The Comfort Zone
February 2014
Gávea, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
A month had passed since my family had returned to Houston and left me to my own devices. It did not take long before I was willfully submerged in Rio’s charms – the warm kiss of the summer sun, the chill of freshly served açai against my teeth, stunning hills and mountains as far as the eye could see.
I was untethered, running from Leblon to Ipanema to Copacabana one day, dancing until the early morning in Lapa the next. I approached my classes with the same vigor, enthralled by every lecture and raised hand, happy to glimpse a tiny sliver of the Brazilian perspective. When Fridays bled into the weekend, I ventured deep into the city. The flaky, chicken-filled pastel and golden brown coxinha sold by street vendors became a ritualistic snack as I walked, aimlessly, down avenues and through lively neighborhoods.
During my wandering, I would think, almost involuntarily, of my father. His parting gift had been a four-hour security review of the city of Rio de Janeiro at his company’s local office. We listened to the detailed presentation of where to go and where to avoid, what to do and what not to do. I had tried my best to listen actively, nodding often. Street crime was an enormous concern in Rio. I was urged to remain vigilant against pickpockets and purse snatchers; I’d already heard so many stories. By the end of the review, I wasn’t sure whether the meeting had assuaged my parents’ fears or heightened them. Still, I couldn’t dredge up an appropriate amount of self-concern. I itched to be released, to discover and to explore.
When I found myself at the base of Rocinha, the city’s largest favela, I knew instantly that daddy would not have approved. There wasn’t much I could do, as it was a school related trip that Georgetown’s hired guide had organized. Besides, I was curious about this other side of Rio. I had long since sniffed out that there was much more to the city’s story than futebol, beaches, and samba. Nevertheless, I wondered how many of us had walked around the poorer parts of our hometowns, searching for enlightenment, and why it was appropriate to do so in Rio. What burning questions were crying out for answers, here in Rocinha, that lay muted within struggling neighborhoods all over the United States?
Before starting off, we milled around and introduced ourselves. I had seen many of them at orientation, but this was one of the first group outings. A boy with tousled brown hair and a thick beard walked up to me and introduced himself. Branden, he said. We talked a bit about our majors and why we had chosen Brazil for study abroad over the more popular European countries. A common thread seemed to be a burning desire for something different.
I felt a cold grip around my forearm. I looked down at the petite frame, the wrinkled face. She had materialized out of thin air. Her bony hand tightened its hold. She peered into my face. Her front tooth, predominant over the others, jutted out toward me.
“Deusa!” she rasped. “Você é uma deusa! Da-me sua energia!” Goddess! She had cried. You are a goddess, give me your energy. Branden’s eyes widened. I barely suppressed a scream as I tried to shake the old woman off. The other students looked on uncomfortably as she murmured and chanted under her breath. After what seemed like an eternity, she let go and backed away, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared. I rubbed my arm, frowning.
“No!” Senhora Dulce exclaims, “No way!”
We sit around the dinner table, waiting patiently as Maria, their house helper, lays out the delicious spread of baked chicken stewed in pineapple juice, black beans, and rice. I tap my foot absentmindedly, itching to get up and help her. Maria will say what she always says - please sit; I will do it.
Though Senhora Dulce had initially frowned at the mention of Rocinha, knitting her eyebrows together and turning her head ever so slightly to the side, she now laughs at the thought of the old woman latched onto my arm. She had warned me about wandering around the massive favela southwest of Gávea. There was little doubt that she had good reason – drug activity and military intervention had dominated headlines for many years. Nevertheless, something in her counseling reminded me of the well-meaning acquaintances who would occasionally caution against certain D.C. neighborhoods. Don’t ride the green line they would say. The declarative tone would often falter after I asked why.
The class had made its way up the favela’s interwoven system of concrete, brick, and shack houses that lay atop one another like colorful Legos. We hiked up single file, the narrow paths tributaries that came together and split apart at yet to be seen junctions. I worried less about my safety and more about how anyone got their mail. There were bakeries and electronic outlets and boutiques. There were shop keepers and school children and workers. Towards the end of our trek, we stopped at a small restaurant to enjoy the amazing views from high above the city. We dug into the delicious tapioca treats that the establishment was known for.
“Don’t worry,” Senhora says now. She struggles to find the words in English and then slips back into Portuguese. She explains that Brazil has many religions. Beyond Catholicism, I could expect to find religious beliefs originating from the African continent as well as neighboring countries. She is not sure whether this woman is a spiritualist or part of some other practice. I resist the urge to call the old woman’s behavior juju. I could just imagine what my Nigerian elders would say. Ah! She did what?! We must pray over you!
A soft breeze drifts in from the large, open window. The plump, green leaves that fill the frame seem ready to crawl into the room and join us at the table. Occasionally, monkeys and squirrels scamper up and down the tree, peering in at us at dinner time. I often look to the window, watching for overtly curious animals. This daily intrusion of nature, small and unimpressive though it may seem to my host family, is as foreign to me as it is beautiful. All doors and windows usually remain shut in my childhood home, keeping out mosquitoes, stray pets, and any real or imagined beasts of the great suburban sprawl.
“Aramide, what are your beliefs?” Senhor Mauricio asks. He speaks nearly perfect English. Over the past few weeks, we have discussed Brazilian and American politics and economics in both languages. Lucila looks up from her plate, leaning in closer. This is a new topic for our nightly gathering at the dinner table. She is a bubbling fifteen, curious and affectionate in equal measure.
“I’m a Christian. I believe Christ died for all of us.”
They look between each other, nodding. I’d grown up in a small bubble, and I had always assumed that most everyone around me believed the same thing. Freshman year in college had been an aggressive erasure of this notion. I hold back a smile, remembering an awkward moment when I’d reached for a friend’s hand at dinner, bowing my head to pray. She had recoiled sharply, a look of horror on her face. Oh, I don’t do prayer she had said. For days afterward I’d marveled at the constricted homogeneity of my own world view.
“And what about you all?”
“I’m an atheist,” Senhor says. I notice immediately that he does not include his family in this declaration. Not knowing quite what to say, I look to Senhora for her response.
“I believe in the power of nature. I believe in the forces at work all around us.”
Lucila only shrugs, her interest waning. She is not quite sure what she believes yet. Her parents seem comfortable enough with this. It this ease of being that intrigues me the most.
“Why do you believe in God?” Senhor Mauricio asks. Outside, the steady whir of bicycle spokes and the soft patter of foot traffic seem unusually amplified. Lucila smiles encouragingly as I look for the right words and verb tenses. I have not often had to defend my faith, in English nor in Portuguese.
“Well at first, it was because my parents believed,” I say slowly. “But now, it’s a faith I claim for myself. I see His existence everywhere and in everything.”
Just as Senhor is about to say something, there is a rustling in the leaves of the tree at the window. A black ball of motion flashes in front of my eyes before circling around the room. Senhora screams as her hand jerks, flipping over the plate in front of her.
“Mauriiiiiccioooo!”
“Paiiiiiii!” Lucila yells.
There is no time for any vocalization of my fear. Quickly and quietly I lay my fork down, pick up my phone, and head straight for my room. The Oh, no, no, no, no’s are still sounding off in my head as Senhor makes a dash for the kitchen to get the broom. Lucila and Senhora continue to scream inharmoniously. The sound of fluttering bat wings grows louder as my door clicks shut.
Photo Credit: Serrah Galos @serrah
