A cidade das luzes.

I am currently living in the prosperous city of lights; Ponta Grossa, Paraná, Brasil. It is not a charming city, but it serves it’s purpose well. Ponta Grossa, comprised of 300,000 inhabitants, is home to several universities, and is the primary hub for agricultural industries in the Campos Gerais region. My home has become a small collective dormitory like building that houses nearly 30 other students. My single room is equipped with a dresser, desk, and bed, as well as paper thin walls that offer the soothing sensation of the particularly boisterous boy adjacent to me. Almost as if he is breathing on my neck, I feel his presence upon me. Although I rarely see him, and have never spoken to him, I have become quite acquainted with his living habits. When I do see him, it is primarily masked by the shadows, for he is the most rare and exotic animal I have come across thus far upon my travel. He has recently taking a liking to the band Creed, listening and attempting to play their songs on guitar for a minimum of 4 hours a day. Other melodic jams which accompany me as I lay in bed in an attempt to fall asleep include “Carry on My Wayward Son” by Kansas and Alice Cooper’s infamous “I’m 18”. These facts only further develop my hypothesis that the country of Brazil is stuck in a past wave of American music and media. Although this data does not personally confirm my presumptions of the era being the 1980’s, I have never met as many people that enjoy 80’s hairs bands living this close in proximity to one another. It is just fascinating, however, I did not come to this foreign country to examine the current fads in Brazilian culture, but rather to develop better and more productive farming methods for family farming communities linked to the largest social movement in South America, The Landless Movement (MST). I am currently working on three different assentamentos, family farming settlements, which vary in both size and successfulness. It is interesting to compare and contrast the differences from the more established assentamentos, to the just recently formed, still not legal, Assentamento Zapata. I hope to further research the social struggle which these inhabitants have undergone, and how better methods of production and legislation can further advance their quality of living.

Pickled Pineapples

“I just don’t know what to do, I have so many different options. I am stuck in such a pickle”

In Portuguese there are two ways of describing a difficult situation by using fruits and vegetables. The first way, similar to the English language, is as follows:

Meu deus, eu tenho um pepino resolver.

The other, and my personal favorite, relates the peeling of a pineapple to the hardship of performing a difficult task or having the chore to make a decision:

Eu não posso, tenho um abacaxi para descascar.

It's only natural that a country which has so many different types of fruit use it in their slang. This has been my favorite discovery of the Portuguese language yet, only further aging myself into the old man which I have often been percieved as. Not many youngsters have been describing their problems with pineapples apparently. For shame.

Até uma outra vez que grande cidade

Monday morning I was on a bus heading for the rural city of Ponta Grossa. This is the view I saw as I leaned up against the window at 8:00 in the morning. It was an eight hour bus ride, and quite the transition from the largest city in Brazil, to one of the most heavily farmed regions in the country. As I looked at the city of São Paulo rising in the morning, I was baffled at the amount of space and people that it inhabited . The diversity is clearly the most noticeable part, for each neighborhood is extremely different from the next. From the prosperous business district of Avenida Paulista to the lively neighborhood of Vila Magdalena to the favelas which surround the city, São Paulo is crawling with an assortment of different breeds.

The second night in the city I had been taken to the classiest bar I had ever stepped into. The bar was situated on top of a hotel that was shaped like a ship, and for only R$ 840 a night, this beautiful hotel could be all yours equipped with a double bed and warm running water. It was a completely different experience from what I am used to, and the balcony offered magnificent views of this endless city. In every direction you looked there were buildings that seemed to stretch fro here to Chicago. I sat in the hotel, contently sipping my cachaça, soaking in this urban jungle as well as the 47% alcohol content this strong beverage offered. And now I sat looking at the favelas which seemed to stretch for miles. The separation of class is very evident throughout the city, yet the majority of people clearly reside in unhealthy living conditions. Although it was a sad way to say goodbye to São Paulo, it was reality. My journey ahead awaited long winding roads through the campos, small hilly regions, and thick forested regions, followed by small stops in rural villages. On the bus, I prepared myself to get ready for the ranch life I was soon to experience.

Comida para o pensamento.

It was my last day in São Paulo, a Sunday. Most places of business are closed on Sundays, but I managed to have a wonderful day walking around the once lively, and now abandoned, city. I went to a market in the Praça da Republica, which featured a variety of art vendors including such works of carvings, paintings, and various types of rocks. There was a great variety of food vendors as well, and I could not help but devour the best looking, and tasting, lime tart I had ever had. My eating habits were improving as my speaking capabilities enhanced. I learned that in order to eat, I must speak. After the first few days of light eating, due to the mere uncertainty and fear of trying to order food, I could now order my food with dignity and confidence. I am growing up, as I am now able to feed myself. Not only was my Portuguese improving, but I was learning about standard Brazilian cuisine as well; rice, beans, and ungodly amounts of meat. The previous day, I had gone to lunch at a local restaurant, ravished with hunger from hardly eating the day before. Colette, my companion for the feast, and I were about to learn a thing or two concerning the expected meal portions. After not recognizing anything on the menu, we decided on the one thing we did know, Feijoada, a traditional Brazilian meal consisting of pork and beens. Because this ever unique meal takes a considerable amount of time to cook, it is traditionally served one day out of the week. It was our lucky day. There were three options of course sizes: large, medium, small. Just to be safe, I went with the medium, as to not seem like to much of an American. Little did we know, Feijoada is an extremely large meal, and is expected to be shared between several people. We doubled down, and each ordered the R$ 14 meal for ourselves. So here we were, white, American and hungry, with two large portions of Feijoada and just barely enough room for the two large pitchers of juice we each ordered. The meal was satisfying, and could have fed roughly six people comfortably. At least I didn’t have to speak up for another meal for a while.

Casa doce casa

This was my place of residence for the next three nights, Hotel Rivole. It was in a decent neighborhood, Praça da Republica, and quite close to the metro. Although I was terrified of my own shadow after dark, I managed to walk these streets as if they were my own. The room was small, but sufficient. It had two twin beds, a private bathroom, and came with a complimentary breakfast, oh my. The trechorous hike to the third floor proved to be difficult with a 67 pound bag, but after the first attempt, I became quite acquainted with these narrow halls. I often had to go down and up again, as I would forget how cold it was in Brazil. Its percieved as a tropical wonderland, equiped with coconuts and palm trees, but it gets rather cold in the winter, and sweaters are a necessity. None the less, this $R 59.00 a night suite managed to far exceed my expectations, and proved to serve its purpose quite well as a small sleeping nook.


Accompanied by three fairly large bags, a foreign accent, and a baseball cap, I was quickly tagged as the American the minute I walked in. After abruptly knocking a picture off the wall, and taking two trips to get my oh so necessary luggage up the stairs, I comfortably settled into my room. As I fumbled over my words in an attempt to ask the attendant where a restaurant was, what was the time, or where to get a beer, the confused man behind the desk could not help but smile and nod. In a helpless effort to practice my Portuguese, I realized something, I need a lot of work. For all they knew I was speaking German with my horrendous accent. After a few days of listening to the language, my main method of communication, hand gestures, had slowly faded. People in public places began to understand me slightly better, and just as I got the city language down, I left for the country.

Gringo grande e branco, posso ter sua carteira por favor.

Seeing that I’m quite large ,and very white, I figured I would not be an easy target for pick pockets in São Paulo. Nearly four hours into my descent towards the dark inner workings of the city, Brazil had had enough of my rotting American presence, and decided to speed up the digestion process. I was publicly humiliated, attacked, and nearly beaten up by a ravenous pack of small children roughly seven years of age. I was sitting in this park in Praça da República, the historic neighborhood where I was staying, and suddenly, several small children came happily charging with the intentions of acquainting themselves with my pockets, rather than giving me a free lesson in Portuguese. After a futile attempt to communicate with me, they realized I was stupid, confused and vulnerable. Several loud cries were projected from the leader, commencing the battle, and I was immediately swarmed. A boy clutched the straps of my backpack to the left. The one in front pretended to have a gun under his shirt as he yelled nonsensical banter in a rage and fury. The others attempted to clock me in the head, yet they could barely touch my neck as they jumped up to reach me. A counter attack was constructed, and with a few swift flails of my arms, I batted the puny children away like gnats. Success. I was in the clear, or so I thought. I had forgotten about the most viscous of them all. A small girl stood in the back of the pack, gazing with a heart warming stare, eyes that would melt the goose bumps right off your arm. She attacked. Before I knew it, there was a small hand clawing at my face. My glasses were trusted toward the pavement below, and I was suddenly helpless. Immediately surrounded, the thirsty clan prepared themselves to feed on their innocent prey, the baffled tourist. I awkwardly darted for my glasses, heroically pushing a few small children down to the ground in the act, and made a run for the exit. I had won, escaping with all of my possessions in their proper place. From this point on, I kept my head down and mouth shut. If the children were this fierce, I could only imagine how intense the adults were.

Bem-vinda a São Paulo, por favor não me mata.

After a grueling 10 and a half hours of not moving my legs, and all the sights, smells and excitement an overnight flight can offer, I groggily stumbled into Brazil in my best manner: tired, hungry and sore. The half English, half Portuguese spoken flight was my only refresher course in the field of linguistics, and I am about to completely dunk myself in a heavy dosage of culture and diversity. Filled with excitement, and eager to meet Brazil, the first thing to greet me as I stepped off the airplane were two women in masks and a pamphlet on swine flu. I then somehow proceeded to make it through the national police, hail a cab, find a hotel, book a room for three nights, find a place to eat, and order my first Brazilian meal with using as little Portuguese as possible, nearly none. Although pointing is rude, it has been proven to be useful, especially when using proper means of manners: por favor e obrigado. São Paulo is a giant land mass clumped into a ball of all different types of people and places. No two people look a like, and me, being nearly 6 feet tall and coated in blonde hair, blend in much better than expected. The separation between socioeconomic classes is very evident, and the majority of the people are burdened with extremely harsh living conditions. Although the city is filled with its share of poverty and crime, it is a lively place which respects and proudly represents its cultural unity.

This was my first stop on my six week tour of Southern Brazil, the culture, and its people. I am studying current agricultural issues which are affecting Brazil, and how the government and past policies have created a large flocking of entire farming communities to urbanized areas. What better place to start than the largest city in this overwhelming country. I will be examining current methods of production and how Brazilians can produce ample yields in order to support themselves and their communities. Most of my research will be done in the state of Paraná, but I have the next three days to blend in as a native paulista.