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.

Kites Over Itaquera V

For pilots and passengers, the hard part to flying is take-off and landing. Seeing the ground shrink beneath me on take-off frightens me like nothing else. I’d rather be on the ground petting anacondas.

Sleep was a rare commodity leading up to the trip. I had plenty of unfinished business and I take some of it with me to Brazil. I started packing after midnight the night before we leave. All I do is throw stuff in the suitcase and carry-on bag and hope I got everything. I hate packing, though, since it means I am going somewhere.

Five of us from church are on the trip, about the right size, I came to find. We meet at church at 4:30 after a frenetic day of work. Fifteen hours of travel await us and I’m already bushed.

Brad East is the Associate Pastor and heads up the trip. He is good with details and has been to Brazil for advance work. He makes only one mistake on the trip: he tells us the on-board meal to Brazil is breakfast and I bring two pounds of grapes to hold me over. Only minutes later, the stewardesses wheel out dinner and I can’t resist. To me, there is no such thing as leftovers. I eat what is in front of me, no matter what. After dinner, I feel pregnant and can’t bend forward in my seat. I find I will not be hungry until we leave Brazil.

I napped for what I thought was a long time and wake up thinking surely we are close. I am rudely jolted when I look at my watch. My nap was only an hour and there is still eight more hours to go. Worse, I cannot get back to sleep and I am both tired and gorged beyond belief. The movies are no good but they do have GPS, which is both good and bad. I don’t have to ask the stewardess if we are almost there yet and I know exactly when we fly over the Amazon.

Also accompanying Brad from the staff is Tren Groat. He is the College and Career Pastor and will head up a follow-up visit in June. He barely looks old enough to even have graduated college. A John Lennon pre-hippy hairstyle makes him look years younger. His dark hair can pass for Brazilian but his skin is very pale. He stands tall and deliberate like most Brazilians; nobody slouches in Brazil.

The only woman on the trip is Jean Oye. She is a widow and has been on this type of mission trip several times since her husband died. They don’t come any sweeter than Jean and she is extremely affable. She is also tough, having been on a mission trip down the Amazon. Thank you for your obedience, Jean, better anybody but me.

Greg Bryan works in the printing office at church. He is unassuming and deceptively funny. He enjoys beating me at ping-pong but won’t say it. Let the record show I beat him once.

We left St. Louis and it was 32 degrees. We arrive in Sao Paulo and it is in the 80’s. Already in one respect I love Brazil. But I am still miserable from lack of sleep.

Immediately apparent are the loosened mores of Brazil. Advertisement after advertisement throughout the airport contain women about ready to catch cold. At least there is strategically placed clothing. I learn on the trip Brazilians are not immodest because there must be immodesty to be immodest–they just don’t care.

Missionaries John Weaver and John Johnson greet us at the airport. I was expecting tall, bookish types with reading glasses as they blended in with the kiosks. Instead, they seem like good car salesmen. I should know since I am a Product Trainer for a domestic manufacturer. Like a good policeman, they know how to passively take control of a situation.

John Weaver has a slight build and deserving of his Grasshopper nickname. He barely knows how to stay in one place long enough. He sticks out in Brazil because of his reddish-blond hair, almost as blond as mine. John Johnson, on the other hand, is unhurried. With dark hair and dark eyes, he falls in my Brazilian template and he even sounds Brazilian when he talks to the Brazilians. When he talks to me, I learn quickly he is from Texas.

We have two interpreters joining us, Natan and Dalete Sampaio de Aquino, brother and sister. They stand straight with narrow bone structures. Natan looks graceful and amiable. Dalete has sleek, elegant lines–bonita. Immediately, I see they are transparent, without guile, and I know I am no longer in America. I don’t know if it is the car business or American culture in general, but everything in America seems to have an angle. We hide behind visages or facades, rarely showing our true selves. Already at first glance, I want what the Brazilians have.

We ride in two cars to Pastor Rubens house to drop off our things. Immediately, we get to work.

Kites Over Itaquera XIV

We must go–we must all go–to Itaquera and other parts of the world, as well as down the street and around the corner. Here the ground is fertile—gumbo soil. But the workers truly are few and the countless boys like Clayton continue longing for something they cannot see from people they do not know. Faith comes by hearing and most will probably never hear the true Gospel.

Security has a premium in Sao Paolo. The mall charges to park there, unlike the one we visited earlier that week. This one looks like any upscale mall in America with nice shops and restaurants. Again, I stick out in the crowd although they do not stare as much here, probably with a greater influx of foreigners. We travel as a group, but soon get split into two. I travel with Jean and Dalete again like in the morning and it is a great time. Today, Jean is Mama Primavera to everybody in the mall.

The girls conspire to buy Pastor Ruben and his wife a gift. Thankfully, I wasn’t involved or it would have been a hammer. I do indulge myself once and buy a miniature Brazilian license plate that says “Pedro,” a reminder that somewhere in the world I am famous, but for no particular reason.

Ultimately, we have to go. We present the gifts and John Weaver takes plenty of pictures. I’m not sure what they will look like other than a collective façade of forced smiles. Through the week I’ve learned enough Portuguese to express my gratitude, the first time all week. They greeted us warmly, now they send us off warmly.

How the ambulance gets to the airport, I don’t know—it runs on miracle gas. Its last leg was gone years ago. I ride with John Weaver and we both notice the ambulance struggles up the hills. If something happened, though, John does not have enough room.

The first sign we are leaving—no turning back—is the airport terminal. Again it reminds me of the American terminals, but the Portuguese reminds us we have not left. Brad hustles us up to the ticket office for our boarding passes. He is a veteran and knows how we feel, the faster the less painful. He got to know me this week and he makes doubly sure I have everything in order.

At first, only John Weaver, Pastor Rubens, and the interpreters were our send-off party. Suddenly, some of the church members join them. They make it hard to leave again but we must board.

In the little time we have left, we exchange e-mail addresses, phone numbers and mailing addresses. I take the longest—too long—and Brad gets impatient and rightfully so. I push the margin for error way too close to takeoff. On the very last sightline to security, the sendoff party starts to break into “Pedro, Pedro, Pedro…” I jokingly acknowledge my pseudo-fans and accidentally start walking in the wrong direction, almost into a wall. In those short few seconds, several behind me in line take my place. Because of this little theatre, I almost miss my flight.

Brad is about 20 spaces ahead of me in line. He keeps looking back and can’t help but giving me the hairy eyeball. I can’t help but laugh. Since junior high school, I always heard the line: there’s always one in every crowd. Without fail, I have always been that one.

The line goes a little slower than we like. Now, everybody in the group is giving me the hairy eyeball. I’m typically not given to worry but I am starting to worry now. I’m in Brazil and can’t speak the language, plus the send-off party is long gone.

As the line through security loops around, Tren is standing one aisle ahead. The man behind him looks kindly and I ask him if I can cut in front. If he hadn’t, I would not have made the flight, it was that close. We literally run to catch our flight. I feel badly for Jean because she has to hotfoot it because of me. Then again, she has been down the Amazon and could probably teach me a thing or two.

At last we reach the gate and it looks safe. However, I get stopped before I can board—a random search. They pull me aside and take my bag, ask me to take off my shoes and then run the wand all around me. The plane is almost ready to leave and I wonder if they can see the fireworks shooting out of my head. If I complain, they will probably spite me and take their time. Instead I comply. Literally, I board with one minute to spare.

Brad is not so shy about the evil eye once I’m on board. I’m all smiles, though, Pedro has perfect timing, I tell him. I can tell it burns holes through him but he says nothing.

Another eleven hour flight awaits us, retracing our steps through Chicago. Training my mind back on St. Louis is hard. Much has happened, more than I ever dreamed, a catharsis of sorts. My own words ring out again: I leave here a much richer man than when I arrived.

I find I am unable to sleep and I replay the events of the last week, as well as those in the airport. I cannot shake them. This was supposed to be a sweet memory but it has become much more. Putting Itaquera behind me is difficult so I remind myself I have work to do when I get home. As we approach the equator, I turn my watch back to St. Louis time hoping it will help, but it does not.

Finally I am able to catch a little sleep. I wake up in time to see the city lights of Havana. It does not seem like a major city as the lights are not strong, but then I remember it is Havana. To try and keep my mind from Brazil, I follow the plane’s route on GPS. We fly up the east coast of Florida before cutting through Georgia. The movies again are bad and there is only so many times I can listen to John Prine on the audio loop. Finally the tentacles of dawn reach over the horizon, a new day, a new beginning.

Freezing temperatures greet us in Chicago and I quickly long again for Itaquera. I am the last one off the plane and I never mind being last. Brad chants “Pedro…” again as I enter the terminal. We have three hours between flights so we compare notes as well as have some fun. People around us are too serious, some watch us stoically, one moves away. I wish I were back in Brazil.

The flight home boards and lands in St. Louis without a hitch. Again I am last off and the same “Pedro…” chant starts again, my triumphal return and I play it up. Hopefully nobody recognizes me. We are met there by Ron Lowry, another staff member from church. He packs our stuff in the van and says get in, no fanfare. Does he not know he is speaking to Pedro Primavera? My fame only gets me a ride back to church.

The ride is all highway. Already the differences between St. Louis and San Paolo could not be more plain. Everybody keeps to their own lane, their space, and I feel they don’t want it invaded no matter what. Some of the new subdivisions crowd the highway and all the houses look pretty much the same. Suddenly I don’t understand the uniformity. People slave for that large house and car as well as escape the inner-city uniformity and then they look the same, the same but bigger. So, too, seems the American church in general. Abortion, illegitimacy, and divorce are at the same rates within the Church as without. I look around and wonder if we are becoming like Brazil with a large nominal church in pursuit of what is ours. In America, however, they don’t want to be bothered.

I have never, ever in my lifetime taken such a lonely ride home. Every cell in my body wants to return. At night, I wake up now thinking I’m at Pastor Ruben’s. Sometimes he speaks to me in my dreams—in English—though I can’t understand him. Even in the mornings, I hear the children go off to school and I expect to hear them speak in Portuguese.

I am a hapless Romantic, perhaps a lazy one, some necessitated by circumstances, some my arch-nemesis contentedness. I see the world sometimes how it should be, darn the realities, but rarely act on them. Now that I’ve gone, though, I will now and forevermore see the children of Itaquera and hope for better.

There is only so much I can do, though, and it will be up to others like you to fill the void. In the limited time we have left, you have to make a difference somewhere in the world. We must make a difference in a life like Clayton’s.