Festival Folklorico and the River Wild

July 8

Kite Wars

On Saturdays the central plaza is filled with young and old, all flying kites, ‘pipas’ or ‘papagayos’. I recall passing through Praia de Pipa in Pernambuco in 2009 and I thought I was going to ‘Pipe Beach,’ since ‘pipa’ means pipe in Spanish. At the time I didn’t speak much Portuguese and soon learned that pipe is ‘cachimbo’ and I was in fact at ‘Kite Beach.’

Kite running is a timeless tradition in Amazonians towns, encouraged by the constant wind gusts blowing overhead. Every weekend aerial battles ensue, silent wars between grown men and boys. Always flying some version of a homemade kite (tissue paper & light wood), an official team is made up of either two or three, one to whip the string left and right keeping the kite active and agile, one to collect the string and manage the spool, and one to chase the fallen kites. If you’ve read the book Kite Runners you probably have a good idea of what a kite battle is like. The spools are dipped in liquid glass, although I’m told this is prohibited, which makes the string stronger, and also sharp enough to cut an adversaries kite down from the clouds above. Once a kite is chopped down from the heavens above, a chase ensues. Runners, and what often seems like entire neighborhoods of kids, follow the fallen kite until it lands in a tree or in some mean old lady’s yard.

I spent Saturday hanging out at Josefines house (there was a ‘calderada’ party to make delicious fish soup) and she would throw fits every time she’d catch a little barefoot boy hopping her yard fence. Jo would run out into her yard yelling, the poor boy recruited to hop the fence apologizing before even hearing her shouts of displeasure. If it lands high up in a tree, they send the skinniest kid up the tree to fetch it, since he can crawl precariously out onto the weakest limbs (of course there is NO regard for personal safety since capturing a fallen kite is a akin to winning the lottery). If it gets caught in electric lines runner go fetch a long wooden pole with a net to poke it out of the labyrinth of wires traps.

There is something entirely peaceful and relaxing about watching a kite hover hundreds of feet overhead, flickering in the wind as if it were alive. In the same park one may see a 6 year old flying a kite next to a tattooed 30yr old with gold chains and a fancy car parked not far away. The dynamics are fascinating. Everyone loves it. Couples sit and watch kites battle, children gather in bundles to wait for the moment a kite it cut so they can chase it down and commuters complain about kite flyers flooding into the streets, as battles sometimes require some strategic angles of attack. Every Saturday I gaze up at the skies and remember that there are many mini wars going on around me. Who ever thought the site of battle could be so relaxing.

To Yucca or not to Yucca

I have tried to explain what a tortilla is, but no one seems to get it. I say, it’s like a pancake, but made from corn or flour. In Honduras we eat it with every meal, no matter what is being served tortillas are often nearby. I mention this because here ‘farinha’ or ‘farofa’ is served with every single meal, no matter what it being served. Yuca, in Spanish, is a root vegetable low on nutrients and served from Bolivia to Mexico. No matter which country you are in, Yuca is called Yuca. In Brasil Yuca has three names, depending on the region you are in. Here it is ‘macaxeira,’ in the Northeast its ‘mandioca,’ and in the south its ‘aipim.’ Three different words for the same thing. Crazy. Farinha, which basically means flour, is ground up yucca which is cooked on a massive flat skillet until all the moisture is evaporated. Then it is sifted and set in the sun to dry. There are countless versions of this process, and some types of yucca are poisonous so making ‘farinha’ requires a certain knowhow. ‘Farofa’ is when you mix farinha with anything in a frying pan (sausage, eggs, onions, carne de sol, etc) and it turns into a tasty and filling side item for beans, rice and meat. This is served at absolutely EVERY meal and can sometimes taste a little dry and crunchy. I’m a big fan and splash it onto everything I eat, part of my eternal crusade to get full. My hollow leg syndrome.

I explain that everyone has ‘macaxeira’ (ma-ka-shei-ra) or yucca, every country eats it and it is a common staple among low-income families. My personal favorite in Honduras is yucca frita con chicharron. Heartattack on a plate…with tortillas of course. However, for all the yucca I’ve eaten, before Brasil I had never encountered farinha de macaxeira (which is also slang for cocaine so careful the context in which you say it). Why is it that no other country makes farinha from their yucca? If I had to choose Id take tortillas over farinha any day of the week. Here I am stuffing myself with farofa, trying to explain what a tortillas is and how ubiquitous they are at every meal. Then I tell them about Honduran ‘baleadas’ and my street food love affair with them.

My top street foods of Latin America, Honduran baleadas (nothing better!!), Salvadorean pupusas, Bolivian saltenas, Buenos Aires chori-pan & chimichurri, Peruvian ceviche (although street ceviche is sketchy) and of course Mexican taquitos. Each tasty treat costs about a dollar or less in their respective country. In Honduras I fondly remember baleada eating contests after latenight soccer games, which always results in a swollen tummy full of flour tortillas, Ana Luisa and I call it ‘baleada belly.’


Giant Piranhas

I woke up the morning after the Festival Folklorico with a massive hangover. A region wide celebration including competitive Quadrilha dance contests, carnaval games and street food, and lots of drinking and music, the Festival Folklorico is a highly anticipated event. Kind of like a more conservative version of carnaval, with traditional dances and costumes galore. We were all to meet at Erivaldo’s on Saturday to ‘matar resaca,’ (kill a hangover) with grilled fish and of course, farinha. Everyong swears that eating fish cures many things, apparently it cures hangovers as well.

I bike over to Erivaldos and in his massive backyard (he lives at and manages AANA – Artesanatos de Novo Airao) I find a table piled high with fish, there were scales everywhere so I knew they had just been de-scaled and were fresh. I go over to the grill and notice that they look just like piranhas, but I was sure they weren’t since they looked way too big to be piranhas. I remembered fishing for piranhas in Rio Beni of Rurrenabaque, Bolivia and having to eat 10 of them to be full. I look closer and inspect their teeth and low and behold, they were indeed piranhas. Not even in aquariums have I ever seen piranhas this big, about the size of my entire chest and torso. Razor sharp teeth perfectly lined, as if they were designed by an architect. Even piled high, obviously very dead, my heart shuttered when I put my finger in its mouth to feel the teeth’s precision. Caraka!, aquele peixe acaba com voce mano! I proclaim that a couple fish that size would carve me up in seconds. Great, now swimming around in this dark black water there are not only alligators, snakes, lions, tigers and bears, …but giant flesh eating piranhas.

The fish was delicious, however there is only one tried and tested way to beat a hangover, keep drinkingI Brasil tied Paraguay 2-2 in the Copa America and the Festival Folklorico continued for one more night.

Weve been on the river for about 4 days now, transferring supplies to the Brasil Nut factory and waiting for another convoy to arrive. Day one was spent travelling, day 2 unloading supplies, day three passing through communities to pick up ‘aruma’ (reed) which I am supposed to pick up for Erivaldo’s artisan program. He gave me $R200 and the necessary documents to be able to leave the reserve with ‘materia prima.’ So far the communities have not followed through (I’m supposed to buy each bundle of 50 reeds for $R20) but I will probably return with no aruma for the AANA artisan workshops.

Erivaldo will be disappointed that the communities are not holding up their end of the bargain. We are to meet another convoy along the river, it feels like were in the middle of nowhere but apparently we are at a point called ‘Recreio’ (recess), a point where two rivers diverge. Last night was one of those nights where the jungle becomes real and all her sites and sounds are magnified. As Ive mentioned, the rivers this time of yearare flooded and most of the trees and jungle near or along the river basin become flooded forests (igapo). As you chug upriver, you pass what look like floating bushes but which are actually treetops. The flora here thrives and has adjusted to the yearly flooding, however you never really know the size of a tree because most of it is underwater.

Its getting late and we decide to doc in a little cove, which requires slowly inching the boat up to the stronger branches of the treetops and tying off. As a result the boat is essentially floating on the treetops many meters above the roots and base of the forest, with limbs and branches crackling and invading open spaces on the boat decks. During dry season the river will recede (making journeys such as this one impossible) and glorious beaches stretch as far as the eye can see. The beaches nearby at Anavilhanas are especially popular.

I sleep on the top deck, in a room with 4 bunkbeds, and there is another dormitory below for the captain and first mate. When needed, hammock hooks abound. It is a full moon and the still river reflects the breathing forest like glass. Suddenly, Janilho my bunk mate, jumps out of his bunkbed and sprints downstairs. I hear screaming and giggling and what sounds like lots of furniture being hurled around but am too tired, and uninterested to go below to check on the rowdiness. A few minutes Janilho comes back and says they saw a snake and that we should close all our windows and doors, which are usually left open for ventilation. I check his face for a hint of a smile, ‘maybe the guys are putting me on, pulling my leg,’ but see no traces of sarcasm.

I sleep facing two windows and quickly shut them. All of a sudden I feel trapped, a prisoner in a bunk (with a stinky bunkmate), and am suddenly very aware of every rustle and chirp going on in the treetops beside us. I look out my window and the moon’s dance behind passing clouds creates what seems like a web of shadows and mysterious coves. I am alert to every rock and sway of the boat, I hear branches breaking deep in the brush of the treetops and wonder what kind of animal could be brave enough to purposefully break branches at night. Animals are usually in either survival mode at night time…or in hunting mode. I hear thumps out on the deck and envision an anaconda landing on our boat from one of the many branches that have invaded our space.

Clearly I have watched too many Amazon jungle killer alligator/snake movies, so my imagination is filled with ready imagery. I laid in bed and thought of the ridiculous movie Snakes on a Plane; what if we wake up and find a slew of snakes coiled in our buckets, down below under the motor or in our hammocks. In the distance I could hear river dolphins coming up for air, spewing out water as they breathe in another gulp of air. It has become a reassuring sound as I lay in bed reading before sleep. Goodnight.

La Semana de el baile de 'Quadrilha'

Fotos (not in any specific order)
a) Erivaldo gives workshop to student group from Sao Paulo
b) Monique feeds the boto (dolphin)
c) Justin's floating head poses con la juventud of the quadrilha dance
d) las chicas muestran sus quadrilha outfits
e) Justin with Monique and Priscilla

The Lost Art of Conversation

June 26th

(2 pics of my time with the Pataua Rio Unini community)
a) the muscle that moved 7 tons of cement bags and bricks
b) Ignacio and I with the town fly girls

In many places I travel throughout Latin America I am often identified as someone with ties to Honduras rather than someone from Washington DC. In addition to the powerpoint presentations I usually give about OYE and our work in Honduras, I think its also due to how often I nod in agreement and say, “Oh, just like in Honduras,” then go on to explain how things are so similar yet so different.

Like yesterday when I arrive to a friend’s house and in checking out her ‘quintal’ (backyard ) recognized a nest of coconuts primed to be picked, I love when they are full of water and the coconut meat is still slimy and has not yet fully hardened. Instinctively, I set up a ladder, reach up (probably higher than she was able to reach) and twist the coconuts until they come loose. Next I grab the nearest ‘facão ‘ (machete, every house has one) and chop it clean (always chopping with the grain and twisting against it) until I get to the rock hard center.

If you want to drink all the water, coconuts have a specific side you are supposed to open them from, a side with three meaty openings, kinda like a bowling ball. If you try to open it from the wrong side you will end up chopping the day away to no avail and probably hack so furiously you’ll spill all the water. There is nothing like fresh coconut water. I strip them and put them in the fridge,…. Better yet, there is nothing like COLD fresh coconut water.

In Honduras I´ve met many campesinos who shake your hand with 4 fingers due to a life’s worth of machete work. I always remember them when I work with a machete. Since I am by many accounts a rookie, precision is vital. Veterans hack away effortlessly since they’ve probably been using machetes since they were little. Sharing stories like this is yet another example of why I am sometimes identified as “that American guy from Honduras.” Tying a proper hammock knot or carrying a 5 gallon jug of water while riding a bike are some of the norms one picks up while living South of the border.

On Saturday evening I went to visit my friend Monique at her job, she manages the ‘boto’ (river dolphin) tourist site. Her mother, Marisa, grew up along the river and has been feeding a family of pink river dolphins for decades. The family has turned their ‘flotante’ (floating dock/home) into one of Novo Airão’s main tourist attraction. All you have to do is Google image Novo Airão and it is clearly the first pic tourist post online. The dolphins seem happy to oblige. Super social and incredibly smart, they must know the family invites people everyday to pet them and watch them swim about. Recent laws have forbidden tourists from swimming or feeding them, a few years ago you could basically jump in the river and be surrounded by playful dolphins. In 2011 that is simply a lawsuit waiting to happen so now you sit on the dock and splash until they come up and stare you face to face, then you gently pet them.

One of the main differences I´ve noticed between salt water and river dolphins is their ability to move their heads, as if they had necks. I´m told this is because they have to negotiate through flooded forests (igapó) and under and between roots. Also helps them catch small fish in tight quarters. I show up with Erivaldo and his daughter and Monique laughs and says that for tourists its 20$ reals per person (more than I pay for 3 days worth of food!). It dawns on me that, ‘wait, I´m a tourist!’ and suddenly realize I haven’t brought nearly enough money. Monique gives us a playful wink and tells us to stay put and have a beer, she lets us in for free once the last of the tourists have left.

When the torrential rains come (which seems to be about 3 times per day) or when the electricity is out there isn’t much else to do but sit around and joke and talk. Every convo is filled with ‘piadas’ (joke) or someone ‘jingando’ (teasing) someone else. The sensation of merely sitting and talking is something we don’t really get to experience in the states, probably because it always feels as if there is something we should be doing. We are in constant motion, and even when we get a chance to sit there is usually a tv blaring in the background or a cell phone to be answered. We are all so connected, so wired that we don’t even know what it feels like to not have constant access to everything.

The force of the rains humbles all that roam the earth. Bands of street dogs camp out under porch decks, delicate butterflies cling under rooftops, birds are held flightless and I sit by the window and watch as mother-earth replenishes herself. An eerie steam rises from the paved roads and the banter on the metal rooftop sounds more like a hurricane than a daily afternoon shower. The sky is in constant motion and you can see storm clouds approach, their dank overcast momentarily blocking the sun. On the river boat, surrounded by miles of flat land, I sat perfectly dry under a glaring sun and saw three different storms simultaneously shower different parts of the forest with water. So cool. Until you realize that one of those massive heavy gray masses is heading your way. Better go back down below and get under the canopy.

Yesterday Erivaldo and I road motorcycles along the highway towards Manaus searching for the right kind of palm tree (there are oh so many different types of palm trees here) to strip of ‘abacaba.’ Abacaba looks like a mane of dreadlocks filled with little purple berries (looks exactly like açai berry) hanging from the top of a palm tree. Artisan workers use these fibers to make rugs, mats, etc. With a machete in hand, we find a few palms with the fruit growing low enough for us to hack down and strip of all its bitter berries. Your hands are instantly stained with the dye of the fiber as you tightly grip each one and drag your closed fist the length of it to remove all the berries, always sure to save the ones that are ripe. Im told we can make a tasty wine or juice from the ripe ones.

Erivaldo ties up his shirt and we use it to store all the berries we deem ripe enough to take home, the rest lay scattered around us as we continue stripping the vine like fibers. We realize we will need some twine or string to tie up all the loose fibers to take on the motorcycle. Erivaldo walks over to a specific tree, gives it a little slice and strips a belt like portion of bark from its trunk. This tree is flexible he tells me, as he loosens up the stiff strip to pull off fibers that looks a lot like twine. Its amazing how much he knows about the elements that surround him. Yesterday he made a shot glass out of tucuman that had fallen to the ground in his back yard. Tucuman is like a mini coconut without the thick external fibers, about the size of a big grape.

‘A Josse pode virar a vontade’. The shotglass was so small he joked that his wife could drink as many shots as she liked.

Final notes –

I had forgotten how much of a drag it is to wash clothes by hand. However, there is something to be said for drying sheets and shirts in the sun, unless there is no breeze, then they dry stiff. I change shirts a few times a day, due to sweat, yet I still deem them clean enough to wear once they dry. My room has become a mosaic of drying shirts.

In the cities we don’t realize how much variety we have. On my street alone in Astoria, Queens I could choose from Indian, Greek, Chinese, Thai and Mexican. Here I eat the exact same lunch everyday; beans, rice, a cold spaghetti, farofa (a powder made from yucca), and meat or fish. I’d kill for a side salad.

Only 25 newspapers are delivered everyday to Novo Airão (from Manaus). I can´t believe no one here reads the paper. There simply aren’t any around. I found one and, starved for information, immediately read it front to back twice. Half of it was about their local B league soccer teams and the other half about heinous crimes and murders. Made me wish I hadn’t read it. Now I get why there are no newspapers in Novo Airão.

A band of river pirates recently attacked a boat on Rio Negro, not far from Novo Airao. They shot three people, stabbed one and made off with $R 11,000. Locals fear that tourists will be scared away and more boats will start carrying guns, which will probably result in more violence.

Beware of moto-taxi drivers, all required to wear the same vests (colete) showing their documentation and ID. Im told that local gang members or drug addicts (usually coupled into the same group of ‘vagabundos,’ ‘bandidos’ or ‘malandros’) borrow vests from their friends and pose as moto-taxi drivers. Im king of the ‘carona’ (free ride or jalon in Spanish) and usually get a ride or go by bike so no worries.

Tonight I dance in the Quadrilha for Festa Junina (June Party) with 16 other couples. We’ve been practicing all week and our routine is pretty awesome….and hilarious. Similar to a traditional square-dance, Ive hired 5 year old Kaliria to design ‘minha fantasia’ (my costume) so all I have to bring is beer and my straw hat. The fact a 5 year old is pasting together my outfit with colorful pieces of cloth adds to the hilarious part. Saturday morning I have to be fit enough to receive 25 Environmental studies University students from Sao Paulo for a workshop on indigenous craft work at AANA (Assoc Artesanatos de Novo Airão). I am doing a presentation on OYE and the importance of involving and training the younger generation in the global environmental movement.

Check out OYE’s blog (oyehonduras.blogspot.com) for pictures and an update on that workshop.
Ate logo, um abraço.