Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
No Pennies
After hitting the two month mark on my time here in Rio, I have become so used to life in a different world that all the sudden the countless little differences have blended into my reality. This thought hit me suddenly today when I was doing something I’ve done plenty of times since arriving: grocery shopping.
This is how it happened:
I walked into Zona Sul in Gavea, near PUC on way to school this morning to buy some bread for a snack. Every grocery store here constantly pumps out fresh baked French bread, which means nine times out of ten your baguette is still very warm when you pluck it from the basket. I waited for the tongs as an elderly man evaluated the softness and warmness of each piece with years of Brazilian expertise. This turned out to be an almost two minute process, and when you’re standing, ravenous, in front of bread like that—that’s a long time. When the torch…er, tongs, were passed to me, I simply got a piece, bagged it, weighted it, grabbed the sticker the scale spit out, and got in line. This is the tragedy of a Brazilian breakfast. The bread is warm when you get it, but after the painful slowness in which business here is conducted, by the time you check out your bread may be molding. On this day mine wasn’t and when my turn came I was armed with correct change and the phrase “I don’t need a bag, thank you.” Handing over the change was when it hit me. The scale told me my bread was worth R$0.57. I handed over to the cashier a fifty cent coin, and a five cent coin, smiled, and headed out the door. That’s only R$0.55. Now, depending on where in the world I was, what happened next could have been very different; here are two possible scenarios.
A. (The U.S.) The cashier grabs her microphone, alerts the store a thief is fleeing, and radios her manager to tell him that two pennies belonging to the corporation are walking out the door in my pocket. This brings the 50 year old man to life; he sprints to the parking lot and with the help of a teenage bagger, pounds me into the ground and demands the remaining balance.
B. (Brazil) Nothing.
Fortunately I was in Brazil. In Brazil, there are no pennies. None. Not even a two cent piece or anything. The smallest traded coin is five cents. But that means Zona Sul just lost two cents! If that happens to them three hundred times a day in each of their numerous stores—that’s quite a loss!
But wait, what if my bread was R$0.58? In that situation, due to the dark anti-imperialist radicalism of Latin America, I would have had no choice but to pay R$0.60, effectively losing two cents. There they would go, off into the pockets of the corporate greed of capitalism. Or, more realistically, to Zona Sul, who probably gave me the same two cents the day before.
It seems pretty simple and easy. So much so that perhaps I never took much of a noticing to it before, just like every Brazilian. With the price of making an American penny at about $0.016, maybe the United States could learn something from Brazil? Who actually likes pennies? Why should we put up a fight for losing or getting a few? Wal Mart couldn’t even be upset, all their prices end in $0.88!
My point is that it’s the little differences that make everything unique. Countries on a large scale, people on a small scale. Next time something is annoying, like a penny, maybe it would be worth it to just stop and consider it for a second. Why am I doing this? Does this way have to be the right way? Could I look somewhere different for a new answer? Just a little thought that popped into my head today with the help of some warm bread—something you can’t find at Safeway or Shop’n Save.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sorry for the Delay -- Ilha Grande!
I’ve been a blogging recluse lately, and I apologize! I’ve been busy with school and I have lots of other excuses, but now that I have a chance I’d love to write a bit about a trip I took two weeks ago—and it’s going to be a long one. I travelled to the village of Abraão on Ilha Grande (Eel-yah gran-djee) with three friends. Ilha Grande (which less eloquently translates to “Big Island” in English) is, well, a very large island about a four hour drive south of Rio. It’s located south of the coast of Mangaratiba and Angra dos Reis, and east of Paraty—an extremely well known colonial heritage site for Latin American colonization. We planned well, and after going out Thursday night, we slept for a few hours, got back up at five and headed to the bus station. After sleeping through a three hour bus and two hour ferry, we happily arrived in Abraão, the island’s most populous village facing north towards the coast.
My first impression of the Island was unquestionably my lasting impression: absolute wonder. The Island is incredibly persevered by the Brazilian government: there are no cars allowed on the island and about 80 percent of the land is federally protected rainforest. I’m not a biologist, and I know Wikipedia isn’t either, but take a look at how they describe the scenery I woke up to that Friday morning:
“Ilha Grande is one of the most pristine remnants of Brazil's Atlantic rainforest, one of the richest ecosystems in the world, and a hotspot for biodiversity and conservation. It holds some of the largest remaining populations of many endangered species. The seas around the island, which are also protected, feature a unique convergence of tropical, subtropical, and temperate-zone marine life, and may be the only waters in the world where it is possible to see corals and tropical fish along with Magellanic penguins and Southern right whales.”
Hence the absolute wonder. It is easily the most beautiful place I’ve seen. My pictures frustrate me with their inability to do the magic of the island justice. We walked off the ferry into a town that was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Dirt, sand, and cobblestone roads led us through the main street of the village, past markets, pousadas (little honey-moon-esque hotels), restaurants, and more. It was clear right away that the lone industry was tourism. We made our way across the main beach of the town and found a hostel. I changed into swimming gear in a tiny bathroom with countless mosquitoes, a spider, and two lizards.
By the late afternoon the day was already turning out to be beautiful, and I just couldn’t get over the dazzling landscape. Huge mountains jutted up into the clouds just a few hundred meters from the shore…it was like being in the Caribbean and the Appalachian mountains at the same time. Wielding my novice Portuguese, I spoke with a tourism director who told us that the walk to Lopes Mendes—Vouge Magazine’s second best beach on earth—was quick, easy, and could be done in rubber flip flops without a problem. Excited and equipped with only my swim suit, flip flops, some money and a camera I set off for the “walk.”
As it turns out, I need to learn the Portuguese word for hike. The “walk” consisted of terrain that absolutely required hiking boots, and at times involved climbing vertical rock and crossing streams. I guess the Brazilians really do love their flip flops. With strained ankles and riddled with bug bites, we ascended the immediate slope before us. At the highest point of the trail, I climbed up a few more meters beyond the tree line and lost my breath.
I wanted to never leave the spot where I stood, and I wanted to tell everyone I knew to come to Brazil right away and follow my footsteps to the piece of dried mountaintop mud that afforded me a look across the most strikingly untouched piece of earth I’d ever seen. There was no gift shop, no tourists blocking my view, no man selling me ice cream (though that might have been nice), and my favorite part--no railing. It was me; thousands of feet below, the ocean; and thousands of feet out, countless granite slabs and mountains whose grandeur make you feel utterly insignificant.
I finally forced myself to continue on the trail and arrived at a halfway point village. The “walk” was now zero for two, not easy, and certainly not quick. The village, if you can call it that, consisted of a few sun bleached shacks-turned-restaurants with remnants of plastic beach chairs serving as the seating. A sun drenched man in a tsunga (male Brazilian beach apparel more revealing than most American girls’) stood outside one of the shacks twirling a metal tray idly. His eyes lit up as he saw the day’s only business walk up to him and ask for a menu. All he could give us was a makeshift barter—fish, rice and beans, and salad for twelve reais ($8). Starving, we didn’t have many options. I took a seat on my beach chair made of three thirds of broken beach chairs, and looked forward to my meal.
When he said fish, he meant fish. On the plate set in front of me was a fish, perhaps caught just as we walked in the shack, with its mouth open and eyes staring at me. I’d seen him before, in lakes, aquariums, etc., but only then he was flapping, swimming, and breathing. This fish was just silent, still, and covered in a golden brown fried breading. Yum? Taking a deep breath and pulling bones out of my fork-full, I ate the fish bite by bite and actually found it quite good. I asked a few times what type of fish it was, but my only answer was an enthusiastic but simple, “Yes! It’s fish.”
We continued on to Lopes Mendes and arrived shortly after leaving our speedo clad host/chef/waiter/dishwasher. This was the second time I lost my breath. The view from the top of the mountain had come to life in front of me; the distance was now the foreground. I know my descriptions have seemed ridiculous, but that’s the point—this was ridiculous. I’ve never felt closer to nature. There was absolutely nothing but beauty. The sun burning above, the ocean with a color you couldn’t help but smile at, waves crashing, sand stark white and so smooth and powder-like it literally squeaked with every footstep. And the usual spotless horizon of tropical vistas? That was replaced by a gradient of mountains, cliffs, giant granite slabs jutting out of the water, all covered with a constant mist from the breeze, water, and sand. It was like Jamaica on steroids, the unrated edition of the Bahamas, or the experts-only Dominican Republic. Going in the sea was an incredible feeling. It is just literally indescribable to be floating there in the water with the scenery 360 degrees around you. I felt like I could travel for miles and never find a footprint or an empty coke can. No life guards, no buoys, no boats. It really is amazing what the earth looked like before we got our hands on it.
At about 1200 words I think I’ll leave this blog entry here for now, but I hope to continue the story of my weekend on Ilha Grande soon. It is just so difficult to write concisely about such an amazing experience. If you’ve read this far, I sincerely appreciate it! It’s such a pleasure to share this with you. Until later, Eric.
My first impression of the Island was unquestionably my lasting impression: absolute wonder. The Island is incredibly persevered by the Brazilian government: there are no cars allowed on the island and about 80 percent of the land is federally protected rainforest. I’m not a biologist, and I know Wikipedia isn’t either, but take a look at how they describe the scenery I woke up to that Friday morning:
“Ilha Grande is one of the most pristine remnants of Brazil's Atlantic rainforest, one of the richest ecosystems in the world, and a hotspot for biodiversity and conservation. It holds some of the largest remaining populations of many endangered species. The seas around the island, which are also protected, feature a unique convergence of tropical, subtropical, and temperate-zone marine life, and may be the only waters in the world where it is possible to see corals and tropical fish along with Magellanic penguins and Southern right whales.”
Hence the absolute wonder. It is easily the most beautiful place I’ve seen. My pictures frustrate me with their inability to do the magic of the island justice. We walked off the ferry into a town that was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Dirt, sand, and cobblestone roads led us through the main street of the village, past markets, pousadas (little honey-moon-esque hotels), restaurants, and more. It was clear right away that the lone industry was tourism. We made our way across the main beach of the town and found a hostel. I changed into swimming gear in a tiny bathroom with countless mosquitoes, a spider, and two lizards.
By the late afternoon the day was already turning out to be beautiful, and I just couldn’t get over the dazzling landscape. Huge mountains jutted up into the clouds just a few hundred meters from the shore…it was like being in the Caribbean and the Appalachian mountains at the same time. Wielding my novice Portuguese, I spoke with a tourism director who told us that the walk to Lopes Mendes—Vouge Magazine’s second best beach on earth—was quick, easy, and could be done in rubber flip flops without a problem. Excited and equipped with only my swim suit, flip flops, some money and a camera I set off for the “walk.”
As it turns out, I need to learn the Portuguese word for hike. The “walk” consisted of terrain that absolutely required hiking boots, and at times involved climbing vertical rock and crossing streams. I guess the Brazilians really do love their flip flops. With strained ankles and riddled with bug bites, we ascended the immediate slope before us. At the highest point of the trail, I climbed up a few more meters beyond the tree line and lost my breath.
I wanted to never leave the spot where I stood, and I wanted to tell everyone I knew to come to Brazil right away and follow my footsteps to the piece of dried mountaintop mud that afforded me a look across the most strikingly untouched piece of earth I’d ever seen. There was no gift shop, no tourists blocking my view, no man selling me ice cream (though that might have been nice), and my favorite part--no railing. It was me; thousands of feet below, the ocean; and thousands of feet out, countless granite slabs and mountains whose grandeur make you feel utterly insignificant.
I finally forced myself to continue on the trail and arrived at a halfway point village. The “walk” was now zero for two, not easy, and certainly not quick. The village, if you can call it that, consisted of a few sun bleached shacks-turned-restaurants with remnants of plastic beach chairs serving as the seating. A sun drenched man in a tsunga (male Brazilian beach apparel more revealing than most American girls’) stood outside one of the shacks twirling a metal tray idly. His eyes lit up as he saw the day’s only business walk up to him and ask for a menu. All he could give us was a makeshift barter—fish, rice and beans, and salad for twelve reais ($8). Starving, we didn’t have many options. I took a seat on my beach chair made of three thirds of broken beach chairs, and looked forward to my meal.
When he said fish, he meant fish. On the plate set in front of me was a fish, perhaps caught just as we walked in the shack, with its mouth open and eyes staring at me. I’d seen him before, in lakes, aquariums, etc., but only then he was flapping, swimming, and breathing. This fish was just silent, still, and covered in a golden brown fried breading. Yum? Taking a deep breath and pulling bones out of my fork-full, I ate the fish bite by bite and actually found it quite good. I asked a few times what type of fish it was, but my only answer was an enthusiastic but simple, “Yes! It’s fish.”
We continued on to Lopes Mendes and arrived shortly after leaving our speedo clad host/chef/waiter/dishwasher. This was the second time I lost my breath. The view from the top of the mountain had come to life in front of me; the distance was now the foreground. I know my descriptions have seemed ridiculous, but that’s the point—this was ridiculous. I’ve never felt closer to nature. There was absolutely nothing but beauty. The sun burning above, the ocean with a color you couldn’t help but smile at, waves crashing, sand stark white and so smooth and powder-like it literally squeaked with every footstep. And the usual spotless horizon of tropical vistas? That was replaced by a gradient of mountains, cliffs, giant granite slabs jutting out of the water, all covered with a constant mist from the breeze, water, and sand. It was like Jamaica on steroids, the unrated edition of the Bahamas, or the experts-only Dominican Republic. Going in the sea was an incredible feeling. It is just literally indescribable to be floating there in the water with the scenery 360 degrees around you. I felt like I could travel for miles and never find a footprint or an empty coke can. No life guards, no buoys, no boats. It really is amazing what the earth looked like before we got our hands on it.
At about 1200 words I think I’ll leave this blog entry here for now, but I hope to continue the story of my weekend on Ilha Grande soon. It is just so difficult to write concisely about such an amazing experience. If you’ve read this far, I sincerely appreciate it! It’s such a pleasure to share this with you. Until later, Eric.
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