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.