my Christmas list for the upcoming year. This year, it may more closely resemble yours. While tunafish migh seem like an unusual item to put on a Christmas list to most, I will have you know that your wisdom when I asked, "Grandma, why would you put tunafish on your Christmas list?" will not soon be forgotten. To refresh your memory, you answered me so wisely: "welllllll, it is inexpensive, it's healthy and it tastes good, and you can always store it in your pantry! " I would now add to this list, dear Grandma, that you never know when your fridge might break down and you might be without one indefinitely! Please know that today, I thought of you as I walked to the grocery store and bought three cans of tunafish. If I had but had your foresight in the matter! I bet tunafish would even have made it through customs without the raising of an eyebrow. The picture below should bring back some fond memories of our time together during Christmas of 2006.
Love,
Your granddaughter, Maria

Garlic: The perfect complement.

Yesterday I sat down during the busier part of the lunch hour to eat my beets/squash/mango/rice/chicken next to a wiry-looking guy. A couple minutes into my meal, I notice that the guy is cutting something up ontop of his pile of food. I try and discreetly look over, but I guess not so discreetly. I see that he is slivering cloves of garlic on top of his food! He smiles and starts chattering: "Last week I was so sick...my throat was closed up so tightly I could barely swallow." He goes on about his week of garlic regimen and his theories about natural remedies. I nod and smile and ask a couple of questions and am thoroughly interested in his natural remedy involving slivering garlic onto his food.

He also gives me a delightfully unintentional compliment; part of the way through our exchange he says: "you know, when I sat down next to you, I thought you might be a foreigner." I smiled and said "oh, I am a foreigner!" He looks surprised and asks me where I'm from, and how long I've been here. Granted, we did only have a brief exchange in which I mostly expressed interest in his garlic-eating habits...