Brazilian Maid

My comprehension of being Brazilian was made possible as part of the Finardi family. My friend Jose and wife Odete had three marvelous children Paulo, Alessandra, and Pascoal aged eight, six and four. All part of a second-generation middle class. I will try to put my thoughts together in the classes at another time.
For a long holiday weekend, we drove a great distance to visit Odete’s brother’s Fazenda. His ‘farm’ was that of silkworms. New to the trade, he had done his homework but it seemed more of a gentlemen’s indulgence. None the less, our host was a stellar member of this remote metropolis and life for his family was good. Our Saturday afternoon was atypical nibbling on shavings of copin and sipping caipirinhas. As evening came the late teen son and daughter asked if I would like to do the town. Racing through the streets in papa’s car, we landed at a swank disco and mingled with a half a dozen friends. Well past midnight our group ended up lounging in the den of another’s home. The nine or ten ‘beautiful people’ had good fun as the conversation bounced from their novel players – one black, one gay, and me. Early Sunday Jose and brother-in-law were conversing too fast in Portuguese for me to understand but I picked up on the need for a new maid. There were many fond farewells at our noon departure. Several kilometers down the road, we took a side road. Finardi explained that we were to pick up a new servant for his home in Sao Paulo. His current housekeeper was getting too old so a new girl could learn from her. We came to a clearing where a woman and young girl were clinging to each other. Finardi got out, handed the woman an envelope, opened the rear door of the car, and the kids and I made room for our new passenger. By this time the two were crying and the mother pushed her daughter into the car. Then she let go of her hand and we drove away – well it had all the emotion from a scene in Dr. Zhivago, I could only observe. The mother could not afford all her children. In this way, the justification was the girl could work for her room and board at the Finardi’s and they would see she got an education in the city. The commodity of humans has always existed among us in varying degrees.

Easter in Brazil

The significance of Easter takes me back to Brazil and the strong Catholic faith of the people there. Much of my time was spent in Belo Horizonte, in the interior state of Minas Gerais, where traditions run deep. It was here that I witnessed my first Carnival. This was a very festive event for the locals to mark the beginning of Lent. The purpose of their parade was a competition of the Samba dance schools. With that kind of music, no one stands still and everyone smiles. People from the surrounding county side filled the city. The tourist did not come to this area so with Ash Wednesday coming this was a time of to let loose.
For Holy Week I went with a friend to stay with relatives in nearby Ouro Preto. This magnificent colonial city was rich from past gold rush days. Prominent Portuguese families typically funded the building a church when emigrating. Here it may have come after striking the mother lode. On Good Friday a procession was led by carriers of a statue of Mary and an appointed Jesus carrying the Cross. Their path was interwoven throughout the cobblestone streets of the city where residents jointed in the walk like the Pied Piper. By the time we reached the church several hundred followers gathered in the square. Here they set the cross and our Jesus took his station alongside two others. They stayed on the crosses till the reenactment of the removal of Christ’s body. The details escape me today but witnessing such devotion is hard to forget.

Haitian art and hearts

The art of Haiti had captured my awareness and wonder in the early eighties. Of course, it was linked to my affinity to Africa and the aftermath of slavery. With that in mind, my wife wanted to return to Portugal where we had honeymooned three years before. I am not one to go back but accepted her wishes. En route to the airport, she grilled me about tickets, passports, and such so I handed her the papers as I pumped gas. Her whiteness and shortness of breath were apparent as I was washing the windshield. “Your passport has expired!!!” A short drive to my travel agent and they were working on plans to get a renewal in New York. I gazed at her world map, “Where can we go without a passport?” “Caribbean?” “Even in Haiti?” “Well, yeah.”
The next morning in a waiting tank at Miami airport, I struck up a conversation with an amazing young Haitian returning home. With his newly earned petrol-chemical degree, he was looking forward to creating ethanol and salvaging some devastated terrain in his homeland. Karl was one of twelve children from a prominent judge who was part of Baby Doc’s regime. Karl’s heart showed through with his intent to help Haiti survive, unlike his siblings, all of which were living in Chicago or New York City.
Our first few days in Port au Prince were spent in galleries and art schools collecting. We met Karl for lunch and I expressed a desire to help the people of Haiti. His wisdom came through when he explained education makes a difference, not money. If you sponsor the education of one individual, the long term return is exponential. An educated person will marry a like-minded individual, have offspring that receive schooling, and the cycle continues. Schooling was free in Haiti but you could not go to school without a uniform. The next day we met a family of six living in a single concrete cube that measured six feet aside. The father tended to landscape at Karl’s father’s house. Wages were enough to feed the children but very little clothing. The oldest girl was twelve and excelled in her three years of school attended. A school uniform would be a month’s wages.
The following day we rented a car to see the countryside and drove to Les Cayes. On our return, we stopped at a rural open market place. One booth had a lot of children’s clothing so we had a good time stacking up thirty-odd pieces of shirts, shorts, and socks for our newly adopted family. The attempt to cash-out created a problem as the old vendor lady insisted on an astronomical amount of money. Their Creole language failed my comprehension of French or English. Reaching a point of bewilderment it finally came to me that she had seldom ever sold more than one item at a time. I set our pile aside and brought forth and paid for one or two items at a time. She could not add or multiply! We went away with our goods and everyone was happy.

Haut Cuisine

Many people ask of my travels, what is the strangest food you have ever eaten? Food is a very important part of travel but you do not need to go far away. As a youngster, riding my bike without training wheels by Uncle Earl’s house, I stopped to watch him lowering a large pig with a hoist from a tree into the boiling water of a fifty-five-gallon drum. I then equated ham to pigs. I got the vegetable garden thing but this was a whole new awakening. My dad’s tastes reflected our rural farm community. Pickled pig’s feet were one of the strangest. His hunting skill put much game on our dinner table, like pheasant, woodcock, squirrel, and rabbit. He had a chopping block behind the shed from where many chickens fluttered away without its head. Dad’s buddy Charley had a couple hound dogs. His sport was chasing down raccoon and 'possum. I never asked if they were eaten. Catching frogs were a good sport for us kids. Once we made a mess in Auntie Ruthie’s kitchen trying to cook the day’s catch. A more serious hunt as a teenager was bull-froggin’ with a friend that was raised in Tennessee. We maneuvered his flat-bottom boat in the marshy area near his house. At night with a flashlight, the spotted bullfrog was resting at the edge of the water. With a 22 gauge rifle, one-shot, where the water met his chest, would put him away. We gave our ten monsters to his sister, Reba, back at his house. She sautéed four pairs for our late-night snack.
Does anyone remember Harry Belafonte’s Chain Gang Songs? For whatever reason, the Internet could not find Sittin’ an’ a Sippin’ either. I recall them sitting around the cell after a long day of work. “Hey, Rastus da yo’ ole lady now how to cook a ‘possum?” “Sure, ya put it in a li’l dandelion wine ‘n soak it up a li’l. Then soak it in some white lightin’ for a while.” “Yeah, but she’s gonna ruin the ‘possum.” “Yeah, but that sure is some good gravy.”
I was a big raw oyster fan so I decided that I could do them at home and bought a dozen at the local seafood market. Shucking oysters takes a little skill. In an effort to open the shell, this living being from inside was holding the door shut. That was all I needed to lose my taste for oysters.
A delicacy in Brazil was copin, the fatty hump of a Brahma bull. On a Sunday afternoon, it was placed on a spit over an open flame, basted with brine, and guests carved a bite from the outer layer throughout the day. Grinding up beef parts into bologna was not acceptable in Brazil so Feijoada is a National dish served on Wednesday and Saturday to get rid of by-products in a black bean stew. Beef tongue tended to float to the top so it was best not to look. A Churrascaria is the most enjoyable cuisine of Brazil. Waiters bring skewers of grilled meats to your table and slice portions to your delight. Caipirinha is the drink of choice for any meal in Brazil.
My best advice for Africa is to stay in a nice hotel. From Cairo to Cape Town and Ghana to Tanzania, I was never comfortable with the local food. Behind the scene in Ghana, I saw a street vendor preparing skewers of goat meat over an open barrel and the flies were so thick it was difficult to see the meat. I attempted to sample grilled fish in Accra but the spices were so intense I had a blister on my lip.
I chuckled when a Cook Islander called papaya, pig fodder. It was so abundant they fed it to the pigs and were surprised to see visitors liking it. The real food of the Maori is called Umu, prepared in an in-ground earthen oven. Our host Steve prepared the fire for the evening feast at 10 in the morning. The local iron wood tree was used for the fire in a pit. River rocks were heated for the oven. Banana trunk was shredded for steaming the food as a protective layer above the rocks. Pumpkin, sweet potatoes, and taro leaves were the vegetables. Pork, parrotfish, and chicken went in the oven but Steve’s reef walk the night before provided lobster, octopus, mussels, and a strange crawfish for the boiling pot. We wove plates from coconut palm leaves and sterilized banana leaves for native foil. Of course, anything requiring that much preparation and surviving for a century or two had to be good.
Three weeks in Vietnam made me quite adept with chopsticks but bewildered about what was consumed. When I saw the mothers at the nursery feed their babies embryonic duck eggs, I drew some concern. Most of our meals came from what became known as the Tan Hiep Pot for the town we stayed on the Mekong Delta. It was a pot purée of vegetables and some ‘meat’ of the day sizzling over the hibachi grill on the table. A greater delight was Elephant Ear Fish prostrating in the center of the table being plucked by all with chopsticks till its skeletal remained. I recall a hundred US dollars got a million Dong which we spent on our last day in Saigon for cocktails on the balcony of the Meridian Hotel. There, twenty years before, the last of our journalists sipped cocktails awaiting the last helicopter exodus along with “Miss Saigon”.
I will pass on comments on the food of India but I did survive there for three weeks.
China was a fascinating place to eat and I will try to expand at another time.
This should end with a tribute to French Cuisine. Don’t ask the British about French food. Their distaste will bring up facts of an impoverished people making the most out of garbage such as snails, clams, tripe, etc. Other than ordering “Le Menu” to avoid quizzing the waiter, I have had some great culinary experiences in France. My first with a German friend was to venture across the border to Obersteinbach. A mere single star meant a reservation secured a table for the entire evening. Three hours of indulgence was spread over seven courses.
In 2003 at Reims, my daughter and I experienced a four-star Chateau de la Muire. The menu was so ‘haut’ that we understood little of the content and the staff was not eager to help. We loved it! Could there have been pickled pig’s feet in the mix?

Other Rogues

I can draw some things from the shadows of Rudyard Kipling with his military lore, life in India, and general globe trotting. Exposed to his writings in my early college days, I had trouble comprehending his words. Now, later in life and given experience, my understanding has greatly improved. Perhaps I should not align myself with The Ladies for fear of some readers taking it too seriously. I will use his first few lines, sub his central passages with my own, and conclude with his final verse.


THE LADIES
I've taken my fun where I've found it;
I've rogued an' I've ranged in my time;
I've 'ad my pickin' o' sweet'earts,
An' four o' the lot was prime.
Rogue? Yes, there is a scoundrel in your midst. My first marriage lasted a mere six years where the second ended in divorce after thirteen years. The latter gave me a daughter. Her mother and I maintained a very amicable relationship. Our daughter has always been a major part of my life. I wish I could say that for her half-brother. I failed him and my first wife in a bad divorce then took a job where I lived out of a suitcase for eight years of his childhood. Now he is a fine gentleman and a great businessman, husband, and father of no credit to me. Children are always gravely impacted by our selfish acts.
I was driving my daughter to middle school and to break the silence, she asked, “Daddy, what’s your favorite animal?” “Chicks?” I said. At which, she dutifully swatted at the air between us and sighed, “Ohhh, Dad.” and right or wrong I never hid my dating life from her after the divorce.
During one of our weekly Tuesday night dinners when she was sixteen, I was telling her of plans to return to Brazil after twenty-five years. A business opportunity had come up and I was able to locate the family of my best friend Jose Finardi. Unfortunately, Jose had died of a heart attack five years earlier but his wife Odete and the children invited me to stay with them. I then mentioned that you can never go back but it would be interesting to know what happened to Rosinha. “Who is Rosinha?” Normally, I would never bring up a history that might belittle the significance of her family. Her romantic side glowed as I told of dropping my life in the USA and immigrating to Brazil for the love of a lady. Over time, I have shared many personal experiences as they are much a part of the romance of travel. Touching the lives of individuals along the way vastly broadens the horizon.
Life is a matter of choice. I have always chosen airline tickets over toys. I equated my recent purchase of an HDTV as ‘it could have been airline tickets to Tahiti.’ Stranger yet is that I rarely watch TV. Perhaps the reality is that I was simply trying to lure a fading heart back into my arms. I guess I should have worked more on my charm than material things.
Life is not equipped with a rewind button to fix a bad choice or fast-forward to see what your decisions will bring.
Still not resigned to complacent behavior, I do savor the magic at a moment in discovering real love. I will overcome Kipling’s claim (The more you 'ave known o' the others the less will you settle to one.) for love is unsettling.
I've taken my fun where I've found it,
An' now I must pay for my fun,
For the more you 'ave known o' the others
The less will you settle to one;
An' the end of it's sittin' and thinkin',
An' dreamin' Hell-fires to see;
So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not),
An' learn about women from me!

Root Gatherers of the Pacific

The lifestyle of tropical island people captures my fascination. The moment Thomas, the boxing champ of Fiji, lobed the orange off the tree for our drink, I realized the need for regimentation did not exist there. With fruit on the vine, there was no need to plan ahead. I later became concerned about the abundance of Asian Indians running gas stations and grocery stores on the islands. I fretted that these emigrants might have dominance. I queried the owner of my hotel. He said the British colonists decided these islands would make great banana plantations. They soon had planted vast areas in bananas but could not get the Fijians to work. Why should they? In this paradise they had gotten along for centuries catching fish, picking fruit, and making love. What else was there? The Brits had to import labor from India. The Fijians were smart enough not to allow emigrants to own land and without land, you cannot vote.
Years later a Global Volunteer experience in the Cook Islands gave me a better insight into island people. I met Ron Crocombe professor emeritus of the University of the South Pacific. From our conversation, I was amazed at his awareness of the islanders in spite of his very British background. I invited the Professor to be my guest speaker for our group at dinner. For myself and others bent on ‘helping’ these islanders, I was aware we first needed to understand where we were.
He was a stunning teacher on the Pacific Islands. As a good academician, he was able to speak at all our levels of incompetence from its geography to colonialism. A basic insight was given by a small country’s alliance with a large country. The Cook Islands were first a colony and now protectorate of New Zealand which no longer supports the governing structure left behind. That points to success and then the failure of independent countries based on economic results. As we are witnessing the economy of scale for our 15,000 Cook Islander population spread out over this vast ocean in 15 little islands. The old educational system based on the New Zealand scheme is now impossible to support on their own. Additionally, the colonial component of a parliamentary judiciary can be a major asset to justice but this eliminates decisions based on family or tribal ties. In the old budgets of France, Great Britain, and the USA spent a small percent made a significant contribution to the imposed living conditions in the Pacific.
The Western ‘grain-eaters’ burdened the ‘root eaters’ with reprehension. As he explained the northern planters of grain survive their seasonal harvest with storage and distribution giving time to survive until the next harvest. Whereas the root crop is constantly available and management comes in the form of quasi corruption as I interpreted it. The root gatherer cannot store his yield so he invokes a debtor association in giving it away with the power of beholding his neighbor to reciprocate.
Subsistence for a Micronesian may require 12 to 14 hours of labor per week, while a highlander from New Guinea needs 40 to 50 hours to sew and harvest his crop. Thus performances in other environs will out produce the Islanders. The Pacific has seen a power shift from the northeastern European peoples to the Asian since the 1970s and 1980s. First, the hardware, then the software, as he called it, the cars and stereos then the control. Even the religious priests from the Philippines and Karola Indians are taking over for the lack of white priests. One foothold in Protestant religion is that the Rightwing Fundamentalist religions are surging. One observation given with the insurgence of Asians is the Japanese Mafia, mostly tied to hotels and construction. He says the US Mariana Islands are being controlled by the Japanese Mafia. All in all the Pacific is being vacated by the indigenous people and the foreigners are moving in. 55,000 Cook Island people are mostly in welfare rolls in New Zealand and Australia compared to the 15% remaining here.

Rites of Passage

During a major festive event in Ghana, I saw and grabbed a photo of a young girl dressed in fine silk and jewelry with painted images all over her shoulders and face. My curiosity could not be abated and she disappeared in the crowd. Some days later I attempted to explain this girl to my friend Armahfio. He shrugged but the next day told me of Laryea. She, at thirteen, was going through a rite of passage. Her family was advertising her available for marriage. Armahfio said if we go early in the morning, we can see her being painted. The next day we drove to one of the remote fishing villages of the Ada people. It was her! A young lad was painting her body with symbols and words. Here I derived this to be a local custom for puberty. It was very costly for her single mother as she had a club foot. I found the people had their own social system. Her handicapped mother had an exclusive right to travel to a neighboring village, buy bread, and return to sell it in her community. The tradition was for her daughter to undergo this for thirty days. I spoke with Laryea, who said she was in school with no intention of getting married but just fulfilling her duty.

Buddhist Bell

Shuttling through the streets of Guangzhou last year, Xinbo, my new partner in Chinese commerce, was well adapted to driving in this congested city. His Audi offered a smooth ride and when given a chance to maneuver a small Bell hanging from the rear-view mirror gave a soft ring. I recognized the Buddhist origin of the bell and said, “I should get one of those for my daughter Katrina. She has an affinity for Buddhism and it would be a gentle reminder if hung in her car to go easy.”
Saturday was my final day before flying home. Xinbo asked me to join his family for lunch and activities. His brother Zhang had been helpful in introducing me to local businessmen as he was Mayor of a region in Shen Zhen. With their wives and daughters, we had a fine dining experience. The Bell came up and the Mayor suggested we go to the old city center and visit the Buddhist Temple area. Once there, we found the same Bell as Xinbo’s at a shop so I purchased two and felt gratified at our mission. The Mayor then led us back into an area where the monks lived. (In China mayors are appointed not elected but I was not sure how authority played with Buddhists. Influence worked a few days before when our side of the highway was jammed. We were amazed to see traffic flowing on the opposite side of the road; the Mayor said he called to allow it.) We were called into the chambers of a high Buddhist priest. The brothers conversed with the eighty-six-year-old priest while the ladies and I sat in the perimeter of the room. I was called forward, passed on my bells, and tried to express “Katrina” phonetically so they could get the name. The blessing started with the old priest breaking into an ancient chant, sprinkled the lot with holy water, and painted some Chinese script on the bells. Not to belittle St. Christopher, but the Buddhist Bell hanging from Katrina’s mirror has a lot of clout.

Lord Jim

Call me, Lord Jim from a page of a Conrad novel in this land of enchantment. I was returning from another fabulous evening with Rosinha in São Paulo.
My feeling was much of love for my adventure, a beautiful princess, and achievement in a strange new world. The boulevard passing through São Paulo was deserted as the hour was well past midnight. The open window of my Charger was swirling a pleasant breeze inside the car. Most likely the radio was playing the Stylistic' song Betcha by Golly Wow. In the cities of Brazil, you drove with only parking lights at night. Even I mostly ignored traffic signals, by this time. I kept my guard up for others after witnessing too many bachata (auto crashes) in my two months of exposure to this land.
Some distance ahead another car was approaching on the opposite side of the median. We were both coming to a dimly lighted intersection when the screech of a cat echoed in the night. It darted across in front of me at lightning speed. The cat, now in total silence, ran directly into the front hubcap of that approaching car, in my full view. The cat flopped to its side and never moved again.
Once before, I was pushing through Normandy to catch the early ferry to Dover, Exhausted, I pulled into a churchyard in the middle of the night to catch a few winks. Unaware of the time when I next awoke, I sped off. Unsure of my direction, my face was to the windshield of my Renault 6 looking for signs of direction on this rural road, then SPLAT! I think it was a bird that hit the window which made the hair on my head stand up for three days. Even today I brush my hair down at the thoughts of that night.
I find such incidences very frightening and unsettling to the romance of an adventure. I was not a stray cat on the run but at times the adrenaline of each new excitement can approach fear and uneasiness. Yet we all push our un-commonality to sort us out from the masses.

War Baby

A kid growing up in Leonard needed a fantasy beyond our one square mile border. Being a war baby, mom and dad had told me that we lived with a Mexican family during dad’s Army Air Corp training in Eagle Pass, Texas. Cool! My Texas root would qualify me better at playing cowboys with the neighbor kids. Mom told me the family would take me across the border on shopping trips. Better yet, this yearling had some foreign travel under his belt.
In later years, I was surprised that mom and dad had no contact with the family. Prior to a work assignment to Texas, I queried dad as to the whereabouts of my Mexican family. After thirty-five years, he could recall the drive from the airbase, “Just as you entered the town, the road curved to the right but if you were to go straight, the side street was where they lived. His name was Dasio – Morin or Marine.”
A weekend later, I found the old airstrip and hangers now housing a meager industrial park. At the curve, I turned left onto a residential street extending two blocks. A small neighborhood grocery store was the only public place. Inside the clerk was very young but an elderly lady was in the center aisle. I spoke load to the clerk in earshot of the other lady about looking for an old resident named Dasio Marine. The elder one said, “A Dasio Marin that lived across the street moved many years ago but his son lives a couple blocks away.” Eureka! It was like coming home. Dasio junior knew of me and Dasio and Jovita were a few doors down. It was truly a great reconnect. Mom and dad were able to visit them the following year and maintained contact till Dasio’s passing.

Copacabana Beach

Three months of immersion in Brazilian culture while working for the licensee of my American employer, left me distraught at returning to the USA. As added compensation, I was awarded a four-day layover in Rio de Janeiro with a room at the legendary Copacabana Palace Hotel on that famous beach. It was mid-morning in the courtyard café. I sat pensively in the thought of the events of this past adventure. Words from an American across the aisle brought me around. Other than a co-worker this was the first American I had spoken with for some time. He proved to be pretentious and annoying, awaiting the arrival of a Portuguese interpreter for his business dealings. I was polite and disinterested with his update on life back home. Our conversation was saved at the arrival of his secretary. I was enchanted at her charm after only a few moments but they had to go to his meeting. As they rose to leave I asked her to have dinner with me and she promptly said she would pick me at nine - the American's jaw hit the floor.

Helene was an Australian English teacher who was ending a three-year affair with the son of a rich Brazilian and due to return home by way of Fiji in a few days. She showed me the treasures of Rio - great restaurants, Christo, Pão de Sucré and we bicycled around Isle de Pacita. There was no illusion of romance or special ties, just two strangers spending some idle time between ports of call.

Yucatan for the Crew

The theme of my company Christmas party for 1997 was Middle Eastern. A local Egyptian restaurant owner catered and I ran around in my Sheik gown. Most probably thought of me as Yasir Arafat than Lawrence of Arabia. I had too much Lebanese wine by the end of the evening where you can say things you may regret. Not this time. In the midst of a dozen employees, I said, “Next year, for all that are still with me, we will do our company Christmas party in a foreign land.” I felt so many had seen little outside of Michigan. Many were encumbered with ‘getting by’ I wanted to give them a new dimension in life.
In due consideration for the IRS, my memo read, Photo-Tron is sponsoring a series of educational seminars and workshops to take place throughout the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico in the second week of December 1998.
It worked out to be two ladies in their forties and one gent of fifty. No one had traveled outside the USA and only one had been on a commercial airplane.
Their adventure began in Cancún with a rented van, we headed for Chichén Itzá. A mere twenty kilometers down the road, my three passengers were in awe and amazement over the scenery. One’s first time in the tropics can take your breath away, so I pulled to the side of the road for them to inhale. Some daylight was left after checking into the Hacienda Chichén and my crew was not ready to rest. Driving through a rural area, I saw many people walking towards a small town. We followed to find a twig and twine constructed bullfight ring in full action. Some locals dragged us into an arena side view of this very local event. Later an adolescent beauty pageant was being held beyond the butchering of the fallen bull. Such was the happenstance of events that thrilled the four of us throughout our eight days on the Yucatan Peninsula.

We happened upon a ceremony as the Virgin of Guadalupe was put to sea. An eco-tour brought us together with thousands of flamingos. Remnants of the ancient Mayans were everywhere. Who can forget the tarantula on the doorstep? The ladies spotted whales in the ocean as our flight departed for home. I wondered who benefited more; it was such a pleasure to see childhood amazement in the eyes of mature adults.

You're in Indian Country

While waiting at a traffic light on Rochester Road at Auburn in early November some years ago, a bumper sticker on the tailgate of an old Chevy pickup overburdened with a camper read, "You're in Indian Country." It drew a grin on my face as I glanced down to see the license plate. I was, of course, expecting Arizona or New Mexico. My grin widened, it was Michigan. I muttered "Gotcha" to myself.
The gentleman ahead, perhaps a member of the Six Nations, has many things in his favor today. His people have suffered deeply in the past few hundred years but a new cultural emphasis in pow-wow's today has given life to his nation. The United Inter-Tribal Pow-Wow and Native American Economic Summit will host thousands of American Indians in Detroit's Cobo Hall on the weekend following, ironically, our Thanksgiving. As an outsider, I have witnessed many such cultural heritage gatherings locally.
Growing up American today has given me and many others respect for peoples nearly decimated by our ancestors. Let us all assume the North American Indians can rebuild from this point on. Our present way of equal rights has provided avenues for most to have the freedom of expression and an unsurpassed right to organize for their own interests. This assertion to the Indian past is lacking for the most part in their Latin American brothers.
The horror of the Conquest that started five hundred years ago continues today in Latin America. I get chilled today as I recall a holiday gathering at the palatial estate of my Brazilian employer thirty years ago. He, a Hungarian political refugee from the Russian takeover in 1957, was building a business empire in Brazil. Making idle conversation, I told him of buying an Amazon Indian crafted spear at a local shop. His contribution to the conversation was to tell me about his land purchase in the Mato Grosso. “Why?” “Investment.” “For what?” “Lumber.” “What about the local people?” “The government takes care of that.” “Huh?” “If people don’t leave, they send aircraft in and spray them.” “Ugh!”
This is not unlike the atrocities in the settlement of North America. Displacement leads to cultural collapse. Communities are bound together by the physical and spiritual core of the land. The loss of land by indigenous peoples destroys their complex social and political systems. Their language and traditions disappear along with their sacred beliefs. Some people integrate but the removal of people from their land is likened to genocide in slow motion.
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee was a book in the seventies that made a generation aware of our inhumanity to man and the plight of Red Cloud. Thanks to Wikipedia I was able to locate the words of the surrender of Chief Joseph.
On October 5, 1877, Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce Nation surrendered to units of the US Calvary. Before this retreat the Nez Perce fought a cunning strategic retreat toward refuge in Canada from about 2,000 Army soldiers. This surrender, after fighting 13 battles and going about 1,300 miles toward Canada, marked the last great battle between the U.S. government and an Indian nation. After surrendering, Chief Joseph stated his famous quote "Hear me, my chiefs, I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever."
I fear few Brazilians will comprehend, “They’re in Indian Country.”

VietNam is a country not a war.

Awoke in the middle of the night and noticed flashes of lightning through the curtain. The noise of the air conditioner held back the sound of thunder. Without any pretense, the A/C went silent in a power outage. This gave rise to the turbulence of the night. Perhaps in a thatched-roof hut the thunder yields the echo of bombs from years ago. And they like us now feel comfort as the storm subsides to a peaceful rain.
Perhaps my best expression for the people of Vietnam is this letter. After three weeks of volunteer work there in 1995, I sent follow-up letters at the request of many students. Since a postal stamp to the USA would cost them a week’s wages no responses came.
Dear Young Lady,
I am Roger, the man that helped Ms. Chì in the English class at Tân Hiep School in October. You asked if I would write to you and so I am.
After my work in Vietnam, we went from Tân Hiep to Ho Chi Minh City for one day. I went to Kuching, Malaysia for six days. I visited the rain forests of Borneo. I went for a boat ride on the river to see the Iban tribal people.
After Malaysia, I took an airplane home to Michigan. It is a very long journey. The total time to travel from Kuching to Michigan was thirty-two hours. The airplane stopped in Kuala Lumpur, Tokyo, Los Angeles, Chicago, and finally Detroit. My daughter Katrina was waiting for me to come home and now we are happy to be together again.
My time in Vietnam was very important to me. I am happy that the Vietnam people accepted our friendship. We have much to learn from each other. The people of Vietnam are working very hard to improve their country. I am very confident in the people of Vietnam. The Vietnamese have a big heart. If we can be friends, our countries can be friends. Your country had many difficult years of colonialism and war. That is all behind you now and your new freedom and independence will allow growth. I did not know this before I came to visit.
I hope you understand my words in this letter. I am writing it as I would to a friend in the USA. If you do not understand things, please tell me by return letter. I can use simpler words in the future if you prefer. This can be a test for you.
Please write and tell me all about yourself. I am very interested in your family, school, and your plans for the future. It was very interesting for the children in Tân Hiep to learn about the children in the USA. I returned with many letters from Vietnam and gave them to my daughter's classmates. The students at Brewster School were very happy to hear from you. I think many will send more letters.
Tell me what you dream of and what you hope for. Is it the same as what you work for? I want to know a lot about all people in the world. That is why I have spent a lot of time traveling. Maybe I can help you understand a few things you want to know. That’s what happens when you get older; you have an urge to sow the seeds you have gathered in your lifetime to benefit others who are in need. Life is not all harvest. We must return what we have gained to help humanity grow. If I can help inspire you, I will.
I wish you happiness and fulfillment. Please write to me when you can.
Love, Roger

Sultanate of Oman

Brother Rich and I were off to visit brother Gary and his family who GM had placed in Dubai, UAE to handle operations there. Dubai is considered the Paris of the Middle East, nice, but we seasoned travelers wanted more for our first Arab experience. The Sultanate of Oman was doable. Visas to enter were not obtainable in the USA so Gary put his best influence and a dozen gold Cross pens to work in Dubai. With a little more pull he was able to outfit us with an SUV. His wife Cindy prepared a care package of edible snacks lest we fall short of food. We knew we were out of freedoms reign when a blurb in the English newsletter at our hotel in Muscat said the Sultanate proclaimed that any foreign merchant could no longer conduct business. They had ninety days to close up shop or turn it over to an Omani.
At a market place near Muscat, we stopped for some treasure hunting. I am always searching for a unique piece of artwork as a memorabilia of a destination. In a small shop, I found a Bedouin Marital Headdress of coin-silver ornaments and woven fiber. It is presented to the new bride and worn for the rest of her life. In the midst of negotiating, three rapid gunshots rang outside. Nothing to fear, only another customer testing the rifle he was intending to buy.

On the road again, we stopped at an amazing mud structure at the outskirts of a small village. It may have been 10,000 square feet with some areas having two levels. Inside there was a labyrinth of small rooms and larger assembly areas that could hold a hundred people. It held an eerie feeling. There were no people yet it seemed they had just vanished. Uncomfortable, we left the building. While walking back to our SUV we were surprised as some local people heckled us. Later we heard that it was a meeting place for a non-Muslim religious sect. The word was that troops raided and exterminated all involved.
Finding our way back to UAE became questionable as the sand road lacked signs. After many miles of barren land, we came upon a small settlement. We stopped to ask for directions. Approaching a young Arab near a small covered arena, we pointed in our direction of travel and repeated Dubai? Dubai? The Arab extended his hand to the arena and offered us to sit down. In no time, a dozen Arab men and several children join us cross-legged on the ground. All smiled and nodded. We drank water from a goatskin, ate dates, and smiled. Pleased at this Arab hospitality, I thought to excuse myself, go to the SUV, and rummage for Cindy’s care package. The chocolate bars were liquid inside their wrappers. Not having enough to go around, I opened the chocolate and offered the children a sticky finger full. A sealed box of Carr’s crackers was the only other commodity, which I placed by our host. I would guess that box is still unopened, lying in that arena and our host telling all of his American guests. The formalities over, the Arab confirmed it was the road to Dubai.

Candomblé

As you begin to understand the peoples of the world you soon respect their religious beliefs. It was probably not necessary for me to bathe in the Ganges to get closer to the Hindu but you need to go beyond reading a paragraph in Fodor’s. After immigrating to Brazil in 1976, I became aware of Candomblé. Beyond their strong Roman Catholic base was a mix derived from African slaves. I traveled to Salvador, where colonial plantations were staffed by slaves shipped from Africa. On my first morning walk near my beachside hotel, I saw a sacrificial chicken and scattered stones in the sand. JuJu from Ghana was here in Bahia. Later at a church in the city, there was a statue of a black Christ in chains. At the market place, I asked where I could find a terreiros de Candomblé. Finally, a cab driver agreed to drop me off but said he would not wait. At a compound in the hills above the city, there were several workers making preparations for ceremonies to be held that night. I was not greeted very well and the driver held on, then an elderly man came up. I introduced myself. My Portuguese was fairly good at this time and I was not a gawking tourist. He was the high priest, very proud of his following, and willing to show me around. I went back to the cab, paid the driver enough to convince him to wait, and grabbed my camera. A protest came from a guy on the porch when he saw my camera. I shrugged at the priest so he made me promise not to use any photos for commercial gain.
About the grounds were a variety of alters. Trees painted white and ornamented with colorful paper hangings – here a possessed subject’s evil spirits would be banished following the branches. My questions about saints related to Catholicism led him to show me his alter chamber filled with ceramic saints. He gave an extensive description of many as they related to afro-catholic interpretation. Back at the office building, he offers me some lunch – what else but sacrificial chicken that probably served an exorcism in its passing.

Ruaha, Tanzania

The following is an excerpt from my daily journal entry during a Global Volunteer trip to Tanzania in 2001. After much work at a school in Pommern near Iringa, we had a weekend of recreation at Ruaha, a local wildlife park. Many connotations will not relate to your reading.
I woke up to the zillion sounds of the wild animals in Ruaha. Indulged in my second hot shower in twelve hours.
After breakfast, we loaded ourselves into a nine seated, wazungu land rover with guide and driver and headed off for our all-day bush drive in Ruaha National Park. The guide was very impressed with his knowledge of every aspect of the environment from the smallest bird, virtually every flower and of course big and small game. Bernice was a good student and noted the following animals with Swahili subtitles: Crocodile, Roan antelope, Impala, Lesser Kerdu, Hippopotamus (Kiboko), Baboon, Elephant (Tembo), Cape Buffalo, Warthog (engile), Giraffe (twiga), Blook Face Monkey, Nile Monitor Lizard (Kenge), Lion (Simba), Waterbuck (Kuro), Eland (Pofu), Marsh Turtle, Leopard, Rock Hylax and Zebra.
Just for the record, a few birds went mentioned too: hornbill, Loller, Saltar Groshawk, Tawny Eagle, White-headed vulture, Doves, Starting, Hammerhead, Weavermests, Eastern Chanting, Groshawk, Grey Headed Kingfisher and Sungors.
I won’t mention all of the vegetation except for Machelle’s Sausage Tree.
There were many highlights. The leopard was a rarity. The interaction of the elephants was special. The size of the lion in the distance was never apparent until one lion crossed the road right in front of us.
Peg managed to hold nature’s calling until we returned home. Nature called Machelle when a rogue elephant crossed the river to eat some veggies at the front of her banda. The restaurant worker told us about a peace corps girl being killed by an elephant as the rogue held Machelle and Bernice hostage in their bandas.
Roger

JuJu to Wagner

At the end of my four-month working experience in Ghana, West Africa, Armahfio, and my adopted family invited me to spend my final evening as their guest. Dinner was their staple batter of cassava called fu-fu and a non-spiced portion of fish for me. It was served on a leaf and scooped with your hands. All of the children were familiar, but this was the first time I had seen them together. I turned to Armahfio’s father and asked how many children he had. He swelled with pride and said, “I start breeding in 1942, and child number twenty-two is in the belly of the third wife.” After dinner, the children gathered to make ‘happy JuJu, ’ which consisted of dancing and singing for me. JuJu is their magic, which has many forms. The serious stuff requires a sacrificial chicken and a witch doctor, but anyone can make happy JuJu. I brought a fifth of Bombay Gin as a gift for the father. He opened it, and within an hour, it was half gone. By then, most of the children were sleeping here and there on the floor. Being a rich and influential member of the community, they had a guest room with a mattress for me in a dwelling crafted from clay bricks and a thatched roof.

At sunrise, I said my goodbyes and then rushed off to finish packing and catch a late afternoon flight to Frankfurt, Germany. A month earlier, I had sent messages via telegraph routed to our US office for them to contact my friend Christel in Germany about my travel schedule. To my amazement, it worked, and she picked me up at the airport with another couple. They explained we had tickets for a Wagnerian Concert at Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria for the following evening. As we sipped champagne during intermission of the Hungarian Philharmonic performance, no one but I could fathom the transition, forty-eight hours can make. My privilege was to be there, but I was more honored by my African friends.

Thomas, the boxing champ of Fiji

I had worked a trade show in Tasmania for five days -- can you blame a guy for having a four-day stopover in Fiji? Fully refreshed after a good night's sleep at the Regent of Fiji, I rented a car and set out to see the island. The perimeter road was nice but I wanted to see the interior. The road inland from Sigatoka soon became overgrown and I stopped to scout ahead for a way out. Something rushed out of the bushes – a naked Fijian covered with soap and a big smile. I had interrupted his bath in the river. He signed for me to wait and then he reappeared wrapped in a towel to introduce himself as Thomas, the boxing champ of Fiji. He directed me to his brother’s house/hut where we sat cross-legged on the floor. I accepted his offer for a drink then he grabbed a stick at the front door opening, knocked down some oranges in the yard, and squeezed out some drinks. My photo-taking left him requesting copies. With the confusion about addresses, I drove him and family to the local village to see the post office. I felt like a float driver in a parade as Tom waved proudly to people en route. Riding in a car must have given rebirth to his fame as boxing champ of Fiji thirty years before. On the return trip, his nieces in the back seat asked if I had children. My proud response to one-year-old Katrina led to a response in their language and much laughter. Tom said they wanted to know if I would like to leave them with a Fijian baby. Such offers in the past have led to tales like Mutiny on the Bounty -- not today.

Travelin' Sailor

The Dixie Chicks sang “Traveling Soldier”. This cued a thought of my time at Great Lakes Training Center during the sixties. In basic training, we were restricted to following the whims of a Chief Petty Officer to reduce us to menial s.... to strip us of our individuality. Working in the Cafeteria was the most beautiful angel that sequestered sailors dreamt about. I returned after graduation to attend technical training in the advanced schooling arena. There she appeared like an apparition from my past servitude, Dumbfounded, I dribbled out the words for meeting me for a movie in nearby Waukegan. We held hands to and from the theatre but during the show, I reveled over my accomplishments – feeling such gratitude for being one she elected to be with of the thousands of recruits passing through the chow line. One simple kiss was at the end of our date was for all the sailors that ogled over this beauty before me. I never saw her again.