The Algarve

The Algarve: I’ve left Lagos, Portugal, and am finally heading to Salvador, Brazil. I’m actually writing this blog post in the air. I’m flying at an altitude of 38,006 feet, going 246 miles per hour, with 2964 miles of open and lingering reddish, orange tinges slowing receding into a dark blue that will eventually become the black of the night sky. Chances are by the time you read this, I’ve been living in Salvador for about a week. Maybe longer, it takes me time to post. I am excited about Salvador because it is the blackest city in all of Brazil. I believe, but don’t quote me, that upwards of ninety percent of the population is of African descent.

I’ve been to Sao Paulo before and it’s electric. Like the Big Apple, Sao Paulo is its country’s—and all of South America’s for that matter— financial hub, so it shares in its rocket-fueled apnea. Salvador is different, well according to my well-traveled, Brazilian-Born Uber driver. Alex described it as having a beauty like Rio without the jitters of Sao Paulo, describing it as rooted multiple times. Being that there is not only surviving, but a prominent vestige of traditional West African culture I can only imagine the ethos. I won’t prematurely impose adjectives on something living in someone else’s head, especially since I have not experienced it. Instead, I’m choosing to forego a habit of expectations and view the city as I live it.

In my last blog post, I talked about my endeavor to find rest and establish a rhythm in Portugal. Lagos is a seasonal beach town, so it was empty, with half of all service-oriented businesses shut down for the winter. Seems like the right place to go if one is looking for respite. You’d be right too, it’s winter entails lows of the low-fifties and highs of mid-seventies (all in Fahrenheit to my non-U.S readers), the countryside—an undying lush of green, and richly saturated views of the sea from clifftops.

The truth is, I’m still fighting the urge to stay active and always be on the move. An example from a week ago. I woke up at 10:00 am, which is late for me—points for that—and decided to go for a swim in the ocean, the one you can see from the cliff I mentioned in the above paragraph. You’d think that it was on a whim—like some Eat, Pray, Love type stuff but, no. I wasn’t just broodily walking the coastline pondering what it means to be a man and to be black, then all of a sudden became enamored by the sea and decided to take a dip. Instead, I’d planned to go the night before. I’d been doing bodyweight calisthenics for strength training and was going to use the chill of the water to help soothe some soreness I had in my legs.

I hardly ever just do something on an impulse, I have a plan, and an itinerary, and try not to deviate. If I happen to veer left or right, I am overcome with a sort of nagging, but intangible irritation—I think similar to throaty growls that people evoke when hangry. I use a hanger as a metaphor because I, myself don’t get hangry. If I don’t feel irritated, I feel guilty, for not sticking to the plan. One would think that the picturesque beauty and lull of a town can quite a soul—but it doesn’t. It can support the effort, but ultimately it falls short.

For those who do not know, I am a practicing Christian. My faith is really important to me. Being a follower of Jesus of Nazareth is the most hearty aspect of my identity. In my reflection, my inability to relinquish the idea that I can control every aspect of my destiny—for all intent and purposes—playing God myself, is the culprit of my perpetual motion. One can know a thing, scholastically, and intellectually, and still be ignorant of a method to implement such wisdom on a metaphysical level. Anyway, that’s not the topic of this blog. If my writing entertains you, then more than likely you will continue to come into contact with these thoughts in depth. So, stay tuned.

I started Jiu-Jitsu and wrestling in Dakar but found to really enjoy grappling while training at Shinobi Martial Arts Academy. I also did mixed martial arts training (MMA)—which feels like the striking I learned in Thailand fused with the wrestling and Jiu-Jitsu learned in Dakar. I will focus my training primarily on no-Gi (no karate uniform) grappling with a healthy pinch of MMA. I’m going to keep the healthy pinch because it is training better suited for actual self-protection. I also want to work on not shutting my eyes (flinching) when I get punched or kick. There is this iconic moment in basketball history when Kobe Bryant (R.I.P) was defending Matt Barnes on an inbound pass. Kobe's defense is characterized by a purposeful lack of proximity and a rhythmic but intense sway. Barnes faked the inbound pass toward Mamba’s face. He didn’t budge, well he did, but he was already moving. What I mean to say is, he still continued in his pendulum motion, cadence uninterrupted, still with the eyes of a hungry lion. That’s the type of composure I would like to have. If for nothing else, the aesthetic.

While at Shinobi, I met a German martial artist named Adrian. He is of Iranian descent. According to Adrian, the Turks, Arabs, and Persians are the n-words of Germany, and he trains nothing but what they call Kanaks (n-words, but less historically charged (I think that’s how you spell it)). He came to train with Colin, the head instructor. He operates a gym in Dusseldorf that focuses on no-Gi grappling in a style called Lute Livre, which originated in guess where… Brazil.

Jiu-Jitsu originated in Japan, but when it got to Brazil it evolved, as martial arts do, and was given a new flavor. Most Jiu-jitsu practiced worldwide now is Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (BJJ). Because of the Gi’s expense, it was an activity primarily for the bourgeoises of Brazil. Luta Livre emerged alongside Jiu-Jitsu as a kind of bastard for the poor who couldn’t afford Gi’s, at the time. This proletariat of fighters was the Afro, Indigenous, or a mix of the two. I found a gym in Salvador that accommodates Luta Livre. I’m also considering foregoing Jamaica in favor of Dusseldorf to observe the Kanak culture.