Turistas

I’m sure you don’t need all those kidneys so bring yourself to Brazil and the cannibalistic locals will rid you of underappreciated arteries, organs and entire bodies. I mean, what else could one possibly do as a Brazilian? Well, except for being a big booty mulata, carnival queen, soccer star, or a favela-dwelling shanty thief because really this is basically all you will find in South America’s Lusophone powerhouse
…
When the Hollywood disaster “Turistas” was released people began to ask me about my safety in Brazil. I tried to tell them that I didn’t have to beat glue-sniffing fiends off me with a stick and hold on to my organs and run for my life, but how can I compete with Hollywood imagery? This is not to say there is no truth in the ideas behind these representations, but the conflation is sickening. At least since I’ve been to Brazil a few times and can vouch for the place my family and friends know that it’s a fantastically misrepresented country that has never robbed me of anything, least of all my internal parts. To a certain degree Brazil is seen as extravagantly exotic and despite the fact that Rio de Janeiro has been called “the capital of stay bullets” by certain over-exaggerating newspapers (what about The Estados Unidos?), all the violent descriptions has not barred international fans of fun from experiencing the heavenly scenery and unparalleled hospitality of Brazil’s vast cultures. And just when my family had gotten used to the idea of my going to Brazil and running wild in the streets, I told them I was heading to Africa.
Given the fact that I am working on an MA in African Studies, it only seems natural that I spend time on the continent, right? Movies like Darfur Now and Hotel Rwanda have not helped my case when it comes to people who receive the bulk of their geographic information from box office hits. And the fact that Africa is called Africa means that in the general imagination, what happens in the Sudan is representative of Angola, despite the fact that the two countries share little in common, except for the fact that they are both countries of the same continent. After all, the US shares the same continent as every other country from Canada to Panama and what’s the difference between Detroit and Guatemala city?
I tried to break the information down into pieces. Zanzibar was my strongest seller since it looks much like popular images of paradise and the name in and of itself evokes a strong sense of tropical allure. Step two was to say that Zanzibar is off the coast of Tanzania and that, like the mainland, it is a safe and fascinating place which also hosts the annual film festival (in Zanzibar) and that people from all over the world go to Zanzibar every year for this infamous cinematic event.
Every since 2004 when I first began to learn Portuguese I slowly commenced to mention Mozambique and my historical desire to go there. Mozambique is not as recognized as Tanzania, probably because Tanzania was colonized by the British and also, together with Kenya, is a popular Safari hot spot. Mozambique was colonized by the Portuguese and ever since the civil war ended in 1992 it rarely makes international Anglophone headlines that are unrelated to the yearly flooding and the AIDS pandemic.
I’ve wanted to go to Maputo, the capital because I have heard about the jazz cafés and Latin rhythms. The most prolific and inspiring writing I’ve ever experienced has come from Mozambique’s Mia Couto. Also, I love Timbila music. Timbila is the Chopi word for Xylophone (in fact the singular is “mbila” and the plural is “Timbila”) They are huge xylophones that are played by one or more people with an entire orchestra resounding at the same time. I have a friend who plays Timbila in Portugal and will be home in Mozambique in August and has offered to give me lessons. Finally my marimba dreams are nearing realization.
Aside from dawdling about the roads of Tanzania and Mozambique, speaking Swahili and Portuguese I am also conducting research on the Zanzibar Film Festival and the Documentary Film Festival in Maputo which will be held in Mid-September. Additionally I am working with a small NGO in Zanzibar and will be doing some AIDS-education work for Over the Rainbow, the NGO I worked for in Bahia.
Most of my family and friends know that I am going to East Africa and almost all of them know pretty much know where Mozambique and Tanzania are. They also understand that I have studied Swahili for a year and Portuguese for four years and that I’m familiar with local cultures and customs. They don’t know much about these two countries because Don Cheadle hasn’t made a film about them. I never know where to begin when explaining the two places so I will begin with images. Images, visual, oral or written, are our first introduction to a place, like Hollywood’s use of destructive imagery of Brazil.
This is what fired me up into wanting to take pictures, to being a photographer. I was so fed up with not seeing photographic representations that matched my own vision that I had to take a stand, or a snap. Last year when I was looking for pictures to show my student (of Portuguese language) of Brazil I found so many stereotypical shots and very few pictures of what I thought the culture really looked like that I began to realize how much power image controllers have on cultures. Every image we produce effects the interpretations of others. And so it was with that that I began the Bahia Photo Project and to my family members who are unable to visit Brazil or other places, I bring Bahia, Rio, or Zanzibar to them through pictures, images that I interpret through the lens of my non-professional but just as capable, camera.
My Sony cyber shot and I are preparing for our upcoming escapades in the countries of Tanzania and Mozambique. You’ll see us soon.

Comprender

Who could possibly?

Yo ya lo sabía
Ao te ver
con aquella botella en tu mano
a mesma mão habitual
el golpe
bean bag face

ninakufahamu
sasa
estas palabras
essas velhas palavrinhas
disgust me
history is just one redundant puta
se vende se vende
me compra

jana jioni nilikuona
the man said
ninataka ujue kwamba
tunaweza kucheza samba
pamoja
dance floor afire
these temple rituals taste nothing on atheists tongue

e tudo que queira
era te mesmo

now all is have is
o desejo de muxoxear

Going to Tanzania and Mozambique

July 8th I leave for East Africa. I will be going first to Zanzibar, an island off the coast of Tanzania, near Dar es Salaam. Dar es Salaam was the capital of Tanzania until a few decades ago when it was moved to Dodoma. However, Dar remains to be the most bustling of Tanzanian Cities. I am going to Zanzibar because from July 11-22nd is the 11th annual International film festival. ZIFF, as it is called, was the first film festival in East Africa and is not only an important African film festival, but also one that celebrates the cultures of the Indian Ocean. My two friends and classmates, Agazit and Glenda are joining me in Zanzibar to experience the unique culture of the Swahili people, as well as to attend the film festival and watch many great films from Africa, Asia, the US and Europe.
For the past year I have been studying Swahili language and culture. Swahili is the official language of Kenya and Tanzania. It is also spoken as a second or third language in Eastern Democratic of the Congo, Rwanda, Burundi, Northern Mozambique, Uganda, Zambia, Malawi, Southern Somalia, the islands of Comoros and Mayotte and parts of Oman. The Swahili language is the first language of the Swahili ethnic group, which has historically inhabited the coastal areas from Northern Mozambique to Southern Somalia. The non-Swahili ethnic groups of Tanzania and Kenya learn Swahili in school and speak it as a second language. This is true for the other mentioned countries. Most viewers of the Lion King may recall the phrase “Hakuna Matata” which really does mean no worries, about the only culturally-correct part of that Disney disaster.
Additionally, I am set to join forces with an incoming Masters student at UCLA who has been living and working in Zanzibar for the past year. He has a small NGO that works with local artists to transfer henna body art onto canvas. Like my photography project in Brazil (see Bahia photo project 2007), I am bringing a few cameras along to introduce the artists to a few photographic techniques to add to their artist’s portfolios. We are also hoping to build some online portfolios. I will keep you all updated on this.
In mid-August I am heading to Mozambique. As you know, Mozambique was colonized by the Portuguese, and is one of five Lusophone (Portuguese-speaking) countries in Africa, the other four are: Guinea Bissau, Cape Verde, São Tomé and Príncipe, and Angola. I will be going to the capital, Maputo, which is in the very south of the country. When the Portuguese people first arrived in Mozambique they placed the colonial capital in the North at Ilha de Moçambique (Island of Mozambique), an Island just off the coast, which they used for trade with Goa, the former Portuguese colony of India. They later moved the capital to the south to block other European powers from encroaching on their colony.
I am going to be working with a friend of a friend with AIDS education. I am a newbie when it comes to “NGO” work, although in 2006 I took a fabulous course on AIDS and NGO’s in Africa when I was finishing up my BA at UC Berkeley and leaned all about the politics of grass roots organizations, etc. In fact, my research was on the role of condom social marketing in Mozambique and Angola so I feel like I have a small clue about what needs to be done, but clearly I am no expert. I was given a donation from Over the Rainbow of 1000 condoms, which will be brought to Mozambique, in addition to 200 toothbrushes from Over the Rainbow’s oral health initiative in Brazil. This work-in-progress project is more of an initiating step for 2009’s Mozambican internship program, which would allow students to volunteer in Mozambique for credit through the University of Northern Iowa (where the founder of Over the Rainbow is a graduate student).
In addition to some NGO work I am attending the 3rd annual Documentary Film Festival in Maputo. This festival is held from the 16th – 21st of September in the Mozambican capital and will include films from the continent and beyond. This is the second part of my summer research on the two African Film Festivals, which will be the first part of my Master’s thesis.
I have been planning my trip to East Africa for a long time and am so thankful that it has finally come together. Here’s to amazing adventures! Tchau! Kwa Heri!

The Bahia Photo Project

In Summer of 2007 I worked with a group of young girls at an NGO in Salvador, Bahia, Brazil. The young ladies were introduced to the art of photography and began to take pictures around the city for the first time. They continue to work with digital photography and are inspired photographic artists.
The NGO I worked with is an American-based non-profit, see their website at
http://www.over-therainbow.org/

Salvador: Capital of the State of Bahia, Brazil

Rio de Janeiro: Images part 2

Rio de Janeiro: Images part 1

Graduate School photos

Good times

Alexis laughs

Brazil in Black and White

Study Abroad: Porno?

When I planned my trip to Portugal, I didn't know what to expect. Even though it was my first time there, it was my second time in a Lusophone country. I was animated to speak Portuguese in a different continent and to immerse myself in Portuguese culture. I imagined that there would be similarities and contrasts between Brazil and Portugal and I was interested in seeing the connection between the two. Comparing both experiences now I perceive that it is not merely the language that the two countries have in common, but the porno.

Allow me to explain. While in Lisbon I stayed at a prison-like youth hostel in the center of the city. At the pousada there was a bar with space for guests to sip caipirinhas and watch television. One night I accompanied a few friends to relax at the hostel bar before heading out for live music at a Fado club. When we entered the place, I saw 20 Europeans and Americans hanging out on the couches, playing pool and drinking various brews. Quin, the Angolan hotel manager, invited my friends and I for a free round. United Statesian rap music was blasting from the stereo so I did not hear the television, but rather saw that it was on when I reached the counter. On the 19" Magnavox the crowd was watching a freakishly muscular man penetrate a moaning woman from behind. In the time it took my jaw to drop and turn my head to see if my friends had noticed the program, I realized that I had seen that couple somewhere before...

It didn't take but a minute for this situation to bring me back to Brazil. It was during my stay in Bahia that I had a rather curious experience with a host family. I had been studying abroad with a group from the UC's and it was during our last week of intensive language training in Salvador where this story unfolds.

Before leaving Bahia to study in Rio de Janeiro, my good friend Marcela invited me to share a meal with her host family. It was still early in the afternoon when I went over to hang out at their house. I was under the impression that we would be dining at her place, although Marcela's host mother informed me that we would in fact be going over to her sister's apartment. This sister, Guilce, was also hosting a student from Santa Cruz.

Marcela's host mom drove us over to Guilce's house. They were well-off single women who lived in nicely styled apartments in the middleclass section of Salvador. When we entered the house, Guilce invited us for drinks in the living room. She was extremely friendly, as most Brazilians are. We talked about politics, our not wanting to leave Bahia and our upcoming stay in Rio. As we consumed cocktails, Guilce mentioned that she had recently rented a video and wanted to show us a clip. I asked her what the video was and she said it was a surprise. She took the VHS, popped it into the VCR and looked at Marcela and I while the machine began to load the film. Then all of a sudden, without introduction of dialogue there was a man and woman having energetic sex. I did not have time to think and all I could mutter was, "Oh meu deus!" I turned my head and both Marcela and I were attempting to steer our vision away from the TV although the sounds of the woman groaning were loader than Bahian drumming. Guilce then grabbed our faces and said, "Look! Look! They're not using a condom." She proceeded to turn off the television and say, "Who's ready for dinner?"

Although I still do not quite understand the purpose of that little show-and-tell, I suppose she wanted to shock us. My classmates in Portugal told me that at the dorms at the University of Porto it was a common practice to spend the post-studying hours watching pornography together in the student lounge. I though I was liberal, but I guess I was behind on the times?

These experiences abroad always illuminate my own reality at home. Our society is very "undercover freak". We pretend to be puritanical when in fact, we are not. Then we think we are progressive, although we could learn a bit from other cultures. This is not to say that I am dying to enter Starbucks and catch the latest pornographic effort while drinking my morning coffee. However, it is interesting to note what one considers to be normal, because for others, there will always exist a certain level of strangeness.

But foreign pornography can be educational. I mean, how else are we gonna know what to say in a similar situation since there are certain words a professor won't teach your grammar class...

She dogs

I was mad at Freckles because she ate my flipper. Well, she didn't swallow it but she chewed the hell out of it and it took me three days to get a new one. She thought we were cool because I gave her grilled chicken. But now when I have extra pieces of poultry I feed them to the trash because we're not friends anymore. She kept on begging me to forgive her with her twinkling brown eyes and hair the color of mine. She almost broke me down. Mom said to chill it on out, give the bitch a break. Freckles is just gonna have to suffer.

Maybe I over reacted, but you know how I am. Anyway, this morning I was brewing my Columbian dark roast and since I barely had my eyes open I didn't notice the puddle of blood on the kitchen floor. I nearly busted a bone when I slipped on the petite pond of ruby fluid and landed smack on the arse. When I realized what the substance was I thought someone had been wounded and immediately began searching for a corpse.

Okay I didn't really begin by looking for a corpse. You know I had to drink my coffee first. (Jesus, I really have become my mother...) After I finished the cup, I embarked on my mission, which lasted all of 79 seconds since there was no one in the house. Well, except for the dog, who was giving me her sanguine stare and I noticed there was a trickle of blood on her paw. At that point my roommate walked in the house and when I told her the dog was hurt, she checked it out and simply said that it was Freckles' time of the month.

I guess I never really gave it enough thought but I didn't consider the fact that a dog would have a menstrual cycle. Unlike humans, they aren't able to hide the liquid with sanitary napkins and tampons. They have to wait for their owners to come mop up the linoleum.

You know what? I used to hate dogs. It's because one tried to bite my hand off when I was a first grader. Even though the dog had one of those cones around it's neck to prevent it from eating people, I just wanted to see what would happen. I still have all my fingers, thank god, but I have since castigated the entire canine race. (I was also once attacked by a duck and cow, but that's a different story...)

Oh, and here's another thing. I thought I knew some young mothers, but dogs are taking the cake. Freckles is only two and they already have her shacking up with the neighbor. If you ask me, Freckles could do better, but these fools are desperate for grandchildren and started mating her with the first dog to line up at the doorstep.

It was a wee bit freakish, too, to hear the kids talk about it. They got so excited when the dogs began procreating. "They're doing it. Yay, they're doing it!" If I were a dog, I would have wanted a little more privacy. Imagine if your family were in the next room the first time you started having sex and they were out there cheering you on. Isn't that disturbing?

Me and freckles are cool now. But you wanna know what's messed up? Every time my mother calls to see what I'm doing she doesn't ask about me, she asks about Freckles. Dang, you know it's shady when you're own mom's trying to replace you with a dog...

Airing the Dirty

Raise your hand if you used to have to wash your own clothes. I’m not talking about dragging your little piles of socks and pants to your personal washing machine, I’m talking about scrubbing everything by hand. Or maybe you used to have to carry your wash to the laundry mat? Man, I used to hate that.

There was a wash house about 4 blocks from our apartment and even though it wasn’t a particularly long walk to the little house of washers, I detested the fact that I had to use one of those silver carts with two wheels that I’d only ever seen old ladies and the lady who collected dead cats use. Maybe I was a fool, but I was embarrassed, okay! I tried to avoid doing my laundry by buying more underwear and pairs of pants at Ross but that just made matters worse. See, that just meant that when I ran out of money I had even MORE clothes to wash. Eventually I had to break down and drag the funky garments to the laundry mat. Because I hated the rusty silver cart so much I found a huge computer box and decided I would put all my clothing in the cardboard container and use a moving dolly to transport the items to my destination. This proved to be quite useful and a lot easier to maneuver.

Every Sunday on my habitual trip to Wash n Spin my neighbors would see me and wonder what on earth I was doing with that computer box. They didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing but I know they were probably suspicious. When arriving at the wash house other patrons would look at me in wonder, trying to figure out why I was delivering a computer to a dusty room of washing machines.

It went on like this for a while until some crack head stole my dolly from behind the house. Wait, actually I think my mom sold it at a yard sale. That made me mad. We were always having yard sales and it surprised me that others would actually want to purchase our junk. So at this point I went on a strike and vowed to wash all of my clothes by hand. In order for the garments to dry I would hang them on the banister of the duplex porch, which was simple enough. Except sometimes clothes would go missing and I’d see them down the street at the local raccoon hang out. Little animals would run off with my t-shirts, creating little cotton homes in my Ross purchases.

Now that I’m in college and there is a laundry room in my building, my mother had the nerve to go buy a washer and dryer. Oh and she tells me that she has the best time washing all of her clothes, no more late nights at the local wash house. Although the little machine always seems to be on the fritz whenever I come home…

Their African Experiment

First of all, they promised they weren’t going to minister to me, although I should have known not to trust the fundamentalists. I was intrigued because on campus near the UCLA Fowler museum on the lawn that leads to the “stairway to heaven” was a large brown tent erected in the image of disaster relief camps that one might view on the evening news. What attracted me initially was the large poster of Africa with the picture of a very young and sad-eyed boy whose face was on posters around campus. (You know, the typical pull-at-the-heartstrings image) The “African experience” which was sponsored by World Vision, a Christian Relief Organization and the UCLA campus crusaders for Christ, wanted UC Students to know what it might be like for children in “Africa”. In fact, the exhibit allowed one to walk through the shoes of three children, one from Malawi, one from Zambia and the other from Uganda. One was able to do this by wearing a headset and going through the “tent-rooms” designated to the specific child.

Prior to entering the exhibit, campus crusaders introduced people to the purpose of the project and told us of their “intense” experiences of walking through the shoes of one of these three children. Although, when I asked one worker which country the child of her “African Experience” was from, she couldn’t quite recall. She said, “I think she was from Uganda or Rwanda or Zambia, well…” [You know, aren’t they all the same?] Imagine if we were immigrants in Uganda and someone were trying to say “I think this person is from the US or maybe Mexico or Haiti or Honduras or maybe Brazil, well, you know, it’s all the same over there in the Americas.” My goodness…

With MP3 and hi-tech Sony headphones in my possession, I embarked on my journey through the life of Steven, a young boy from Northern Uganda. The Euro-male narrator’s slitherish voice informed me that I was a poor child in Northern Uganda and had been abducted and brainwashed by the Lords Resistance Army. Although the positive part of this was that I was also told that I, as Steven, was HIV negative, although the other two “African experiments” were HIV positive. Although mostly interesting, especially for people who are unaware of the LRA in Northern Uganda, the information provided on Uganda’s AIDS crisis was questionable.

After 20 minutes of living the life of Steven, I exited the tent to be greeted by Campus crusaders who consulted all the “African Experiencers” for post-exhibit consultation. The potential pastor who met with me asked me of my religious affiliations and when I told him I was Christian he wanted to know which church I went to and what sorts of ministering I did. Although I informed this young man that I was not part of an official church, he seemed to question my Christianness (oh how I desired to say “I am Christian, but I serve the Orixás and I consult curandieros from time to time!”). I tried to keep the conversation focused on Africa, but he went on and asked me what I thought God had to do with Africa. Um, well, first of all the Catholic Church was a major proponent in the slave trade. And what about the Jewish children kidnapped in the Iberian Peninsula during the Inquisition who were taken to São Tomé and Príncipe (and possibly other African Nations)? It has nothing to do with God, but people who use it as an excuse. Deus é grande, viu!

When I suggested that people actually go to Africa and do something, the crusaders seemed less thrilled and simply smiled before God-blessing me goodbye.

And of course before leaving the African Experience you could sponsor one of World Vision’s famous children. Don’t ask to actually bring the money in person, because they have no idea where these children actually live and if they really exist. Just hand over the money to make yourself feel better. Or, if you are a fan of politicking through jewelry, you could, for a mere $27.50 buy a small beaded bracelet from Kenya. Or was it Malawi, Mali, or Mozambique? Wait, we cannot remember. Was it Guyana? No, Guyana is in South Asia. I mean South America. I was thinking of Guinea. Where is that, again?

And they will pray for you. Because Prayer is a beautiful thing. Then I ask myself, but sitting on a lawn, holding hands, singing kumbaya is going to do what, exactly, for Steven and the other children abducted by the LRA? For AIDS? For Education? For Poverty?

Meu Deus…


What do you think?

Going Kosher: Kashwhat?

How was I supposed to know there were so many rules to preparing Jewish cuisine? When the rabbi asked if I could cook kosher food I said I could although I was thinking to myself, “um like bagels?” I spent a lot of time smiling and nodding my head, hoping the congregation members wouldn’t discover the fact that I know little about most religions except for Vodou and Brazilian Candomblé. I know what Iemanjá, the goddess of the sea likes to eat, so how about we stop talking about Jesus and whip up a feast for the water mother?

It is not my job to cater in a large Jewish temple but since my mother, who is also very much not a practitioner of Judaism is the catering manager, I often get weaseled into helping in the kitchen. The other day she made a delicious casserole for the congregation lunch and it probably wasn’t her intention to make the whole temple throw up, but who knew it wasn’t kosher to mix diary and meat? Well, at least we remembered not to put pork in there. Wait, did we?

At the tot Shabbat party I couldn’t figure out why all the little munchkins were falling over with laugher, unable to walk a straight line. They had eaten their little kiddy finger food and drank all the grape juice in the refrigerator. The forty little ones loved that grape juice so much I ran out of the 14 bottles and they continued to act freakishly felicitous while the adults looked on and questioned their contentment. It wasn’t until later when someone asked where all the wine had gone that I realized, “oh shit.” Was it my fault that Manischevitz wine says “grape juice” and is deceptively sweet? Once again I say, it wasn’t my intention to get four dozen pre-schoolers drunk.

Despite the fact that I speak four languages, Hebew is not one of them. This became apparent to me when I was supposed to read the Hebrew script on a Sedar plat which has to be arranged per the ritualistic requirements of Passover. I thought if I stared at the plate long enough the language gods would bestow me with the ability to make out the words for “lamb shank” and “egg” and “this apple raison stuff that I am pretending to know what it is”. Luckily there was a children’s cheat-sheet (gotta love the kid-os!) which allowed us to prepare Passover’s symbolic platter.

I don’t know if you have ever worked in the catering business, but it was what motivated me to go to school. In High School I worked a banquet at Stanford and had to carry a tray of flaming cakes that almost set my head on fire. The snooty-patoody Stanford graduates instilled in me the desire to first, burn them with the flames, and second, to not have to do this for the rest of my life. But I do enjoy the occasional interlude in the caterer’s kitchen. Especially since Sonya, or favorite nut, was there to entertain me. And despite the fact that she once threatened to shoot me, to which my mother replied, “don’t worry, she probably won’t” (um, probably?) I enjoy listening to her madness as it makes me feel perfectly sane. She’s about fifty years old now, and has been in college for as long as I have been on this earth. And much similar to the Valley girl’s interjection of “like” after every other word, Sonya Guadalupe interjects a good “fuck” “shit” or “mother fucker” about two to three times per phrase. And because we were in a temple she attempted to sweeten her talk with a nice hardy, “holy shit” for god’s sake.

Whenever we cannot figure something out, god forbid we ask one of the many Jewish individuals at the temple. Instead we consult our handy “Judaism for dummies.” Shabbat Shalom!

Off My Chest

Call me over sensitive, but since when is it acceptable to compare Asian women to tropical diseases? When I heard the white boy say he was trying to get at our Korean classmate because he had Yellow Fever, I first thought he forgot his inoculation while lollygagging in some tropical zone, until I caught on to the fact he was talking about “yellow” people. I thought I was just a little too Berkeley being overly PC until a Japanese man at the table confirmed my suspicions when he said, “dude, that’s not cool.” I suppose the boy didn’t mean anything by it, just his natural attraction to women from the vast and diverse continent of Asia. But still, how could one compare women to a disease and not think anything of it?

Lately these kinds of commentaries have been bringing the hot-head out in me. Just yesterday a classmate who is the leader of an NGO that works with orphans in Tanzania said, “most Tanzanians are shady.” The kid was referring to the fact that he had wired money to a Dar-es-Salaam-based lawyer who hadn’t been in contact with him since receiving the funds. He said this while preparing some of his volunteers for their upcoming trip to Arusha. I was surprised that someone who is supposed to be leading a group of young Americans to Tanzania would be a little more careful with filling their heads with stereotypes. Maybe this particular lawyer did rip the American off, but I would say that “most lawyers are shady.” The funny thing is that everyone at the table agreed with the guy while I was surprised that no one would argue with this when we all claim to be educated and open-minded individuals. The way that people handle money and circumvent systems differs by country and as they say, “never part with anything you cannot live without”.

Maybe I’m all ranty and ravy this week but I was also thinking about the book White Man, have you read it? By Tony D’Souza, about a peace corps volunteer in Cote D’Ivore (Ivory Coast). The book is supposed to be fiction, but please, all fiction is inspired by reality and I know he was there because I had a TA at CAL who was in the Ivory Coast with him until the war broke out and they ended up going to work in Madagascar and apparently this man was kicked out of the peace corps. Anyway, mostly D’Souza is a good writer but I really wanted to jump inside the book and slap him when he called the African women “all ass and tits”. He also was out there slutting around, sleeping with different women without protection which I found curious as he was supposed to be helping the AIDS pandemic not making it worse. But I was thoroughly entertained by this man who went oh so native, and when he wasn’t catering to the audience of playboy readers, his prose was almost impressive.

So, I am currently infuriated by the bull shight propagated by the Bruin Standard, UCLA’s republican paper of lies which I normally wouldn’t pay any attention to accept some male idiot wrote the most ridiculous article about the need to get Planned Parenthood off campus. Because they “force minority women to abort their babies.” Which, if you didn’t already know, is bull shight and I say let’s Abort the Bruin Standard.

to be continued.

But first, in the words of Audrey Lorde , “your silence will not protect you.”

Mermaidens of Slutbucks

Do you think merwomen should cover their breasts or is it suitable for these mythical mavens to parade around with their boobies swimming in the wind? Well dear, according to an unnamed Christian group from San Diego the naked mermaid prostitute (excuse me guys, don’t you know they are called transactional sex workers now?) on the cups at Starbucks has turned this international coffee imperialist into Slutbucks. Or so they say. Apparently the appearance of a 15th century two-tailed siren has caused some alarm and even drove a Washington principal to require his teachers to cover up their bare-breasted coffee cups.

Make no mistake about it, Starbucks did not invent merpeople. They appeared first in Assyrian mythology as far back as 1000 B.C, though the current Starbucks emblem is based on the siren from Greek Mythology. But this little Christian group from SD doesn’t have time to worry about history. All they know is that this long haired aqua enchantress is destroying family values. In fact, the current image is less revealing than the original one, the present motif now covering up the merwoman’s nipples. Starbucks said they might only run the new logo for a few weeks. If they are thinking of dropping the merphoto because of these whackos I say to Starbucks, don’t be such a pussy! How dare you give in to the merphobes!

My only complaint is: what’s with the sexism? Why is there no merman on these Starbuck cups? I mean, come on now, what happened to sexual equality. Men are merfolk too. Well, at the very least, if you’re going to call Starbucks out, why waste your time with a two-tailed myth? Question their fair-trade policies, labor relations, environmental impact and US imperialism. But please, do not hate on the merpeople.

After all, what’s a mergirl to do?






(These facts were taken from the Minnesota Star Tribune , Wikepedia y mi cabeza)

Killing the Global Rooster

In Brazil while haggling for discounts, some vendors would spend two to three hours leading me to believe that I was getting a markdown only to find out that the price had remained the same. “It’s worth killing the rooster,” they’d say. To which I’d reply, “I don’t own any poultry.” Unimpressed with my sarcastic commentaries, I’d be forced to throw in a snog to sweeten the deal. Nothing full-frontal. Well, unless the merchant was a gatinho :)

After seven months in Bahia and Rio I’d returned to Berkeley ready to bargain the hell out of any potential purchase. At Macy’s, Ross or Target I’d glance at the ticket price and be determined to pay at least half of it. At these stores most shoppers respond to the cash register tally by pulling out a credit card, check book or appropriate amount of cash. However, when the Target cashier announced the total of $71.69 I pulled out two 20’s and a 10 and said, “How about I give you fifty dollars and we call it a day?” The lady thought I was joking, though when she realized I was serious she proceeded to withdraw $21.69 worth of merchandise from the white plastic bags and smiled while declaring, “Now we have a deal.”

So it turns out that at these chain stores the prices are non-negotiable. Unless you’re one of those super cheapskates who switches tags at discount stores or pulls out threads on random garments and then demands a 10% discount. Me, on the other hand, I have discovered that at certain independent, foreign-run establishments pricings may be open for discussion.

Take this Tibetan shop on Shattuck for example, which is run by a man I like to refer to as “The Town Flirt”. The first time I went into his small business of jewelry heaven, the bashful Tibetan introduced himself and invited me to his apartment for tea. Or maybe it was weed. He mentioned something about leaves or trees, although I was completely sidetracked by the most fantastic ring I’d even eyed. I admired the mulit-hued glass fragments enclosed over a sterling band and thought that while many girls dream of owning diamond rings, I’d surely be content with this forty dollar piece of finger art. Though I thought 40 bucks was a bit steep for a ring that was much like its 20 dollar glass cousins sold on Telegraph. But this one was different.

The charming shop owner, who must have interpreted a sign of flirtation during my thirty second ringed reverie, leaned in to kiss me. Now, had I not been trained in the art of snog dodging during my escapades in Brazil I might have fallen onto the stacks of bangles and prayer beads. Instead I backed away, all of a sudden so conscious of the fact that I was the only one in the store and he was standing in the path to the exit. Then I got a little closer and was like, wait a minute, does this mean I get a price cut?

Since opening up his little spot in Downtown Berkeley, I have seen him on the curb in front of his store dallying with all the Cal girls. I would walk on the other side of the street trying to master a plan to acquire that ring. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the mullah; I just didn’t want anyone’s saliva to go along with it. In fact, it took me a good year before I got the damn thing. One day I convinced my friend to accompany to the store, and while she occupied the owner’s attention, I dove into the ring bowl, pulled out my treasure, smacked two twenties on the counter and made a dash for it.

After settling in he must have found other customers to kiss because he doesn’t bother me anymore. You might even call us friends now, though the motherfucker refuses to reduce the prices on any of his merchandise. This might not be such a problem in a town with a million other South East Asian shops, but this man has the best jewelry in the East Bay, so I’m always coming back for more. He frequently invites his loyal patrons to his home for a late night smoke-out. Although I’m not a smoker, I’m often compelled to see if, while high, he might finally give me a break.

I have learned that as my Portuguese professor once said to me, “If you don’t cry, you don’t suckle.” Which is much like what Americans mean when they say in a less breasty way, “Ask and you shall receive.” Although one might not always get what they want, it sure is an adventure trying.

Plumber bootylicious

Today it occurred to me that some people have rather hairy asses. It wasn’t something I had previously contemplated while commuting on the Culver City Bus. Granted, many a silly thought has lingered on my brain during my daily bus journeys, though today’s epiphany was sparked by the fuzzy rump of a rider who entered the green omnibus on National and Sepulveda. I was in the middle section, listening to Cesaria Evora when I saw the UCLA student flash his ID to the driver on his way to take a seat. I wasn’t actually watching him, though he was in my line of sight so I sort of gazed in his direction as he placed his backpack on the seat aside him. It was then as he leaned over to search one of his pack pockets that I was visually slapped with the image of the crack of his wooly derriere. I turned my head to glance out the window thinking that by now he might lift up his pants to cover up the exposed flesh. After all, didn’t he feel the breeze? Or did his assly tresses insulate against the temperature change?

I couldn’t help but stare. Not because I found his comose tush attractive, to the contrary prior to witnessing his bottom I thought he might have been kind of cute. He looked like he might have been of Middle Eastern descent; he had that curly dark hair/brooding look going for him. But all that beastly flesh just put me off. Still I found myself curious about this man who had a Palestinian bracelet on his arm and spoke in American accented French on his cell phone while I pretended to be listening to my IPOD, secretly ear hustling for any bit of information I might find on my capillaceous co-rider.

Aside from the classic plumber, I hadn’t witnessed as many male cracks as female flashes of arcey flesh. Normally this is a result of hip hugger jeans but the guy today was not metro, nor were his pants too baggy. They seemed to be fitted appropriately to cover up the entire rear end, though I thought at the very least his male panties would cover up his little butt. Or maybe he was going commando.

When he finally turned in my direction it was too late. I had already burst out laughing while thinking about the many ways to describe someone’s fleecy fanny. What was more was that I thought had my six-year-old sister been with me she surely would have started pointing while yelling, “Plumber Butt!”. So In pure Kindergarten fashion I tossed my head back and laughed until tears bled my mascara. I wonder what the guy was thinking as he put his phone down and stared at me until my stop came.

Sleeping on Strangers

You know how when you wake up next to someone and you cannot recall their name? Yesterday that happened to me. I was sleeping upright and had been jerked awake by the back and forth rhythm of a train. As I picked my head up off the shoulder of the woman sitting next too me, I began to wonder: how long had I been asleep? Who was this person sitting beside me and, oh shit, I drooled all over her arm.

There are only so many places a person can hide on Amtrak so I was not quite sure where I could escape to and since there where only two people, me and her, in the two seat row, she would find out sooner or later that those were my bodily fluids on her red sweater. I had a few options: hope that the small lake I had spilled from my mouth onto her shoulder would dry within the time it took to ride from LA to Emeryville; find a bottle of water and accidentally spill it on her to cover up the offensive spot; or go back to sleep. So, I decided on the latter because, well, I was tired and a little drool never hurt anybody.

While riding long distance transport there are certain rules that get tossed out the bus, train or plain window because 12 hours on public transport will make you do weird things: like sleep on strangers.

I've frequently awoken on air plains to find my shoulder beneath the head of some sleepy traveler. It's not that we intentionally try to snuggle up with our neighbors, it's just that our heads roll around as we attempt to get whatever kind of sleep we can when returning home from a long vacation or preparing for an upcoming adventure in Amsterdam, Zanzibar or Buenos Aires. Whatever the destination might be, my fellow travelers and I may not know each other by name, but we, in our slumbersome states, often support each other with a little shoulder to sleep on, or in my case, to drool on.

Flying across county while tired is not always fun and snuggles. One time when returning to Oakland from Houston on Continental Aircrimes the lovely little people at Hobby booked a separate seat for my little sister who was four year old at the time. The flight was full and the stuarts instructed that we request that passengers switch seats to allow my little sister to sit next to me or my mother. Naturally grown adults would be willing to move seats to accommodate a preschooler, right?

Wrong. The man sitting next to me neglected to move because he wanted to sit next to his mother. This man who was, I don’t know, say about 40 years old. What a punk. The man sitting next to my mother said he didn’t want to move because he did not want to sit in a middle seat. So the good people at Continental Aircrimes made this girl sit by herself where she proceeded to cry for two hours straight until my neighbor’s mother knocked her son upside the head and finally he switched seats to let the freaked out little passenger be reunited with one of her family members. And what’s more, the man sitting next to my mother fell asleep on my mother’s shoulder. When the seat belt sign was turned off Alexis walked up the aisle to our mother’s section and woke up the big meanie sleeping in her place.

Argentina

The Official Langauges of Me

I would like to dedicate this to the people who think Spanish if the Official language of Brazil…

Darlings, it’s going to be a challenge to not come off as a jerk but recently you all have really tickled my nerves. Now, I’m sure you mean well and everything. And perhaps you didn’t intend to say, “Wow after so much time in Brazil your Spanish must be really great.” Or, and I am sure you didn’t try to ask, “Did you live in the capital: Buenos Aires?” But really, we cannot know everything about every place so I understand that if you had time to google these locales you would be better informed. Wouldn’t you?

But I’m not giving you guys enough credit. Clearly most of you know that Portuguese is the official language of Brazil: the largest country in Latin America. Funny, huh, when we say “Latino” what language do we assume these individuals speak? Portuguese? And what about Dutch, French and English: the official languages of three other countries in “Latin” America. This is a question I’ve been toying with, recently. But really it is our fault, our strange and unrepresentational ethnic categories. How we try to shove our selves into boxes.

Once in Spanish class at UC Berkeley a Mexican-American classmate said to me, “you should have been born colored.” Clearly he meant “ a person of color” not “a black person” because God-forbid I should break the rules of what his notion of a Spanish or Portuguese speaker should be. After all, where did he think Spanish and Portuguese came from? They’re not the original languages of the Aztec and Tupi people. They’re EUROPEAN languages, sweetie. Funny, too, because although he had never been to his “native” Mexico, I had already been there. Thrice.

In California it is quite common for people of all linguistic backgrounds to learn Spanish because it is our second language, so it comes as less of a surprise that I should have a degree in it. Portuguese is less popular, but it’s basically the same thing, right? (Adoro como o pessoal sempre acho que a língua é igualzinha.) Keep telling yourself that. Even so it is not completely obvious that these two Romance languages are not my native tongues. After all, many a woman in Latin America shares my name. And the post WWII German immigration to Latin America also means that you’ll find Brazilians and Argentine’s who are probably my long lost cousins. In fact, the first person outside of my family that I met with the last name Tesch was a man from Rio: Carlos Tesch, a second generation German-Brazilian.

Now that I have been studying Swahili the responses are, well, interesting. Generally people know that it is an African language, and a good chunk of those folks understand it comes from East Africa. Heck, prior to my first day of instruction I was armed with the phrase “Hakuna Matata” just like the other millions of people who saw the Lion King. It really does mean no worries, so at least the Disney viewing population could say something correctly. Which is more than I can say for the gazillions who irritatingly mis-say Spanish with “no problemo” People, it is “no problema”, But I guess we can call it Spanish Creole, and then I won’t be all disturbed by it.

Last weekend I was going for a stroll in Culver City and stopped by my local liquor store for a 20 oz. Crystal Geyser. As I paid for the overpriced bottle of water, the coquettish cashier struck up a conversation about the heat and one sentence lead to another and I told him I was getting a Masters Degree in African Studies. “Wow,” he said “ What, did you date a guy from Africa, or something?” This was not the first time I had heard this response. It is always a challenge to reply to these questions without pointing out the idiocy. “No, that is not the reason. “ I try to explain quickly that I had studied in Brazil and became interested in the Lusophone world, which is what directed me to African Studies. Why on earth would my studies be the result of men? Did all heterosexual men major in the ethnic backgrounds of their girl friends? Or was I the one missing the point?

What's my Fiancé's name again?

It's always fun to get wedding proposals. My favorite proposition occurred at a little café at the fruit market in Lisbon. It was my first week in the capital and despite the fact that it was nearly 90 degrees outside, I was in desperate need of coffee. I had been traveling with a group of UC students and my professor had managed to show us half of the country in one month. In between hiking up ancient castles, drinking vinho verde and going to class, she had forgotten to schedule enough time for sleep. So there I was, perspiring in the unforgiving heat of Portugal in August and all I could think of was café.

My friend Gaby and I had searched the stands of the indoor market and after finding nothing but yellow melons and olives, we stumbled across a little bar tucked away in the corner of the warehouse that happened to sell exactly what I craved.

We entered the café and when I requested a galão (coffee with milk) the barista noted my accent and asked what part of Brazil I was from. We began to chat as she steamed up the café com leite and I told her that I was in fact from California. She expressed her desire to someday know my country and recounted her experience of realizing her dream of coming to Portugal after saving enough money to leave her native land, Cape Verde.

Just as I was about to ask her what Praia was like, a man walked into the room and yelled, "Beleza africana!" I looked at the waitress, assuming the man was referring to the West African woman. He meandered up to the counter and placed his hand on my head and repeated, "Beleza africana!" At this point the entire room was laughing, including me. You see, for lack of a more embellished explanation, I am white. So when this man proclaimed that I had "African beauty" I presumed it was some sort of joke.

I stared at the middle-aged man and requested an explanation. He fiddled with a strand of my red hair and said, "You're hair, you have African beauty." He was referring to my hair style, as I had parted the top half into eight twisted plaits that gathered into a bun above the remaining loose tresses. He then pointed to a blonde waitress and said, "See her hair? It's so boring. She doesn't have what you have." The Portuguese waitress rolled her eyes but did not take offense as we had all come to the conclusion that this man was a bit off his rocker.

The barista handed me the coffee and as I was about to say thank you to the man and get on with my plans to consume caffeine, he said, "Let's get married." As he spoke these words I looked at the waitress and barista who glanced at me and we all burst out laughing, again. Was this man serious? He then insisted that he have his picture taken with me. Gaby had her digital Olympus in hand and as she pressed the shutter release my fiancé planted a wet kiss on my right cheek.

The man continued to insist we be wed. He promised to take me to his native São Tomé. My initial reaction was to let him down kindly. Then I thought, wait a minute! If he's offering a free ticket to São Tomé then I just might have to accept. I mean, I never had a real daddy so I might as well get a sugar one...

It then dawned on me that it was two o'clock and my class was about to leave. The São Tomean scribbled his phone number on a napkin and commanded that I call him later on in the evening. I took the paper and waved tchau to the Cabo-Verdian barista who continued to smile as I restrained my urge to laugh. I did not even get to finish my coffee.

As Gaby and I made our way out of the Ribeira and to the bus stop, I thought, 'I should call him one of these days, to talk about our wedding plans..."