Tisch Global Jumbos

by Jamie, Tufts 1+4 Participant

As my time in India comes to an end, I have realized the best way to measure how much my host family loves me is by how much food they try to (and most times, successfully) pile on my plate. 

Before we were placed with our host families we were warned by Global Citizen Year India staff that we would be faced with a challenge. The challenge of having to say no to the massive amounts of food that our host families would attempt to put onto our plates. We were told that it’s a “cultural thing,” but after spending 7 months with my host family I have determined that it is based on how much they care about me. My theory was confirmed twice in a week when I went to have lunch and dinner with my extended host family. 

The first incident happened when I went to visit my host Mom’s mother’s house, which is also where both her brother and sister and all of their children live. I had thought that I just came in to say hi and check on my host mom but I was clearly wrong. They brought me cake, soda, egg puffs, and even prepared dinner and dessert. My host Grandma made a comment that she felt like crying when she found out that I was leaving so soon. During that dinner, she served me and she served me lots. 

The second incident occurred when I went to visit my host Dad’s brother’s house. We had gone to have dinner so this time I was expecting to eat, but I was expecting to evade the extra offerings of food. I think I expected this prematurely, as I hadn’t told them that I was leaving in two weeks yet. Once I told them, my host Aunt caressed my face and began to serve me food. Within that dinner, she served me 3 separate servings and they weren’t small either!

I thought that I had mastered the way to get around accepting more food. It usually entailed putting my hand on my stomach and saying “I’m full! I’m full” or putting my hand up and saying “No, I’m good, I’m good”. Sometimes when I was really trying to resist I would pull out the big, Hindi guns and say “bass,” (pronounced bus) which means enough, but none of these methods worked in either of these situations. 

This is where the more food, the more I’m loved theory comes in. None of these expert avoidance tactics worked because the amount of food they serve me is a testament of how much they have grown to love me, and I don’t think anything could get in the way of that. I am so grateful to have been a part of a family that tries to feed me to my hearts content and my stomachs extent. 

So, if you are ever in a similar position, try not to focus on the loss of the battle but on the love your family has for you. 

Um ano sabático em trinta fotos

By David, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Here, I show how I made the most of a seven month’s time in Florianópolis, Brazil. 

The pictures speak far better than words. Enjoy.

Aqui mesmo, eu mostro o melhores momentos depois sete meses morando em Floripa.

As imagens contam muito melhor que palavras. Aproveite.

The first beach (Morro das Pedras), out of far too many to come

Morro das Pedras, a primeira praia que eu conheci nesta “ilha das praias”

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The best view from my favorite trail in Floripa: 

overlooking Galheta beach and my neighborhood, Barra da Lagoa 

O melhor mirante desde a minha trilha favorita na cidade, 

que fica em cima Praia Galheta e o meu bairro, Barra da Lagoa

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Early morning before work jaunt to catch the sunrise

Pegando o nascer do sol, bem cedo na manhã, antes do trabalho

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Sunset at Lagoa da Conceição (the island’s largest lagoon)

Por do sol na Lagoa da Conceição

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My first release at R3 Animal: Alejandro the sea lion at Praia Moçambique

A minha primeira soltura no R3 Animal: Alejandro, o lobo marinho, Praia Moçambique

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The Brazil Gang of Tufts 1+4, at its finest

Um momento top com as minhas amigas queridas da minha faculdade, Tufts

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Sharing a snack with one of my more persistent clients – Princesa the Tamandua

Alimentando um dos meus clientes mais famintos – Princesa, a tamandua-mirim

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My second R3 release – twelve Magellanic penguins

A minha segunda soltura no R3 – doze pinguins-de-magalhães

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Churrasco: the social glue of Brazil

Churrasco: a “cola social” do pais

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My biggest R3 nightmare: being attacked by crazy papagaios that hate everyone

O meu pesadelo pessoal: ataques desde papagaios malucos que odeiam todo o mundo 

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Climbing up Morro do Chapeu with my host father, Claudio, the highest point in his hometown – Capitolio, Minas Gerais (January)

Subindo Morro do Chapeu (o ponto mais alto da cidade) com o meu pai brasileiro, Claudio – Capitolio, Minas Gerais (Janeiro)

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View of the lake atop Morro do Chapéu, after a five hour hike

Vista do lago em cima Morro do Chapéu, depois uma caminhada de cinco horas 

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The next best solution when an ABC kid misses food from home – Japanese restaurant, Curitiba, Paraná

ABC = American Born Chinese, for ya gringos

A próxima melhor solução quando um menino chinês-americano tem saudade da comida da casa – buscar o restaurante japonês mais perto – Curitiba, Paraná (Novembro)

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Hiking trails with barefoot Brazilians (the only real way to hike, they’ll tell you)

Fazendo trilhas com brasileiros descalços (o jeito verdadeiro)

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The face of a guy trying not to smile after literally hand-pulling 33 fish out of the water in three hours (as a group, we caught 105 fish that day) – Lins, São Paulo (January)

O resultado depois um dia top de pesca: pesque 33 peixes em três horas (em total, a gente pescou 105 peixes) – Lins, Sao Paulo (Janeiro)

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The start of my independent travel to the Brazilian Northeast (February)

Cities: Salvador, Recife, João Pessoa, Natal

O inicio da minha viagem independente ao Nordeste (Fevereiro)

Cidades visitadas: Salvador, Recife, João Pessoa, Natal

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Awestruck at the architecture in Salvador (this was pretty modest, 

considering everything I saw)

Olhando a arquitectura top em Salvador

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Elevador Lacerda overlooking Baia de Todos os Santos (Bay of All the Saints)

Elevador Lacerda em cima Baía de Todos os Santos

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Cruising Salvador’s Baia de Todos os Santos

Passeando no barco na Baía de Todos os Santos

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Friends in Recife

Visitando amigos no Recife

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My pilot friend in João Pessoa took me flying – I couldn’t say no

O meu amigo piloto em João Pessoa me levou em ultraleve –

Eu aceitei 🙂

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Flying over João Pessoa, Paraíba

Voando em cima do João Pessoa, Paraíba

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Dune Buggying in Natal, Rio Grande do Norte

Fazendo tur de buggy em Natal, Rio Grande do Norte

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Walking through the largest cashew tree in the world – Natal

Explorando O Maior Cajueiro do Mundo – Natal

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First attempt at surfing – Praia da Barra, Floripa

A minha primeira vez surfando – Praia da Barra, Floripa

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The moment when you realize Brazilian food is too good

*in case you are wondering what that is, that’s their version of a hot dog

A comida brasileira é top demais (especialmente os cachorros quentes)

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We look too happy to be an autopsy team, right? – 

moments before operating on a toninha (La Plata dolphin)

Estamos felices demais pra um equipe de necropsia, né? – 

Antes uma operação da toninha

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My lovely R3 people

O meu povo lindo no R3

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Host family (Luciana, Claudio, Murilo [cameo], and Joao), the best I could ask for

A minha familia brasileira (Luciana, Claudio, Murilo (só por 2 meses), e João) 

o melhor que eu pedia

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Ok, that’s enough photos, I’ll call it a day – Botanical Gardens, Curitiba

Ta, vamos parar aqui com as fotos – Jardim Botânico, Curitiba

By Faizah, Tufts 1+4 Participant

by Arlyss, Tufts 1+4 Participant

My family warned me time and time again. Sophia, my nine-year-old host sister, is quite the Carnavalera—meaning she loves to play Carnaval. I knew this entailed getting each other soaked and spraying foam, but boy was I not prepared.

This year on the Sunday of Carnaval, it was also my host cousin’s 13th birthday, so it was a double celebration, with lots of family at her house. In the early afternoon my sister and young cousin called me out into the storage area of the house. This was the room that connected to outside so it was acceptable to get soaked. Of course I went to to play, but after half an hour of pouring buckets of freezing water on each other, I was ready to warm up.

I went inside and everybody wanted me not to change into dry clothes. “If you change, they’re just going to get you wet again.” I thought there was no way, I’ll just choose not to go outside again. Little did I realize, it wasn’t my choice to make.

As I enjoyed my dry clothes, slowly I saw adults get roped into going outside one by one, and once you’re wet it’s your job to make sure everybody is, too. I fought to stay dry but eventually I was pulled off the banister, one adult holding my legs and another carrying me by the arms. I was carried outside with multiple buckets of water waiting for me. Everybody laughed as they saw me struggle in vain and I had to laugh as I saw the massive pot of ice cold water waiting for me.

This is Carnaval. This is having a host family. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know everybody there or that I didn’t want to be wet, I was going to be included in the fun either way, and it was so much fun.

As each person came back in the house completely wet, the furniture in the house was cleared to the edges of the room. Someone put on music, and the dancing began. Dripping wet we danced around the living room, every now and then being pulled outside and getting sprayed down with the hose, just to make sure we weren’t getting too dry.

It was one of those moments where I really felt a part of Ecuador; I really am a part of this family. This is my family, this is their holiday, and dancing the cold away was how we were going to celebrate. Everybody was laughing and running around, trying to avoid the wrath of the hose, foam, and buckets of water, but enjoying watching others be caught and laughing when they themselves had their turn, only then returning inside to change the music and keep the dancing going.

To finish it all off, we came inside to sing happy birthday to my cousin. All shivering from the cold, sitting in the scattered furniture, we ate birthday cake and talked over the fun of the day. And, after all, what good day doesn’t end with some cake?

By Kamil, Tufts 1+4 Participant

When I first decided to pursue Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, I had no idea what I was frankly getting myself into. I found several local dojos addresses posted online, and set out on foot to visit each of them. Their lack of websites and methods of contact served as a warmup. I travelled through many unfamiliar roads to uncertain destinations. Several were closed down permanently. Others had long since moved on. For those that stayed, hours were not posted. I swung by every now and then, knocking on doors and waiting on steps.

After 3 or 4 days, I was ready to give up. A fruitless week. Yet when I turned back, head hung in defeat, a car pulled up with an unfamiliar friendly face, sporting the sweatshirt with a team’s logo and colors I’ve long pursued.

The Spanish was still hard, but our chance encounter was certain, and the situation universal enough.

“¿Quieres entrar?”

I nodded my head, as the stranger pointed out class times on their wristwatch, and unlocked the padlocked staircase.

The dojo was small, I waited in set aside corner on a lobby couch, glass windows on all sides of a 2nd story complex. Gradually, people trickled in. A mere dozen, or so, ranging from teenagers to some elderly. Nobody knew my name, nor did I theirs, but that didn’t matter.

People put on an array of white, blue, and black robes matching sets of various belts, and starting jogging for a warmup.

I joined in. 

Little did I realize, intensive sets sets of pushups, crunches, burpees, and then drills regarding rolls and somersaults were standard. 5 minutes in, I was flailing and gasping for breath while everyone else maintaining their quiet and stable perfect forms. This went on for another good 10 minutes, and then the actual class started.

The actual technique looked simple enough, and really easy to do. The chance to watch someone else while I caught my breath was welcome. However when faced with replicating such movements on the ground, my arms and legs turned to jelly. I lost all coordination and was utterly dumbfounded by the effortless and simple technique I witnessed.

And then we rolled. Oh boy. It seems everyone uses the “hang loose” surfing gesture as some confirmation of an impending war. I was thrown to the wolves. Looking up, eye contact was an immediate issued challenge, or perhaps invitation to test out what we learned. The clock is set to a countdown, 3 minute rounds ensue. I bumped fists with a friendly enough looking college student, and then I was in the air, on my back, in a threatening arm-bar calling into question the structural integrity of my elbow. I tapped immediately, and looked a bit confused. My “friend” smiled. We stood back up and started over. I saw stars as he effortlessly applied a loop choke. I looked back to the clock. 2:15 remaining. Those might’ve been the longest 3 minutes of my life. I was left gasping on the ground when the bell rang. 

Then round 2 started. I hoped that some of the other white belt beginners would be easier to manage, and I ended up getting rounds with beginner high school freshman and a man in his 50s. I was creamed in seconds by everyone I faced. I managed to thwart a few attacks with sheer strength or my height, but it was mostly luck without any technique on my part.

I was sold. This is a brutal art, but it is an immensely honest one to pursue. I faced a half dozen unique fighters that defeated me dozens of times, and at the end, I stood up and walked back home unscathed other than my ego, as testament to the “Gentle Art”.

How did I find myself here?

I was never a sporty kid, and a bit of a wimp. I pursued music, dance, and theatre. And on my 18th birthday, I went on an extended camping trip deep in the Adirondack mountain ranges of New York. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was some formational soul searching for my fledgling adulthood. I spent a week fishing, canoeing, and hiking through breathtaking views on various peaks. 

Just as wilderness survival requires preparation and a plan, I decided I needed a plan for what I’ll do after high school. After all, adhering to semisolid guidelines half the time is better than aimlessly meandering in circles all the time. On our back, we visited a rural town. The kind with only a few thousand inhabitants, a single local bank, a single grocer, a single family run bookstore. Admitably, I’m a bit of a bookworm and rushed the bookstore at the first chance I had. 

It’s funny looking back, but I snagged a copy of Doctor Faustus and a self help manual. The former, had an extensive critic and analysis guide appended by a former now deceased alumni of Tufts University, where I committed to study. The latter, was a philosophical take on the need for morals and self discipline. It denounced passivity in life, letting whatever happens happen, and championed taking the reins of one’s future to ensure it is a good one. The last third of that book was a guide on healthy eating, exercise plans, and mental health written by a former navy seal. It was intense to say the least.

What stuck with me was the concept that the mind and body are interdependent, and you can’t let one go into disarray without the other. Neither could you hone one to a razor sharp level if the other held it back.

The express recommendation to pursue an art that steels one mind and body stuck with me. Jiu Jitsu has a reputation for being the most cerebral and complex martial art, as well as softest. Titles such as “Human Chess” and “The Gentle Art” get thrown around. The art itself is not much more than a century old, and only a few decades in the international limelight. A focus on practical full intensity sparring and the common occurrence of smaller and weaker people defeating giants are popular common events that don’t happen often (or sometimes at all) in many other martial systems.

When I showed up the next day that week, a spark of amusement shone in the eyes of the teacher. This only continued as I continued each day of the week.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but very few people return for a second class. Of those that do, most quit within a few short weeks. Jiu Jitsu is exhausting, and drains the entire body. It isn’t uncommon for people to gas out during warmups, as I did during a short 5-10 minutes of a 60-90 minute experience. The altitude certainly played against me.

Despite all that, the first month passed, I was invited to stay for the advanced class, then the second passed. One day, people began to ask for my name, and put a person to the new white belt gringo face. I began to get to know my fellow students on a personal level.

Many people train for years and constantly see others trickle by. Half of a class is usually white belts. Another quarter is the first color promotion to blue. The remains are the other 3 belt colors; purple, brown, and black. People who love the art, dedicate everything to it. However, most white belts never make it, and quit for various personal reasons. They’re “expendable”, and most people don’t expect much from them. 

Once a white belt shows dedication, self control, humility, and an open mind, they’re welcomed to the family. Past that initial hurdle, the international Jiu Jitsu community may have some of the most welcoming and humble people I’ve met. I realize I’ve personally wrestled many engineers, firefighters, architects, and several medical personnel or businessmen.

The famous old adage is “A black belt is a white belt that never quit.”

It’s amazing how liberating and stressful Jiu Jitsu can be. I struggled everyday, without fail for many months, to muster the motivation to get to class. It’s hard to intentional face opponents that completely outmatch you. It is harder to safely admit defeat, instead of fighting submissions using pure strength/weight/size advantage, especially when a less experienced practitioner stumbles upon victory. Sometimes, it’s hard to stay calm instead of spazzing out and accidentally hitting people when someone sits on your chest. These are all learning processes, and bear a striking resemble to Stoic philosophy. 

I made close friendships as one would expect from constantly working hard on a common goal with a core group of peers. By far the most rewarding parts of the process have been catching up to peers, experiencing their improvement during sparring, and improving in response to the changes they apply to their game. That, and Jiu Jitsu feels like a super power. The knowledge of a minor detail, a specific angle, a grip here or a foot there, can catch opponents completely unaware with an insurmountable leverage advantage.

I eventually started competing. I didn’t do too well the first few times. I plan on pursuing Jiu Jitsu to the best of my ability in the future, and to hunt the elusive black belt (After a decade of training.)

It might come as no surprise, that Jiu Jitsu is not for everyone. Not anyone can set aside their ego, willfully be “bad” and constantly reminded of that fact. Of those that can, momentary setbacks, bad days, and bad luck can eat away at the mind and willpower. However, I would say that most people find it hard-pressed to say any of the virtues promoted and required by Jiu Jitsu are vices in disguise, and that people are better off with such qualities, through avoiding the art.

I’m excited to see where my journeys take me, and what sort of future bonds and friendships I will find in the friendly international Jiu Jitsu community.

By Laura, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Everyday, on my bus ride to my apprenticeship, we pass over a viewpoint on the top of a hill. It overlooks the lagoa and the see beyond. Everyday, I make sure to look up.

In taking a gap year, I made the decision to learn by looking up. For a nerd like me, admitting that you can’t learn everything with your nose in a book can be painful. Admittedly, I would still dive straight into a library if I were looking for nuclear theories or a chronology of the Tudors, but I am quickly learning that the academic fields that strive to explore our similarities, differences, diversity and homogeneity as humans lack luster in text.

Last year, in a panic over what subject to apply for at university, I plumped for anthropology and archaeology. I read and read. Anthropology and Anthropologists; Adam Kuper. An Introduction to Environmental Archaeology; John G Evans. Power, Sex, Suicide; Nick Lane. Persistent tropical foraging in the highlands of terminal Pleistocene/Holocene New Guinea; Patrick Roberts. The Incredible Human Journey; Dr Alice Roberts.

That last title was a re-read of a book I was given in primary school. I had asked for it after watching the BBC documentary of the same name, in which Roberts travelled the world, visiting archaeological sites, genetic research centres and indigenous communities to trace the emigration of homo sapiens out of Africa and around the world. Out of all of the fascinating books I read last year, this one was yet again my favourite. I discovered very little new information, and some of the theories are becoming outdated, but unlike any of the others, this book sparked memories of watching Roberts’ conversations with almost every kind of person imaginable. I remembered native north Americans telling her about their folk tales of the split in the ice and the emigration of their ancestors from the north; I remembered conversations about genetic analysis at the Max Plank Institute in flashy open-plan spaces; I remembered the people of Flores describing the stories of what could have been homo floresiensis, existing in the maze of caves on the island. This book, at age 9, framed most of what I thought I knew about the humanity beyond 21st Century Europe.

Last week I was sat on a bus next to Sintra, another fellow who was testing out her Portuguese by reading a book she had bought about the political party PT. As we wound through the hills of Parana, I couldn’t help my eyes drooping – I never could stay fully awake on long bus journeys. I was nervous, and with my eyes closed, my brain began to swarm with images. Colourful dress, hunter-gatherer techniques, translators. Reindeer coats, folk tales, displaced peoples. Ever since that BBC series, I had marveled at anthropologists and their opportunities, and here I was about to visit an indigenous community in Brazil, utterly unprepared.

I do not plan on taking this space to retell what happened during our visit (though if you are interested I’m happy to talk about it!), but to reflect on my own expectations. Anthropology was always a somewhat uncomfortable seat for me; although I was fascinated, in reading the first book listed, I was forced to realise that any study of people as a contained, representative of humanity was problematic, and deeply rooted in colonialism. Ethnographic studies stemmed from racism and genetic studies marginalised native peoples further. As a white European, to walk into this community and ask deeply philosophical questions felt like those early 20th century anthropologists, and to dumb down my curiosities felt like a condemning of their intelligence. To overthink my every interaction was to imagine these people wrapped in cotton wool and yet did I ever even have a chance of my brain doing otherwise.

Ultimately, my group did seem to achieve a natural and healthy relationship over the day. That day did not contain the colourful traditional dress, the endless to and fro of a translator or the ancient farming techniques of a documentary. The stereotypes which I had unsuccessfully tried to quash for so long were happily disproved for the Gauraní and Kaingang. When it comes to the complex species that we call Homo sapiens, even a bookworm like me has to admit that written research can only take us so far. I do not claim to have solved the issues of interacting with marginalised ethnic groups, nor have completely abandoned my prejudice.  What I do hope is that I can keep clear a consciousness of my prejudice, and should I still chose to go into anthropology, I can hopefully use my knowledge to help others do the same. By definition, anthropology is “theology dealing with the origin, nature, and destiny of human beings”, a definition which I believe has a lot of room to innovate in. I still cherish that book and documentary, but this visit allowed me to stop watching others having those conversations, and start having them myself.

…

In many people’s’ eyes I had made it. I was sat in the interview room for archaeology and anthropology at St Hugh’s College, Oxford University. And finally the question came.

“I see you’ve chosen to take a gap year. If we offered you a place this year without deferral, would you take it?”

This time, without overthinking, I simply replied: “I would have to consider it very carefully. I think it is arrogant to study other people’s cultures when the only one you have experienced is your own.”

I can’t say for certain, (because who knows how the Oxford admissions system works), but I think that this was a major reason for my rejection, for this is when the mood of the interview turned. Looking back now, I don’t regret speaking my mind to this point. Maybe I will not have the prestige of studying at Oxford University, but perhaps I do not want to follow in the footsteps of the colonial anthropologists who would have preceded me there.

…

I woke up as the bus turned off the tarmac road and started bumping through the dry golden-green grasses. The images swirled back into my subconscious and Sintra looked up from her book. I think we all knew it was time to look up, and truly learn.

Sintra and I in the indigenous community’s classroom (how far did you really expect me to get from the books…) Photo credits to Daniel, a little boy almost as excited to jump in the river as we were.

Resources:

1. A. Kuper, Anthropology and Anthropologists: The Modern British School, Oxon, 1996
2. J. G. Evans, An Introduction to Environmental Archaeology, 1978
3. N. Lane, Power, Sex and Suicide: Mitochondria and the Meaning of Life, 2005
4. Dr A. Roberts, The Incredible Human Journey, 2009