Festival do Japao

                I was not entirely sure what to expect when I was invited to go to a Japanese Festival being held at one of Sao Paulo’s oversized convention centers this last weekend.  I knew that Sao Paulo has an immensely large population of Japanese descendents called the Nikkei living in the city but, beyond that, I had never even heard of a Japanese Festival.  Others certainly had though.

                As our vehicle approached the highway exit to the convention center we began to jockey with other cars and imperious motos for place in queue akin to the final lap of a NASCAR race.  Our car, driven by my roommate Pericle’s friend Renan and loaded with his other friend Jay, Pericles and myself, collectively marveled at the amounts of people walking across the highway overpass to and from the festival.  We shambled in traffic for quite some time until we eventually arrived at the parking lot where the fight for first to get in and park recommenced.  This gave us some time to observe all the people pouring into the convention centers main entrance; naturally, the majority of them were Asian.  In total the website for the Festival estimated that 190,000 people attended over the course of three days. 

The Torri with Jay and Pericles posing under it.

                Japanese customs are imbued in the country’s lengthy history and strict culture so there was no surprise that the entrance to the festival was marked by a large red Torri; the traditional Japanese wooden structure that marks Shinto temples all over Japan.  As our group entered the festival we took note that it was divided into two large sections.  The outdoor section contained an assortment of Japanese restaurants under a large white tarp and a performing stage for musical routines and other demonstrations.  The indoor section, located in the convention building itself, was divided into show booths displaying Japanese businesses, crafts and other aspects of the culture.  The aroma of shrimp teriyaki and our growling stomachs led us over to the outside pavilion first. 

Daburo, the Japanese Devil of...luck?

                As we scouted out the different restaurants and compared the prices and amounts of food being given at each one, we ran into the devil.  Covered in dry straw from his chest down and carrying a gnarled wooden cane topped with streamers of white paper, this guy danced from leg to leg around people who dared walk close enough to him.  Adults tittered behind their hands, adolescents slung out taunts and little children made sure to stay far away from the strange dancing man.  I cannot blame the kids for avoiding him though; the devil wore a blood red mask with long white fangs, two tall horns and a full mane of black hair that covered his neck and swept over his eyes.  The mask is called a hannya mask and represents the Japanese devil Daburo. 

                A funny fact about Daburo though, is that if you buy a Daburo statue it is said to bring luck and prosperity.  Rather odd for the devil, I believe.  Jay told us that when you bring the devil statue home with you it comes with two blank eyes that you make a wish upon.  As you will your desires into the devil statue you are supposed to paint one of the eyes and after the wish comes true you paint the other one to complete the wish.  Who would have guessed the devil would be the one to grant your wish?  Although, the devil in Japanese mythology is more of an enforcer of justice and good doing than he is someone who tempts your hand into sinful acts.

                We treaded cautiously around our friend the Japanese Devil and continued our search of decently priced convention food but, I was sidetracked by the sounds of short, loud and authoritative shouts.  I let them lead me to the area where the stage was and witnessed an Aikido demonstration, an ancient Japanese martial art involving wrist manipulation and using an opponent’s attacks against him.  I pushed my way through the crowd to the front of the stage and stuck my nose as close to the action as I could get.  People tumbled and flew through the air in flowery acts of powerful athletic display as the stage reverberated violently when they landed upon their backs.  The demonstrations brought back fond memories of when I practiced Aikido in Providence, Rhode Island some years back. 

Grandma Badass tossing another practitioner

                I was never very good at actually performing the complicated techniques but, I excelled at being thrown around as the demonstration dummy for my instructor.  I had practiced for two years though and could appreciate the begrudging “Oomph!” from the people who were taking the falls after spinning through the air.  I could not help but grin whole heartedly; I guess there is a bit of a masochist in me.  What was most impressive was a frail older woman who effortlessly was flipping an opponent head over heels who must have weighed two times as much as her.  I stayed for the entire performance with my camera glued to my face as I groaned in unison with some of the practitioners who took an occasional nasty looking spill. 

                When the marital artists began their closing bows I shoved my way back through the crowd to rejoin my associates and we ventured to finish our quest for food.  I settled for Japanese noodles with meat and vegetables and we ate on concrete steps while we listened to a Japanese drum demonstration; their deep beats echoing across the festival as I fought with the slippery noodles. 

                We quickly ate our meals and moved to the inside of the convention center where I lost sight of Pericles and Renan.  Not one to wait around or spend too much time searching out where they might have gone, I made way around the booths with Jay who stuck by me.  I think he was torn though to either stay with the Gringo or go search for his friends, but maybe he felt obligated to stick with me.  Together we made our way around the convention center, occasionally stopping at a booth to check out the latest motorcycles being produced by Yamaha or scope out some traditional Japanese candy. 

In the middle of the convention center there was a somber tribute to the victims of this past year’s Japanese earthquake.  Photos lined make shift aisles where people quietly and carefully moved down; examining the images of destruction and loss.  I paid my respects and moved back and forth with the crowd of people whilst admiring the destructive capabilities of the planet and the risks the photographers took to bring the world such proof.  I only needed to look once and departed soon after. 

Guests move up and down aisles to observe images of the destruction caused by last years earthquake

                Now what would a Japanese Festival be without videogames?  Jay and I made our way out of the center of the convention building and started to skirt the walls of the festival to come across a crowd of people standing around a large flat screen TV.  The crowd shouted and cheered as two people stared intently at the screen and battled against each other to a popular fighting game.  To those of you who have little shame in rocking your inner nerd, the game was Marvel vs. Capcom 3.  The players played best two of three matches and then would trade their controllers to two others who would do the same. 

The gentleman in the red shirt was the tournament's winner.

We arrived late in the tournament to watch the semifinal matches and then the final match where the two pros commanded their digital persons into performing dazzling special moves fit to give anyone with epilepsy a killer seizure.  The winner was awarded the equivalent of almost US$1,000 worth of video gaming merchandise and gift cards.  Not too shabby for mashing buttons on a remote control for a few hours. 

Our circuit nearly completed we joined up with Pericles and Renan to make our exit from the festival in the early evening, as most others were beginning to do the same.  Conveniently located at the exit of the festival was Nintendo’s booth where young gamers eagerly ran to snatch Wii remotes from the booth workers hands.  Also at the booth were drop dead gorgeous women.  To die for gorgeous women. 

These tall Brazilian babes were all smiles as they moved their curvy figures sensually around the booth giving flirty waves to pimple faced youths and overweight adult men.  Some of the braver ones requested to have photos taken with the ladies and they happily obliged with taunting poses and titalizing gazes.  I began to work up my courage to request one myself but then something else caught my eye.  Mario, Luigi and Donkey Kong, the heroes of my youth, appeared from around the corner in full costume with arms waving. 

I was torn between the beautiful Brazilian chicas or the costumed cartoon characters I had spent hours controlling on a tiny TV screen in my mother’s basement.  The lines were long and my time was short; I would only have time for one photo.  Should I stand in line to have a chance to wrap my arms around the busty beauties with all the other men? Or, should I join the screaming five and six-year-olds holding their mothers hands eagerly waiting to meet my former fictional heroes.  The choice was made and I left the festival soon after satisfied with my decision. 

Moving and Adapting to Change

Moving is a big deal.  It requires meticulous planning, thoughtful organizing, the actual moving itself, setting everything back up and then finally, adapting to your new home.  I think that in general people have the hardest time with the last step but, when it comes down to it, it is the most important of them all.

Things will not be the same after a move; the corner store will host peculiar faces, the air will smell unusual and the sky will take on new shades of colors.  Your days will begin differently, as the sun will wake you at abnormal angles and they will end oddly while your eyelids grow heaving staring at an unfamiliar ceiling.  If you let all the idiosyncrasies get to you and dwell on them they will turn against you.  This is where the final step of adapting comes in to save the day.

Humans have been adapting to their environments for as long as we have walked the planet.  From cavemen to farmers and Englishmen to pilgrims, no other species on the earth can adapt as well as we can.  Adapting, in short, is just accepting that things are not going to be the same and moving forward from there.

Moving to a new country though is a bit different from a move down the street.  The language is at first a challenge, the money feels weird and requires more math than should be necessary to buy lunch and the clocks run on what we refer to in America as military time.  I still have a hard time answering requests for the time when it is past noon. 

Here is a rundown of some of the things that I found new and strange upon coming to Brazil.  Some are kind of neat and some pretty out there but, there is an interesting allure to their unusualness that makes moving to any foreign country entirely remarkable.

Tap Water

Let us go ahead and start with the tap water.  The tap is not your friend here.  Unless you are boiling it for a soup or to make coffee in the morning, tap water is not to be digested.  This basic practice is something you want to look out for in all third world countries.  Brazil is not the worst of them that I have been in though; in Cambodia I brought a bottled water to brush my teeth and rinse my tooth brush with.  Brushing your teeth flies here but that is where the line is drawn.  About once a week our house goes through a water jug that we call the city to replace for R$5.  Not a bad price to pay to keep yourself off the toilet for a week.   

                Also, the tap has no western water heater attached to it.  So, you have cooked an amazing meal with your roommates.  The group of you has stuffed yourselves with rice, beans, pork and gotten a little rowdy over some beers.  The time eventually comes to clean up the pile of pots and pans you have thrown aside in the mad dash to the table.  You stumble over to the sink, dip your sponge into the stream to get to scrubbing and are rudely shocked into soberness.  The water is like ice and no matter how long you wait for it to get warm, that temperature is not going to budge a degree. 

There is a perfectly acceptable reason why these dishes are not done.

Winter During Summer

                I knew that it was going to be winter while I was here.  It is one thing though to know something and then an entirely different experience to live it.  While the people of the northern hemisphere enjoy beaches and tans, I went out and bought a new jacket to battle the cold.  Even while in Brazil, it can get mighty chilly and I am not much of a packer when it comes to travel; the lighter the better as I am usually on the go.  The house I am staying in does not help much either.  It is designed with loose fitting windows, tiled floors and mortared walls; not the best to insulate heat.  Central heating is also not a translatable phrase because it simply does not exist. 

All my belongings for four months, not much room for winter clothes.

Daytime is not so bad while the sun is out and shining.  Average temperatures can run up to 70 degrees Fahrenheit and with a nice breeze are rather pleasant.  Gloomier, cloudy days can dip into the upper 40s though.  As the sun’s glow turns from yellow to red and sets behind the skyscrapers to signal the coming of night, temperatures plunge into the 40s.  A trip to the market or pizza joint down the road occasionally requires my thickest socks.  I can deal with it for the most part but even while it is 65 F. out, the Brazilians still look miserable in their mittens and caps. 

And oh yeah, sunset is at five o’clock.     

Learn to Love Football

                South American countries love soccer and Brazil is no exception.  On at all times of the day, live or reruns, football is the sport of the country.  Being summer back in the states and missing out on all the baseball is tough for me but, football is not all bad.  The rules to the game are simple enough at least, I just wish there was more action and less whining.  I am not trying to take anything away from the world’s sport; it is most certainly enjoyable after a few beers.  Although, when stalling for time is an integral part of a team’s strategy and looking for penalty handouts occur on the regular…ugh, gag me with a goal post.  Thank god for www.MLB.com's daily free game that I can stream from time to time to get my fix. 

                Despite my complaints, I am looking forward to attending a live match.  Every sport is better live. 

Toilet Bins

                I saved this one for last as I would not expect many people to continue reading the blog if I had made it the first on the list.  In the western world, where most of the people who read this blog hail from, we have been taught after going to the bathroom you throw your dirty paper in the toilet.  Do your best to forget that notion here, it goes in a trash bin beside the toilet.  The reason for this is because the pipes and plumbing here are old, skinny and prone to backups.  At this point it would be way to costly to change the way things are done and already made.  Most western travelers find this most difficult to deal with, as public bathrooms now have another reason to be avoided tacked onto them. 

I'll spare you the toilet bin and show you how every shower has a squeegee instead.

                If you cannot deal with this, rent a room at the Hilton or Marriot for a couple hundred Reals a night; they have western plumbing.  Secretly though, and hopefully my roommates miss this post, I flush mine at home…

                And there are some of the few things that take some getting used to in Brazil.  Granted, those oddities are surely to be found in other places around the globe and the list is but the tip of a long, long catalog of culture shocks.  But that is just the way it is here and fighting against the change will only make one miserable.  It is best to accept and adapt to the changes if one is to enjoy himself/herself in a new and alien place.  In each new shock that comes along there is something to be said about a country and its people, even a beauty to them can be seen once accepted; well, maybe not the toilet bins.

Mercado Municipal

The main entry way

                From a block away the constant flood of people moving in and out of the building grabbed my attention.  Shuffling out from under a striking archway topped with stained glass windows, people teetered like penguins as they carried their loaded bags of groceries and culinary supplies.  As I made way through the masses into the Mercado Municipal, Sao Paulo’s largest food market, my dormant love of food began to awaken.  Everywhere I glanced, my eyes feasted on the food displays extending before me.  Fresh, colorful produce rested in crates, international wines were stocked high upon shelves and drying salami hung from hooks above shopper’s heads.  I had to be careful not to let others see me begin to salivate as I caught a whiff of a spice aisle, the combination of herbs and spices forming recipes in my head.       

                The 12,600 square meter market place is home to over 290 individual shops and employs over 1,500 people, according to the markets website.  Many of the shops seemed to be closed up though dulling such statistics a bit.  After giving the market a thorough walk around the number of shops open was more akin to around 200; still an impressive number.  The Mercado Municipal website also claims that the market handles approximately 450 tons of food per day, this I can believe. 

There are not many things that I love more about traveling than visiting such a place.  Whether the market is artisan or food, outdoors or indoor or a combination of all the above; they are locations that denote a simpler, gentler life.  Unlike the aisle ways of westernized grocery stores where people begrudgingly steer their steel shopping carts, loading them with boxes of cereal and packaged meat, open markets seethe with life.  Markets are not only for getting some basic shopping done but are personal places for people to interact and be part of a community. 

As I strolled through the Mercado Municipal, occasionally stopping to sift through the piles of diverse produce, I focused on the chatter of shoppers around me.  Even with a loose understanding of the Portuguese language I could grasp the other patrons negotiating and bargaining over cuts of meats and the weight of produce.  A short older woman looking happy with the purchase of a bag of salted olives and the banter of a butcher with a middle aged gentleman holding a half empty bottle of beer brought a chuckle to my chest.  Sights like these are rare and few in the canned food aisle at the grocery stores back home.    

A view from the second floor, many bars and restaurants line the larger aisles and second floor

The Mercado Municipal is also a much more elegantly designed building than that of your run of the mill grocery stores.  It was designed by Francisco Ramos de Azevedo in 1926 and was opened in January of 1933.  Lighting is dim and mostly natural, seeping through the grand elongated skylight above and the stain glassed windows rowing the walls on all four sides.  In total there are 72 stain glassed windows divided among 32 panels designed by a Russian artist Conrad Filho.  Filho is famous for his work on Sao Paulo’s Cathedral da Se and 300 other churches across the country.  When clouds pass overhead they play tricks with the shadows and give the impression of a constantly changing environment.

Cheese, Brazilians love cheese

After gawking amid the fine fare, I decided it was my duty as a former culinary arts student to buy some cheese, salami and a bottle of wine; it only seemed appropriate.  I began to prowl through shops more carefully, picking up cheeses to examine their firmness, carefully sniffing them to determine their sharpness as I struggled to read their labels.  After a few shops I came across one that had a good selection of products that matched my opulent criteria.  I asked for a sample and the vendor sliced off a healthy portion right off the block I held in my hand.  It was a softer cheese but retained its shape as I bit into it and had a gentle, smooth finish.  The bottle of wine I was not as picky on and snatched a bottle of Chilean Cabernet from the same store; drinking a European or Californian brand seems pretentious in South America. 

And good meat is not hard to come by

I began my hunt again in search of a few spicy links of salami.  Once again I desired something that was going to retain its shape and not break down while I chewed it.  I approached a butcher’s stand where the salami hung above salted tongue and pigs feet; both delicacies I was not feeling like taking on at the moment.  I sniffed and poked at the links and selected a few that had the texture of beef jerky but still had some leeway when I subtly pinched them.  A short woman reached up with her butcher’s knife and sliced them down for me as I pushed in-between another set of links to hand the cashier my money. 

Now impatient to eat my carefully chosen meal I began to scurry towards the door, joining the other teetering patrons in their scuffle to do the same.  As I made my way down the aisle I noted several juice stands, sandwich shops and bars beckoning me to come spend more of my cash.  I took note and thought to myself that another trip is definitely in store for this market; that is for sure. 

Gypsies of Minas Gerais

I have heard it said that wealth is the supreme source of all happiness.  That one cannot be pleased with their life if they do not possess money in their bank account and cash in their wallet.  As Rodrigo and I carefully walked towards the shoddy tents and the laughing children, playing with their torn kites in the afternoon breeze, I could not disagree more with that statement.  These people we were approaching clearly had nothing yet the sound of thoughtless laughter filled the air. When we began to skirt the parameters of the camp, a few people, their hair in tangled messes with dirt smearing their faces, began to poke their heads out from under their tent’s frayed flaps to eye my translator and I.  The children moved a little closer to us, revealing tattooed hands and wary expressions.  I felt bad for Rodrigo; he had listened to all the horror stories of the gypsies as I had the days before and must have been as apprehensive as I was approaching these peculiar people.  “Don’t have anything in your pockets.” “You have to be cleverer than them.” “Are you really taking your camera?”  Bet your ass I was taking my camera. 

The gypsy band first caught my eye when I was receiving a tour of Pouso Alegre, Menas Gerias, although it was not the people who initially grabbed my attention.  It was their clothes hanging dispassionately on a thin rope underneath a beaten up billboard right beside the road; an old woman tending to a pair of socks as speeding cars kicked up dirt and gravel only feet away from her.  I inquired to who they were and was greeted by laughs. “Those are the gypsies,” my guides informed me.  Immediately intrigued, I wanted to know more about them and made it my business to go down to their field and speak with them.  I fell asleep that night wondering, “What makes someone want to live in tattered tents with no running water or electricity?”  A few days later I found myself frantically thinking of ways to explain my inquisitiveness whilst stepping closer and closer to their encampment; hoping that they would be receptive to me. 

Maria the gypsy leader, Age 59

As Rodrigo and I tip-toed around half eaten fruit and discarded clothing, we asked one adolescent girl where we could find the leader, or someone to speak with about what they were doing there.  She led us into the encampment and searched around for the chief, a woman named Maria.  The encampment was not very large and we shortly arrived at a dirt stained yellow tent, the muddy floor carpeted by two sheet less mattresses with their stuffing coming out.  Maria was there with another woman who was holding a tiny child no more than two years old.  They must not get many visitors for they were as hesitant to speak with us as we were with them.  We explained we were just curious people who wanted to know more about what they were doing in a field away from the rest of the city and people.  I played the, “I am an American,” card and their wariness took a back seat to curiosity.  It is good to know that one still works once in a while for the better.

Maria, the chief by age, told us how she had been a gypsy for all of her 59 years; nomadically moving via busses and cars from one encampment to another for as long as she could remember.  At the time, she had been staying at that encampment for three months.  The time a gypsy of this tribe stays in one location varies greatly, we were told.  It could be a week or months, trading amongst themselves or with businesses in the area to obtain food and clothing, before moving to another encampment.  The woman with the child, Elaina, claimed that she most often only stayed in a place for ten to 30 days.  Another gypsy I spoke with, a man with piercings in his ears, bright rubies on his fingers and a toothless grin, told us that sometimes he moves every 24 hours.  Occasionally his travels take him as far as to Paraguay or Bolivia, other times only 40 km to another town in the Brazilian state of Minas Gerias.  “We are like birds.  We take pleasure in traveling to new places,” he said showing his few blackened teeth. 

A relatively large tent for the camp we visited

Not all bands and people though are of the same tribe.  Maria, with clear contempt in her voice, told us of another tribe of wealthier gypsies on the other side of the town.  The group that we talked to is forbidden from visiting or associating with this richer tribe.  The other tribe’s tents are larger; they have refrigerators and electricity, according to the gypsies we talked with.  Maria wanted to know if we had gypsies in the United States, I attempted to explain to her what a trailer park is.  Surely the beggars in front of the local 7-11 cannot be considered gypsies. 

We talked for a few more moments and I asked them if they wanted to know anything about me or my culture.  They did not seem all that interested and I was okay with that.  We exchanged some more friendly words and asked them if we could come back later in the evening to speak with them some more and take pictures. (I had embarrassingly and irritably left my memory card in my backpack back in the house)

                Rodrigo and I returned later in the evening, this time bringing along our friend Ive who had grown curious as Rodrigo and I related what we had learned over lunch.  The women took kindly to Ive and after they got over the initial nervousness that strangers carry with them, Ive was being ushered into tents to view traditional dresses.  Flowing dresses of sky blues and deep purples were held up for her to touch and examine as little girls with colorful make up and glittering nose rings danced circles around our growing group of bystanders.  The adolescent boys listened to our conversation and chewed on long strands of straw, occasionally making a joke amongst themselves and laughing full heartedly.  We continued our interview from earlier, asking similar questions to new members of the band while attempting to delve a little deeper into their culture.

The gypsies were vague on what and how they teach their young; very few of the people at the camp could read, certainly they could not write.  An older man who travels from location to location and teaches the children about the culture through reading palms and reciting stories was not present at the time, we were told.  One of the adolescent boys that had joined our growing group of admirers wore a cross around his neck.  I asked him why he wore it, was he a Christian, where did he learn about the religion?  He simply shrugged and told us it was what his grandfather had taught him. 

Men showing off their ink, Age 30 and 14

Their gypsy culture is preserved through arranged marriages as well; the members never marrying outside of the tribe.  Parents speak with other parents and arrange the fates of their children’s love life when they are as young as eight years old.  By the time the children are 12 to 13 they are married.  An unsettling fact we learned was that if a wife is unfaithful to her husband, gypsy law gives him permission to punish her by death.  

One thing most of the gypsies had in common was a tattooed small ring of dots on their hand between the index finger and thumb.  These are added to tribe members when they are five or six years old by other family members that know the practice.  Tattoos in general were popular among everyone in the tribe.  Some people sport tattoos that covered their entire arms, some have tattoos on their necks and one young boy of 12 even showed me his bicep with the word “Liberdade” (Liberty) inked onto it.

Gypsy girl giving the symbol for peace and love, age 11

Are the gypsies happy though, is this all they wish for in their lives?  I think so.  As they started their camp fires to cook their dinner; adult men and adolescents smiled and worked together, women folded clothes and tended to the babies as children chased each other through the field laughing and shouting.  They seemed to be content with their lot in life, despite living in obvious poverty.  Not to say that they are a group of people without hardships but, how much do theirs differ from ours?  What makes the gypsies happy is not how much money they have in their bank account.  I doubt they even have bank accounts.  What matters most to them is that they have their freedom and culture; that is their source of happiness.