A Feel For the Global Pulse

There Actually Is A Place Called Timbuktu

2009-04-11T12:25:00.000-07:00

Prior to my arrival in Bamako, Dam and I had spoken about what are plans would be in the 10 days I spent in Mali. Dam had not done much traveling, so we agreed that some traveling would be the right way to spend at least part of those 10 days. After a few more emails back and forth we settled on an overland journey to Timbuktu, located north and east of Bamako, smack dab in the center of the country. Now before I go any further, I will address some questions that a few of you undoubtedly have:

1) Yes, there is actually a place called Timbuktu

2) Yes, that place is on the African continent

I would have included a couple of links that provide some good background information on Timbuktu, though I have learned through all of this traveling that there is something special about being able to tell the history and significance of a place in one's own words, from what one has learned from actually being in that place. That said, if you want to fact-check me, Wikipedia would be a good start :-).

Timbuktu (commonly spelled Tombouctou) can literally be translated into "the well" (Tim/Tom-) "of Bouctou." According to the Tuareg Nomads who currently live in the area, Tombouctou was originally a trading post and place where Tuareg travelers and traders would rest and spend a night. The distinguishing feature of the place was the presence of a well, obviously a special find in the Sahara desert. Those who found/created this well wanted it to be protected and maintained, so they charged a Tuareg woman by the name of Bouctou with its upkeep. Over time, the area became known for the well, as well as the woman who took care of it, hence Tombouctou.

Most of the people I heard speak about the city's history spoke of its founding as early as the 12th century. Over time, with the growing trade of salts, precious metals and slaves Tombouctou grew both in size and prominence. Under Mansa Moussa, king of the empire of Mali during the beginning and middle of the 14th century, the city became a religious and cultural center. King Moussa was a devout muslim (Islam had begun its spread through Mali as early as the 9th century) and during his reign built and expanded several mosques including one of the most famous in Mali, the great Mosque Djingarey Berre, located in Tombouctou.

Tombouctou grew to be one one of the most important cities in the Muslim world and as such scholars flocked to the city. During this time it became an important religious as well as intellectual capital in the Muslim world and in the 15th century the famous Sankore University was established. Over the several centuries that Tombouctou held the reputation of intellectual capital, thousands upon thousands of manuscripts were produced on subjects ranging from Islam (there are currently centuries-old editions of the Koran) to matters of political philosophy and justice.

The city retained its intellectual, religious and cultural prominence until the end of the 16th century when it was conquered by Morocco. This would be the beginning of a steady decline for the city as the Niger River (pictured above) became the strategic focal point for attacks by the Babara, Fulani and Tuareg over three centuries. Eventually the French captured and took control of the city and during this occupation, the city was restored to an extent, though nowhere near the quality of centuries passed. The French occupation of the area (known then as the French Sudan, which consisted of Senegal and Mali) ended in 1960 and Mali gained its official sovereignty in September of that year.

From what I gather, Tombouctou has remained relatively unchanged since this time retaining its religious, cultural and academic significance, though none of this has translated into true economic development. A major reason for this is that the city remains difficult to access (see the next post) and as such largescale commercial and economic development is challenge. The effect of this inaccessiblity is a city (more like a town) that somehow has retained its mysticism in a time and a world in which secret places no longer seem to exist.

I'm in Bamako, where are you?

2009-04-11T08:31:00.000-07:00

One of the best pieces of advice I can give to anyone seeking to do a bit globetrotting is to find ways to travel (at least for part of your trip) with a friend. As I planned my travels in West Africa I kept up with my friend Damini who was in Mali for your a year on a fellowship. It took a bit of coordination--which is not all that easy when hopping from internet cafe to internet cafe--but we eventually figured out that I would make the short trip from Dakar to Bamako (capital city of Mali) where Dam would meet me and we would travel overland to Timboctou (aka Timbuktu--more on that later).

Plans made, I woke up in darkness on the morning of February 28th, took a quick bucket shower and headed to the airport with Sam. I was coming back in a little over a week, so this was not the emotional goodbye that I was sure to come later. In fact, I was quite excited and looking forward to getting out on my own. As great as it was to spend time with Sam and his family in Senegal, I felt as if my newly discovered independence was being encroached upon. I spent a great deal of my time with Sam and his family, largely out of necessity (my French/Wolof has a long way to go) and I could sense that this was wearing on Sam a bit as well.

As the plane took off I couldn't help but notice my excitement to see a new place and meet up with a good friend. It seemed only a brief moment between settling in my seat and the plane touching down and as I unbuckled my seatbelt I realized that I didn't have Dam's address. A couple notes. When you get into the rhythm of traveling a bunch you can take on a "what will be will be" attitude which greatly reduces the stress. I would recommend everyone who travels try to take that to heart as at a certain point you realize that you cannot be in full control of your movements 100% of the time. In the same breath, I would strongly recommend doing the little and important things that make traveling a lot easier. One of these things is writing down the address of wherever you will be staying in your arrival country.

I figured that not knowing Dam's address wouldn't be too much of a problem because I could get it from him as soon as I exited the airport. I accepted the fact that I would have to let the customs agent hold my passport until I got the address, but I had been through this enough to know that if I was quick, I shouldn't have too much trouble. I stepped out into the dry Bamako afternoon to a crowd of people, most of whom were cabdrivers trying be the first to nab a customer. As I scanned the crowd once, then again, but Dam was nowhere to be found. I sat down on a nearby bench and waited, well-accustomed to the mob of cab drivers trying to get me to the destination I did not yet know for "the lowest price. Guaranteed." Fifteen, then twenty minutes passed with no sign of Dam. I called the number he gave me, but to no avail. I hoped that Dam was alright, though once thirty minutes had passed I knew that I had to look out for myself and my passport. Taking a quick look around, I noted a well-known hotel and its address, headed inside, filled out the immigration form and collected my passport. I knew that I could buy some time at a major hotel, hopefully without paying for a room. I left a message with a security guard at the airport (in case Dam showed up after I left), haggled with a waiting taxi driver until I reached a price which was "completely unreasonable" and headed to the Sofitel hotel, one of the largest and most Western in the city.

Bamako bore some resemblance to Dakar, though a bit more developed (I was informed that Libya's Qaddafi was involved with quite a bit of the development) and a whole lot less dusty. The Niger river was low, though crossing over it I could easily imagine what it would look like during the rainy season. I arrived at the Sofitel Hotel in my khakis and beat-up $1 foam sandals looking more than a little out of place. In the main lobby there was an international conference going on and on more than a couple of occasions I was asked my business. I had to do a bit of stalling, and verbally commit to staying a night (about $120/night). Finally, after about an hour of stalling and placing a couple more calls to Dam's number, I began to accept that perhaps I would have to take the L and stay a night in the hotel. As I gathered my belongings I took one last look towards the entrance. No Dam. I walked up to the front desk. As I got ready to sign the billing statement I heard a voice call my name. I turned around to see Dam, a sheepish grin on his face.

The Next Step

2008-07-29T21:13:00.000-07:00

Man, where does the time go?

It seemed like only yesterday that my international frolicking (as one friend put it) was the only life I knew and would know. And in the blink of an eye, here I am in an apartment in Metro Atlanta, getting ready to teach 25 4th graders. So much has happened so quickly and I am suffering an identity crisis as a result. The me who I was not a few months ago seems to longer exist and as I read through blogposts and journal entries, I struggle at times to connect with that person. I go back and forth between just moving on and trying to hold on to memories that seem more and more and like those of somebody else.

A few moments before I began to type, I came to a decision that will put my soul at ease. I will do my best to hold on because the 10 months that I spent outside of this country have shaped me in more ways than I can wrap my mind around. I have a feeling that my decision wouldn't matter because the experience has already shaped me and will continue to shape me, regardless of whether I acknowledge it.

So the question is, what is your tangible next step, Chas? I'm glad you asked. I've got a bunch of blogposts saved up that may or may not make it to blogspot. I want to say yes, but once again, I have found myself in the position of having too many things to do and not enough time. That said, I probably will try to compile, in a hard copy, all of my blogposts, both digitally and longhand recorded. And to the more serious part of this project? Between now and Christmas, I will be translating and transcribing the interviews conducted and conversations had in the four countries I visited for my project. On top of that, I will be, in a more organized fashion, recording my observations and will turn in this final project to the Finley Fellowship Committee. Based on what I have, I really do feel I have the content for a great piece of work. It's all a matter of whether I have the ability to synthesize such a work. Only time will tell...

On top of all that, I will be compiling a photo album of global graffiti and other public art/writing which is to be tentatively titled: The Writing's on the Wall or The Writings on the Wall. I can't yet decide between the two, or if I want to use something completely different. Anyway, any suggestions you (to whom I am referring, I don't know as I think everyone who was reading this blogged has moved on) have would be warmly welcomed. I am hoping that I will have the content necessary for the book as my Mac's hard drive was corrupted and needed to be replaced and I have about 2000 pictures saved on a faulty hard drive. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Faithfully,

Chas

The Magal

2008-05-12T08:49:00.001-07:00

With that background, I was very excited to make the trip with Sam and his family to Touba, if for no other reason than to see what all of the hype was about. The week leading up to the event was madness as every other television advertisement had something to do with Touba and the Magal. Sam convinced me that I needed to be appropriately robed for the occasion and after a fair amount of prodding, I finally relented, buying a blue and black patterned outfit (a bou-bou) and sandals in the market downtown. When I tried the full outfit on back at the home of Sam's family, he nodded his approval, and called the rest of the family into his room for a look. "You are now ready for the Magal, brother."

I was also excited to make the trip to Touba because I felt it would help me to understand Sam better. This is not to say that he was a complete mystery, but he was certainly unique, compared to the rest of the members of his family (and everyone else I knew in Dakar). Above all (and relevant to this religious journey) he was the only one of his four brothers who did not pray regularly, and though we became close quite quickly, the area of religious practice was one in which I did not want to intrude so carelessly. Early on as I observed Sam, my initial conclusion was that perhaps he was not religious; however, his genuine enthusiasm for the journey to Touba suggested otherwise.

The trip to Touba (we journeyed first to Mbacke (the birthplace of Sheik Bamba), where Sam's extended family lives) was a spectacle itself. Starting several days before the Magal, a steady stream of Senegalese oozed out of Dakar, piling into (and on top of ) cars, taxis, car rapets, trucks and pretty much anything else with wheels. Six of us traveled in the most comfortable means of transportation possible--a taxi--and during the almost 8 hour journey to Touba we witnessed nearly two dozen accidents, seeing many of them in realtime as vehicles jumped across lanes and offroad in an effort to secure the quickest route to the holy city. In an almost continuous string from Dakar to Mbacke were women and children posted at the side of the road with nuts, oranges and other goods to sell to any who had an interest. I am happy (and thankful to God) that we arrived in Mbacke safely and without major incident.

The next morning we awoke early to make the second (and much shorter) leg of the journey to Touba. I had slept well, perhaps the only person of Sam's 30 relatives at the house that night to have a bed to myself. With only a couple hours having passed since the rising of the sun, it was surprisingly hot, which made my outdoor bucket shower quite pleasant, but made the 5 km journey to Touba a bit more difficult than expected (and pretty did away any good done by the shower). Fortunately we found a cab that would take us (I had to hide while Sam negotiated the price so that he could haggle), though in terms of how quickly we covered the distance, we may have been better off on foot. The streets were choked with everything from cars, bicyles, and motorbikes to sheep, goats, cows, bulls and chicken. As Touba was known as the biggest feast of the year, many of these animals had been groomed, destined for death over this weekend. I wondered if any of them knew, though not for too long as it instantly seemed like a silly question to have. We passed through a huge herd of livestock and stopped, caught once again in the gridlock that would seemingly never loosen up. A few cows stuck their noses curiously through my rolled down passenger-side window. "You have no idea what's coming for you," I said absent-mindedly as I nudged a few of the intruding snouts. Needless to say, the streets were quite a bit emptier as we made our exit a couple days later.

What greatly enhanced my experience in Touba (once we finally arrived) was that not only was I sharing the experience with Sam, but also a friend from college, Franciso, who, posted in the country's South (Sigur Shore) made a true pilgrimmage to make it to Touba in time for the Magal. If nothing else, having Francisco allowed me the comfort of sharing the experience with another Toubab. More than this comfort alone (as I can recognize in retrospect) it also hieghtened and sharpened my awareness and observations as every experience over the course of the 48 hours that we were both there became the object of thorough analysis and discussion.

Entering the famous mosque on the day of the Magal was an experience that I will not forget. The mosque at Touba is enormous and stunningly beautiful, especially by night. Intricately designed in its interior, the mosque is truly an architectual masterpeice. That said, the most surprising aspect of the entire experience was that as we neared the tomb of Sheik Amadou Bamba, we saw a line formed, being controlled by police officers with long, blunt clubs. Every so often, to keep order, an officer would walk up the line, swinging his club in a violent chopping motion. It was clear that most in the line had the wisdom (gained through experience) to get out of the club's path, though not everyone was so lucky as an unfortunate few got clipped. I remember exchanging a couple of glances with Cisco as we both tried to make sense of the chaos around us. We proceeded on and though Cisco and I were both content to remain outside of the Sheik Bamba's tomb (the most sacred part of the entire mosque), Sam pressed us forward, going as far as enlisting the support of an individual who appeared to have some connections with the authority as he herded the three of us past the line of individuals waiting in line and into the inner chambers of the mosque. Protected back a thick glass viewing wall, the innermost chamber, the tomb of Sheik Amadou Bamba, was beautifully ornate and a bookshelf on one of the walls held dozens of books. There at the glass wall, Sam and others knelt and prayed. At random intervals, individuals would rise, finished with their prayers, and throw money over the top of the wall, which would clang with a soft jingle on the floor around the coffin of Sheik Bamba. As Sam explained later, this money was collected at the end of the Magal and was used to provide for the people of Touba (in gratitude for their hospitality) until next year's Magal.

While Sam prayed, I bowed my head in an effort to be respectful (though I felt awkward and intruding) and said a prayer myself. The soft hum of prayers and jingle of coins was suddenly and loudly interrupted by a group of guards with whistles, shoving and grabbing people (mostly women) and roughly escorting them out of the chambers. It was hard to believe that this was actually happening in, what many would consider to be the holiest site in Senegal. Apparently, the reasoning for this procedure is the need to accommodate the many (thousands upon thousands) people outside of the mosque still waiting to pray. It took me a few minutes to understand the reasoning, though the implementation left a bad taste in my mouth that I couldn't get rid of. Amid the din of whistles, shouts, mumbled prayers and jingling coins, Sam finished his prayer, grabbed a pocketful of coins from his pants, threw them over the top and nodded--slyly slipping our connect a crumpled bill--signaling that it was time to go.

We made our way through the crowds trying to push their way into the mosque, collected our shoes (being held by a friend of Sam's outside of the mosque) and began walking. Almost before Cisco and I had an opportunity to exchange commentary on this latest experience, we found ourselves in the middle of a huge market (the biggest I had seen thus far), literally on the mosque's doorstep. It was truly enormous and it occurred to me at that moment that half the people who had oozed out of Dakar in the previous days had not gone for the mosque, but for the market. As much as I didn't want to be in the market right now (the novelty had worn off days before, while in Dakar) there was no avoiding it as it was in the middle of the best route back to where we were staying. Had it not been for the streets packed with merchants and consumers alike, I would have turned to Cisco and said something like, "Well, we wanted an experience and we got a full one." But the debriefing would have to wait until we got through the packed crowds, which fortunately, didn't take more than 20 minutes. My lasting image of Touba will, unfortunately, not be of the beautiful and ornate mosque; rather it will be the fading of the mosque's call to prayer, drowned out by the dozens of bullhorns weilded by the street vendors, their cramped stalls on the mosque's doorstep a reminder that even on the holiest of days, commerce reigns supreme in Senegal.

Touba and the Magal: A bit of history

2008-05-08T12:18:00.000-07:00

As fate would have it, I found myself in Senegal for the annual Magal, perhaps the biggest event in a single year for the vast majority of Senegalese. Specifically, the pilgrimmage is a holy one for Mourides, an order of Sufi Islam that was founded in Senegal at the end of the 19th century. For me, this was an incredible opportunity, primarily because it allowed me to gain a better understanding of the Senegal's history, culture and traditions. To give the reader a bit of background, I will give a brief breakdown of said history, though I would encourage everyone reading to follow-up independly as my perspective and account, quite obviously, cannot capture history in its proper fullness.

The Magal is an annual pilgrimmage to the tomb of the most holy prophet and founder of the Mouride Islam, Sheik Amadou Bamba. According to history and legend, Sheik Bamba gained particular recognition and reknown not as much with the founding of the Mouride branch of Islam, which emphasizes exercising one's spirituality through dedicated work, but when French colonization in Senegal took root. As religious cheifs and clerics were either overpowered or bought by France's brand of colonialism, Bamba held fast. His steadfastness in the face of the colonizing power impressed and inspired many Senegalese, winning Bamba and his new brand of Islam many followers. The French, recognizing his sway over the people, as well as the vast number of followers he had accumulated (some say, enough to raise a formidable army against the French forces), chose to exile Bamba, as they figured removing the religion's figurehead would diminish the threat and crush his influence.

According to legend (as well as individual accounts) in the 10 years that he was in exile, the French made several attempts to break Bamba, both spiritually , as well as physically; in one particular instance that is well known by almost all Senegalese, the French tried to break prayer tradition by shackling Bamba aboard a ship to Gabon. However, when it came time to pray, Bamba broke free from his shackles, flung his prayer rug upon the ocean's top--where it stayed afloat-- and then prayed upon it. In another well-cited occurrence, Bamba's captors placed him in a cell with a lion who had not eaten for days and when they checked his cell moments later, the lion was content at Bamba's feet. There are many more examples and accounts along these same lines.

Eventually, the French realized that Bamba could not be broken and returned him to his people, where his reputation (and the religion's influence) continued to grow, now faster than ever. While it was clear that Bamba's will was unshakable, the French realized that he could be won over by other means; it may be more accurate to say that the French realized that there was room for compromise. Bamba's resistance (and preaching of such) was not against the physical and economic yoke of colonialism as much as it was a spiritual resistance. In one of my friends' words, recognizing that the most important thing in life is one's relationship with God, Bamba's concern was not so much physical, economic or political as it was spiritual. The greatest and most important form of resistance according to this belief, was a spiritual resistance; beyond this, the importance of everything else was marginal. As such, the French agreed to give Bamba and his followers a piece of land (Touba) adjacent to his place of birth (Mbacke) that would be dedicated to his religion and in exchange, Bamba would not expressly work against the French cause. This pact manifested itself in many ways, most notably (at least in my research) in Bamba's call to followers and Senegalese to fight for Allied forces in World War I. When he eventually died, Bamba was laid to rest in his mosque in Touba, today the largest Mosque in West Africa. During the annual Magal, Mourides (and muslims from all over the world) come together to pray at Bamba's tomb.

A little slice of history for some context.

He Lives!

2008-04-18T03:05:00.000-07:00

I'm sure none of you worried too much, but I just wanted to let you all know that I have made it to South Africa safely and, thanks to the hospitality of one James (Jimmy) Collins, I have a roof over my head in Johannesburg.

I won't say I'm "back with a vengeance," as those have proven to be the famous last words before a long hiatus, but I'm once again inspired to write a bit about what I've done and seen over the past month.

Definitely check out the "Perspectives on Senegalese Education" (right before this one) as well as upcoming posts on Touba, my odyssey (shared with Dam Ogunnaike) to Timbuktu and for those who are tired of reading, "30 Days in Pictures."

Some pretty incredible things have gone down over the past month or so. I don't think you will be disappointed.

Much love,

Chas

A Poorly Fitting Shirt: Perspectives on Senegalese Primary Education, Volume 1

2008-04-18T02:21:00.000-07:00

I learned a lot from my research experience in Salvador (Brasil) and arriving in Senegal, my second research destination, I was very much looking forward to an early start on school visits, observations and teacher interviews. As my good luck would have it (and thanks to Godbrother Sam), bright and early, the day after I arrived (by night), I was visiting schools.

As you may or not remember from previous posts on Senegal (it has been a little while), Dakar is dusty, close to being the dustiest place on earth (maybe I'm exaggerating a bit) and your typical school is not immune to this affliction. The typical primary school in Dakar will have a wall surrounding its premises (and depending where you are, this wall will be in varying stages of disrepair) with an interior courtyard of dust and a school building which is most often a single-story, sprawling, open-air structure. With Sam's help both in finding teachers (his YMCA membership card operated like the key to the city...or school) as well as translating (in the cases where teachers did not speak English), I was able to conduct 3 interviews at 3 different schools on my first full day in Dakar. Not bad, if I do say so myself.

Perhaps the most interesting conversation of that first day was with the Director of the Infants' School at the YMCA. A former teacher for many years before being appointed to her current position, she offered a very interesting perspective as someone who had seen changes and improvements to Senegal's system of primary education, both as a teacher and as an administrator. The most interesting comment that she made was one for which I was ill-prepared as she introduced the issue of Senegal's continued use of the French (former colonizers) model of education. Prior to the conversation, I was aware of the French influence in many things Senegalese, though I did not do a great deal of research on the impact of this influence.

"Let's say," she began, "that you want to give me a nice shirt from the U.S." She paused and smiled, wanting to be sure that I understood what she was saying (though accented, her English was very good. I remember thinking to myself at that moment whether her reference to this "gift" was some sort of ploy for me to give her something in exchange for the interview). I smiled back and let her continue.
"But you see, our sizes and shapes are different." With this she sat up straight in her seat, as if to be make clear the difference in our sizes. "But it's no matter. You give me the shirt and I wear it, though it is clear that it does not fit me." She emphasized the last word with a thumb pointing at her chest. "This is what our system of education is like, currently. The French style of education is great, but it does not fit us nor does it fit our culture. We are Senegalese, not French."

The close to the analogy was a powerful one and over the next few minutes she explained the ways in which the French model of education made education (beginning in the primary stages) inaccessible to many Senegalese youth, particularly as a result of language (food for another post) and curricular organization. In specific reference to the latter impediment to education, the Director admitted that as much as she understood the importance of a broad curriculum, she believed it important for the breadth to be narrowed (as well as more focused), greater depth emphasized in certain areas (particular in language and mathematics) and for vocational skills to be included as part of a more holistic educational "package."

"As I said before," she continued, wrapping up the subject, "there are many great things about the French model of education. But we are not French and for many of these children, the French reality will not be their reality."

Goree Island (Race Matters, Volume 3)

2008-03-31T08:35:00.000-07:00

Preparing myself for Goree, I kenw that my sentiments would be far from "happily ever after," though I hoped some sort of internal reconciliation would be possible.

We arrived at the port and I immediately I took notice of the usual suspects. In one group I saw the crunchy white people, dreadlocked and rugged, drawn to the attraction of Goree in an effort to connect with and understand the island, a symbol of historical oppression and human suffering. In another, white European tourists, in Dakar no doubt to see the major tourist sites and it just so happened that one of them is a famous slave port. Africans, (mostly Senegalese) for many of whom the trip is kind of like my elementary and highschool trips to Ellis Island. OK, not quite. More like Gettysburg or Jamestown, perhaps. Anyway, you get my drift. The token Asian tourists made an appearance as well, of course. And then there was me.

Looking around, I gathered that I was the only Black American around (an unfair assessment for all of the reasons that I am sometimes discounted from the consideration of others) and without realizing it (and somewhat involuntarily), my curiosity of the others turned into an almost despising scrutiny. Boarding the vessel that would be commandeered the short distance to Goree, all around me were smiles, laughing and picture taking. My mind began to rage.

What are you all smiling and laughing about? I wanted to walk around and ask people if they thought that this was going to be a fun trip. I wanted to ask them if they understood that to thousands and perhaps millions, the short trip that we were about to make meant for them either death or that they would never see home again. I held back (those of you who know me know that I am not that confrontational), though my mind was spinning. Looking around, I saw Senegalese, entertaining different groups of tourists with maraca-sounding instruments (two baseball sized orbs with beads inside of them). The tourists loved it, asking for more. I turned to Sam, who I hoped could be my outlet. But he was in a world of his own, fully enjoying his new iPod (he had done this trip many times before).

With no one to talk to you I fumed, silently, peering over the rails and into the green-blue water. Had I had my way, the boat would be silent. Well, maybe not silent, but not so damn festive. Shit, they even could have had a guide on the boat giving all of the tourists some history and perspective so that we could better understand the global significance of the slave trade in West Africa, and Goree's place in the grander scheme. I would have appreciated that. Instead, it felt like we were on our way to a theme park.

My difficulty (which I recognized better when we arrived and had spent some time in Goree) was not understanding that Goree had moved on. Though in actuality, I knew only outlines of the history of Goree Island (particularly it's significance in the trans-atlantic slave trade), I was not prepared for it to have moved on, for it to be a place of its own (not completely defined by the slave trade) in 2008. Like the open wound that it was as a keystone in the transatlantic slave trade for several centuries, I wanted it to remain as such, so that people (particularly Europeans) would not able to forget and would look upon it and feel shame. This is the closest that I can come to really articulating my thoughts and feelings at the time.

Understandably, to a handful of Senegalese (particularly those who live on the island) the business of tourism to Goree reigns supreme. That said, I found myself becoming gradually more annoyed and frustrated as Senegalese approached me, talking first of the signficance of Goree and then trying to sell some item, or asking a favor, usually prefaced with "my brother" or "can you help your brother/sister by..."

Symbolically, the visit to the slave quarters and dungeon was the most significant part of the experience (if anyone who reads this will be going to Dakar/Goree in the forseeable future, do let me know as I can put you in touch with a really good English-speaking guide). This was my first encounter with a slave port on the African continent, and as such it was a powerful moment. "The door of no return" was particularly haunting, as the ocean comes almost directly up to the door, where (according to our guide) smaller rowboats boats would briefly dock to pick up slaves to be transported to the larger ships to begin the Middle Passage. Those slaves who had died in the Goree dungeon or were perceived too weak or sick to make the trip to the Americas (and be productive) were frequently thrown out of this door to drown. The light emanating through the door and illuminating the otherwise dark slave chambers will be one of the most haunting images of this entire fellowship experience.

Exiting through the front entrance of the slave quarters, we left behind the only recognition of Goree's significance in the transatlantic slave trade, aside from a statue that stands right outside of the structure. The rest of the island is sparsely populated and business goes on as usual. Goree had moved on. I had to move on as well.

Sam and I explored the rest of the small island, snapping a few pictures (coming soon-ish) where appropriate and taking-in the experience. With the opportunity to stay on the island for several hours (we were meeting some friends who were coming on a later ferry) we split up and chilled a bit. Sandals in hand, I headed down to the water to collect a bit of the sea glass (quite plentiful on Goree) which littered the small beach. After a while I sat down. Burrowing my bare feet in the wet sand, I gazed at the island's coast, trying to sort my thoughts and wondering how many bodies had been thrown into the hungry and tireless ocean.

Race Matters, Volume 2: My Whiteness

2008-03-28T09:34:00.000-07:00

February 25th, 2008:

For the first time in my 23 year short life, I am white.

Let me explain.

Prior to my travel in Sub-Saharan Africa, I was warned by many friends (Black American and African alike) that on some level I would be stripped of my black identity. At the time, I acknowledged their caution intellectually, understanding that many Black Africans would see me as American before (or opposed to) "Black." Furthermore, I knew that in my case--as racially I have been an anomaly to many with whom I have interacted over the past 6 months--I would be particularly scrutinized, if not completely stripped. I was prepared, at least in my mind, for my romanticized vision of a Sub-Saharan Africa waiting for me with open arms to not exactly be the reality. All that said, I still held out hope for a connection.

Perhaps it was because I held out this hope that being called "white" blindsided me with such force.

To be fair, I was never actually referred to as "white," though language and attitudes in my direction suggested as much. The word I hear most frequently is "toubab," which is used for any different-looking foreigner, though there is a general understanding of it in reference to white people. (As a side note, this experience prepared me quite well for travel through other parts of West Africa such as Ghana, where the comparable word is "Obruni") Once I learned the meaning of this word that I heard so frequently around me I couldn't help but bristle. Sam quickly understood my dislike for the word and (at least from an American perspective) its implication and as a result stopped using it around me (though he never referred to me as such).

Having the opportunity to share my frustration with a friend (Francisco) who had similar experiences gave me a much needed outlet for my feelings, though it could only do so much. Having spent significantly more time in Senegal he had come to grips with--and come to understand--the word and gave his perspective, though we agreed on the irony of coming to Africa to be called "white."

Though for the most part it was kids who would point and shout "Toubab!" as I walked down the street (I would listen attentively in conversations amongst adults, waiting to hear the word (in reference to me) so I could give a dirty/sarcastic look) I found myself unable to just shake it off. Like being called "rich" in 5th grade by a white friend (which to me was synonymous with being called "white" as society as I knew it showed few examples of "black" and "wealth" going together), to being called "oreo" in 7th grade by a black friend (no explanation necessary) to being called "jewish" by my high school basketball coach (though I think that was more a term of endearment), "toubab" brings me back to the terrible days of my adolescence when I felt like my own racial identity was constantly being mistreated and violated.

But maybe I'm being overly sensitive.

After all, the word points out my difference from Senegalese and I am different. Moreover, I find that oftentimes, I am the one drawing the line of distinction, not the Senegalese whom I interact with on a daily basis. I find myself more and more frequently distinguishing myself from Senegalese (and in my mind, much of Sub-Saharan Africa) by embracing my Black American identity, an identity which they cannot share. On a superficial level, Senegalese hip- hop culture and other US cultural exports allow me to revel in this identity as in this context, these exports belong to me, not the Senegalese. I would wrap myself in a blanket, a feeling of cultural superiority; and though I knew it was wrong--on a number of levels really--it made me feel good.

And all the while I wanted to be embraced by Senegalese as "one of us." I wanted to have my cake and eat it too in a major way, and it took me a bit of time to realize how unreasonable this desire was as I was not prepared to make any steps of my own towards embracing Senegal (or Sub-Saharan Africa) as a part of my Diaspora.

If there is a turning point in the story (and I'm not sure if there actually is one) I would say that it came in the days leading up to my visit to Goree Island (Dakar's--and one of West Africa's-- most terrible and famous slave ports) talking to Alun, a friend of Sam's.

"This visit is important for you...it is important for us too, but it is very important for you." (He said it all in Wolof, but I have no idea how to write all that). I was moved by the statement because it captured both what we shared and didn't share. It acknowledged that slavery is a terrible part of our shared history, but at a certain point, we have to embrace our differences in order to figure out who we are. I will never have the legacy of direct African family or colonialism as a part of my personal history and many Africans will not have the legacy of the trans-Atlantic slave trade and American slavery as a part of theirs. But understanding our shared starting point, as Alun alluded to, is important for us both.

So I still separate myself from Sub-Saharan Africa, though in a different (and healthier) way than before, believing in my heart that there is something, deeper than I may ever be able to understand or articulate that we share. And I still hate to be called Toubab, though I am doing a better job to humor the kids with a smile, a wink or some English, hoping (though not holding my breath) that one day their eyes too will be opened to what we share, even if it is beyond either of our tangible conceptions.

Exhausted...

2008-03-26T13:57:00.000-07:00

I will make no excuses for my absence of late...if you are still checking the blog somewhat regularly then you must already be used to the herky-jerkiness of my posting. It goes without saying that you should have no fear: many updates (and there are a lot of them as I've got three countries to cover) are already recorded (longhand) and it's just a matter of getting enough time at a computer to actually to transfer the ink to the keyboard. (Sounds like excuses to me, Hamilton)

Also, so as not to continue apologizing for my lack of photos, since leaving Senegal, it has been impossible to find a computer that can handle my wonderful/monster mobile external hard drive (propse to LaCie...but only in the developed world where a 40G+ USB key can be handled) where all of my photos (aside from those taken the past two weeks) are housed. That said, to all the photo cravers...I think you will have to wait for the viewing en masse when I get back to the States in May. Trust me...it will be worth the wait.
In the meantime, I hustled for a card reader which (wait for it...) actually works! So in the coming weeks there will be both POSTS and PICTURES. I'm actually a bit excited myself...

I arrived in Gabarone (pronounced gHabaronEE) yesterday morning after traveling through the night from Accra to Jo'burg and boarding a flight here about an hour later. Thanks to God I am the same Chas with the exception of some longer hair, a beard and a few fewer pounds (or kilos, depending where you are; don't worry, the babay has been protected). I'm just a bit exhausted and think that all this movement is finally getting to me. There is so much more that I could (and should) write about life 'on the road' but exhausted is all I can come up with right now. I find that this exhaustion even infiltrates my daydreaming as thoughts of 'retirement,' 'settling down' and my 'golden years' have become quite romanticized for me. Boo hoo, Chas. Yes, I know. If you were here with me you would slap me across the face with the backhand (twice)and tell me to savour every second of these next two months because there is no telling if I'll ever get an opportunity like this again.

Trust me, I am and I know.

And before you feel the need to reprimand me further (two backhands were sufficient), let me say that the word exhaustion is coupled with a feeling of satisfaction. My journey thus far has been incredible and though much of it (as one might expect) has not gone according to my plan, I feel a supreme sense of satisfaction and happiness knowing that these things that I have done and seen, combined with the people that I have met (and gotten to re-meet) over these 6 months have so uniquely and positively impacted my life and I am a much better person for all of it.

So before I start to get nostalgic, I'm going to get some sleep. Because I am exhausted, but I've got a lot to do, see and write before it's all over.

Race Matters, Volume 1: "Pour les femmes comment nous"

2008-03-10T09:21:00.000-07:00

(Actual photo coming soon...)

The name of the product is 'Fair and Light' and is marketed with the french slogan, 'Pour les femmes comment nous' or in English, 'For girls like us.'

Even with all of the cultural adaptation that I've had to do here in Dakar--squat toilets, no toilet paper and all--this has been the most shocking aspect of my experience here. A couple of days after I saw the first billboard (and these billboards are all over the city, second only to the ads for Winston cigarettes...more on that later), I saw the 'Fair and Light' commercial which showed a pouting woman who magically turned into a smiling (lighter-skinned) beauty as soon as she applied the cream.

My first reaction was shock, followed by a moment of tolerance, and finally outrage and disgust.

I felt like I was in some sort of time warp as (perhaps I've been living under a rock) I haven't heard about skin lightening/bleaching products since the Jim Crow days.

(In fact, I can't even remember skin-bleaching products being around the US then, though I'm sure they were. My mind keeps on returning to the part in the Autobiography of Malcolm X where the 'conk' is referenced and the connection between a caucasian-inspired hairstyle and 'cool' is established).

Granted that's US culture (and there probably are skin lightening and bleaching products still out there), but I figured the same principle--that history had left skin-bleaching behind--would apply for Africa, perhaps even more so because, well, because it's Africa. Yes, I know that I cannot legitimately make such a broad statement about such a large and diverse continent; that said, in my romanticized picture of Dakar, Senegal and Africa, skin bleaching just did not seem to make sense. Afterall, (sub-Saharan) Africa was supposed to be the place where color was different because everyone is black and that's what makes black beautiful. I knew that in the US, colorisms (the paperbag, lightskinned, darkskinned etc.) were alive and well. My naive self had no idea that a color hierarchy existed in Africa.

I realized that perhaps my initial sentiments needed a history lesson. Afterall, Africa was only recently released from the shackles of formal colonization, and how coud I, a black American, really understand the emotional and psychological impact of another group of people owning and controlling the affairs of my nation, especially (in specific reference to the current discussion) if the major unifying characteristic of those people was their lighter skin? Somewhere in my head, processing this commercial, I struggled to understand the people (both men and women use this skin-bleaching cream, though it is used much more openly by women) who wanted their skin to be lighter.
Among the many things that globalization and colonization has brought is that lighter, brighter and whiter is actually more beautiful than what is dark. (Making this statement, I have the image of all of the US-based TV shows, citcoms and movies that are hugely popular here in Dakar and, I imagine, other parts of the continent). In the commercial, this principle is reinforced as the newly 'lightened' woman gets more attention from guys as well as is more successful at her job. The message that the commercial (which is about 2 minutes long) sends is quite clear: not only is lighter more beautiful; it is superior.

It was about at that point in the commercial that my attempt at understanding, turned to frustration and a quiet outrage (I was alone so I couldn't exactly voice my feelings to anyone). There is a lot of talk about why African countries have trouble dealing with social, economic and political problems, but how often is the focus on the psychological damage that has been done as a result of centuries of physical, social, economic and political oppression at the hands of the rest of the world (namely Europe)? To me, the presence, popularity and public advertising of skin-bleaching cream speaks to a problem deeper than what most forms of aid can touch.

There is so much more to be said, but I am afraid that if I continue further I will soon be talking out of my ass, so I will leave you with that. I would love to hear your perspective, though I imagine that this thread for me is nowhere near its end.

A Few Things You Should Know About Dakar...

2008-03-10T08:07:00.001-07:00

A list I put together for anyone traveling or thinking about traveling to Dakar:

1. NO TOILET PAPER: This is some general information on traveling in Sub-Saharan Africa, though if Dakar is your first stop, here is where you will learn. Instead of t.p. people use water. Definitely something to adjust to, though it will get you clean if you do the work. If you are going to be adventurous and not be handicapped with a roll of t.p. everywhere you go, rolling with some hand sanitizer may not be a bad idea.

2. NO LEFT HAND: This may not apply to many of you, but it is relevant to me as I am one of the special ones, aka, lefthanded. Here in Senegal, lefthandedness does not exist. It took me a little while to figure out why, and then I used the bathroom for the first time with no toilet paper (cue moment of clarity...ahhhaaaa). So basically, the lefthand is only good enough for wiping, which I found hugely offensive. That said, eating and any other social activity is done with the righthand. Use of the lefthand will be greeted with stares and maybe a couple of giggles.

3. THE SQUAT TOILET: Just don't miss.

4. DON'T FEAR THE HUSTLE MAN: One of the funnier things out here is seeing (usually white) tourists downtown struggling with the hustlers and hawkers downtown. Now don't get me wrong, I get it too, though I have figured out how to deal with it. Hustlers and hawkers are people too...not just some drones out to sell you knockoff Coach bags and Diesel Jeans; as soon as you realize that, dealing with them becomes much easier. If you are interested in buying something, be clear and direct (this will give you the upperhand in any negotiating that goes down). On the other hand, if you're not interested, keep it moving, though you should know that if you show any sign of doubt, they will be on you in a heartbeat. My preference, especially if you've got a bit of time, is to engage them a little bit, which will help them to see you as more than a walking ATM. You never know...you may find yourself a friend.

5. DON'T PULL IT; IT'S PROBABLY NOT REAL: Senegalese women are some of the most beautiful that I have seen in my 6 months of travel. That said, Dakar is, in the words of a good friend, 'the fake hair capital of the world.' I have never seen more variations on the weave, wig or braids than here in Dakar. It gets to the point where when you see a woman walking down the street with just her hair, you notice. (On a funny sidenote, I developed a bit of a crush on the *married* woman who runs the breakfast eatery by Sam's office at the YMCA. When I finally revealed this to Sam and he asked me what I liked about her I explained that it was her amazing cooking and her natural hair. Needless to say he got a good laugh out of that.) The sad truth of the matter is that many women out here will doing something absolutely ridiculous (in my opinion) with their hair before they wear it naturally. The issue, above all, is psychological and is one of the things that bothers me most about being here, though it is, on some level, relatable, unlike the advertisements I regularly see for skin bleaching cream (the topic of a later post).

Past the Policy...

2008-03-10T05:35:00.000-07:00

As the title suggests, I have found ways to turn off my 'policy mind' from time to time :-).

While a lot of Dakar's problems lie in the environment and it's maintenance (or better put, lack thereof), its beauty (in a very human way) lies in its people the many contradictions present in their relations with one another. In this way it is not too different from anywhere else on earth; you can count on people to be people. I will explain.

On the surface, there is a level of respect between people that is unlike any other place I have visited. From what I have seen, this has a lot do with the fact that Senegal is essentially a Muslim state (there is a Christian minority), and thus there is a significant emphasis on custom and respect, especially in interactions between individuals. But this custom also has elements that are not so appealing, at least to those of us--particularly women-- in the more progressive world. There is a strict understanding between the role of women and that of men which has made for several semi-awkward interactions as I have learned my way around here. (Growing up in a household and family made up of very strong women, essentially 'renaissance women', adapting to the more traditional views/positions of women has been, at times, challenging). Young girls and women are encouraged to pursue education (topic of a later post), though there is an understanding that no matter how successful you are, you are the woman of the house and must be able to perform the tasks associated with that position. A cute/hilarious/sad example of this has been watching Anta, Sam's 2 year-old niece, who is FULL of attitude but is already being prepared to be a 'woman of the house.' Waddling around with a huge smile on her face, her mother an aunts fitted her with a headwrap, strapped her up with a melon tied to her back (to simulate the way in which Senegalese women carry infants) and giggled as she moved around the house, a small broom in hand.

That Islam is such a (stated) significant part of life here is not always the most accurate of facts, however, particularly among the younger generations, some of whom do not pray 5 times a day, drink, smoke and engage in premarital sex, all things that are forbidden or frowned upon by the Koran. I will save the religious investigation to someone with a bit more knowlege and experience, though there is certainly a question to be explored there.

Beyond the surface level, the hospitality here is second to none, though it is difficult to gauge how widespread this actually is because I am getting the foreigner/guest treatment. That said, what I have gathered is that while my case lies outside of the norm, from the very top of the hierarchy (patriarch/matriarch) to the bottom (errand boys/ girls), everyone is accounted for and taken care of. Out here, family truly takes care of its own (which includes, sometimes, fixed marriages between cousins to 'keep the family strong').

Dakar Arrival

2008-03-08T12:41:00.000-08:00

For those interested enough to be disappointed by this latest hiatus (I'm looking at you Birt C), thank you for your concern. Along with laziness and general fatigue, one of the major reasons that I have held off writing about my time in Dakar is that it has honestly taken me this long to wrap my mind around it (and yes, even though I am leaving in a couple of days, it is a work in progress). My writing is not nearly good enough, though even if it was, it would be very difficult to give you an accurate and complete picture of Dakar.

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Dakar is the dustiest place in my world (well, at this point, it is running a stiff competition against Bamako, Mali). Within my first couple of days in the city, I jokingly asked my god-brother, Sam , how they got all the sand here and he explained that this is how Dakar has been since he's known it. 'It starts with sand and ends with sand,' a reference he made to the fact that it didn't matter that certain parts of Dakar are paved, because it is only a matter of time before they become covered by the omnipresent sand and dust. For some background, Sam lives with his family in HLM Grand Yoff, which is one of several of Dakar's lower-income renting districts. This being my first stop in sub-Saharan Africa, my first few days I assumed that all of Dakar looked like Grand Yoff; it was only after my first week here that we made a trip downtown (where, among other landmarks, the President's mansion is located) and I saw that Dakar follows the 'normal' model of urban socio-economic stratisfication. More or less.

For better or worse, I have discovered over the past 5 1/2 months that I have a 'policy-oriented' mind which often sees a place from the perspective of what works and what doesn't. My time in Dakar has been no different. Spending the vast majority of my time in and around Grand Yoff (I've been renting an apartment not too far away from where Sam lives) I am struck by the stark contrast between the higher and lower income areas of Dakar. Now before you call me naive (I will admit that I am very much an idealist), let me explain. I have seen (both inside and outside of the U.S.) greater disparity between rich and poor than what seems to be present in Dakar, however, never have I seen a case that, in my opinion, could be so easily (relatively speaking) improved. The greatest noticeable difference that I see between Dakar's high and low ends is overall cleanliness. Many parts of Grand Yoff are littered/covered in trash while downtown is, for the most part, paved and pristine. On the surface, Dakar's major problem is its system of public waste management.

In my mind, the cleanliness of a particular environment has a major psychological impact on the people living in that area. A clean environment promotes cleanliness, upkeep and positive community development. On the flipside, a dirty, unkept environment is antithetical to those things (though that is not an absolute principle). In many parts of Grand Yoff, you will find yourself tripping over/shuffling through trash, amid the lingering and acrid aroma of burning trash (don't get me started on that). In my entire time here , I have seen a single garbage truck and perhaps a dozen trash collectors. By comparison, I have spent much less time in the downtown area, but have seen many more garbage trucks and have seen perhaps a handful of small piles of trash.

As I noted before, it is not so much the gravity of the problem (though I do believe strongly in cause and effect, especially when you are talking about a highly populated urban environment) as much as how easy I believe the solution to be which really frustrates me. Dakar has a SEVERE shortage of jobs (the subject of another post), from top to bottom. Why not create more jobs in the area of waste management from top (engineer) to bottom (garbage collector), placing an emphasis on improved/advanced methods of waste management and destruction and recycling.

Unfortunately, the x-factor (as always) is money and Dakar does not have a lot to spend. Thus there are the obvious questions of how these new workers will be paid and how this advanced system of waste management will be funded. These are valid points that I cannot (yet) counter, though trust, my mind, whether I like it or not, will be on it. To anyone who has some experience in urban planning and development (particularly in the area of waste management), I would love to hear your opinion.

But then again, who am I? Just a toubab passing through at the end of the day.

And afterall, there are more pressing issues, I'm sure.

Resurrected: My one kiss of Carnaval...(O Atrevido)

2008-02-22T08:48:00.000-08:00

There are not enough words to describe the intensity of the six day party that is Carnaval in Salvador. It is loud, it is intense, it is sexy, it is tiring, it is violent, it is fun, it is crazy, it is amazing and now that it is March 1st, it is officially over.....I have never been so tired in my life...literally.

One of the things you hear about Carnaval before you actually participate in it is that everyone kisses everyone and that women and men snatch each other up for a week long makeout session. The reality: Women walk on constant alert as men (mostly Brazilian) try and grab them from all angles trying to steal kisses and if they are lucky convince the woman to submit to a makeout session. Needless to say, snatching up women with force to steal a kiss is not my style, but I did get my kiss.

Saturday (the third night of Carnaval) O Chefao, two girls in our program named Shireen and Rebby and I left the main street of Carnaval to rest our feet on the beach. As we sat on the beach resting and watching the 20 or so people swimming in the ocean at around midnight, one of the girls noted that a man was pulling a girl out of the ocean in his arms. As soon as I saw that she wasn´t moving in his arms I sprinted as fast as I could down to the beach....

I got there only to find the man who pulled her out of the ocean in a complete panic. She was no longer breathing and upon checking her pulse I realized that her heart was no longer beating either. With all the crazy things i´ve done and seen, realizing that the young lady´s heart was no longer beating was the scariest moment of my life....

I yelled at the man who brought the woman out of the water to calm down and move from off of her and I quickly began to start CPR. I gave her chest compressions and performed mouth to mouth for a few seconds, which seemed like minutes only to realize that a crowd began forming and no one was calling for help. Trying to remember as much portuguese as I could I yelled to the group to get help, a doctor, a policeman, a lifeguard anything....They simply stared in disbelief at what was going on.

Luckily, Shireen and Rebby who sat up on the hill with O Chefao, heard my pleas for help and went to get police officers who were on duty on the streets above. As I sat there pumping, now scared that she might die if she didnt begin to breathe or have a pulse within the next few seconds, I put my mouth down yet again to give the girl air and she spit up into my mouth (talk about getting intimate...) which was a great sign. Much to my relief, upon my next check her pulse had returned signalling that her heart was now again beating...I put my finger in her mouth to straighten her tongue and thank god, she began to breathe.....

Within about another minute the police and a lifeguard had arrived to assist the young lady and they began calling an ambulance to escort her off. With her now breathing and with her heart now beating again, I simply walked away toward my three friends who stood on the rocks looking in the direction of the crowd which had now formed around the girl. They asked me how she was and I told them she was going to make it, and then they asked me how I was doing and I wasn´t so sure...

If you read alot of comic books or watch alot of movies you think that when someone is involved in an experience where someone´s life hangs in the balance, that when it is all over you simply feel great about yourself and walk off into the sunset. The truth of it was when it was all over I wasn´t sure if I should smile or cry, as I had never been involved in something so scary in my life. For the duration of the evening I think I was somewhere in between the two having been glad to save someone, but so scared of what would have happened if I couldn´t have. Thank goodness Shireeen and Rebby were on their feet and got help, who knows what would have happened if they didn´t get extended medical assistance.....

If mouth to mouth counts then I did get a kiss during Carnaval....one that was simultaneously the scariest and most rewarding I have ever had. That being said a kiss is a kiss...I don´t take it personal that a girl´s heart has to be stopped in order to give me one.

Resurrected: Carnaval 101 (O Chefao)

2008-02-22T08:45:00.000-08:00

For an entire week, a city of well over 2 million stops. Droves of people from Salvador, the state of Bahia, and all throughout Brazil flock to the city's center ready to party and/or profit off of the festivities. It is nothing like Rio de Janeiro or Sao Paulo, known for their famous parading Samba schools. Carnaval in Salvador is an entirely participatory event. It is a popular music fest, a true seven day street party that brings in all Bahia's most popular performers. It is really something that cannot be described by words - but what kind of blogger would I be if I didn't atleast try.

Just to try and give my American audience a more informed perspective, lets imagine that due to odd historical circumstances and cultural machinations, Carnaval was actually an American phenomenon, and imagine it centered in Atlanta. And lets just say that instead of Axe (Bahian pop music), samba reggae, and other Brazilian music, Atlanta's Carnaval was all about rap from the dirty south (Carnaval here is a celebration of local, homegrown music). What you would end up with is seven days of non-stop musical parades, known in Brazil as folias. Twenty or so trucks rigged with incredibly enormous speakers would travel slowly down the largest boulevards in the city. And, on top of each truck would be a performer or band. Here in Salvador, these trucks are referred to as trio-electricos. Imagine one truck being dedicated to Outkast, and thirty minutes later he would be followed by Li'l John, and then Three Six Mafia, then Ludacris. Gucci Mane or Young Geezy might roll through later on in the afternoon along with anybody else currently popular.

But this is not just any normal parade. Like I said, Carnaval here is not just a spectator sport. Some people do stay perched above the streets in the buildings that look over the Avenidas on which Carnaval passes. These arrangements are called camarotes, and are mostly limited to bourgeois folks who aren't really down to party in true Brazilian fashion. A lot of people, for a fair, but significant fee, pay to be in blocos. Around every trio-electrico is a designated space roped off for bloco-members, partiers that travel along with the trucks on the street for the entire circuit, which lasts for a couple hours. The blocos are crazy and extremely fun, and after a day or two, exhausting.

For the adventurous tourist, and for those that just don't have the money to spend (the majority of people in Salvador), there is the pipoca. The pipoca is simply the street and consists of everyone else in the city who is enjoying the music, and partying, but just doing so outside of the ropes (and security) of the bloco. Pipoca is fun, but it's also home to a good deal of pickpocketers, can get rowdy (especially in stretches of the road where the Avenidas get narrow), and is kinda tough for girls who aren't accustomed to hordes of men constantly grabbing and trying to makeout with them.

Now,Carnaval is not in Atlanta, so there's no Li'l Jon and the Eastside Boys. The vast majority of the trios carry Axe singers. Axe is nice, but not particularly complex. Fortunately, if you spend a bit of time in Salvador, you hear it all the time and it definitely grows on you. It is percussion heavy and very high energy, and all the performers sing the most successful songs of the past few years, so everyone catches on to the rhythms and lyrics of the popular songs pretty quickly. Fortunately though, there are alternatives to the regular trios. Salvador here has afro-blocos which were created to create and raise African/black consciousness and cultural awareness in the region and bring a totally different feel to the table. They are trios as well but play different types of music and the members of the blocos are usually dressed up particular themes and are accompanied by african drumss, and other performers. There are also blocos that consist entirely of men dressed as wonderwoman, predominately gay blocos, and basically anything else you could think of.

Anyways, this post has been long enough. I just wanted to provide a brief intro to put all of our subsequent Carnaval stories in context. Because of course, the Bahia Boys, being as adventurous as we are, tried out all the aspects of Carnaval; blocos, camarote, and pipoca and had a great time/almost died/are now involved in weird love triangles.

You really don't want to miss the next few posts.

In the meantime...

2008-02-22T08:05:00.000-08:00

While many in the U.S. (and rest of the world, for that matter) are going about their business completely unawares, only a couple of weeks ago, the worlds biggest party took place: Carnaval. For those who don't know (and you can thank me later), Carnaval is a weeklong party which a friend described, quite appropriately as 'the only party i've ever been to that has lived up to the hype.' And for the record, the hype for Carnaval in Brazil is enormous; from the day the festivities end, people are talking about next year's Carnaval. It is unlike anything else on earth.

Now if you are just a novice, you might book your ticket directly to Rio de Janeiro and enjoy a week of elaborate costumes and a lot of samba. I can't knock that. I love samba and I love elaborate costumes, particularly on Brazilian women. However, if you've got an inside source, or maybe you're just the type of person who likes to go the extra mile in your research, you will most likely be headed to Salvador.

Normally I would spend the next hour detailing all of the wild aspects and stories of Carnaval in Salvador (for the festivities, the city's population doubles), but unfortunately, I don't have that kind of time. Therefore, I am going to recycle the experiences of my two compatriots at the time (and the other 2/3 of the Bahia Boys Coalition); O Chefao (David 'Silkk' Williams) and O Atrevido (James 'I don't want girlfriends, I just want girls to be my friends' Hairston). I think you will find their observations clear and insightful (and at times, perhaps a bit surreal), and before you know it, you may find yourself on www.expedia.com, trying to book your tickets for next year's Carnaval.

Enjoy!

South of the Sahara

2008-02-22T07:51:00.001-08:00

Coming soon...

Brazil Interview Analysis Vol II: It's About the Parents

2008-02-16T07:37:00.000-08:00

(Yes, it's a big jump from arm-wrestling in Morocco, but I told you I would fill in the blanks.)

While the discussions of race/class and their relationship to educational performance proved to be important (especially as it is a conversation that many of my interviewees did not like to have), discussions of parental influence in education turned out to be of equal, if not greater prominence in my interviews, particularly with teachers. In all honesty, the frequency with which parents were mentioned caught me a bit offguard and compelled me to change the focus of the interviews to be a bit more all-encompassing in the discussion of education and educational influences. The first mention of it came from a teacher in Nordeste who noted 'a lack of parental cooperation' as the most significant difficulty she faced in her career of teaching. She spoke not only of parents (especially those with very few financial means) who would frequently pull their children out of school in order to work, but more precisely of those parents who did not recognize education as a means for their children to improve their lives. 'I am not necessarily talking about parents without education, but those parents who do not recognize the value of education. If the parents do not care about or believe in the necessity of education for their children, then school becomes just another activity, and the parents do not hold children accountable for studying, assignments or even attendance.' This was powerful to hear from a first person perspective. From conversations and background reading, the argument that I am more familiar with has to do with the education level of parents and how that correlates to the child's school performance (granted, there are relationships in between these two, namely, that a parent's educational level is a good gauge of how they will communicate the importance of education to their children). That said, the perspective I was (prior to this conversation) far less familiar with had to do with the fact that uneducated/not highly educated parents can have the same positive impact on their child's educational experience, assuming they recognize and communicate the importance of formal education, and support it with informal education at home. That said, for parents that fall into this category, the figurative 'road to success' for the child is quite a bit steeper and the cost of sitting by idly is much greater (compared to the children of highly educated parents who can perceive, on some level, how education has improved the lives of their parents, without the parents necessarily verbally communicating it). On the 'other side of the tracks' I had the opportunity to visit two much nicer schools in the neighborhood of Victoria (one public, one private) in which both teachers and school administrators spoke glowingly (for the most part) of the positive parental contribution to education, both in their interactions with teachers, as well as holding their children accountable and supporting their education at home. The role of the parents--both positively and negatively--was echoed in almost all of my interviews and though I have not come across any data to support the argument that more positive parental involvement in education is correlated with better academic performance, I was convinced of this relationship's impact. Additionally, it has caused me to take a step in the direction of believing that parental involvement could be a veritable 'x' factor and universal theme further explaining why primary education is such a crucial period in the educational experience of the child (at the very least here in Brazil). On a slightly different note... Sitting in these interviews, I couldn't help but be reminded of the well publicized Bill Cosby 'tirade' in which he criticized poor/uneducated black parents for not instilling good values in their children. At the time of this debate, I chose to stay on the fence (a common Chas practice) as I recognized the legitimacy of both sides of the argument (prof. Michael Dyson became the public and outspoken opposition to Cosby's perspective). That said, through the conversations I had with these teachers, many of whom are parents themselves, I can understand (more intimately) that there is nothing more important and necessary than the positive contribution of 'parents' (whether they be biological parents, relatives or guardians) in the development of the child. Of course there exists a partnership between the parents and the school and without a functional/functioning school, the child can only go so far; that said, the necessary prerequisite is the contribution of the parents. I realize that circumstances of this link are quite different (Brazil vs. U.S. Black community) and that I really did not touch on the meat of the debate between Dyson and Cosby (especially in relation to the historical and well documented oppression of descendants of American slavery and the current effect of this oppression), but I do believe that there is some real value in this cross-cultural comparison.

As always, I would love to hear your thoughts.

Difficult Times in Marrakech

2008-02-15T06:59:00.000-08:00

The photos should speak (volumes) for themselves. Though all 3 defeats (my apparent victory in the first photo was, I'm ashamed to say, staged) were quite damaging to my self-esteem, we got some free mint tea afterwards which helped, sorta. Thanks, Rhys, for the photos.

North African Allegiance

2008-02-12T08:31:00.000-08:00

As it has worked out on several occasions in my travels already, I have been well situated to watch some great soccer. Most recently, my arrival in Morocco coincided with the semifinal and final rounds of the 2008 Africa Cup, in which Egypt successfully defended their title as the most dominant soccer team on the continent (thats right, i said it and would love to hear if you disagree). The final, which was played between Egypt and (Samuel Eto'o and) the Cameroon national team, was a pretty uneventful and sloppy match in my opinion, Egypt's lone and winning goal the result of a fatal error committed by two Cameroon defenders.

However, more interesting than the game itself was that virtually all of Morocco (I can only speak specifically of Marrakech and Essouira, though I think it would be safe to extrapolate from there) was supporting Egypt. It was not the most surprising revelation, bit it was very interesting as it offered some perspective into the regional/cultural allegiance that exists in North Africa. When I suggested to a pair of fellow spectators that I was supporting Cameroon, they looked at me as if I was crazy. It was a moment in which I could have spoken Arabic because I could have learned a thing or two more directly from their viewpoint.

But the conclusion at which I arrived after the game was that while it was the Championship of the Africa Cup, perhaps more importantly, it was also a showdown between two very different (and conflicting?) African identities, which sybolically go much deeper than just a soccer match.

I would love to hear your thoughts.

Update: Dakar Arrival

2008-02-12T08:17:00.000-08:00

To my beloved few:

I arrived safely in Dakar, Senegal yesterday evening.

Also, you might notice that for all of the description I have given of Morroco, Ive got no pictures to show for it. To explain, like an idiot I left my camera's transfer cable at home during my brief stay there. Additionally, the disposable developments are still negatives, thus there is no way, at the moment to get those to you. Dont you worry; where there is a will, there is most certainly a way.

Your patience is greatly appreciated :-).

Stay tuned...

The Marrakech Rythm

2008-02-10T08:20:00.000-08:00

I came back to the Riad to take a nap a found I had a roommate, an Aussi by the name of Andre. He is doing a bit of traveling before he starts university in Australia: he seems like a good person.
I awake with the setting sun, the sweet smell of hookah making its way into our room. It has gotten quite a bit cooler, which is what I think caused me to wake up from my short nap.
The plaza by night is a completely different place as, seemingly out of nowhere, dozens of small eateries have opened in the center, offering typical Moroccan cuisine for a decent price, if youre willing to negotiate a bit. The number of people moving about has doubled at least, the majority of them young people, younger than 30.
By night, the snake charmers have gone and in their place you will find several musicians with a circle of listeners around them. Music here in Marrakech, like in Salvador (Bahia, Brazil), is a catalyst for a communal experience. The musicians begin playing as the sun sets and Moroccans gather around at their leisure, drawn to the sounds and rythms amidst the crowded center of the Medina. The hustle, however, is that anytime a tourist draws near the music will stop and an upturned tambourine will appear with an urgent request for a 'donation.'
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
In my short time here in Marrakech, peoplewatching has quickly become an enjoyable activity as the crowded center offers a great opportunity. The dynamics among men, women and between the two is particularly entertaining. The women, many--though far from all--of whom are traditionally clothed--with hair, faces and bodies covered--walk mostly in pairs, usually with an urgency in their gait. They are not all that flirtatious, though ocassionally a quick darting of the eyes or turning of the head will give away their interest in a particular passerby.
As one might expect, this same subtlety is foreign to the men. In contrast to the Moroccan women--whom they seem to greatly outnumber, at least in the street--men generally seem to roam in packs, very aware of their female counterparts. The true moments of comedy are when a group of men will roll up on a pair or group of women, using (I would imagine) some horrible/hilarious pick up line.
But to say that the men are solely fixated on women would be giving a false impression of things. In fact, one of the most interesting observations of Moroccan men is the juxta-position of a certain 'machismo' and very expressive affection for one another (among friends, of course). A typical greeting between two men will consist of a handshake and a kiss on either cheek; additionally, it is not uncommon to see two men holding hands in the street, or one with his arm around the other. As I understand it, there an openness within Moroccan society (at the least in Marrakech) for homosexuality; that said, I believe that this aforementioned affection is a characteristic of relations between many men, both gay and straight.
At the same time, it is by no means uncommon to see two men fighting in the street; sometimes it is clearly in jest, as one will try and humiliate the other in front of friends, while in other moments, it appears more serious. Verbal arguments are common and already I have seen many that have required a mediating third party to separate the two parties before they come to blows.

Day of Days (Continued)

2008-02-08T12:23:00.000-08:00

I heard my first call to prayer as I was making my way through Marrakech and it nearly made me jump (I happened to be near a major mosque at the time). My first thought, having never experienced anything like this before, was some massive fire alarm; it only took a moment to adjust my thinking and identify the call for what it actually was. Walking by another mosque moments later I saw dozens of men in single file rows in the structure's interior, bent on all fours, heads pressed to their prayer mats. The moment was a bit surreal as I was enveloped by this new experience ; I observed the surrounding activity, trying not to be conspicuous (though i think my huge backpack just may have given me away) while taking in the centuries old prayer tradition.

I am staying in a Riad-a beautiful Moroccan home-which has been transformed into a hostel. The experience thus far has been wonderful and I would recommend anyone traveling on a budget-and even if you dont have a budget-to find hostels along your travels (and specifically Riads in Morocco). They are usually cheap/reasonably priced and are a great way to meet fellow travellers, old and young. The Riad is located just off of the center of the Medina-old city-though it was nearly impossible trying to find it my first time as a result of the network of narrow streets and alleyways that led me here. The area is very quiet-especially compared to the city center-and quite safe, though it doesnt look like it; the narrow turns and blind corners look to be perfect places for an ambush (sorry, just the way that I think).

Making your way through the labirynth from the Riad to the city center, you are greeted by the hustle and bustle of what I could only describe to you as Canal Street x 10. Everywhere you look, goods are being sold; from fresh meat to to antiques, leather goods to fruit. The scene, both in the narrow streets leading to the center and the center itself, is quite picturesque; the hustle and bustle of tourists, shopowners and hustlers gives the environment a certain rhythm, as if everyone has a part to play and knows their role. While in the center square, looking up from what is right in front of your face (which can be a bit difficult at times) the eye may catch the snow-dusted Atlas Mountains in the distance, home of the Berber people of the region. Turning in another direction, the enormous tower of the Koutoubia mosque demands attention. Bringing your gaze back to eye level, the real tourist attractions of the large square can be seen: the fabled cobra snake charmers with the accompaniment of the punji (nasal sounding wood instrument used to hypnotise the snake). To the left and right of these daredevils form tight circles of mostly men, as a figure in the circles' center speaks of the power of natural herbs, powders and other remedies.

Day of Days

2008-02-07T09:52:00.000-08:00

Landing on the African Continent brought excitement as well as a good bit of anxiety as I did not know exactly what to expect. Whereas South America was somewhat familiar territory (as a result of time previously spent in Brazil and Costa Rica) the African continent is completely unknown to me, from a first person perspective. On top of that, arriving in Casablanca I have been robbed of my ability to freely communicate as Arabic is a complete mystery, and though I can understand much of it, my beginner's French is basic to say the least. As such my day of arrival (yesterday)was a milestone among the many personal milestones of the past several months.

If you were to take a walk through my thoughts and experiences of Day 1 in Morocco (Casablanca and Marrakech), the first revelation would be the smell. It is as if, stepping off of the plane in Casablanca, I had just rid myself of some nasal congestion; I found myself suddenly bombarded by smells; good, bad and...interesting.

Receiving information from a credible source that there was not a great deal to see in Casablanca, hours after arriving by plane, I was on a train to Marrakech, 3 hours southeast of Morocco's famous city. Entering the train, I was immediately thrust into cultural immersion as I crammed myself into a small cabin with 7 (8 if you include the baby) other people. In between bouts of narcoleptic dozing (in which I was caught, on several occasions, drooling on myself) I took notice of the changing scenary; lush, rolling hills giving way to arid flatlands, which in turn would give way to tilled farmland. From time to time a mosque would reveal itself, far and away the most prominent and ornate structure in the vicinity; more frequently, collections of shacks and mini-stanty villages would seemingly spring out of nowhere, the small clusters looking more rundown than a lot of what I had seen in Brazil.

A line is forming behind me, here at the hostel's lone computer.

To be continued...

Itinerary: Review

2008-02-07T09:40:00.000-08:00

So I am continuing to play the role of irresponsible/delinquent blogger, but I am currently doing my best to reconcile that. Please feel free to let me know how I'm doing. As you can see from the itinerary below, I have made it to Morocco, the first stop on my African tour. That said, I am going to be doing my best to close the gap, switching between what I have thus far left out (rest of Brazil, Argentina and my brief stint in Europe) and what I'm up to currently.

Much love,

Chas

Morocco: 02/06 - 02/11

Senegal: 02/11 – 03/11

Ghana: 03/11 – 03/18

Botswana: 03/18 – 03/30

Mozambique: 03/30 – 04/05

South Africa: 04/05 – 05/15

Interview Analysis Vol. I: It's not about what you look like, it's about where you're from

2008-01-23T10:13:00.000-08:00

One of the most interesting aspects of my research and interviews in Salvador was the race debate. If you are not familiar with Brazilian racial politics and history, I will give you a very brief overview. Though it is far from everyone, there are a great number of people in Brazil who believe that racism doesn't exist in Brazil. When racism is brought up, it is almost always used to define the racial climate in the United States, but not in Brazil. Many of the Brazilians I have spoken to over time have come up with some pretty creative answers to direct questions. Why are the majority of those who live in Brazil's favelas mostly black? Well according to many, the favelas are “completely” racial diverse and thus race has no part in defining who is there. Why is there so much opposition to racial quotas in University education? Because there shouldn't be any sort of quotas in education because those who deserve to be in the best universities are there because of hard work, and conversely those who aren't haven't worked hard enough to be prepared. Now I don't want oversimplify the issue, but these opinions are out there and strongly felt among many, not too different from what we have in the U.S.

To the relevance of my research, the question of race and student performance was one that I knew was going to be a difficult and interesting one for many of my interviewees because their views on race are very much colored by their experiences and upbringings. Some avoided the question, giving short, one-sentence answers to express how much race depended on the success of the children they taught (as a professor), oversaw (as a school administrator) or observed on paper (as a government official). I found myself frustrated in a few interviews because in my opinion (and particularly in Brazil) race plays a significant role in just about every facet of history and life; however, it is sometimes the most obvious things that are most difficult to openly observe and acknowledge.

The title of this post refers to two of the more vocal interviewees on the issue of race and educational performance; while in my heart and mind I came into each interview with my own opinions about the major issues, I was very much impressed with the clarity and thoughtfulness of each interviewee's argument.

The first is the current Vice-Director of Escola Profesor Bernardino Moreira, a privately funded school in Nordeste, a favela located near Salvador's city center. She graduated from college in the area of Pedagogy and Educational Discipline and has worked at the school for 15 years. Though in describing herself she did not give her age, my guess would be that she is in her early 40s.
On the question of whether she believed that a student's racial background played a role in their performance she responded it may play a role, however she argued that in her experience the most significant variable is the students' socioeconomic background. Put differently, she noted that the students who go through her school have been burdened by the fact that they live in a favela, in particular Nordeste, which has a reputation as one of Salvador's most dangerous. She noted that many students, when completing applications for jobs or schools oftentimes gave their place of residence as Amarlinaha, a neighborhood nearby which has a much better reputation.

“But this prejudice is not racial, it is based on the violence that occurs in Nordeste and as a result the reputation that the neighborhood receieves. Many (outside of the community) believe that to come from Nordeste means that you are some sort of theif and unfortunately, very few come from the outside to get a better perspective. This is hardest for the students to face, and I believe they suffer because of it.”

The essence of her argument was that it is not how the individual is affected prejudice based on race, but rather prejudice based on where they are from. I pressed her a bit in asking more specifically about the determining variable in the students' performance within Bernardino Moreira and she noted that it was a combination of parental involvement and the lack of safety in the community (more on that later). In reference to race, she posited that it could be an issue when the students move to another school—Bernardino Moreira goes until 8th grade—however, it has never been a major factor of the performance of the students currently enrolled.
She rejected race as the determining factor because of the diversity within Nordeste, where a large number of inhabitants self-identify as pardo or mixed. In fairness to her argument, the ability to pinpoint the racial element is made very difficult as a result of Brazil's complex racial history and how many are conditioned to identify as neither black or white, but somewhere in between. That said, it troubled me that the element of race was able to be so easily dismissed. Her argument is not so different from the argument used by many in the U.S.--that class trumps race in dealing with major inequalities—however, the complexity, once again is Brazil's color-based racial hierarchy.

The second interviewee is a school teacher with a doctorate in Anthropology and African Studies. He is 36 and is actively involved—both religiously and as an anthropologist—in Candomble, a religion most popular in the state of Bahia (in comparison to Brazil's other states) which has it's roots in African tribal religion. He is black.
While I conducted the interview in the same way as I had done all others, it was difficult to get away from the issue of race because he believed—in contrast with the previous interviewee—that race has a very large part to play in disparities in student performance. In the interview he drew upon his experience as a teacher and particular as a teacher of History. He began teaching when he was 24 and immediately noticed how History textbooks—as well as set curricula—focused on a Brazilian history that did not include the African influence.

“But my students, who are black, are in their Portuguese class where the teacher continues to talk about Camões or Castro Alves, or any other white poet or author and fails to mention many black poets, black songs, proverbs or national literature. In the history class, they learn of Africa only reference to slavery and there is no discussion of what those people were before slavery; they had nations...they were warriors, kings and priests.”

He noted that he could see the black students in his classes less interested and gaining much less from this education. He also noted that it was most obvious in his History classes, but was a constant theme in all of the classes he taught, whether it was Music, Language Arts or Visual Arts.
His major argument centered on the fact that Brazil has a history of racism and coupled with that racism is avoidance of racial confrontation. Today, this racism is masked by classism, which many use to explain the inequlities that currently exist. Stepping away from my set questions, I asked him his view on Affirmative Action in Brazil's system of higher education (http://education.guardian.co.uk/higher/worldwide/story/0,9959,1012157,00.html)and he quickly responded that he is completely in favor of it, largely because he believed that quotas are emergency measures for the current and growing racial inequality.

“It is not as if this is an ideal means of changing the course of race relations in Brazil, but it has become necessary in order to begin to make change.”

I found myself impressed with his response—I had heard about these quotos and as was troubled by how they would be enacted in Brazil's framework of color-based racial hierarchy—as no one I had spoken with had phrased it in that exact way, though I still had doubts. That said his perspective was a valuable one, and in all honesty, one that I could relate to as a black male living in a society that attempts to avoid the racial component whenever possible.

Vale Tudo: Up Close and Quite Personal

2008-01-23T09:58:00.001-08:00

I went to my first Vale Tudo match in early December, with Junior and his dad, Reginaldo. It was real. Really real. The viewing is a bit difficult as a result of the cage but...check it out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Du33MskG-EA

Real Time Update

2008-01-23T06:16:00.000-08:00

To my faithful few:

I wanted to take a moment and give real time update on my travels, as I have gotten into the bad habit of recounting experiences weeks late (at this rate I might as well scrap the blog and just send you all letters...you would get the news in about the same amount of time). After a grueling 11.5 hour flight from Buenos Aires, I have arrived in Madrid. It's 4:30 AM, dark and cold (3 degrees Celsius). I'm smelling a lot better than I thought I would after such a long flight, but I'm far from 100%. The scene is very different from the Buenos Aires airport in many ways, chief among them is the racial diversity. That said, I'm still getting a number of curious looks from both the Africans and the European Spainairds; I supposed even in the midst of this diversity I somehow find a way to stick out.

I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to stay awake until my connecting 3:30 PM flight to London. I probably won't make it...without sleep I mean. Now it's only a matter of finding a good place to rest my eyes for a few moments...

Fight Club

2008-01-17T12:18:00.001-08:00

Behind soccer and volleyball, Brazil's fastest growing sport is Vale Tudo, or what is more commonly known in the English-speaking world as MMA (Mixed Martial Arts). For those who are unfamiliar with MMA, it is currently threatening to make boxing, formerly known as the most physically brutal sport, obsolete. Mixed Martial Arts, as the name suggests, requires that fighters are skilled in a number of techniques including jiu-jitsu, wrestling, judo, muay-tai and boxing, to name a few.

Now with that brief introduction taken care of...

Vale Tudo is very strong in Brazil, though this phenomenon is not as new as in other parts of the world such as, for example, the United States. For some time Brazil has been world-reknowned for the quality of jiu-jitsu and judo training and as Vale Tudo/MMA has become more popular as an international sport, Brazil has played a major role. Many of the world's top fighters are Brazilian or have studied in Brazil, which speaks to how this international fighting community views the country that is still more well-known for soccer, samba and beautiful beaches.

During my time in Brazil, and more specifically Salvador, I have had the opportunity to become intimately acquainted with this "fight club" as Junior (the eldest sibling in the household) began taking Jiu-Jitsu in August and claims to have aspirations in the world of ultimate fighting (though no one really believes (or wants) that he will follow through on that). His training everyday brought him a lot of pride as well as a bunch of new friends with whom he trains. During the beginning of my stay in Salvador the "new friends" element was a bit sensitive because there are major differences between Junior's galera and his fight club crew. Fortunately for all of them, as they are all Brazilian, this tension did not last long and I soon found myself hanging out (via Junior) with a group of people that was, on the whole, incredibly diverse in their interests and aspirations.

One of the most interesting aspects of the growing group of friends is getting to understand this fight culture that exists in the world of Vale Tudo and (more generally) martial arts specifically in Brazil. That said, I put together a list, which might be helpful if any of you ever make it to Salvador:

7 Ways to know if your new friend is a part of Brazil's “Fight Culture”

1.They've got some massive tatoo on their back, arm or torso of a dragon, “Jiu Jistsu” or “Vale Tudo” (Yes, it happens...a lot).
2.Short haircut (long hair is a liability in ultimate fighting) and deformed ears (from being hit and placed in different submission holds).
3.You'll be shadowboxing and they'll actually hit you. Or maybe you won't even be shadowboxing, they'll ask if they can show you something and the next thing you know your arm feels like its about to fall off.
4.They walk around in tight shirts that either have their Academia's (Dojo's) name on it, or just “Jiu-Jitsu,” “Judo” or “Vale Tudo” printed across the front.
5.Their handshakes are a little too firm.
6.They've got no leg hair on or around their shinbone (Muay Thai experience).
7.Everytime you go out and start drinking with them, they want to show you the various types of arm and leg locks.

Se Liga Bocao

2008-01-14T13:50:00.000-08:00

(I don't know if I can actually get a video link on here, so check out this link for a brief clip from the show: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FuQoj0wEoY )

As was the case on a given weekday in Casa Denise (and particularly once vacation began for the kids) the first half of the day consisted of breakfast, lunch and a whole bunch of TV. As I fell into the rhythm with the family, I noticed that the show that was most popular with the family was a news/talk show-esque program called "Se Liga Bocao." Think a mix between the Today Show, Larry King and Jerry Springer. The program's title means "Call Big-Mouth." "Big Mouth" is meant to capture the program's expository nature as it shows what other, more traditional news programs, refuse to.

I'm posting about this particular program because of it's unique nature, not only compared to the more traditional news programs in Brazil, but also compared to any news program that I have seen. The program's host (O Bocao), who apparently was formerly a reporter for Brazil's Globo network, goes to great lengths to show a side of Bahia (the show only airs in Bahia) that you will never see on any other news program. Along with his field reporter (whose name escapes me at the moment) they broadcast stories about police violence, drug trafficking and kidnapping. The program devotes at least twenty minutes to tearful testimonials from interviewees about friends or family members who are missing.

However, there is another side to the program. This other side (the Jerry Springer side) makes the program look like a joke as Bocao's field reporter will at times openly humiliate the interviewee, oftentimes the victim of some crime or malady. Combined with sound effects and music from the main studio, segments of the show will appear to be aired with the sole purpose of ridiculing and humiliating the state's poor (who are nearly always the subject of the episode), either in favelas or the periferia (boonies). This humiliation includes showcasing an abuse victims wounds, rough questioning of alleged criminals at the police station, and openly ridiculing those who seem just happy to be on TV.

I'm conflicted about the program. On one hand, it represents something that many of us aren't used to: news media that doesn't seem to have some sort of obvious ideological lean. It portrays both the good and the bad in a seemingly objective light. The major problem is the way O Bocao goes about presenting aspects of this news. While the program does give a non-sugar-coated look at the darker side of the state of Bahia (if it weren't for the program one might believe every single one of the state sponsored ads about how much better life is for every baiano and baiana) it does so at the expense of the dignity of its subjects (like Jerry Springer, except in this case it's not staged). From an outsider's perspective Baianos look principally poor and ignorant and not a whole lot else.

But maybe that's what is necessary for this form of news to have some sort of effect. It is definitely popular and takes up a significant chunk of airtime in the middle of the day. I guess what remains to be seen (the program is only a few years old) is whether it will spark positive action or will just be something at which viewers point and laugh.

Is objectively informing people as to what is out there--whether or not others are humiliated in the process--enough?
I'm not exactly sure.

A Galera Baiana

2008-01-14T12:20:00.000-08:00

I figured that it would make sense to give you all a picture of my "galera baiana" that has been my family away from home...

A familia unida (Tia Denise; mom, Reginaldo; dad, Jamile; sister, Junior; brother)

The Dudes (Junior, Daniel, Adson (cousin), Vitinho, Jeter)

Luar (cousin), Adson, Alexandre (friend), Jamile

A familia unida pt. II

So About Those Posts...

2008-01-12T04:52:00.000-08:00

They're coming; I promise. If you've been reading from the start, I will note that you were forwarned that I'm far from accustomed to this habit of blogkeeping. Okay, enough with the excuses.

When I first went away to college, I would jokingly call mom and dad on the phone, asking them if life was actually continuing at home without me. Clearly it was a joke, but it was funny sometimes to think about reality continuing on even when I wasn't there, kind of like that classic rhetorical question of if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Ok, kinda...in any event the relevance of this weird anecdote is that perhaps for some of you, out of site means out of mind, or perhaps you were wondering if I fell off the face of the earth after December 17th. Perhaps...

I just want to let everyone know that I'm alive, doing well and have not fallen over the edge of the earth.

The past month has been very interesting and if I had to give it a name (yea, I know, who gives personalized names to month-long periods of time?), I would this period "Peace of Mind." Thanks to everyone who remembered my birthday; it hasn't quite sunk in that I'm 23 yet, though it probably won't until I'm nearly 24 (as is the case usually for me). I was truly blessed to have the opportunity to return home for a couple of days (2) over Christmas, though in all honesty the circumstances were not ideal. That said, the love from family and friends both in the U.S. as well as Brazil meant a tremendous amount, making this holiday season one of the most special of my life. On top of all of that, I was privileged enough to spend a bit of time with my wonderful/incredible girlfriend during the first couple of weeks of January here in Brazil.

I am currently in the international airport in Rio de Janeiro (it seems my best writing is done in the airport) awaiting my flight to Buenos Aires, where I will be spending the next 8 days of my journey. These past two months have been incredible, and thus this departure is bitter-sweet, though something tells me I will be back here before too long. I realize I didn't do too good of a job with Brazil (in terms of updates) though I will be remedying that in the coming days (I have continued writing, just not for the public form that is this blog), as well as giving you all a look at Argentina, a country I'm excited to get to know, even if it's only for a few days. Yes, I know that with my track record, I have laid out an abitious feat; but there's nothing wrong with aiming for the stars, cuz if you miss, you may hit a mountain or a tree, which is something, right?

Anyway, for those that will be on the egde of their seats over the course of the next month as I write another poor excuse for why I'm not blogging, here is a look at what's in store in the upcoming Brazil Review:

Primary Education Observations and Interviews
A Galera/Familia Baiana
Jiu-Jitsu Culture in Brazil
Brazil's Middle Class
Art on Salvador's Walls
A Brasileira/Baiana (this will be interesting...)
Is Kaka o melhor jogador do mundo?
A Little Drama in Salvador
Northeast Ground Travel
Tudo Bem's List of Things You Must Do While in Brazil (this will be the start of my career as a professional guidebook writer)

I'm on the case :-).

Back with a Vengeance

2007-12-17T06:37:00.000-08:00

It´s been a little while, but I´m back and better than ever (check out the two posts that I added right before this one). Stay tuned the next few days as I´ll be working overtime to chronicle what I´ve been up to for the past couple of weeks.

Happy Holidays,

Chas

What exactly are you doing, Chas?

2007-12-17T06:21:00.000-08:00

While Beach Studies 101 in Salvador has brought a great deal to my life, what is driving me here in paradise has little to do with the beach. This post is dedicated to all those who have asked (and the many who are undoubtedly wondering) “Chas, what exactly are you doing other than traveling and postponing your entry into the world of work?” I hope that this will answer your questions, though anyone who knows me knows that clarity at times escapes me and attempts to communicate my ideas.

The work that I have been doing here in Salvador (Brazil) and that I plan to do in Dakar (Senegal), Capetown (South Africa) and Havana (Cuba) involves an analysis of systems of primary education and how these systems are connected to social mobility. Now for a little bit of history.

I am not exactly sure when it happened, but at some point in my academic college career I discovered that what really excited me were universal principles and concepts. As a student in Government, I found that I was constantly frustrated by models and arguments of international cooperation and conflict. Some arguments focused on the fact that inter-country relationships were based on power; other suggested that what mattered more was collaboration and cooperation. Don't get me wrong; I certainly understood (and understand) the importance of most of these theories, but it never struck a chord with my thoughts and beliefs. Additionally (and significantly) what I learned as a Government concentrator had a great deal to do with systems and how they work in relation to one another (I was provided with a very macro view of the world). This was important, but I also longed to learn about people, their decisions and how they relate to these aforementioned systems.

It was not until I began researching the topic of my undergraduate thesis that I stumbled (I use this word deliberately) onto the “concept” of social mobility (I write “concept” because it seems strange to call something so straightforward a concept). Simply defined (for the purposes of the flow of this post) social mobility is the measure of an individual's ability to improve her life within a given society. There is more to it than that (for example, how do we define “improve”?), but I believe that this explanation captures the concept in its simplest terms. The topic of my undergraduate thesis was an exploration of the link between international migration and social mobility, focusing on the Brazilian state of Minas Gerais. Writing the thesis was a wonderful (read: agonizing) experience, and on many days I would wake up and ask myself what exactly I was writing about. That said, the biggest and arguably most important aspect of this thesis was not the work itself, but the ideas that began swimming around in my head. The concept of social mobility proved central to the overall argument of my thesis, which left me with a desire to explore it further. What was most appealing to me was the fact that it was a truly universal concept; something that lives and breathes outside of the academic realm and affects all people.

As I was becoming more and more interested in the concept of social mobility, primary education was becoming more and more a part of my life as I made a conscious decision to pursue a position in Teach for America. Conversations that I had about the U.S. system of primary education, both with recruiters (and specifically Josh Biber) as well as my peers made it clear to me that there was a link between education and social mobility; as a look back, it is a connection that any thinking person should be able to make, but for me, it was truly a moment of clarity. Of course education plays an incredibly significant role in one's ability to improve their position in society. It's obvious. However, if it's so obvious, why is it that this is a discussion that has to be had so often in our society?

As I was accepted to Teach for America I was genuinely excited for the opportunity to find a personal answer to this question. Not that I was ready to enter with a romantic vision of what lay ahead; for some time I had received mixed reviews about the experience, largely because the challenges that are presented in the classroom. I don't presume to be “ready” for what's in store for me as I begin teaching in the Atlanta elementary school system in September 2008, but I certainly know that it will not always been fun and will definitely be one of the most challenging experiences of my life. But I digress...

It was around this time that I was notified about the Finley Fellowship. In all honesty, I cannot remember exactly what I wrote and said to the selection committee, though I do know that it was not as clear or well-organized as this post. Fortunately, while my proposal and explanation of my desire to see the world were certainly lacking, it was sufficient to be awarded the fellowship and for this I am eternally grateful to the fellowship committee. It was not until after the receiving the fellowship that I was able to further refine my proposal.

The two areas that I want to unite are social mobility and primary education. Primary education is even more important because a great deal of work that has been done on the connection between education and social mobility focuses on university-level education. While this connection is important-especially because most young people begin working after graduating from college, making college an important determining factor in which occupations the student has the ability to enter, which in turn determines (at least in the initial phase) the individual's ability to improve his or her life-what is clear to me, both in the U.S. and abroad, is that university-level education is not an appropriate starting point for this type of analysis. This is largely because the quality of education that students receive in the levels of education prior to college determine the quality of the schools that these students can enter.

Hopefully that was at least somewhat clear.

As that should explain why I have chosen primary education specifically as a point of focus, the question arises of why have I chosen these four aforementioned countries? The simplest answer is that they are all four places that I have the desire to visit and (outside of Brazil) I have never had the opportunity to. There are more specific reasons as well. As I speak Portuguese (capably), Spanish (functionally) and am currently learning French, each country gives me the opportunity to spend an extensive period of time using each language (including English). Additionally, and specific to the research, there is an important racial component, as each of these four destinations is both racially and ethnically diverse, which has a significant (though not always obvious) impact on the way primary education is structured.

In terms of how exactly this “research” is structured, I've broken it down into three parts: a general literature review to both familiarize myself with the most important aspects of primary education (from an international perspective) and ensure that the work that I'm doing is relevant; collecting data from each country including curricular materials from elementary schools and historical data on student performance; interviews with teachers, principals and administrators in each country. The first phase of this research began in the weeks and months before I began my travels, though it continues presently and will continue throughout the entirety of my trip. For me, the most valuable aspect of the research is the third part, because it involves perspectives and experiences that I will not find in books or reports. Since I've been here in Salvador I've conducted 15 of these interviews, which have ranged from 20 minutes to nearly 2 hours. Each one has given me valuable insight into the conditions of and challenges faced by Brazil's (and specifically, Salvador's) system of primary education.

The essence of the research is to determine what factors allow “good” schools to prepare their students properly (and conversely, what “bad” schools are lacking in order to give their students the proper preparation). It is research that I am doing without a concrete thesis. Of course, I've got my own ideas about what factors are most important to ensuring that students receive a good education and are prepared for the next level of schooling. That said, I see greater value in the work as a collection of data and information for future use.

I'm no fool; this is very important work that should be done by someone much more qualified and experienced than I am. As it is, however, I am the privileged recipient of this opportunity, and I plan to make the most of it. There is certainly a great deal that I still don't understand about the functioning of these systems of primary education and especially how they are linked to social mobility. My only hope is that with my skill set, dedication and resources (thank you again, Finley Fellowship Committee) I will be able to produce something that will be of use to somebody.

Salvador Homecoming

2007-12-17T06:15:00.000-08:00

My triumphant return to Salvador didn't exactly start out as I had hoped or expected. After waiting a couple of hours for my flight to board (note to the international traveler: you will be hardpressed to find a domestic flight in Brazil that leaves on time) I stepped onto a plane that looked like it had seen its best days a few decades ago. It was a small plane, commissioned by OceanAir (the fourth largest airline behind Gol, Tam, and Varig-which is now owned by Gol), which prior to purchasing my ticket, I had never heard of (well done, Chas). Just about every aspect of the plane looked well “broken in.” To make matters worse, as the plane accelerated to take off, several different parts of the plane's structure began to rattle. I'm usually not one to worry (especially while flying, my mentality is one of faith in God and his plan for me), but I could not help but think that this might not be my day. A little morbid I know. To make matters even worse, about halfway through the flight, I was awakened by one of the flight attendants yelling at the passenger seated behind me, a woman, about how the use of her electronic device was going to cause the plan to crash. I said a quick prayer and forced myself back to sleep.

Fortunately, and thanks to God, I arrived in Salvador safely.

The family that I am staying with is that of my good friend and teammate David “Silkk” Williams. He, as well as James Hairston, were two good friends of mine who made the journey to Brazil with me in the spring of 2006. I suppose now would be an appropriate time to reference, for anyone who is unfamiliar, my first blogging experience: bahiaboys.blogspot.com. This is a blog that I co-wrote with my two aforementioned friends, Silkk and James, and I must say, it was a pleasure sharing it with them (though it was they who did the lion's share of the blogging). But I digress...

The head of the household, and Silkk's Brazilian mother, is Tia Denize, one of the kindest and warmest people I have ever met in my life. She goes by Tia (Aunt), largely because she is like an aunt to so many who come by the family's apartment in Barra. The nuclear family is completed by her husband, Reginaldo, and their two children Reginaldo (simply known as Junior) and Jamile, though you would never know the family is so small because there are always more people in the apartment, whether its friend or family. It was a bit overwhelming the first time I came to visit Silkk during our semester abroad here in Salvador because there are rarely fewer than 8 people in the house. Along with the empregada (housekeeper), Sol (who might as well be a biological aunt) the house is always full.

A full house also means a LOT of food. There has never been a time, either when I was visiting Silkk, or since I have been here during this stretch, when there has not been food, either on the table, in the refrigerator or on the stove. It did not take me long to get used to this and I can only imagine the kind of withdrawal my body will go through once I leave Salvador.

The last couple of weeks (I arrived in Salvador on November 27) have involved a lot of reminiscing. Anyone who knows me knows that my preferred method of travel is by foot and the past two weeks have involved rediscovering some of my old paths. It's funny how the human mind works; a certain place will bring back a number of memories and it is incredible how vividly this occurs. I sometimes find myself wandering and happening upon a place and remembering exactly what I was thinking while at that place two years ago. Overall this rediscovery has been a wonderful and very rich experience (though I have yet to make it back to the Pelourinho where I got jumped. You'll have to check out the previous blog for that story in its entirety), though not without its drawbacks. My time out of Salvador has allowed me to forget exactly how hot it is out here during this time of the year (the beginning of the summer down here); on a normal day, I go through 2-3 shirts, a difficult task as I only packed 7 shirts. I've had to buy a few more shirts, but I've also had to find creative ways to dry shirts in order to “recycle.” I imagine that most of you reading this right now can hardly imagine sweltering heat at this moment.

Yes, I know you probably hate me right now. Prepare to hate me a bit more.

The most welcoming aspect of Salvador must be its beaches. Salvador is not famous for its beaches, but I have yet to visit a place where they are nicer. The combination of the weather, the geographic setting and some of the most beautiful women I have ever seen (I'm just being honest) it is too easy to pass the day on Salvador's beaches. I'll leave it at that before I start receiving death threats from those of you trying to prepare yourself for the winter to come.

For any of you who is interested in some great perspective on Salvador and Brazil in general, I would definitely recommend checking out the aforementioned blog: bahiaboys.blogspot.com. I say this because as it is my third time here, Salvador has become familiar to the point where I feel that some of my current posts will lack some of the explanation that you might be wanting. As much as I try see this place through new eyes when I write, it is difficult, especially as it is filled with so many memories already. In addition, I truly believe that the perspectives of my companeros, Silkk and James, will be enlightening and are certainly worth reading.

O Jogo Bonito

2007-11-30T12:39:00.000-08:00

Of all the great things to do in Sao Paulo (outside of going to the movies alone), the greatest is to see a professional soccer (football) match. Tickets are usually relatively cheap (prices will fluctuate a bit based on who is playing), and as such, it is absolutely worth going to see a few games, depending on how long you will be in the city.

Though I am not well-traveled enough to make such a statement, there is no country in the world that has a passion for soccer like Brazil. For some time now this passion (and natural ability) has been documented internationally, largely through the exportation of Brazilian talent to countries all over the world. The best players of the world are consistently Brazilian and are made more famous by their unique names and nicknames: Pele, Romario, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Robinho, Kaka. Most recently Nike released the series “Jogo Bonito” (The Beautiful Game) which captures the stories of several Brazilian players, both professional and amateur. The series seeks to show that soccer is truly a national passion in Brazil, not only reserved for the “craques” (great players) but for everyone to practice and love.

All of this creates a convincing argument for Brazil's claim to the sport, but for me, what was personally convincing is that this claim is not completely masculine. This is the big difference between Brazil and many other countries that follow soccer so religiously. Though you won't see many girls and women playing on the public courts and fields (though the women's world cup demonstrated that the Brazilian Women's National Team is a force to be reckoned with) they are far from detached from the sport. I recall my first time in Brazil getting into an argument with a friend of my host mother over who should be in the starting lineup for the men's national team. In all honesty, it was less of an argument than she telling me that I didn't know what I was talking about. Not only did she tell me that I was wrong, she proceeded to give me the histories of the players, to back up her argument. It was a funny exchange that we had, but it was also very interesting. And she was not the only one. I found myself getting into a number of these conversations with Brazilian women, whether we were talking about national or state club teams. For me, it was demonstrative of the fact that in Brazil, soccer is much less of a sport than a genuine and permanent part of the country's social and cultural fabric.

To the present day...

This time around, though only planning to spend two weeks in Sao Paulo, I wanted to make sure that I saw as many games as possible. In total, I was able to see three, though none of these featured my favorite team, Corinthians (who are currently in danger of falling to the second division). That said, below is a description of each game, which attempts to highlight a different aspect of the love that Brazilians have for o jogo bonito.

Game 1: Qualifier for 2010 World Cup: Brazil vs. Uruguay

It was truly good fortunate to score a ticket to this one. My friends Rafael and Pedro are the founders and head administrators of “Soccer Experience,” a tourism company that brings people (foreigners and Brazilians alike) to soccer games in Sao Paulo. It is an excellent service, if you are ever in Sao Paulo. They were nice enough to give me a discounted ticket for the game, which was sold out.
I found out when we arrived at the stadium that the game wasn't sold out; it was way oversold. Because we arrived only minutes before the game, I found myself standing at the very top of the stadium (think nosebleed seats...then keep going) which actually gave me a better view than most of the other parts of the stadium because I had a view of the entire field. What a great way to see some of the best players in the world playing in their home country in front of a national crowd.
However, there is an interesting aspect to this opportunity that I will touch on briefly. As Rafael (and a number of other friends who are soccer fans) explained to me, by many measures, this is the most disconnected national team that Brazil has had. Disconnected, largely because none of the players for the national team actually play in Brazil. For the most part they play for clubs in Europe, where (arguably) the quality of play is better and (without a doubt) the pay is better than in Brazil. For this reason, you don't have the same level of affinity between Brazil's players and fans as in years past. Additionally, and specific to this game, ticket prices were so high (club games cost anywhere from 15 to 50 reais, while tickets for this game were well above 100 reais) that it prevented the vast majority of supporters from even considering attending the game. But I digress...
Brazil showed a poor performance for their national audience, getting scored on within the first 8 minutes of play (great defense, Ronaldinho), but nevertheless squeaked out a victory on the strength of Luiz Fabiano's two goals and an overall strong before performance by goalkeeper Julio Cesar. On heart and effort, Uruguay had the game; unfortunately for them they did not get the necessary breaks for a victory, or even a tie.
The most interesting aspect of the game was not the game itself, but rather the fans with whom I was standing. In particular, there was a group of girls whose cheering was so animated and language so “colorful” that I couldn't help but burst out laughing on a number of ocassions. The chatter increased as Brazil's performance continued to worsen throughout the first half. Then, as the referee made a couple of questionable calls, the shouts found a new destination. They were shouting things in a packed stadium that would have made me blush if only my skin tone were a few shades lighter. I would repeat some of these, though I truly would not be doing proper justice to their comedy. And then I would get a threatening email from mom. No one wants that.

Game 2: Portuguesa vs. Criciuma

From one end of the spectrum to the other. Rafael called me on the day of the game, asking if I wanted to come. In total there were four of us: Rafael, Pedro, Brandon (British friend of Pedro) and me. As opposed to the previous game, which was played at Morumbi (one of Brazil's largest and most famous stadiums) this game was played in a stadium just outside of the city's center and much smaller, by the name of Estadio Dr. Oswaldo Texeira Duarte. It was Portuguesa's last game of the season, and after two years in the second division, they were to move back up to the first division. The small stadium was nearly filled with Portuguesa supporters, showing up in numbers to cheer on their team. Portuguesa is one of Sao Paulo's smaller teams (especially compared to teams like Sao Paulo, Corinthians and Palmeiras) but has a very loyal following in the Portuguese and Portuguese descendants who live in the city. As such, the demographic of the game was a bit different compared to what you would see at the games of Sao Paulo's major teams. There was a much higher percentage of old men and families attending the game than I had seen at the matches of other teams. In fact, the only disturbance during the game that we saw was a brief scuffle between two old men during half-time. It was certainly more comedic than the brawls during or after games of the city's larger teams that require policial intervention.
Arriving during half-time, we saw Portuguesa score the final goal in their 3-1 victory, which alone made the 12.50 reais ticket worthwhile. Once the game ended, the celebration began as a small trophy was paraded around the stadium, illustrating Portuguesa's domination of Brazil's second division. The fans showed their support through a chorus of team chants, fully enjoying their moment as champions (even though it was of the second division).
The party grew as we exited the stadium to the parking lot right outside. A trioeletrico (large truck that it is designed specifically for a band to play on top of it) was parked next to the stadium and several tables were set up giving away team photos and beer. Yes, free beer; it was absolutely chaotic. In the center of the parking lot were a dozen men waving enormous Portuguesa flags to commemorate the moment. It was one of the few moments that I have enjoyed a public Brazilian party of any sort that didn't get wildly out of control.

Game 3: Sao Paulo vs. Botafogo

Like the Portuguesa game, I had gotten the ticket for this game at the last moment, which normally would have been a difficult feat, largely because this would be a heavyweight match if it weren't for the fact that Sao Paulo had already won the Brazilian league championship. As a result of these particular circumstances, I walked into a half-full Morumbi of the Sao Paulo faithful prepared to support their team, “o tricolor.” Because Rafael and Pedro were both working with a tour group, I found a seat in the general vicinity of what was indicated on my ticket and got comfortable. Begrudgingly, and because I was alone among loyal fans, I bought a 10 reais Sao Paulo t-shirt so that I could fit in a bit better.
The overall performance—that of both Sao Paulo and their fans—was a bit lackluster as Botafogo snagged a quick 2-0 lead before the half. It didn't really matter too much to the fans, except for a few fanatics who if you had watched them the entire game, would have led you to believe that their team was down 15-0 and had all but given up. Aside from these individuals, it did not make a great deal of difference; during half-time, the post-game trophy reception and parade was being prepared. A win against Botafogo would have just been the icing on the cake.
I was impressed by the heart that Sao Paulo brought to the second half as they mounted several legitimate threats against Botafogo's defense. They were able to bring the game to a 2-2 draw within the 45 minutes of the second half, and had the game continued, they most likely would have been the team to break the tie. The team's supporters showed their appreciation for the effort, coming to life towards the end of the second half as if the game was more than a formality.
After the final whistle, the celebration began, though it was not the party that Portuguesa had. This celebration was more low-key; parading the trophy and the players around the field before the Sao Paulo fans, and that was it. Rafael informed me that years ago, there used to be a parade (similar to what we know of celebrating sports championships in the U.S.) but not surprisingly, as a result of vandalism and violence, this type of celebration was no longer allowed in Sao Paulo.

Thanksgiving comes late in SP

2007-11-26T05:59:00.001-08:00

For all the haters who doubted my culinary prowess (yes, I´m talking to you Samuel).

Bladao!

Sweet Potato Pudding (can of candied yams, compliments of Amber; Carlton secret recipe compliments of Momma Hamilton)

Mac ´N´ Cheese (box of EZ Mac, compliments of Amber)

Orgulho de ser Brasileiro

2007-11-24T07:41:00.000-08:00

One of the defining characteristics of Brazil and Brazilians is national pride. It is a bit strange to observe and absorb, particulary because, outside of a war or national crisis, this patriotism is not paralleled in the U.S. While wearing a t-shirt with a big American flag on it either marks you as a tourist or just out-of-touch with the times, here the Brazilian flag and colors are donned with pride. Everywhere you go you will see it; from billboards to commercials to t-shirts. This pride oozes out of every corner of the country.

Of course, as with most things, I am speaking from my own life experience and I am sure there are some of you who are reading this thinking, `What is Chas talking about? I´m very patriotic.` Perhaps you are and perhaps you are just without a more global perspective. Who knows. With that said, it has been being here and witnessing Brazil´s brand of patriotism that I have realized some things about myself and how I relate to the U.S.

The real difference, if I were to try to put my finger on it, is that the patriotism and national pride here in Brazil seem a lot more genuine here, while in the U.S. these things are forced or at least superficial. As mentioned before, without some sort of national crisis to "unite" America, you won´t find large numbers of people, across regions and socioeconomic levels really proud of our country. Speaking of the present day, one cannot neglect the specific and unique relationship that the U.S. has with the rest of the world, particularly as a result of perceived (and real) abuses of power. However, you find similar imperfections in Brazilian politics. Particularly over the past several years, the Brazilian government (both the executive and legislative powers) has been synonymous with corruption. Charges and accusations have been brought as far as the country´s President, Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva, better known as Lula. Brazilians are the first to admit these problems and condemn Brazil´s politics for this plague. But it does not take away their pride in expressing their love for their country.

As I think about it, especially for those who are privileged enough to attain a high level of education in the U.S., the lack of patriotism has at least a bit to do with the fact that we do not participate. For example, there is no draft which would require us to put our lives on the line for our country (particularly in these days of international tension and crisis) and even the political process, an arena that would seem ripe for the contribution of fresh, energetic minds, is something that only very few of us involve ourselves with. The best analogy I can think of at the moment is living in a bubble, in which these issues of international and domestic crisis are no more real to us than the next big movie that is about to open. And unfortunately the closest that many of us come to really getting involved is a heated classroom debate, which means something until the bell rings and it is time to go.

If I am pointing a finger, it is only at myself.

Seguing (sort of), never have I felt the longing for home as I did this past Thursday, Thanksgiving Thursday, which I spent alone in Sao Paulo. It was strange thinking about everyone back home who would be celebrating. I felt completely disconnected from it all. Perhaps because of this I went against my better judgment and saw "Lions for Lambs" (Leoes e Cordeiros). First of all: if you have never gone to a movie by yourself, I would absolutely recommend it. There are many reasons...but I digress. The movie, from a purely cinematographic perspective, was decent at best (and probably for most of you, a bit worse than that), however, there was, for me, an importance of seeing a movie (which feels a bit like a civics lesson) that put me back in touch with home. More than just a patriotic movie, it seemed to be a message for those of my generation, which at the core preached the importance of being involved. It is one thing to be involved and, from this involvement, take a stance on an issue. However, what good are you doing to take a stance when you won´t even allow yourself to be involved? This, of course, was my read on the film´s message.

It´s funny that you don´t realize how important a thing is until you don´t have it anymore (or at least aren´t in touch with it). For me, Thanksgiving away from home had a bit of a jarring impact on me, though I wouldn´t say in any detrimental way. In the same way, my time out of the country has allowed me to get in touch with my "American" identity, an identity that I have taken for granted and, at times, been ashamed of. Because I do not look like the stereotypical "American" (blonde hair and blue eyes...you can challenge this, but it is the stereotype) and can capably speak more than one language, there is a luxury sometimes in being able to mask this identity. Only in the quiet moments have I begun to re-examine that, asking myself of the need to project something that I am not.

As a Government/IR major, one of the most interesting theories that I heard posited was that as a result of globalization and the overall modernatization of societies around the world, identites are no longer national, but global. Now more and more you are defined not by your country, but other characteristics, which traverse cities, countries and continents.

I do believe that this is, to a degree, true.

But we are not completely beyond national identity yet, and will not be for sometime. For now, that is something I am thankful for.

Sao Paulo: For anyone who doesn't think they're Brazilian

2007-11-19T16:44:00.000-08:00

My friends have given me shit, pretty much from the moment I returned from studying abroad in Brazil, saying that I need to stop pretending to Brazilian. It's fair, maybe I did bring a bit too much Brazil back to the states after the study abroad experience. To be racially ambiguous became hot in the U.S. only a few decades ago; in Brazil, since Gilberto Freyre's controversial theory of racial democracy in the 1930, racial ambiguity has been tres chic.

Any-who, the significance of the title is that I think it would be worthwhile to give a description of Sao Paulo for those who have never seen the city before. For the record, I am very proud to be American and would never want to be Brazilian. I would just like to have a house here.

Sao Paulo beats Bogota on the level of ugliness. In using the word "ugly" I do not mean that the city is actually ugly, but rather it is very poorly laid out. This is the thing for which Sao Paulo is notorious. As I understand it, the city developed with a plan, but quickly outgrew this plan and as a result it did not grow in any logical fashion, but rather spread like a spill on land. A view from a few of the tallest buildings in the city's downtown will give a view of concrete as far as the eye can see. In all 360 degrees. It is absolutely impressive, but it makes you wonder how long this has been going on and how long it will continue.

Sao Paulo's success, in spite of it's horrific plan, can be attributed largely to the fact that it is Brazil's financial engine. I can understand the hesitation anyone would have to moving the capital to Sao Paulo, especially because of the size (11 million in the city, closer to 20 including the outskirts), but there is no denying the force behind the financial success of Brazil's most populous city. Where it was once home to the domestic natural resource-based business (and it still is), Sao Paulo is largely identified as an international city. Nearly any foreign business that has an office in Latin America will have one in Sao Paulo. Especially in the financial districts, in certain moments you feel like you could be anywhere in the world; it does not feel like Brazil that you think of with Rio and Salvador.

That said, Sao Paulo is far from devoid of a unique identity. This is part of what comes with being the 4th most populous city in the world. While in one sense Sao Paulo is international and in another it is characterized as the financial engine of Brazil, the city also has a rhythm and vibrancy all its own. One of the best ways for me to understand the city is as a conglomeration of neighborhoods. Each neighborhood has its own identity. Each neighborhood has it's own entertainment. Depending on what you are trying to in a given evening, you will find yourself in a different neighborhood. Some of the city's best clubs are in Villa Madalena. Avenida Paulista (which covers a number of neighborhoods) is one of the major commercial centers of Sao Paulo. Centro is the city's downtown. The neighborhoods of Pacaembu and Morumbi are homes to the city's most storied soccer stadiums. In the neighborhood of Jardins you will find some of the luxurious homes in Sao Paulo. The list goes on and on and on.

In this way Sao Paulo is a city of many identities, fitting for a city of its size. It cannot be characterized or easily summarized in a word or sentence. In the previous paragraphs, I have only scratched the tip of the iceberg. There is much to be explored in this city, and as I am here now for the third time, I would definitely give a visit my highest recommendation.

On being MIA

2007-11-19T16:14:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned in my previous post, I am in Sao Paulo, Brazil, safe and sound.

It's great to be back and if the country and city aren't familiar enough, I am currently staying two blocks away from SP host mom's apartment. As I've explained to my (real) mom, the juxta-position is pretty interesting. I've gone from two weeks spent on my own in a country that I did not know, to around the corner from where I lived for five weeks, staying with a good friend who I look up to like an older brother. The difference of the two positions truly throws your mind for a loop.

Expanding on this idea, the past week has allowed me to realize that I have been (and I think most people are) socialized to surround myself with people. I touched on this "socialization" in a previous post and I think that this latest transition has reinforced this notion.

As human beings, we are social creatures that really do not take very well to loneliness. I think about myself and the times I felt most lonely, whether at home or at school. Usually these points of loneliness have lasted no more than a day before I "reconnected," which meant reuniting with friends or family. In this way, I've always viewed loneliness as detrimental. When we think of loneliness, the first thing that normally comes to mind is "depression" or "isolation," as opposed to "introspection" and "self-discovery."

I will leave the thread there before you start thinking "Oh shit, Chas has gone off the deep end." No, I'm not there yet.

The time that I have been away thus far has allowed me to see the good, or rather, the necessity, of time spent alone. Yes, there is a necessity for loneliness. It would be negligent of me not to thank my cousin, Taylor, who has also traveled alone, for helping me to understand loneliness (though I could not really understand its importance until I was experiencing it for myself). It was he who told me what this loneliness would be like and it is he who continues to help me to understand it.

The way I have grown up and spent the last 22 years of my life, I might as well have been on a conveyer belt. And I say that objectively, without wanting to do anything over again, because thus far, I think I have learned a great deal and have been allowed to experience tremendous opportunities. That said, the stretches of loneliness that I've experienced thus far help me to realize that I can, and must, step off this conveyer belt. Many who study human behavior will talk about my conveyer belt using terms like "herd mentality" and "group-think" and it's not until you are able to stand outside of the "group" or the "herd" that you see what's really going on. Loneliness doesn't fit well with the "group" or the "herd."

The writing that I have done has been extraordinary and if there is no one who reads this outside of my mom, dad and brother, that would be completely fine with me because the recording of my inner-dialogue is what is most meaningful for me. To have a forum, whether it is on the computer, in a notebook or on a napkin (I have a few of those) in which I can articulate the things that I am seeing and the things that I am feeling is so important and I wonder now how I went through life without doing it. Well no, i don't wonder, because I know exactly how. The past few days have allowed me to see just how easily one (I) can switch from an existence of complete introspection to one of complete socializing. I am not condemning either, but if there is anything my 23 days out of the country has shown me is that in order to be complete, one must find a way to balance the two.

View from the Top

2007-11-14T21:52:00.000-08:00

The disposable camera doesn't show the sweat stains...

To Cochabamba We Go

2007-11-14T14:19:00.000-08:00

This post is a bit belated (as I arrived safely in Sao Paulo yesterday evening), but I wanted to make sure, really for the sake of posterity, that I recorded my experience in Cochabamba, a city approximately an 8 hour busride southeast of La Paz.

I was excited for the trip largely because it would allow me to both see another city in Bolivia as well as get a feel for the countryside, something that wouldn't have been possible by plane. The bus terminal was about a 15 minute walk uphill (shit...) from my hotel, so the "convenience" helped me convince myself that getting out of La Paz, at least for a couple of days, was necessary. I certainly would not regret this decision.

The countryside was of a beauty that you would find in some classic novel of South America (think Conrad's "Nostromo"). It's funny doing all of this alone (well, not really alone, but without anyone you know) because in the downtime, your mind starts to wander a little bit. Looking at so much countryside I found myself thinking how someone more articulate than me (like an author) would describe the scene. What kind of words would they use? I thought about words like "sprawling" "scorched" "abandoned" "neglected" "soft" and "dry." My mind wandered further and I would pick out a place, miles away, and imagine what is was like living there. We would go miles without seeing a structure, then you'd glimpse a man or woman or a couple of sheep, literally in the middle of nowhere, and I would wonder what their life was like. Where were they going?

Topographically, the countryside varied from fertile to parched, where you couldn't imagine there ever having been a drop of moisture in the earth--though the deep crevasses representing dried river/creek beds told another story. After miles of pure hills you would rise over the top of one and there would be a single house, or two houses or even a small community. Nothing larger than that. And it was mostly the same; small makeshift homes with a clay/mud surrounding wall or, occasionally, a cement wall. Whenever you happened upon a community, which from a passing bus looked more like a ghost town, there were three things that you could count on: stray dogs, soccer fields (two structures resembling goals on a flat surface) and a church (always the most developed edifice).

Though the 8 hours didn't pass quickly, the time was not on my mind. Privileged with a window seat, while not asleep, I understood the author's use of the verb "drink" when describing how a pair of eyes will take in a scene; at times I would pull my gaze away from the countryside, eyes ringing with a dull pain because I had not blinked in minutes. There was so much to see and wonder about. In the middle of nowhere you would see foot high walls surrounding a piece of land; why are they even there? Property? Maybe, but it's the middle of nowhere. Farmland? Maybe, but the earth had long since been sucked dry of any sort of moisture.

While not focused on what was outside the bus, I found my attention taken by what was going inside the bus. Interestingly enough, I think we saw a pair of the best D-level movies I've ever seen. The first was a Jet Li movie entitled "Contract Killer" which chronicled the protagonist's (Li) rise to become the King of Assassins. Very nice. The second was a real classic whose title I never saw but featured a girl who continues to inject herself with a fluid that prevents her from transforming into a werewolf until finally she allows herself to transform in an effort to stop another werewolf that keeps on killing. Three thumbs up!
The last movie is one that actually shook the passengers out their collective comatose as it was the movie based on Evo Morales' life story. It was interesting to watch the change in reaction. Passengers who had been lazily viewing the previous two films (as there was nothing else to do on the bus) immediately appeared more focused; parents who had been allowing their children to sleep on the busride called the youths to attention. During funny parts the entire bus would chuckle; in the tense moments, you could feel the silence. It was a shared experience, the type of moment that you will have in a movie theatre (with the right movie of course), which helped me gain a bit of insight into what Morales and his story means to Bolivians.

Arriving in Cochabamba felt like arriving in another country. The weather was warmer. The population (at a glance) was more diverse. Even the layout of the city was different from anything I had seen in La Paz. There was a fraternity/sorority parade in the leadup to a festival held two days later and from the music and the dancing, Cochabamba had a rhythm so different from La Paz that you would think that you were somewhere completely different. Having been confused by La Paz for my first few days, Cochabamba made sense. I gained my internal security in Cochabamba in a matter of hours, while La Paz tooks days. While only planning on staying in Cochabamba for two days, I felt like I could spend months. And, interestingly enough, it made me genuinely appreciate La Paz. Funny how that happens.

Cochabamba was a blitz, and I would have liked to stay longer, but the narrowness of the window of time forced me to explore the city. Over the course of a single day I visited specific destinations and I wandered. I got empanadas from a lady on the street (not the best...) and some of the best fresh-squeezed orange juice I've ever tasted for about 15 cents. I watched the parades down the street, occasionally asking the bystander next to me which fraternities/sororities/universities were represented.

The picture accompanying this post captures one of the most exciting moments of my short trip. Informed by a friend (Sonia Torrico, '06) who is herself from Cochabamba that there is a Christ Statue in Cochabamba (to be precise, the highest standing Christ Statue in the world) I decided this was a site worth seeing. However, when I arrived at the bottom of the hill, I saw that the lift was under repair. My spirits sank a bit until, squinting my eyes against the sun, I saw that there was a narrow (and almost imperceptible from where I was standing) staircase that ran up to the top of the hill with the statue. Without thinking twice I began up the hill to the staircase. Understanding that I'm in pretty good shape, I figured that this shouldn't be too difficult a task, and surely, the view from the top would be worth breaking a few drops of sweat.

1500 vertical steps later, I staggered/crawled up the top step, almost keeling over before I reached a bench on which to sit down. The heat, in combination with the altitude in combination with the steepening of the staircase approximately 2/3 of the way up in combination with me not being in as good of shape as I had previously thought had made the trip a wee bit more difficult. In fact, had it not been for the small Cochabamba resident who start right after me, I perhaps may not have made it (ok, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic). What started out as a touristic walk up a set of stairs (and would have turned into, perhaps, a dejected, exhausted Chas) became a marathon of sorts. Out of breath, glancing over my shoulder, I stopped only when he stopped. When he started doing the steps two at a time, I did them two at a time. My brain and my lungs would be telling me to take a break; my competitive drive would tell them to shut up.

At about step 1300 he passed me (I'm sure he was satisfied), though even then I keep pushing. Now he was my rabbit. I pushed myself harder, trying to make up lost ground. I measured the distance in vertical steps. He had about 20 on me, all I had to do was cut that to 15....then 10. I came as close as 7, but he was not going to be overtaken. He had me and we both knew it.

Recovering my breath (sorta) after a few minutes I walked over to where he was and congratulated him; he looked at me puzzled (my Spanish was, for a rare moment, perfect, so I think he was just trying to play it cool, having pulled off a stunning, come-from-behind victory). We chatted. He grabbed some water. I tried to catch my breath and stop pouring sweat into my already soaked shirt. Then he took my picture.

Evo Mas

2007-11-11T11:00:00.000-08:00

A discussion of the food in La Paz (and Bolivia in general) truly highlights the current state of Bolivia’s economy. As a foreigner, it is nice to take advantage of great deals (which are not exclusive to the food alone) but it is difficult to enjoy the exchange rate and purchasing power of the dollar without seeing the other side of the coin, so to speak.

Economically, Bolivia is suffering and this suffering has increased, to some degree since the popular President Evo Morales took power some 22 months ago. In an effort to pursue the nationalization of many of Bolivia's resources, life has become a lot more difficult for many in Bolivia.

Some of the most insightful conversations I've had about the state of affairs in Bolivia have been with cab drivers. The conversations usually start the same, with me asking about the weather and the best soccer in the country, but after a few minutes, he will begin talking about issues a bit more personal to him (I have yet to have or see any female cab drivers).

One cabdriver told me that as opposed to the 4 days a week he normally drove, he was now driving everyday of the week, taking a break where he could, largely as a result of the worsening of affairs in the La Paz economy. Several cabdrivers have expressed their frustration with Morales, talking about how his preaching of a better Bolivia but inability to deliver in almost two years has left them hamstrung in several ways.

The greatest wisdom I have heard in my two weeks here, however, came from a cabdriver who simply said, "I'm proud of him." He spoke of the political corruption that existed before Morales and how the country was being ravaged by corporations. "These things take time," he replied to my question of how he could be proud if the conditions have worsened for so many. "So many have expected for positive change to happen overnight. Change for the better always takes time." I completely understood and agreed with him, but I was struck by how someone could take such a position when they were being squeezed. Sure it is easy to make such statements in an academic setting; afterall in school we are encouraged to elevate above a societal issue so that we can see it all at once, instead of seeing it from the perspective of the individual who has to live in it. It was a powerful thing to hear.

Some of the greatest support that you will see for President Morales is in the countryside, where virtually every wall that you see is spraypainted with the slogan, ¨Evo Mas.¨ The fact that Morales himself is of rural origin has a lot to do with this support, but it wasn't until I asked someone about the slogan that they explained to me that it was a double-entendre. Not only does it literally mean "Evo More" as in Evo Morales will bring more to the struggling country, but additionally, MAS is an acronym which stands for Movimiento A Socialismo (Movement to Socialism).

This was interesting and I would have asked for a deeper explanation (because, though I know that Morales has been a proponent, in many ways, of a socialist Bolivia, I didn't follow his campaign for the Presidency) but I was on a bus and we had only stopped briefly for people to grab food and use the bathroom.

Since finding out about the slogan and seeing how widespread it is, I have viewed La Paz and the rest of Bolivia through a different lens. In a world where there are few (if any) examples of successful socialism in action, I wonder if Morales has the ability and the vision to make it a success for Bolivia. The American press has, for a long time, mentioned him in the same breath as Venezuela's Chavez and the truth of the matter is that to most people, Morales´ message has been overshadowed by Chavez' eccentricities. As expected, everyday you will see a different headline on the major Bolivian papers, either expressing confidence or doubt in a Morales initiative.

To an extent, my time in Bolivia has shown me that there is a great deal of value in seeing a place before drawing conclusions about it. Everyday people are thinking and writing about places they have never seen, believing that the sole fact that the information is in a book or on the internet makes their analysis legitimate. There is a tremendous value in seeing a place with your eyes and feeling it with your hands; to have the opportunity to interact with people who have lived in a place their entire lives and hear their perspective.

In this way, I’m blessed and extremely privileged.

Life in the Bowl Vol. II: A Little Something for the Global Epicure

2007-11-11T10:53:00.000-08:00

If my time in La Paz has been marked by any single thing, it has been great food. And I'm not talking mostly good food; I'm talking about everyday having at least one fantastic meal.

In terms of food, Bolivia's staples are not so different from the rest of Latin America: fish, beef and chicken are your primary meats, normally accompanied by potatoes or some sort or rice, and an assortment of vegetables, either raw, steamed or grilled. I am not any sort of prodigy in the kitchen, so I couldn't tell you where the magic is, but whatever is done to these basic aforementioned foods is incredible.

My personal favorite thus far has been a Bolivian specialty (whose name currently escapes me) which consists of seasoned beef and sausage diced and mixed with a medley of grilled vegetables over rice, garnhished with a couple of diced, hardboiled eggs. Spicy but delicious. A close second is a grilled trout and vegetables on a bed of fried potatoes, garnished with two lime quarters, to help bring out the flavor. Stupendous!

What makes such delicious meals even more appealing to the tourist is that they are available in most good restaurants at a really good price, largely as a result of the weakness of Bolivia's currency, the boliviano, in comparison to many other major currencies. A full dinner (appetizer, entree, and two beverages) that in the U.S. would cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $75 can be enjoyed for about 80 bolivianos, or about $10, and that's on the expensive side. That said, for those of you who might have been worried about how I'm eating, you know see that you have nothing to worry about.

Not yet at least.

La Paz: On My Own

2007-11-07T08:02:00.000-08:00

So I've got a confession. About 24 hours into La Paz, I was ready to leave. It's not as if I had any bad experiences (aside from that little customs incident), but more like I couldn't see myself becoming all that comfortable with the city, or the country for that matter. It was a combination of being in a city different from any that I have known or visited, and being alone.

You're probably laughing and thinking, "Duh Chas, you should have thought about that before you made your plans."
Fair enough.

No, I'm not looking for sympathy points, just telling it like it is. As nice as it was spending my first days out of the country staying with Brittney in Bogota, it prevented me from understanding that I would be spending most of the next 9 months alone. It's a bit of a strange thing to get used to, especially since when you think about it, most of the time we surround ourselves with family and friends.

With that said, I believe it fortuitous that I am not able leave Bolivia (I have already purchased my plane tickets and as a result, my country itinerary is fixed) because it has forced me to get beyond my discomfort and moments of loneliness and get to know La Paz. Sure I don't fit in, but it has made me realize that sometimes you aren't going to fit and you're going to have to make the most of it. And sometimes, it pays not to fit in. It is the fact that you are different that makes you interesting to others.

Life in the Bowl Vol. I

2007-11-05T09:29:00.000-08:00

The ride down from the La Paz airport by night was one of the most breathtaking experiences of my life. As we rode the twists and turns of the road leading down, stretched out before me was all of La Paz. At 1 am in the morning, the uninhibited view of all of the twinkling lights coming from the makeshift homes clinging to the sides of the steep hills down below gave me the feeling that I was laid out in an open field looking up at the stars in the sky.

For those who are unfamiliar with the layout of La Paz (as I was before arriving) the best image that I could give you would be that of a bowl. Literally. Others have described La Paz as ´the city built within a geologic gash´ in Bolivia’s topography. The reality is that the city sits in the valley of the Choqueyapu River (thanks wikipedia), and for this reason it resembles the aforementioned bowl.

What is most interesting about the city’s geography is how it relates to the socioeconomic order of the city. As a result of the high altitude and thin air (at its highest point it’s about 13500 ft), the lowest points of the city are where you will find the most affluent areas. There is more oxygen here and as a result, living is a lot easier (if you think this an exaggeration, next time you’re in La Paz, try walking uphill for long periods of time, then you’ll get the picture). From these low points the city has grown and developed, to the point where you have some of the city’s poorest in favela type communities that cling to the sides of the La Paz bowl. In La Paz lies a challenge to the popular adage ´shit rolls downhill.´ My cabdriver described the situation as a perpetual struggle of those in the hills to find a way to get further downhill, where the conditions are significantly better.

The second most noticeable aspect of Bolivia’s administrative capital (technically, Sucre is the city’s constitutional capital) are the people. According to the national census, approximately 40% of Bolivia’s population is of indigena descent, though in La Paz it feels like more. This is so noticeable especially as a North American, in which a very small percentage of the U.S. population is of direct Native American descent (all of you who ´claim´ some Cherokee blood do not count). The result of this is that I get a lot of stares and strange looks from people on the street. I imagine the thoughts going through their heads resemble something like:

¨Well, he looks like he could be from Brazil but his Spanish is terrible, he has a thick American accent and he kind of carries himself like a gringo. But...he’s not white.¨

It is also strange being, on the average, taller than most of the men and women out here. I am, strictly speaking, of average height (yes, that goes out to all of you who have tried to deny me my full 6 ft over the years) and so I’m not really used to feeling like I’m towering over others. I guess there´s a first time for everything.

The icing on the cake, referring once again to the general populace of La Paz, is that the culture is very traditional. While you will see people who could fit in, clothing wise, anywhere in the globalized world, you will also see a great number of people (women in particular) in what looks to be traditional Bolivian clothing (patterned knit shawls, for example). This is something, at least in my travels, that I have never seen so widespread, particularly in a country’s capital city. The effect of this difference (as well as several others) is that the city takes on an identity different from any other city I’ve ever known. Large cities are large cities, and with the exception of a few details, there is not a great deal that separates them. However, La Paz´s identity is one that, while in a traditional and economic sense quite modest (to put it gently), is also quite rich in its uniqueness and nonconformity to the major cities of the world.

A Note to the International Traveler

2007-11-03T13:01:00.000-07:00

November 1st was a travel day for me as I was leaving Bogota to head to La Paz, Boliva (via a stopover in Lima, Peru). It was a bit tiresome in that I left Bogota at 4 PM and did not arrive in La Paz, until after midnight. Though inconvenient, this was not abnormal. What was, however, was what happened when I arrived in La Paz.

Upon deplaning, all of the passengers prepared to go through customs and as my turn arrived (I somehow found myself the last person in line) to pass through, I greeted the officer cordially. Inspecting my passport and documents, he began talking to another officer. This didn´t worry me too much as I knew that my passport and customs papers were in order, but after a period of time he began looking from my face, to my passport picture and back again. He handed my passport over to another officer.

"I don´t think that looks like him," he said in Spanish. "What do you think?"

The other officer shrugged his shoulders, looking more doubtful than anything. The first officer asked me to take off my hat and lean in closer to the window. He looked down at the passport with a doubtful glance, clearly not convinced.

"Give me your passport number." My entire body froze. What kind of procedure was this, asking someone for their passport number from memory? I hesitated, and then regrouping, gave him all 9 digits in slow, clear spanish. He looked down after each number and upon hearing the 9th, and looking satisfied, stamped my passport and let me through. I don´t really want to imagine what the outcome would have been had I not known the number, especially a 12:30 at night.

I´d say I was lucky. Not that I am the most experienced travler, but I have had enough bad luck in my travels to have had reason to memorize my passport number.

The obvious moral of the story: It is worthwhile to take the time to memorize your passport number, or at least have it saved somewhere (i.e. your phone) so it is easily accessible in the event that your actual passport is not.

The even more obvious moral of the story: Make sure you look like your damn passport photo. In this case, I don´t know if the officer was having some fun with me or if he actually thought it didn´t look like me. It´s not been a problem for anyone other customs agents and its not like I´ve grown out a full beard (its only been 9 days!), but who knows.

Race in Bogota Pt. II

2007-11-02T18:11:00.000-07:00

So that you all may understand what I´m talking about...

Race in Bogota

2007-11-02T08:43:00.000-07:00

When I envisioned this post, I figured that the appropriate title would be "Halloween in Bogota," as I had heard how big an event the holiday is in Colombia's capital city. However, after experiencing my first Halloween outside of the U.S. (not that Halloween has ever been that big of a deal to me) it was clear that a more appropriate title was calling. You will soon see why.

The day was like any of the others I had spent in Bogota, the sunning periodically breaking through the clouds and smog hovering above the city's center. Having been convinced the night before that I would have to find a costume, I spent the day walking around, collecting accessories for my slapped together part 'Drug Lord' part 'Don Juan' outfit...photos will be posted soon, I promise. It actually didnt turn out half badly after a sleazy painted on goatee, my linen shirt and newly acquired pants, a pair of 8000 peso {about $5) Armani shades and a cigar.

Britt, who was dressed as part belly dancer part gypsy, and I headed over to her friend Lamonte's place for dinner and a pregame and arrived at the Halloween party about 11. The spot is called In Vitro, and for anyone who is looking for somewhere poppin during the week in Bogota, this would be a good bet for you. As Britt explained, the Colombians went all out on the costumes. Among the costumes we saw were a Tour de France biker, fairies, generally ghoulish characters and a pair of white girls in blackface. WTF?

I myself had to do a doubletake, but sure enough, the girls were indeed in blackface. And Im not just talking about facepaint. I mean black shoe-shine polish covering their faces and bare arms, huge afro wigs and enormous, clownish white smiles painted around their mouths. The only thing missing were the huge red lips around those smiles. I suppose they may have forgotten that when googling 'minstrel shows' in the preparation of their costumes.

As I had described in a previous post, while officially 30% of Colombia's population is of African descent, you will rarely see more than a handfull in Bogota. Interestingly enough, there were a number of black Colombians at this party. I mention this because, these were the individuals showing these blackfaced girls so much love and attention during the party. I'm talking about high fives, dancing and picture posing.

The analytical part of my brain tried to make sense of it all, but I kept coming up short. Perhaps, for these black Colombians, the blackface was a true recognition of a black existence in Colombia or maybe its because of the development of a different type of racial history in Colombia, so there is not such a sensitivity to racial parodying. Afterall, it is a product of U.S. slavery that has resulted in such a racial awareness among so many of us in the United States.

As much as I tried, however, it wouln't do.

How could an appropriate costume be the parody of an oppressed racial group? Granted, things along these lines are not foreign to U.S. culture, I just found it difficult to understand how such a parody could go unchallenged.

I wondered for a moment how it would be perceived if someone had come in a parodied 'white face' a la Dave Chappelle in episodes of Chappelle's Show. Would those people who identified as white find as much humor as was generally found in the blackface? Quien sabe. I'll make sure to post the blackfaced pics when I get a hold of them. I report, you decide. Would love to hear your thoughts.

The Wettest Dry Weekend

2007-10-29T22:29:00.000-07:00

After a couple of days of exploring Bogota (which included witnessing a military commissioning ceremony in the Plaza Simon Bolivar and a trip to the Botanical Gardens) I was ready to see another side of Colombia. I had settled on Cartagena, a significant city located on the country's northern coast.

Added incentive to my domestic travel was that as a result of national council, gubernatorial and mayoral elections, the days preceding Sunday's voting were deemed, by law, "dry." For those unfamiliar with this terminology (in truth, I was), this meant that starting Friday evening, there was to be no hard alcohol bought or consumed in all of Colombia. It was quite a sight to see: it was friday night and all the bars in Bogota were closed. In the grocery stores, the hard alcohol was cordoned off. I figured that things would be pretty uninteresting in the capital city, so the time was ripe for a bit of exploring.

Arriving in Cartagena Saturday afternoon, I could see why it had been so highly recommended by friends of mine who were familiar with the city. It looked like it had been carved out of Brazil's northern region and plopped down on Colombia's northern coast. The people looked, well, they looked like me. All shades of black and brown and cinnamon and caramel. One does not need a history book or Wikipedia to see that Cartagena was one of Colombia's oldest and most prominent slave ports. The result was all over the city in the form of a racial diversity that would rival anywhere in the world In addition--the second most prominent historical characteristic of the city--the city was home to Colombia's largest fortress. It is the presence of the remnants of these forts, along with the multitude of beautiful people (my use of the word "beautiful" is completely objective) that has caused Cartagena to be one of Colombia's most significant tourist destinations.

All of this was enough to distract me from the darkening skies as the airport taxi made its way past the fortresses and historic "centro" to the Bocagrande district of Cartagena, where I would be staying until Tuesday. In fact, it was not until i was halfway down the beach--having quickly gotten my room and dropped my bags--that I realized that the weather was changing. By the time I did realize what was going on, it was too late. The rain (which felt like it was mixed with hail) came down in large, sharp drops, easily soaking my clothes in less than a minute. Trying to play it cool, I started to walk back to the hotel, but realizing that at this rate, I'd probably be underwater, I ran to a nearby building for some cover. I would not learn until later, while consulting weather.com, that the conditions were supposed to remain this way through Tuesday.

Well, at least I had gotten a couple of pictures.

Bogota: Watch where you breathe

2007-10-27T22:54:00.000-07:00

Arriving in Colombia's capital city by night didn't bring anything too out of the ordinary in comparison to other large Latin American cities; a long ride from the airport with a chatty taxidriver through mostly deserted streets and neighborhoods. I'd be lying if I said I didn't contemplate my course of action if i determined that I was being taken advantage of. But have no fear my beloved readers, the tension and anxiety was all in my mind. I arrived safely at my destination in the city's Chapineiro Alto district.

I awoke the next morning ready to get started on the city. There is no real method to my madness; my philosophy, which seems to make sense (and is partially adopted from cousin Tito), is that (especially for the cities in which I will only be spending a short period of time) I see as much of the city as I possibly can. Rest and relaxation? Not on this trip. I must give a special shout out to my good friend and host Brittney, who was not only nice enough to house me while in Bogota, but also give me the rundown of the city so I would have a sense of where my time would be best spent.

Having run my daily gameplan by my gracious hostess, I was on my way, ready to see all of what Bogota's downtown (Centro) had to offer. As I turned the corner of Britt's side street onto Carreira Septima, the street that would take me directly to Bogota's downtown and the Plaza Simon Bolivar, I walked directly into a thick fog. As my eyes adjusted and I oriented myself I saw it was not fog, but more appopriately, "smog." Seemingly every vehicle that passed me down the street (especially the "busetta's") were emitting not grey, but BLACK fumes from their exhaust pipes. In my experience, this was a type of discharge I saw rarely, usually when someone was having car trouble. As I stood in awe, I was almost knocked into the street by a group Bogota natives (I assumed), all with scarves covering their noses and mouths.

I got my bearings and began to walk. The walk down Septima was long--the best part of 3 hours and around 5 on the roundtrip. The combination of the city's altitude--8,660 ft.--and the hanging layer of smog left me short of breath on a nubmer of occassions and I'm guessing shaved 3-5 years off of my life. Fantastic!

While the reason for this may be obvious to you, intelligent friends and family, it took passing several gas stations for me to piece together what seemed to be a good explanation as to the existence of this perpetual black cloud. While the gas stations in Bogota sell several types of gas (Premium, Super Unleaded, Regular, Diesel) the cheapest, by far, is Diesel gas. Whether that is intentional or simply a response to the current oil situation, it gives greater incentive to use cars that consume diesel gasoline. And while I may be getting my causation and correlation mixed up, in nearly every gas station I passed, there were lines for the Diesel pump, while oftentimes the other pumps were vacant. And as we all know, the resulting discharge from Diesel gas is a lot more harmful to the environment that most other fuels
(see http://www.environmentaldefense.org/page.cfm?tagID=51).

I'd be interested to hear what you all think.

And so the moral of the story boys and girls: If you're coming to Bogota, make sure you've got a scarf or two, for the sake of your respiratory system.

The Itinerary (Finally)

2007-10-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

Countries & Dates

Colombia: 10/24 – 11/01

Bolivia: 11/01 – 11/13

Brazil: 11/13 – 01/12

Argentina: 01/12 – 01/21

England: 01/22 – 01/28

France: 01/28 – 02/03

Morocco: 02/03 – 02/11

Senegal: 02/11 – 03/11

Ghana: 03/11 – 03/18

Botswana: 03/18 – 03/30

Mozambique: 03/30 – 04/05

South Africa: 04/05 – 05/15

D-Day

2007-10-24T06:30:00.000-07:00

The day has finally arrived. October 24th, 2007, 9:32 AM, LaGuardia Airport. I didn't sleep last night, too preoccupied by the fear of potentially leaving something crucial behind. I've had this nightmare over the past several nights of checking in only to realize that I've left my passport, or tickets for future flights. In these dreams I was fully clothed, so I felt no shame, only a fear that something would prevent me from taking advantage of this opportunity to see the world. Fortunately I think I've remembered most everything (at least the important stuff), though only time will tell.

For those interested enough to be reading about what's going on in my life, I appreciate it. There are apparently hundreds of thousands of blogs started each day, so it's not like your choices are limited. Thanks for tuning in to my little universe. I can't promise anything eloquent, as the quality of my writing has remained stagnant since my sophomore year of higschool; however, I will give as true an account of my experiences as I can, and will perhaps happen upon a few moments of inadvertant comedic brilliance. Who knows?

Welcome to my blog.