I had a rather trying day today, which can be summed up in the following frustrated, petulant plea: “What the hell is the point of being a fat cat western tourist if I can’t access any of my comfortably-made, unequally-exchanged riches via any of these tin-pot banking apparatuses? And isn’t Brazil supposed to be hot, like all the time, like not with rain bucketing down continuously since 1am and consequently I can’t feel my toes through my not-Explorer socks? Hmmmm???!!!”
One of my exploits today *was* quite successful, that being a meeting with a very kind and supportive man with an enormously useful and interesting perspective on my research question. He speaks English, we conducted the entire meeting in English, it was delightful, and as I just remarked in an e-mail, I have never loved the language of the oppressor more.
Moreover, I am finding that the claims I am exploring are already being disrupted and deepened, such as material determinism, the realpolitik of property ownership, de-centralised and participatory organising, and then some.
There is clearly an interesting journey ahead. If only I could read the map ….
This is, on the whole, an enormously humbling experience. I am reluctantly, ruefully reliant on others for the basics of life. It’s a real exercise in letting go of the need to control - to know what’s going on all the time and respond exactly as one might like. My hosts continue to be a font of generosity, and today I am sitting with one of them in the CPT office as I write this blog and he prepares some material for the up-coming national referendum on disarmament. A referendum on disarmament - actually asking citizens how they think and feel about national complicity in the arms race. Now there’s an idea! This morning’s newspapers also yielded two particularly exciting things: firstly, an anthropology section and secondly, what appears to be a Porto Alegrensen Mystic Medusa. The corruption scandal in the PT (Partito Trabalhisto, or Workers Party) seems to grow larger by the day - photos of Lula show him looking very drawn, and there seems to be a hovering possibilty of impeachment, which I expect would bring great de-stabilisation and probably some disillusionment in the left as well (although it is clear that many on the left think Lula is a crook and a sellout….I keep thinking of the ANC in South Africa, it seems the PT has a similar challenge).
I met some gorgeous, tough children in the town square on Saturday. One of them drew me a picture as she sat in my lap, after asking me if I wanted to buy some hair clips for 1 real. I see kids selling crap on the streets from morning to night, I never see anyone buy it, and they exhibit this strange combination of innocence and toughness, which I know is a cliché, but I guess I can see where the cliché comes from in these kids. It’s not hard to see where the MST finds its popular base - I for one would prefer a self-sufficient life on an *assentimento* with home-grown schooling and health care to having to scrounge for every little thing on smoggy, busy city streets.
I’ve started to process things a bit in terms of my research, though I think it will be some time before my head is clear enough to focus on this properly. My hospital experience, for example, was pretty eye-opening. I’ve been thinking, sure everything is old and dilapidated and kind of unhygienic … but short of a bit more maintenance and about 50 more staff it’s, as I said, a very functional place. I suspect that part of the problem of ‘development’ as a discourse is a Western obsession with cleanliness and hygiene as part of the priveleging of privacy, separateness and individualism. No doubt that this obsession contributes to the racism, clientelism and so on that is associated with the so-called ‘first/third world relationship’ - as well as the hard material inequality itself, i.e. the amount that the West spends on ‘hygiene’ and ’security’ (which comes back to the disarmament question, I suppose). So my question remains, and is being informed by new perspectives all the time - what is the shape of an ethical solidarity? how do global justice movement activists reproduce the hegemonic inequalities of the first/third world relationship? Is there enough caffeine in the world to make my brain function clearly in the midst of all this newness and confrontation? And so on!
That’s right, folks. I’m chucking in this namby-pamby anti-globalisation nonsense and embracing global corporate hegemony for all it’s worth …
I’m joking, of course, but I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t felt the odd pang of relief at the familiar signs that globalisation has delivered to me here in Brasil. From brand recognition at the supermarket to the American pop playing 24/7 in the internet café, I cling on to the Coca-cola ads and the sound of Britney Spears (even Delta Goodrem - I swelled with pride) as markers of home (especially when they involve words that I can understand without diving for the dictionary) in a sea of utter dislocation. I know it’s sick and wrong - but I can’t help it ….
I may have been saved somewhat yesterday, though, as I dragged myself to the Latin American Sociological Congress (which I am supposed to be attending all week). I was too exhausted to take very much in (especially as it was in Spanish), but I did have a good forage through the obligatory tray table of drippy sociology merch. Never before have I seen so many copies of Das Kapital and assorted Leninist tomes - except for, perhaps in the Loja da Reforma Agraria (literally, ‘Agrarian Reform Shop’ - run by the MST in the Mercado Publico). I am looking forward to thinking through the vitality of the Marxist narrative in the MST and related social movements (and correspondingly in Latin American sociology) - I find it so interesting and significant.
In other news, I was thrilled today to find a café with a vegetarian organic buffet. As much vegie, rice and lentil action as you want, followed by various glutinous, sweet sobremeses (desserts). I ate till I could barely stand up …. I hadn’t realised how much I love wholefoods and green vegetables. Sigh.
Please send soy milk.
I wander like a drunkard around the Mercado Publico in the centre of Porto Alegre. I think I’m still jet-lagged (or perhaps I am just still stunned from the sheer amount of stonewash and white shoes on show at Buenos Aires airport). I can’t find anything to eat that is sem carne (after 15 years of vegetarianism I don’t think my stomach can handle yet another chicken dish!), but I am somewhat sated by my first cup of coffee in Brasil that isn’t Nescafé Instant (my addiction to caffeine from machined coffee is embarrasingly revealed in its intensity - I am, perhaps, far too used to the inner-city-Sydney lifestyle!). A tiny woman grabs me aggressively and says she will read my palm. I literally have to shake her off. The town square is very much alive - full of vendors and music and the likes of the palm-reading lady. And if there’s one thing I could surmise from my first few days here it is that Brazilians love muzak, especially if it is Andrew Lloyd Webber or Celine Dion. And anything else you can think of that’s completely trashy.
The bairro (suburb) I am staying in, Passo das Pedras, is (as I know I have said to most of my massive readership) right out of New Internationalist - without the gloss and things in English. This was particularly the case at the hospital where I had to go on the first day - packed full of people who just looked dirt poor, with about four doctors, and everything in a state of dilapidation. An incredibly functional place though considering the scarce resources. When I left the house yesterday the garbage mang was doing his rounds - people tie their rubbish to a tree on the street and he comes and collects it in a horse and cart. There is *lots* of horse-and-cart action actually, and in the city they exist right alongside shiny VWs - a pretty stark indicator of the oft-quoted statistic about Brazil having the 2nd most unequal distribution of wealth in the world (the first maybe being the US?). Anyway, back to Passo das Pedras. There are kids everywhere (which I love), amongst many chickens (which I also love, except at 3am every morning when the rooster next door starts crowing) and dogs. In fact I think the bairro is lorded over more by the dogs than the people. On my first morning here I was chased down the road by a pack of them. I eventually worked out that they would stop harassing me if I ignored them, they were just indignantly making sure that the bemused-looking gringa knew who *really* owns this place.
The culture shock is totally hardcore. If I had known it would be like this I probably wouldn’t have had the courage to get on the plane (I guess that’s how it works). I hang out for e-mails from people who have been through it before and tell me reassuringly to hang in there. I am simultaneously extremely stimulated and excited as well as horribly homesick. And above all is the aching misery of being separated from my beloved and not even being able to talk to him.
On the whole, Brazil so far is basically hysterical, through my eyes. Muzak ain’t the least of it. Something that cracked me up last night on the bus ride home was a new shopping mall erected in the middle of a field, simply called “BIG”, with BIG emblazoned on every spare surface (including on about 50 flags out the front). Not to mention a car dealership under the name of ‘Irigaray’.
Sebastiao Salgado: ethical practitioner with a noble cause? contributor to the romanticization of the MST in the global justice movement? how fares his stake in that tricky power relationship between rich and poor?
The words ‘authenticity’, ‘consent’, ‘fetishization’ and ‘representation’ come to mind, particularly when I spied an ad for his work at this commercial gallery.
Eu chegarei no aeroporto Porto Alegre 4.15pm. Assim, eu espero que eu
chegarei no CPT antes 6pm.
“There are no ‘disclosable court outcomes’ or outstanding matters recorded against the name and/or fingerprints of ANN … within the records of police services in Australia.”
I paid $170.00 and risked an international airfare for a piece of paper stating this.
Os rapazes batiam-se com toalhas umidas.
*The boys flicked the wet towels at each other.*
Another round of factory lay-offs
Another bunch of boys I knew as kids join the dole queue
Or the Army Reserves
My brother among them
In a familiar assemblage
Reminiscent of C Wright Mills
Missing the plane to Adelaide and having to re-book my flight: $200.00
Accidentally clicking on ‘Yes I am carrying dangerous goods’ at the self-service check-in: 30 minutes
Cardancing to Ultimate Kylie with my mother and sister for the entire length of the Southern Expressway: Priceless