Brynn Barineau

Tag: culture

  • A Brazilian Christmas

    A Brazilian Christmas

    Describing holiday gatherings in my family as hectic would be an understatement. There are multiple sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins to visit and dine with. The table is buried under enough food for a week-long bacchanalia. Enough dessert is prepared for every person in attendance to have her own cake.

    In comparison, the first Christmas I spent with my in-laws in Brazil was a pleasant afternoon picnic with some acoustic guitar.

    It was surprising to me that my American Christmases are filled with more food, presents and cousins than those of my Brazilian in-laws. It certainly seems to go against the stereotype of family-focused Brazilian culture and allowing-the-disintegration-of-the-family American culture. But which “American” culture am I referring to?

    Middle-class America? Middle-class, Latino, urban American from Miami? The diversity of the US makes it difficult to define what is American and the same is true of Brazil. What is Brazilian? Well, are we talking about the Paulista sushi chef of Japanese heritage or the Carioca taxi driver of Italian/Portuguese ancestry?

    I’m not saying overarching national or regional cultures don’t exist, just that within any culture are seemingly endless subcultures that create huge variety among people and families.

    I realized this year, after hearing many accounts of “Brazilian” Christmases, that my southern family celebrates Christmas in a more “Brazilian” way than my Brazilian husband does.

    Growing up, I’d usually celebrate Thanksgiving in South Georgia on my Grandmother’s pecan farm. As one of the oldest, I got to drive my younger cousins and the kids of my dad’s cousins (who I believe are called second cousins) around in my great-uncle’s golf cart. On my mom’s side, Christmas dinner often included the daughter of my step-dad’s brother-in-law’s sister, a relationship the English language has no term for.

    Because my parent’s are divorced, Christmas day usually included visits no fewer than four houses. One set of grandparents has since moved to Florida, so we’re down to a mere three present opening sessions. Three homes is more than enough to leave my husband shell-shocked with only the strength to sit upright, mumbling to himself, “It’s so much. It’s so much.”

    Whether he was talking about the number of presents, pies, or names of family members to remember I don’t know, but after my first Christmas lunch in Rio with only his immediate family and a single pudding for dessert, I understood his culture shock.

    We now make a point of spending Christmas in the U.S.  Every December we fly to Georgia for lots of family and food. It’s a very Brazilian holiday.

  • Expat Masochists

    Expat Masochists

    The word “expatriate” derives from the Medieval Latin expatriatus, which means to have left one’s own country. It was and, according to Webster’s, still is a synonym of banished.

    If you google the word expatriate you can find literally millions of proud expatriates. Personally, I wonder about a group of people so happy about banishment they ask for it and promote it via themed cookbooks. It just proves what I’ve always known. We expats have some masochistic tendencies.

    Ok, not all us. There are lots of expats who didn’t have a choice. I’m talking about those of us who volunteered for banishment. We applied for the job, or requested the assignment, or married the handsome foreigner. Knowing full well we’d be giving up unappreciated comforts like being able to count change by touch and recognizing the people featured on it. Many of us even gave up our voice by moving into a language we can’t speak.

    We tell people the rewards of the new job/marriage/opportunity-for-world-improvement will more than outweigh the costs of self-imposed banishment but the mere fact that we have a price at which we are willing to leave our home sets us apart from, I believe, the vast majority of people in the world.

    There are literally millions of people who would rather live in a tent for decades than give up their home and rebuild somewhere else. Certainly, relocating across the world requires resources many people don’t have but war torn and failing states are populated by successful professionals (I’m thinking of several personal friends here) who could find jobs in countries without an inflation rate over 1,000%. But they stay. Why? Because they are home. They will not give up their family, their culture, their home for any price.

    Whereas many expats look at the really lustrous hair this man could pass to his offspring (or the higher salary, whatever motivates you), weigh it against living in a country with street signs in a different alphabet, and our response is “Sign me up!” I’m willing to bet if polled, the general consensus of the world would be that we are some crazy mofos.

    And I think they’d be right. We’re not certifiable but part of us definitely wanted the hardship. We revel in the fact that our daily lives would reduce lesser people (or ourselves if we haven’t gotten enough sleep) to tears and pleasure in our own pain is the definition of masochism.

    Fortunately, it’s a growing pain. We know it won’t last forever and surviving it, building a life like the one we left behind, makes us worthier people. Worthy of what? Well, I’d accept revered silence whenever I speak during holiday meals with my family.

    After all, why did we struggle to build a life in a different culture if not to become wiser, more open-minded people with all the best stories? All the struggling had to be for something. I mean, I’m not a masochist.

  • Stove Top Terror

    Stove Top Terror

    I’ve never enjoyed cooking. It’s something I’ve been forced by hunger pangs and lack of sandwich bread to do from time to time. With the exception of freshly baked cookies and pies, I’ve never cooked anything so much more satisfying than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that it justified the extra costs in both material and labor.

    Now, I live in Brazil. If cooking was merely uninteresting before, here it’s terrifying. It’s not the spiny vegetables and fruits or recipes using the metric system. It’s my stove. People here find it acceptable to have a kitchen appliance that combines both gas and an open flame.

    I can’t remember the first dish my husband and I cooked in Brazil, but I do remember the first time I was asked to light the stove.

    “Did you light the stove?” my husband asked.

    “Sure, I turned the burner on,” I replied.

    “Did you light it?”

    “What do you mean ‘light it’?”

    “Did you light the burner? With the spark button?”

    “Spark button? What the heck’s a spark button?”

    “You turned it on and didn’t light it?!” My husband is frantically turning knobs and opening windows. “You’re letting gas pour into the kitchen! You have to turn the knob and then hold the spark button to light the burner.”

    “When you say ‘light’ you’re talking about an actual flame?” I asked with my mouth hanging open.

    Against my better judgement, I did master the simple trick of opening the gas flow and holding a button to cause sparks in front of the opening. Every time the spark button went click, click, click, I thought about what a quaint, yet potentially lethal, contraption this gaseous machine is.

    In retrospect, I was not fully appreciative of the huge technological leap that is the spark button.

    My husband and I are currently split between two apartments. Rather than purchase new appliances, we hauled a variety of pieces out of retirement including a stove which I can only assume Benjamin Franklin designed. In order to use the stove, I’m required to strike a match and hold it to the gas opening. My fear of the stove is second only to my fear of lighting matches.

    Every time I boil water I picture a massive explosion. In my head the blast rivals Hiroshima.

    Here’s how I begin every cooking attempt:

    Before using the stove, I get everything set. I double check the burner and its corresponding knob. I turn the gas on. Then I try to strike the match as quickly as possible. I hesitate on the first two strikes and they’re not hard enough to light. The third strike is too hard; the match breaks in half sending it’s lit head to the floor. I frantically and thoroughly stomp on the match. At this point, I realize the gas has been flowing for a few seconds. I imagine the mushroom cloud and turn the gas off. I’ll wait 20 minutes before starting all over.

    My husband says stoves without flames are available for purchase in Brazil. All I have to do is say the word and we’ll go get one. But then, what excuse will I have to avoid cooking?

  • Dear Rio, It’s not you. It’s me.

    Dear Rio, It’s not you. It’s me.

    Dear Rio,

    I don’t really know where to start. It’s not easy to write this. I guess let me first say that you will always have a special place in my heart. The fours years we spent together were some of the happiest and most challenging years of my life. The sunny day strolls around Lagoa. Sipping coconut water next to the beach. We had some wonderful times together.

    It’s not you. It’s me. Well, no. It really is you. I mean, you do have some serious issues. Let’s be honest

    It’s both of us. We both know things weren’t perfect. In the end we’re not compatible. Even during the happy times there was always tension just below the surface.

    You are a blast. The definition of fun loving. Up for a dance party or round of beers every night of the week. And you do like the people. Always inviting more and more, until I can’t hear myself think. With you it’s always the more the merrier. Now, I’m not complaining. It’s who you are. But it’s not who I am.

    You don’t need me. With your amazing looks and fun loving spirit you will always have a string of lovers. Rio, you are truly breathtaking. A sight to behold. But I’m looking for more than just a pretty landscape. It’s what inside that counts with me.

    I know you have a violent side. You never showed it to me and for that I am thankful, but I’ve seen what you can do to others. I have to think about the future and I don’t want to raise kids in that kind of environment.

    Also (we’ve always been honest with each other so I have to tell you) you’re letting yourself go in some areas. All the pollution: air, water and noise. The crumbling sidewalks and potholes. The perpetual traffic jam. You’re not two centuries old anymore. For your own sake, and for those who love you, it’s time to start maintaining yourself.

    Now comes the hardest part. You deserve the truth and you deserve to hear it from me. The thing is, I’ve started seeing someone else. We’ve only been together about two months but, well, I think it was love at first sight. Her name is Vitoria and she’s everything I’m looking for.

    It has nothing to do with you. I need to stop denying who I truly am. The truth is, I love it both ways. I enjoy the activities and culture of urban life and the security and quiet of small town living. Vitoria, she gives me what I need.

    Yes, she’s younger but that’s not the reason. I’ve never been as outgoing as you. I like quiet and tranquility. I like to sit on my balcony and hear nothing but the birds. I want to walk down the street without feeling rushed and tense.

    She also makes me feel special. You can’t deny you’ve got a thing for foreigners. You just keep bringing more and more home. Did you honestly think you could keep thousands of expatriates a secret from me? For you, I’m just one of many.

    But for Vitoria, I’m special. She reminds how unique and therefore highly employable I am. Everyone wants to feel appreciated. Everyone wants to be one of a kind and for Vitoria, I am.

    I’ll end with goodbye and thank you. Thank you for the good times. Thank you for helping me learn what it is I’m looking for. I’ll think of you every time I’m nearly run over by a bus.

    Beijos,
    Brynn

  • Human Development Index Brazil & US

    Human Development Index Brazil & US

    This past week the 2010 Human Development Index (HDI) came out and marked its 20th anniversary. The idea behind the HDI report is that a country’s development cannot be measured in GDP alone. The quality of life for the people living in the county is what matters.

    Data on every type of development factor from internet accessibility to maternal mortality rates to average years of school has been collected from 169 countries. This year they’ve added a special section looking at global trends of the past two decades. And it’s all free. All the data, their methodology, the analysis, it’s all available to anyone with internet access. The internet is amazing! (So is UNDP for not charging us to see their very pretty graphs.)

    Just for fun (yes, I think comparing development stats between countries is fun) let’s compare Norway, Brazil, the US and Tajikistan. Why Tajikistan? Because Tajikistan is fun to say.

    Overall HDI ranking (out of 169 countries)
    Norway 1
    Brazil 73
    United States 4
    Tajikistan 112

    Life Expectancy at Birth
    Norway 81
    Brazil 72.9
    US 79.5
    Tajikistan 67.3

    Mean Years of Schooling (among adults)
    Norway 12.6
    Brazil 7.1
    US 12.4
    Tajikistan 9.7

    GDP per capita (2008 PPP US$)
    Norway $58,277
    Brazil $10,846
    US $46,652
    Tajikistan $2,064

    Inequality Gini Coefficient (0 is perfectly equal distribution)
    Norway 25.8
    Brazil 55
    US 40.8
    Tajikistan N/A

    Adolescent Fertility Rate (Births per 1,000 women 15-19)
    Norway 8.6
    Brazil 75.6
    US 35.9
    Tajikistan 28.4

    Homicide Rate (per 100,000)
    Norway 0.6
    Brazil 22
    US 5.2
    Tajikistan 2.3

    So, what can we conclude from all these numbers? Norway deserves some hearty congratulations for doing apparently everything right. I think the only reason we all aren’t heading to Norway and putting plaster gnomes in our windows is because most people want to see the sun more than six months out of the year.

    We can all be grateful we don’t live in Tajikistan no matter how fabulous the name is. Brazil has come a long way but still has serious problems particularly in terms of education and violence. Better public education would also go a long way in combatting other issues such as teen pregnancy.

    And what about the US? There are serious problems facing the US, but the fear and despair manifesting itself in the media, political rhetoric, and comment streams isn’t warranted. Life in the US is good. Not perfect, but in comparison to the vast majority countries the quality of life you can have in the States is luxurious.

    If people would just stop screaming at each other as if we’re on a burning ship that’s sinking into shark infested waters, we could see that we have all the resources we need to fix our problems. Governing is not a game with winners and losers. It’s problem solving. Nobody wins until the problem is solved. We may not be Norway, but number 4 is pretty darn good.

  • Bad Portuguese & Worse First Impression

    Bad Portuguese & Worse First Impression

    In my life, I’ve experienced very few things as disheartening as being unable to show another person who I am. Only slightly less frustrating is to still, after four years in Brazil, find myself looking like someone who has never had a single Portuguese class.

    Last Saturday, my husband and I went out with a group of his friends from work. The evening started with me mistiming the elevators doors and slamming my shoulder into them mere seconds after introductions were made. It was a pretty accurate omen of how the evening would go.

    At first, my Portuguese was just fine. When we arrived the bar was empty and the conversation involved one other couple. Then the bar began filling up. With each new couple that joined our group the conversation got busier and the background noise got louder. Soon I was trying to follow a conversation about John Marshall through waiters, drink orders, greetings and a BeeGees concert DVD with special guest Celine Dion.

    My lack of context for most of the conversation didn’t help. I’m not a lawyer. Almost everyone in the group was either a lawyer, judge or court staff, hence the discussion about John Marshall. I’m also not a parent on the verge of middle age or regular novella watcher.

    By 12:30am I was fighting the effects of two drinks, a day at the beach, and three hours of intensive Portuguese. The band was playing now and all conversation had to be shouted. I had ended up on the very end of the table, amongst the men, quietly eating peanuts without the energy to even pretend I could hear the conversation, let alone understand it.

    Finally to round off the shy, boring persona I was cultivating, when my husband got up to use the bathroom I put head back against the wall and closed my eyes. Yup, I went to sleep among 12 of my husband’s colleagues at a crowded bar. About 1:30, when someone finally asked if I wanted to sit in the middle of the group near the conversation, I told my husband I was ready to go.

    The evening was both frustrating and bizarre. The few questions that were directed at me were nothing more than a blend of sounds. The amount of noise and the English lyrics being blasted through the speaker made me deaf to Portuguese. My Portuguese is still not strong enough to fill in missed words of syllables. I have to hear everything perfectly. With all the noise I could recognize some sounds but not enough of them to hear words. The result was that I just heard people making noises in my direction. It was an odd feeling.

    In the end, after running into a door, not talking for two hours, falling asleep at the table and asking to leave after the first set, I’m pretty sure I set a new standard for worst first impression ever.

  • The Delicious Moqueca Capixaba

    The Delicious Moqueca Capixaba

    When visiting Vitoria there are exactly four things to do: 1)spend the day at one of the nearby beach towns, 2) visit the Garoto candy factory, 3) see the 16th century Convento da Penha and 4) stuff your face with Moqueca.

    Moqueca (pronounced Mookecka) can generally be described as a fish stew. Or, more accurately, the greatest fish stew ever made. There are two kinds of Moqueca in Brazil, Moqueca Baiana and Moqueca Capixaba. The basic ingredients are the same for both, fish, onions, tomatoes, garlic, and cilantro.

    The Moqueca Baiana, from the state of Bahia, uses dende oil (a kind of palm oil) and coconut milk

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    The Dende Palm

    The Moqueca Capixaba, from Espirito Santo, draws more from native Brazilian cuisine. Traditionally, it’s cooked in a pot made with black clay and tree sap. The stew is colored using arucum, a natural pigment made from the urucu flower. Moqueca Capixaba uses olive oil instead of dende and doesn’t have coconut milk.

     

     

     

     

     

     

    The urucu flower

    Which version of Moqueca is tastiest? Well, that depends on which Brazilian you ask. Unfortunately, I’ve not had the Baiana version in order to declare definitively that the Capixaba version is better, but I can say the Moqueca Capixaba is not just a dish. It’s an experience.

    If ordering a Moqueca, I recommend having a very early, light breakfast and foregoing food for the rest of the day. If you’re a calorie counter, you might as well plan on not eating for the preceding 24 hours. You should also have the afternoon blocked off for napping. There is no strolling or sight seeing after this meal.

    You’ll be able to choose what kind of fish you want, but in Espirito Santo it’s almost always a kind of hard, white fish. My husband and I always order dorado. That is a hearty fish. We also like to have a shrimp sauce. As you can see the restaurant in Ubu is pretty generous with their shrimp.

    In addition to the stew, you’ll also get white rice, piraõ (a fish juice goo, very tasty) and Moqueca Banana (amazing!). Our favorite place also includes a delicious and totally unnecessary fried shrimp appetizer.

    Everything is brought to the table in a steaming, bubbling collection of black pans. The steam rising off the stew is so thick for a few seconds you can’t see across the table. Serving yourself is like dipping into a witch’s cauldron.

    There is no better way to spend an afternoon than gorging on Moqueca followed by a long, quiet nap on the beach. It’s become our Saturday routine, weather permitting. We always love company, so shoot me an email if you’d like to join us sometime.

    The Moqueca pictures were taken at Moqueca do Garcia, on Ubu beach, directly in front of the sea. Find Ubu and you find Garcia.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Reading or Things I Take For Granted

    Reading or Things I Take For Granted

    When was the last time you appreciated the ability to read?  For me, never. I’ve never finished a book and marveled at the feat I just accomplished.  I really should because reading is amazing!

    I can look at these squiggles and recognize that they have meaning.  They stand for a sound.  I can then put the little sounds together to form words, which are entities with their own meaning.  I can take the meaning of the individual words, scan them in order, and understand a complete thought or sentence.  Each thought has it’s own meaning but when read together as a series, like in a paragraph, they combine to describe even more complex ideas like why the Roman Empire collapsed.

    While reading this post your brain is doing some awesome computing and for you, it probably seems effortless.  This is not the case for everyone. I’m not even talking about people with physical differences in their brain that impede reading.  I’m referring to people who, for whatever reason, missed out on being taught how to read.

    Our brains, thanks to thousands of years of evolution, are programmed for language learning.  Drop a three year old anywhere in the world and she’ll learn to speak the language without any intervention.  If your brain were a computer, it comes with the language learning software pre-installed.  This is not the case for reading.  Reading cannot simply be acquired.

    Written language was developed much more recently in human history and our brains do not yet come with this software.  It has to be manually installed one lesson at a time.  Basically, I’ve come to understand that learning to read requires a teacher.  If someone doesn’t have the teacher or the time to practice, she will never read.

    Why am I thinking about literacy? Yesterday, our maid stopped in front of a map we had out for framing.  She asked my husband, “Is this a map of the United States?”  My husband, without missing a beat, said off handedly, “Oh no, that’s a map of the world.  Here’s Brazil and here’s Africa.  Up here is the United States.”  I froze at the question and the realization that here was an adult who didn’t know what the world looked like. It blew my mind. My husband pointed out later that not recognizing the map means very little, if any schooling, so she probably is functionally illiterate.

    I think her question threw me because I had not put her in my “unfortunate circumstance” category.  Our maid is responsible,  hard working, a great cook and keeps her word.  If we agree on next Tuesday morning, she shows up next Tuesday on time without a single reminder.  She is proactive and will clean or fix things that need it but that I haven’t necessarily mentioned.  She has raised a family. I’ve worked with people not half as competent. But she doesn’t know what a map of the world looks like.  And probably doesn’t read.

    I’ve been thinking about that ten second exchange since yesterday. The best response I have so far is to be thankful.  I am going to be grateful for my good, free schools.  I’m going to appreciate that my parents could afford to let me be a full time student.  A good education is not, unfortunately, a guarantee in life.  I’m going to be grateful for mine and what an awesome reader I became as a result.

  • Suggestions for Lula’s Second Career

    Suggestions for Lula’s Second Career

    The results are in and we’re headed toward a runoff.  In Brazil, you cannot be elected with a mere plurality.  Because no presidential candidate managed to secure more than 50% of the vote, there will be a runoff between the top two vote winners, Dilma and Serra.

    Analysts in Brazil and abroad are certain Dilma will win easily, but it’s not over until all the vote are counted.  The one thing we know for certain is that President Lula will be out of a job in a few months.  Rumor has it he’ll be back to run again in four years but in the meantime he’s going to need a second career.  I have some suggestions.

    Sea captain.  With his beard and deep, gravelly voice the man was born to shout orders like “Swab the decks!”  Or whatever the Portuguese equivalent of “swab” is.  Brazil has plenty of monkeys and parrots, so he can have his pick of faithful, shoulder-sitting animal companion.  He lost a couple of fingers working in the factory. He could start telling people it happened while loading cannons during a sea battle.

    Restaurateur.  Specifically, the owner of a cachaçaria in Salvador.  Lula has a legendary love of cachaça. Why not take that passion to the bank?  He is charming and personable, crucial skills for a great bartender. Plus, the northeast is Lula’s strongest base so he’d be able to get in a little politicking while passing out shots.

    Tattoo Parlor Owner.  Not because the man has any tattoos. (That we know of…) I just want him to buy a shop and name it Lula Ink.

    Santa Claus.  Has any country ever been ruled by a man who more closely resembles St. Nick?  Lula is short, with a round belly and full, grey beard.  Has he seriously never been dressed in red velvet for a Christmas photo op? If I found myself standing in front of him, I would have to fight the urge to ask for a new iPad and pony.  Lula is already called the Father of Brazil, which makes for a pretty smooth transition to Father Christmas.

    Who knows?  Maybe he’d love life at the north pole so much he’d decide to stay there rather than come back in four years to establish his dynasty.  What a wonderful present that would be.

    So, what do you guys think Lula should spend the next four years doing?