So lucky me managed to get the first flight from Brazil to the US that is under the new airline restrictions. This meant standing in line for 2 hours at the gate (in addition to the normal security line) while they hand checked everyone’s carry-on luggage. I guess the extreme annoyance would be justified if I actually thought it did any good, but the idiots let me through with all sorts of gels and liquids. I thought I had taken everything out of the carry on, and when I realized that I still had on me some items that I wasn’t keen on throwing away, I nonchalantly stuck them in a side pocket of my backpack under some random scarves. There was no need to be so thorough because they didn’t even bother to check my side pockets. These days, it’s not too hard being a terrorist. I must say though, racial profiling has gone in my favor since 2001. While I used to be stopped in customs and security lines for “random” checks every single time I went to the airport (to the point that I filed several complaints), in the past 5 years I haven’t been stopped once. And while the debate over racial profiling is starting to rage (like profiling is not already in use—yah right), the benefits fail to convince me because evil comes in many shapes and colors. Targeting a certain type makes it easier for actual threats to escape undetected because these guys know how to play the game. If you want to profile, target suspicious behavior not suspicious facial features. But instead of ruminating on airport logistics and anti-terrorism strategies, I’d rather take this last blog entry to reflect on the past few months, to continue the narrative, and to say my final goodbye to the most challenging yet the most rewarding experience of my life.

My last week on route was extremely hectic as one of my towns was chosen to be showcased on the national news. Why they picked my town, when I was knee deep in latrine mayhem, is still a mystery to me. Instead of being able to calmly insure that this latrine project would be completed by my departure, I had to shift gears and make the town with its spotty cistern construction ready to shine on the big stage. This included interviewing town members to see who would be the best representatives, keeping on the heels of the construction workers so that we had at least 2 presentable cisterns available by the day filming was planned, going over possible interview questions with my volunteers so they would be prepared to answer in Portuguese whatever was thrown at them, giving the camera crew and reporter a tour of the town and an overview of everything that has been going on, etc etc. It was fun to be behind the scenes, and thank goodness they didn’t interview me on TV. I realize my place is not in the limelight. However, I did show up in the background with my crazy Brazil hat on national TV. I can check that off my list of things to do before I die. The report turned out decent although I wish they had focused more on the community members and less on making a kitchy clichéd feel good story that lacked substance and barely scratched the surface on the overwhelming problem of poverty and drought that affects the Northeast. However, the town didn’t seem to mind as the report was taped and played over and over again, in slow-mo, sped up, closed captioned, and every other variant the TV was able to produce. Seeing the town enjoy the experience made me feel better.

The last weekend the volunteers where in country, we went to one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen, staying at an amazing hotel. While you would think I’d welcome such luxury after 3 months of stress and roughing it, I somehow felt out of place. Something about experiencing such luxury thousands of miles away from my home, when the communities I’ve been working in could not even dream of such splendor even though they are a mere 100 miles away, was a bit disconcerting. One of the volunteers put it best when he disgustedly likened himself to a Greek god, who had spent 2 months among mortals, just for the sake of having an experience, only to return back to his kingdom where he never again will have to mingle with those less privileged. He was feeling the effects of reverse culture shock, where what he once knew now has little importance to him. One of the best parts of being a supervisor is seeing kids who have had most of the privileges life could possibly afford them learn what little value this privilege really holds in the grand scheme of things. His experience taught him about the trials of many people in the world, about how something like water that every American takes for granted completely controls and limits the lives of people across the developing world. However, when thinking about the emotions he and many of the others were feeling, it helped me realize that I shouldn’t hold contempt for the beauty I was seeing as I took in the coastline. It is as natural as the beauty that we all learned to see in the communities we had been privileged to be a part of. And while I don’t need to be like those rich tourists who have no idea and want no idea of how people in the interior live, I can use my ability to travel between both worlds as a way to show as many people as possible a little about what life is about.

Other than philosophizing, I spent my 3 days on the beach doing a myriad of activities: boogey boarding, mud bathing, forro dancing, seafood eating to name a few. Yes, for those of you who know about the annual pudding wrestling contests my friend and I put on in Houston, I must admit that mud works so much better. You should check out the accompanying photos if you are having difficulty imagining what being covered in mud is like. Perhaps I was a pig in a former life. I also took out all my volunteers out to dinner, which is a highlight of the summer, because you get to hear all their stories and find out all the rules they broke. Since this organization caters mainly to high school students, there’s a whole list of rules that they are supposed to abide by. So it’s always amusing to hear about their exploits. However, I was somewhat disappointed. None of them pulled off something of the magnitude of the great escape (see the blog on the Great Escape in the Mexico Files) that my partner and I did last year.

After the volunteers returned to the states on Tuesday, I had to return back to one of my communities to insure that the latrine project would be seen to completion. I handed it over the labor union and called a town meeting to get their perspective on the past 2 months. Of course, the town was in the middle of a huge rainstorm. I was perpetually wet for 24 hours straight. In thinking of the conditions, I was shocked that a good 20 people walked 30 minutes uphill to attend the meeting. They thanked me for the work we did and marveled at how wonderful it was to have these kids in their community. The greatest part of AMIGOS is the cultural exchange on both sides. While practically the whole world has a negative view of the US, it’s refreshing to show the more humane side of us. I left among tears and hugs the following morning, promising that I would some day return. It was a miracle that I even got out of there as all the roads were washed out. Cars couldn’t really get through and so I got to rely on a motorcycle taxi that fishtailed itself down the mountain. I would like to say that I was scared as I was often just a few inches from the side of the cliff, but nothing fazes me anymore when it comes to transportation. And I have a burn scar from the muffler to remind me of my last exit from Brejo.

Saturday morning I took a 3:30 am flight (most of the people at the airport didn’t even know they had flights at the ungodly hour as I was inquiring about transportation to the airport), arriving to Rio for another couple of days of R&R. I fell asleep on the bus from the airport and was woken up by the driver who decided that pinching my cheeks would be the most effective way of waking me up. While scaring the hell out of me, it did the job. And thank goodness I had told him to wake me up or I would be halfway to Argentina by now. None of my friends were in town so I spent the weekend reflecting while enjoying the best weather I might have ever seen. Apparently, Brazilian criminals were also enjoying the weather as it was Father’s day and many prisoners are released from prison to spend time with family. The same courtesy is given on Mother’s day. If you recall the Sao Paulo riots that lasted for weeks, those began on Mother’s day when several prisoners decided not to return. If I were a prisoner, I can’t say that I wouldn’t skip town either. What’s shocking to me is that Brazil is known for their awful prison conditions and prisoners are given “get out of jail free” cards at least twice a year. Go figure.

I spent Saturday evening as a tourist, going to the famed Pao de Açucar and watching the sunset. The view was breathtaking as I took in all of Rio from a huge rock. As night fell, I felt like I was in a fog as my senses were distracted by the dazzling lights, the strumming of a guitar, the smell of the crisp air, and the realization that I was sitting above what could be considered the most beautiful city in the world. I listened to a family speak in a weird mix of Portuguese and Italian (I understood the whole conversation but couldn’t figure out when they were speaking each language…the brain is a mess right now), watched couples snuggle on park benches, and realized that somehow someway I was going to one day live in Rio. The logistics surrounding this newfound decision are blurry but so are all my ideas when they first form. I’m on a mission now ;-)

The next day I went to the Northeast festival which happens every weekend in Rio. With the live forro music and the regional cuisine, I felt like I never left Pernambuco. Of course, dancing wasn’t the same. Instead of having people from the community to dance with, there were only random drunk guys. As long as they had rhythm, I took what I could get. There’s something about forro that’s contagious. On the subway ride back, I people-watched and reflected more about the crazy turns my life takes. It was a last minute decision to work in Brazil this summer, and while the journey started rough, it was the right decision. As I sat in a subway cars reserved only for women (during rush hour traffic only women can ride in certain cars…interesting concept), I took a deep breath, sighing that I would soon have to leave my adoptive country once more. I then quickly decided to run off the train and found a bus, a random bus, not paying attention to where it was going, so I could get lost once more in the thrills and beauty of Rio de Janeiro. The scenes passed me by and all I could do is smile.