On my first open water SCUBA dive I was terrified to even jump off the boat. It was a wall dive and the thought of venturing so close to the deep blue had me squeezing for my Papi’s hand throughout the entire experience. I was only ten years old at the time.

Almost twelve years later, instead of trembling at the thought of a wall dive, I’m discovering the land—er, so to speak—of cavern and cave diving. I’m trading in my vast ocean for confined darkness and desperately searching for my Papi’s hand once again. Because this time, if something goes wrong you can’t just swim up to the surface and get back on the boat.

Cenotes, Spanish for underwater caverns and caves derived from the Mayan ts’onot, is essentially a backyard swimming pool for many residents of the Yúcatan Peninsula here in Mexico. The extensive system of caves and caverns is among the largest in the world and boasts crystal-clear water coming all the way from the mountains of Nicaragua. The ancient Mayas used cenotes for a number of reasons (including sacrifice…leading to the discovery of skeletal remains at many cenotes) but today cenoteculture is a little different than it was back in the day. While Mayas used theMot Mot bird to find these fresh-water havens, today you’re almost guaranteed access to a cenote when you purchase a piece of land. Most of the cenotesattract SCUBA divers, tourists, and scientists but even the locals jump in on the fun and host a sort of “pool party” or backyard BBQ that you would expect to find in the States—just with this Maya twist.

The first cenote I ever dove was Dos Ojos right outside of Tulúm a few years ago. It was everything you would expect in a cavern/cave dive: lots of stalagmites/ctites, complete and total darkness, and beautiful cuts of sunlight streaming into the opening. I can remember hoards of tourists, dive groups rotating in every ten minutes, and picnics on the overhang of the cave ceiling.

(Entrance to Dos Ojos)

Coming back to Tulúm had me itching to try cenote diving again. We dove two in one day—Gran Cenote and Car Wash…

Gran Cenote:

It’s always colder than you expect it to be. And thinner, if that’s possible. It’s almost as if you’re cutting through the water rather than pushing and pulling against it. You’re weightless and for a moment you forget that you’re underwater; instead, you’re floating effortlessly in this quiet space where only your breath is heard.

Darkness looms ahead and as the golden stalagmites and stalactites welcome you into the cavern, the feeble flashlight that ventured down with you seems to grow stronger with every kick. But still there’s darkness. It’s as if it’s feeding off of your light and steadily swallowing you whole. Your heart quickens but not even claustrophobia can set in because the darkness has consumed any and all physical barriers. And it’s just you. Following the set of flippers in front of you. Hoping that they don’t disappear.

But then you turn the corner and swim towards the entrance. The most beautiful blue light beckons you back and the darkness suddenly forms the shapes of the limestone structures you saw at the beginning. You’re floating again. The flashlight has served its purpose and with each stroke your hungry eyes roll over formations that before the darkness hid. There’s a sensation that you are the first one to see this light and these formations. It’s as if this cave were discovered by you and yet you can feel the weight of time—other eyes have been here before. But it’s quiet. No one is there to claim the discovery as their own. All you can hear are your bubbles. The only reminder that you’re underwater.

(Looking towards the opening. Photo Cred: www.flickr.com/photos/xoto)

Car Wash:

It looks and smells like the lagoon from The Black Lagoon books that I read when I was a kid. There are bugs jumping on the surface and every so often a fish blows up bubbles from the murky deep. This is not your typical cenote. It was dubbedCar Wash because local taxi drivers used it for just that. But hidden beneath its dingy exterior is a cenote unlike any other in Mexico.

The first five meters are warm and cloudy. For a moment you are completely alone in the mess of yellow-green and this new sort of blindness has your body acutely aware that it is sinking.

Suddenly your feet are cold. Then your legs, your torso, your arms, and then finally your head. The water is crystal clear under the thick layer of algae and schools of small spotted fish dash away as you sink another few meters. The transition has you dazed for a moment as you take in this alien world: thick seaweed coats the dusty floor of the lagoon and the entrance to an uncharted cave sits up ahead with a thick, beautiful cloud of lime green and electric blue. Fallen tree branches stand at the opening of the massive cave and their black arms twist eerily into the cloud.

To enter the cave you have to drop another few meters and swim around the fallen tree branches and alien cloud. The limestone here is black with what appears to be gold patches. Intricate formations of the stone give the entrance an almost tarnished Baroque quality that only further suggests this alien, submerged world was built not born. Complete darkness comes almost immediately when you venture further in and only the alien light serves as your beacon home.

There are no fish here in the cave, no movement past that cloud of green. Even the freshwater turtles that dive down into the lagoon turn away from the entrance. There is no life down here—at least none you can see.

(Looking towards the opening, green cloud and all)

For more information on measures being taken to protect the cenotes, you can visit (and support!) SAVE: Aguas con los Cenotes at http://saverivieramaya.org/take-action/aguas-con-los-cenotes/

Isla Holbox off the coast of Cancún. Quite possibly the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen.

Home, for the moment, in Tulum, Mexico

The view from Santa Terezinha

Just wanted to jot down some of the notes I gathered over the past 4 months about Northeastern Brazil. Some of them are a reaction to a specific event or person while others are more general observations. In either way, I’ve kept up with the true Brazilian tradition of not being politically correct—just a warning.

• Sign off emails with “abraços” and “Bjs” (beijos)
• Children’s diapers are fastened to the grocery store shelves so that people can feel/see what they’re purchasing
• You can drink a beer while grocery shopping AND pay for it later
• Men are responsible for safe sex…girls seen with condoms are considered easy
• RED NAILS EVERYWHERE
• Cajú and tapioca…all day erryday (omg VOM)
• At meals, drinks are drunk after the food has been eaten and not while
• Chicken soup and coconut water for sick days
• People talk over each other all the time
• Many Brazilian musicians cover popular songs (Bruno Mars, Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, Carla Bruni) but in the style of forro and in Portuguese. Sometimes the songs don’t even have the same meaning.
• Eating bananas at night is seen as unsafe/unwise
• No one seems to really care if there are other people sleeping in the house—if someone is awake they will not try to be quiet just so the other people can continue sleeping. At the Assentamento, for example, my family would start yelling at 5am even though that’s early for most of the family.
• Children can be really unruly and are super spoiled
• So many young people at the Assentamento hate it here because there’s nothing to do. But they say that they don’t have any other option but to live here.
• Water or coffee are offered whenever you go into a house
• No sense of physical surroundings—ex. they will be as loud as they want regardless of who is in the room
• Always stressing the importance of solidarity
• They just love to talk (and hear themselves talk?)
• Strong sense of community
• Always wanting to help someone out; ex. on the bus when you’re carrying too much stuff and you are standing someone will always offer to hold your stuff for you (they are seated)
• People love to guess your nationality if they think you’re a foreigner and then always want to talk about the fact that you’re foreign—seems like they are all very curious
• Stopping at a red light isn’t mandatory unless there is traffic or cameras; after 9pm the cameras shut off because it is believed that if you were to stop at a signal late at night that you could be assulted
• Very afraid but strangely willing to help strangers
• Blatantly starring at a girl on the sidewalk is totally chill. There were times when I thought some guy was going to get into a car accident because he wouldn’t stop starring at me while he was driving. Also making comments like “ay linda” or “gatinha” are pretty common.
• Dengue watch = someone needs to poke your eyes every couple of hours to see if they hurt (no, this is not a joke)
• Moto taxi drivers know the city better than anyone else and are always helpful when you need directions (or a shopping buddy…more on that later)

One of the most common words I’ve heard  living here in Fortaleza has been “solidariedade”, or solidarity. At first I thought it was because I was in an academic setting focused on social justice and sustainable development so obviously I was going to hear a word like that thrown around. But, surprisingly, I think I’ve heard the term used more in everyday conversation than in the class room.

I think it warrants taking a minute to consider maybe why so many people I’ve encountered here in the Northeast use this word on a daily basis. Historically speaking the Northeast is Brazil’s poorest region and its rich collection of cultures and races has marginalized the majority of the population. In 2003 the IBGE report showed that over 50% of Ceará’s population is considered impoverished making it the fourth leading state in the country. So when you think about it—that all these different people are suffering from either poverty, discrimination, social obstacles, and under-representation in politics—it makes sense that such a hopeful word would be used so much. It’s Brazilians’ way of letting each other know that regardless of their differences they don’t stand alone.

Earlier tonight my host family threw a Christmas Party. Unfortunately it’s not sweater weather (as my friend pointed out) but my host mom, grandmother, sister and I made dinner and dessert and then invited over three of my host mom’s closest girl friends. We ate, drank, laughed, showered each other in compliments (a wonderful aspect of Brazilian female culture), complained about men, and spoke about the importance of mother-daughter relationships.

The latter was a particularly interesting conversation. Every woman at the table (minus my host sister, grandmother and me) is either separated or divorced with a daughter. Just one daughter. Something like that can’t be mere coincidence. And to add another twist to it: all of these women are somehow involved in academia. The conversation evolved from personal stories to a more philosophical discourse surrounding the importance of these mother-daughter relationships and how and why they are formed. These women recognized the need to not only support their daughters because of shared blood but also because of a shared gender. And not only gender but also all of the negative connotations that are typically associated with the female gender in Brazil.

These women know how difficult it is to be a woman in Brazil—especially a woman living without a man. As a result, they’ve taken it upon themselves to reach out to each other and form this sort of community of mothers to help raise and protect their daughters. It’s really a beautiful thing and I’ve seen it even outside of my host family’s circle of friends. They step in when the father figure simply isn’t cutting it. This community that my host mother and her girlfriends have built is one that is based on love, friendship, and of course: solidarity.

It’s been an amazing experience living with only females here in Fortaleza. My host mom, grandmother, and sister have taught me so much about what it means to be a woman both in Brazil and in the world today. They constantly remind me that I’ve got to make close female friends and that I should really be talking to my own mother and sisters more often. It’s important to know that you’re not alone in whatever plight and that the support system begins within the family.

Solidariedade—it’s quickly becoming my favorite Portuguese word.

Today something odd happened on the beach:

I was walking on the shore with my friend Emily when we passed by this group of three Brazilian men. They were playing around with a soccer ball and while we passed by one of the guys kicked the ball in front of us. It was clear that he had meant to do that and like any normal person I kicked it back.

He and his friends started laughing/talking in that way that you know they’re checking you out (awks) but then, rather than make some comment or whistle or something (typical here in Fortaleza), he pinched his middle finger and his thumb together and placed them close to his lips*.

Marijuana? You want some marijuana?

My friend Emily and I laughed and continued walking.

Then he kicked me the ball again.

So I kicked it back to him.

Then he and his friends left us alone and we continued our walk.

It took us a couple of minutes to process what had just happened. Was kicking back the soccer ball some sort of drug acknowledgment? Had Emily and I, completely unawares, discovered the secret language of Fortaleza’s underground drug trafficking industry? Were they actually cops just trying to catch us in the act???

It was certainly odd and somewhat thrilling. Who knew that a soccer ball could hold so much meaning, so much potential risk?

Then again maybe he was just some guy messing with us.

BUT WHO WILL EVER KNOW, RIGHT?

*International sign for smoking a joint…in case that was unclear

Definitely NSFW

Also: Brazil’s version of the Lonely Island’s “Jizz in my Pants”?

One of the main reasons why I decided to learn Portuguese was because I thought it was just too goofy. I suppose the fact that it’s one of the most widely spoken languages in the world contributed to this decision as well but I would be lying if I said I didn’t thoroughly enjoy how silly it sounds.

The ão’s…

Those words ending in -il and -el…

The absurd number of times you can use diminutives or augmentatives in one sentence…

There’s really no other way to describe this language but as just plain ridiculous! I say this in the most loving way possible—after all, this is what drove me to study abroad.

But lately I’ve started to wonder about the connection between language and culture; how one affects the other and vice versa. This was all brought on when my host grandmother came to visit from São Paulo last Sunday. She’s very sweet but the amount of talking this woman does impresses even me. And she doesn’t just blabber on about the weather or other insignificant topics that are clearly used to fill the silences between more profound and worthwhile conversations—oh no. This woman simply cannot stop exaggerating. Literally everything is a matter of such great importance that if she doesn’t share her opinion on it she’ll simply burst from the seams!

An example? Sure thing: she loves making cake (this is wonderful but obviously horrible). Since she’s been here she’s made three chocolate cakes with a condensed milk frosting (perhaps another type of exaggeration?). They are delicious…trust me. But every time she makes the cake it’s an event to be talked about for at least a few hours.

Jade (my host sister) simply adores this cake! She could eat the whole thing in one day I’m sure of it!

This chocolate is just so decadent I feel like I’m floating in the clouds!

Andréia (host mom), try this delicacy…you’ll just melt the moment it touches your lips

Don’t get me wrong—it’s good cake. But it comes from a box. A box. Calm down woman! A five year old could make this stuff.

But no, that’s not how Brazilians function. Everything—cake, their day, married life, what their boss said that day, that cute baby that lives across the hall that never stops screaming—everything is taken to the extreme. If it’s not the most beautiful creation God has created then it’s an abomination that should be removed from this world.

Suddenly the telenovelas (soap operas) here don’t seem so ridiculous anymore; they’re actually fairly accurate when describing the daily lives of Brazilians. This is a terrifying realization.

Or is it? I mean, sure they might make mountains out of mole hills and use more adjectives in one sentence than I’m pretty sure is grammatically correct, but where’s the harm in that? If anything it livens the conversation. Suddenly talking about the weather isn’t so dull—especially if you pretend to take everything they say literally (“Oh my! I better not leave the house tomorrow if the sun is going to burn off my skin!”). It’s fun. It’s beautiful. It’s absolutely ridiculous.

But that’s Brazil for you. And trust me: it’s quite entertaining!

Maria das Dores Prena da Silva, aka Dona Preta

The first thing I noticed about Dona Preta was her smile. Then, naturally, her wrinkles. She is 71 years old and wears a rhinestone headband to hold back her long white hair. After our first interview, she asked me to stay for lunch. After our second interview, she asked me to send her a picture of my wedding. I hope that I’m as optimistic and excited by life as she is once I get to be her age.

João Batista da Cruz, aka Batista

I was surprised at how young he is considering my other interview candidates were well over 60. He always gave me and Dona Maria fresh mangoes whenever we stopped by his house. He owns more chairs than anyone I’ve ever met. Our second interview was rescheduled three times because “he’s a real Indian” as my host, Seu Hermes, said laughing. We said our goodbyes after a rather sassy interview.

Francisco Alberto da Costa Silva, aka Seu Chichico

A soft voice and leathery skin. He smelled like heat and always smiled after he was done talking—no matter what the subject was. When I asked to take his picture he was worried that my classmates (namely, my female classmates) would think he looked bad. According to him the most important right that a citizen has is to be able to make friends. I still don’t know why they call him “Chichico” and I regret never having asked him.

Maria Paz Perera, aka Dona Maria Lima or the Mother of MST

“Graças a deus” is her favorite and most used phrase. She was always trying to feed me more food—especially more beans. When she told stories she would sit against the back of her chair and get this far-off, sort of glassy look in her eyes as if she were seeing it all play out again. She loves kittens. The first day I met her she promised her husband that she would take care of me because I am the baby of my family (caçula). We both cried when I left the Assentamento.

I never imagined that I would become this close to four strangers in such little time. I’m not sure when I’ll have the chance to see them all again but for now at least I have these wonderful memories of our time together. Maybe I didn’t understand every story they told me or every question they asked me, but I’m fairly sure they could tell that I wanted to listen and that I wanted to share with them. 

Buhahaha ridiculous Natalie. This is so sad and so wonderfully true :)

natalieluzmila:

Aside from the abundance of rompers, mostly I can not get down with Fortalezan style. One thing that happens a lot is vaguely inappropriate use of English phrases. It is always very unclear as to whether or not the person wearing them knows what they say. Here are some examples:

Backpack, looking…