Thoughts of Ibiza in São Paulo

I’ve been in Sao Paulo for the last week, more or less living like a tourist at the Fulbright orientation. We have air-conditioned hotel rooms, attend city bus tours, our meals are comped at the hotel buffet. It’s not necessarily my style of travel, but after such a long hiatus from traveling, it has been probably the best transition into new surroundings. 

And the scholars. Jesus, the scholars. These are seriously some of the most brilliant minds I have ever met. It’s fucking ridiculous. From analyzing the effects of Chinese investment in Brazil to exploring the cultural currency of hair texture, these people have managed to develop a theory on damn near anything and have it make sense. People are doing projects on the open-source movement and I don’t even know what that is. I’ve connected with some wonderful minds, wishing that I had more time with them, but I’ll be honest. I didn’t always feel that way. 

If I had written this post a few days ago, I would have said I felt slighted, that there was too much ego and self-absorption floating around a room filled with the highest levels of self-accomplishment. I would have something about how intellect cannot surpass self-awareness, and at most times, it acts as a hindrance. 

The idea started when someone made a comment about Ibiza being nothing but a party destination, having nothing else to offer but drinks, drugs and massive trance parties. I mean, that kinda is true, but it’s not all that there is. Ibiza is a magical place; the party atmosphere consumes maybe 5% of the actual island. There is a significant indigenous population thriving on the other side and it was there I had my first sweat lodge experience, an experience that changed my life for the better.

I was ready to write off everyone who agreed with that comment about my beloved island, ready to jump to premature conclusions of people’s misunderstanding on the human experience. But I remembered what my friend Carolina had said to me before she brought me to the sweat lodge. I made a remark about there being a lack of connectedness in Ibiza, that I thought everyone seemed angry. She told me in response that if I saw that everyone around me was being antisocial, I was the antisocial one, that if everyone else appeared angry, that meant that I was an angry person. She said Ibiza was a powerful place; it had the ability to reflect our true nature.

I thought about that comment as I was busy conjuring assumptions in my mind that night in Sao Paulo. I thought about how if I felt others were slighting me, I was probably doing the same to them. You’d be surprised how much you can learn about a person if you’re willing to admit your faults and donate a smile every once in a while, and well truthfully, in 4 days, there’s really no way you begin to understand the complexity of another human being. 

This past week has more or less been an incubator coddling me before I set out on the actual journey. I already know the first few weeks living in Rio is going to be a giant pain in the ass. The heat, the obstacles of securing housing, and the impending sadness of the absence of those I love sinking deeper into my chest is not going to make for the best coming weeks. But I had some great people at the orientation prepare me for the next step, and truthfully, I’m lucky to have them on my side. I’ve worked through a lot of emotions, and found capacity to be a decent person. I think I'm ready to move on to the second stage. 

Back in the Ring

Perhaps it is silly for me to say that I feel old at 28 years of age, especially as I sit here preparing to board a plane to Brazil to start a 9 month journey in Rio de Janeiro. “Old” is probably the last feeling I should have, but for the last few days of my life, “old” is exactly how I’ve felt. 

I feel like a retired fighter going back into the ring, unsure if his chin can hold up to the same shots or if he still has the punch to carry him through a fight. He wonders about his movement, if he has enough youth in his legs. The first two usually stick around with a fighter; it’s the last one that fades with age. A boxer’s vehicle are his legs. They are what gets him from corner to corner, to set up combinations, to avoid danger. Legs are a key asset to prizefighting and they deteriorate with time. 

Veteran fighters facing off against a prospect are a reflection of how gracefully one has dealt with the trials of time and a test for those entering into a new stage. In those bouts, experience usually trumps youth, but I find myself awkwardly in the middle. Not enough under the belt to be veteran, but not young enough to continue making careless mistakes. Sometimes I wonder about my chances.

When I look back on my life, it’s strange, comical really. If one was to judge me based on my accomplishments alone, you would expect to find a completely different person. A gregarious adventurer conquering the world full of confidence and self-belief, excited at all opportunities for risk and change. But I’m really quite the opposite. I go to sleep early. I like to stay home and read. My biggest comfort in the world is to have someone hold me and tell me that I’m enough. It’s almost as if that’s all I ever wanted. 

It sounds strange to say this, even stupid to some, but I don’t want to leave. I’ve spent so much time searching the world for something, yet for the past three years, I’ve finally found a world where I felt at home. My best friend lived a block from me, and I spent every Thursday afternoon with talented writers. I finally felt like I understood something about family and about my place in it. And I’ve always maintained that I’ve said “I love you” three times in my life and only meant it once. Now that score can be upped to two and four. 

Friends, family, and love. Those were the only things I’ve ever seen keep communities together.

I’ve told people that I had plans in Brazil, things I wanted to accomplish, empires to build. But the likelihood of that actually happening is very slim; in fact, I’m not too sure that’s what I really want. Most likely this time will pass faster than I expect and I will try to return to a world that may no longer be there. I don’t know what this trip means to me, but I do think there is some part of me buried in Brazil and I’m on my way to dig it out. Let’s see how far these legs will take me. 

A Writing Assignment

*Today my writing teacher assigned us to write a short story in 4 minutes. We could choose between the topics of "tomato", "teeth," and "Sunday". I chose "teeth". This is what came out.

There is a line of thousands outside trying to get in. Most that show up are immigrants from places like Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras. I flip through my pocket dictionary. How do I say things like, “cavities, gingivitis, extraction, root canal?" I ask myself.

The dentists provide three services: cleaning, fillings, and extractions. Anything else had to be done elsewhere. Anything else had to be paid for.

“The pain is back here,” one of them tells me.

I translate for the dentist. After a 30 second examination, the dentist says to me that he needs a root canal. They don’t do root canals, but they can take out the tooth.

I explain this to him. He asks for clarification. I translate to the dentist.

“Take it out or pay for a root canal,” the dentist says.

I translate back. He thinks for a bit.

“I think I’ll keep it. I don’t have many left,” he smiles.

There are maybe 6 teeth left in his mouth.

He gets up slowly. Having waited in 4 hours of lines, he goes home with nothing. He stands for a moment, then begins to walk away. The next patient sits down.

So far in Colombia...

From the few people that know that I’ve been in Colombia for the past three weeks, I’m always given these recommendations of what I must see, what I must eat, what I must experience while I’m here, or simply told an over-enthusiastic, “You’re so lucky! How is it?!!!” Truth is, the way I feel about my trip thus far is what I told my friend the other day: “I feel like I’m working without getting paid.”

Last time I was here, I spent a good six months in Colombia researching the culture of boxing. What that meant is that I’d spend nearly everyday either training in a boxing gym or waiting around to interview someone from the boxing gym. The trip soon became about finding a story and following it, foregoing nights out with hostelers because I had to shoot a fight the next morning, or avoiding hostels completely because the lifestyle was too distracting. I’d take hanging out in the same dingy gym day-after-day over venturing to the next “must-see” attraction because at some point the story became more important than consuming an experience.

For those unfamiliar with the sport of boxing, it is the sport of the poor. Unlike many other pursuits of athletic competition, almost all boxers come from places of little recourse. They live in poor neighborhoods, they work shitty jobs, they have little-to-no opportunities to break the chains of generational poverty. Boxing, for many of them, is that small window of opportunity to change that cycle, but it is not an easy one to fit through. The sport’s foundation is based on an exchange of punches, many to the body, most to the face. Not many can adhere to the grueling physical demands of the sport, so you’d have to guess that only those with an incredibly strong will and determination can endure the industry of professional fighting, that or they’re just that desperate enough to punch and be punched for a living.

The majority of my time in Colombia has been spent revisiting the old boxing gyms, reconnecting with fighters, trainers, going to their neighborhoods and sharing a meal, which often consists of a simple dish made of potatoes, rice and meat. The updates have been mixed. One fighter, despite accumulating 8 losses since we last spoke, is actually doing better financially and is in position to potentially run his own small business. Other fighters have given up the sport, returned to their hometown, and their old ways, as one teammate indicated to me by squeezing an imaginary trigger with his index finger. The coaches in Cartagena told me about how a boxer named Henry suffered a bad knockout loss, probably the hardest working fighter I knew when I was last here, and has since moved to Bogotá. I’ve yet to visit Henry, but I have found where his gym is located. I’m a bit nervous to hear about his update.

This trip hasn’t been as glamorous as my last vacation to Spain, at least not in the sense of mindless binge drinking, late nights of chasing women at the best local party or a general overindulgence of the vices in life, but it has been more real. It has, to some degree, been more personal in the sense that I am doing my best to stick to something I believe in. I think there is a social expectation to party whenever you go to a new country, to have some mind-blowing experience that fills you with a sense of grandiose invincibility, but on the contrary, Colombia has so far left me feeling very vulnerable.

What people need to understand is that, for me, Colombia doesn’t elicit this sense of happiness or constant excitement; it actually conjures quite a bit of pain, many feelings of inadequacy and a general frustration with how the world works. Don't get me wrong, I love this country, but it wasn't easy for me to come to that conclusion. Sometimes I think about all the other things I could be doing while I’m here. Sometimes I wonder if it’s foolish to spend most of my time being frustrated and ultimately bored, when there are plenty of other things that I should be doing to feel good about myself. But I think about giving up on this project and I think that would be the greater disappointment.

This is not to insinuate a self-righteous sense of altruism, rather I want to establish roots here to have ties to it in the future, and I suppose that requires a certain level of sacrifice and work. I guess I could invest my time bouncing from traveler hostel to traveler hostel, meeting amazing people, and collecting moments of instant gratification, but one of the last things I want to say in my life is, “Oh yeah, I remember I spent two years traveling in Latin America. That was a really good time.” I want this to be more than a nice memory, more than just a good feeling to recall. I want to establish this place in my life, so in some sense, I’m being more self-indulged than most.

So what have I seen? Pretty much places I’ve already seen. Cities very alike to the one I came from. The insides of musty boxing gyms. The homes of neighborhoods I probably shouldn’t be in.

What have I eaten? Usually the cheapest thing available, which is commonly a Styrofoam box filled with a starch, a vegetable and a meat. Once in a while I might treat myself to a chicken salad from McDonalds.

What have I experienced? Nothing too glamorous or exciting, nothing that would hold much value to another person, but it does to me. And that’s what really matters in the end. That’s what I’ve been trying to learn this entire time. Going after what's important in the context of my own life, even if nobody else cares.

Chipping the Rock

I've recently become a member of myyogaonline, a website that streams yoga videos to practice at home. I earned a free month membership for being part of one of their live tapings during one of my classes. I wasn't actually in the video, but hey, I'm not about to pass up something free.

So they offer these programs: Energy Boost, De-stress Your Life, How to Eliminate Anxiety From Work, etc. They're basically a compilation of articles, videos and user insights on coping with the daily stresses that edge their way into our lives. Initially I thought this was the key. This is it. How to solve the problems of everyday life. But in going through all these "programs", I realized that they more or less said the same thing; in fact they were recycling a lot of the same articles and videos in different programs. "Eat well, exercise, and don't take shit so seriously". I kept thinking to myself, "I already know that!!! How do I actually do it???"

Then it dawned on me. I was just looking for something I hadn't heard before. I'm looking for a formula to excuse all the reasons why the past attempts failed. But the truth is the old formulas work. Make a plan and stick to it. Possibly modify it along the way. That's pretty much it. There's nothing external that can really instill discipline. It just has to come from a sincere dedication for change.

Admittedly I'm a bit of a "self-help" junkie. There's something about the way the stuff is written that appeals to troubled souls, something that instills the courage for people to believe outside of what people have told them who they are for their entire lives; probably what they've told themselves their entire lives. It makes people believe in something better. Growth. Change. Whatever will get us away from that shitty feeling of feeling inadequate.

Each New Year is filled with resolutions. We constantly tell ourselves, or perhaps, declare to our Facebook audience, "2012 is going to be MY year!", "Out with the old, in with the new" or some semblance of letting the past go and looking ahead with hope for the future. But somehow those sentiments putter out like our resolutions. Somewhere comfort and compromise creep in. I think the key is not to view these steps towards change as these grandiose monumental reformations of ourselves that happen over the course of a few days, but as small incremental promises we keep daily, maybe even hourly, like chipping away at a large boulder. So here's to gradual change, here's to staying uncomfortable, and to chipping that rock.

Change

I love the introductions to self-help books. They're always so positive, always so promising of a "new" self that will emerge at the end of its reading. I think what's most attractive is that we all have an image of who we want to be in 5 years, a year, a month, maybe even tomorrow. Smarter, thinner, richer, the list is endless, but the only commonality between them is that they are different from who we were when we first picked up the book.

Most of the time, we never reach that ideal reformation that we visualized. Somewhere along the line we give up. Echoes of "loving yourself as you are" begin to grow louder, and soon enough it turns from an affirmation to a justification. That's pretty much how the self-help business stays in business.

"Eh, I don't need to be (fill in the blank)er, I should just be happy with how I am."

If it's a sincere sentiment, I admire the stance of those more confident than I am. But it's important to distinguish whether it's truth, or an excuse. You can usually tell by how you feel 5 days after you've given up.

Change is hard. Change is painful. Sometimes we underestimate the struggle, and overestimate our ambition. And sometimes the fantasy is better than the reality. At the very least, it's easier.

Jumping off a bridge

Jumping off a bridge

Sometimes I daydream
during times that I shouldn’t
about all the people that have wronged me
or took pleasure in wronging others
even in the slightest way.
Times where they probably didn’t notice
but I did.
And made it a whole deal.
I think about them
and create drawn out scenarios
where I ask them,
rhetorically,
what they’ve ever contributed to the world.
I ask them,
to think about all the pain they’ve caused
physically or emotionally,
directly or indirectly,
pause, and tell them
the world needs less people like you.
I fixate
on that look on their face
at that moment they accept responsibility
for all that hurt
and realize
that the world would be better off
without them.
It makes me happy
to think about things like that.
Petty, I know
and probably untrue.
But it still makes me happy.