Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Culto

I learned this past Sunday that the people here in Brazil call church services cultos. If you’re like me when you heard this you may have immediately begun looking around for some form of synthetic drink that you would not be drinking. Jokes aside there is something so amazing and so different about the church here in Brazil. It’s not my first rodeo in a Latin American church. There were fifty or so people singing in fifty or so keys. Eight of which, I have never heard in my entire life, but they sang with heart. There were tears, raised hands, and genuine emotion, not the kind that some people do for show. When you get to walk into a church where everybody knows your name (yes older folks, that was a reference to a classic television show). I sat through a service in a different language. I couldn’t understand the songs nor the preacher yet I still walked away with my heart uplifted and a greater sense of who God is and how his people, when they live in community, can make a difference in the lives of the people who walk through the door. The members of this church truly care about each other. Everything I’ve done here in Brazil has been with members of the church. They get together to play soccer. They go to movies. They serve their community for neither service hours nor bragging rights, but rather to be together and spread the gospel. Everyone hangs out, and I mean everyone. I rode in a van on the way back from church to Zanatta’s house. The entire van was laughing and joking from the youngest child to the old woman (the same one who knows how to cut a rug from the party). Everywhere they go they represent what the church could be. I want to borrow a quote from my favorite preacher Matt Chandler. Essentially what he says is, “In the beginning the church a small movement that affected every facet of human society. Now it is a very large movement that is basically impotent.” I completely agree with Mr. Chandler as far as the American church goes, but I don’t think he’s been down in Campo Grande and seen the church here. Whenever I meet someone here they ask, “You are a brother?” they mean a brother in Christ. They are one large family, and they see anyone who is a Christian around the world as part of that family. Don’t here me say that they don’t treat other people who aren’t part of the church with love and compassion. Zanatta alone can’t walk five steps outside his door without people shouting a greeting to him. I understand that I am a nineteen-year-old kid who may be naïve. I am not an expert on what the church is or what it does these days, but I have been going to church for sometime now. What I do know is that this church has made a difference in my life without me being able to understand them. Yes, they may call their services cultos, which has an obvious negative connotation, but the influence of this church on its community that I’ve seen in these few days here in Brazil leaves no doubt that Christ is moving in this place.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Once More Into the Breach Dear Friends, Once More

Unless you’re unequivocally ignorant you know that in Brazil soccer is kind of a big deal. They eat and breathe futbol on a daily basis. A young man named Eduardo told me that during the World Cup soccer becomes even more important to the Brazilian existence. Well, I was honored by some of the residents of Campo Grande with an invite to participate in their soccer league. I showed up dressed in an old football workout shirt raring to go. Sadly my soccer cleats were too long and the owner of the fields would not let me wear them. So I slipped on some old tennis shoes and attempted to understand what the other players were telling me. Some of you may know I played soccer for around eleven years, but that was when I was a child. Trust me, what minor skills I had have been lost for eternity. Regardless, I promised myself I wouldn’t turn down any opportunity. There were three teams of seven. Winners got to rest between rounds. Losers had to stay on for one more half. My team sat out the first round. I watched the Brazilians and attempted to measure myself against them. The odds were against me. The referee blew the whistle and I jogged out onto the field, taking my place where they told me to, out of the way on the right wing. Each round lasted twenty minutes. It was an absolute battle. We played at full speed the entire round, twenty minutes of absolute fury. By the grace of the Almighty God I held my own. I set up some opportunities for goals, had a couple of assists, and even made a few steals. I will say it’s pretty tough to get the ball from your teammates when you can’t even call for the ball, but we managed. The referee blew the whistle and my entire team collapsed except myself. Apparently I was in better shape then the rest of my team. Don’t get me wrong I was exhausted, but not to the point of gasping for air on the ground. Sadly, my team lost so we had to play another round. It was the same story; except I took a decent shot this round and the crowd went wild. It felt like I was that kid coming in dead last in a race. I mean back of the pack by a good half-mile kind of feeling. It was a pity cheer, but I take what I can get. We lost again because my team was obviously the won that enjoyed their churrasco (Brazilian barbeque) more. We played for two and a half hours. More than a full game of soccer for those of you who don’t know. I was extremely tired and ready to go home and sleep for days. The Eduardo, my ride, told me it was time for the, “Segundo jogo com os irmaos da igresia.” My Portuguese is at the level of a two year old at best but roughly translated, “Second game with the brothers of the church.” “Once more into the breach dear friends, once more”, I thought to myself. No, I’m not joking. We hopped in the car and drove to a different field made of turf. Although less competitive because of the lack of skill it still maintained the level of intensity. I played a total of four hours of soccer that day. Around two games with maybe forty minutes of rest spread throughout the day. It was a new level of exhaustion. Still my futbol buddies complimented me on the way I played. I said, “Don’t patronize me.” They looked confused. They also said I looked much less tired than they did. I knew it was my typical male ego trying to save face, but I thanked them all the same. My vision was blurred and my head was fuzzy, but I understood that they wanted me to play with them every Saturday. My answer, of course, was absolutely.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Folsom Prison Festa

I heard the door bell ringing. It was time to go. My friend Timoteo had come to give me a ride to a birthday party his band was playing at. I'm not going to lie, I was a tad bit nervous. I didn't know what to expect.I mean, don't get me wrong, I am a crazy party animal. For those who know me, they know I can't even type that with a straight face. I am an introvert to the extreme. I opened the door to find Timoteo, his guitar player Lucas, another man I'm going to affectionately refer to as drummer dude, and a 65' bug. Timoteo told me it was a classic. I thought it was a slow moving metal death trap. All five of us crammed into the little bug. Drummer dude spoke some spanish so we got along quite well. It is weird that I never asked his name. We arrived at a large house to set for their show. Outside the gate there was a guard who came and looked in our car. He then pressed a button that lifted a large iron wrought gate so that we could drive in. The walls were ten feet high with two feet of electric fence on top of that. I knew I would be the only one there who could speak english. I contemplated an escape route. My plan, had it been carried out, would've made Jason Bourne look like a rookie. I was going to pole vault over the twelve foot fence. There were only two limitations to the first plan: one, I didn't have a long pole with which to vault, two, I never actually learned how to pole vault. How hard could it be? Have you ever visited a friend in a different city? You know how awkward it is when you go to a party with them to meet all his friends? Well this was kind of like that on steroids. Not only did I not know anyone, but I also couldn't communicate with them due to obvious limitations. All I could do was sit and stare. We arrived at 8:15 so that the band could set up. People didn't arrive until nine. I sat and watch the hostess place bowls of apples floating in water. I thought to myself, "Alright, I can bob for some apples." Then she lit several candles and set them floating in the bowls. Then I thought to myself, "What an intense game of bobbing for apples." Sadly, no one attempted the feat. People arrived and the band started playing. I sat alone until two ladies around my age came and sat next to me. They introduced themselves and we began chatting. Yes, I said chatting. My portuguese has improved to the point where I can hold a decent conversation with some people. We discussed school, future plans, and how difficult Portuguese is. Their names were Larissa and Jessica, and we had a wonderful time. After the band stopped playing they came down and sat with us. We ate. We laughed. What was once a place I was devising suicidal escape plans had now become a place of, dare I say, merriment? We discussed music and what American bands they liked. The lead singer of the band had to have been around 25. He told me his favorites were Metallica and Justin Bieber. You should just stew over that for a moment. Their favorites ranged from Beyonce to Lady Gaga. It wasn't much of a stretch. How sad is it that the only music they know from America is all terrible. The air was wrought with cheap wine (I don't actually know if it was cheap it just sounds good as far as writing goes). The beer, wine, and other assorted drinks flowed like that waters of falls iguazu. Sorry to disappoint my friends, but no I didn't have any. The band got up and played some more. As the evening progressed more and more people began to dance. It was hysterical. One such woman had to be in her sixties, but I'll give it to her. She could move to the rhythm. The party, or festa, lasted until 2:00 am. I arrived home around 2:30 to find Zanatta and Leila still up watching television. I felt bad because I thought they were waiting up for me. They continued to watch for another hour. At least I think so; I was asleep before they stopped. I didn't feel so bad after that. Te night began with me dreading the unavoidable awkward situation I was going to be thrust in, but it ended with several new friends, better portuguese, and some images of elderly woman moving and grooving.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Out of the Silent Slumber

I left the glorious country of the United States of America at 8:30 p.m. on June 14. Originally I was supposed to leave at 7:50, but they stewardess said they forgot to clean the plane, and we were delayed for forty minutes. Yes, they simply forgot to clean, and we were forced to wait as they tidies up. The plan, according to my itinerary, was to arrive in Sao Paulo, hop on a bus for and hour and a half, and then jump on a plane at 1 p.m. to my final destination Campo Grande. However, if there's one thing that I've learned from my limited experience as an international traveler it's that nothing ever goes to plan. I have been blessed by God with a rare talent to sleep wherever, whenever, and in whatever situation i may be presented with. Utilizing this innate ability, I watched a couple movies on the plane and then slept the rest of the night. I woke up to a food cart smashing into my elbow. It was quite painful, but I didn't blame the stewardess she was up late cleaning. I enjoyed a rather stale croissant that came from the cart that struck my poor elbow. When I say enjoy, I mean I forced it down my throat because I knew that I wouldn't be eating for quite a while. About an hour later the pilot came on the PA and announced in the most monotone voice I may have ever heard that there was too much fog on the ground and we would have to circle the runway for 40 minutes and wait for it to clear up. I'm not sure if it was the monotone voice, my innate ability to sleep anywhere and anytime, or a combination of the two, but I decided to sleep for the duration of the rest of the flight. I glanced at my ipod to check the time. It was 9:00 when we began to circle. Even with the fog delay and the hour and a half bus ride I had no doubt that I could make my flight at one. I was thrust abruptly back into consciousness by the screeching of tires against pavement as the plane landed back on the ground. I glanced again at the clock. It was 10:30. I still believed I was doing alright on time, depending on how bad customs was. The same dreary voice came on the loudspeaker. "Ladies and gentlemen it's about 10:30 in the morning. We are taxiing up to the gate as we speak. Thanks for flying American Airlines and welcome to Rio de Janeiro." My heart dropped a couple feet into my bowels at that moment. I was supposed to be in Sao Paulo, not Rio. Apparently, I'd slept through an announcement that enlightened the rest of the plane that the fog was not clearing up and we had to land in Rio de Janeiro. We were delayed there for a couple hours. My hopes of making my flight home were dashed against the rocks. I was lost abroad. We took off again and went back to Sao Paulo. I ran through the airport desperately trying to make it through customs so that I could find another flight into Campo. Luckily they were waiting to give us vouchers for another flight right in front of customs. Unluckily those who were staying in Sao Paulo, which was basically the rest of the plane, went ahead to get in line. With a voucher in my hand and three people behind me in a line of people that had just recently filled a large plane, I waited in the queue with little hope. My flight was in less than an hour. They asked me no questions at the counter and I sprinted away to get my checked bag. I grabbed it from a pile of backs that had been knocked off the conveyor belt and Jetted off to recheck in. The line was, yet again, excessively long. Yet a still small voice rose above the roar of the crowd. "Campo Grande?" A young employee of TAM airlines pushed me to the front of the line. I check my bag and rushed off to security. I easily flew through and found my gate. I arrived as the last people were boarding. I sate down in my seat and realized a flaw in my stroke of luck. The family waiting for me in Campo had no idea that i would be arriving at 4:00 rather than 1:40. When we touched down I met a girl from the states who spoke Portuguese and had a Brazilian boyfriend with a cell phone. We called the family and they translated for me because the family that I'm staying with doesn't speak English. They were on their way to pick me up. I sat in the airports one restaurant shouting at the television with 50 other people as we watched Brazil go on and defeat North Korea in a 2 to 1 victory. Its nearly 5 hours later and the celebration in the streets have yet to stop. I suppose I can take one thing away from this panic ensuing, traveler's experience. I will never again go back to sleep if there is fog on the ground.

Starting Out

Those who know me understand that I am absolutely obsessed with the idea of story. I firmly believe that everything important that I've ever learned in my entire life was in the form of a story. Stories have always been a passion of mine whether it be writing a mediocre tale that no one will ever read for fear of embarrassment, enjoying masterfully written novel that grips me by the throat and doesn't let go until the last page, or simply listening to simple anecdotes from friends and family. This summer I"m spending seven weeks by myself in Brazil. I'll be living with a family that speaks almost no English. I know even less Portuguese. I'm a nineteen year old college student who is in way over his head. I've decided to devote these few weeks to living out one great story. This blog is devoted to documenting my experiences as they come. Several stories may come out of this experience, but I want just one that leaves people with their jaws dropped in disbelief. This story may be funny, scary, spiritual, or any combination thereof. Come what my, this is my pledge: that I will not shy away from any experience because, hey, it'll make a great story.