Kites Over Itaquera II

Traveling out of the country was a new experience for me. Going to Itaquera was a revolution.

I am used to mixed cultures, my mom from Switzerland and my dad from what is now the Czech Republic. What they gave most was a different perspective almost like looking at the American culture from the outside in. However, learning about different cultures is completely different than experiencing them.

I prepared myself for a Brazilian template, more like a generalization. I never expected the name Clayton, though. Many of the names in Brazil sound like they come from elsewhere in the world including Bruno, Igor, Emerson, and others. I learn in little time to expect the unexpected.

One thing I notice right away is they are open to strangers as well as friends, not what I know in America. It was once that way in American culture. We’ve all heard the cliches: the front door was never locked, we hitchhiked everywhere, the kids ran the neighborhood until called home for dinner. I’ve found the biggest culprit is money. Studies show the more we make, the more we owe and the more we make, the less we give to charity–the more we make, the less we care.

Itaquera is only one of countless spokes that make up Sao Paulo, one of the largest cities in the world. It is home to an internationally acclaimed Gran Prix race and also home to some of the best beaches in the world. Parasailing off Sao Paulo’s beaches is known worldwide. Amenities afforded to the luxury capitals of the world can be easily found. However, for the Itaquera we visit, many will live and die there and not really notice.

Suburbs like Itaquera consider themselves the engine that makes the Brazilian economy run, as opposed to Rio de Janeiro and the city of Sao Paulo. It is not that different from how many Germans view the French.

Continuing well beyond the horizon are high rise apartments after high rise. Second only to Bombay in population concentration is Sao Paulo. If they are lucky to have their own house in the poorer parts, they live in a home not even the size of storage sheds we know in America. Worse are the favelas, slums essentially scraped from the landscape, many times from garbage dumps.

Most of the homes have two or three small–very small–rooms giving new meaning to efficiency. They are proud of their homes, though, it is theirs, they own it and they don’t share a door or an elevator with anybody.

Two things are common in Brazilian homes. All the floors have decorative tile and some tile the walls. One had tile on the kitchen cabinets. Even in Itaquera, comfort is still relative. All have iron gates to keep out the worst elements and they are well-represented. Cars get locked up behind the gates on what might be a front porch. There is no grass to mow.

Those fortunate enough have cement walls. It covers the bare cinder block found in the others. Many spend days foraging around job sites, the dumps or wherever else to bring scraps home. Some pull it home on carts I might have seen pulled by a horse when I was a kid. If they have a front door, it is made from scraps of wood. The better houses have no front door and show off their fancier tile.

Since it never gets cold in Itaquera, there is no need to seal the house. During winter, it gets cool but not cold, although it can approach freezing on sparse occasion. When I say cold, I mean St. Louis cold. I grew up without air conditioning and sometimes without heat. The furnace broke once during the coldest winter in St. Louis history–one with snow on the ground for 100 consecutive days–and we toughed it out. I can tell you firsthand, it is far easier to survive extreme heat than extreme cold. In Sao Paulo, it helps to have the Atlantic Ocean.
To better understand Itaquera, it is necessary to go back in time a half-century–by plane since many have cars now.

The landscape in Sao Paulo would probably make Picasso envious. It is neat to view from the air. Tightly-built pastel houses form to the landscape, one that juts sharply up and down. None of the roads seem to go straight from necessity.

The airport is like in any other American city. People scurry throughout with only their flight in mind. However, once the intercom goes off, I know I am no longer in America. Portuguese is the native tongue and it sounds like Spanish spoken in a French accent. I understand nothing.

Thankfully, the missionaries and interpreters are there to meet us at the airport. They take us to where we are staying and it doesn’t take long to find traffic signals and street lines are merely suggestions. More frightening are the motorcyclists. They drive on the white lines and pass in the slimmest of margins. Some use the yellow line and they swerve in and out of traffic, cheating death. Never have I been so stressed in a car and I am not driving. However, in the time I am there, I saw only one car accident and that caused by the rain.

City planning is almost an afterthought. While easy getting out of the airport and to the suburbs, the streets must follow where the jutting terrain takes them. As we approach the suburbs, I can tell Itaquera is far different than the streets of St. Louis where the roads escape the urban squalor. There are no malls or big box stores, only small shops, usually a converted home. And like the worst parts of St. Louis, they are heavily reinforced with the iron fences.

It didn’t used to be that way in St. Louis. There is a flip side to progress that usually gets ignored.

Much like St. Louis, the seemingly never-ending retaining walls are splattered with advertisements and graffiti. It is a colorful drive to say the least. Some of the written words I can catch with similar Latin roots, especially amor. Apparently, announcing affections for your girlfriend is universal.

Somebody from the worst parts of St. Louis told me how to judge a neighborhood: look for people sitting outside on their stoops. Too many and they must be unemployed–they share their misery well with crime and drug abuse. As we approach the pastor’s house where we are staying, all I see is people, most of them sitting on their stoops.

Perhaps it is good Clayton flies his kite as much as he does. He keeps his eyes up above the squalor, if only for a little while. I look outside my window as we drive past the streams of people hanging out on the streets and I wonder why I am here.