The Road to Canta Galo

I was talking about my days in Rio with my host. Our outlooks differed on what constituted a “good” day or a “bad” day.  We could not agree to disagree (I don’t think they do that in Brazil) so I ended our discussion by telling him that in their own way each day was a gift, but that some would take longer to unwrap than others.

One such gift was my work with the team at Canta Galo. The team at Canta Galo is associated with Checkmat and Equipe VB (Vieiro Brothers). Since this is the team I trained with last year, they were the first kids we coordinated assistance for. I was told that there were six boys in need of our help. The boys filled out some paperwork I had sent so I had their pictures and gi sizes before I left for Rio. Kerstin Pakter of Hyperfly agreed to donate new gis for these boys. I agreed to pay their registration fee to compete in the Rio Festival Kids BJJ tournament. In what would become a familiar ending to many acts Brazilian – our efforts did not finish the way we anticipated they would,  but changed several times along the way, and I seemed to be the only one who did not expect this to happen and find it a bit disturbing. On this trip I was told on two separate occasions that Americans have a hard time in Brazil because we are too scheduled and believe that we have to follow the rules. Oh! Is that what it is?

To keep myself calm through all the changes in protocol, I would tell myself that I was there to help kids, that was all that mattered, and whatever route to doing that was necessary, that was the acceptable route.  Somehow my sponsorship was stretched to register ten kids and buy them lunch. This was a good deal for me and a vivid example of the Brazilian art of negotiation. This art would come into play on several occasions and I was glad to reap its benefits.  

Two days before the tournament we met the youth assistant coach, Kaynan, in the Copacabana Checkmat gym to hand over the gis for the kids. He had walked for over an hour to get there and meet us.  After talking and watching some training that was going on, we were ready to get on our way. Kaynan, however, now had a very large and heavy package to carry home. It seemed unreasonable to me that he had to carry it all the way home. The public bus did not travel to his home so I offered to get him a taxi. What happened next was my son’s first exposure to quasi-discrimination. The taxi driver did not want to drive into the Canta Galo favela. A few days later I would understand the driver’s hesitation because I would drive into Canta Galo.

The Rio Festival Kids tournament was great fun and very well organized.  Parents and kids are similar no matter where you go. Parents had their cameras and cell phones out to capture the special day. Kids showed up with bed head, some forgot their belts or couldn’t tie their belt, snacks were eaten, high fives given, the winners puffed out their hairless chests, the youngest winners collected hardware and quickly left their gi in a pile to takeoff chasing their friends and siblings through the stands. I especially liked the introduction and warm up for the littlest competitors.  The tournament coordinator gave a rousing and interactive opening speech to the children. It was funny when I asked my friend what the guy was saying and my friend responded to me in Portuguese.  I looked at him with quizzical eyes, “That was no help you ding-dong. I heard it that way the first time.”   

The little kids were going to fight first, ages  five and six. They sat in a long row the width of the mats. I thought it was clever of the coordinator to call them out by gi color to make three groups of kids. They would hop to the center of the mats and back, bear crawl, forward roll and alligator crawl – adorable little gi covered bottoms high in the air. The athletic ones showing off, the not-so-athletic ones coming in last or not knowing what to do; a few needed help, some cried.  Kids are kids in any country.  The fighters we sponsored, 6 with their new gis and the four others that were add-ons, all fought well. All but one took gold. I loved getting hugs and taking pictures with them, some on the medal stand and some in the bleachers. It felt wonderful to know that I played a small part in their success that day.

Two days after the tournament our plan was to travel to Canta Galo to see all the boys together, competitors and their teammates,  in the gym and take some pictures.  Let me begin this tale by saying that I had decided to rent a car while we were in Rio so that Carson would not have to travel on the public bus for several hours a day. (So instead he was in a car for a smidgen less than several hours a day. At least he did not have to stand). I thought nothing of it until I got in the car and saw that it was a stick shift and realized we had miscommunicated about my want of air conditioning.

In Rio there are way too many cars on the road, crappy roads with lane lines that mean nothing, too much construction, optional traffic rules, motorcyclists passing between cars on the left and right, buses that think they own the road, pedestrians that cross when and where they want and horns that never stop honking.  Driving in Rio made the stress of a little US road rage seem juvenile.  

So, off we go to Canta Galo. I will try to describe this as best I can.  I am providing an amateurish drawing to help. The drawing is not to scale nor proper in perspective. All scribbles that look like people, dogs, garbage or motorcycles should be multiplied by at least five. You also need to provide your own street lamp illumination, loud music, horns, people yelling and steep incline. Embrace your new visual with a sense of chaos and you might be there in the car with me.

“Turn here.”  Where? Up onto that narrow cobblestone road that is barely the width of my rented Fiat? The road is narrow because there are parked cars, garbage, walls, people, dogs, bikes and motorcycles on both sides of the street. I down shift into first and start to turn toward the road just as another car cuts me off to start up the hill in front of me. “Shit!” The road is very steep and now I have to worry about the car in front of me stopping. Flashbacks of having to use my emergency brake and ride the clutch are haunting me – it has been 15 years since I’ve driven a stick. During a sparse moment of lucidity I did thank my father (who taught Driver’s Ed on the side when I was growing up) for making my brothers and I take our driving test on a stick because we lived in the SF Bay Area. 

We bump along at a crawl to the crest of the hill. I stop holding the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and stare forward at a modest widening of the road and 6 policemen with rifles and guns. They weren’t pointed at us, but I still found it unnerving. The police presence is to reduce the danger from the drug trafficking. Apparently we could not park there, but I could do what amounted to a 17 point turn to wedge our car off of the road so some Brazilian negotiation could take place. After the police were told about our reason for venturing to the top of the hill, they relented by saying that we could leave the car but someone had to stay in it. Ummm, let’s go over that again. I don’t know where the gym is and need to go and be in at least one picture. I don’t want to stay in the car alone, but I don’t want to walk alone with Carson to the gym either. If Jean takes me to the gym, then Carson will be left in the car alone. We sent Jean to the gym to get a coach who we thought would stay in the car. Well, the coach didn’t want to stay with the car either, so more negotiations took place. I don’t know if money changed hands or not, but the police finally moved an orange cone and I was allowed to move our car to a semi-respectable parking space and leave it there unattended.

Whew. There is something about a gym, no matter how decrepit, small or smelly that is comforting to an athlete. I was relieved to walk into that shabby gym. There were mismatched puzzle mats on the floor, padding falling off of the stained walls, water all over the floor by the fountain, numerous flip flops to navigate between and a subtle odor of urine creeping out from the direction of the bathroom. It was humid and crowded but full of smiling, happy, sweaty training kids.  The first few mats we crossed were for the littlest fighters, up to six years old. The coach had that exasperated tone one gets when herding cats, but all the little monsters got to task. In the larger area were the other boys, the boys we sponsored and the rest of the team. The coach was teaching an open guard pass and the boys trained hard. During their break we got them together for some pictures. It was hard to say good-bye.

 

The drive down the hill was a lot less stressful than my drive to the top. Later I found myself wanting to go up there again. When you make a connection with people, you want the connection to last. I knew I had other gyms to visit on my trip and that I would be leaving Rio in ten more days. I wanted those boys to know that I wouldn’t forget them and that their jiu-jitsu joy and warrior spirits made a lasting impression on me.