It's been nearly a year and a half since I last set foot in Brazil. Not a day goes by that I don't find myself humming a bossa-nova tune, craving suco de maracuja, or thinking to myself in Portuguese. It occurs to me that some might diagnose that last item as schizophrenia; Brazilians, on the other hand, have a more precise word for the phenomenon. It's a word that doesn't exist in the English language and one for which there is no exact translation. It has been defined in various terms: "the love that remains", "nostalgic longing", or "a vague and constant desire." Saudades. (Pronounceed saw-oo-dodge-ees) I personally find it is but another symptom of my terminal case of wanderlust.

Fortunately for me, these saudades will soon be quieted, if only temporarily. My counting up the days I've been gone has recently turned into a countdown to my departure, which I am happy to report now number only 10. To add to the excitement, there is the possibility that I will once again be flying first class, though I'm not sure that's such a good idea. Another sip of that sweet, complimentary champagne may have me re-evaluating my non-profit and humanitarian ambitions. Regardless, my first class experience will not be long-lived. After a 12 hour flight, I will disembark the plane to be greeted by an merciless heat that shows no mercy to passengers of any cabin. I will weave through narrow hallways and over-crowded terminals, making my way to customs. Organization will be scarce, line-formations erratic and morphous. Tugging along my bright-orange suit case, I will wait while silently scolding myself for managing to overpack yet again. An hour or so later (perhaps more if airport personnel have to step away for a cafezinho), I will emerge, my passport sporting fresh ink. I will walk through the sliding-glass doors that lead to the exit, breathe the less than fresh air of Sao Paulo, and feel... relief. For though I know in my mind Brazil is not my home, I have yet to convince my heart.

I suppose a bit of an explanation is in order. I am no longer writing you from Rio de Janeiro but from my parents' couch. I had been a bit under the weather since I arrived in Rio three weeks ago, and over the course of the last week, things got increasingly worse. I talked it over with friends and family and decided that it was probably best to cut my trip short. I now know this was a wise decision because, as it turns out, I have pneumonia.

It's good to be home, starting to finally feel better. Rio feels a world away, and I don't think I've fully comprehended yet what I lived and learned there. Needless to say, this trip didn't quite turn out as planned, but, as usual, I'm already contemplating my next one. And when I figure out where that next one is, you'll be the first to know.

I call this photo the World's Easiest Game of Where's Waldo. (Can you spot the gringa?)




(back row from L to R: Beatriz, me, Gleydson, Amanda, Adriene; front row: Pablo, Juliana, Bruna, Isabel, Matheus, Thaynan)

This group is my Monday-Wednesday 3:00 Beginning English class. I know teachers aren't supposed to have favorites, but I do, and these are them.

One Small Step

Over the past week, I have fallen into the daily routine (or lack thereof) at Comunidade em Ação. When students show up, I teach; when they don't, I don't. Regular attendance has always been a bit of an issue at CIA. The school began charging students $10 Reais a month (roughly $5 USD) so that students would be more personally invested and motivated to attend classes. However, in a community where so many live from hand to mouth, the slightest upset- such as a sick child or car trouble- can wreak havoc on a family's finances. Not to mention that English classes are taught entirely by volunteers such as myself, most of whom stay no longer than a month or so, which certainly isn't conducive to continuity in the classroom. Despite these setbacks, I have found that most of my students are genuinely eager to learn.

My Monday-Wednesday afternoon class in particular is full of bright, hard-working kids who have somehow maintained their innocence in spite of their surroundings. They arrive for class 15 to 20 minutes early (which is unheard of in Brazil, as most things start 15 to 20 minutes late). They ask whether I have met any famous Americans, like the cast of High School Musical or the Jonas Brothers. I call for one volunteer to read a paragraph in the text book and over half the class eagerly raises their hand. These children- Mateus, Bruna, Gleydson, Thaynan- are why I came. When I am lost in the labyrinth of sound and smell that is Complexo do Alemão, I think of them. And while I know that what I am doing here- teaching English- is no great feat, I think that it could lead to one. If I can teach them- teach them well, encourage and empower them to continue, English could very well be their ticket out. My month here is a small step, but when I leave, I hope to have given them the tools to someday make that great leap.

"Mind the Gap"

I made my way out to Comunidade em Ação (Community in Action) for the first time yesterday to get a feel for where, what, and whom I will be working with. I met the organization's executive director, Gwen, at a nearby metro station so that she could show me how to make the rather long and complicated journey to the Complexo do Alemão (the favela in which the school is located). Mondays through Thursdays for the next month, my commute will consist of a 3 hour round trip between the comfort and safety of the Zona Sul (South Zone) and the almost other-worldly poverty of the Zona Norte (North Zone).

Complexo do Alemão is actually a group of 12 smaller favelas with a combined population of somewhere between 60 and 70 thousand people. One can never be quite sure on the exact number as many favela residents are not counted in the government census. It's difficult to describe what it feels like to enter a favela: I leave my apartment in the rather quiet, residential neighborhood of Botafogo, hop on the metro, and emerge from the underground into what I'm almost sure is another country entirely. I am surrounded on all sides by hills, sprawled across which are thousands upon thousands of shanty homes. Neighborhoods are nearly in-navigable to outsiders. Streets are overcrowded with foot traffic. These are the least of the least of these, and they are keenly aware that, for the most part, the country in which they live has all but forgotten them entirely.

My bus stop is just across the street from the school. I make my way up three flights of a very narrow staircase and enter the small, blue school building. And I wonder. I wonder not only how I got here, but how they got here. How a country with the 9th largest economy in the world could ignore such a large group of its citizens. And I am glad that I came. I am glad that I came to recognize their struggle and to extend a hand of friendship. Starting next Monday, I will be teaching 6 English classes at CIA, each of which meet twice a week. I taught two small classes yesterday- the youngest student was 8, the oldest 89.

As I boarded the metro to come home, an announcement played on the loudspeaker in Portuguese, telling passengers to be aware that there is a space between the edge of the platform and the train when boarding. The announcement was then repeated in simpler form in English: "Mind the gap." And I thought to myself that perhaps that is really all that I am doing- noticing that there is a large space, a gap between the haves and the have nots, the uplifted and the downtrodden. I am minding the gap. And I hope that, in the short month that I am here, I may even help to bridge that gap, if only in the smallest part.

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To get a better idea of what daily life is like in a favela, check out this piece by the Washington Post.

First morning in Rio:

Wake up. Put on the closest article of tie-dye and pair of Havaianas. Walk to the nearest newsstand to buy a copy of O Globo, the local newspaper. Get breakfast at a sidewalk cafe. Get the second cup of coffee on the house for being a friendly, Portuguese-speaking gringa.

In the immortal words of my childhood hero Little Orphan Annie, I think I'm gonna like it here.

Alex, Luke, Bryan, and Quinn arrived back in the States today, so it's just down to Adam and I in Sao Bento. The guys really did an incredible job training basketball coaches this past week (despite their interpreter's occasionally questionable grammar). After about a day or so in town, they had become a veritable tourist attraction. Few people here are very tall, and almost none are red-headed, so to say that our group stuck out is a bit of an understatement. The week went by incredibly fast. Aside from the training itself, there were a number of American vs. Brazilian basketball and soccer games. Rather predictably, we won the basketball games and had our you-know-whats handed to us in soccer.

The mountains of Sao Bento have a rythm all their own. As many horses as cars meander down the city streets. Hurry is an unwelcome stranger. And oddly enough, this sleepy little town with a lifestyle in such sharp contrast to my own has made me call into question what I value and why. Daily life here is always expensive, often inconvenient, and occasionally dangerous. Many families have lived here for generations and can trace back their ancestry to slaves in the 19th century that founded the city. Few have had the opportunity to travel in Brazil, much less outside of it. The wrinkles in old mens' faces are as enigmatic as the mountains themselves, steeped in history and tradition. The people of Sao Bento do Sapucai and towns like it have worked very hard at carving out a life for themselves in an otherwise inhospitable environment. They treasure family, friends, an honest day's work. And though higher education and all its trappings are distant dreams for most of this town's residents, I am certain that these people have learend what no university can teach.

Adam and I are headed to Rio at 6 a.m. tomorrow. I'm not entirely sure when we'll get there as we will have to take 2 or 3 connecting buses (none of which are likely to depart or arrive on time). While I know that I will soon be caught up in Rio's big city hustle and bustle, I carry with me the quiet peace of this town, tucked away amidst the eternity of the mountains and the steady fog of winter.