Gardens

On Saturday Ben and I took to the city once again, this time exploring a few "gardens": Parque Lage and Jardim Botanico. Unlike the delicate names imply, these parks proved to be less about manicured rose bushes and trimmed hedges and instead more about exotic vines and towering palm trees. But here in Rio, I'm learning not to ever expect less than extraordinary.

We started at the Jardim Botanico, in the Rio neighborhood of the same name. It was only R$5 to get in (about $3.50 US), but opened up a world of winding paths through 5,000 species of flora and fauna. Right away we were greeted by a pond of turtles. They looked like the pet turtles I had growing up, but these must have eaten a Mario mushroom or something because they were seriously double the size. A few steps inside the park, we found a gorgeous natural waterfall cutting its way through surrounding bushes, trees, vines and flowers. All this within only a few feet of the entrance.

It took us a few hours to trek the entire park, not only because of its size, but because there was so much that made us stop and stare. A stone mill from the 1500s, an orchid greenhouse, strange hanging flowers, thorny plants and lilie pads so big I could have literally sat upon them (seriously, I was temped to try), were all part of the park. The highlight was a long pathway lined with 200-year-old palm trees, planted in 1808. These trees didn't show their age, with beautiful fronds high overhead. They must have been at least 100 feet tall, no joke. And each one lined the way to a huge antique fountain in the center of the park. If Europe and the jungle had a baby, it would look like that.

Along our travels through Jardim Botanico, a few people we met (all of whom were Brazilian but spoke awesome English) pointed us toward the Parque Lage -- a nearby garden that was much more "rustic" than this one. More rustic? We had to check it out. After an hour-long trek up the avenue (yes, we were too cheap to take the bus), we reached the unimpressive gates of the park. It had a long cobblestone driveway without much fanfare, all leading to an old pink house. Nice, but not what we were expecting. It wasn't until we sat down to catch our breath that we spotted a few pathways leading off into the surrounding trees. We picked one and just started walking.

To describe the park as "rustic" is an understatement. It was pretty much just an untouched jungle with narrow paths snaking through. Oh, and the previous owners (it was a mansion and estate for a century or so before being donated to the city), decided to have some fun with the place and created all these hidden forts and stone caves along the way. We seriously felt like children frolicking around the moss-covered stones and swinging on vines hanging from the trees.

The labyrinth of trails turned more treacherous as we started hiking up a mountain. We later realized this was Corcovado mountain, and just above the layer of clouds was Christo himself (the giant Jesus statue) sitting on top. Wearing a dress and flip flops, I decided not to attempt the trail that day -- although Ben and I have definite plans to give it a go soon. Instead we sat by waterfalls, chased a butterfly that was as big as a record and watched dozens of monkeys jump from tree to tree. The entire time we couldn't stop saying "This is the coolest place EVER!". We're definitely gong back soon.

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.

Water

The most constant piece of advice I heard before coming to Brazil was more of an ominous warning: Don't drink the water. As the story goes, my American tummy couldn't possibly handle the bacterias lurking in Brazilian agua. I read about it in books, which promised mucho diarrhea. I heard stories from other travelers, telling horrors of trips ruined by drinking a cola cooled with tanted ice cubes. Even my doctor warned me not to eat fruit, because it may have been washed with the wary waters.

So before coming here, I began to wonder how exactly I'd stay hydrated. I mean, beer can only go so far. Also, how would I make coffee or brush my teeth? Would my skin absorb this water in the shower? So many worries ... which (mostly) all proved to be unnecessary.

Once we were in Brazil, Ben and I got the real advise we needed: Just don't drink the tap water. Instead, every home has a water cooler (ours included) where we can get all the fresh water we need. Now that was refreshing. We wouldn't have to be the odd ducks who refused to drink what everyone else was. We could just grab a cup and have fresh, filtered water in our own kitchen.

As for other water encounters, we decided to just dive in. I took a risk and showered sans a water filter and brushed my teeth with tap water too. I mean, it's not like I swallow the toothpaste. We boiled water for our coffee. Eventually, we even went swimming in a pool. By the time I dried off, I was happy to realize my stomach handled it all just fine.

All was well for the first week. And then we ran out of our fresh water to drink. The huge jugs that had been stockpiled in the closet were gone. And to our dismay, we couldn't easily find any more at the grocery store. This was a problem. Sabrina, our Brazilian guide and guru, was gone for a few days, and we were thirsty. We had one smaller jug left in the fridge, which Ben and I rationed between us each meal. At night we drank beer (and sometimes for lunch too), but it just wasn't something we were ready to crack open each morning.

Finally, after we'd poured the last few drops, Sabrina got a hold of us and promised to order more. And the solution was so simple. Apparently all we have to do is call the doorman downstairs, who will deliver as many jugs as we need. Now we have plenty of fresh water. No dying for thirst (or helplessness) for us!

However, I did fall prey to some tainted water lurking elsewhere ... ice cubes. I guess those warnings were right. During our first night out in Rio, I ordered my first mixed drink, which of course came on the rocks. These rocks proved to be too much from my tummy to take. I won't get into details ... but I learned the hard way that freezing water does not kill bacteria :(

Arriving

My original name for this blog was "A Life Once Imagined," a title inspired by my favorite quote: "Live the life you imagine." And so far living here in Brazil has been exactly that. Ben and I are living an adventure we've dreamed of for at least a year -- one that's been stirring in our subconscious for much longer than that.

However, once we got here, I realized the real story was about us, the Americans, trying to make it in a country where we stand out so much. Not only because we're American, or because I'm blond, or because of the clothes we wear-- but because we're truly in a forgeign land. Not forgien like England or Australia or Canada. No. Here no one speaks English. At all. They don't have shops like they do in America, or drive in lanes like they do in America. They don't serve food like they do in America. Sure they have McDonald's here, but it cost about $30 US to eat one "value" meal. It's a big event here to go to "fast food," instead of the I'm-too-lazy-to-cook-tonight meal back home. And that's one stark difference between our McDonaldses ... a place that's supposed to be known for its consistency around the world. Not that I'm complaining. Instead we eat cheap coconuts on the beach. Instead we run to the little vendor on the corner. And when we ride the bus, it's more thrilling than a roller coaster ride. Everything is new to us. But that's what's making everything so exciting. I don't know about Ben, but it's just the adventure I was looking for.



We arrived t Rio safely after 24 hours of straight travel. Sabrina, our Brazilian hostess, was there to pick us up at the airport. She zipped us right over to Ipaitu, our new home, and our beautiful apartment. The entire place has white tiled floors and lots of windows that let in the ocean air. It smells of mildew -- not like an old towel, but like a place that's been weathered by the rain. I love it. Our room is modest, with a bed, dresser and attached bathroom. We were surprised to crawl into bed the first night and realize they don't use comforters, but only one sheet to stay warm. That's all you need in this humidity.

A view from our apartment

Itaipu is to Rio as the Valley is to LA. It's about an hour's drive away but still has the hustle bustle of the big metropolitan nearby. Part of me wishes we could be closer to Rio, but on the other hand it's nice to be away from the tourism and absorbed into this raw Brazilian culture. And we have the best beaches here! I've seen two of them so far, and both were just the paradise you'd imagine: palm trees, surrounding cliffs, white sand and cheap, cold beer. Just perfect. Oh, and the view of the people is pretty nice too. Everyone is beautiful, from the surfers to bartenders to the cable guy. Even the pigeons are glamorous and come in all white or white and brown speckles.


There's so much more to say I could type for hours. I'm going to try to get most of it recorded in here sometime down the line. Right now I'm still trying to make sense of everything myself. But all this new stuff, these unknowns, is what our adventure is all about.