Trap House Take 2

His alarm went off for the second time in 10 minutes ensuring that I would never be able to get back to sleep.

I slammed my fist against the thin wooden wall that separated our beds.

“PARAGUAY” I yelled, not really caring who else I woke up. It was 5 A.M., only an hour before I’m normally tossing in turning in bed. Sleep is not something that comes easy to me, so I cherish it.

15 minutes later Paraguay was out of the house leaving behind his student that was sleeping undisturbed on the floor and Sorriso an 18 year old kid spawned from Baixada Fluminese, one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Rio. There is one other occupant of the house, a black belt in Muay Thai, who is in charge of keeping Sorriso out of any trouble. 

I capitulated any desperate efforts to resume the peaceful sleep I had been woken from, grabbed my laptop, and went downstairs to make some coffee and start working.

It was Saturday and it was way to early to be awake, let alone working, but work and training is all I know.

Later in the afternoon Paraguay returned, with his Paraguayan girlfriend in tow. Apparently his early morning expedition was a quick trip to the airport to pick up his girlfriend who would be moving in with him (and now we are 6!). Paraguay arrived in Curitiba three days ago to train for an MMA fight. About two days ago it was decided he would just move to Curitiba. At someone point it was decided that we would all leave Curitiba, Mestre is going to Rio das Ostrias. So, like yesterday I guess, Parguay’s girl packed up her stuff and moved here so she could follow him and mestre.

Through thick and thin right? The good and the bad?

My survival in Curitiba is based solely on two factors: faith and obedience.

It’s the PRVT methodology really. You train when your told to train, you fight when your told to fight, at what weight your told to fight at, in what style your told to fight in, and when you don’t have money to pay rent, you live where you’re told to live. Which is exactly how I ended up in this trap house in the suburban favelas of Curitiba!

I’m not going to lie, it seems like a cult like mentality, but with the expectation of me who enjoys an incredible amount of autonomy, most of the fighters here rely on mestre for everything from finding fights, to get jobs, to securing food. If he were not doing what he was doing I’m positive that within a week the majority of the team would either be hungry, unemployed, or engaged in some sort illegal activity.

So when mestre says jump, we are all waiting outside of his house to pack up the pieces of an octagon into a truck, drive it into the city, and assemble it, even when some of them have to step into the very same cage to fight within a few hours.

I fight because I love fighting, because I love martial arts.

Mestre’s fighters fight because they have exhausted all other options in life. Nuce has over 100 fights under PRVT with a mediocre record that will keep him from major events like the UFC.  Just last week he lost another MMA fight after receiving a hard hit to a rib injury that he had been suffering from previous to the fight. He accepted the fight despite the injury, and showed up ready to fight despite having been in an accident early that day. All of the odds were stacked against him but he fought anyway. Because of his pride and because he has a son he needs to feed. Win or lose the US85 he would gain would go a long way for him. (he owes me US60).

Curitiba has definitely been an interesting stage in my life, but I’m happy this will be my last month here. Afterwards I plan on spending a month in Cantagalo, and then what? No clue, but I have 5 more months til I com home…

Coming Home

People are always asking me complicatedly frustrating questions, like:

“Where do you live?” or

“When are you coming home?”

Where I live varies. Rio de Janeiro, Curitiba, Barra, Sao Jose, Cantagalo, in the favela are all possible answers. More often then not though, I’m not exactly sure where I’m going to lay my head.

This fell on me when I came home as no one 

thought to inform me that they broke it!

Currently I am living in Curitiba, in a house filled with entirely too much testosterone and not enough doors… well NO bedroom doors really. I sleep on a used mattress, with no sheets, thrown on a broken bedframe that was left behind by the previous owners.  The frame slops down in the middle, so through out the night I’m constantly sliding down towards the other end of the bed where I found just enough space in between the flimsy wooden wall and my mattress to shove my suitcase. Common sense would see it fit to throw the broken frame out and put the mattress on the floor, but the upstairs of the house is mad entirely of wood, and there are definitely some things living in between the floorboards that I would rather distance myself from as much as possible. There is no light socket in the room so I run an extension cord from the other room.

Note: I am not that tragic that I cannot buy sheets. I had sheets before but everything here is so damp and the boys don’t take care of anything so there is mold. A LOT of fucking mold. EVERYWHERE! I will get sheets next week (although it will probably involve a couple hours of walking).

My room, ok maybe it is that tragic.

So, where do I live? Right now, in Curitiba. I’ve been back for a day and I’ve just found out that this might be my last month here. Apparently Mestre is moving to Rio das Ostrias, somewhere in the state of Rio, north of the actual city.

What does that mean for me? Well frankly I have no clue. Next month I will go back to Rio to train  for IBJJF Brazilian Nationals that will take place at the end of April in Sao Paulo.

Afterwards, I’m not sure what I’ll do or where I’ll go.

But for once, I know when I’m coming home….

They say coming home, but I call it going back.

When I first moved to Brazil my plan was to stay here for 6 months. A year at the most. Then I was supposed to come home and fight for my team, MiKiDo. “tear up the east coast” or something like that.

Now 3 years later I’m still here.

People ask me all the time when I’m coming back and I never have an answer.

“When I feel like it”, never flies with anyone! But now, the stars have aligned and for circumstances out of my control, I have found a reason that I need to be back in the U.S.

It’s always been a hard decision, as I don’t really want to be back. I’d love to visit and to see my family, but staying there… that’s a whole different story.  And no one understands that.

Going back terrifies me. Everyone expects me to come back three years later and pick up were I left off teaching and training and doing normal 1^st world things like going to happy hour and shopping for pointless shit. To them it may be normal, but to me, it would be a monumental failure.

So in July I’m going back. Afterwards, I’m not sure what I’ll do or where I’ll go.

Closest to family I've been for awhile

Carnaval and Shitty Sushi

Carnval is a week away but the debauchery here in Ipanema has already begun. I just had to fight my way through 3 blocks of scantily clad drunken party goers in order to find my friend on the beach. 

I waited until well past 5 to leave the safety of the favela which meant that most of the drunks were leaving the beach and making their way inland towards the bars and cheap fast food stands that were posted up every couple of feet. I clutched my new cellphone with superhuman strength as as i weaved my way through groups of people selling beer and bottled water out of Styrofoam coolers.  I never worry about getting robbed in or around the favela (Favela law extends a few blocks down and away from the favela. i.e.  you cannot live in Cantagalo and go rob a store that is in Ipanema or Copacabana, you have to go another neighborhood Leblon is a fantastic option). But Copacabana + Ipanema during holidays is just asking for some thug from the north side to come roll through and snatch your shit up! 

On top of worriying about the saftey of my cellphone, huge puddles of what appeared to be a cocktail of piss, beer, salt water and sand presented another obstacle. Luckily I recently broke my only pair of flip flops so my feet were protected by the pink New Balances that had been sent from my mom last year. 

I hate carnaval and the only reason I left my house in the first place was because I hadn't seen my friend in so long. 

The New year in Brazil doesnt start til after carnaval. Kids are released from school on summer break in December and don't return til Feb, at which point they go on vacation again for the week of carnaval and a little bit after as well. 

and adults, well the adults don't need an excuse to lay down responsibilities and drink their problems away. 

I recently read a blog about a girls travels in Ghana, she talked about how everyone was so caught up in "temporary happiness". Thats just it... Brazil is a beautiful but really fucked up place. Its hard to get anywhere here and damn near impossible to get ahead in life.  So temporary happiness is all people have. 

If your born in the favela. You will most likely be raised and die in the favela. You will most likely be lacking a suitable education and you'll never be given the opportunity to  acquire a decent job. When your born in the favela you grind. Its the only way to survive.  If your born int he favela (and you have the right mind set) the Carvanval is a way to get paid. 

I hate it, but a lot of people I know are relying on it. Exploiting the drunk is a profitable endevour. Add gringos into the mix and you are looking at a potential fortune if you know how to play your cards right.

Thats what they call "maladragem" or street smarts. Maladragem Carioca or maladragem native to rio tends to be a more refined extreme form of savagery.  

Either way, I hate the Carnaval and have every intention of spending the week hiding out in the Favela. 

Twerking in 2016: New Years in the Favela

With Bruno Matias from Checkmat and some other people

from Terere's 

Everyone that knows me should be hip to the fact that I hate holidays (with a passion), being away from home makes holidays all the more fun to deal with.

My first year in Brazil I was looking forward to avoiding all aspects of Christmas but I randomly ended up moving in with a Peruvian family and ended up celebrating Latin American style with Pisco Sour and Ceviche. My second year in Rio a friend of my moms from the US was visiting her family in Belo Horizante (in Minas Gerais, a state north of Rio) and she invited me to spend the holidays with her family. It was actually a dope trip as I only paid for a bus ticket and she treated me to an amazing time and I got to visit the historic city of Oro Preto and stay in a sick house that her family has owned for generations.

This year was the first year that I was able to avoid Christmas all together. It was glorious. I went to the beach (twice).

For New Years, everyone in Rio dressed in white and heads to Copacabana beach to watch the fireworks (the Cantagalo favela where I live is above Copacabana and Ipanema beach). I hate crowds so there was no way in hell I was planning on leaving the favela. I just got a new Iphone 5 (for free) and I wasn’t about to have my baby snatched up at the beach while taking my first selfies of 2016 (and then have to walk up over 28 flights of stairs to get home or wait til the elevator opens at 5). Plus, from Terere’s roof you can see Copacabana, Ipanema, Lagoa, and Christ Redeemer. From Copacabana beach you can see… Copacabana beach.

So, I ditched all the parties and went to Terere’s house instead. Terere is traveling but I chilled there with his girlfriend, his family, and the other teachers from the social project. Good food, good friends, and the best view of the fireworks.

After getting down on some food and distributing a millions hugs and kisses to a lot of drunk sweaty strangers, I rolled out with Terere’s girlfriend to hang out on the Pistao (the main road of the favela where there are a few bars and, at the time, a huge setup of speakers). We came back around 3A.M. to find a nearly empty house with a few kids playing playstation and a very inebriated black belt up on the roof.

I cleaned up the beer and then rolled out to the with the inebriated black belt that was pressed to go to the pistao.

The pistao is the main strip in the favela that connects the two sides. I tried to take a video but it was too dark and there were too many guns so I desisted. One of the weirdest things about being on a party in the pistao (especially if your not from around here) is seeing the mix of people here. At one end there were a bunch of dealers with walkie talkies, dancing, drinking, and performing their nightly lookout duties, then you would pass by another group of guys two stepping with a drink in their hand, watching a third group of girls that were shaking their asses, and then.... then out of nowhere pops out a crew of 6 year olds working it like they were professionals. 

This is such a shitty picture but I feel like it adequately describes 

my relationship with them: blurry, confusing, but lots of love and 

always repping that FT spirit! 

I made my way to the end of the pistao where I posted up on someone's car with my inebriated black belt and some other guys from the Checkmat gym that is also located in the favela (Terere and Checkmat are to rival BJJ social projects from Cantagalo). 

I was just chilling, thinking about how 2016 was going to be a year of small miracles (starting with the fact that you can never catch me out this late), when all of the sudden someone comes up from behind me and flips my new FT Jiu Jitsu snapback off my head. 

Apparently it's not meant for me to have nice things because a black belt in Curitiba recently took a liking to my brand new sexy ass red leather machina boxing gloves and subsequently relieved me of them. Matias finessed my hat off me though because he followed up his theft saying:

"You know who I am right? I know you know who I am cause you follow me on Facebook. You run the marketing at Terere's so don't even tell me you can't get another hat"

At which point my ego exploded. 

Seeing as how I have just recently been graduated from the ignominious ranks of white belt, its an honor when black belts, or anyone in the Jiu Jitsu world for that matter, actually acknowledges you as a person. 

(Note: or the non jiu jitsu crowd, lets just be clear, I mean that literally. I have been told time and time again that white belts aren't people!) 

After that I entrusted the care of my inebriated black belt to someone else and headed off home to sleep. 

Best part of 2015:

When Terere printed the Terere Kids Project logo on shirts and rash-guards for the first time. The name came from a friend of mine from MiKiDo Martial Arts who helped me brain storm and the logo was designed by Deus Fight Co one of our sponors that we met through BudoVideos. 

Worst Part of 2015:

Its been two years since I've seen my family. I've missed births and deaths and everything in between. 

Favelas of Curitiba: Surviving the Trap House

The look on people's faces when they see where I live is priceless...

I had spent my first couple of months of my Curitiban exile in a nice 3 bedroom house that mestre Parana rented for the team in an upper class suburban neighborhood. But we're all broke fighters and no one is trying to pay rent, so he cut his expenses, and bought a house for us in the favela.  

And it went a little something like this. 

Parana hates waiting so once training ended I ran into the bathroom, changed out of my sweaty clothes and then rushed down to the car threw in my bag full of sweaty clothes and closed the door behind me. 

I had just gotten back from Rio and apparently I was moving... 

We rolled by the house where I had been staying. It was a pink two story house separated by the main road by cement wall and a large metal door that opened into a carport. It was located on a quiet street just around the corner from where Mestre Parana lived with Jessica Andrade (from the UFC). 

Once again I found myself sprinting into the house, throwing as much shit into my suitcases as I could and then running back out into the car (leaving behind my ipod and my tablet).

After a quick stop to a used furniture store where we acquired a mattress for R60 I was dropped off in what was to be our new house in the “favelas” of Sao Jose, Curitiba.

Me, my mattress, and Mestre Parana!

After fumbling around in the small hole, I was able to fit key into lock and swing up the big medal garage doors. An empty garage, gave way into an empty living room laid with white tile. A basic bathroom and empty kitchen completed the bottom floor. There were no counters in the kitchen. No sink or anything like that that you would expect to find, just a faucet that gave way to emptiness. When I squeezed my way into the bathroom sink and into the shower I discovered there wasn’t even a shower head. Just a hole it the wall the spit water on command. I guess I’m lucky there was water at all.

Said counter wasn't there when I first moved in.

The kitchen was just an empty room!

A precarious wooden staircase in the kitchen led up to an even more precarious second story. The small space was divided into 3 rooms by thin pieces of wood and white plastic exterior siding. There are cracks in the walls, cracks in the ceiling, and I lost several small items to cracks in the floorboard. At night the walls come alive and it sounds like there is something scratching relentlessly on the other side. I assume its termites or something because cockroaches and other bugs could use one of the previously mentioned cracks in the wall. The first week I was there I threw my mattress on top of a broken bed frame. Since then we broke the frame more and moved it to a different room, but its still dealing with a dirty mattress on a broken bed. 

Outside of the window is a sea of wooden walls and tin roofs bordered by dirt paths and mountains of debris spread as far as the eye could see. There’s a lot of messed up shit in the favela’s of Rio too but at least its framed by the natural beauty of the beaches and mountains.

The smell of burning trash is a suffocating reminder that I’m no longer in Rio. This is a different kind of poverty. Desperation saturates the air. There are entirely too many barefooted, gaunt chested kids running around and playing with sticks. Everything looks the same. Empty fields and lots of trash, I believe they call it "recycling" though. Everything looks like its under construction. Skinny teenagers that suffer from all the familiar symptoms of the drug trade whisper as I walk by. The bold ones call out. Rasta. Dread! There has been wind of my arrival already. Gossip travels fast. A fighter. With dreads. Living in the alley.

I was offered weed before I could find soap (seeing as I still hadn't taken a shower after training). A guy wearing dirty jeans and worn out shirt called to me as I was walking by. He crouched down at the entrance of the drive way, a half smoked cigarette clenched by callused fingers and dirty nails.  He had a raggedy hat pulled down over his face that he lifted up so that he could see me better as I approached. Next to him were to two young girls dressed as prostitutes in training. They were rocking matching piercings and lipstick that is entirely too red. They stood there smoking cigarettes and nodding along with everything that Dude was saying to me. They looked like they came straight out of a Sundance film.

 Everyone is wondering what the hell I’m doing here (by myself). A girl. In the favela. Alone. Is it safe?

They say its safe, but then always end the sentence talking about drug dealers and shootouts...

Generally, I tell people I’m Colombian. If you tell people your American, they ask you about money. If you tell people your Colombian, they ask about Pablo Escobar.

Note: People in the favela of Rio call me Colombian because of my accent, 

So I just went with it. I made up a nice backstory too.. Something about a town in the south

Ria Chuela or something. I could easily say I'm Dominican seeing as I actually 

lived there, but then, where's the fun in that?

I'm not scared. Maybe I should be. But whatever. I'm here because I was told to be here... 

I'm here because I want to fight. 

It may be ghetto as hell (it really is), but I have my own bed (or you know, mattress) and my own room (for now), and I don't pay rent (just internet)...

In the end I stayed there for a week alone with a suitcase, a mattress, and a couple thousand dollars in electronics. After a week the boys moved in and brought me more blankets and the rest of my stuff that was randomly thrown into bags.



Iphone photoshop is on POINT! Looks
beautiful but I'm pretty sure its infested
with Dengue or Yellow Fever or something!

Those blue things hold water that is pumped

from the street. Very common in South America.

#dontdrinkthewater

Live From Nowhere