Kites Over Itaquera VIII

I feel sorry for Jean Oye. Brad and Tren insist some of the elderly gentlemen are hot on her trail. I thought they were joking but find later it is true. They threaten to call the church announcing she has found the man of her dreams.

Saturday is devoted entirely to having fun–not so much for me since my work has bogged me down. We go to the beach although I have never seen sand outside of a sand box. Sand in large amounts is found far from home, usually by oceans. Oceans are far away. Worse, as a boy I had constant dreams of sharks swimming up the Mississippi River and they terrified me. They assure me it is safe, but I have heard the stories of sharks in never dreamed of places.

The beach is well over an hour away on a Saturday and only God knows how long during the week. We leave early before the rest of the crowd and getting there is half the fun. Brazil is fond of vibrant colors and it helps lighten up the drive. Unfortunately, I also see much of the same gang symbols in Brazil as I do in the US. Only once do I find graffiti for nefarious activities and it takes no reading or imagination.

I ride with John Johnson, Tren, and John’s young son, Aaron, five years old. I get stuck with Aaron in the backseat. He keeps invading my space with his foot almost the entire drive. It bothers me and I make the mistake of letting him know and it gets worse. Threatening him with puling off his toes doesn’t help, either. When I manage to grab his foot, I pull his toe until the knuckle pops. He nearly cries at first, then takes a liking to it and wants me to do it again–if I can catch his foot. I wonder what John thinks but he says nothing. Please tell me I wasn’t like this, either, growing up, that I was born with Tolstoy in one hand and reading glasses in the other.

The subtropical climate also makes for great viewing as we trek further toward the beach. Long waterfalls drop from the jutting hillsides. Bridges traverse the dense forests, appearing and disappearing into the vegetation like a Dali painting. I wish now I had a camera but I’m sure John Weaver is shooting away in the car in front of us.

Itaquera must lie well above sea level. My ears pop on a seemingly endless decline to the beach. Even toward the beach the high rises and favelas never seem to end, just not as many. It seems the Sao Paulo city planners set about to cramming too many people into too little space.

Immediately I fall in love with the view at the beach–better than all the pictures. The sand continues in both directions, wraps forward and then disappears around the corner, giving the appearance of a long, private beach. When we get there it feels private but the crowd eventually pours in. A small forested island sets before us and the camera I now wish I had needs to be equipped with a wide-angle lens.

Looking at the immaculate view is one thing, but getting in is another. If I had my druthers, I’d rather meet my Maker doing something for the Kingdom than being somebody’s lunch. Even Jean goes in the ocean. I have shorts on, anyway, not swim trunks. Instead, I catch up on my reading, then some unsatisfying sleep. My body clock is way off desperately needing back the four times zones I lost coming here. Before we leave, Greg convinces me to at least stand in the water. I wade in until it touches the hem of my shorts. Greg goes out in the deeper water assuring me it is safe and the sacrifice is not lost on me. You never know, Greg.

I need some gum on the way back, the sleep not doing wonders for my breath. We stop at a gas station and I buy a brand of gum I recognize. I open my wallet and remember they take reais and not dollars. I give the man five reais and he gives me two reais back and four coins. Hopefully it is correct change and I leave trying not to look like a tourist although it is written above me in neon. Obrigado, I say. De nada: you’re welcome or it’s nothing, he returns. I ask John discreetly if I have the right change.

We return to Sao Paulo and afterwards go to the mall. It is not really fair to call it a mall. There are a lot of stores but many are the same store twice. There is only two things for sale here, it seems: overpriced electronics and loud clothing. I’ve been looking to replace a certain newsboy hat my dog chewed through, but all they have are bike and baseball hats. Like America, the mall is a place to hang out and it is crowded.

Tren and myself are the tallest people there by far. Everybody at least glances at me because of my blond hair, again the neon tourist sign goes on. I am the only blond there and I find later Paulistas (from Sao Paulo) have an affinity toward natural blonds. In southern Brazil, blonds are plentiful in the German-settled areas. Sometimes I catch them staring.

Another missionary joins us because the Weaver and Johnson kids have school functions. All I know is her name is Mary and she has been in the country for two months. I can tell because she is not used to the kill-or-be-killed driving. Cars are small in Brazil–about the size of a Mini Cooper–partly because they are cheaper, partly because they can fit two to every lane. Brakes are optional in Brazil.

Thankfully, she gets us to the Weaver’s in one piece just in time for dinner. We have pizza for dinner, Brazilian pizza from a place called Vitoria’s. I don’t know what to expect. Our pastor told of a trip to India and they had a Dominoe’s pizza there. Just from the recollective expression on his face, I knew it was not good. However, Brazilian pizza is good–exotic, but good.

I am not a good guest here, also. My web work is not done and this is my last night to get it done before groveling Monday morning. I am thinking if I should use one knee or two when begging for my job.

After dinner, we play ping-pong. At least I’m able to work out some of my frustrations. I play to win and dive for a few, sometimes into the wall. I was a soccer goalie in high school and clanged my head off a few goal posts in my time. Diving here is nothing, maybe because none of the brain cells still go together.

Finally at last, just before the evening is over, I find a co-worker’s name and number on the web. He straightens me out: the web address changed. I complete the work that night and for the first time on the trip I am truly able to relax. Not a moment too soon, either, as my world changed the next day.