Brasil Gosta do Obama!

I've just published a book of photographs taken on my last trip to Brazil in October of 2008: Brasil Gosta do Obama! (Brazil Likes Obama!)

It's a small book of portraits of people I met on the streets of the Pelourinho neighborhood of Salvador, the capital city of the state of Bahia.

Here's the book's introduction:

On October 17, 2008, while walking in and around the Pelourinho neighborhood in the city of Salvador, Bahia, Brazil, I asked random passersby for a short statement about the then-Democratic candidate for President, Senator Barack Obama. I also asked permission to take their portraits. In exchange for their portraits and statements, I gave each person an Obama button.

I had no idea the amount of electricity an Obama button could generate on the streets of Salvador. Everyone knew about Obama and many were certain of his victory. While talking with one person, others would overhear "Obama", see the buttons, and want to join the discussion. Most enthusiastically asked for extra buttons for their families and friends. I regret having brought only a few dozen with me from New York. All were gone within an hour.

This is a collection of their portraits and handwritten statements about and, at times, directly to Barack Obama.

I would like to thank Kathy Sloane for the use of her photograph, support and friendship; Mossa Bildner, my Portuguese teacher, for improving my Portuguese and correcting my translations; Lauri Lyons, whose project, Flag: An American Story, was my inspiration for this project; and the wonderful people of Brazil with whom I had the pleasure of talking politics and now share this celebration of President Barack Obama, the 44th President of the United States of America.

Tracy Collins
Brooklyn, New York
January 2009

You can see the portraits here, and buy the book here.

Eleições no Brasil (Elections in Brazil)

During this trip, I got to witness the madness that was the run-off in the Salvador mayoral race.  The incumbent, designated by the number 15, was João Henrique of the PDMB.  The challenger was Walter Pinheiro of the PT, represented by the number 13.

Campaigning in Brazil is different in a number of ways than it is in the U.S.  The campaign typically only lasts 40 days.  The candidates are represented by numbers, so you will often see only a candidate's number on campaign materials, which include stickers on cars, poles, phone booths, etc.; painted murals on buildings and walls; flags waved by hordes of paid campaigners along highway medians.  And, they literally plaster the entire town with their number.  Then there are the cars and vans outfitted with sound systems blasting a candidates jingle at high volume as they cruise through neighborhoods.

Also, voting is mandatory, although the consequence of not voting doesn't seem particularly harsh:  a fine of about $1.50, although I hear that if left unpaid can cause all sorts of problems down the road with travel visas, bank loans, licenses, etc.  I'm not sure if this system produces better government than our U.S. system of voluntary voting, but it seems that people in general are more politically aware here than they are in the U.S.

I am also writing a longer post about the Brazilian take on our upcoming presidential election, but one thing is certain:  If the election were held in Brazil, Obama would win with something like 80% of the vote, and that's my conservative estimate.  I've met no one who didn't know who Obama was and who didn't enthusiastically support him and who didn't strongly hate McCain.  And it wasn't a race thing.  Black folk, white folk and every shade in between were unanimously for Obama.  Here's a photo of one Obama fan:

Badega repairs a memorial in Poço Do Brejo

Badega repairs a memorial, originally uploaded by threecee.

This past weekend, I took a trip with new Brazilian friends to the Chapada Diamantina National Park in the state of Bahia. The park is about a 6-hour drive inland, to the west of Salvador. We stayed in the small former diamond mining town of "Xique-Xique de Igatu."

A short walk from town is a former diamond mine called Poço Do Brejo, which translates as "Well or Pit of the Swamp." Inside this mine are about 40 memorials to miners who died, built by the townspeople. Our guide, Badega, lit candles and told us about some of the history and repaired a few of the clay memorials. Bats could be heard overheard, as well as the trickle of water seeping through the walls.

See more photos from Brazil here.

Dar um jeito

volta grátis (free ride), originally uploaded by threecee.

The Brazilian term, dar um jeito, translates as "to make a way" around some difficulty, rule or regulation.

This young boy, probably without enough money to afford the $1 bus ride or a decent meal or shoes, hitched a ride on the outside of the bus. It's a pretty gutsy move, as the bus drivers rip through the narrow, winding, hilly streets of Salvador as if they were competing at Le Mans. I'm sure there are many casualties among the outside-of-the-bus riders.

Salvador, the capital of the state of Bahia, is a city with more than its fair share of big city problems of poverty, unemployment and crime. Like many other large cities, there are street kids, homeless people, beggars, addicts, prostitutes thieves, crooks, swindlers, hustlers and others on the fringes of society. In the state of Bahia, where about 50% of the population have some African ancestry, those on the margin are predominately some shade of brown. As it seems to be in most parts of the world, the darker your skin, the tougher your row to hoe.

I have much respect for the ingenuity and tenacity in which many dar um jeito in a difficult world.

Com Deus...

Itaparica, originally uploaded by threecee.

Itaparica
Bahia, Brasil

I think this is a political mural. I'm not quite sure what it says, but I think it's literally: "With God and The People, the New Pinocchio" or "With God, it is The People, The New Pinocchio"

Anyone else have a better translation?

menino com um caranguejo

menino com um caranguejo, originally uploaded by threecee.

traveling while black

It happens most places I've travelled, but the dynamic is different depending on location.  Some (most?) places, it's not an asset to be my shade of dark brown while on the road, much the same as too many parts of the US.  Before 9-11, primarily while coming through customs back to the US from places like Amsterdam, Cuba (where I've never been, US State Department!), Mexico, The Caribbean and Brazil, I (or some guy, in the case of Cuba) would often get "randomly" selected for "additional screening."  More so when I was still sporting dreadlocks down to my shoulders.

In Tokyo, I often felt invisible, although my American friend, Dan, who was living there at the time, speculated that my chilly reception when asking someone for help may have had more to do with the Japanese person trying to avoid embarrassment of not being able to speak english more than anything racial.

In countries with large populations of people of African descent (which I will for the rest of this post refer to as "my people" or "black folks" or other commonly used terms), however, the reception from my people has consistently been much warmer.  Often, it starts with my hearing a cry like "Yo, brother!" in a thick accent from a man, never a woman.  I've never been approached by a brown-skinned woman making an appeal of racial solidarity, although some women of various other "professions" have approached me due to my gender, I assume.

Next, depending on what I'm doing, my mood, and the appearance of the man making the approach, I might stop and then receive a "fist bump" (Very popular.  Are the Obamas, who are very popular worldwide, the reason?) or a "soul brother handshake" or, on increasingly rare occasions, the "give me five" greeting.

The next phase of the encounter is the determination of my country of origin.  Most correctly guess that I'm "Americano," although, when this guy I know went to Cuba, they assumed he was from Jamaica, as he had dreadlocks and they don't get too many African Americans in those parts, so I've heard.  It's probably my clothes and the way I carry myself that give me away.  Usually, they'll want to know which city, and often their eyes widen and they get excited when I say "Brooklyn" or "New York," and then they'll move into a bonding routine of name-dropping various celebrities, usually hip hop artists and rappers, but sometimes sports figures, whom they (sometimes incorrectly) know from NYC.

On occasion, we might move into the comparison of skin tone by their placing their forearm next to mine, which often comes with a comment like, "You black like me, my brother!"

Through all of this, I'm usually hyper-vigilant about where my wallet is and where their hands are.  I'm no fool.  Just because they might have skin like mine, it doesn't mean that we're really brothers.  And, as the brothers who typically approach me appear to be of modest means, I suspect that their enthusiasm for meeting another Africano from America has less to do with bridging the gap between populations of the African Diaspora and dark skin, and more to do with the other all-important color: green (or whatever color of the local currency).

Case in point is the fellow in the photo above.  Kathy and I were in Pelorinho, the historic center of Salvador and main tourist trap, er destination.  Needless to say, the hustlers, hawkers and scammers seem to sometimes outnumber the tourists.  So, Kathy and I were relaxing on the steps of the Jorge Amado museum when this brother (who's name escapes me), sidled over to me and struck up a conversation which went something like this:

brother:  Hey, my brother!  Where you from?

me:  United States.  Brooklyn, New York

brother:  Brooklyn, New York?!?  Wow!  You like Snoop Dog?  50 Cent?

me:  Yeah, and Mos Def, Talib Kweli (whom he didn't know)

brother:  I love you, my brother!  We brothers!  We black men!

We had a long conversation, maybe 20 minutes, where we talked about my work, how long I'm here, where else I'll visit in Brasil, what he does, siblings, etc.  I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, this encounter would not end like almost every other with a plea for funds, but was still a bit wary, and he sensed it.  He tried to convince me that he was truly excited to meet a black man from America, and I believe he was truly excited, but I still had my guard up.  He hugged me several times and even kissed me on the cheek, and then assured me that he wasn't gay and had a girlfriend when I pulled away slightly, but only wanted to show his love and pride for his black american brother.  At this point, Kathy, whom he had thoroughly ignored the entire time, took the above picture.

Finally, the plea for donation phase arrived.  He said that he needed money to take the bus home.  He said that he was in the cooking school in Pelorinho, but lived far away.  If he didn't get any money, then he'd have to sleep on the steps where we sat.  He said his clothes were dirty and needed to wash them.  He didn't want the money for drugs, although he said that he'd like to have a beer when he got home and be able to relax from this long day of work, school and travel, but no drugs.

I hated to be right.  I hated that I couldn't just be somewhere and have just one black man approach me where it didn't end in a plea for money.  I hated that I felt bad about every one of these encounters, whether or not I gave up some coin.  Many times I was cursed (thankfully in slang that I couldn't understand) when I refused.  I hated to feel hustled.  I hated to always be wary of black men.  I hated that many had few other legal options to support themselves.

In the end, I gave him the 5 reals (about $2.50) he asked for, and hoped that he wasn't a complete hustler, and that most of his story was true, and that I wouldn't run into him 30 minutes later running the same game on another brother traveling while black.