Saturday, July 20, 2013

Monday, July 15, 2013

My 1%

Monday morning. Am I already exhausted by the attrition? I don't want to dig up some clichéd quote about bureaucracy, suffice to say that I do my bit (1%) in this seemingly endless struggle to get my visa and the rest seems to be in the hands of people hiding behind bullet proof glass surrounded by paperclips and staplers. 

Watching the whole process is a bit like observing an awkward conversation from a distance. You see the body language, the gesticulation, the pained and frustrated expressions of face, but you’re impotent to intervene. Powerless to change things. 

Can’t help thinking it’s just where I need to be.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Monday, July 8, 2013

Crackland Competition!

How many canines can you see in this picture? (click to enlarge)

Answers on a postcard in the Comments please.

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Work in Progress

The unsteady landing and driving rain against the windows of the plane marked the return to my adoptive city. Buckets at the arrival gate, buckets at the luggage belts - pools of water where buckets should have been.

“It’ll all be ready in time for the World Cup,” I turn my head to say to the fellow travel-weary passenger to my side, as we otherwise silently power-walked to Purgatory (commonly known as Immigration).

Expressions regarding Brazil’s future readiness for the WC (pardon the abbreviation) and the Olympics are repeated here like modern mantras regarding most public services or planned projects. It has come to replace the more traditional “Brazil will always be the country of the future.” Both expressions are customarily accessorised with a melancholic sigh.

Brazil, the eternal Work in Progress.

The stop/start traffic and the familiar stench of the polluted river that snakes around the perimeter of the centre (the rain sending out slow jelly-like ripples across its surface) have become sad leitmotifs to dishearten even the most cheery of travellers this Monday morning. But even though I tried, I somehow couldn’t be repulsed by it all. I couldn't even muster a resignatory biting of the lip or raise of the eye-brows. If anything was going to make me second-guess my decision to return it would be the sheer ugliness of this city. But I didn’t. And I couldn’t. It has become my second home, and – for however long the country permits me entry – I will return.

Let’s see where these months go. Let’s see what's in store.

view from the barber’s doorstep