Language Schools

Unrelated picture of some people on Copacabana

Yeah yeah it's been a while since the last update...but exciting things have been happening and I've been really busy! "What?" you ask. "A gringo busy in Rio?" Well yes, very much so. As your mighty powers of observation have undoubtedly informed you, language schools are today's topic of ranting and have been responsible for ruining my sleeping schedule and preventing beer-ing.

Upon arriving in Rio I was determined to find an ESL teaching job, and confident I could do so. This was based mostly on the fact that on the Federal Immigration form they gave us on the plane 'ship' was misspelt as 'shaep.' After just a few days here I felt like I was languishing (which I was definitely not) and set out upon Rio's English schools with a pile of resumes and a naive smile. There is a string of language centers on a street in Ipanema I decided to hit up first, at the same time exploring that pleasant neighborhood where the coconuts are four times more expensive than they should be.

I quickly sensed things were amiss in the local ESL industry. In the first school I visited I was greeted by an attractive young blonde with braces (lots of young adults wear braces here, it's rather disconcerting) wearing an 'I heart English' T-shirt. She smiled coyly and I thought, "Boy, I wanna work here." I politely asked if she, the senora, spoke English. Her eyes glazed over. I mumbled some more Portuguese as she flustered about trying to find a translator. I really wanted to say, "don't you know what your shirt says?" but she was kinda hot so I didn't.

This scene more or less repeated itself in a half dozen different schools. They all had their own proficiency tests and free compositions, grudgingly handed over by employees who spoke little or no English. Many were actually quite rude, sending me out the door as soon as I announced myself. This was quite a shock, as I expected schools to jump on the opportunity to have a CELTA trained native speaker. A pretentious Brit at a British ESL school explained it to me: He said something like, "we don't hire off-the-boat novice English teachers, and other schools won't either since the socialist government will not issue work visas to foreigners when they think Brazilians can do the job."

Another unrelated picture, of Ipanema

Eventually I found a place that would take me. Due to potential legal issues, the most I can say about it is that whoever decorated the interior and its adjacent cafe must have really had a hard-on for vampires. I doubt you could find more pictures of Edward in one place anywhere else in Rio. I started teacher training there every afternoon for 3 hours at the same time I started daily morning Portuguese lessons, and these both conspired to steal away beach time (however, nap time has been preserved for it is sacred), and are leaving me quite tired at the end of the day. But not tired enough to miss out on a music recital of choral students singing Brazilian soap opera theme songs.

In the teacher training there are some great people, new friends and colleagues, and a crazy lady. Girls cry, men are broken, and I show off how totally pro I am at teaching. The Portuguese beginner-level classes feature a Swede, a half-Brazilian/Egyptian from Amsterdam, some Americans who've been here for two years, some hot Germans and French, and an annoying Australian. I passed the training and now am starting teaching soon, tomorrow is my first class, so that's good...but they pay pretty horribly. I really want to find private students and charge them accordingly...know anyone in Rio who wants to learn English real good?

Halloween in Brazil

Two weeks late and....quite a bit else.



It was kinda like Rocky Horror, but more gay. Plus they played that same song over and over until we left...good DJ technique!

Lapa, where you can booze in the street while listening to samba.

Just finished a long weekend here, we had Monday off for a federal holiday no one celebrates; the declaration of the Brazilian republic by the military in 1889 or something. The weekend was good, I went to Lapa twice and got drunk on the street, once just for the hell of it and the other time to pregame for the above 'show,' themed after Alice in Wonderland.

During my walks back home (which everyone condemned me for, they say its a dangerous route) I got too see all sorts of street prostitutes waiting on the side of the highway, just like in the movies! Also, just like in the movies, they were all once men! I gave a wide berth, steering between them and the random dudes coking up in the middle of the sidewalk, avoiding the young street kid puking in the dumpsters he was diving into. Nothing I hadn't seen already in Harlem or the lower east side, really.

I have to go to my first Portuguese class now, then teacher training. No time to go to the beach! I'm still as white as an off-the-plane gringo. More words and pictures to come.

Football is Sweat and Flight

Football is huge here, bigger than anything comparable in the U.S., and all the stereotypes about South American football are true. They really do say 'GOOOOOOL!' and they do get into fights frequently. Choosing a local team is a serious consideration, and everyone wants me on their side. Adenir has his own approach. Football pervades every aspect of his life. He wrote a thesis, his 'monogram' as he calls it, unsolicited and by himself on how the public education system, the placement of football fields and the impact of football on society interact. Basically what I understood is that football is both capitalist and communist, whatever that means. Based on this 'monogram' he then produced a book of football poems and songs, the main work entitled "Football is Sweat and Flight." He sang it to me and after I congratulated him on his creativity his daughter said, "only my father writes poem-songs about football," to which Adenir replies, "it is very hard to write about football."

The furthest Adenir has taken the football metaphor is for explaining how he feels about Shakespeare. After lunch today I learned about goiabada, a cheese and guava paste dessert. It's pretty good, but not as good as knowing that the cheese part is called 'Romeo' and the jam 'Juliet.' This was Adenir's cue to clue me into another part of his 'monography,' where he wrote, "Shakespeare, he comes at you like a football, then, he send you away like a football." He gestures a triangle and explains, "You, and the Shakespeare, you take and he take, like in football." [Update: it turns out that's an actual quote more or less from the Comedy of Errors] Thinking about it later that idea actually makes sense in a way, but how he came upon the simile of football to describe the hermeneutics between text, author, and reader baffles me.

I got to see my first match ever last Sunday. I am not a sports fan and find it terribly boring when on the TV, but being at an actual game is surprisingly fun. It was between Vasco da Gama, the 'underdog' team of the poorer classes (which was also the first football club to allow blacks to play) and Fluminense, the current tournament leader and supposedly the 'aristocratic' team. The last time these two teams played, a Vasco fan died and there were riots. I was advised to wear muted colors and avoid raising my hands when near the hardcore fans of either team.

Arriving at the stadium was a little stressful, as there were hundreds of people jammed into a one-way street with cars trying to poke through the crowd. Cops were everywhere, but clearly outnumbered by the hooligans. The crew I arrived with was split between Vasco and Fluminense fans, although of the same family so nothing got rowdy. I went with the Vasco fan all the way around the stadium to the Vasco entrance, where it was markedly less crowded and crazy. Vasco was in 12th place and playing the 1st place team, so nobody expected much.



The game itself was pretty fun, but what was much more entertaining were the fans. They waved giant flags, played samba and team songs in the stands, and chanted insults at the other fans. The chants for both sides were pretty much like 'Ole, ole ole ole, fuck you [other team], fuck you.' They screamed ridiculous insults at the players, gestured what plays they should make, and almost went into a frenzy when Fluminense players started pretending to be injured to waste time. Listening to them, I learned words I'm glad I don't remember lest they slip out at the wrong time. My favorite fan was a little girl with vocabulary of a grizzled old sailor on shore leave.

After the match fans flooded the streets and tension was high. Around 20,000 people were shuffling out of the stadium, most of them drunk. Fluminense won 1-0, but faked lots of injuries, and Vasco had more shots on goal. To diffuse any unruliness were tons and tons of cops, just like in the movies. They had horses, giant nightsticks, and M4 carbines. The people living around the stadium in a near favela-like neighborhood took great advantage of this huge influx of drunken money and tried selling almost anything they had; music, water, drinks, snacks, and probably children if you asked. I didn't. The Vasco fan I was with looked physically defeated, and deflated even more as his uncle (a Fluminense fan) ragged on him the whole way home. I kinda zoned out during that part, so I all remember from the rest of the evening was seeing a paintball arena that also advertised itself as a sex-shop. I'm looking forward to visiting that establishment sometime.

Adenir and Education

Waiting for me at the Rio airport was Adenir. He is a wonderful man from Minas Gerais, a rural farm state next to the state of Rio (like New York, Rio de Janeiro is a state and a city). He studied under my grandfather and was his secretary during the 70's or sometime when the military or someone was doing bad deeds or something. Whatever happened, he now worships my grandfather, which of course is good for me; free lunches.

His rural background and affect remain with him, much to the chagrin of his two children, but I find it charming and it has him say all kinds of great things. He once asked me what religion I was while we were examining some of his books. I replied, "a little Quaker, but mostly nothing" (readers of my other writings will know what's up with me and Quakerism) to which Adenir said, "I am, a little, Alfredo!" Alfredo being my grandfather. The next day we were having dinner at a choperia where I learned that "cariocas [people from Rio] are beautiful but problematic" and how quail eggs "are Viagra," and on the way back Adenir states, "Alfredo is like Batman. You know Batman?" I mumble in reply, "euhh, sim?" Adenir beams at me. "Yes. Batman, Robin, and Alfredo." With that I know I'm welcome in his home for at least another week.

On my first day in Rio, the family sat around at lunch and discussed politics. Pretty much everyone I've met doesn't like Dilma, the new president, for various reasons (another classic Adenir moment: "Hey, she is woman, give her a chance. It will. Be. Interesting."); either because she's a hypocrite, or not radical enough, or too communist. Each person at the table had such a different political opinion it was hard to believe they were related. I sat wide-eyed and overwhelmed, trying to drown out the cacophony of unfamiliar sounds (they weren't even words to me at that point) with mouthfuls of cachorro-quente. Once I had eaten everything I had nothing to hide behind so tried to describe the midterm elections in the U.S. Not surprisingly my explanation quickly devolved into me saying 'left, right, and center' over and over until Adenir chimed in cheerfully, "Politics. It is just like football." And with that, discussion was closed.

I love the guy, he really takes good care of me, almost to the point of absurdity. Like holding my shoulder when crossing the street, or directing me around the subway (which has special cars just for women during rush hour) with his hand on my back. On our way to a public school where he teaches he was so absorbed in making sure I got on the train that he fell in the gap between the train and platform. He was fine, thank goodness, and later asked me what it means when the train announcer says "mind the gap." 

Adenir with a student

At his school I got to see what few gringos see; an up-close and intensely personal experience with Rio's public schools. Fabricio, Adenir's son, later told me, "you went to hell and survived!" In retrospect, yes, I have seen hell and it is a classroom filled with screaming favela teens hitting each other, knocking over desks, and repeatedly asking if I am Edward from Twilight or if I know Justin Bieber personally. "This is just our situation," a teacher told me, "we deal with it." 

I was paraded though a series of 'English classes' where I sat in a corner and had half the class huddle around me and the other half completely ignore me and the teacher, who translated for the kids with a massive profanity filter. The boys usually took passing interest, asking me about video games (FYI 'Pikachu' is the same in Portuguese) and action movies, hip-hop and American women. The girls were, for the lack of a better term, what my friend Sam would call 'prostitots,' and would not shut up about how nicely they could cut my hair or how badly they wanted to see New York. The teacher I was with told me, "Brazilian women are very sensual. It is hard to be a gringo man in Brazil." Normally I would have thought she was crazy, but after what I saw in those classrooms I think she might be on to something.

After 5 hours I was definitely ready to go, and as I left with Adenir a girl from one of the classes I visited ran up and put a piece of paper in his pocket. It was for me, and had 'please, write, email soon!' scrawled on it with an Gmail address that weirdly sounded like a New York hospital's name. I told him more or less what happened (we have a pretty big communication gap), how the kids were very talkative but didn't say much, the ridiculous questions, etc, and his answer made me laugh. "You see, here in Gloria neighborhood there are many trees. They talk a lot here because there is a lot of oxygen!" Its all about delivery with him.

The Trip

I had half a mind to turn around pre-boarding. "What do ya know, I've been put on the international travel blacklist," I could say. Or maybe "my plane had snakes. Supposedly that happens sometimes." I'm glad it didn't, I dislike snakes. Propelled along by months of inertia and talk, I boarded and took my seat. In my notebook under the heading 'BRAZIL' written boldly, intending to mark a departure from all previous notes and ideas, I wrote my first thought upon boarding. It wasn't 'oh boy here is the first day of the rest of my life' or anything soppy like that but rather 'hey, the plane's entertainment system runs on Linux. That's neat.'

Arriving in Houston I was treated to a final dose of Americana. Might as well, I was going to be away for a while. What struck me was that terminals were named after football players and the floors were cleaned with tennis balls stuck on the end of broomsticks [UPDATE: ditto in the Leblon Mall]. Everyone who passed through the airport was, of course, subject to various screenings, searches and intimidating announcements. But perhaps the most effective security apparatus was a bronze statue of H.W. Bush, the airport's namesake, striding confidently into the wind with book in hand and a jacket slung over his shoulder, looking down on us with a stern gaze saying, "don'chu fuck with my airport, terrorist." Under his eyes I felt guilty of something and fidgeted around uncomfortably. Maybe they put those microwave emitters recalled from Afghanistan in there, I dunno. 

A fitful night's sleep filled with reruns of 'The A-Team' and 'Salt,' both of which had errors so egregious I had to fight to not comment to my neighbor about them, was interrupted by arrival in Rio. Leaving the security of the American plane I was immediately awash in a turbulent sea of incomprehensibility. I put my default phrase, "Eu nao entendo Portuguese," on defcon 1 to launch out of my mouth in case anyone tried communication. My defenses were not tested, and I made it through immigration without any problems, putting to rest months of arguing over whether I should have gotten a visa. From there on out, I was winging it. No legal status, no job, no language, and a suitcase filled with wishful thinking (read: free condoms from a thrift shop in Soho). But what I did have was waiting for me in the arrivals area of Rio's delightfully 70's poured-concrete airport.