Laundry

Sabrina had told me we wouldn't have a washer or dryer in our apartment. No worries, I thought. I've spent time at laundry mats before. But when I got here, I found one slight problem: there aren't any laundry mats, at least any that I've seen. Hmmm. So like a good procrastinator, I ignored the problem and let my dirty clothes pile up. Maybe I was waiting for a laundry mat to magical appear, or a laundry fairy to swoop in and clean all my clothes. But neither dream came true. And in a country as humid as Brazil, I knew I couldn't get away with recycling my shirts and shorts any longer. So I resorted to the sink.

In my defense, I think this sink is actually made to serve as a "washing machine." It has a big basin and a ribbed scrubber washboard thing attached. It's in the kitchen, but it's not the main sink we use for dishes. It's just kinda off to the side in the corner, waiting for a purpose. So with my first load in hand, I plugged the drain, poured in a little detergent and began filling it up. There weren't any water temperature choices. Brazilian sinks don't have hot and cold knobs -- just one that spews out the water, which is somewhat warmed by the sun. I debated boiling some water for my whites, but that seemed pointless considering the situation. Coolish is fine.

I mixed the detergent around the water with my hand, then threw in the clothes. Now what, I wondered. I kinda swooshed them around like the washing machine would, hoping it would get out the smells and dirt and stains and clean them. Unsatisfied with this method, I decided to try out the washboard. I'd never used one before, because, seriously, who has. I tried to remember every pioneer movie I'd ever seen. Up down up down scrub scrub scrub. Next shirt. Scrub scrub scrub. I remembered that when my sister and I were little we would pretend to be peasants or orphans and had to wash our clothes like that. Now, here, I am actually doing it out of necessity.

Is this how you do it?

After each load was washed, I experimented with the best way to rinse off the soap and ring out the item. Let's just say I'm still perfecting my moves. I took all the still-dripping apparel to our balcony, where we have one clothes rack. After hanging our shirts, shorts, boxers, undies and bras ever-so strategically on the wire, it was full and I had to move on to the plastic chairs and later the railing. I can just see our neighbors across the way shaking their heads and asking "What are those crazy gringos up to this time?"

At least we only air our clean laundry.

Maybe someday I'll look back on this as a fun cultural experience -- but today it just sucked. My back hurt from bending over. My pants were soaking from splashed water. Plus I'm not even sure how clean everything really is. Back home, my afternoon spend "doing laundry" was mostly just waiting around for the load to dry. Here, it took more than an hour of hard labor. At least it was an adventure, right?

Language

I tried to learn the language before coming to this country. I bought a little phrasebook and studied each letter. They were so strange and I wasn't sure if I was saying it right. So I turned to youtube, where I watched clips of people trying to teach me Portuguese. Then I realized my mouth didn't know how to make these noises. Intimidated and frustrated, I gave up, hoping that the immersion of being in the country would make something click and I would get Portuguese.

I realized how flawed that plan was as soon as Ben and I made our first airport transfer from Sao Paulo to Rio. The stewardess looked at my ticket and said "hee-o?" I starred at her, trying to process what that could possibly mean. I finally decided to pointing at my ticket while saying Rio, trying my best to roll the RRRRRRio. She nodded and pointed me on to the plane. I later found out that here in Brazil, Rs at the front of the word make a Heee sound. She was simply saying "Rio." I didn't even know how to pronounce the name of my own city.

My learning through immersion (i.e. desperation) hasn't been a total flop. Sabrina has been an excellent coach and teacher. She first taught me the basics: "Hola, mao nome e Sarah. Eu nao fallo Portuguese. Uma cerveja, por favor." Recently I've been moving creating more complex sentence, including " Eu quiero uma cerveja, por favor.” We’re still practicing pronunciation. Apparently Ben and I are too nasally, which is typical for Americans. Sabrina says we have to sing each vowel and use our lungs and stomachs to create the sounds. We fill the room with whale noises each time we practice. She swears we’re getting better.

In the city, everyone's reaction to my lack of language is different. Some act as if I hadn't said anything and continue rattling on in words I don't understand. A few act annoyed. One lady laughed at me with her friend. But my favorites are the people who smile and make animated hand motions with me. It's like a game of charades in line at the grocery store. In the end I feel like we're friends.

I was surprised by how many people don't speak English. In Europe, everyone seemed to know a bit of the language. Not here, at least not in Itaipu where I live. I've met just two people on this side of the bay who speak English (besides Sabrina and a few of her friends). In fact, hearing English here, in their neighborhood, is very foreign to the locals. Children and adults alike have no shame turning all the way around to stare at these strangers in their land each time we open our mouth. The other day at the beach a little boy walked right up to our table and just gawked at us as we spoke. Sabrina said there are never gringos (foreigners) here, and no one can believe what they're hearing.

Our adventures in language continue when people haven't heard us speak and assume we know Portuguese. They pat us on the shoulder and begin to talk, maybe asking for directions or if that seats taken. They say welcoming things through a smile when we're checking out at the store. Other people try to make jokes with us, which we emphatically nod and smile to before telling them we don't know what they're saying. Then we all share another laugh.

Sometimes I do get frustrated, not only because it’s difficult to get around, but because I know we're missing out on an entire part of the culture with this communication road block. It's like only being able to see yellow in a colorful painting, or tasting only the flour in a cookie. We're missing a big chunk of the flavor of this country.

Yet in a way I like it that no one understands me. It makes everything more exciting. As Erica (who's been in similar situations) pointed out, even ordering a cup of coffee is a huge achievement that you can be proud of all day. Ben and I are also enjoying the secrecy that comes with it. We've found ourselves cursing a lot more in public and proclaiming ideas and opinions that would usually be whispered in private. It's our own secret language. We're still trying our best to learn Portuguese, so that when we get back to the States we'll have our own language once again.

Casimiro de Abreu

Ever since we moved to Brazil (a whole two weeks ago) Sabrina has talked about her family living in "the countryside." What exactly does a Brazilian countryside look like, I wondered. I imagined something close to what we have in America, with open fields and grazing cows. Oh, how wrong I was. There were still cows in the Brazilian countryside, but they were usually eating in grass taller than them and surrounded by 100-foot trees. It was a jungle. Literally.

The hour and a half drive from Rio to Casimiro de Abreu starts off like you might expect. The city's sky scrapers transform into regular sized home and suburban neighborhoods. After a few miles and curves we were surrounded by open green, rolling mountains. But sometime between jamming out to Samba, singing our national anthems and practicing Portuguese, we found ourselves winding through a canyon with lush mountains on either side. It was just the kind of jungle you'd imagine, with bamboo, vines, banana trees and thick green all around.

Eventually we pulled off the road to Casimiro de Abreu, which had somehow cleared through the brush to create a small town. Sabrina was thrilled to be stopped by a red light when we first pulled in. Up until a few months ago, the town didn't have more than a few stop signs. We quickly met with her family, who were next door neighbors in a line of tropical Latin homes. Each had a red ceramic roof overhead, yellow walls and beautiful tile floors underfoot. Their Brazilian walnut doors and shutters were open all the time. No one seemed to mind when a gecko made it in the house. It'll eat the bugs, they said. I loved it. We didn't have much time to ogle, though, because we were off with Sabrina's childhood friends, Clara and Jao, to the river.

Above: The main strip of Casimiro.
Below: Sabrina's aunt's house.

Again, I underestimated how wild this would be. I imagined a few trickles, maybe more of a wash than a river. But when we suddenly pulled off the main road to a bumpy and muddy path, I knew I was once again in for a treat. We walked down a steep dirt path between mossy trees and rocks. Then we reached the bridge. It was just like the kind of wobbly, wood and wire bridges they recreate at Disneyland -- this one was real. And it crossed a raging river as big as any I've seen in Colorado. The trip across was the definition of adventure. I had the Indiana Jones song in my head the whole time. The middle section was the hardest part when the whole crossing swayed with each step. We eventually made it to the other side, where we splashed around in the water.

Crossing the bridge and on the other side.

Our tour continued with a pull off to see an amazing waterfall cascading down a nearby mountain. Next time we'll hike there to swim, Sabrina said. Later we drove to a family friends' weekend home, which was at the end of a bumpy dirt road surrounded by banana trees. On the way we passed a bar where people sat in the river and rested their beers on nearby rocks. The family friends' house was just as amazing, built right on the river and decorated with fruit trees and tropical birds that they raise. We were quickly ushered to the back patio, which was like an open-air house itself, and given beer, meat, pretzels and nuts. It was my first taste of the generous Brazilian hospitality to come.

The drive to the family friends' house, and the hut were we were fed.

Back at Sabrina's family's house we celebrated her aunt's birthday party. They'd hired a professional chef to cook the beef and chicken at their barbecue. It was better than anything you'd find at the finest US restaurants. And my beer glass was never empty, because someone always made sure to fill it up at the first signs of the bottom. Everyone wanted to communicate with us gringos, and used all the English words they knew, no matter how limited. It's amazing how I could feel so at home even in such a foreign land. Everyone, even the oldest of the crowd, stayed up drinking and socializing until 3 a.m. This is pretty typical for Brazilian parties, even 50-something birthdays. I think I was made for this country.