Zona Su Part 3

The bell rings at 7:00 AM Wednesday Morning

The sheet hung as a door breathes back and forth from the commotion in next room.  That of five young men dressing and converting a communal bed back into an open floor. They are gone before I situated myself, like ghosts they disappear to unknown directions. I walk toward the dining hall expecting to see someone, but I can’t see anyone through the open windows. I wander past the chapel and find a couple of the sisters. The small chapel had no chairs or pews and the sisters are sitting or kneeling on the red shag carpet. There was an alter-rail and behind that a simply adorned alter. The walls were dark brown paneling, and a window was open near the front for light and air. I sit down on the carpet in meditation style and reflect on nothing. I am thankful to be in Brazil, but I just couldn’t focus on anything specific. I am relieved when the room fills with everyone from the night before. I was uncomfortable to focus on the emptiness in my head.  “Nothing,” I think, well for once I had a clear mind almost devoid of thoughts. I question, am I am a wandering missionary or a Zen sage.

***

We sit for café da manha (breakfast) and all the men that are Formados, those not in the full length brown habits, are in white tee shirts. Much like a uniform they are very much the same. I look down the table and see inner mixed among the brothers, sisters, and formandos are elderly men. I point at them and try to ask who they are.

They nod, “filhos”.

“Ok,” I say. Then out loud I pronounce, “fil-hos”.

Brother Gabriel is helping serve café and walks over to say, “Those are the sons.”

Everyone is a son or daughter to the Fraternity of the Poor of Jesus Christ. Everyone is helped when they need it, or cared for whether that “son” or “daughter” is able to understand or not.

The house of Mother Theresa is a home for the elderly who suffer from Alzheimer’s, trouble communication, or other sever impairments. They were found living without assistance on the streets by the brothers and sisters, place throughout Brazil, who mission to them. In this place they are bathed, fed, talked to, entertained, and cared for like family members. 

Brother Gabriel handed me an orange, “You will help shower the mans.”

“Ok, Sure,” I smiled at him faintly and looked around the room. They seem clean to me I thought as I dug my thumb nail into the orange skin. I worked the skin loose from the meat of the orange effortlessly with a little self-satisfaction. I looked up and the whole room was staring at me in disgust. All those smiling faces, now sat silent with open mouths as if I was gutting a bunny rabbit at the table. Brother Bento, an older slender faced man with a long pointed gray beard, quickly removed himself from my presence and walked to the side of the room.

My response was a delicate, “What?”

Brother Gabriel came to my aid with a knife in this hand. “Faca,” he shook the blade at me.

“I’m ok.” I show the group the orange with no peel and ripped it in two.

They joined into a consensus about my behavior and then addressed Br. Gabriel.

He looked at me with concern, “you don’t use a faca?”     

“No.”

“Why no use a knife?”

“I never have.”

He explained to the table in Portuguese. They looked at me, shook they heads, and laughed amongst themselves. Some even got oranges to demonstrate how to peel them with oversized carving knifes. Again I was sitting in silence, now with the brothers and sisters spiraling peelings onto the table in front of them. A cup remained next to me until the end of breakfast. Brother Bento didn’t return to finish his coffee.

***

It is Friday morning and I wake up for chapel only to be ushered to the sleeping quarters of the sons. I hear the light commotion of many staggering steps and a running shower. I am stopped short of the doorway. Brother Bento hands me rubber gloves we walked into the room with around 8 beds setup. The formandos help the men still sleeping to their feet. At times it looks like a violet act as a couple older men wrestle again these teenagers, springing into a fetal position with a good swing at a hand or face. The boys laugh and reaffirm the man’s name, and take no offence only to again help them up. I was worried what might happen when they did get to their feet. But it seemed grace returned to them as they stood up smiling and peaceful.

Brother Gabriel was smiling when he walked in with a waterproof camera. He looked at me and said, ”You ready.”

Roque who was drying one son called for me to help. The man couldn’t lift his arm very high on his own, so gently Roque lifted each arm. I dried him and then was shown how the diaper was to be placed. The man stood bracing himself against me as I nodded to Roque that I understood. It felt as if this was right of initiation, could this American handle this work or would he bolt? I looked up from a kneeling crouch and everyone was watching me, even the son’s point and laugh. My salvation Br. Gabriel gestured me to go on.    

I have never changed a diaper, not even for a child. I have had a prideful parent wave me over saying “look here what my child has done – amazing you know.” Still I don’t think that counts. Now I was helping diaper, shower, dry, and cloth those who truly needed that care. I was humbling, yet at the same time I had little time to think. This is an everyday activity for millions around the world. After the showers everyone was dressed and we walked the sons to the dining room. I smiled at the group of near boys, all who left their families, wanting for something beyond the material, wanting to tend lovingly to the poor.

We turned the corner to the dining room and a son froze looking at me in the eyes. He was a large man about 3 inches taller than me. I helped him wash the side of this body, that due to a withered arm, he couldn’t reach. I wanted to step back, but he broke into song and locked to my eyes. The Formados smiled and we listened until he finished. I put my hand on his shoulder and we walked into breakfast. The rest of my time in Zona Su he grinned at me when I walked by and I have a picture of him singing to remember.              

Dinning Hall Zona Su

They like Knifes in Zona Su

My musical Friend

Zona Su Part 2

Brother Gabriel showed me to the house I was staying in for the next few days. The brothers, I had not yet met, had cleared a room for me and set out a mattress and blankets on the floor. Their hospitality seems to trade their own comfort or ease for someone else’s. They make no mention of these little ways they welcome you, but I could tell they had doubled up the room next to me with their own bed rolls.

We have a quick café of bread (p~ao), and coffee at about 7:30 PM. Some of the sisters and brothers start to file in to the tiny kitchen from the chapel three doors down. The room becomes crowded, and I stand up to be greeted by that number of people those names blur past my recollection; foreign names that just don’t stick. I nod a lot and look for common words with everyone. Brother Gabriel starts to gather things for cooking and the group of brothers and sisters thins to a couple. I am introduced to salsicha, which is a hot dog like sausage, poor man’s food. We cut up the salsicha, onions, and garlic to make the base for a tomato sauce. It is 30 minutes to 9:00 when we finish and brother says, “Missa”.

I shake my head, “no”.

“Ingresa.” He looks as if I should know this one.

“Ok,” It will be the first time I agree to something without a clear understanding. As a group gathers together, I realize that we are going to church for a Mass (service).

I and a group of six set out walking to the church. I figure this to be a casual stroll for some unknown reason. Those in front of me dropped out of site just feet away as the top of the hill cascaded into a sheer dirt cliff. The path shoots down steeply until the first cut back, a washed out fork that at one side stepped down four feet to rocks, and at the alternate, v shaped water dug trench with high sides. I chose the trench and crashed to my back side, bounced, and slide halfway to my feet a ways down. The brothers gathered me up and I laughed at the reality of where I was. We ran the remainder of the way down to meet the buildings.

All the brothers and sisters wear brown flip flops of a certain type. They are Brazilian made and I would say the common footwear of the poor in Brazil. But the brown are theirs and they even display a cute sketch on the official logo of the community. Their footwear is also prone to blow outs, rendering the sandal useless when that occurs, but somewhat repairable later on. They repair things well beyond what the most frugal person might consider overkill, for them it’s a point of pride (but not to the level of a sin).     

We walk into a favela with a dirt street with stones poking up as it was once cobbled. Motor-cycles and dirt bikes would rumble out of alleyways, breaking up the sound of the Brazilian bar music that changed with each new block of houses. Cars parks again house walls, with or without sidewalks, and bar were open air with tin corrugated roves. It felted stared at as we walked for 30 minutes to the church, but I forget I am in the company of brown habit wearing religious brothers and sisters. They are not uncommon in this catholic county, yet not pedestrian either.

On a broken concrete path through a dried up garden of trees, we emerged onto a major street with a sidewalk and well lit stores, restaurants, and bars. The church was a surrounded by a tan wall, 10 foot high, with a double swinging gate that was wide open. The compound of buildings was dark, expect for the church entrance, which hummed with halogen and fluorescent bulbs.

Inside the church was mostly white with gray accents: the tile, the walls, and alter. The crucified Jesus painted on the front wall blasted with vivid colors. As I bowed as my eye dilated and the reds in the room bled out of the floor. I felt at home and alone at the same time. A full mass in Portuguese was new to me and I couldn’t follow anything beyond the sit, stand, and kneel.

On the way back I talked with Brother Gabriel. He asked about music I liked and if I played an instrument, to figure out my understanding the language and to be friendly. Now, I could see all the fires in the streets up close. They keep some people warm on this winter night, but some fires stood open and unattended, maybe to provide light or discharge all the burnable debris. We pasted the bars again, they were a little busier. All had decent illumination, some with lighted Christmas strings decorating them; one had a pool table. All the conversations on the sides of the streets were louder in my head than probably was reality, but I imaged they were talking about us and that was uncomfortable.

The houses we walked by were narrow with very intimidating metal doors and constructed of large red bricks. Similar to the gray US cinder blocks, they have two big holes, but are squitter in height, and longer side to side. I could see the bricks exposed as the stucco material cracked off in jagged chucks or stacked on back sides of houses, which never seem finished.

We came to hill, which had grown since I stumbled down it two hours ago. Back at the casa the kitchen was in full swing. They was a celebration in preparation, I felt relieve that is was not for me as they let me clean kitchen dishes.

Everyone turned out and I took pictures of their setup. I could see Brother Gabriel in the kitchen smiling as he cooked. The adorable Sister Amada put up signs for the honoree, Sister Israela.  Ir Amada is short young woman, with eyes that smile into up turned slits and the infectious habits pausing in surprise and grinning until everyone around her is doing the same. She got mad at me for talking a candid picture even though she has the same look in every photo.

The activity was loud and jovial. Those that were done helping set up swarmed me to check out an American and welcome me into the house of Mother Theresa. It was now 11:30 PM and I had not really slept since Saturday night; it was now almost Wednesday.

A group of sisters announce the coming of Sister Israela. They rush through kitchen and into the long dining hall with a wooden table that runs nearly all but a third of the room. Someone turned off the lights, but the activity never settles down past and mummer. The brothers and sisters love surprise parties, but most of the time the one to be surprised is tipped off.

Sister Israela walks in slowly to give crowd a chance to cheer. She smiles with accusing eyes while she is presented with a soufflé, made from the tomato and sausage based mixer from earlier, baked with egg white and flour. She points thanks around the room with a large kitchen knife, and still shooting dirty looks she gives a brief speech.

I am presented the first piece as the custom is to honor someone else if you are being honored. It was a kind gesture and I tried to thank the room, but really said “very much thanks” in Portuguese few times and patted my heart. I met many more of the Fraternity that night. We talked until almost 12:30 AM, and we laughed about many things. I am still not sure about most of them.

I returned to my bedroom for the night, and a candle on the wall stand had been lit for me. I discovered later that the young man who welcomed me was named Roque Gimenez, a formando or apprentice brother, originally from Paraguay. It was his room, but he want me to know I was to enjoy its peace.

I was welcome in Zoni Su

 

Sister Amada & Brother Angelus

Church in Zoni Su

Ir Gabriel

The party

Sister Israela

 

Back to the Start

The grinder drones and whines as Ir. (Brother) Gedeao (Gideon) presses the wood to the abrasive wheel. I peddle the keys of my computer close enough to smell the sawdust. As I reported earlier the grinder is mounted to an old excises bike, this is only a counter weight against the torque of the machine. A picture shows brother laughing as if he was riding it, although these foot-powered machines do exist.

It has taken me 3 weeks to start to understand where I am, and with time to grasp many of the things I am seen. I have the ability to share those now, and a good internet connect to assist me. This will take a few parts to explain as the first week still spins like a lifetime to me.

I arrived at the Sao Paula airport (GRU) at 10 AM Tuesday Morning. I waited an hour pretending not to be from the US at the baggage carousel. I was transporting two large checked bags for the Order. I placed stickers on each of the non-descript black bags; one of goofy and one of Donald Duck. My niece Lyle gave me the stickers, maybe for good luck, or maybe as her contribution to the mission. Five year olds do value stickers as cash, and I thank her for the good moo-ju. Goofy made it, but Donald did not. After an hour, I went to get help at the bag center at the end the security area, and after language confusion and many discussions I was not able to understand, they returned my bag searched and OK’ed. I walked into the pickup area. A young couple saw me looking for a man I had never met, seen a picture of, or spoke too; that was hopeful wearing brown robes. They said, “We speak English can we help you?”

“No I am fine.”

They made sure to instruct me to stay in the airport until this mystery person arrived, not to talk to anyone without authority, and not to let my stuff out of arms reach. I laughed to think of a thief with 1000 yard of lace material, but understanding better now it would have real value to a theft.

Brother Gabriel walked into the airport, I walked up to him, introduced myself, and he embraced me. In the United States hugging is reserved for those you know well – not here. Brazil is a hugging culture and the Order never withholds affection. Note: you might avoid me for a couple weeks when I get back, if you are averse to hugging.

I take pictures around the airport of my new friends. A lay associate, who volunteered his services, drove us for two hours in near standing traffic to the train station somewhere further inside the city.

The lay associates are members of the community, and are understood as critical to the success of the Fraternity of Missionary of the Poor of Jesus Christ.  They are married or single, youths or adults, and male or female. Like the Brothers and Sisters they take serous vows. They are required to fulfill religious observances, contact or visit the houses of the religious, aid in the missions to the poor, and live a life style that reflects Christ.

We discover our inadequacies of language, mine in Portuguese and Ir. Gabriel in English. The dictionary becomes our translator very quickly, as conversation becomes a mix of work association and pantomime. We pull into the train station. It is now mid-afternoon when say good-bye to the driver and press on to our final destination in Zona Su. I have no idea where we are going the whole 3 hour trip to the outside of town. Brother lead the way as we change trains 4 times, flowing along colored arrow marked paths pointing: the yellow line, the blue line, the green line, and red line. As we moved on thousands of people from each direction built into a channeling mass. A rush hour that may not ever slow down. It’s is a city of between 10 and 17 million people, but know one I ask can give me a real number. The last train is on ground level, not elevated like the trains in the central metro, and runs to the edge of Sao Paulo. The first train is full from the stops it made to the north of us. The next is busting at the seams, but I follow brother in as we are shoved in by all commuters pushing behind me. Just seven stops before we reach ours. We are the last stop on a train never seems to empty, it just gets more dense with people. I was joined into mass with shoulders, butts, elbows, and for a time a forehead pushing against me. The woman that came up my chest coughed deeply for most of way. The air vents whiffed air without much relief.

I was wide eyed despite the closed in space. I would give brother and excited look and he would smile until I broke direct eye contact. I watched the river/water channel that was on the side of the train. It was all so foreign that I didn’t know to be afraid or jubilant.

The train hit our stop, everyone got off, and filed to the tall stairs leading up and around to the walkways, out of the train depot, and to the bus station. The buses would be the final leg to distribute everyone to their homes for the night.

In a city of stone roads and hilly neighborhoods the bus was like a rollercoaster. The bus made dead stops without warning, and fought traffic made up of 30 percent cars and 70 percent motor cycles. I held to the bar as I stood bumping around. I finally looked at brother and said, “yee-haw”. The gesture was noted, he smiles until I broke eye contact. We got off the train at a three way stop, which was a 4 way stop at one time. Now, one street was blocked with rubble and debris, with a city works sign kick off to the side. The sun was now completely down, street lights were very sparse, and pack of dogs walked infringing me until they found something to attract their attention. I walked very close to brother.

 We walk up a short steep hill, which turned to a long straight away on the back side of a major street. The backs of the houses showed how small the living spaces were, plastic water tanks with improvised plumbing using simple gravity, and blankets acting as doors. We pass a grade school with high fences and prison wire. The road dead ends into a statuary garden hugged by a large u shaped building. The sign reads, “Bem Vindo, (welcome) to the house of Mother Theresa”. The whole back side of the property sits high above the massive favela. The moon shows little light as the streets below are colored by amber street lamps and open fires. We are in Zoni Su.   

The not so man powered wood tool

 

 Zona zu - Garden in Mother Theresa's House
 
 
 

Welcome Sign

 

Whole Garden

 

 

World Traveler

 

 
 

 

Brother Gabriel

 

 

My house and office for 8 months

I have had limited to no internet sense Friday and I think we should start mandating that on weekends. Except for real estate agents (Kevin and Jimmy) the withdrawals would be to intense.

I really felt some strange loss to be away from the constant contact of my gmail page; funny I know.

Friday night is the brother’s night. What is called taking leisured. Without my knowledge, two of the formation students Caio and Weverton, who are barely 20, organized a play about the Franciscan values. It may seem dry, but they had fun showing injury and forgiveness by mock attacks and then bandaging the wounds of those attack. They ended up both wrapped as very forgiven mummies. I guess if we keep markers of forgiveness in our life we would look the same.

After the play, all of the brother came together in a circle and in prayer welcomed all and reaffirmed that all the brother are there for each other. I was welcomed into that group. They are very welcoming to all… The formation students and most of the Brothers and Sisters are very young and if not young in age then in spirit. They joke, smile, attack unsuspecting missionaries (me), and do very kind things for each other. They are in a family and stay very sensitive to each other feelings. As an example, one of the formation students, of which there are four in our house in Governador Valedares, was a bit low or sad that week, I didn’t see this, but the others did. He was made guest of honor for the night.

After the huddle, we ate what are Brazilian hot dogs, which are buns, packed with sliced salsicha (sausage like our hot dogs), a mix of corn and pees, and crushed potato chips on top. And don’t worry plenty of ketchup and mustard.

After we ate I was required to play America music for the group. Not that I am one to break into song, but I could not refuse, plus we were on the third story of the house and they really wanted music.

I played a gospel song and amazing grace, they were very kind and enjoyed the music. We agreed next week Bob Dylan. I handled off the guitar to Caio, whom they call monster, which is true, because he is big and not very gentle in his mannerisms. He has a big smile and a heart that fits him. He starts in with a traditional Brazilian song and I encourage them to show me there songs. I need to note, the brother’s house is next to the neighborhood bar and above the bar is an apartment that plays loud dance music both Brazilian and American all day and most of the night. (I never thought I what miss Shakra) Well, we blow them out of the water with a 15 min praise samba complete with dancing, drumming on everything like plates, cans, glasses, and Ir Gabriel leading a song with the whole house. Some glasses were broken, the bucket may not hold water tomorrow, but we shut down American Dance party - sorry Justin Timberlake.  

In route to an out bound mission this the state of Mina Gerais by train to the mining town to the east.

Be well everyone.

Brother Gedeao, Weverton, and Brother Gabriel

Brazilian Hot Dog

Thlago is on the right

Ronalte, Caio, Thliago