Minha Amiga brasileira

I thought I was going to be white. Or at least bear a title to match. In Tanzania and Kenya I was called, among many things, “Mzungu”. “Mzungu” is an East African version of Gringo/a. When I arrived in Maputo, I was sure that I would wear the same name. Mzungu, too, is a term used in Mozambique to describe foreigners. To my surprise upon engaging in conversation with locals they say, “Ah, minha amiga brasileira! Tu és de onde?” (My Brazilian Friend! Where are you from?) If I do not give time for them to guess, they begin asking, “Baiana? Carioca? Ou Paulista?” (Are you from Bahia, Rio or Sao Paulo?)

The first day I said with appropriate accentuation that I was Berkeliana. Technically, it would not be a lie if I said that I saw Bahiana, of the San Francisco Bay Area, not the Brazilian one. My new friends scratched their heads and repeated, “Berkeliana?” Since I did not wish to lie, I confessed that it was a city “que fica na California.” It is at these moments when my actual nation of provenience is clarified and then they say, “A senhora é Americana, mas porque fala brasileiro?” (Miss, you are from America! But why do you speak “Brazilian”?)

Many people here want to know what’s up with this love for Brazil. Why is that so many traveling Americans in Mozambique speak “Brazilian”, as Mozambicans lovingly term the ways in which Brazilians express Portuguese.

In the US, when learning Portuguese, most schools teach Brazilian Portuguese, giving small mentions to the other aspects of the Lusophone world. I, too, was a student of “Brazilian” language, but at the same moment it was the space that connected me to Portugal, Luso-Africa and Luso-Asia. It was what led me here.

Why this so-called “everyone” loves Brasil, is a misterio to me. At least for those dwelling in California, it’s cheaper to fly to than Portugal. People have all kinds of motives for going to Brasil, be it: Carnaval, beaches, futebol, Samba, Capoeira, or learning Portuguese. It’s a place that exudes images of enchantment and sexiness. For many it is a fantasy realized to go there. Clearly, the exaggeration and objectification of Brazilian culture is a major issue, but in terms of traveling style, it is what’s hot, now. Think about Portugal, what do most people know about it beyond Saramango and Port? Perhaps even Fado music, which is gorgeous, but not the type of tune the youth are itching to shake a little something to.

Brasil is the kind of place, like the US, that has outshined it’s European counterpart. Portuguese speaking countries in Africa and Asia need not direct their attention merely to Europe for help, Brazil is doing big things for it’s Lusophone brethren.

Sure, in Mozambican restaurants, the well-to-do sip on Portuguese wine and imported bottles of Pedras sparkling water. But at night, the young drink caipirinhas and listen to Samba, Brazilian pop and other American and African beats. Fado in the club? I doubt it.

On television in Mozambique, there is a contrast between two Brazils: Daily broadcasts of Brazilian soap operas entertain the connected masses, while ambulant street venders sell pirated copies of “City of God” and “City of Men”. When discussing Brazilian cinema with these merchants they affirmed the fabulousness of these films, but also took these fictitious flicks as fact. “In Brazil,” the vendors say, “In Rio, bullets spray through the streets. It is dangerous there.” Even so, I asked if they really thought that was a reality. These same vendors were selling copies of Blood Diamond and Hotel Rwanda. Naturally, these films were inspired by real events, but we can all agree that these high productions over dramatize and embellish the truth to make money. As someone who has lived in Rio, I tried to convince them it was not guaranteed that a person would be caught by a stay bullet while strolling down the spectacular boulevards of Zona Sul. Yes, there is warfare in the favelas, like there is warfare in guettos, but I never knew anyone who got shot in Brazil. But in Berkeley, yeah, I know someone who got shot. More than one.

Media is an exciting weapon, a dangerous tool that can be used in or against the defense of a people’s image. Especially if one only has a limited source of this (mis)information. One time in Portugal I met a man from Angola who said that he would never dare step foot in the United States. Even though he had fled his own homeland due to one of the longest civil wars in Africa, he believed the states to be a breeding ground for indiscriminate violence. “I’ve seen TV, I know what’s going on there,” he told me this at a hostel in Lisbon, “I know that if I go there, people will just shoot me in the streets. That’s how America is, everyone has guns, and the people shoot each other.” His name was Quim, and even though he could speak English fluently, and would totally blend in on Telegraph, he was unconvinced with my assurance that he probably wouldn’t get hurt if he didn’t go looking for trouble. I asked him. “What about Angola? Even though the war is over, people say that Luanda is dangerous. I doubt the US is worse than that.” But oh no, he swore I would never encounter a problem in the Angolan capital. It was my land that was viciously marketing itself as a gun-toting freak fest.

Luckily America’s image has been boosted in East Africa with Obama’s candidacy. Before when traveling we had to hang our heads in shame, pretending to be from Canada. But now, from Kenya to Mozambique, supporters of Obama wear his face on their shirts and say, “Do you like Obama?” If you say yes, and you’re trying to negotiate a price, you’ll pay half. People love Obama. Luckily, they love Brazil, too, because now that I’m communicating in Portuguese, my accent gives me away. “Brazilian?” They say, “Well then, we’re family.”