Here’s Some Honesty for Ya’

As high minded as some of my entries are, they’re honest. You can call me a romantic. You can call me sensitive. And also, you call me honest.

So here’s some honesty. Travel can be HARD, and…

I’m frustrated as &%$@. What a wild ride today was. My Spanish is less than poquito, and NO ONE here in Jujuy speaks English, no one at the hostel, not even at the tourist agency. Now, I’m not trying to be a spoiled American, expecting when I leave my country that everyone should know English, damn it. But you have to admit, when you’re in a city known for tourism, and not even one of the tourist agency people speaks English, well, that’s funky. I’m doing my best to speak as much Spanish as I can, but I just don’t know any yet. I’m trying, but failing miserably to the frustration and condescension of the Argentineans. Yes, I’ve been getting talked down to by several Argentineans, like a little baby. Let me just say that I’ll never say anything like, “Well, they came here, they should speak English!” No no, not me. Never. No way.

I feel like I want to have a tantrum. I just kept reminding myself to take a deep breath and not lose my patience and be tolerant and be, well better than my small self. But the small self, wow, does it ever want to come out and take over sometimes, especially when the other person starts to become frustrated and upset first and throw that frustration around or talk down to me with that condescending smirk on their face.

So yes, even though things are beautiful and amazing, travel is HARD. Never forget it.

Iguazu Falls

I’m stunned. The immensity and beauty of Igauzu Falls is unparalleled. There’s nothing in the world like this place. Igazu is a massive crack in the world. It pulls infinite eons of water into it as if trying to slate an ancient unquenchable thirst. The elemental forces create crystalline castles that, instead of reaching toward heaven, create shining monuments to the earth. These multitudes of monuments create a vast city of light that, even on a cloudy day, can’t be diminished.

The force of the waters and gravity annihilate my illusions that I am something singularly important. It reminds me that I am just a minute organism… and also a tiny fragment of something so vast and so expansive that in my life, I’ll never truly understand how I’m part of it… I just know that I am.

The visit to this place is the fulfillment of a wish that I’ve had for about six years. Then, I was watching a TV special about Brazil. In this documentary, there was a segment about Iguazu Falls. The picture came on the screen showing this gigantic fissure in the earth and water pouring into it -- and I was immediately captured – thinking I had to see this at some time in my life. Here I am, and I have to say that no TV, no photo, no video, no blog entry could possibly capture the power of this sacred place.

I entered the Brazilian side of the falls (there is also an Argentinean side) through a well developed visitors’ center complete with the requisite gift shop selling silly items, as if those would be the things that would have you remember this place. The pathways to the various vista points of the falls were well built and maintained and I visited them all. During my walk to each of these points, I saw groups of cute-but-not-to-be-trifled-with coatamundes, mommas and her babies, that were foraging for food and insects. One even greedily absconded with a woman’s grocery bag full of her family’s picnic lunch to the musical accompaniment of her shrieks. Still, nature was executing on her design in which the strongest or smartest survive.

I saw and felt soft whispers of butterflies of all different colors brushing at my clothes, hair, and face. Black with bright orange, or vivid green, or radiant violet. Gold butterflies. Butterflies the colors of earth and clay. Reds, whites, silvers. One alighted on the top of my head and I decided to believe that it meant I’d been blessed. I felt blessed, grateful, lucky.

I saw the numerous falls from various angles, right, left, above, below. All views were equally as stunning. All the falls seemed to have their own personality, their own beauty, their own force or gentleness. Each seemed to have its mysteries, its spirits. I could stare all day and get lost in the hypnotic rhythm of each singular fall or the bubbling cauldron beneath it with patterns swirling and moving vibrantly or graciously to then morph or disappear.

I felt the rush of the spray from the water hitting earth and rock – fresh and exhilarating and potent, drenching me and reminding me that I was really alive, that I was really living.

Later, I went up in a helicopter (no worries, my carbon footprint is already taken care of) and saw the falls from above. I saw that crack in the earth and the waters pouring into it, feeding it for millennia on millennia. My heart leapt into my throat and I was totally overwhelmed with emotion –- completely lost in awe of how incredible this life is, this planet is, this universe is. Time stopped and moved forward simultaneously creating a moment that will remain endless in my mind. I saw the sun set from the sky.

While I could walk through the particulars of my day… those seem to me insignificant when measured against the whole chronicle. I can feel the experience humming in me, like a finely-tuned vibration. And the only thing I can think is to not become attached to it, but let it keep flowing, like the river that feeds the falls.

The next day, my first day on my month long trek in Argentina, I visited the falls again. On the Argentinean side, you have the opportunity to feel much closer to the waters. The pathways and bridges take you practically inside the mouth of Devil’s Throat so that you can see and feel the massive rush of the water through your whole body and capture a sense of the dramatic, awesome plunge. You can have an audience with Los Hermanas, the beautiful water witch and her little sister as they dance and tell you their stories. You can get baptized by the power and strength humbling you like a child.

My only regret is that I didn’t get to spend more time here. My journey of 30 km from Brazil over the border crossing into Argentina ended up stealing a good part of my day from my visit to the Argentinean side of the falls. I felt a bit rushed, not having the time I would’ve like to sit with the various falls and really drop into the experience that each of them, I knew, held. I was one of the last people in the entire park to leave as the sun started to set.

I saw a good number of other animals, beyond the coatamundes and butterflies. I visited a bird sanctuary and saw toucans, brightly colored parrots, exotic cranes, pink flamingoes and their babies, and a sleepy looking caiman.

In the bushes, wild little things, I saw two wild capybaras and one capybara baby stealing their ways through the underbrush. And yes, on my way through a dark pathway as the sun set, I almost stepped on another snake. Small, brown… I’m sure this one wasn’t poisonous. ??

There was a gorgeous sunset my first night in Argentina. I take that as a sign that there is more beauty and adventure to come as I move through this part of my journey.

Goodbye Brazil and Thanks, but Enough with the Cake Already

As a special send off for my last few hours in Brazil before crossing the border to start my travels in Argentina, the breakfast spread this morning at my hotel offered no less than 9 types of cake. 9! Dear Jesus, I hope Argentinian food is more healthy than Brazilian food.

(BTW, I had eggs and fruit. I just couldn't have cake, not even a good-bye piece.)

Some Random Observations and Thoughts About Brazil

Brazilians think that their pizza is the best in the world. Don’t even think of comparing them to Italian pizza because they’ll tell you theirs is much better (despite having pizzas like “banana, bacon and tomato). Granted, though, their pizza is really good, especially the banana, bacon, and tomato. Also, the cheese, peas, corn, sausage and oregano. Try it.

They have horrible diets filled with fried, greasy food, pastry, and mountains of sugar, cheese, and blanched starches. I mentioned before that at breakfast, you have a choice of sugared cereals, toast that you can put caramel spread on, chocolate and/or pound cake, and cookies. You can also have processed meat and cheese on white bread or white hard rolls – with a nice big serving of salted butter, of course. And yes, there is also delicious fruit – thank god for that. However, as I get to my last two days in Brazil, I have to admit that I’m feeling shockingly unhealthy. In fact, the only other time that I’ve felt this unhealthy was when I lived in Hungary where I ate fried cheese and french fries with mayonnaise for practically every meal, french-inhaled two packs of the nastiest communist-grade cigarettes a day, and practically every night drank several vicious cocktails of cheap red wine mixed with orange soda pop. Also in Brazil, ice cream is, like, a national pastime. They’re really into it. I’ve heard that Argentina is much healthier food. Yes, please.

They love their telenovellas, aka soap operas. At night, they have soap after soap after soap on the tube. Really poorly acted, really melodramatic. I’ve watched a bunch and they’re hilarious! And of course, you can imagine that the TV shows from the US that they like here are things like Grey’s Anatomy and Desperate Housewives.

They have these hotels called “Love Hotels,” that are specifically made for trysts. I read about these and didn’t really buy it, but I just saw two on my way to the airport. One was called the Eros Hotel and the other was called the Venus Hotel. They definitely looked like a place where you would hook up for a few hours on your lunch break, furtively sneaking from your car into your room (which of course, adds to the excitement), desperate to keep your anonymity intact.

There’s this AWESOME word in Portuguese… Gustozho (SP?). Gustozho means a bunch of things. If you say that that guy is gustozho, he’s a hottie. Or if you jump from a rope swing and do a back flip into the water, that’s gustozho. If you have an amazing time at Carnaval, you say your night was gustozho. I love the word gustozho. I want to say it all the time. Other Portuguese words/expressions I like:

Oi! Which means Hi!

‘Ta bom which is shortened from Tout a bom. ‘Ta bom is an exclamation of agreement or acknowledgement, like cool or ok or sweet or word or yup or any number of expressions we have like that in the US.

For the most part, the aesthetic is very Latin. Men hone their swarthy swagger and women wear their clothes at least two sizes too small. There are a lot of bare midriffs (no matter if you’re thin or are carrying significant extra weight) and a lot of tight, sleeveless bustier tops with a healthy helping of cleavage that seems to be fighting its way out. Men strive for the buff upper body and as Brazilians, are naturally without hair on their upper bodies. They like to pretend that it’s too hot outside and lift up their shirts to show off their stomachs and chests. People are very comfortable about public displays of affection, which is great, I think. I wish the puritanical, uptight USA would get over it. All in all, it’s a culture that seems comfortable with its sexuality and is flirtatious, just for fun. Let me say that I’ve never felt threatened or unsafe around any Brazilian man. They seem to have been taught by their Mommas to respect women, from opening to doors to holding your umbrella in the pouring rain.

Brazilian Portuguese sounds amusing. The whole crux of the language is based on nasal sounds. So here’s something phonetic for you so you can get the sound of it… Tauw oocheh saou, no sa aeirra, sowao see ownce t’daysh naowe weiy magh shay-gagh. Now say those sounds really hard out of your nose, with as much nasal as you can muster and really fast. It’s kind of funny. Sometimes, though, I think I hear someone speaking English and it’s just a person speaking Portuguese, which says to me that we have plenty of nasal sounds in English. I also love that they have these words that sound like something we’d know, but if you read them, you be like, huh? For instance, the word salon. They spell it “salao” but you pronounce the “ao” so nasally that it ends up sounding like “salon.” Also , anything that ends in an “om” is actually “on” so that “bom” os actually pronounced as “bon.” And anything that’s spelled with a “tem” is actually pronounced as “teng.” Also, “moveis” aren’t films, “moveis” is furniture. Anyway, you get the idea.

Brazilians seem to find it hard to give any specific information that is sometimes really necessary to have. For instance, tonight was a perfect example. I asked an airport employee (in Portuguese), “What time does the shuttle for the Hotel Panamby come?” In his smiling and helpful way, he told me that, “It comes at all times.” What a lovely answer, but in no way helpful to me getting to this very important destination at the correct time. Funny if I wasn’t so dependent upon a much needed, precise answer.

James Cameron Is Now my Best Friend

OK, maybe not my best friend but, I just stood right next to him at the TAM Airlines check in desk in Manaus – like maybe two feet away from him. I saw him in line and was thinking, “Wow, that guy really looks like James Cameron. But of course, that can’t be James Cameron. I mean, what are the chances I’m standing next to James Cameron in this obscure airport in Northern Brazil?” But I asked the lady at the front desk and she said that it was indeed him. And then I heard his colleague or assistant or something. A too-much-sun-aging-too-soon-uber-thin-woman-fast-talking-jaded-entertainment type. She was saying something about getting money from the foundation or something. The only thing I can think is that Cameron must be doing some project in the Amazon – maybe he wants to shoot his next 3-D blockbuster here? Or maybe he’s going to shoot some blockbuster 3-D save the rainforest documentary here?

Anyway, I stood next to James Cameron, and he’s tall.

Amazon Sunset

Amazon Sunset

Amazon Sunset

The Amazon: Tree

The Amazon Rains

The Amazon: The Meeting of the Waters

More on the Amazon

After sitting for a night on my previous blog entry, I realized that I missed some key information on the Amazon.

People of the river live a significantly different life from most westerners, as you can likely imagine. But how? Here’s what I understand. There are two types of housing. One is the house built on a platform that floats at the edge of the river. At about 900 square feet or less, it’s very pared back, with minimal furnishings, but always with a TV and a large satellite dish that sits just outside someone’s window. There’s a docking port on the platform house where you can pull your longtail canoe up to the house and disembark. There’s no electricity. The whole family lives there – grandma, grandpa, Mom, Dad, children, dog, cats.

These people earn their livings from fishing, hunting, and some farming – sugar cane, fruits, etc. They survive on food they catch and eat, and sell the remainder to others and use that money to buy things like clothing, candles, gas, sundries, etc.

The other style appears more affluent, though not significantly different in construction or format. A small dock, just a short wooden platform allows a person to dock their longtail canoe. Up the hill is the house, which has some small amount of external decoration and even a patio. The house is up on stilts so that, in the high water season, the house stays above the waterline. Om and Dad and the children live here. About 100 yards away is another house, similarly constructed, which houses Grandma and Grandpa. In another direction, about 100 yards away from the main house is another house, again with the same construction. This house is for a grown child with his own family, or perhaps a brother with his own family.

These compounds seem to indicate that these families are somewhat affluent. Typically, they have several cows (or more) as well as some farmland where they have small plantations.

Each of these people live secluded – there are no “next door neighbors.” Typically, the closest neighbor is a 15 minute longtail ride down the river.

Being a city girl at heart, this existence baffles me. To have resources at my disposal: education, shops, arts & entertainment – it all seems necessary to my happiness. But I suppose that if you’re raised in this way, that’s simply the way that life is. Many of the guides I met were raised on these riverboats. They left for a few years to live in Manaus or work in a hotel, but they came back to the area and became guides. The guides I spoke to had been guiding for seven or more years. The Amazon River must flow through their veins.

The people here in the North, Amazonians, look different than Brazilians in the South. In the South are the fine European features or African features mixed with European. In the North, far less of that, and instead people look much more traditionally American indigenous. Dark rust skin, black hair, flatter, wider facial features, shorter and broader in body. It’s like the Portuguese didn’t quite make it up here to mix with the indigenous people. I think maybe because the conditions here are so difficult. It kept all but the most tough, rugged Portuguese away.

The Amazon

I’ve arrived back in Manaus from my tour of the Amazon.  I have to admit is that I wimped out after three days of a four-day tour.  The trip was somewhat mixed, though I come away from it so happy that I did it.  The wildlife, the scenery… it was utterly spectacular and nothing like I’ve ever seen before.  But the downside was that this was a real, hardcore jungle experience – the heat and humidity made me feel exhausted and even sick and claustrophobic.  There were several times when I felt like I couldn’t escape (which I couldn’t) and I’d feel a creeping panic begin to overtake my brain.  And deep breathing only made me feel like I was trying to absorb oxygen through water, like I had gills that weren’t working right.  The first day, we experienced an inescapable downpour as we were in the middle of the river in our small boat.  All eight of us on the boat, whether we had rain jackets or not, were soaked to the bone for five hours straight.  My whole body was pruned from being soaked for all those hours by the intense rain. And the mosquitoes were plentiful and very, very hungry for blood… human blood… my blood.

So that’s the short of it. But in order to do the trip justice, let me describe it in more detail.

Day 1

I wait for almost three hours for my tour outfit to pick me up. Finally, I get the hostel to call the outfit and apparently, the boat is about to leave. They’ve forgotten about me. Within five minutes of the call, they arrive and speed like bays outta hell, swerving through traffic and passing everyone dangerously, trying to get me to the boat before it took off. We screech to a halt at the dock and as I climb on the boat I’m harassed for being late. Ahem.

This first boat takes our group and another out to the "Meeting of the Waters," which the junction of the Amazon and Rio Negro rivers.  The mineral content (and therefore the density), depth and temperature of these two rivers is distinctly different, so as you come to the meeting of the two, you see a noticeable difference, a specific line of demarcation. The Negro is black and the Amazon is milky mocha -- and you can feel the difference in temperature with your hand. It’s striking.

And here is where I really got just how big the Amazon River is. It’s not like looking at a river, it’s like looking at a lake. Its width is tremendous. Tankers come up the river and are dwarfed by its size.

After about 30 minutes in the speed boat that took us through the meeting point, we arrive at another dock and disembarked. Mean and filthy stalls vended frightening looking food items where the grease on the selections was so old looking it didn’t even glisten. It jut was flat and dull. The stores were also filthy and ramshackle. Sick, thin dogs and cats wandered through the “market”. And behind one of the markets was a muddy brown dirt road and some low looking slum houses, more than a few giant black vultures scavenging garbage, and a hobbled skeleton of an omnibus without wheels up on cement blocks. Everything about the scene was mangy and grey.

After 20 or so minutes here, eight of us gringos climbed on an old VW bus to take the next leg of the trip to get to our jungle lodge. The man at the wheel was ancient and small, crouched behind the wheel. We were packed like lemmings – too many of us to fit in this bus. No A/C and the heat was oppressive. Thankfully, I made it in the front seat so at least got some air. I felt for the gringos in the back who, I can only imagine, were barely able to breathe and likely were pouring sweat in the sticky climate of the rear of the bus.

We drove on a paved road for a while, then hit the clay road. Because of the recent rains, the road was like black ice. The clay was slick and large potholes crowded the “road” making the driver swerve and slide around. I white-knuckled it. And of course, we get to a point in the road where the guide says, “Here is where a bus flipped over just yesterday and many people were injured.” I didn’t want to know that. No one on the bus wanted to know that. This leg of the transport lasted about 40 minutes. I was already exhausted and it was still morning.

We arrive at our next point, got off the van and climbed on another boat. This long-tail was pretty pared down and took us another 15 minutes or so. We then got off that boat and got on yet another boat, smaller less powerful, and even less comfortable. This as the boat, I would learn, that we’d be on for the majority of the jungle/river tour.

Fundamentally, there are no roads this deep in the jungle. The “roads” are the waterways, which seem a bit like a street system, with main “streets” and side “streets” and “alleys.”

After another 35 minutes on this boat, we arrived at the jungle lodge, which in reality isn’t like a lodge in the way we know it in the States. The lodge is actually comprised of separate cabins made of wood slats, palm-thatched roofs, and windows created by mosquito screen. The main structure was slightly larger than the rest and contained the kitchen and communal dining area.

We settled in – all eight of us gringos in one cabin, with one tiny bathroom. Power functioned off of a generator from 6pm-10pm at night. Other than that, pitch darkness or sunlight.

By 2:30, we gathered at the boat, a low sided, narrow canoe with wooden seats and a long tail powering it. We climbed aboard and headed out. Within ten minutes the rains came. Each time I thought the downpour couldn’t get any heavier, it would. We kept going, though, and within ten more minutes, we were all soaked to the bone, rivulets pouring off our jackets, drops of rain hanging from our noses and chins. We stopped at a house floating on a platform to take shelter for a few minutes and see if the rains would let up. In the front half of the structure was a small “bar” and behind it were some bags of snacks and a small number of sundry items, including cold beer. Two very small pool tables, a small speaker stack, and an ancient looking entertainment center held a CD player and a TV. This, I gathered, was the local bar where you could meet up with friends on a Friday or Saturday night. In the back half of the house was the family’s living area. Both halves combined for a total of about 900 square feet. Everything seemed so spare and so aged. I imagine that the humidity and the river age things quickly, and the mold also does its job.

After waiting for the rain to stop for about an hour, our guide, Nay, decided that we were going to go out anyway, even if the rain hadn’t much abated. Back we went into the boat, the wet, wet boat. The rain never stopped that night, but it didn’t keep us from seeing some very cool things.

We headed to the fishing hole, the piranha fishing hole. Each of us got a long stick with a string and hook dangling from the end of it. We threaded raw pieces of beef on our hooks and dropped them in the water. Most of us caught at least one piranha, I however, did not, and gave up and just watched others collect their sharp-toothed loot. There are four species of piranha in the Amazon, most of which are edible. They do, indeed have razor-sharp teeth and they do indeed like blood. In fact, one of the gringos was trying to unhook his piranha from his hook and the fish snapped at his finger, slicing it open. I guess the fish was mad and wanted to at least go out with a fight.

My fellow gringos collected about 15 piranhas, which were going to be made into a piranha soup.

We left the piranha hole and as we moved up the river, we saw both black and grey dolphins breach to get air. The Amazon is one of only four places in the world that are home to fresh-water dolphins (the others being in Argentina, India, and Pakistan). These little guys are small! The black and greys measure around 1½ meters, maybe a bit more. And the pinks are about 2½ meters. Sadly, on this trip, I wouldn’t see any pinks,

The sun set and in the dark, we stopped at another floating house. No electricity, just a platform with walls and a roof and windows with mosquito screen over them. Two threadbare couches, a table made from plywood, plastic patio chairs, a TV, a stove. A dog furtively skulked in the dark, sniffing our legs and darting away. I stumbled to the WC, which was a toilet in a damp and dripping room, no toilet paper. The thought of the incredible luxury I live in jumped into my head. It looked like Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, and maybe three of four children lived here in this floating house.

Grandma graciously offered us chairs and us gringos chatted quietly by the light of a single candle, wondering if we were going to go back to the lodge, or ?

We trundled back to the boat after a few more minutes and I asked Nay, “Are we going to go back now?” My drenched and pruned body was starting to shiver. “No, we go to hunt for the caiman… another 40 minutes before we go back.”

OK, onward. Gathering all my strength to not whine and bitch in my head but instead have a good attitude no matter what, I sat back in the wet boat, cold and in the pitch dark. The longtail pushed us forward and Nay sat at the front of the boat with a handheld spotlight so he could catch the glow of the caiman’s eyes in the riverside reeds and grasses. At one point, we swerved, headed into a thicket and Nay snatched at something, which struggled and broke away. Caiman 1, Nay 0. 10 minutes later, in another spot, another snatch attempt. Thrashing, water splashing, a struggle, and success. Caiman 1, Nay 1.

The caiman is a type of alligator indigenous to South and Central America. The one trapped in Nay’s hands was about four feet from tip to tail. His yellow eyes beamed and his belly rose up and down quickly, telling me he was terrified. After a few minutes of all the gringos touching him (but not me), he began to go into distress and with that came a sad cry that sounded like a long duck quack. That may sound funny, but for me, it was really very sad and troubling. I wasn’t comfortable with how Nay was flippantly letting everyone, covered in bug repellant and sunscreen, touch him. Finally, he threw the caiman into the water and you could see how quickly he disappeared underneath the boat and further onto safety away from the gringos.

Finally, we headed back to camp. Dinner and lights out.

Day 2

After a night of rain, the morning was clear! Overnight, I had finally dried out and was looking forward to a dry day. Starving! Every day I was there, for very meal, I was starving. I think that, even though we didn’t exert ourselves an inordinate amount, the heat was so extreme that I think our bodies were burning a lot of calories just trying to keep us cooled down.

Breakfast was fried everything: fried bananas, fried balls of cornmeal, fried pastry. Some fruit, too, thank god, and coffee. If you know me, you know that back home, I’m hypersensitive to caffeine, but here, for some reason, I can’t seem to get going without it. I think the penetrating oppressive heat all day and all night just steals my energy, and coffee gives me just the little push I need to actually feel a bit awake. Go figure.

After breakfast, we geared up with long sleeves, long pants, hiking shoes, and covered in repellant, which told me we were going to go somewhere in land that was ruled by mosquitoes. We were going sloth spotting and that meant disembarking from the boat on a tiny island in the middle of the river covered in wet, spongy ground, surrounded by water and weeds and grasses and still water. The monsters started after us as soon as we pulled onto land. Swarms, clouds of them, whining in my ears, hovering maddeningly in front of my eyes, threatening to suck my blood with their tiny needles, and maybe carrying something deadly. Aaarrrggghhh! All of us gringos were flapping our arms around every few seconds to get them off, get them off! But we kept walking further anyway. No luck spotting the sloth on this island after 45 minutes. On the boat and on to another island. After 40 more minutes, Nay spotted one.

These guides are amazing. As you can probably guess, most all of the creatures in the jungle have some way to hide, to blend in and protect themselves from detection, either to escape predators’ notice or to better prey on other creatures. So that Nay could see this sloth was amazing. After pointing for five minutes and describing exactly where the sloth was in the treetops, I finally noticed a shape, just exactly the same color as the tree – a mottled brown with white spots. Our longtail captain started up a tree close to the sloth. And after some stalking, he grabbed the sloth by the back and tore it from the tree to dangerously carry it down to the ground. Here, every stupid gringo held it by the back, passing it around and petting it. I was sick and angry and sad. I’m not an animal expert, but I can’t imagine this wasn’t anything but traumatic for this gentle creature, unable to defend itself. Not to mention all the chemicals people were wearing to repel the mosquitoes coming off on the animal’s fur. I imagined its eyes, sad, as it was passed from person to person. I wanted to yell and tell them to not be idiots and put the sloth back where it belonged.

Finally, the captain put the sloth back into a tree and it slowly climbed away from us back to its place of safety, high in the treetops. I admit, I was hoping that the sloth would poop on one of the gringos’ heads as a “screw you.” No such luck.

Through the rest of the day, I switched crews to another guide (Nay was taking most of my group back to the mainland) and another group of gringos (two of which were horrible, loud, arrogant American tourists who made me embarrassed to have a US passport). We saw another sloth (though this guide left him in the tree) a bunch of iguanas sunning themselves in the tree canopy or that saw us coming and dropped from the trees into the water to quickly swim away and make their escape, and one large and striking butterfly with bright shimmering indigo wings rimmed in the blackest black.

Since it was a swelteringly hot sunny day, I also had the chance to sit lazily in the boat, my butt going numb from the hard wooden seat, and really appreciate how stunningly beautiful the Amazon was. Majestic trees reaching high into the sky. White trees with lacey, fluttering, pale emerald leaves. Every shade of green – pale jade to dark forest. Ebony river, glassy, warm and deep. The sky so blue it was almost violet. Large fluffy white clouds intermingled with wispy, feathery clouds. The sounds of crickets, frogs, monkeys, all singing, talking. And then came the sunset.

Like many other times in this blog, I struggle to find the poetry to express something mystical and indescribable. The colors… flaming shades of fuchsia, orange, gold, yellow, pink. The river still and perfectly reflective to create two sunsets, one in the sky and its sister in the river. The reflected horizon of the hills making a stunning Rorschach of butterflies, hourglasses, and other shapes and patterns created by your own mind. Each moment bringing a new sunset as it shifted and evolved, and finally darkened to welcome the night jungle. It was beautiful.

Back to camp, dinner and to bed.

Day 3

I woke up, showered and walked to the edge of the river. I sat silently and drank in the sight of the morning dew, sparking like tiny diamonds in this new day’s sunlight. I let the hymn of the waking jungle flow into me.

I decided yesterday that today would be my last day and so was as present as possible to fill myself up with the Amazon.

We set out in the canoe and quickly broke off from the main waterway into a small side waterway, covered in foliage. Our guide began bushwacking our way through with his sharp, heavy machete. After 20 minutes of making our way via this shallow, standing water to land’s edge we sat… and waited.

Both our longtail captain and our guide began whistling in this distinct pattern, who-who-who-whooo—whooo-whoooooo. Soon came a return of the same sound and pattern. Capuchin monkey. This amazing “discussion” kept on for about 15 minutes. And during that time, our guide noticed it was just one monkey returning the call. He explained that capuchins can actually get malaria (as well as other diseases) and that, when that happens, the monkey leaves their tribe to go off on their own. He said that the monkey actually attempts to kill itself (though he didn’t explain how) and if they’re unsuccessful, they get sick and die. Our poor capuchin was on its own so must be sick. I thought of how some animals feel, like you and me. Sadness, distress, anxiety, fear, contentment, loneliness. And I felt sad for our capuchin. Nature is not good or bad, but it can seem to us cruel as well as beautiful and awesome.

We left the area without seeing our capuchin.

We headed back to camp. I sat with our guide outside the kitchen and helped him pick acai berries from the branches he collected yesterday. He got a big stock pot and a large glass bottle and then dumped all the berries into the pot. We took turned pounding the acai berries with the end of the bottle to release the acai juice. He added some water so that the juice looked like thick purple milk. The acai paste was mixed with more water and then the whole lot was sent though a colander so that we ended up with a thinner acai juice. I tried it plain and it tasted like a bit like a sweet, floral wood. But how you’re supposed to drink it is with lots of milk and sugar -- and if you’re really into a treat, you take the sugared, milky juice and freeze that for a cold treat. Really, really yummy and apparently very different than the acai in the US, which I plan to try when I get home.

One more story… about our guide. One year ago, he was trekking with a group of gringos in the jungle. His shoes were busted so he decided to trek in his flip flops that day. The vegetation on the floor of the jungle was thick enough so that he didn’t notice the poisonous snake. He was bitten, and 15 minutes later, fell unconscious. He has no idea how they got him to a doctor or how long it took, but he was close to death. Fortunately, over time, he recovered. But, one year later, his snake bite resurfaced and grew infected. He had surgery in December, but as of now, the bite area is still healing and he has to dress it every morning and every evening. That’s seriously frightening, I gotta say. Also, I described to him the snake that I almost stepped on while I was hiking on Isla Grande. From my previous blog post, you know that for my own sanity, I decided that it wasn’t poisonous. But according to him, it was poisonous. I didn’t have a chance to write the name of my snake down, but it’s enough to know it was toxic and that I missed my date with death on that day.

Right before lunch, four capuchins came into camp via the tree canopy. Black and rust fur, curious, quick, they swooped in and stole away some bananas that our guide left out for them. I have this fantastic pic (that needs a little cropping so isn’t posted here) of a wily capuchin staring straight into the lens while he grabs all he can carry back into the jungle. I (heart) monkeys.

After a huge lunch, I bundled up my pack and we headed back to the mainland. This time, it was me trapped in the back of the VW bus, I just about passed out several times from the heat and from huffing gas fumes from the barrels of diesel right behind me stored inside the bus. I was happy, but grey and exhausted when I humped it up the stairs to my hostel in Manaus.

I showered and asked the guy at the front desk where I could eat somewhere healthy. In true Brazilian style, he said there was an Italian place close by. That kills me. Brazilians consider Italian food healthy.

Now, it’s 6pm on Friday, 25 March. I have to get ready for a concert of Brazilian music at the famous Teatro Amazonas Opera House tonight. More on that later.

Today' Moment of Zen...

Oops, One More Day in Paradise

I woke up, packed up my bags, ate breakfast, sadly said goodbye to my friends at the hostel, got a taxi to the bus station, loaded my luggage under the bus, got settled in my seat, and then promptly got kicked off. Travel blunder #2. My ticket to leave Paraty wasn’t until tomorrow. Oops.

Embarrassed, I showed up at the hostel again and got the teasing I deserved and then headed back to the bus station to catch a ride to Trindade (pronounced Trin-dodge). This is a beach town but it’s really known as a notorious hippie town. I heard great things about it so a day trip to check for myself was on the schedule. I met a group of three Israeli guys, Noam, Ivo, and (can’t remember his name!), traveling after getting out of the army and before going to university. We struck up a great travel conversation, so when we arrived in Trindade and I had the inside scoop on the best beach to go to, they tagged along. It was a nice day, not very sunny but warm. I read and relaxed, they got pummeled by the big surf.

Before catching the bus home, I walked along the main street of the village. Yes, dreadlocks everywhere, stalls selling tie dyed clothing, wizard hats, and Indian scarves, hemp cloth-wearing street artists painting plates to sell to the tourists. You get it. I actually would’ve loved to explore and hang out in this little burg for another day, but I definitely had to get the bus to Sao Paulo the next morning, so tabled Trindade village until my next visit.

On the bus back to Paraty, we hit a big dip in the road and the whole bus – 98% of which were locals – cried in tandem, “Woooo!” as we all were lifted off our seats. There’s something here in Brazil, in the mood or attitude of the people. It’s like they love to have a good time and be playful and have fun. Like kids! Experiencing this has called out some cultural differences between Brazilians and Americans. In the US, there seems to be this thought or feeling that work is the most important thing. You work hard, you get rewards. If you don’t work hard, you don’t deserve rewards. But we work so hard that we have no time for our rewards, or they come rarely, for two weeks out of the year on vacation. Is that a healthy way to live? Here in Brazil, you get to have your cake and eat it too, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And literally, they do eat cake and cookies and caramel for breakfast, no lie.

But I digress. I arrived back at the hostel and signed up for the nightly dinner party: BBQ and veggie BBQ plus two hours of all-you-can-drink at the bar. Now, truly, I haven’t been partying a lot since starting my travels. I mean, I’ve stayed out late at parties but haven’t had a bunch of drinks. I don’t know how it happened, but five caipirhinas later, Dario and I were headed to a club in the old town. The tiny club was packed and people were spilling out into the cobblestone street. We ran into everyone from the hostel, plus some others from the sister hostel next door, and… just, well, everyone! Inside the club was a tiny platform, maybe 3’ x 4’ with an accordionist and a guitar player cranking out crazy fast traditional Brazilian folk music. It was hot and sweaty and fun -- we all were just in this perfect mass of bodies jostling our way from group to group, laughing, shouting stories, and dancing. I made it home by 4am, trying not to wake my dorm mates.

My alarm didn’t go off. I woke up hung over -- cotton mouthed and bleary eyed -- and looked at my watch. Crap! My bus leaves in 30 minutes. I shoved everything into my backpack as fast as I could, ran out to grab a cup of coffee and a roll, pecked Sabrina on either cheek as she giggled at me stumbling out the door and into the taxi. “Enjoy your life, Shannon!” she shouted in her trilling Romanian accent. She beamed and laughed and waved. I made it to the bus station just in time to load my bag and get my seat. Thank god I wasn’t kicked off this time, though I’m sure I should’ve been for reeking like spoilt caipirhinas. It was a rough six hours to Sao Paulo, the bus careening around those tight corners at breakneck speed, the greasy food at the rest stops, the woman next to me trying out all the horribly annoying different ringtones on her new cell phone. My head hurt and my tummy ached and I was cranky.

The blessing was that I had a real, live hotel that night. Just a business hotel, but I had it all to myself. There were a clean hot shower, little shampoos, conditioners, and soaps, clean white towels, a bedbug free mattress, a flat screen TV with some channels in English, and a nice restaurant. I spent the evening enjoying all these amenities. I felt incredibly spoiled in this low budget business hotel. It felt palatial!

I had a nice filling meal, caught up on rest, and am now in the air on my way to Manaus. Tomorrow I’ll leave Manaus to spend four days on the Amazon and in the jungle. I know it will be an amazing adventure.

Paraty Paradise 03.21.11

The reason why I haven’t written anything in days is because I’ve been having a blast and haven’t had time! I left Ilha Grange and travelled to Paraty (pronounces Pair-ah-chee), which I‘d heard was a lovely place. But I was a little suspicious because everyone had told me Ilha Grange was so great and I didn’t think so as much.

Fortunately, Paraty was just as wonderful as people had described. My hostel’s personality was really good (after one initial night of trying to sleep through a long round of drinking games in the common area). I’m realizing that what makes a place good vs. great are the people. Natural beauty is wonderful, but if the experience of the people isn’t a good one, it sullies the picture that I take away in my head.

Everyone who worked or who I met at the hostel was really fun and interesting:

• Dario from Argentina, who is a movie geek. We geeked out about directors and film genres and then he took me to the local hotspot where I met a bunch of very cool people from all over who are living in Paraty (at least for now);
• Fernando, a Brazilian, shaggy haired, bearded beach bum, always smiling who loved to laugh;
• Sabrina, the tiny and adorable Romanian girl with a crew cut and pierced nose who worked for a radio station and has interviewed bands like Underworld. She’s the quintessential life of the party girl and can stay up until 4am for days running and still show up for her shift at 6am with a smile. She’s currently trying to fight off numerous Brazilian tattoo artists who call her day and night.
• Marco (aka Marco Dragon Fyre) who just arrived from Santiago and who is part of an artist collective there. He spins fire and put on a show for us on Saturday night;
• My dorm roommates, Isabel and Emily, from Sweden but working in Norway. They had a running Yahtzee game that they’d been playing for two-and-a-half months and invited me to join in (Isabel tromped us both)
• And others, one woman who is dating an MTV VJ, a guy who is an aspiring music producer, an albino Frenchman who just arrived from an unhappy trip in India, and so on.

Besides the people, the hostel had a kitchen that was clean enough to cook in so I had the chance to eat some real vegetables like asparagus and broccoli and even make some whole wheat pasta! There was an open bar at night set up by an older hippie New Zealander, who knew how to make a mean caipirhina and loved drum & bass. And best of all, I got a wireless connection that enabled me to publish all of my blog posts, surf the internet, get my doses of www.cuteoverload.com, chat with friends back home, and even have a skype call home!

Add to this beautiful surroundings and an UNESCO world-heritage nominated colonial old town, filled with whitewashed buildings with colorful trim around the wood-shutter covered windows and the big heavy wooden doors.

On my first day after arriving in Paraty, I suppose I could say we were blessed with a torrential downpour. All the tours for the day were canceled so I and a few others sat in the comfortable, couchy common area and took care of business. I wrote, caught up on email, made some travel arrangements and generally just got a bit more on top of some things. It was good to just have a day that I was forced to stay indoors with “nothing” to do. For me, those days are rare when traveling.

The next day rained, but less so. There was a boat tour around the islands surrounding Paraty and I decided to buy a ticket. I boarded a well appointed and maintained schooner-like boat. At the front of the boat were lines of loungy beds and pillows that you could recline on and look out at the ocean and islands and in the back, a café where we could sit to have lunch and snacks. There was also a platform above that that had more tables and chairs as well as lounges to soak up the sun.

I settled onto a bed like some sultan and watched the dock grow smaller and the islands grow bigger. Soon a woman began to play her guitar, crooning soft, slow samba songs. It was a series of connected moments I’ll remember forever. Reclining so relaxed, being gently rocked by the waves lapping at the boat, the samba slowly sinking into my soul, the green forest the deep crystal water. Life can be so beautiful sometimes that my mind can’t believe it’s real, it’s happening, and to me.

I spent the day enjoying pristine beaches, swimming in the ocean, watching small stunning island after small stunning island pass by as I reclined and was lulled deep into paradise to the sounds of the sensual music.

I slept well that night, feeling the gentle rock of the ocean still part of me.

The next day, I decided to go on a tour via 4WD jeep. I was joined by an older couple from Germany (he was German, she was from Sao Paulo), a quiet geeky guy from Northeastern Brazil named Luan (who I would later befriend and have a really great talk with), and a younger couple from Australia. Our guide was aptly named Bueno. We trundled though town and not so far out of the town center, we hit a muddy road that ascended into the jungle. First stop… a short hike that took us to a waterfall and a large natural pool. The scenery was stunning. The primary waterfall cascading down the large river rocks into the deep black pool. Small cliffs of black rock surrounding the scene, the sounds of the jungle around us, the sultry air. The sun came out and warmed the moisture in the jungle, creating steam that rose from the ground. And even better, there was a rope swing! The Australian guy, Bueno our guide, and I all stripped to our swimsuits and b-lined it to the rope swing. I loved the thrill of swinging out over the black pool, hanging on for dear life and hesitating just long enough in letting go so I could hit the deepest spot of the pool. And then the cold water rushing up my nose!! Hack hack! Exhilarating and crazy fun. We stayed there for about a half hour, us three going off the rope swing again and again. Sadly, the Australian girl was too hung over from the night before to play with us. Poor thing, she looked pretty peeked.

On coming away from the rope swing waterfall, our guide stopped in the middle of the “road” abruptly. I knew he had to have seen something. He climbed out and made his way to an object moving off the road and toward the jungle cover. It was a tarantula. It looked not quite mature, but was terrifying regardless. Even as I write this I get a shudder picturing Bueno trapping the brown hairy thing with a stick and then picking it up with his bare hand behind the tarantula’s head. Of course, we all took loads of pictures of this incredible thing. But most frightening of all were its jaws. Two sharp fangs protruding from its head, black and pointed and fierce. The ironic part is that tarantulas aren’t actually poisonous. Still, I wouldn’t want to find that having a nap in my hostel bunk. Eeearrgh.

Back into the jeep and onto our next destination.

A small farm with geese, ducks, chickens, and carp in the pond, a small “museum” of farm antiquities that included several jars of snakes preserved in formaldehyde, old adding machines, pewter plates, and some ramshackle furniture. This was attached to a small distillery and tasting room. Back toward the back of this area was a dank basement built with stone, moldy and wet. Apparently, this is where the slaves for this farm were kept. It made me sad to think of people being forced to live and work against their will and far away from their homeland.

In the tasting room, we had the chance to taste a plethora of different cachacas. Cachaca is the national alcoholic drink of Brazil. It’s synthesized from sugar cane, which is in abundance in Brazil. I tried the plain cachaca, which was like swallowing fire, and then moved on to the chocolate cachaca, the cinnamon and clove cachaca, and the pumpkin cachaca. By the time I rolled out of the tasting room, I felt light headed and my insides were all warm and fuzzy. We stumbled back to the jeep and onwards.

Our next destination was an expensive lunch in a restaurant in the middle of the jungle. We had to cross over a 2.5 foot wide, wood-slatted swinging bridge built over a long and dangerous-looking stretch of rapids (I’d say class 3?). With all of us on the bridge, it was like walking on a trampoline when five other people are bouncing on it. Fun in that it felt kind of daring and dangerous.

Over my exorbitantly-priced pasta, I sat listening to the German man talk smack about any subject matter that came up… he had a bit of a bad attitude but was entertaining to listen to. People are so interesting when they’re not pissing you off.

After lunch, onward again.

I had heard about this natural waterslide in my guidebook and when we disembarked from the jeep, hiked into the jungle, and came upon the destination, it blew me away. I had in mind a small little thing with a nice large pool at the bottom. Instead, I saw this monument. The smooth rock waterfall was about 25 yards wide at the top and increased in width as it went downward. Because of the recent 12-day stint of torrential rains, the falls were fat with big water moving very fast to the small, narrow pool at the bottom. Massive water was dumping from steep upper falls and rushing onto the waterslide section of the waterfall. You had to wade across this fast-moving water to get to the area where you could sit and slide down, which was a little scary. Several times, I almost had my feet torn out from under me because of the force of the current.

The waterslide was simply gigantic rocks worn smooth from eons of erosion. The grade of the waterslide was maybe 6%, which is pretty damn steep, and the length was about 50 yards. Now when you put all of that together: the big, fast water, the powerful current, the grade, the length and only small pool at the bottom, you can see why I hesitated, or at least stopped for a good while to pay my deep respects to the situation.

But once I saw someone go down, I knew I could do it. I sat in the current at the top of the slide and my bikini just about got torn off by the fast water!. I started sliding trying to hold onto my bottoms so I didn’t end up mooning the entire group of people who were there taking pictures of the scene.

The slide was fast! And then I hit the pool to be sucked under and turned upside down or sideways or both by the tumble of water. As I was in this disorienting spot, wondering how I would surface, I realized that my bikini top had been ripped off by my impact in the pool. Upside down, inside, out and underwater, I groped for it, trusting the water would expel me soon enough before I ran out of air. And it did, whew. But I had to try and stay under so I could get my various triangles in order before flashing the crowd. From here until forever, I’ll call the waterfalls and slide “The Bikini Ripper.”

It was a blast hiking at full speed up to steep and slippery trail to the top of the falls, breathless, and then into the cold, rushing water, audaciously making my way across the fast water against the current, plopping down on the smooth, slick rock, having my body rushed down the falls and bam! Into the pool upside down, groping for my bikini, then surfacing and hacking and coughing all the water out of my nose. Uber-riotous fun!!

I kept thinking of a little kid, when you do the airplane with them -- grabbing onto one of their feet and one of their hands and swinging them around in circles – and that cry of “Again! Again!! Again!!!” when you’re done.

Besides the waterslide part of the falls, I mentioned there was a wide and powerful falls just above that. My guide beckoned me toward that, which was terrifying because really, the strength of this thing was immense. If I lost my footing as I neared these falls, I’d be out of control, pushed, wheeling to the top of the waterslide and then down it in potentially a bad place and in a bad position. But my guide took me toward the side of the big water and grabbed my arm and DUCK! The falls hit me hard. The force was so powerful and I didn’t know what was going on, though I felt my guide’s hand gripping my arm. And then, we were in. A slight rock ledge in the waterfall had created a minute cave about 3 feet by 3 feet under the falls. I sat down with my guide and looked around. Water was everywhere around me, rushing over me. The roar of the water was deafening and awesome. This apparently, was a site where slaves would hide when trying to escape. I couldn’t imagine sitting here for hours upon hours, waiting for dark to come so you could steal through the jungle in the hopes of gaining your freedom. But for the immediate moment, I was overwhelmed with the massive water, the crashing sounds. After three or four minutes here, the guide set us up for our exit. I was pretty scared, to be honest. I had no idea how we’d get out, be thrust into the upper pool and that current without hitting the waterslide out of control to go careening down it ass-backwards. Quick thoughts of hitting my head and never surfacing, the headlines in the paper reading, “American Tourist Killed in Waterfall Accident.”

But I had to trust my guide and so we both pushed hard with our legs, broke through the crushing water and popped out to be grabbed immediately by the current and pushed forward toward the slide. My guide grabbed my arm again and pulled me toward the river’s edge, safe.

I don’t know sometimes if I’m too trusting, or stupid, or just brave. But how is it that I end up doing all these things that scare the bejesus out of me or that most others wouldn’t dream of doing? I guess I must love it. And I guess I have this mortal fear of letting fear control my life. Ironic that. I dunno. We only have this one life and I just really want to live it at 100% all the time.

Down the falls and slide I went, again and again and again, until my legs were aching and my sinuses were waterlogged and I was exhausted and elated.

Something else to note here is that the locals have their own way of going down the slide… standing up! This seems like complete madness to me. And, every year, there’s a waterslide competition where about 60 locals come to compete on the form and finesse of their waterslide rides. I now have a DVD of hat that I’m looking forward to seeing when I get home.

Before leaving, the guide took me further up the pathway and further up the falls. An even thinner swinging bridge crossed the crashing water and I shimmied across to find a tiny bar tucked into a hidden clearing in the jungle and then onto another pool under large boulder that overhung the water. Another launch point, 10 feet above the water for a fun drop into the falls. But the water was too big and too fast, so the guide recommended forgoing it this time. But I’ll do it next time I come.

Then another cachaca distillery with their big, shiny brass still that was dripping out the cachaca nectar. And then the final stop at a tropical plant nursery where I took pictures of plants that looked so exotic, they seemed to come from a planet far, far away from this one.

With legs shaky from fatigue and a huge unstoppable smile on my face, I ended my day with a good meal, some reading and writing, and then to bed in order to get up nice and early to get my bus to Sao Paulo.

Isla Grande 03.15.10

Yesterday, I joined a boat touring the remote beaches of the island and some key snorkeling destinations. I mentioned that there are about 150 beaches, and we hit the key locales. The snorkeling was good. It was good to float as motionless as possible and let the fish gather around my body, coasting and then dancing and darting with the gentle surge. I like the feeling of being part of a clan. I like the feeling of being connected to something larger than myself.

The beaches I visited were very small -- maybe 30 yards long and just a strip of sand before the jungle line – remote and lovely. Similar to what I described in my last entry, but even more so since there is no land access to the beaches we visited, only access via boat. Sacre de Ceu, nicknamed “Lover’s Beach,” is considered the most beautiful spot on this island of 150 beaches. How do you describe something perfect? The grand mountains: verdant, alive, surrounding and guarding the remote cove. The blue water set against the green mountains, each color playing off of the other like a poetic duet, the white sand, the entrance from the beach to the jungle created by a small opening made by a boulder pathway, beckoning any traveler to become part of the jungle. Me, weightless in the salty ocean listening to the sounds of the jungle growing above the ocean, and the ancient clicking of life below the ocean.

The day was filled with incredible beauty, and you’d maybe ask – with every day so full of amazement and wonder, doesn’t it begin to become commonplace? At this point, I answer with a resounding, No! Each destination may have similarities, but each feels unique and I’m different at each place that I visit. I think what’s happening is that I’m keeping my eyes, heart, and mind open and bringing as much awareness to everything that I can. And I’m amazed to share that that awareness seems to come so easy here – it comes without thinking and without effort.

I don’t know if it’s about sloughing off the mantle of everyday life, or if I’m in a foreign environment and so can see things with new eyes, or ?? Or some combination of things? What I do know is that trying to over think it all may just steal the magic out of it. I keep having this feeling that just being in it is the key to something really interesting. Maybe something so interesting that it has the possibility of fundamentally changing me.

I remember having this same sensation when I went on my last trip through Egypt, India, Indonesia, Thailand, and Cambodia. I came back a different person after only three months. And this trip feels similar, but the lessons I’m learning are at another level – building on the thoughts and lessons I learned about myself three years ago on that trip.

Again, I wonder, is all this beauty and fullness of experience available to me in my everyday life? If so, how can I maintain it while tackling the rigors and demands of everyday life?

I recently read an article by Paul Theroux, probably the most famous travel writer of the last thirty years. In the interview he kept mentioning the words travel and enlightenment together. He said that travel isn’t a vacation. Travel is messy and hard and basically calls you out on your game, you know, that game where you trick everyone and yourself in thinking that you have it all figured out and you’re in control. And it really resonated with me. I find that travel calls me out, calls me on my game, demands that I give up my stories, attachments, and expectations and in doing that, gives me opportunities to drop my small self and step into the large way of being, the way that’s connected to everything.

Back to our story…

There was a giant oil platform in the ocean as we rounded a corner of the island and two massive tankers not far from the platform. It was an arresting sight and so out of place, but reminded me of how Brazil will be so different in five years and even more so in 10. Brazil has discovered what they think to be the second largest oil reserve in the world in the last year or so. It’s estimated that they will become a massive energy powerhouse in the near term. And that’s going to change everything and nothing for Brazilians, I think. The miniscule percentage of the rich with become richer, inflation will continue and infrastructure will not improve, the poor will continue to be poor and the middle class will shrink as many join the ranks of the poor. Already, I’ve spoken with several Brazilians who say that 10 years ago, middle class people could go out to dinner on a Saturday night or take a nice vacation. Now, that’s not the case. And I think it will get worse and worse. Make no mistake, despite all of my stories of beauty and Brazilian grace and nobility, this is still very much a third world country.

The boat stopped in a deeper part of the ocean – quite a ways from shore. We got on snorkel gear and dropped into the water… I honestly didn’t know why. But after putting my head down into the ocean and after getting over the initial anxiousness that I often feel floating on top of water that’s significantly over my head – I saw a wreck on the sea floor. About 20 meters down was a crashed helicopter. One rotor jabbed up into the open sea and the others you could see embedded in the sandy bottom. The cab was visible and you can barely make out that coral was starting to make their home on the crashed machine. Since it was in the open ocean, not part of an existing reef, and the water was a bit murky and deep green, the whole thing was ghostly and eerie. The boat guide didn’t know enough English to tell us the details of the crash, but I tried to put it out of mind that someone may have died in this copter.

I was happy when we all hopped back in the boat and headed to our next destination, which was beautiful and peaceful.

Later….

Another raucous night at the hostel. Hostels have personalities, and this one was the drunken frat boy who drinks too many beer bongs, is so hammered he lights the filtered end of his cigarette, and then tries to make out with a girl only to get the spinners when he closes his eyes and has to run to the bathroom to puke. It makes it hard to sleep when everyone is partying until 4am every night. I leave tomorrow on the fast boat back to the mainland and off to Paraty.

Ilha Grande was a mixed bag. The environment was stunning, but the people weren’t so much.

And now, for your moment of zen...

Ilha Grande v1 03.13.11

Ilha Grande is definitely for the tourists. I actually find it a bit too touristy for my liking right now. Maybe at another time, it might appeal a bit more? But I’ve managed to experience some really intense and beautiful moments in the one full day I’ve been here. This morning, I left my hostel to trek through the mountainous jungle to find a waterfall inland from the beach that defines the town of Vila do Abrao. The guidebook mentioned that trekkers should let their hostels know where they’re going as hikers can easily get lost or trapped or, well any number of things as I’ll share as this blog entry will reveal. I had already forged quite a ways past the trailhead when I realized that I forgot to tell my hostel that I was hiking the trail to the waterfall. Oops.

It was hot… and muggy… and sweaty. The weather on Ilha Grande has vacillated between hot and wet with intense humidity and hot and cloudy with intense humidity. Put a jungle on that and you have a natural sauna of epic proportions. As soon as I was enveloped by the jungle, I was wet. I had this sensation that I was reverting back to my evolutionary roots in the ocean, getting my oxygen through the primordial soup. Lush is a laughable term for the jungle here – the jungle completely dominated. Humans just another little creature, trying to move our way through the verdant throng, ridiculous in our beliefs that we’re at the top of the food chain. Ha! It honestly makes me laugh out loud! I love the feeling that I’m just another ant crawling around on the surface of this ball hanging in space, so even though I was drenched within the first few minutes of entering the jungle canopy and my clothes were sticking to my skin in this uncomfortable way, I was blissed and small, just another part of the continuum of life on planet Earth.

The hike was a rigorous one, more rigorous than I was planning on. But at least I was smart enough to wear hiking shoes, unlike most of the other trekkers, who wore… flip flops? Really? The trail was slippery from all the recent rain, steep, and pocked. More than a few times, even in my hiking shoes, I slipped and almost bit it. On the way to the falls, I saw the arched walls that demarcated the aquaduct, still in use by the town. The jungle made the stone arches look like ancient ruins – covered in lichen and eroded to a mottled black-brown stone. The trail stopped being quite so kind and started uphill… and then more uphill… and then more. The grade started getting really pronounced, and the clay earth more slick. I had to watch just in front of me to make sure I chose the best foothold I could so I wouldn’t take a fall. And because I was looking just ahead of me, I didn’t see what was just beyond that.

I have a phobia of snakes.

The guidebook mentioned that even on this well-forged trail, there are things that live in the jungle that don’t take heed to a human-made trail.

In my attention to not slipping and falling, I came terrifyingly close to stepping on a snake sunning herself on the trail. A lightning-fast motion came out of the lower left corner of my vision – she was six feet long, maybe a little longer, black as night with bands of yellow-orange wrapping around her lithe body. She moved quickly but not far, and I yelped and moved quickly in the opposite direction as fast as my adrenaline-infused body would take me. Despite the intense heat, a massive shockwave of goosebumps electrified my body, making my skin highly sensitive to the jungle – the moisture, the heat. I was breathing rapidly, shallowly. I started to get light-headed and realized that I was beginning to hyperventilate. I called on the most useful credo that I’ve ever learned, and taught to me as I underwent my SCUBA certification “Don’t panic.” After a couple of really nice, long, deep breathes, I finally had a well-reasoned thought, “No one is around. If I was bitten and she’s poisonous, I’d be in serious trouble.” I held tight, wondering if I should turn around and forget the whole thing, or wait then forge ahead, or wait and see if anyone brave enough shows up to move forward and see if she’s there. There was no way I was coming this far and not seeing the falls, and waiting for someone to save me might have me waiting past my patience, so I decided to ind some large rotting branches and throw them ahead of me on the trail to scare her off. After some lame tosses and some well-aimed ones, I slowly advanced, again with rapid breath. She had made her way back into the jungle… and so I made my way deeper, too.

After an 90 minutes of uphill, slick trail, I came upon the clearing that help the waterfall and the natural pools that gathered around the falls. The falls was about 40 feet high and lovely, cascading into a pool, then more rocks, then another pool, and then another. The canopy of the jungle had opened so that the sun was kissing the top of the falls and a corner of the primary pool. Large boulders lay haphazardly throughout the pools so that you could perch on one and simply relax in the cool water. I sat and watched the water pounding the rocks beneath the falls, the spray... glitter like diamonds in the reflecting sun, the jurrasic-like leaves and plants growing and reaching toward the light, and the large butterflies, black and violet and lapis, waving their wings in flight, exploring and then alighting on some chosen spot to rest.

I took pictures, of course, which will never do the scene justice.

After spending a good long while in the pool, cooling myself down after the strenuous hike, and after really drinking in the experience of this beautiful scenery, I headed back. On my way, I saw a series of large boulders going down a steep grade, rivulets flowing quickly between the boulders. I went to take a picture and maybe do some exploring when I heard behind me an alarmed voice, “It’s dangerous!” A guy of about 28 stepped out of the shadows to then tell me that his girlfriend and he were just trying to explore these boulders and she just slipped down the boulders and split open her head above the eye. She was apparently bleeding quite badly. I asked how I could help but he told me he’d already found someone and they were rushing down the steep trail to get the park rangers. He called down to her in German and she called back. She as conscious so that was good. Soon after, the two men who’d fetched the park rangers arrived back, covered in sweat from their fast run through the slippery trail, and we exchanged concerned glances and words about the situation. I continued to offer the help, but there wasn’t really anything I could do except to say that I’m sure the rangers are on their way and everything would be ok. More bodies in the way weren’t helping, and I knew help was on the way, so set out.

I just kept thinking, “This is the jungle. This is not my natural environment. Anything could happen to me at any time.” Top of the food chain? Choking on a sardonic laugh.

After my adventures on the jungle trail, I decided that a change of pace was in order and made my way to the beach to lounge and read and listen to the waves. While I still contend that the main town of Ilha Grande, Vila do Abrao, there’s a reason why tourists have flocked here and the tourist trade has developed. The coves are idyllic, massive black boulders pepper the coves close to the beachfront, breaching the surface of waves by six to 12 feet or more. Lush foliage: palm trees, bamboo, and a immense diversity of other plants crowd the beachfront and back into the jungle. The waves gently lap at the black and tan sand beaches. You can feel the time when there was no person here, just the rhythm of the waves and the sounds of the plants growing and the animals singing and living out their existences as part of the much grander scheme of things.

Home to the hostel, a beer or two, reading and sleep.

Parting thoughts of Rio and on to Saquarema 03.11.11

The Monday after my Carnaval parade experience is a bit of a blur. After several consecutive days of staying up into the early hours of the morning and not much solid sleep, I could feel my brain start to hiccup and my short-term memory limp along like a marathon runner with a twisted ankle. But here’s what happened my last day-and-a-half in Rio…

Monday, I made my trip up to Corcovado to see if I could catch a glimpse of Christo Redentor, the massive statue of Jesus with his arms outstretched that is the definitive image in the media of Rio, with not much luck. The clouds obscured the massive statue so my pictures are of a shadowy outline. That’s the way it goes, sometimes. Monday night, sweet sleep. Tuesday, I had a fantastic day of visiting Sugarloaf Mountain, which was utterly spectacular. The views from the mountains revealed the incredible beauty of the city and the oceans surrounding it – the white city set against the deep blue sea was striking and I just tried to drink it all in to my heart, which felt like it was overflowing already with so much beauty.

And now, I’m in Saquerema. A chilled out surfer town northeast of Rio and a complete 180 from the energy of Rio. I’m grateful for the relaxed vibe and the constant rhythm of the ocean, just letting it seep into my body and mind, quieting everything down so I have some moments of stillness.

The weather is hot and sultry, some rains here and there. White sand beaches like sugar sticking to my feet. Reading and catching up on my writing.

Wolf and Cladia own my hostel – Hostel Itauna. Wolf is a hardcore, old-school surfer, and looks it. An intense tan. Shoulder-length, curly hair with streaks of blonde from the sun and saltwater. Tribal tattoos on his shoulders, chest, back, and biceps. He owns a surfboard manufacturing shop in the next town over. Claudia pretty much runs the hostel herself, which is immaculate and well designed. Really fit and also deeply tanned, she runs on the beach, rides her bike, and talks to her daughter on the phone, who is spending five months working in Lake Tahoe and who has just announced to her mother, as of yesterday, that she plans to continue her university studies in California. Claudia seems a little concerned but only shrugs her shoulders and says her girl is growing up. Both Claudia and Wolf seem, from the lines around their eyes, to be about 45, but their bodies are 27-year old bodies. Exercise will do that for you. They lead lives that they both seem really happy with, doing the things that they love in an environment that suits the relaxed lifestyle they want to lead. It’s pretty inspirational and gives me pause to consider if the life I’m leading is one that suits me and is in aliment with who I am and who I want to evolve to be.

I leave Saquarema tomorrow morning – catching the bus to Rio at 5:25am, then making a connection to Ilha Grande (pronounced Il-ha Gran-djeh), where I’ll have any number of 150 gorgeous beaches to choose from.

I’ve booked my remaining travel for Brazil and am amazed that my trip is slipping through my fingers so quickly. After Ilha Grande, I head southwest to Paraty and surrounding areas with more gorgeous beaches and ocean. Then up North to Manaus and my trip on the Amazon and in the jungle. After, Iguassu Falls on the Brazil side, and then I start my journeys in Argentina.

My heart is breaking 03.08.11

My heart is breaking as I leave beautiful Rio. Will I ever see it again? As my departing bus rolls through the outskirts to the city, I see Sugarloaf Mountain perfectly framed by two lower mountains, watching over the beautiful city and her Carioca. I see Christo Redemptor with his arms outstretched, finally visible through the fog, blessing Rio and her Carioca. The ocean is grey and the skies have stripes of violet blue. The sun is reflected off the high clouds shining a silver light in the sky. The mountains, azure and green and verdant, protect and cradle the white city. Beautiful Rio.

My last four days in Rio will go down as one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Once you connect to the heart of a city, something in you changes. I remember feeling that the first time I visited San Francisco. We drove into the city through the Golden Gate and I remember seeing the city like a pearl in the sunlight and something in my heart sang. I knew then that I would live there, and I did.

Rio during Carnaval isn’t just Rio and the Carioca (natives of Rio), Rio during Carnaval is a representation of the energy of the people of Brazil. People come from all around the country to Rio to celebrate this holiday -- and celebrate it thoroughly. Blocas, or block parties that represent certain areas of each major neighborhood, happen in the week s leading up to the climax of Carnaval, as well as in the weeks following. In reality, Carnaval isn’t a week long affair, but a month-long celebration of the national energy, brother and sisterhood, and pride in Brazil and her culture.

When I try and think of where to start in describing my adventures, I have a hard time knowing where to begin , so for lack of a better idea, I’ll describe it chronologically, which is like a good thing as it might capture the flow of energy of Carnaval – each day building more on the last so that the energy climbs to an ecstatic pitch. Keep in mind I was only there for four days, so my description of the energy will be sorely incomplete as Carnaval (as I mentioned) is a month-long affair.

Friday, I arrived at my hostel. A sad and sorry place in the neighborhood of Catete (pronounced Cah-taych), grungy and dull. You could practically hear the bedbugs as they fluffed their nests in the mattresses. I shared a dorm with Natalie and Kaileigh, who were from Orange County and young and fresh and pretty and… you know, from Orange County. I settled in to my tiny, cramped dorm and set out to discover Ipanema, the neighborhood made famous by the song, “The Girl from Ipanema” which I now find to be completely accurate.

Ipanema is a bustling neighborhood with many shops along the main street and many cafes and bars along the side streets. I headed down to the beach to watch hundreds of hard bodies glistening in the sun. Ipanema beach is a very long stretch of sand that defines the borders of the neighborhood. Considering how many beautiful, scantily-clad people were there, it was surprisingly free of garbage. I think that can be attributed to the favelas (a name for the service class in Rio who live in shantytowns in the outskirts of the city and who are a considered a service class in the city) who regularly comb the beach in search of empty beer and soda cans and bottles that they can recycle for money.

I sat on the beach for a while just observing the whole scene. I imagined being in Southern California on muscle beach – it seemed very similar in that people were there to see and be seen. Not my scene, but pretty fun to look at. And yes, women do wear those bikini bottom bum flossers, regardless of size or shape or weight!

After a couple of hours there and as dusk set in, I found a lovely side-street restaurant and ordered my first caipirhinia in country while planning my travel route through Brazil. About three sips into my sugary-tart refreshment and I was feeling pretty fine… that cachaca is crazy strong! I planned my travel route through Brazil (at least for the time being) and also took a look at what nightlife might be worth checking out over the weekend. I decided that tonight, after Ipanema, I would head to Beco do Rato, a highly recommended live samba music club in the Lapa neighborhood. I had some time to burn before that club opened so I ventured into the streets of Ipanema. And that’s where the magic of the next four days started. People were out in the streets, in groups with their friends, sitting at open air cafes and bars drinking chopp (beer), laughing, talking, and dancing to music emanating from some of the bars. On certain streets, there were large crowds of people who simply took over the block, even though some cars tried to make their way through, here and there.

And then, drifting on the night air, I heard a bass drum. I traveled toward the sounds, which grew louder and fuller, and arrived to find a thousand people following a neighborhood samba parade comprised of about three head dancers, 50 drummers/percussionists of various types, and a truck with a large stage mounted on top of it with a group of 10 singers and their entourage balanced on top of that. The sound system projected the deep, gravely, hearty voices of the samba singers and the drums spoke for themselves, loud and clear. Two ropes reaching out from each side of the front bumper of the truck plus ten people guiding each rope created a cone-like space that surround the drummers and dancers so they wouldn’t get swallowed by the crowd. The samba beat and tune shouted out the philosophy of the neighborhood that it represented – it sang out to the night air and the people amassed around the truck, drummers, and dancers. The energy was so high! Everyone, these thousand people, were smiling and singing and dancing, celebrating the joy of Carnaval, celebrating the joy of being alive. As the impromptu parade traveled along the street, it picked up more people and dropped off others, and the energy kept coming on.

If you know me, you have to know that I jumped in immediately and danced with the parade for blocks and blocks. I didn’t want to let go. People turned to me, smiling and singing to me, a complete stranger. It was so full of love and magic, writing it even now makes me break out into a huge smile… I’m feeling so grateful for the experience.

After about an hour or so, I realized that it was getting later and it was time to head to Lapa and check out Beco do Rato.

I caught a cab in the rain and was dropped at a little side street, a pedestrian only street in what looked a little bit of a seedy part of town. Seedy, in this case, was a perfect indicator of exactly the kind of samba club where I should be. I paid my pittance of a cover charge and entered a small, packed, and broghtly lit beer hall where tables of people had buckets of ice cold beer, sweating in the warm night. The next small area was open-air and drenched from the rains. And beyond that, in the heart of the club, there was a space that was packed with people dancing to a live samba band on a tiny stage. So many kinds of people were there, back, white, mulatto, in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s. All just bumping to the samba beat. I got a beer and joined in, letting the energy flow through me and giving all my energy in return. There’s something about Samba music that is so joyful and celebratory, I can’t really describe it. A rolling beat, fast and full of life! I danced and watched people dancing – watched girls and their boys kissing to the samba beat – everyone just moving and bumping and there. Not thinking about work or their bills or their troubles. Just totally being there in the experience… in the moment.

As much as I wanted to stay late, I knew the next couple of days would also be big ones, so I grabbed a cab back to my little hostel and called in an early night – at 2:00am.

I slept the next day until 10am and then headed out to the rodoviaria (main bus station) to purchase my bus ticket to Saquerema, my next destination after Rio. Now, the not so great thing about being in Rio during Carnaval is that there are so many people and so many blocos that it can take much longer than normal to get around the city via public transportation. The buses are constantly delayed as they try and drive through main streets that have parades happening on them or that have a massive spillage of partiers from the blocos onto the main streets. And the public transportation is jam-packed with people – sweaty bodies, small hordes of guys in their teens or 20s, drunk and pounding on the bus ceiling while jumping up and down, shouting samba school songs. Combine that with my general lack of knowledge about the bus routes, and you have my Saturday, which was spent mostly riding the bus around the city trying to get from one place to another. But, the great thing about this was that I got to have a bus tour of the city! And I had the chance to experience Carnaval culture! On my magical mystery bus tour, I traveled through many neighborhoods, but one neighborhood in particular was quite, but really not much mentioned in my guidebook – Jardim Botanica (Botanical Garden).

After finally getting to the bus station and buying my ticket to Saquarema (a whopping US$9), I decided to forgo going back to Catete and instead, disembark at Jardim Botanica. There was a massive bloco there with a truck and band on top. I joined in the throng for a bit, then tried to break my way out of it to get to other parts of this beautiful neighborhood so I could do some exploring. I succeeded just a bit, enough to stop at a very nice café to have a piece of quiche and a salad, but I found that trying to fight my way through the crowded streets and the long bus trip had burned me out a bit, so I decided to try and come back to this lovely tree-lined neighborhood, filled with tree-lined streets, charm, and grace anther time (though not after meeting a nice group of Cariocas who wanted me to come along with them to their next party!). Sadly, I never made it back to Jardim Botanica before my departure from Rio, but I’ve decided I’ll table that visit for the next time I visit Rio.

Saturday night I decided to head to Copacabana since my Carnaval guide showed there were about 10 different blocos happening there during the day. I thought this was a good indicator that the evening would be equally lively there. I headed out and walked around Copa for an hour or more and couldn’t find any parties, just people drinking in bars. Enh! After a quick bout with disappointment, I let it go and decided to head back to Ipanema to try my luck there since the previous night was so fantastic. And OMG, it was going off! The area around the metro station was absolutely spilling over with people – packs of what looked like 12-year old boys clustered around the one boy in their group who dispensed vodka from their shared bottle, shirtless guys and scantily-clad women smiling and laughing. And then came the rain! It started pelting down and while some people headed for what cover they could find, many stayed out in the downpour and just kept partying and dancing, raising their faces and hands to the sky. I ducked under a tree a put up my umbrella and immediately, one of the clusters of 12-year old boys ran under the cover of my umbrella. All of them then tried, in their own drunken states, to pick me up. OK, being over the 40 year mark, it was pretty entertaining to watch these little guys try it. “Where you from? You are bee-oo-tee-ful! How old are you?” Four minutes of the same lines repeated over and over from this cluster of wee ones shouting vodka fumes in my face and staggering into me and I was done. I made my fast escape to the sad exclamations from the boys and decided that my next destination was home to Catete. The long bus trip, the Jardim Botanica bloco, Copa, Ipanema… I was tired and was ready to call it. But how to get home? The bus would be a nightmare and I knew a taxi ride home would be spendy. I wandered around, I’m sure looking like a lost, wet little sheep in the rain, asking passers-by if they spoke any English so I might enlist help in getting some information to get back to Catete. Enter Andre and Charlie. Andre knew some English and after the initial questions, my name, where I’m from, where I’m trying to go -- they convinced me that we needed to go to Lapa and have a beer. Onwards via the metro!

Everyone seemed to be trying to get somewhere so there was actually a massive line to even get inside the metro station. We joined the crush of people and finally made it to the metro to arrive at the Lapa station. Lapa was insane! As I tell these stories of Carnaval, each story seems more outrageous and more intense than the last. And that’s exactly how it was. Lapa was one massive bloco covering six or seven large square blocks. Maybe ten thousand people were coming in and out of the neighborhood where there were countless live samba clubs, all packed and spilling out into the streets and all going off. Partiers had taken over the streets completely!

We made our way to the Boomerang Club, where we met their friend Sabrina. The narrow club had four floors that opened to the tiny center stage where the band played and the dance floor. The area above the band was covered in fishing net so no beer bottles or debris could hit the band as they whipped the crowd into a Samba frenzy. People were singing, dancing, hopping up and down, kissing each other on each cheek (the Brazilian way); couples were kissing and dancing the samba seductively, it was going off!

Shouting above the band, I learned that Sabrina has a daughter, who she just took to Machu Picchu. Andre and Charlie work as security officers in a bank as they make their way through school studying business administration. But none of it really mattered all that much. We were all here to play and be alive, to live beyond our daily lives outside of this night.

At about 3am, they helped me find a cab (buses and the metro were just not an option at this point), and I made it back to Catete to fall into bed. I was still so wound up from the night it took me a good hour to relax and finally fall asleep. Another incredible night in Rio!

Sunday day was spent sleeping with a long attempt to take the bus into Ipanema to do some shopping. Not happening! The crush of people throughout the bus route made traffic come to griniding halts. Every ten minutes, we might move forward a few feet. I hopped off the bus to be swallowed by the crowd. I inched toward the grocery store in who-knows-what neighborhood and joined the throngs in line at the store who were buying racks and racks of beer, Smirnov Ice (which is huge here in Brazil), bottles of vodka, and red bulls (also huge here). I think I might have been the only person in any line who was buying food! After a long wait in two different chaotic “lines”, I paid and made my way back out into the crush. Somehow, I got back to Catete, just in time to get ready for my big night at the Sambodromo where the massive Carnaval parade for this particular night would happen.

Earlier in the day, before my dorm mates from the O.C. headed out, I asked them how the Sambodromo Carnaval parade was the night before, Saturday night (I heard them come in at about 5am). Both of them, normally pretty blasé and unimpressed though sweet, lit up like stars, their faces shined and huge smiles gave way to stuttering about how amazing it was.

As I got prepped for my Carnaval parade experience, I had butterflies flitting around in my belly. I had learned that the parade is none hours long, from 9pm until 6am! So I filled my pack with diet coke (to keep me awake!), some food, and water. I suited up in my makeshift costume – kitten ears, a tail, a bowtie and cat eyes and whiskers and started my adventure.

Oh, I bet you’d like to know what the Sambodromo is? In years past, the Carnaval parades, which are tremendously large and happen over the course of four nights within one full week, would take place on the streets of Rio. But ultimately, the city realized that this as an unsustainable model and commissioned an architect to build a type of stadium that was specifically configured and used only for the Carnaval parades – called the Sambodromo. I can’t help but translate this to the “Sambadrome” like something out of a Mad Max movie. And really, that’s what it is. A colossal space for the different Samba schools to bring it and kick the competition’s ass to become the ruling Samba school of Brazil – a tremendous win and a tremendous honor.

I disembarked from the metro and began to weave my way toward the Sambodromo. I guess that maybe one square mile surreounding the Sambodromo was covered with makeshift stalls selling drinks, food, t-shirts, postcards, and other, mass-produced tourist handicrafts. Again, words can’t describe the scale of this set up.

People were everywhere, flowing through the streets and as I started to approach the Sambodromo, I saw the Samba school dancers and drummers with their ornate costumes, wandering toward their staging areas. And then I saw some of the floats! Now, as much as I don’t want to, I can’t escape comparing our best floats in the Macy’s Thanksgiving day parades to these. And the Macy’s floats are sad and sorry little things. The few Carnaval floats that I saw in the staging area were master works of art! Beautiful color schemes, massive, amazing sculptures of mermaids and fish, decorative gems encrusting the structures, running fountains...

I made my way through the turnstiles and through the “official” vendors ringing the stadium, past the throngs of people jockeying for space to watch the Carnaval, and found a space for myself that gave me a great view of the parade runway. Everyone’s energy was high – full of expectation and excitement. Guys carrying full storage crates full of ice and beer and soda climbed up and down the steps shouting “Cocacola! Cervezha!” then would squeeze through the rows of seats to sell a lucky person their drinks.

The Sambodromo is massive, constructed like a stadium, except that in place of the field there is a large runway that extends about four hundred yards long and 50 years wide and the seating is aligned against that on either side.

A rush came over the crowd, the parade was starting! First came the parade judges (I surmise) – the glitterati from around Brazil -- then lines small groups of various people who might have been security or just honored guests of the parade? Then another line of officials of some kind who represented the oncoming Samba school. Then... the music, the beat, and the first dancer! She looked about six feet tall in her platform glitter boots. Flambouyant and brilliant in a white sequined-encrusted bikini, a huge feather wing sculpture extended from her back, dazzling the crowd and announcing her school by prancing to and fro across the runway… dancing, beaming a smile so wide that everyone, even in the highest seats, could feel her radiance! The Samba school anthem rang out in the sultry night, people cheered and leapt to their feet to begin their dance -- singing along with the anthem. Outrageously ornate floats and troupes of dancers, each in their own ornately designed costumes moved to the samba beat and then spun wildly – all singing the philosophy of their samba school with ecstatic pride. A riot of colors, strobes, lights, textures, energies took the Sambodromo with force and passion; shining through the crowd and beyond to infuse heads, hearts, and souls.

After watching the parade for about 60 minutes – with legions of dancers and drummers and countless floats – I realized that this was just one samba school. There was still another 20 minutes for this samba school to show what it had, and it would be followed by another five samba schools, each with 80 minutes of its own song, legions of dancers, and countless floats!

My brain and body kicked into overdrive as this thought hit my brain – I wanted to surrender to the experience and drop my self so that I could just swim around in th, joy, celebration, pride, and energy.

I danced nonstop through every samba school. Only one other girl sitting in front of me could keep up (she outlasted me, actually!). But I felt unstoppable, just riding the waves of incredible energy. Even though none spoke English, I made friends with the people sitting around me. How could I not? A monumental collection of people all riding various ecstatic waves has a tendency to break down language barriers.

Beyond my description, the only thing that can possible describe the experience are my pictures. But ley me just describe one point of the parade that helps capture the incredible innovation and creativity that these schools put into their presentations. Typically, each school has a lead dancer of the kind that I described earlier – tall, sequined, flambouyant, gorgeous. That’s then followd by a lead float that expresses the overarching thme that the school is taking in their presentation – it could e something as grandiose as advances in medicine fom the dawn of time to something as simple as “hair.” This particular theme was about fear and how movies show us fear to amaze and excite us. The lead flost was soothing that, when I think of it, it still boggles my mind. It was quite simple really, in comparison to the other lead floats from others schools. It was a black float, square only, and with no sculptures or strobe lights or glitter. At the top of the black float was a stage with a small movie curtain toward the back. Out sprang a movie usher dressed in red – he was rushing being chased by what followed: 16 frightening figured, dressed in black cloaks with white ghost faces. The dance was really cleverly choreographed and perfectly executed, which is saying something considering the competition, which was fierce. But the amazing part was the magic that followed. At certain points in the dance, the ghost-faced ghouls removed their heads from their bodies in a perfectly executed move, which they repeated over and over. Now you might say, “Well, their costumes were just pulled up over their heads, like a bad headless horseman costume.” But no. Not only did it not look like that at all, but these heads had just one second before been singing the samba school anthem, not mechanically but slightly different from their other ghouls and like the slight imperfection that comes with being human. It was astounding and the crowd completely lost it! Anyone left sitting jumped to their feet and you could hear the crowd collectively drop their jaws in amazement and exclaim, “AHHHHHHH!” As the dance continued, not only did the ghouls drop their heads in tandem but then they removed their whole upper bodies from their lower bodies, their head still singing the samba school anthem! It was totally astounding and again, the crowd completely went wild, screaming and cheering and clapping. It really was magic! That’s just a small taste of only one float of countless that showcased the creative forces behind making the samba parades so stunning.

But I invite you to do a google image search on Rio Carnaval – you’ll get a little taste of the crazy beautiful, utterly delicious feast that was Carnaval.

After two days of staying out late and this night of dancing until my feet ached, I hit a wall at 4am, just before the last Samba school was going to hit the Sambodromo. With a sad but full heart, I tore myself away and headed home to Catete. Again, couldn’t sleep because my energy was so high, but managed to drop off at about 6am.

It was all too beautiful!

I think that, when I remember that night – and the other nights of Carnval – I’ll remember the total joy, the pure connection, of feeling part of something bigger than just my small self, of the beauty of what it means to be alive.