The night before I left for Brazil, I stood in front of my little brother’s bathroom mirror at Oxford and talked to myself. “I don’t have to go to Rio,” I told me. “I could just go back home. My parents would be disappointed, my friends would think less of me, and the Fine Folks at Watson Headquarters would make me return the remaining fellowship funds, but at least I wouldn’t be alone in Rio. At least I wouldn’t get shot.” Over the course of my four months in Ireland, I had gone from being incredibly excited to visit Brazil to being scared out of my mind. The transformation was the result of a number of factors, including my realization that the solo existence afforded by the Watson was difficult enough to adjust to in Ireland— I was disturbed by the prospect of repeating my first month in a country where I did not speak the language, in a city infamous for its violence. The impassioned and relentless requests of my mother, a wonderfully unsubtle woman, to skip Rio and stay in Ireland for an extra four months, also did not help. My self-help session in the bathroom, however, helped me to summon the courage to board the plane the next day, and the following morning, I woke up over the azure waters, white sand beaches and lush forests of Rio de Janeiro.
My first month in Brazil was a frustrating one. To complete any basic task, such as finding a fan for my room or shopping for groceries, was a massive ordeal, due to my poor grasp of Portuguese and unfamiliarity with the city. Fortunately, loneliness was never a problem, as I had learned to enjoy living independently in Ireland, so I was able to focus my attention on getting established as quickly and efficiently as possible. By the end of my fourth week, I had settled into a rhythm, having set up intensive Portuguese (6 hours/week) and music lessons earlier in the month. After seven weeks of study, my Portuguese has improved immensely. I am now conversational, and am able to understand the majority of what goes on around me.
My efforts to understand and study Brazilian music have not been as fruitful nor as straightforward as my Portuguese studies. The many regions of Brazil have spawned a number of varied musical styles, including bossa nova, forro, maracatú, samba, choro, and many more, all of which can be found to some degree in Rio. I have focused primarily on samba and choro (which is a more intimate, instrumental type of samba), and have been taking mandolin lessons with a teacher for a number of weeks now. Samba is defined by the specific beats and rhythms that accompany the singer or melodies, and thus to gain a better understanding of the music, I have also been taking weekly lessons on the pandeiro, a hand-drum ubiquitous to the musics of Brazil.
I attempted to begin my study of self-expression within choro early into my stay. Within the first few interviews, though, I recognized that my lack of familiarity with the rudiments of the music prevented me from discussing it intelligently. While the stable structure of Irish music was immediately comprehensible to my classically-trained ear, choro is much more like jazz, in that improvisation in both melody and rhythms are integral to the music. Without understanding the basic structure of rhythm over pulse, it is impossible for one to appreciate or even distinguish the intricacies inherent in these improvisations. I thus resigned myself to learning these fundamentals, so that by my later months I would be able to better understand and carry out my study of the music and the musicians in earnest. It has been this elementary step that has proven vastly difficult for me. As a violinist, I have always thought of music in melodies rather than chords and rhythms. Before coming to Brazil, I had never even studied chords on an instrument. Before learning any new mandolin piece, though, my teacher insists that in order for me to understand the melody, I must understand the structure beneath. To learn foreign rhythms while attempting to teach myself the basics of chordal theory has been an arduous undertaking. In order to ensure I don’t run out of time in Brazil, I have been practicing upwards of six hours of music a day. I have never practiced or focused so heavily on music before, and in spite of my vested interest, to keep up has been difficult. What has been especially wearisome has been my apparent lack of progress— I have learned a number of pieces now, as well as their chords, and yet nothing seems to be getting easier. I am just hoping that with continued devoted practice, things will start to click in the near future.
Personal disappointments aside, I have been enjoying my stay in Rio immensely. The city is beautiful, and the musicians I have met and heard have been warm, welcoming and accessible. I have also signed up for a week-long choro workshop in mid-February, in the state of Sao Paulo, in which I will get to meet a number of world-class musicians, and also learn a bit about the history of the music. It will be entirely in Portuguese, but I believe my grasp of the language will be adequate by that point. I am hoping that through both this workshop, as well as my increased understanding of the music by the end of my stay in Rio, I will be able to write my next quarterly report with a bit more substance on the nature of self-expression within choro. Until then, I’m going to go practice some more.
Every Sunday morning, after a quick shower, I head down the hill of Santa Teresa into the neighborhood of Gloria for the weekly open-air market, or feira. I went with Vinicius my first time, and paid close attention to his instructions.
“First,” he explained, “we don’t buy. We just look.” The countless tables of exotic fruits and vegetables (some of which I had never seen or heard of before), fresh meats and fish and plates of brightly colored spices, not to mention the vociferous, often aggressive vendors who stood behind them, made for quite a spectacle. Vinicius, however, carefully inspected each table from afar, eventually leading me to one of the last stalls, where food was being served. He ordered something from the cashier, and within seconds, I was presented with a small plastic cup of sweet, greenish-yellow liquid, and what looked like a fried ball of dough. The drink was caldo cana, or sugarcane juice, and the ball was fried cheese covered in manioc paste. Although I felt sick for the rest of the afternoon, it made for a rather delicious breakfast. The meal was also indicative of my broader findings regarding street food in this country. Brazilians generally like their snacks deep-fried, and their drinks sugary. Sugar is generously added to every flavor of fresh fruit juice at the botecos, or juice bars— even orange juice.
For the rest of my first visit to the feira, I followed Vinicius around like a lost puppy. I couldn’t speak much Portuguese, and quickly got intimidated when anyone spoke to me. I have found that when an individual realizes you don’t speak their language well, rather than choosing to speak more slowly, they simply increase their volume. I got anxious when anyone spoke to me in the first place, so when they started yelling, it did not help matters. I am now somewhat conversational in Portuguese, so this has become less of a concern, but I still grow frightened when surly Brazilian men bellow at me to purchase their mangos.
Another memorable experience was when I decided to buy some chicken. Vinicius was not with me this time, but I did not have to look far before I found the poultry stall. The row of dead, whole chickens hanging by their necks from the crossbars, each with a little baggie of blood tied to it (there is a Brazilian sauce made with chicken blood) was what tipped me off. I gestured enthusiastically at one of the whole chicken breasts in front of me, and the pretty lady-butcher behind the table smiled understandingly as she picked it up. Any presumptions I had about the soft, feminine nature of this woman based on her warm smile were quickly put to rest, as I watched her wield her knife high above her head before bringing it down swiftly and fiercely, as though to make sure the poor creature was dead. She cut the fat and filleted the meat with surgical precision, quickly and efficiently, and without wearing gloves. Serious Brazilian lady-butchers have no time for pretensions about hygiene. She then looked up from the grisly little mess and asked if that was all. That was all, thanks, I said. I paid for my chicken and looked back up to wave at my new friend, but she was already busy hacking away at some other customer’s dinner. What a woman.
My trip to the feira is an occasion I look forward to every week. There are open-air markets throughout the week in Rio, but Sunday is the only day it’s close to home. Most everything at the market is dirt cheap, so it’s a convenient way to stock up for the week. I am currently finishing this post on a Sunday night, and thus have a fridge full of freshly (and violently) filleted chicken, broccoli, oranges, mangos, bananas and (homemade) chocolate peanut butter. I am ready for anything.
Much love,
Auyon
