Palestine, Land of Cowboys

We got on the bus to Santos, took the Metro from Jabaquara to Nova Funda, got on the bus to Sao Jose do Rio Preto, slept three hours at Paulo's friend Panqueque's house, watched bankers association soccer games, drank beer, and finally drove to Palestina.

The vastness of the landscape is overwhelming; you can see for miles and miles. Paulo had been telling me about the slower rhythm of his hometown, about how nothing happens, but I didn't expect to physically feel slower myself. I wish I didn't have anything negative to say, especially as Paulo's family has welcomed me with lots of care and attentiveness--but the weekend here has been about nothing other than beer, consuming dizzying amounts of beer. It hit home just an hour ago when we were hanging out in the town center. Everyone was either drunk or hungover from last night. But that brings me to last night . . .

I've had a lot of luck my first weeks in Brazil. First, la velada cultural in Santos, and now, the annual Festa do Peao here in Palestina. I went to the rodeo. At the entrance, so many street sweets (churros, candied apples, cocadas), so attractive to the eyes. Inside, young people drinking Brahma, married couples calmly watching the rodeo, vendors with baskets of cotton candy, and old men ambulatinga with buckets of beer cans and ice chunks. I had so much fun--festivals marry my love for people with my deep interest in anthropology, folklore, subcultures.