Festa Junina

Festa Junina in Caruaru. Credits: Camocim VIP News.

Perhaps less well-known than Carnaval, but definitely just as important, northeastern Brazil's Festa Junina marks a day (more like weeks) of parties integrating traditions from Brazil, Europe, and Africa involving a mash-up of saints- Johnny, Petey, Paulie and Tony. It's also a day of honoring the end of the rainy season and the sanctity of marriage. Throw in a little bit of country square dancing called quadrila, costumes, and a whole mess of music, food and drink, and you've got the makings of bewildering yet meaningful traditions. Recife alone will host 200 parties, shows and concerts around the city wheras 2 hours inland the city of Caruaru, the capital of Forro, hosts the biggest Festa Junina party in the world.

I say bewildering because every single decoration and costume blasts with color and design. Multicolored flags and plastic lanterns cover the ceilings. There are so many pictures of saints and icons that it gives an Orthodox church a run for its money. Ladies sport loud dresses all pinned with ribbons, pom-poms or miniature dolls. Even the mock bride, who represents matrimony and re-birth wears a white dress with neon pieces of flair. Men might wear plaid button downs with tattered pants and straw hats. Others might wear gaucho costumes or bandit outfits from the sertão or backwoods of NE Brazil. Those without naturally large freckles, gap teeth or pencil thin mustaches- are drawn on. 

Mercado Sao Jose- HQ for... everything. 

A whole ton of lace and polyester. 

Decorative lanterns. 

The music and dance, called Forró is just as colorful, sounding like a mix of salsa, country, polka, mariachi and blues. It's heavy on the accordion, acoustic guitar and triangle with catchy syncopated rhythms and tells stories of homesickness, love (lost or found), passion, or jealousy.

Then there's the food. I have never seen so many things made out of corn before: bread, cake, porridge; popcorn, couscous, and cookies. Only Brazilians call them broa, bolo de milho, canjica; pipoca, cuzcous, and aberém. Corn on the cob, meat on a stick, soups in a pumpkin. At Festa Junina, you go big or go home- eating is mandatory fun. It was here where I discovered my daughter's love of farofa covered steak (toasted cassava root)  and Deets enjoying corn flower based cookies.  

Of course, the kid's school spent a large amount of energy organizing and executing their own Festa Junina. Normally my son keeps a low profile and doesn't like mass group performances. Believe it or not, he embraced the loud music and cheering fans as his class took the floor to dance. He's also repeatedly asked to wear a mustache. Margo wanted to sleep in her dress and asks me every day to wear batom- Portuguese for lipstick. I think Brazilian indoctrination is working. For me too because I am just starting to understand the love and respect this country has for the classics. On the surface these celebrations seem over the top, but Brazil has a unique way of embracing its heritage- and I certainly could use more of that. 

 

Boys getting ready for their guitar solos.

Carnaval 2015 in Olinda

Normally when I party, one day suits me plenty. I like quitting while it is still fun so I can reminisce the rare days spent gyrating, mixing my alcohol, and feel the crowded intimacy of glowing compatriots. After our serendipitous libations with the giant rooster, I knew I had to rally for our next day in Olinda. Celebrating day number three of Carnaval at a fancy pousada (hotel) snugly tucked in the row house streets of Olinda, the heart of intense and meaningful "Cultural Carnaval" for northeast Brazil. Of course, there was the predictable flow of cheap cold beer, grilled meats, trashed streets, and throes of drunkards too.

Mark, my father-in-law, and I caught a cab and arrived at the foot of Olinda around 10 am and began our adventurous hike up the streets. Drum groups called batucadas dominated the cobblestone streets like the Pied Piper, drawing crowds of people behind them. Giant bonecos (dolls) dotted the crowds like landmarks, and the colors- oh gosh, the colors of costume clad partiers competed for attention against the already colorful city. The energy was undeniable and nobody couldn't not dance or stomp around. We wormed our way to the Quatro Cantos Pousada and past the ginormous security guards and into the shady oasis. From the patio above we watched the mayhem and settled in for a day of raucous behavior. 

I loved every minute of it. Traveling bands passed through the streets which meant so the noise and crowds would ebb and flow too. We had our own live music and again- everyone knew every single samba song and every single word. As our afternoon wound down we said our goodbyes and ventured out into the twilight against the never ending flow of people. At the party in Recife we caught a cab early enough in the game that we didn't wait at all. This time however, we weren't so lucky. Or maybe we were, because after 90 minutes of trying to hail a cab, Mark ended up doling out some cash to an "off-duty" taxi driver (he was clearly hanging out for people like us willing to pay double) to get us home- totally worth it for everyone involved. 

Around 7:30pm we arrived to the back of our building where our magazine stand guy was hosting the second night of his street party. The dancing more or less continued but admittedly with less enthusiasm on my part. Tired and sore, I called it a night and promptly passed out from exhaustion. Now the question is, do I attempt to do this again today? Too early to tell, but I could totally see me rallying, maybe after a nap.

Mark Schlink, you literally MAKE my blog.
Thanks for the photos.

The BIG Question about Fernando de Noronha

If visions of my pale body flopping behind a boat haven't dissuaded you from wanting to experience Fernando de Noronha, I heartily support anyone remotely interested in visiting "Brazil's Hawaii" and will continue to explain a bit more about our trip including how much we paid (gasp!) for this whole venture. Yes, I am going to talk about the forbidden topic. Yes, it was expensive. Yes, it's a Brazilian rite of passage. Yes, it's worth every penny.

Before we could book our rooms on the island, we needed to have our airline tickets purchased. Luckily for us, we could fly directly there from Recife in under an hour. We used GOL airlines, and the kids (ages 2 and 4) were considered a discounted price. So tickets cost us 2,518.00 USD respectively; 2 adults for 383.00, 2 kids for 230.00. Maybe we got a good deal, maybe not- but if you find a cheaper flight, I don't want to know. Can't spoil the fantasy, now can we? I will admit that the GOL website wouldn't accept our credit cards and ended up paying via PayPal.

I sent on this information to reserve our rooms at Lenda Das Aguas. We paid around 3000 USD for 3 rooms (the kids, in-laws, Mark and myself) for 7 nights, about 142 USD/room/night. Not too shabby! The rooms included breakfast (fruit, cereal, meat and cheese plates, eggs, pastries, juice, tea, coffee) AC, and mini fridge, and the occasional wireless Internet. We were warned the satellite in FDN is tricky sometimes. Our rooms were cleaned daily, and the staff could make reservations or inquiries on our behalf. Despite getting gouged by the falling window pane, I was pleased with their service and attention given to our kids. Since we went through Your Way, I wired the money directly to her, and she followed up with payment (and she does not charge any fees).

Once this was completed, Mark and I could breathe easy for a few months. A few days closer to the trip, we knew we'd have to pay a Nature Tax and the rate varies by the number of days on the island. The good news is, kids under 18 don't pay. Seven days equaled about 115 USD per person. It seems all normal people can pre-register online and print out the forms ahead of landing. I did that, but the documents I produced couldn't be found in the system- so they had to register us again before handing over our credit card (cash works too). All this took place at the airport. They do hand you forms on the plane to fill out if you don't do it ahead of time. I was strongly advised NOT to lose these receipts of payment; they are proof to get off the island too and I had to show them to multiple people before even passing security.

Of course once on the island, you need to purchase a national park entry card if you want to enjoy their trails and beaches. A fee equivalent of about 66 USD gets you 10 days of adventure if you are a non-Brazilian resident. Again- keep the cards with you. If you register to do some of the fancier guided activities, like doing the boat tours, hiking certain trails or swimming at Praia de Atalaia (protected water where you can't wear sunscreen or touch the ocean bottom to due a delicate ecosystem) you need the cards.

With plane, hotel, taxes, and cards paid for we were free to roam the island. Luckily Fernando de Noronha is a remarkably easy island to navigate. It has one main paved road, with various rocky dirt trails that divert to trail heads and beaches. During our week we used the public bus (around a dollar a person/ride) and the occasional taxi to navigate the bigger stretches of travel (7-15 bucks/ride) and hiked for the rest.  Mark and I put the kids on our shoulders, and off we went. Other people chose to rent dune buggies a raucous form of fun and noise as their form of travel. Personally I loved the idea of easier access, but loved the idea of built in exercise more. On average we walked five miles which included some moderate hiking up/down to the beaches. Every day we'd come home coated in dirt, staining our flip flops and clothes with an earthy brown.

There are maybe 3 grocery stores on the island and all easily walkable. I neglected most of what was on offer here, with exception to purchasing 5L bottles of water and snacks. Instead we loaded up on breakfast, snacked through lunch, and tried a different restaurant every night. A few, I might add we came back a few times for desserts on "date night" if I stayed awake past 8pm. Independently owned restaurants, each had their own style and various menus. Luckily, we received a handy list of Adriana's favorite restaurants and the ones we tried were great. The ones not on the list were meh. I think we spent an average of 100-150 dollars/day on food for everyone. 

The boat tour was mind blowing. It blew our minds so much, we went back for more. For the price of 60 bucks/person, a shuttle picked us up at our hotel, we enjoyed a boat ride that covered the length of the island, an hour of snorkeling or swimming off a beach only accessible by guide, and a meticulously prepared lunch. Again- Worth. Every. Penny. My belly became round and happy eating sashimi, baked fish, fried fish, crabs, veggies and fruit. Even the kids ate it! Even Mark ate it. 

I suppose equipment rental added up a small sum, 6 dollars/day for snorkel and fins, 4 dollars/day for an umbrella and 7 dollars/day for chairs. But we didn't do this everyday. Some beaches offered natural shade while others simply didn't offer anything at all. To us, it was a matter of enjoying the environment and heat with the resources we had. And lots of sunscreen. I slathered one liter's worth of sunscreen on my family during the week. 

Before we add up the grand total, just for sticker shock, I would like to mention the many free activities we did enjoy: a recently added playground in the "downtown area," a lesson on turtle management with real researchers and real turtles, child friendly hikes and swims including big waves and tidal pools.  We visited old churches, cannons, and the historic square where prisoners would receive their punishments. Apparently during the early 1900s Fernando de Noronha served as a prison, especially of the political kind. The kids loved relaxing in hammocks, burying each other in the sand, and visiting the Shark Museum. Even though the island (at least during January) is rather dusty with hibernating greenery, we got to rub our feet in some real grass too, just outside the museum. The open space is dotted with iron sculptures that flocks of tourists pose and dance around. Seriously, I saw a group of Brasileiros whip out their articulating selfie sticks, dancing around with utter abandonment. 

In total? A week in Fernando de Noronha cost my family of four: 6,200 USD in my estimate. It was magical. Hot and sticky. It was momentous and fun. It was trip also done in the honor of Mark's grandmother who passed away July 2014. She'd highly approve. 

Keeping a watchful eye.
Praia do Meio.

Nap time on Praia Cacimba do Padre.
Passed. Out.

Adolescent turtle weighing in at 60 kg, or 132 pounds
and 2.5 foot shell length.

TAMAR researchers hanging on for dear life.
PS: I love this man's beard.

Pedra de Urso (Bear Rock)

Right before he got taken out.
Praia Cacimba do Padre

Small mouth grunt fish, often mimicked by
the yellow goatfish as a form of protection. 

Right out of Finding Nemo.
I moved, they moved. 

Baia dos Porcos.

Score 2 for mom.
Passed. Out.

Useful sites

Ecotourism planner:  http://www.yourway.com.br/

Fernando de Noronha government and information on the Nature Tax: http://www.noronha.pe.gov.br/

Boat/SCUBA/Planasub tour company (there are many more ready to show you a good time):
www.trovaodosmares.com.br/

Noronha turtle project: http://www.tamar.org.br/

Brazil's conservation organization: http://www.icmbio.gov.br/portal/

Hotel we stayed in: http://www.pousadalendadasaguas.com.br/acomodacoes/index.html

Beach info: http://www.world-insider.com/practical-travel-guide-for-fernando-de-noronha/

Yellow grunt fish research: http://www.biotaneotropica.org.br/v4n2/en/fullpaper?bn02704012004+pt

Beaching It- Practice Makes Perfect

Recife: 8.0500° S, 34.9000° W 

I don't know how other families do the beach thing with such finesse. All around me, I see tranquil children who are happy digging holes in the shade, others content with splashing together near the shore. They linger for hours, laughing and playing, snoozing between activities and eating fried cheese on a stick. After some hours these harmonious families head home, happy and without the telltale waddle of too much sand in their cracks.  And don't even get me started on their beautifully tousled beach hair. These families clearly are beach experts. Or- they have magical powers. 

I want to know their secret because on the occasions that I take Deets and Margo to the beach without Mark it usually goes down like this: first I have to negotiate with Deets. He always wants to swim- always in the frigid pool, never in the ocean (though I can understand why). When he finally acquiesces, I chase both kids around the apartment for about twenty minutes to slather on sunscreen and I end up pinning one of them down to put on a swim suit on while the other pretends not to know how. I then squish into my own bathing suit and put on an elaborate show trying to put sunscreen on my back. It involves a lot of grunting and reaching but eventually, I can feel confident that I am somewhere between 85-95% covered. 

We walk across the street with one child tossed over my shoulder, angry that she can't 'just walk into traffic' and, the other insisting pausing in the middle of the crosswalk yelling at the cars to stop- because he's a super hero. We've arrived to the beach and Deets immediately wants to go straight into the water clothes and all, whereas Margo runs in the opposite direction just to prove a point. This means I have to repeatedly drag Deets back onto shore, chasing her down and at the same time getting inundated with unwanted shark attack advice from other beach goers. Or questions about whether they are twins. What time we do have in the water together is relatively entertaining: Deets jumps the waves and I bend over swinging Margo in my arms, giving the onlookers a primetime view of me squatting like a sumo wrestler. We never do go in further than my knees. Because quite frankly, there are sharks out there.

At some point I convince them to retreat to the shade for some bubbly water while I catch my breath, profusely sweating from exertion, sunscreen running in my eyes. The break lasts about 30 seconds and the cycle of herding cats begins again. I am chasing them amongst the various vendors showcasing obnoxiously loud toys, kiddie pools, ice cream, nuts, and again- quail eggs. Finally, after forty-five minutes  a long day in the surf we slink back to the sidewalk half dressed, tired and dehydrated (because someone decides to use the bubbly water as foot wash) with an obscene amount of sand matted into our rat's nest hair. Our other, darker places are also crusted in sand.

When I finally cajole the kids into the shower for a rinse,  I swear I will never take them out alone again.  Then another day comes; the waves tease, the sun beckons and distant music lures all of us back out there to explore. I become entranced once again and fall in love with living here.  I am sure one day WE will be the beach experts with harmonious, glowing auras. Or maybe that's the sun exposure talking. 

My First Greasy Jeitinho*

*Jeitinho: comes from the expression "dar um jeito," literally- "find a way." It implies the use of resources at hand, as well as personal connections, and creativity. -Wikipedia

_______________________________

Ever since we arrived, I had been battling my stroller. I would muscle through the turns, dodging potholes and curbs or dragging it backwards through the compact sand just to ensure my rug rats would have a place to rest (or rather- be contained) once we wandered farther than 500 yards from the apartment building. I ignored all my pulled muscles and achy rib cage at the same time complaining to Mark how I needed to get some grease for the wheels. His natural, problem solving response was "Then this weekend, we will head to a bike shop and pick up some grease." Seeing as how this is the only place I have ever purchased grease, it seemed like a sensible idea.

I refused to wait until Saturday so on Friday, I spent some time on the Internet checking out local bike shops and mapped my way. I decided the stroller wouldn't be worth my time since its condition deteriorated rapidly with a nearly frozen front wheel. With Margo in the backpack and Deets willing to walk so long as I promised him popcorn afterwards, we headed out for our projected 15 minute walk. Thirty minutes later I walked into the store carrying both kids; one about ready to pee himself, the other very eager to get away from my sweaty self.

First thing she sees: chairs and table. First thing she (repeatedly) says: "I'm hungry."

Chatting with the local bike mechanic (in Portuguese! -mark), I asked where they keep their bike grease. He stared at me blankly. Clearly no one ever asked him this question, or maybe he didn't understand my accent. Turns out it was neither- they simply don't sell grease. Like, ever. He showed me his store's single tube of industrial blue grease and pointed out that all people in Recife bring their bikes in for maintenance. No one ever does it themselves. Well I refused to give up and asked him if they could at least sell me a little dab of it, I'd even take it wrapped in toilet paper or a coffee cup. Apparently that was absurd request and whilst laughing me, I asked where I could find a tube to purchase. He responds with, "Go that way 10km and you will find a construction store. They can sell you grease." And he walked away.

Well okay then. Relieved at least to be in some air conditioning, the kids found the store's toys and happily played fought over the plastic-rocking-chair-snail-thing, and running laps around their store. I sat down to formulate my next plan, and ten minutes later the mechanic walked back up to me and said they were trying to figure out if they could sell me their sole tube of grease. Conferring with four other staff members, they finally agreed: 15 Reais, or about 6.15 USD. Before they could change their minds, I accepted immediately and while I was waiting for a sixth staff member to come to the register (only she could ring me up) I asked the mechanic what type of bike he owned. He laughs again, (just as Deets knocks over the torso of a mannequin) and explains to me not only does he not own a bike, he doesn't ride either. The bike mechanic. Go figure. He then asks me if I am from Norway. That was pretty cute.

I also met the store owner who called himself Robinson. He thanked me for coming into his store and then he told me all about his recent trip to Miami, followed by the question "do you know so-and-so at the Consulate?"  He said he was happy to make a special exception in selling the grease to me. When I thought about this special dispensation, it made sense because I guess most people on the US prefer bike specialists to fix their bicycles as well. Like Mark, my brother is also a well skilled bike mechanic agreed to this theory. He laughed, remembering the thousands of bikes he'd maintained or fixed that never once saw a drop of grease or lube. Or a bike pump for that matter.

Victory was mine. I walked away with grease, two relatively happy kids who got to blow off steam (though they were supremely annoyed that I wasn't buying them new bikes or helmets) and the name of a good bike shop should I need one in the future. I plan to grease everything that I can in my house now. 

My one and only true form of transportation/punishment for the kids.

Jim's leash has practically rusted from the ocean. 

After repeatedly scraping my knuckles trying to slide open the lock.

Mark's knee. 

Sure! Let's Go to Chisinau...

With a pending pack out, perhaps traveling out of the country for a weekend excursion would be the last thing to calm the nerves amongst the scatter of clothes, toys, and dishes. Or maybe it's the first. Either way I stuffed our car with the usual arsenal of essentials: pack 'n play, bribery food and toys, DVDs, four electronic sources of entertainment, clothes, stroller, case of Ursus beer, blah, blah, blah. I even remembered the kids and husband and began the northwest drive to Chisinau, Moldova.

Six hours, four potty breaks and two barf breaks later we rolled into town to meet our dear friend John who guided us to the Air BNB house that Google failed to find. The kids all but threw themselves into bed. While the men relaxed at the table tearing into grade C pizza, I made quick order of dismantling the car seat cover that Margo christened and drank back some beer. Long day for all of us, but really not altogether terrible.

Found all over the city.

Once part of former Soviet Union, the country is now the poorest country in Europe and the scars of the Soviet times have not healed completely- but they are fading. We strolled for hours in the parks with grafittied and tattered playgrounds next to five star hotels and restaurants. We made small talk with children who spoke a dialect of Romanian and Russian (Romussian?) and placated their exasperated parents who thought Deets and Margo were terribly underdressed and dirty. The weekend was a lovely opportunity to reconnect with my family.

Soviet playground: rusted metal bars everywhere.

Some light accounting on the day.

What is it with kids and tree stumps?! Their favorite stop on the day.

Mark and I also enjoyed a night out galavanting with John and a few of his friends eating lamb and drinking beer. At the babysitter's rate comparable to the rates from 1987, how could we not? "She thought babysitting was easy money - until she started hanging out with the Andersons. Schlinks." Deets entertained her with hours of talking about trains and helicopters.

Deets and Margo totally dug the babysitter so we used her again to go visit Chateau Vartely, a renowned Moldovan winery that grows, cultivates and bottles its own wine. The three of us got down to business tasting some wine. While I cannot doubt the quality they put into their bottles, I was sorely disappointed with the flavors. I like my wines dry and fruity, not sweet and flowery so it was a struggle to keep my poker face as the scent of roses and peachy sweet fuzz coated my tongue with each sip.

Trying to enjoy my diabetes in a glass.

As you might imagine the leisurely mature afternoon rapidly escalated into a giddy and guffawing time there as we waited for the cook to catch and slaughter the chicken for our soup (or rather to heat it up.) It was our time to leave when five wedding parties took over the winery. So instead, as we mortified our young taxi driver on the way home with our delinquent jokes and buffoonery. 

Our Air BNB hosts invited us to their home that night. As Margo slept we snuck next door where we dined on cheese and sweet pumpkin filled placintas, a traditional Moldovan pastry and drank their homemade wine and apricot palinka. Deets made a considerable impression when he announced his intent to poop. Luckily they were unbothered by his major accomplishment and bid us farewell with pear jam and a 2 liter bottle of wine. I do love that about Eastern Europe: the kindness and generosity is always unmatched here and just might be the biggest thing I will miss about living here.

Sunday arrived quickly and it was time to head back. We packed the car and crossed our fingers for a six hour barf free trip back home, relying on my keen sense of direction to get us out of Moldova. What's a forty minute detour in the whole scheme of things? Besides, it's not like I needed to face packing out a house or anything...

Racing against the sunset and protests of Margo.

No more milk on road trips. Only water for this one.

Sarajevo: The Phoenix

Cozy and romantic. And SMOKE FREE!

When Mark wasn't literally running the consular section at the embassy in Sarajevo, he spent time de-stressing with his newly made friend Armin at his bar called The Phoenix. The Phoenix got its name after the house burned 3 times yet it rose again from the ashes. This was the very place that Mark took over while he ran to pick up his children.

4 KM Nektar draft, about 2.75 USD

Built in the basement of a historic house fronted by a carpet of headstones on the western hills of Sarajevo, it was a popular bar where people would gather to play their guitars and sing songs.

People would pass around song books and microphones taking turns to belt out Irish lyrics, Dylan poetry, or rock ballads. Usually four or five guitar players and a percussionist would hook up the amps and Armin would join in with his banjo.

Yay Armin!

Before Armin became a family man, he once spent a summer traveling knocking about the U.S. During his visa application the consular officer asked why he wanted to go to the States.  He replied, "I want to meet hillbillies!" So he did. That summer, he traveled all over the south and eastern side of the States playing his banjo in blue grass festivals, local bars, even on the streets. He loved every minute of it, especially meeting the small town locals who'd all but take him into their family.

He is an incredibly talented string player, and an equally talented host and story teller. I could see why Mark enjoyed his company so much. 

So enraptured I didn't notice a thing...

A Breath of Fresh Air

After eight trips to load up my mom's car with used grocery sacks and duffel bags stuffed with laundry, food, toys and books, I finally checked the family out of our cozy tiny hotel room after I dropped my adoring husband off at the airport. While the hotel was convenient in many ways, I was excited to go from this view (cue banjo music):

to this view (cue the choir):

View from my parent's house.
Is it even possible to bottle the scent of fresh mtn air?

At 8,200 feet, my parent's house perches on the south side of a mountain. What seemed like a pipe dream thirty years ago when my dad purchased this land, became a reality back in 2004 as the house came together piece by piece. They ditched the suburbs, ran for the hills and haven't looked back.

Happy as clams, larks or whatever you want to call them, life up in the mountains consists of hiking to the top at 8,400 feet, sightseeing the wildlife (or at least their carcasses), wood chopping, chipping, tossing and stacking, and the making sure the patio furniture doesn't blow off the mountain. So maybe the wind gusts can get up to 60-80mph but when all is calm, this is what you hear:_______________. Nothing. Pretty unbelievable I say.                                                                              

Elk delight for some lucky animal 

Nice kitties.

Earning my keep.

Hiking off turkey dinner.

These past three months I have redeveloped a closeness with my parents and I am afraid to leave that comfort zone. I can't believe how easy it was to fall in love all over again with my brother and sister-in-law and I cringe at the thought of saying goodbye. But I am also excited to resume the life in Bucharest I was hesitant to leave in the first place. Good thing Mark's gorgeous self will be the perfect welcome home gift for all three of us. Especially if he has managed to grow back his beard after a freak shaving incident while prepping for obligatory family picture time. Poor guy.

I love this man. Mostly for his
power of forgiveness.