Bicycles and Morrostock

We had a three-day-weekend this week because of Children’s Day. When I asked Jacque about it, she said it’s just a commercial holiday installed to make parents feel guilty if they don’t by presents for the little bits. Well, she stopped at “commercial holiday.” But since I had all of that time off (read: regular amount of free time) I decided to go get cultured. I went to a few places. I walked to Gasometro, roughly 3 miles from my front door. It’s a cultural center, and this past weekend it housed a Latin American Craft Fair. There were vendors from all over the continent selling their wares. I bought a bracelet for my host sister, in honor of the holiday, and a decorative rug for my host mother.


On the top floor of the Gasometro I saw this bicycle exhibit and was reminded that I have been taking pictures of bicycles since I moved into this house. Bikes are amazing. They will never go out of style, and they just might be the objects which make the most efficient use of human energy. People use them to carry all sorts of things here (and at home, but urban commuter biking is a different animal), children, furniture, beer. In the rural areas and up in the mountains in smaller more independent neighborhoods—think Hilton Head but not wealthy and landlocked—where there are no buses there’s a lane in the middle of the road dedicated exclusively to pedestrians and cyclists. This morning I watched people ride along toward their early morning tasks, some with their arms folded, a few with one hand on the handlebars and one raised with an open umbrella. People have water delivered here because they don’t drink the tap water. So the delivery dudes put three jugs of water on the front of their bikes and drop it off. The fellows who collect recycling often attach bikes to the fronts of their carts. Anyway, I thought you might like to see the bikes. Living here is bizarre. At any point during my day I am just as likely to see a cowboy riding a horse on the sidewalk as I am to see a $3000 dollar Bianche, a 1978 VW Bug or a 2002 Volvo.


Like I said, things have been a little tense with Jacque, so when she suggested that I go on a trip with my long weekend, I took her up on the idea, borrowed a tent and went to Morrostock,http://morrostockopenair.blogspot.com/, an annual music festival held in October. This year it was in Sapiranga, RS, about 4 hours away from where I live. It took two busses, a ride from a stranger (she was a lovely woman), and a 2 hour walk to get to the little bar in front of the site, but it was nice to travel. So, last night I camped by myself on a mountain in the middle of nowhere and listened to bands from all over the country play. I didn’t do much talking, but I did meet a couple of people. The best part of the whole deal was this bluegrass band, though. It is strange to listen to people speak Portuguese and then sing in English. These guys were pretty good, though. What’s more is I was probably the only person in the audience who understood what the words meant. Going to this music fest by myself reminded me how foreign I am. I liked some of the music, but didn’t understand most of what was being said (though I understand more and more everyday). And pretty quickly word spread that I am an exchangee, and this won me some stares, but no light conversation.

I’m still taken aback at the heavy influence of American culture. I find myself frustrated and possessive. You know, like, don’t call me a gringo and then turn around and claim Jimi Hendrix. I came all the way down here to experience Brasilian culture and to get away from mine, but mine seems to be seeping in at all points: one of the major grocery store chains is owned by Wal Mart, most of the non-public access channels on cable are American (Fox, Warner, and Universal), the popular music on the radio (for 11-year-olds) is American. In contrast, the teenagers are listening Funk—not American Funk, but something akin in philosophy to what Rap was about in the early 80s. It has a pretty heavy electronic sound, and it is dance music with lyrics about sex and drugs. It is very rhythmic. And I’ve been watching Telenovelas partly because I need to listen to the language and partly because I like drama. (somewhere in here I got distracted and stopped revising. oops.) But then I think it is cool that we can so easily memorize the sounds/words of another language and that that can be a great tool for study. I think that music has this incredible power to unite.

On Sunday night a drunk kid was splashing around in the puddles during the performance of Tax Free, a rock band, and one of the security guards hit him in the head and knocked him down. Maschismo is a dangerous thing. The other security guard kicked the kid while he was down. David was his name. I know that because during the performance of the clown troupe he volunteered to have a piece of paper whipped out of his hand and then he asked the contortionist to dance. He was difficult to miss with his Drew Carey glasses and mass of curly black hair. Anyway, one of the organizers of the fest called bullshit and had the security guard escorted out. Then the DJ played Come Together in solidarity and lots of people took to the puddles. Still, it is unsettling to hear a bunch of Brasilians singing Why Go by Pearl Jam and Around the World by The Red Hot Chili Peppers in English and to know that if I were to begin to speak no one would understand—to know that they don’t know what they’re saying. I feel like I’m fumbling around in the dark when I speak Portuguese, and I feel not a little guilty when I speak English. I guess maybe I was just jealous of all of the people with a common language and shared memory of songs (that the live bands sang) and geography.

I spent the night trying to get comfortable or tired in my tent. I dodged little puddles, and wished I’d had a tarp. I thought about how music and booze and pot and camping brings people together, and I how I wanted that. And then I thought that I’m proud to be a person who can speak/read in a new language (well enough to get to the right busses, accept the offer of a ride, make polite conversation, find my way to a concert a 2 hour walk away from the bus station, pay my entrance fee, buy a beer and share a Chimarrao with a nice man who really likes Bluegrass). This morning I was glad that I woke up on a mountain at 6 in the morning and that I knew exactly how to get where I was going, and that I didn’t need to rush. I appreciated the beautiful morning and the fog and the cows grazing the and free roaming dogs and the people doing everyday normal people things: opening up shop, cleaning, enjoying the quiet morning.