Adventures in Sao Paulo, Part Two

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If you haven't yet, check out Adventures in Sao Paulo, Part One. It's not essential reading, and impacts today's story only slightly, but since you're here, you should read it anyway.

The facade of Manifesto bar is about as nondescript as Leo Vieira's jiu-jitsu academy. A dark maroon building with three black doors, located right on the curve of a one-way backstreet. No signs. No flashing lights. I only found the place thanks to the bartender who was smoking, and wearing a Manifesto t-shirt, outside. He thought I was with one of the bands. I should've lied. Maybe he would've let me in early so I didn't have to spend the next forty-five minutes huddled under an overhang to avoid the pissing rain.

Doors were scheduled to open at 8:00 pm which, in Brazilian time, means 8:15 or thereabouts. Our gringo hero stupidly arrived at 7:30. At least I got to hang out with the staff, all of whom came out to smoke at one point or another. It's always a good idea to make friends with the bartenders.

They finally decided to let me and the other early arrivals in at 8:30-ish. Here, instead of paying the bartenders for each individual drink, you are given a card at the door with your name and a cover charge (in this case, 20 reais--about 11 dollars) written on it. Whenever you order something, they mark your card. At the end of the night, you checkout at the caixa, as you would a supermarket or a restaurant. They tally your bill, and voila. It's a good system in that it makes transactions between customer and bartender smoother since there is no cash involved. Though I can see how it might be very easy to lose track of how much money you've spent over the course of a long night. An added bonus for the bar, really.

Chilled with some good friends, had some drinks, listened to some loud metal, and met all kinds of cool people. When the band members started to roll in, things got interesting.

I first ran into Dave McClain, Machine Head's drummer, whom I've talked to before on a couple of different occasions. Always a cool guy, very humble. Every time I see him, he's wearing a KISS t-shirt, so you know the man has good taste. Machine Head's latest, Unto the Locust, recently debuted on the Billboard charts at number 22. The rest of the world has "gotten" Machine Head for years. I've been supporting them since 1994, so it's great to see the U.S. finally coming around. Check out their homepage, here.

Can't understand why a bunch of Brazilian fans thought I was the drummer for Machine Head

If you follow Infamy and Misfortune, my writerly blog, you'll know that I've been working on a biography of Brazilian heavy metal legends Sepultura. I briefly spoke with them about it back in April, but this being a more social environment, I got a chance to discuss the project in depth with Andreas Kisser and Derrick Green, guitarist and vocalist of the band, respectively. Both of them expressed their interest, offering to do whatever they could to help, and--in Derrick's case--even throwing out a number of ideas on how to approach the project. I am far beyond grateful for their support, and this meeting really relit the fire under my ass to get this project moving.

With Emanuel from Sepularmy, Andreas Kisser, and Dave McClain

With Derrick after a deep discussion about truth and self-discovery

Through all this I tried hard to keep my inner fanboy in check, and I think I did a pretty good job of it. Andreas and Derrick were deejaying the event from a small stage at the back of the bar, so the rest of the evening turned into a battle of the iPods. We heard everything from Black Sabbath, old school Metallica, Queen, Tears for Fears, the Bee Gees...you name it, one of the guys probably played it.

Derrick taking his "job" very seriously

Dave's drum tech, Mudbilly, inspired by some 70s dance-pop tune

I left around 3 am, while Derrick and Andreas were still battling it out on the stage, and the party showed no signs of stopping. After the morning's two-hour commute, two hours of training jiu-jitsu at Checkmat in the afternoon, and a six hour heavy metal extravaganza in the evening, I was done.

And that, my friends, is why I didn't train with Leo Vieira again on Friday. The word I'm looking for, I believe, is "hungover." But it was all worth it.

Next up: Part Three, where Our Hero watches in awe as Sepultura and Machine Head destroy Via Funchal.

Adventures in Sao Paulo, Part One

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When I found out my two favorite bands, Machine Head and Sepultura, were playing a show in Sampa while I was here, I had to buy a ticket. No way in hell could I miss this. When I found out that the Manifesto bar was throwing a Sepultura album party the night before, and that members of both bands would be there, there was no doubt I'd be there too. As a bonus, this was all taking place in the Vila Olimpia neighborhood of Sao Paulo, which is where Leo Vieira (multiple time ADCC, Mundials, Pan Am champion, et al) teaches jiu-jitsu. So, I booked a hotel room in the city, and thus began an incredible couple of days.

October 13, 2011

All told, between walking to the bus stop in my town, taking the (late) bus to the metro, taking the metro to the CPTM (train) to Vila Olimpia, and beating the pavement again, the first part of the trip took about two hours. And what was one of the first things I saw?

That's right. Hooters. Another shining example of American culture invading Brazil. I wonder if most Brazilians even know the significance of the business's name?

Located in the corner of a bigger, corporate gym, Leo Vieira's academy is about as nondescript as it could be. Had I not known exactly where I was going, I would have missed it. In fact, the first time, I strolled right by without realizing it. There are no logos, no building numbers, nothing. Very low key.

I still butcher Portuguese every time I try to speak it (even though everyone tells me I speak well for the short amount of time I've been here--they're just being nice, trust me), but I managed to work out a visitor's contract, find the changing room, and eventually the training area. Again, no Checkmat logos or anything of the sort. I wondered briefly if I was even in the right place. Maybe I had just signed up to train with some 12-year-old karate yellow belt?

I didn't wait long before someone else came in, a purple belt named Priscilla who took third place at the Mundials (Worlds--the most prestigious jiu-jitsu competition) this year, and second the year before. Guess I was in the right place after all.

Leo sauntered in next, about as chill and low key as his academy. I introduced myself as the guy who's been stalking him on Facebook, and we chatted a bit while more students--including a couple of guys from Sweden, a guy from Philly, and a bunch of super tough Brazilians--trickled in.

After a very short warm-up, maybe five minutes of easy stretching, we jumped right into technique. Without going into too much detail, we worked on fighting for butterfly hooks, and then a cool pushover sweep to side (or 100 kilo--take your pick) control. There was very little drilling from stasis; instead, we moved right into positional sparring based on the techniques we just learned. By the time we started rolling, I was already exhausted. Hadn't eaten since the turkey sandwich for breakfast, and my energy was seeping fast. Still, as I may have mentioned before, I try to never turn down a roll. So I didn't.

Supporting my argument on the differences between training in Brazil and training in the U.S., we spent most of the class sparring. Rounds lasted five minutes, and I think I rolled ten rounds. I can't remember clearly. It's all kind of cloudy now. All I really recall is that I've never tapped more in my life. Everyone there is so strong and so precise. These guys (and girls) obviously take their training very seriously.

Sometime during the class, Leo's brother Leandro wandered in, and I managed to get a picture with these two masters before my legs were no longer able to support my dead weight.

And after all that, I missed a sign on the walk back to my hotel and turned a ten-minute walk into twenty. By the time I finally made it to my room, I halfway passed out in the shower.

Thanks again to Leo and Leandro and all the others at Checkmat who welcomed me with open arms that day. I had planned on training there again on Friday, but it didn't happen. Stay tuned for the next installment of Adventures in Sao Paulo to find out why.

How To Train?

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(Note: This is one of those jiu-jitsu-centric posts, so move on if you're not interested. Don't worry, I won't be offended. Just promise to come back later.)

One of the most common questions I get from my training partners back home, as well as my new friends here in Sao Paulo, is a variation of the following:

How is jiu-jitsu in Brazil different from jiu-jitsu in the States?

Until a couple of weeks ago, I was too concentrated on studying my instructor's movements and paying close attention to detail to even consider the question. Most days, I'm the only person in the room of fifteen or twenty who speaks English, so I'm often forced to rely upon my (very) limited Portuguese, my existing knowledge, and sharp observational skills. The more comfortable I became in my new environment, though, the more I was able to pick the question apart a little bit.

We all practice the same techniques. We all drill armbars and chokes and guard passes, and there are certainly right and wrong ways to do these things. But the beauty of jiu-jitsu is that some of the finer details vary from person to person. You know, one guy may take the metro, another guy might take the bus, but they both get to the city. If you've spent five years going to the city by bus, then someone suddenly shows you how to use the metro, your options increase and thus your life is made easier. Now, if the bus drivers go on strike, you can still get to the city.

Okay, so I may have stretched that metaphor a little far. My point is that the details don't make the difference between countries, it makes the difference between schools. On a smaller scale, it makes the difference between all the practitioners of jiu-jitsu.

After training in Brazil for almost six weeks now, and discussing this very question with people who've been studying much longer than my (comparably) short five years, I've come to realize that the difference isn't what we train, but how.

As far as I can tell, here there is a greater focus on rolling than in the States. In an hour-and-a-half class, forty-five minutes of that is spent sparring, with the first half split between warming up and drilling. From my experience, in the U.S., up to half of the class may be spent drilling. Why this difference? I have no idea. I could speculate that it's a reflection of each culture's educational traditions, but I'm not going to get into that unless someone pays me to do the research.

Additionally, in the States, I find that many instructors make new students attend a certain number of classes before they're even allowed to spar. I, for example, had to wait six weeks before rolling, and even then, I could only work to pass the guard. I understand the reasoning behind this. Someone who doesn't know how to move, how to defend submissions, how to breathe, could potentially injure himself--or his partner--in a rolling session. It's about control, basically. When you're new, you know nothing about control.

Here, though, new students are encouraged to roll--with very strict limitations so no one gets hurt--from their very first class. They teach newbies the basics of movement by forcing them to feel those movements in a "live" situation.

So, while I can't say that one method of training is better or worse than the other, I can say that my game has improved drastically over the past five weeks. For whatever reason or reasons, I am glad for that.

Anyone out there with a different experience? Drop me a line in the comments. I'm curious to know what others think, whether you agree or disagree with me.

Thursday and Friday of next week I'll be visiting Leo Vieira at Checkmat headquarters, and soon we'll have a special class in my "home" academy with Luciano "Casquinha" Nucci. Pictures forthcoming.

What a Zoo

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Decided I'm going to add two days of judo and two days of MMA to my existing routine of jiu-jitsu on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I really need to step up my training after seeing this picture Maria snapped of me in the bath:

This is due mostly to the food I've been eating lately. The monster pictured below is my new favorite meal; it's a triple layer sandwich with a bread base, cheese and ham and a slab of filet mignon, topped by another slice of bread, lettuce, tomato, bacon, and another filet mignon, sandwiched between yet another slice of bread, and wrapped up in an omelet with fries and mustard/mayo on the side. 

Before:

During a pause to vomit and make more stomach room:

Hence the "After" picture of the hippo. The damned thing is the size of my head.

So, while my friends and family back home were unpacking sweaters and trying not to drown in autumn thunderstorms, Maria and I spent a sweaty morning at the Sao Paulo zoo, jumping from shadows to shade, avoiding as many ultraviolet waves as possible. At 93 degrees, only a few days into spring, even the animals were sluggish and hiding. Except for the apes, of course. Those crazy bastards are always out looking for a good time.

Okay, so that's actually another picture of me at lunch. This tropical sun is really doing a number on my skin.

But it was nice, even for a short time, to look in every direction and see trees instead of buildings. From the woods to the jungle, indeed.

We passed the afternoon in a zoo of another kind, the famous Avenida Paulista, where you can find the most expensive real estate in all of Latin America, as well as the most comprehensive fine arts museum, enough shopping to make your head spin, and even zombie street walkers.

Perhaps I won't miss Halloween after all.

In an earlier post, I wrote about the United States' influence on Brazilian culture. While I continue to see examples of this (a Shell gas station flanked by a McDonald's on one side and a Subway on the other, for example), I would be remiss to not touch upon the deep Brazilian sense of nationality. While people don't fly flags on their homes, unlike their North American counterparts, the green, blue, and yellow bandeiras proclaiming Ordem E Progresso (Order and Progress) can be seen everywhere, and in the most unusual places, from sidewalks to fully painted intersections.

Even though so much of the United States--be it language or food or clothing or television programs--has found its way into this country, the people here seem to understand that foreign influences don't dilute their culture, they make it richer. This cultural integration actually sharpens their sense of pride.

Of course, while I don't intend it to be a blanket statement, I do realize the previous observation is limited to--and tainted by--my own personal experience. But that's what this blog is about, right? Giving you a taste of what I see and think and feel about this place, which tells you as much about me as it does Brazil.

But it's also about choking bulls in the metro.

Routines

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Wow. Hard to believe I have been in Brazil a few days short of one month. I continue to embarrass myself daily, mostly when attempting even the most basic and mundane conversation in Portuguese. Lately, though, facing a lapse in my language skills, I find myself defaulting to French. I consider this a step forward; at least French and Portuguese are both Latin-based languages and share similar traits. More similar than English, anyway. But you know, after my first couple of days here, when I ordered Italian penis (instead of Italian bread) at a nearby bakery/cafe, I figure it can't get much worse unless I mistakenly suggest that someone's mother is interested in ordering and eating an Italian penis.

I won't lie. There were days in the beginning, right after the rose-colored glasses came off and this no longer felt like a vacation, when I just wanted to be back in the States, pulling out my autumn clothing and preparing for Halloween. But I spent so many years looking into dark cracks, focusing on all things negative, and I refuse to linger in those spaces anymore. I'd much rather spend my time with a positive outlook, concentrating on the moment and what makes me happy right now. It's not always easy, but it's always worth it.

Let's talk about routine for a minute. Back in 2007/2008, I studied in southern France for a year. Before then, I had moved a lot in my life, but always within the 48 contiguous states. In each instance, I learned that the quicker I established a routine, the sooner I felt comfortable in my new environment. Falling into a rut isn't always a bad thing.

Part of my routine now is waking up early on Tuesdays and Fridays, when the girl works a half day at the hospital, taking the bus to the metro and the metro into the city. While she tends to sick children, I usually find a quiet corner somewhere to read or write, and around noon we begin to carouse São Paulo for cool and interesting things to do.

This past Tuesday, we began our exploration at the Pinacoteca museum, much of which was, sadly, under construction. The water fountain sculpture (pictured below) made the R$6 entry fee worth it:

Notice that these lovely women, conjoined at their respective hips, are all shooting water from their gigantic multi-colored breasts:

And, as a complete horror nut, I was pleased to find a batch of Lovecraftian drawings of beasts and creatures only seen in those places where the fabric between this dimension and The Other thins:

Okay, so they're not distant relatives of Cthulhu, they're drawings of actual worms and insects found right here in our own dirt. These things are creepier than anything Lovecraft could have come up with (even though Lovecraft rarely came up with anything, his most used phrase something along the lines of, "The thing was so horrendous, no words I employ could describe it").

Be careful how you view this next sculpture. It's not sexual in any way, I swear. It's obviously two naked women training jiu-jitsu. Duh.

We wrapped up the museum visit with a walk through a nearby park, and a stop at the train station across the street. This station is modeled after its sister in London, and acts as a gathering spot for some of the nastiest, manliest hookers this guy has ever seen.

Called an end to this day by drinking coffees and beers at Terraco Italia, a restaurant sitting 41 floors above ground in the center of Sao Paulo. Strange seeing the city from this height, helicopters skirting about carting businessmen from one meeting to another, ten-floor apartment buildings looking like tiny slave quarters, and a horizon of metal and concrete trees that blurred into the distance miles away.

Of course I was writing. Aren't I always? It's part of the routine. Part of what makes things feel normal.

This coming Saturday: Santos, and a much needed visit to the beach. Stay tuned.

Liberdade

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The city I live in is right on the outskirts of Sao Paulo, about a twenty minute bus ride away (depending on how psychotic the driver is feeling that day). As much as it may feel like your life is in mortal danger at any moment, these guys are amazing. Skirting in and out of traffic at heart stopping speed, coming within inches of smashing into other vehicles, nearly side-swiping motorcycles, I'm reminded of the expertise of French bus drivers. I'm flabbergasted, every time, that we make it to our destination without some sort of accident.

From my experience, Sao Paulo's metro system is safe and clean and easy to navigate, if horribly overcrowded. It's easy to look at the surface and think of public transportation as this wonderful boon, but when you consider how many people here are forced to travel every day by bus, train, or metro, the picture changes. If you just can't abide strangers' various body parts rubbing up against your own, public transportation in this city is probably not for you. But, at a few of the stations (such as the Sao Caetano stop, shown below), you may find yourself serenaded by piano. These aren't paid musicians, and they're not subway scroungers who are trying to make some spare change. They're normal people, sometimes weary travelers, sometimes students who can't afford a piano of their own to practice on. This guy here was alternating between Souza and Samba.

Yesterday, we spent the afternoon in Liberdade, Sao Paulo's Japanese neighborhood. Even in the midst of all that steel and concrete and noise, we discovered a place of peace and Zen. Maybe not the nicest Japanese garden out there, but a welcome interruption in such an otherwise chaotic place. And lunch, as usual, was amazing. Gyoza, real ramen (not that crap you get for seventy-five cents a packet in the U.S.). I've yet to be disappointed in a meal here, even when it's traditional Japanese.

It was also there in Liberdade that I met a rep for a fight gear company called Pretorian. He informed me that former Pride and UFC heavyweight champion Rodrigo "Minotauro" Nogueira has a line of gear coming out soon, though nothing is yet available to the general public. However, Mino had given the rep two kimonos and two pairs of shorts to test market. The kimonos were already gone, but I scored a nice pair of Minotauro Sports shorts (yes, I snatched them right off the poor bisected mannequin). Sorry I didn't catch your name, Praetorian Rep Dude, but thanks for the hookup (and the free gi patch)!

I've been training jiu-jitsu here with Cristiano Spadone (faixa preta under Luciano "Casquinha" Nucci) on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for about three weeks now. His game is so smooth, allowing us to play a bit while gently nudging us into a position where he can strangle the hell out of us. Just when I feel like I might be close to gaining superior position, I'm tapping out and wondering what the hell just happened. The next step is adding judo with Marquinho Tortorello (who also has super solid newaza), and MMA on the off days.

On the First Day of Jiu-Jitsu...

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...my partners handed me my ass in a frumpy, sweaty gi.

Now, read it again to the tune of "The 12 Days of Christmas."

I started training on my third day in Brazil, not wanting to waste any time getting fat on churrasco and lazy watching soccer. Anyone who trains knows the feeling of taking a few days off. Even though the break, in some cases, may be necessary, it's similar to suffering the withdrawal effects of a particularly strong drug: you're constantly thinking about it, always wondering what the hiatus is doing to your body and your mind. You dream of positions, you shrimp out of bed in the morning. You face your back to the wall in restaurants so you can see everyone inside, then invent fight scenarios and plot out exactly how you would react.

So, the girl came home early on Monday, we headed straight to the local academy to get me signed up, and then hit the local padaria for soup and sandwiches. Since class was only three short hours away, I ate light (which, for me, meant a huge bowl of chicken and pasta soup, three slices of crispy bread, a hot ham and cheese sandwich on a croissant, and a glass of fresh watermelon juice).

The academy is on the third floor of a pretty fancy gym, and after some confusing conversation at the front desk, I was led to the changing rooms where I absently wondered whether it was a good idea to wear my blue belt. Many jiu-jitsu academies are very dedicated to the concept of Team. I'd heard horror stories of instructors stripping a visitor's belt simply because the student received it from a different instructor. As it was, I had only brought gis that didn't have any of my home team patches on them.

Turns out, of course, that I had nothing to worry about. Fear of the unknown, blah blah blah. I met the instructor, followed the cue of other students bowing onto the mat, and started to loosen up.

At this point, the nerves began to wash away. The structure of jiu-jitsu classes is pretty universal. Warm-up exercises followed by drilling a few chosen techniques, then free sparring to close out the evening. I've been training for about five years, so this routine is comfortable now. Natural. I will say, though, that my mouth dried up a little when I saw a team logo on the wall. "Alliance," it read, with that unmistakable black-and-white screaming eagle's head.

For those of you not in the know, Alliance is considered one of the strongest competition teams in the world. Their athletes are incredibly well conditioned, medaling and sometimes closing out divisions at most of the major tournaments. Put very simply, they fucking train hard. But I survived the thirty-or-so minute warm-up with minimal damage, and moved on to drilling, partnered up with a blue belt who was about my size.

The instructor showed three techniques I already knew, but even with the language barrier, I understood enough of the details I needed to work on. For example, when setting up a basic X-choke or cross collar choke, adjust your closed guard so that your knees are high up in your opponent's armpits. Then, while finishing, squeeze your knees together into his ribs. Not only with this cause your opponent pain, but it will restrict his breathing and make it easier to complete the choke.

We drilled a pretty nifty spider guard sweep that is rather similar to an overhead X-guard sweep (only, in this instance, the opponent remains on his knees), and then moved on to randori, also known as free rolling or sparring.

Again, for those unaware, rolling is what sets jiu-jitsu apart from most traditional martial arts. This is the time to put all of your practice into effect against a live, resisting partner, and you do it at the end of every single class. You grapple to gain superior position so that you may submit your partner with a choke or a joint lock, all while defending yourself because he is also trying to impose his game upon you.

I rolled with everyone the instructor partnered me up with, even though I was thoroughly exhausted after being dominated in the first round by my new blue belt friend. I try to never turn down a match, no matter how tired I am, because it's important to learn how to fight when you're tired. It's too easy to quit when you're gasping for breath, too easy to lie down, too easy to ask for a drink of water. Bruce Lee always said that consistent improvement comes from training right up to that point of total exhaustion, that point where it feels like your body can no longer function on its own . . . and then you push it a little further. This persistent behavior strengthens the mind, which in turn strengthens the body.