Return to Rio - The Breaks, The Brakes
April 9-14, 2003

Marvelous Maria met us at the airport with her impish son Juao. We sashayed to her ancient but functioning station wagon, a huge beast that floats through the streets with a gracious clatter. Some crack in the something or other gives the spacious interior an overwhelming presence of gas fumes, so we kept the windows open. The car had been recently stolen from in front of her house and we were treated to the details of how some gentle hints to her gardener, a gentleman from the favelas (slum near her house) brought it back to her fully intact.

Her home is in Santa Teresa, a very old section of the city up in the hills, around the corner from Corcovado and the National Forest. As we arrive, there are screams from across the street and the very loud sound of machine gun fire. We hustle ourselves through the gate, tossing luggage onto the garden walk.

It is a full on civil war in Rio between the drug lords and the police. A month ago the new governor made the mistake of going after the drug lords. Usually they confine their gang wars to their own turf. But to intimidate the police they now fight each other in the streets of some of the neighborhoods nearby. That's us. Santa Teresa is surrounded by three favelas. Most evenings we were kept awake with the sound of machine guns going off near by.

It was wonderful to be back in our little bedroom in Maria's gracious old house. The window opened onto the backyard/courtyard with towering trees and lush tropical vines. A back building had two tiny bedrooms flanking the all important washing machine/sink/ironing center. It was fall in Rio, and the air-conditioning that Maria had especially installed for us during the Carnival was no longer needed, the air was cool, the days comfortable.

Well, most things were comfortable but there were a few exceptional challenges. Just in front of where we usually parked the car there was a big hole in the cobbled street. The water main had sprouted a leak and after months of Isabel asking, the water department had decided to fix it. They shut off the water to Maria's house. Yep, that stopped the leak all righty. There was just enough water in the tank on the back roof for our household of seven to carry buckets of water to flush the toilets and wash our hands. For three days we were given the "it will be fixed in only a few hours" story. And then one day, when patience and tolerance had reached it's limit, it was.

Continuing on the theme of breaks, the day we left Maui for Rio, I bit down on something and felt one of my fillings crack. It didn't seem to be too serious, but when I got on the plane another filling fell out. A really big one. Fortunately, our friends in Rio had a great dentist, Pedro, who fixed the fallen out filling. The cracked one, we just didn't have time, so I made an appointment for our return to Rio, one month later.

The flight from Porto Alegre with its three ups and downs arrived in the evening. As soon as we got home we sat down to eat a lovely dinner that Rosa, Maria's helper had prepared. With the first bite the cracked filling fell out. My appointment with the dentist, made more than a month ago, was for the next day.

Isabel was happy to take me to the dentist. Rui, Maria's sweetheart had bought a cute little old Baby Blue Volkswagen Bug and Isabel was borrowing it for the time we would be in town. It was a gorgeous morning and we set out nice and early with the idea of a few shopping stops on the way. Barely a block from the house and a special kind of rattling, even beyond the teeth chatter of the cobble stones let us know there was a flat tire. Blessings of the holy ones, we coast into a neighborhood car wash and one of the young men offered to change the tire.

He was adorable and would not accept any money, a rare thing in that neighborhood. We left blowing lots of kisses as we coasted around a very sharp corner into a steep descent. Suddenly Isabel reports to me in panic that the brakes have gone out. She grabs the hand brake and it just bobs up and down like a broken toy lever. We looked at each other. The car was too old for seat belts.

The road continued on a steep descent into another hair pin turn leading to an even steeper road. If we tried to make that turn without brakes we would flip over. Directly in front of us, a block or so down if you missed the turn was a sort of dead end, a car parked in front of a string of old town houses. There were children playing on the left side of the street.

Isabel was frantic as we gathered speed. I could feel Tara's mantra welling up within me and for some reason felt no sense of fear. Between the car and the children there was a pile of yellow and orange plastic garbage cans. The garbage had just been picked up and all the neighborhood cans were there. Somehow Isabel guided the car into the cans and it was like some kind of bumper car circus set up. They cushioned us so that we did not even feel the impact. We had ricocheted off some big planters by the side of the road, lightly scraped the parked car and didn't come close to the children.

We sat for a bit enjoying the fact that we were both completely intact, not even a scratch. And then the neighbors descended. As they released their tension by shouting in Portuguese I leaned against the car. A pink flower from one of the shattered flower boxes sat on top of the little blue bug. Isabel handled things superbly. Called me a taxi. And off I went to Pedro the dentist.

Anahata in the meantime was recording at Flavio's studio. Maria and her Grupo Chama had completed the Portuguese version of the Tarot music for the dances and Anahata was adding the English verses that she had assembled during our workshop/pilgrimage in February.

We were also preparing to lead a five day Tara Dance retreat to culminate in an offering. An old, oddly shaped building called Baixo Santo de alto Gloria was just down the street from Flavio's studio, We were upstairs, the room surrounded with huge windows that let in a delicious breeze.

We loved the ride to the Gloria district. From Santa Teresa it was just a short cruise around the hills. We passed a building that once hosted Isadora Duncan, one of the old and proud mansions now turned into a pension, lots of little rooms for the artistic set. We also passed Bozolandia, a little painted box under an enormous tree where a man made puppet like things out of recycled materials.

The retreat was well attend and with each class we felt the dharma deepen, the opportunity to open the door of our heart, the windows of our mind, to let the cool breeze of Tara's wisdom liberate our deepest fears.

The morning of the offering found Anahata in the recording studio laying down piano tracks for "The Hermit" and "The High Priestess". Thirty Taras were ready to dance the Mandala in the afternoon.

The Offering was magnificent, we were all powerfully transported. Beloveds had come from around the country to participate. Many had made a commitment to start leading Tara circles in their areas. For some it was a great personal effort to take five days off work to come to Rio. But they recognized that it was an extraordinary opportunity. We danced and sang our deep prayers for peace in the city and peace in the world.

The next day found Anahata back in the studio and me packing us up and preparing to head for the hills for a one week Dances of Universal Peace Retreat. Late afternoon Isabel and I took a taxi into Ipanema for a bit of shopping. We were stalled in traffic behind a bus that said in Portuguese, "Those who make war are nothing but a "Busha" (this is Portuguese slang, the literal meaning is a ramrod that jams ammunition into a cannon) The bus add ended by saying "It is up to us, if we want to end war we must say NO."

Meanwhile Anahata had finished her recording around 5 PM. She arrived homeby taxi laden with instruments and all of her personal paraphernalia. She waved goodbye to the taxi, rang the door bell at the gate and no one answered to let her in. Rosa had taken Juao to the dentist, Maria was working out of town and Isabel and I were shopping. None of us had thought about Anahata's return.

Normally as darkness descends the civil war cranks up and the streets are haphazardly filled with the sounds of gunshots. Not knowing what else to do, Anahata waited for two hours on the sidewalk before the first person with a key arrived home. It was Maria, who was shocked to find her huddling in front of the gate in full view of passersby who were wondering why she was lurking there so long when the rest of the neighborhood was hiding behind closed doors.

That same night the neighbors next door were full on partying, super loud rock and roll. Tossing and turning all night I finally decided to get up at 6 AM. Janis Joplin was belting out "Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz." I mentioned it at the breakfast table and Isabel and Maria cranked right up with the rest of the words. Seems like it's a common swan song to end local parties. And then there we were, having breakfast. In Rio. Hot, dark coffee. Home made Bread. Lots of laughs.

We were in a celebratory mood. Despite all obstacles we had persevered. The blessing went out, the work moved forward. I was reminded of a quote someone sent me in an email that week ....

"In a world tilting constantly towards madness it is good to celebrate the victories of love."

May we wake every morning to celebrate the victories of love.

Prema and Anahata

You may see all the photos of the Blue Bug in all her glory, the road we were tumbling down with out brakes (I took that picture a few days later) and other fabulous moments of that memorable week in Rio at http://photo.epson.com
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