There are elements of being a tourist that-assuming you feel
comfortable with the country and the language-can be fun.
I don't mind being ignorant, asking questions, getting lost.
But there's a certain type of tourist I'm not. I don't like
prepackaged tours. I'm not that deep into seeing the sights.
After while, a beautiful island or mountain is just as beautiful
as the last one I've been to. Despite my distaste for this
type of travel, my cousin and I embarked upon a tourist oriented
boat ride to Ilha dos Frades. Ilha dos Frades is an island
that's difficult to get to through local channels. Paying
the tourist fee and going direct was a difference of about
five hours of travel time. The difference between this trip
and my regular Brazil experience was immediate. At the port,
we were directed into a waiting room opposite of the one we
usually used to take the boat with other Brazilians to Ilha
Itaparica. Both in the waiting room and on the boat, we were
the only black people present. The remainder were about one
half Southern Brazilian (Rio or Sao Paulo) and one half European.
We were also the only Americans present.
The boat
was beautiful. I never understood rich people's attachments
to boats until I rode on this one. Under the boat's canopy,
there were benches set up for sitting, but then there was
a huge cushioned platform in the middle of the boat. When
we climbed up onto the platform and laid down the experience
was divine. The breeze was scrumptious and the view from the
boat beautiful. The sensation of drifting across the water
was luxurious, comforting, exhilarating. I kept smiling because
each time I relaxed I drifted off into this peaceful reverie
that had nothing to do with anything that was going on around
me, and everything to do with the sensation of being on the
boat.
The boat
ride itself turned out to be the biggest treat of the whole
trip. While the boat was still at port, a woman came around
to each group of tourists and took a photograph of them. She
didn't' speak to us, perhaps she assumed that most folks didn't
speak Portuguese. As she came around, she'd point to and grunt
at the people she wanted to photograph. Once our attention
was secured, she'd snap the photograph. I had no idea if I
was being photographed for tourist propaganda or what, but
I was certain I didn't want to be involved. When she came
around to us, I gave her the stankest look I could muster
to insure they wouldn't want to use my photograph to promote
anything.
Right
before the boat departed, the photographer jumped off the
boat. As we began to drift into the sea, I noticed a man with
a professional video camera filming all the people on the
trip. There was no conversation about what he was filming
for or why, he just started pointing the cameras at us. I
turned away, made faces and motioned for him not to film me,
but he persisted and captured me on film when I wasn't paying
attention. You could consider this payback, for all the times
tourists roll up into people's neighborhoods and stick cameras
in their faces to preserve a slice of local culture. Whether
as a group, we karmically deserved it or not, it really got
under my skin.
One of
the biggest irritations about being on a tourist-centered
trip is that the tour guides want to entertain you. Our guide
hooked up a microphone on the boat and began asking where
everyone was from, telling jokes, and giving a little history
of where we were going. I just wanted him to shut up so we
could enjoy the ride. After the guide finished his spiel,
a young Brazilian dressed in nautical whites passed around
a tray of free tropical fruit. Next, he came around with a
tray of refreshments that were extremely inflated in price.
When we finally settled into the silence of the journey I
was relieved. It was pure pleasure to release ourselves to
the rocking motions of the boat and the light spray of water
splashing our inert bodies. Before long, both my cousin and
I were asleep.
As we
were pulling up to Ilha dos Frades, the tour guide announced
there'd be a tax to enter the island. I thought randomly,
isn't this something you would either announce before or include
with the travel package? But the tax was so cheap I didn't
focus on it. We paid the tax and went to the beach. The minute
our feet touched sand, the hustle was on. First we ordered
our drinks, one bottled water and one coconut water. The tiny
bottled water turned out to be $1.50, the coconut water was
$2 reis instead of the usual $1. For imported items, I understand
the inflation. I learned that lesson in Lencois. When we stopped
at a drink stand halfway through climbing the mountain, all
the sodas were $2 reis. Someone explained they were so expensive
because someone had to lug them all the way up the mountain.
The drinks at the top of our climb were equally expensive,
but with all the maneuvering we had to do to get up the mountain,
I understand the inflated price. Whoever carried it up there,
deserves it. But regarding the coconuts on Ilha dos Frades,
I doubt they had to import the coconuts to the island. I wonder
if I had come to the island with my Brazilian friends, the
local way if I would have paid $1 real or $2 reis for the
coconut.
After
we were shook down for refreshment and snack money, the artisans
came out in their full glory. I could imagine someone yelling,
"the boat, the boat" and everyone scrambling to
organize their wares. There were women selling beach wraps
and dresses and guys selling jewelry and found sea objects.
One popular, and ugly, item for sale was a pile of sea coral
topped by a starfish-an extremely garish knick-knacky keepsake.
Each and every vendor stopped at each and every table.
A simple, "we're not interested did not suffice."
No matter what our attitude, they launched into their spiel
and when they were done talking, they looked at us, like,
"you're going to buy now, right?"
This
little boy came up and demanded: "buy my sculpture."
He was a perfect example of the vendors' attitude, in fact,
he was a perfect example of the assumptions I felt surrounded
the entire trip. They're perspective seemed to be--If you're
here, then you have money to give me. When we refused to buy
the sculpture, he said to my cousin, "give me your pen.
I need it for school." My cousin is kind-hearted but
does not take kindly to demands and she believes in her personal
possessions. After I translated what he was saying, she was
taken aback. I pulled out my crackers-which I packed because
I didn't plan to spend a ton of money-and started snaking.
The little boy said, "gimme some crackers." "Oh,
you want everything," I told him. "She has ONE pen
because she needs to write, I have these crackers because
I'm hungry, why should I give them to you?" He just looked
at me. He and his friend happened to be standing there when
my change from the coconut I purchased came, so I split it
between them. They barely acknowledged the exchange. The simply
turned and walked away. "Ya'll don't say thank you?"
I screamed after them. "Thank you," one said in
English. "Obrigado" the other said. But I felt not
thanked. I got the sense that they believed it was my obligation
to give them something for coming to their island. And on
the one hand, it can be seen as a valid perspective. I'm paying
some tour guide to come and take advantage of their beach
and they aren't getting anything off deal. I hate it now that
the red New York tour buses come through Brooklyn. You feel
like a circus animal or something. I suppose some of them
can barely stand to look at us strolling off the pleasure
boat to swim in their waters and drink something cool. I guess
this is the type of latent hostility and expectation the meeting
of tourism and poverty promotes.
Another
guy, a jewelry vendor, kept calling me 'girl.' "Hey girl,"
he said, "come see my stuff." I understand 'girl'
is a direct translation from their "moça"
or "menina" which is completely acceptable in Portuguese,
but being called 'girl' just rubbed me the wrong way. Finally
I told him, "I'm not a girl, I'm a woman, don't call
me girl." Eventually he came by and tried to sell his
jewelry to my cousin and I. I said, "it's all very beautiful
but I don't have any money and I don't intend to buy anything."
He kept showing me his jewelry as if I hadn't said anything.
By the time he got to the fifth item, describing its qualities
and looking at me with meaningful pauses, I said, "look,
if you want to show me everything in your basket, fine go
ahead, but I already told you..." and he cut me off in
a whiny voice "you're not buying anything, you're not
buying anything. Well, fine," he said, "bye."
And left abruptly. When I looked up he had approached two
very old white women and greeted them with, "hey girl..."
The minute "girl" was out of his mouth, he looked
back at me. I screamed, "they're definitely not girls,
they're old women, you might get away with calling me girl,
but show some respect." He finally disappeared, looking
for a more willing group of tourists.
I guess
I'm as much an irritation to them as they are to me. I don't
fit in with the program. Tourists are supposed to come off
these boats with money in their pockets, ready to burn. And
here I am with my carrots and crackers in a bag, buying only
a coconut water, fuming at the circus I had roped myself into.
After my little encounter with the vendor, I decided to take
a dip in the ocean. When I popped up for air and laid back
in the water, I heard "girl, girl." It was the cameraman.
The lens of the video camera was already trained on me. The
only way we could escape from the madness, it seemed, was
to climb a hill up to an abandoned church. Ilha dos Frades
means Island of the Priests. Up on top of the hill, everything
was suddenly still. We got a beautiful view of the island
and the sea. Behind the beach, behind the beachfront stores
was a grassy clearing crisscrossed with about six paths headed
to the homes nestled in the center of the island. Looking
at the island from on high aroused the explorer in me. Suddenly
I wondered what was beyond that group of rocks on the opposite
end, a more beautiful beach? I was curious about where the
roads led. But we were on a tight tourist schedule-no time
for exploring. The boat would be leaving soon, so we had to
get back down the hill and rejoin our group.
On the way back to the boat, I had a little chat with the
video cameraman. I asked him why he was filming us. He told
us he put together videos about Salvador complete with highlights
from carnaval and various other festivals and at the end of
the video, he added the particular shots of us to the video.
I told him it sounded like a nice idea, but he didn't need
to take any more images of me, because I wasn't going to buy
the video. He said it was cool and somehow we got into a conversation
about racism and how it limits opportunities. He said he doesn't
buy the whole racism convo, in fact it irritates him because
he thinks everyone is responsible for making the most of their
life. We told him about how shocking it was for us to spend
so much time with black people in the city of Salvador and
to get on this boat and all of a sudden be the only black
people on the boat. We asked, if racism wasn't a real force,
how come there were no black Brazilians on the boat. They
come on the tours, the cameraman said, it's just by coincidence
that none came today.
By the
time we got back on the boat, my cousin and I had an attitude
against the whole tour system. At our next destination, the
tour guide suggested an all you can eat buffet on top of this
hotel for $15 reis. He kept saying, "for a little more
than $5 U.S., you can eat all you want." I told my cousin,
"we're on the beach, we can get fried fish and beans
and rice for $10 reis apiece." There was a representative
of the restaurant (a black woman dressed like a Baiana) on
the beach where we landed waiting to escort us up to the restaurant.
I felt like part of a herd of cattle they were leading from
one hustle/slaughter to another. My cousin and I ended up
going with the all-you-can-eat buffet because they talked
about a bus tour of the island afterwards (a tour I really
didn't want to go on, but felt compelled to consider taking)
and the tour tickets were only available upstairs.
The buffet
was nice enough. My cousin and I served our plates and settled
in to enjoy our meal. As we were eating, the woman who had
taken the photographs at the beginning of our trip appeared.
As she passed by our tables, she dumped the photographs on
the corresponding tables. We were quiet as we were confronted
by portraits we didn't know we were taking. It was a bizarre
feeling. In the time that it took for us to hang out on the
first island, she had developed and mounted all the photos
and traveled to the second island. The whole restaurant was
in an uproar. Even those folks who seemed to take being a
tourist easier than I did, were upset. We all felt violated
in a certain way. We hadn't asked for our photo to be taken
and she didn't ask our permission. I think one woman bought
a photo she had bartered down to $2.50 reis from the $5 the
woman wanted. I wondered was it worth it to get all those
photos developed and then have them be wasted. Somewhere on
the island of Itaparica is a photo of my cousin and I, neither
of us are smiling and my face is marked with a skeptical scowl.
Then
it was time for the bus tour around the island. They were
so confident that we all had money to burn, they didn't even
mention the cost. Turns out, after all the hidden costs and
expensive items along the way, I didn't have enough money
to take the tour. I had brought $50 reis with me for the day,
and it was all gone by the time I got home. In the end, I
was happy I hadn't gone on the tour (I didn't want to, but
some manic part of me didn't want to miss anything. My lack
of finances saved me, I'm sure there was another hustle at
some point on the bus ride). As we relaxed on the beach, the
absence of the tour guides and the other tourists felt like
a huge blessing. I had the sudden realization that the people
on the tour wouldn't have another moment to sit in the sun
and chill. I guess the tour guides wanted to fill up all our
time so they could squeeze out as many dollars as possible.
It isn't necessary to fill every hour with active activity.
I let the tension seep from my shoulders as a new friend chatted
about his desire to have sex with an American girl. Like the
moment on top of the hill, I felt I had found the simple enjoyment
the tour guides seemed so bent on obscuring.
On
Being a Gringa
At our halfway point during one of the hikes in Lencois,
we visited an old man's refreshment stand. He made beautiful
drawings on rocks to entertain himself as he waited for customers.
We chatted about life with him, with our guide as a translator.
Somehow, the old man and I couldn't understand each other's
Portuguese (both of us probably too far from "proper"),
so the guide would repeat both the old man's statements and
mine. At one point, the old man asked, "Is she from Salvador?"
The guide said, "no, she's a gringa" and translated
the old man's question. I said "Black people all over
the world look alike." The guide said, "no, it's
more than that, you have the vibe of a Salvadorian."
And I think what he meant was, that I was laid back. I didn't
have the freshest sneakers, a serious camera and other "important"
hiking gear. My lack of accoutrements often lets me slip under
the gringo radar, but sometimes (especially when I'm accompanied
by other foreign people), I'm obviously a foreigner. We talked
about the word gringo, and the guide said he thought it came
from the Vietnam War where the American soldiers wore green.
The Vietnamese had a slogan: Green Go. And I told them that
sometimes I felt that that was exactly what people were saying
by calling me a gringa. I told them about the time I was at
the hippie village in Arambepe and my friend and I walked
up to the outdoor bar for a fruit juice, and this guy said
"oh here come the gringas." And in his proclamation
was a mixture of distaste, excitement, lecherousness, and
anger. The other Brazilian people present promised me that
it was just a word, that people don't mean anything by it.
And I agree that sometimes it is just a word, but just as
often, it's a tag for a very complex situation.
Since
my first trip to Salvador I've marveled at the bizarre relationship
between native Salvadorians and tourists. To imagine that
you get your lifeblood from foreigners, people who know nothing
about you and have nothing to do with your existence must
be infuriating to a certain extent. A gringa can be a lot
of things: we're known as:
Clueless
Stupid
Rich
Arrogant
Frivolous
And most importantly,
A possible meal ticket.
All of
that is mixed in with the tag "gringa." The word's
origin--the hostility of the Vietnamese War-highlights the
darker angers underlying the word. It points to our presence
in foreign countries as:
Bloodsuckers
and
Pimps
As a
group of travelers, Westerners display all those traits and
more. It is a difficult group to be a part of, yet there is
also a huge sense of entitlement that we take advantage of
while traveling under this umbrella. But mostly, I like to
keep low. Interact one-on-one, slink by the tourist spots,
sit down on the corner and chat with a few artists as the
hours fly by. Of course for someone who fits in physically,
there are more opportunities to do that, and there are towns
that, because of the low numbers of tourists, are less on
the tourist hustle.
One of the most laid back trips we took was to Cachoeira.
It's a city three or four hours away from Salvador. The entire
city is made up of old architecture. We went on a Sunday so
the pace was especially slow. We wandered through the cobblestoned
streets unmolested. Checked out the structures, poked our
heads into an old convent that had been converted into a hotel
and stopped at a place covered in intricate woodcarvings for
lunch. One of the things Cachoeira is popular for, besides
the woodcarvings, is its liquors. They make liquors out of
every fruit imaginable: caju, caja, lemon, ginger, passion
fruit, pineapple, raisins, the list goes on and on. Inside
the liquor shops you can buy a small plastic cup of your favorite
flavor or buy a bottle to take home with you. In the place
where the liquors are fabricated, bees hover around drawn
to the sweet scents. As we tasted the various flavors, we
watched one bee hover dangerously close to the surface of
the liquor. Finally, the bee fell in and drowned in the sweet
liquor that had tempted him(?) so.
When
our host stopped by a second liquor joint for a drink, my
cousin and I climbed up a little cobblestoned hill to an abandoned
church instead. There we sat on the crumbling steps, felt
the breeze and talked. I felt a peace settle in my bones.
The stillness of the place surrounded me like a comfort, like
a balm and suddenly I knew I was in the right place at the
right time. I travel for healing moments like these. When
everything feels timeless and I'm attached to neither the
past nor the future moment, I really feel like I've momentarily
left my life for a delicious slice of an illusive existence
that only exists in surrender.
Be well.
Be love(d).
Kiini Ibura Salaam
=======FOR=========THE========RECORD=========
In an
interview of Anuradha Mittal by Derrick Jensen entitled "Amid
Plenty: On the True Cause of World Hunger", Anuradha
Mittal, codirector of the Institute for Food and Development
Policy-better known as Food First--verbalizes a thought I
had after viewing the documentary "Life and Debt".
After all this indictment of the U.S., of how it treats "Third
World" nations, when I compare how the U.S. treats foreign
farmers vs. American farmers, I realized the U.S. government
and U.S. multinational corporations are doing the same things
to its own citizens that it does to foreigners. Mittal states:
"In the U.S., farmers are killing themselves and trying
to make it look like an accident so their families can get
life-insurance money. Forced out of their profession and unable
to make a livelihood, they see no other way out.
At the
World Food Summit in 1996, Dan Glickman, then the head of
the USDA, claimed that U.S. farmers would feed the world.
He did not tell the summit that in the last few census polls,
the category of "farmer" as a profession has been
removed. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, farmers are
not endangered; they're extinct. When Glickman talks about
farmers, he really means corporations such as Cargill and
Archer Daniels Mudland-self-styled "Supermarket to the
World.") They aren't U.S. farmers. They're "agribusiness."
But that isn't what really shocked me in this interview. What
shocked me was the following revelation:
Mittal: "The chemical companies are attempting to control
the food system more than ever before."
Jensen: And one of the ways chemical companies are attempting
to control seeds is through technologies like Terminator,
right?"
Mittal:
Yes, Terminator seeds are those that have been genetically
modified not to reproduce. Their plants are sterile and do
not produce viable seeds, meaning that farmers who used them
would have to purchase more seeds the next year. So the millenniums-old
tradition that more than a billion farmers depend on---saving
seeds from their harvest to use for the next season--would
suddenly be denied to them. I've yet to figure out how the
companies can even pretend that this could benefit farmers
in the Third World. The fact that those in power can control
nature to the degree that they dictate whether or not a seed
is fertile is sheer arrogance. It is ethically, economically,
socially, and politically wrong, and there's no way around
it.
<<snip>>
Jensen: How could a farmer be compelled to use that seed?
It certainly doesn't seem to be in his or her best interest.
Mittal: Farmers around the world have been seduced by the
promise of increased production and lower costs. The corporate
media machine has sold this idea to both the farmers and the
policymakers. But many farmers have been denied any choice
over whether to grow genetically modified crops. Some of them
do it without even meaning to do so. Percy Schmeiser, a farmer
in Canada, was served with a lawsuit by Monsanto because detectives
hired by the company found evidence of their patented seed
in his field. Now, how did it get there? He didn't plant it.
Its presence was a result of genetic pollution from a neighboring
field. Because some plants are pollinated by the wind, and
others by insects, they can't be entirely contained.
Jensen: Honeybees have been known to fly a dozen miles.
Mittal: Say you want to be an organic farmer. If a neighbor,
or even someone many miles away, uses genetically modified
seeds, that crop can cross-pollinate with your own. And there
are other concerns, as well. For example, organic farmers
have long used Bacillus thuringiensis (Bt), a naturally occurring
insect toxin, as a pesticide, but genetic engineers have spliced
Bt into cotton, potato, and other plants. This overuse will
quickly result in insects resistant to BT, forcing organic
farmers to hop onto the bandwagon of using toxic chemicals.
Insanity. To read the remainder of this interview (which I
read in my February 2002 issue of The Sun) go to Derrick Jenson's
website www.derrickjensen.org
ALSO:
In 1916, An African native once kept in a Bronx zoo, Ota Benga,
commits suicide.
In 1906 the crowds thronged the monkey house exhibit at the
Bronx Zoo (New York Zoological Park). Here were man's "evolutionary
ancestors" - monkeys, chimpanzees, a gorilla named Dinah,
an orangutan named Dohung and a short statured African, misnomered
a "pygmy," named Ota Benga. Ota Benga was brought
from the Belgian Congo in 1904 by noted African explorer Samuel
Verner along with other "pygmies" and displayed
in an exhibit in the 1904 St. Louis world's Fair. Ota
Benga (or "Bi", which means "friend" in
his language) was born in 1881, had a height of 4 ft. 11in.
and weighted 103 lbs. Although he was referred to as a boy
he had been married twice. His first wife had been captured
by white colonists and his second wife died by a snake bite.
After the St. Louis exhibit, Ota found himself at the Bronx
Zoo which at that time was under the direction of Dr. William
T. Hornaday, who was considered a bit eccentric. Hornaday
believed animals had nearly human thoughts and personalities,
and he could read the thoughts of zoo animals. He "apparently
saw no difference between a wild beast and the little Black
man" and insisted he was only offering an "intriguing
exhibit". The exhibit was immensely popular and
controversial; the black community was outraged and
some churchmen feared that it would convince people of Darwin's
theory of evolution. Under threat of legal action, Hornaday
had Ota Benga leave his cage and circulate around the
zoo in a white suit, but he returned to the monkey house to
sleep.
In time
Ota Benga began to hate being the object of curiosity. "There
were 40,000 visitors to the park on Sunday. Nearly every man,
woman and child of this crowd made for the monkey house to
see the start attraction in the park - the wild man from Africa.
They chased him about the grounds all day, howling, jeering,
and yelling. Some of them poked him in the ribs, others tripped
him up, all laughed at him."
At one point, he got hold of a knife and flourished it around
the park, another time he produced a fracas after being denied
a soda from the soda fountain. Finally, after fabricating
a small bow and arrows and shooting at obnoxious park visitors
he had to leave the park for good. After his park experience,
several institutions tried to help him. He was placed in Virginia
Theological Seminary and College but quit school to work in
a tobacco factory. According to Hornaday "he did not
possess the power of learning". Growing homesick, hostile,
and despondent Ota Benga borrowed a revolver, and shot himself
in the heart, ending his life in 1916.
ALSO:
TISH BENSON'S THE WRITE STUFF CREATIVE WORKSHOP GROUP 2
Creative writing exercises are the seeds to a better sense
of self knowledge to a better sense of universal knowledge.
*word collage
*memory exercises
*your poet's voice
*other experimental writing techniques
will help to stimulate Q and A of the self
Q: ...so...is
this ummm...therapy...analysis or somethin' like that?"
A: No it's group.
Mid-town
Manhattan 5
session workshop $120
GROUP 2a Sat. 230-430pm
April 6, 13, 20, 27 and May 4
or
GROUP 2b Tues. 630-830pm
April 9, 16, 23, 30 and May 7
call for more info (212) 479-7762
Minimum 6 Maximum 8
Tish
Benson is a writer and performance artist and a recipient
of 2001 Franklin Furnace Performance Grant ; A 1996 New York
Foundation for the Arts Fellowship Recipient in play writing
She has been published in: Listen Up, In The Tradition:
An Anthology of Young Black Writers, Perfect 10 Writing and
Producing the 10 Minute Play, Long Shot Magazine, Verses
that Hurt: Pleasure and Pain from the Poemfone Poets, When
Butterflies Kiss and Role Call... A 1999 MFA graduate from
NYU in Dramatic Writing , Tish Benson's most recent
work includes a teleplay aired on LIFETIME and a collaborative
performance piece entitled Church of the Living Womb.
"we
may not all be writers but we can write stuff" tish benson
People of color are strongly encouraged to apply.