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
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