The threshold: quarantined in the favela

Hello Eat Pray Bike family abroad.

Now more than ever I feel connected in an odd way to my home in Oregon, and to you all reading this. Leaving the world outside and turning inwards has led to daily zoom calls and yoga classes with friends in Eugene and I love it. But quarantine in a favela or anywhere on planet Earth is not easy. I am going to share these next few days what it has been like here. I’d love to hear how you are doing so please send a note or drop a comment. I get asked “Is it safe there?” a lot. I look at numbers of the virus exploding in the states, and I continuously ponder the same question about there. Is it safe there friends? What does safe feel like to you? Some quarantine mediations. 

So much love to you and your families. Enjoy the peek into our world here….

Tuesday March 17, 2020.

Living in a confined space when the world is telling you to stay more confined, inside a community that is tightly, and overly confined, with body on top of body, and roof onto of badly constructed roof, with wiring that gives you shocks, and dog shit from your neighbors who leave their door open is …. very confined. Today while doing my part in the cleaning ritual which I loathe but felt somewhat excited about today, I realized just how on top of each other Fabian and I are. How today when he climbed back in bed after discovering he wasn’t going to work I was disappointed. I wanted space.

On Wednesday night, almost one week ago we were getting the pre- “getting the fuck out of Rio” travel jitters, his mood had changed from one of pessimism to one of let’s pack everything in! That day we enjoyed the beach with Diego. They bought chairs and an umbrella for us to sit under.  A splurge on a shoestring budget. But this was a celebration of our last days. I went to my AA meeting, then I walked all the way back because there were no moto-taxis. I breathed in the ocean air on the stroll and absorbed the ocean waves thrashing against the rocks that line Rio’s ciclovia. I found Fabian in the quad at the top of the favela after doing some insane workout routine of sprints and burpees, and we meandered through the Favela at sunset snapping cell phone pics of boys playing with kites to hold onto these memories that would soon be of a distant past. 

I like to think that today when all the wold is shutting down, and he has absolutely lost his mind and feels the need to leave here, it were that easy. That we can pack up our bags, or rather leave them packed,  and go somewhere else. But after seeing prices of other places and realizing the uncertainty of the situation today I think we are best to hunker down here. 

Here is the favela. It “has sweeping ocean views”, as my advertising writing says in all of our outgoing material. What I write and re-wrote for all of Favela Experiences travel pitches: “10 minutes from the beach, and situated in-between Rio de Janeiro’s most affluent neighborhoods.”

But here is also the entrance of a boca, or selling point. It’s armed heavily with multiple AK’s, sniper rifles and guns I don’t even know the names of because I know nothing about guns. But I am learning here, unwillingly. Like the sniper rifle with the brown handle that they guy duct-taped a knife to the scope, or the difference between the sounds of handguns, machine guns, and long-barreled rifles. I never wanted to know these sounds. They were never included in the material we write. And that’s just it. Parts of the “experience” of living in a favela as someone who is not from the favela, is finishing that “experience”. It’s a privilege. To consume such a product. Then leave before you turn.

It rests comfortably under the false pretense that YOU are helping someone else at. The “experience” lifts you up innately as more than, because of your race, educational background, and country of origin. Whether you come here fully conscious of this or not, if you stay past the one year mark and this hasn’t infiltrated your thoughts at some point, then you are missing the point. 

Living here was not right for us anymore. The only people needing helping living here are the people thinking they are doing the helping. That was us.

Vidigal has battered my ego by inflating and deflating it repeatedly. I asked to be a little closer to God’s will all year, to know a little more what is exactly God’s will and what is my will. The best advice I got on this topic was from an older gentleman who explained that if I want to turn my will over to God I must turn my thinking over to God. God does’’t want us thinking bad of ourselves, evil of others, latching with tight grips onto resentments, self-inflation, or hatred. God’s thoughts are like the ocean that expands over the horizon, like a wall of sea emanating from Vidigal. God’s thoughts are equal and harmonious and conscious and alive with curiosity and humility which feels gentle and slow. 

So why are we here now? Why did the border of Argentina close the moment we felt as though we had learned the lesson that Vidigal had taught us? Obviously not. Obviously God still has more in store. Around patience, and connection, around communication and honesty. God wants to show us the threshold.

The literal point at which the wheat is threshed from the chaff. And point at then which the real truth can be consumed. So, today I breathe into God’s will. Hopefully. And the knowing that more will be revealed, one day at a time.

Where are you quarantining today?