ah, bahia

Everyone has helicopters here.

Well, these guys probably don't.


And we don't, either.

But at least we have a car that works, for the moment.


(photos courtesy of Ron Stanford)

show de bola

My parents left this morning, back to the States after a lovely two-week visit. Our goodbyes last night were surprisingly mellow and low-key--or, perhaps not so surprising, since we'll be moving back in less than three months.


What was perhaps more surprising was how tearful and wrenching it was when they said goodbye to Dete.

Since their Portuguese consists mostly of broken Spanish (plus a few zingers like Vixe Maria! and show de bola!), I had to translate.

Thank you for taking care of my children, my mother said, hugging Dete, and giving her a kiss on the cheek. Você e show de bola.

Bom amiga, my dad, said, and she nodded, and patted his shoulder affectionately.

By the time they headed out to their hotel, Dete, my mom and I were all crying.

We still have three more months together, Dete and I reminded each other. But, of course, it's just a preview of how difficult it will be for us to leave her, and for her to see us go--especially the boys.

And it does make me reconsider trying to find a way to help her go to the States, which I know she'd do in a heartbeat, given the opportunity.

It probably isn't too realistic, given the difficulty getting visas, the fact that she has three kids, and also that much as we'd like to, on one teacher's salary, we won't have the money to sponsor and hire her.

But perhaps we'll at least look into it further.

And if you're reading this, and thinking about opening a Bahian restaurant, I have just the chef for you.

Or maybe we'll just do what Dete keeps suggesting, and pack her up in our biggest suitcase.

a night on the town

On Saturday night, a friend very generously offered to come over and babysit (thanks, Cindy!), and we took my parents out to Rio Vermelho, a hip, kind of bohemian neighborhood in Salvador.

There were Rastafarians selling beaded jewelry on the sidewalk, stands with women frying acarajé and beijú, and lots of young people out enjoying the evening.

It felt strange to be outside beyond the walls of our condominium after dark. It's been way too long since we've gone out at night without the kids--the first time since moving here nine months ago.

After having a beer outside at the praça, we wandered down to Tom de Sabor, a cool bookstore/café/bar in a pyramid-shaped building.

We had appetizers and capirinhas in the bar, then got to hear a band play some classic Brazilian jazz.


And here I am perusing the children's books in the café.

pelourinho

Yesterday we took my folks on the obligatory Pelourinho/Mercado Modelo trip. This is the old part of the city, also the best place to buy tourist trinkets.

We hired a driver with an air-conditioned van, which is totally the way to go. (Also because our car has stopped working, but that's another story that I'm trying not to think about at the moment.)


We got to see the Olodúm drummers practicing in the street in front of their famous drum school.

Then we took the elevator down to the Lower City, where the Mercado Modelo is. I bought a few t-shirts at a stand outside the market. When I went to pay for something inside, I realized my wallet was gone.

I looked through my purse, and it was nowhere. At this point, I sat down on a step and put my head in my hands and started crying.

Because really, it was just too much. After everything we've been through here, I felt like Salvador was kicking me in the stomach. Again.

But the shopkeeper came over and kept saying, just wait, make sure you look, come, let's go back outside. He took us to the police, and told them what happened, and walked us back to where we bought the t-shirts. Are you sure it's not in any of your bags? he asked.

And sure enough, when my dad opened one of the plastic shopping bags, somehow it had fallen in there.

So, all's well that ends well.

Here's E., trying out a drum that he was very excited to get to as a present.

Unfortunately we're leaving Salvador before he gets the chance to audition for Olodúm, but that hasn't prevented him from practicing nonstop since he brought it home.

raising bilingual kids

My parents are visiting us now from Pennsylvania. It's wonderful to see them, and I know they are enjoying seeing their grandkids.

It's also cool to see the boys through their eyes, and see how much they've changed in the nine months since we moved here.


They're bigger, taller, more confident. (Ju, of course, has lived most of his life in Brazil at this point!)


R. has lost his baby fat, and is more sure of himself physically. E. is so independent, happy to take his guitar and wander off by himself or with friends for hours.


And it's amazing to see how their Portuguese has developed. Yesterday at the pool, I watched R. chatter away in Portuguese to his grandmother (not realizing, I think, that she didn't understand a word of what he was saying.)

Their pronunciation is perfect, as I guess you'd expect at the ages of 6 and 3. E., little perfectionist that he is, even likes to correct me. (There is nothing more annoying than a six-year old correcting your pronunciation.)

I'm especially interested to observe R.'s progress. Unlike E., he doesn't have Portuguese class at school, so his learning is entirely absorptive, as it were, through immersion. He misconjugates verbs, but his intonation is perfect, and certain constructions come to him fully formed, ones that for me are a conscious effort to remember; for example, the double no--which is not the same as a double negative--that doesn't translate (não vou não).

It's also really cute to hear certain expressions come out of their mouths, like Vixe! (short for Virgen María), or Ay meu Deus do Ceu.

Even Dan and I speak Portuguese with them occasionally, although it still has a somewhat stilted feel for all of us, I think, as though we were role playing.

Ju is just beginning to say a few words (and knows a number of signs as well). And he understands Portuguese just as well as English, since Dete speaks to him in Portuguese all morning.

I'd hate for the boys to lose the Portuguese they've learned. And it's not like Spanish, where it's easy to find native speakers and other resources in the U.S.

So my question is this: Do you think it's possible or realistic for us to keep it up after we go back to the States in June?

For those of you raising bilingual kids (in a language not your own, and not the dominant language where you live), what are your secrets or suggestions?

international festival

For the school's international festival, the three-year classes represented Japan.

The parents decorated the classroom, and helped cut out 45 kimonos, which R.'s teacher sewed.

Costumes and uniforms are always a big deal for events and activities here. The girls all arrived with their hair neatly done with Japanese beads, as well as elaborate makeup.


Several parents went to São Paulo to purchase special authentic Japanese packaged snacks.

They also hired a sushi chef.


And as you can see, the paparazzi was out in full force.

the mall

Several months ago, soon after we moved to Salvador, a Brazilian colleague was telling me how lately she’d begun going to the mall on the weekends.

Ugh, I thought. Why would you want to go to the mall for fun? Especially when there’s the beach?

Well, I never thought I’d say this, but after eight months, the beach has kind of gotten old.

Partly because Ju has reached the age where all he wants to do is eat sand or rub it in his eyes, and holding a squirming, slippery, sand-coated baby is only sustainable for so long.

Partly because it’s so damn hot, and the thought of oiling three kids up with sunscreen, and schlepping towels, clothes, diapers, surfboards, etc. is exactly the opposite of relaxing.

But the mall is air conditioned. The mall requires minimal equipment.

(Although it does require clothing, which is a rarity for Ju, who has been dressed in more than a diaper only a handful of times since we’ve lived here. He’s outgrown most of his outfits never having worn them. Every time I put clothes on him he pulls at them, indignant, as though to say, what is this?)


And honestly, there’s really nowhere else that’s convenient to go with young kids. No library, no children’s museum, no bookstore or coffee shop or safe, convenient, kid-friendly public space.

So, much as it pains me to admit it, the occasional Saturday or Sunday will find us at the mall, shooing the boys off the escalator railings, following them into stores to look at soccer balls or sparkly necklaces.

At least it’s a change of scenery.

why this post has no pictures

Well, we have Internet again.

Sort of.

Our friend Renato, who had been wrangling the with phone company and unintentionally caused them to cut off our service initially, went to the mall with us yesterday to help us get another kind of Internet service.

It's a thumb-drive-type device that works without a phone line. After only an hour in the store, the device was purchased and we were on our way. The salesperson assured us that 1) it was 1 megabyte speed, and 2) it would work with a Mac.

I think you can see where this is going.

When Dan called the store back to tell them that both claims were false, the salesperson said that he would have to call customer service.

But to do that, he'd have to call from a land line.

Well, we don't have a land line. (Because you cut it off!)

You can use a cellphone, then, as long as it's the same service.

Turns out our cellphone provider is different, though.

This back and forth went on for fifteen minutes before Dan got off the phone, smoke coming out of his ears.

So, since I have no Internet access on my Mac, no photos today.

But at least we have something. And hopefully we can fix the speed problem before Dan has any more job interviews on Skype.

yes. it's true.

So, what is the big change on the horizon, the momentous decision that has allowed me to endure fires, bureaucratic incompetence, even no Internet, with such remarkable, unflappable grace?

It's the prospect that, in three and a half short months, I will no longer have to endure these things.

That's right. We've decided to go home.

As you know if you've been following the blog, we've had our doubts. It didn't help when our boss was a complete jerk to us when our baby was in the hospital. Plus, our boys have been unhappy, and I don't see that changing if we were to stay.

Safety has always been an issue for us here, and in this way I think the school wasn't completely honest when they recruited us. Only after we arrived did we learn that the director had been held at gunpoint, a student had almost been kidnapped, and parent from the school had been shot, all in the span of a month.

After we'd been here for a few months, there was an armed mugging in front of our condominium at nine in the morning. Just a couple of days ago, a friend's tires were slashed.

People who've lived here for awhile get innured to the crime. I guess you'd have to be. And if you can be happy living in the peaceful world of the enclosed condominium, maybe it would work.

But I want to be able to walk my kids to the park or the library. I want to be able to drive them to the pediatrician without worrying I'll get lost in a dangerous part of the city where there are no road signs, or end up stuck in traffic for two hours in 90-degree heat in a car without air conditioning.

It's not just crime. I want to feel like I can negotiate my own life, whether that's walking to the drugstore, or calling the telephone company, or trust that my house will not be unpredictably filled with smoke.

Here I feel completely at the mercy of strange and mysterious gods.

For awhile we thought we'd stay and stick it out. But we know we wouldn't stay longer than the two years of our contract, anyway. So why be unhappy for an extra year?

As my dad put it, a year of your life is worth a lot of money.

Indeed.

So, even though we have to pay the school back for visa expenses, and buy our own tickets home, we're happy about the decision.

It feels right.

On June 21, thirteen years to the day after Dan and I tied the knot, we'll be back in the City of Brotherly Love.

There are things that we'll miss, certainly. The beach. The blue skies. Sitting under the trees with our neighbors in the evening. The friends we've made here. Dete.

The freedom the boys have to explore and play outside on their own.

But we know what we're going back to--the good and the bad--and know that it's the right thing for our family.

Readers, I'm sure the next few months, and beyond, hold plenty more excitement of all sorts.

So, Brazil, bring it on.

We're ready.

fire in the mato

Yesterday afternoon during Ju's nap I noticed a familiar smell wafting in the open windows.

This is how it starts: faint, almost indetectable. Is someone passing by with a cigarette? Lighting up a barbeque grill?

By the time Dan and E. arrived home at four, though, we had the windows closed and were hunkered down on the living room floor. The clouds of smoke obscured the bedroom window, and ashes were beginning to sift down through the edges of the skylight.

We quickly changed into our bathing suits, threw the boys into the car, and fled.

On the way down the driveway, we could see the flames lapping at the brush just outside the wall of the condominium, smoke rising into the sky.

We've experienced fires in the mato before, but never this close or widespread. They're usually the result of a cigarette tossed carelessly into the underbrush, or someone burning trash, and the spark spreading out of control.

Dete tells us there have been times when the fires have burned for weeks, all along the stretch of dunes and scrub just beyond the condominium.

(Here we are, refugees making our way along the coast.)

When we returned around six, the firefighters had come. But their firefighting abilities are hampered by the fact that there is no water source aside from what they bring on the truck. The fire appeared to have died down, but there were still flames lingering in a few palms.

And our house was still thick with smoke, so we brought the chicken and collards and baby food that Dete had prepared down to our friend Deena's house, and shared a very pleasant dinner with her and K. (She lives in the same condominium, but the winds had spared her the worst of the smoke).

By 7:30, the smoke had dissipated enough that we could make our way back home for bed. Ashes covered our front and back verandas, and dusted the upstairs hallway as well, and this morning we spied several wisps of smoke still snaking up behind the soccer field.

In other news, as I was throwing towels and diapers into a bag to make our getaway, Dan's cellphone rang.

It was a friend who works for the school, and who had been trying to help us with our phone plan. The company had been overcharging us for months, and in a last-ditch effort to get them to listen to him, our friend had threatened to change companies.

Well, the phone company took that as an excuse to cut our service. So now, after the three-month ordeal of actually getting a line, we are without telephone or Internet.

Under normal circumstances, either one of these two events in one afternoon would be enough to send me into paroxysms of anxiety and distress.

Now, I'm not saying I enjoyed being smoked out of our home, or having our phone and Internet cut off...but I did remain remarkably sanguine (if I do say so myself).

Why?

Well, our life has rather suddenly taken a different turn, which is giving me a new perspective on the whole thing.

Stay tuned, I'll be posting soon about what these changes are...