I enjoy travel writing when it feels right, and it felt right in March 2006 when I performed in Brazil. This from my files:
1.
Brazilians don’t seem to feel the turbulence that is quietly killing me here, in the backseat. We pass a dozen beaches on the way, and I want to ask Felipe about our destination, and if it is worth the extra hour. But his English is bad and my Portuguese non-existent, so I sit in the back, silent, sick. Felipe notices another mini-waterfall in our way, and so he shifts the jeep into the lowest gear. As he negotiates what can be called a path, Tata is laughing about the haircut of a naked boy we passed a few obstacles ago. He was wearing only three dead fish. They were hanging off his shoulders with a length of twine and still glimmering from the South Atlantic they were plucked from. The trees separate on our left and an even smaller path appears. We make the turn slowly. Felipe looks at me in his rear-view mirror. “Castelhanos is near.”
2.
I’m in one hammock while Tata and Felipe share the other, rocking and talking because they are newly together and near the ocean. Castelhanos is the size of a parking lot, a stretch of sand bordering a lagoon on Ilha Bella, an island known only to Brazilians.
A dark woman appears with a tray and three sweating glasses, one for each of us. This is passion juice. We didn’t order this, but it’s here just the same. Orange in color and milky in consistency, a glass of fresh passion juice is defined by the lump of crunchy seeds along the bottom.
We are not alone here. There are two couples seated together, just outside throwing distance from us. Three are still on towels, but the young man in the orange sunglasses is talking to himself. He is walking aimlessly, a continuous line of sand behind each foot. This man is very drunk.
The Tubina family lives in a hut under the jungle leaves. Their patio is our bar, and it borders the beach. I assume they wove these hammocks, and I assume, too, I’ll be billed for the passion juice. Felipe explains to me that passion fruit is a sedative. I’ve heard this before and I contemplate its plausibility as I fall asleep.
3.
A soft current cuddles the rocks that line the shore, and this makes swimming effortless. “Put your feet on hair,” Felipe shouts so I can hear behind him, where I am wading. Peering through the water, I watch his feet hover over the seaweed-covered boulder beneath us. I, too, plant my feet on what looks like fine, brown hair waving with the breeze.
Ascending these rocks is a game of twister, and I pause only once, contorting my body toward shore so I can admire the rocks, the beach, and the jungle, all in the same frame. We climb to the top of the highest, smoothest boulder. Felipe redeems his prize first, leaping into the water, screaming “Opa!” as he falls. Tata is a speck on the shore, but I can see her waving me on. Below, Felipe is slapping the water’s surface as one would fluff a pillow. I close my eyes and jump, but I don’t say anything as I fall.
4.
I open my eyes and answer the man with the orange sunglasses. “Yes, I’m American.” My colors make this obvious: a red flower-print bathing suit and a white skin tone found only on those of us who live in places where layers are encouraged. He hugs the tree that supports my hammock so that he can remain upright for our conversation.
“I speak English,” he says, and this is reason enough to believe him. “I speak seven languages: Portuguese, Deutsch, Français,” and here he pauses, tilting his face to the sun. I interrupt him.
“Are you here on vacation?”
“…Italiano… Español,” With considerable effort, he recollects the other languages, an impressive list of Germanic and Latin tongues. “Sprechen Sie Deutsches?”
“Are you here on vacation?” I repeated.
“I can control everything with the level of the ocean,” he responds. “Há um equilíbrio entre a terra e o oceano.” Mrs. Tubina approaches again, this time with cold water I didn’t order. I take a sip.
“Can you demonstrate how you can control the tide?”
“Nein! I cannot control the ocean. I use the ocean to control everything else. Alles sonst! Alles sonst!” Despite repeated requests, the man in the orange sunglasses tells me he is too tired to show me his telekinesis.
Other subjects arise. His name is Erick and he is from Germany. He emigrated to Brazil at nine, after a brief stint in Switzerland. It’s evident that Erick is now a permanent resident of Ilha Bella and that he comes from money. He is thirty now, and two years ago his motorcycle crashed in São Paulo. His demeanor changes and he adds, “That’s why I talk slow, walk slow.”
“Goodbye,” he says.
“Adiós.”
5.
“Dez reals,” Mrs. Tubina says, waking me, and I know it’s time to go. Ten reals is about five dollars. I remove a rolled up ten-real note from my right sandal and give it to her. I gather my things and notice a pair of orange sunglasses that aren’t mine. I jog back to Erick’s plot, and the ocean is noisier here.
“You forgot these,” I say to Erick, even though he is sleeping. A woman rolls over and takes them from me.
“I’ll take them,” she says with a French accent.
Twenty logistical questions enter my mind. Is Erick dating this woman? Does she take care of him? Was she on the motorcycle, too? Finally, I speak: “Erick’s a very nice guy.”
She rolls her eyes. “He’s so drunk!”
