Espiritu Sante

I had a number of goals on this trip into the southern continent. Several of them had already been realized in my visit to Rio, but the next state north was a reunion 3 years in coming. My dear friend Leo, who I had met in New Zealand at the Couch Surfing Collective lived in Vittoria/Vila Velha on the Brasilian coast and we had long planned to travel together. My recently finished novel contained a scene in which my character jumped off a cliff paragliding into the horizon, and well, I had never done such a thing in reality. Luckily Leo is an instructor and an expert in most things involving the sea and sky... So it was a necessary thing for me to go visit him, reconnect, and find my wings. Our reunion was heartfelt and on my first full day in town, he took off work early so we could climb up the nearest big rock over the beach at Vila Velha. Leo carefully hooked up all his tandem gear, clipping me in to his harness, watching the vultures rising on the thermals nearby. He watched me out of the corner of his eye, saying calmly: "All I need you to do is to run straight down that hill, and just keep running no matter what. It will all be over in a few seconds. Just keep going straight down. That´s all I need you to do." I looked nervously at the edge of the cliff we were standing near, where the grass ran right off an edge below which scrubby brush skittered down the cliff face at a pretty much vertical angle. There was no time to be afraid. The wind was low and we wouldn´t get many chances at this. I decided to suspend any fear I had and just assume that Leo knew what he was doing, had done it a thousand times and just put all my faith in him. It worked like a charm. I bunched myself up behind him as he gathered his lines, feeling for a breath of wind to give us a lift. Then he called out to me to go and I ran headlong down the hill, willing myself not to think at all, just to run straight off the edge. My feet were off the ground before I got there. Out kite was up and we were sailing out over the tree tops peaceful as can be. Leo told me to sit back and get comfy as we soared about with the birds and despite the low winds we managed to do several turns before we had to drop down towards the beach and come in for a landing. It was incredible to see the world from above like that knowing there is nothing between you and the earth but a bit of fabric and some knowledge about science and nature... I was so stunned I think my mouth was open for the whole trip, short though it was. And we landed like running out of the sky...feet down and hit the ground running, never missing a beat. It was stupendous. And for the next week, all we did was watch the weather and go out at every possible chance. On the weekend, we headed out to the mountains a bit inland and checked out two more locations where we got a ride up to the peak then glided off over grasslands and waterfalls. I have definitely found a sport I would love to learn more about and perhaps I will have to come back to this region in the future and spend a few months here learning the ropes. Leo and I managed to fly four or five times in the week I was there (in between our endless talking about all manner of things) before it started to rain in earnest, and next thing you know I am on a plane to Salvador...

Rio

Ah yes, Rio.

Someone said to me the sexiest city on the planet. Could be, could be.

Certainly a deep and rowdy one.

The bus ride from the bus station to my hosts house seemed endless and vivacious. A loud and raucous city that just went on and on and I asked the driver several times to me aviso quando chegarmos para largo do machado por favor. I was sure I would miss my stop but he insisted it was coming. It took me more than an hour of winding eternally through small streets and busy night markets and a veritable stream of humanity to finally reach my destination. I was a bit nervous, truth to tell. We've all seen the movies, City of God and others. We've all been told of the rampant poverty, crime and violence that takes place in this city. Of the acres of street children pouring down its avenues. Was it somehow different than all the other cities I have visited? It boded dark and mysterious. Dangerous. It is legal at night to roll through red lights here to avoid getting robbed in your car while you wait. The book said so. I read it.

I must admit that despite all the places I have been, this one made me wonder. I got off the bus and stood a bit nervously on the side of the road with my pack and my directions and watched as the bus pulled away from the curb, still not completely sure where I was going, but on the correct street at least and more comfortable on my own two feet than wedged into that bus unable to quickly disembark. But no one gave me a second look. I walked calmly along the busy road, glancing up at small signs occasionally marking the addresses and found familiarity in being able to find an address easily. The sense of foreboding wore off fast. Rio has a way of getting under your skin. My host lived near the central part of town and from her living room window, perfectly framed, one could see the Cristos – the enormous carved white sculpture of Christ the Redeemer with arms stretched wide that perched on Corcovado – the humpback mountain, all glowing and gleaming, lit up in the night through the wisps of cloud that skittered past, towering over the city as it slept....or not, as the case may be. The noise level and activity seemed to change very little as the sky slowly rotated between daylight and night...

Pao de Acucar is a must see for most visitors. It is a double humped mountain called Sugarloaf at one extremity of this awe inspiring city which is like multiple cities all strewn with beaches around a bay and its outlying islands and peninsulas, jutting forth with green mountains and grey peaks and sugared with light. It is a city which seems to have grown naturally from the earth, rising up out of nature in glowing radiance, the new buildings, shiny and modern, neatly interspersed with the rippling brick and cement waves of the favela that fill every crack and crevice that remain open for them. Off the coast and clearly visible is the the podium to modern wealth, the God of Black Gold, the PetroBras altar, pumping ceaselessly in plain sight of the beach. For me, although the view was truly stunning and displayed in all its radiance just what a remarkable delight Rio is - unlike any city I have ever seen - the best part was the tiny monkeys that came to us out of the trees and took banana pieces from our fingers with their tiny mouths while resting their paws on our hands. My first taste of jungle within the city was reinforced agan and again as I walked down ancient avenues with tall buildings litered with trees that towered to their rooftops. Humanity has built here for sure, but it is unable to prove its dominance over nature, even in its busiest parts.

I rode the bonge - an old streetcar over the aqueduct of Lapa up into Santa Teresa while local Carioca ran after us and jumped on to hang from the outer rails as we cimbed the steep hill into exquisite architecture crumbling with neglect and while whispering with history. From the top of this hill we climb an old ruin and see yet another amazing view of this endless city and can hear the crowds cheering at Maracana Stadium while the pearly white of the new buildings at Rio´s heart are interspersed almost seamlessly with the red brick protrusions of the everpresent favela which are everywhere and nowhere.

That night I learned what it means to be living near the Amazon Rainforest as the skies opened up and a deluge came down like an ocean dropping on our heads. Trees came down and rivers ran in the streets. Through it all the Christos glowed from the top of Corcovado, smug in his assurance.

I found my way to Corcovado itself, determined to hoop at the top in front of the Christos, and was surprised - though why I should any more be surprised I do not know - to have a woman approach me with my hoop - asking if I speak English. She is an American, from Burning Man, and a camp I know, and is a hooper as well. We share a moment of community in a foreign place and she borrows my hoop so she too can hoop Corcovado. Later I am with friends wandering the outskirts of Lapa and they take me to a cachaca stand. A small hole in the wall bar with a thousand bottles and brands of cachaca hanging from the ceiling. You choose the brand and they sell you shots. Cachaca is a beverage made from sugar cane that permeates Brasil with its strident tones.... After a night of taste testing and sleeping on yet another couch, I walked back to my part of town by way of the cat park - a place where stray cats go to be free. It was a rather huge city park, gated and fenced, filled with water features and forested areas, filled to the brink with stray (or abandoned) cats and kittens of every size and variety.

I switched to another couch surfing host who lived in Lapa and spent several evenings exploring old town and its gorgeous historic architecture and its crazy pulsing vibrancy of music and dancing that spills into the streets, from techno, electronica, goth and punk to forro, salsa and samba. The red tiled staircase, Escadaria Seleron, an ongoing work of art by an eccentric artist was an interesting haunt. I spent my days walking the lengths of Copacabana and Ipanema beaches. Ipanema is lustrous in its beauty and the surf was definitely up. The waves were
crashing with rash abandon and it was incredibly refreshing to swim there, though you had to hold on to your suit as the waves would dash you to the ground and tumble you head over heels when coming in or out of the water. I adored the lovely tasty treats sold by wandering vendors on the praia - Acai bowls with granola and honey - a delicious refreshing berry ice delight, Cocada - like brownies but made of coconut and sugar instead of chocolate, chewy and delicious, Queijos on a stick - white cheese they grill in front of you with herbs and spices, Churrasquinyo - grilled barbeque shiskebobs rolled in farofa, Tapioca - a tortilla or crepe like substance made from manioc flour and filled with gouiabada (guava jelly) and cheese, or coconut and condensed milk, or doce de leite - a caramel cream, or queijo con preso (ham and cheese) , agua de coco - young coconut water drank from the husk, kibe, and pao de queijo, endless variety of yumminess...

On a drizzly Sunday night a friend of a friend called, her last chance to meet up with me before I was leaving for Espiritu Sante. ¨There´s nothing happening in Lapa tonight. You should come out to Racinha. There´s a Baile Funk party happening here. You should come to the favela.¨ It was something I had wanted. I despise when people tell me things are dangerous and therefore I should stay at home. It was midnight when I rushed out to find a small collectiva van - the little buses that go to the far regions of the city. It was a crazy mad dash to find my way there and once on the bus her phone ran out of minutes so I didnt know where to get out. I told the driver Racinha and he just laughed at the loco gringo. Racinha is HUGE. When her phone finally started working again she texted me the stop but we had already passed it and so the driver explained how I could take a moto taxi back to the entrance where she waited. I hopped a moto and we wended our way down the serpentine hill while the favela spread out beside me down the vast hillside all dotted with lights like a constellation shining up from the earth to match the skies. My eyes were bright with the beauty of it. Even the guy on the motorbike with the machine gun who had preceded my bus as I entered the favela couldnt dampen my mood. I hopped off at via apia, thanked my driver in broken portuguese and started texting my friend to be sure we could meet. The baile funk was an eyeopening experience, as was the mafia dance party on the hill after. I spent the night curled on my friends bed, couchsurfing in one of the largest and most famous slums in the world, utterly safe and protected.

The next day was my last in Rio, and the morning was spent on buses making the endless return trip from Racinha. I moved a third time to the Jardim Botanico region, got stuck in another terrific rainstorm (most of which time was spent on the bus) and got to go to a very interesting circus performance with aerial artists, before meeting with more couch surfers at a forro dancing locale for my final night in town.

In the morning I explored the Botanical garden before hopping a bus to the rodoviaria for my next trip north to Espiritu Sante to Vittoria and Vila Velha.

Rio has a way of getting under your skin. It is a city of passion and it digs in deep.

I have left it behind me but I am quite sure I will be back. It is like the inevitable draw of the tide which laps so many of its shores.

On the road again...

How to begin.....

After 8 months of tarrying in my home country I have finally flown the coop again.

I would not belittle my time in America, as it was perhaps the best year of my life so far.

The return from sailing.

Living on a boat in Edgartown Harbor in Martha's Vineyard.

Working on an organic farm on the Vineyard for the summer. The decision to go to Burning Man – an adventure I am not yet prepared to commit to words and yet one which undoubtedly will play a role in future writings as it has changed me yet again, irrevocably.

The sojourn in Boston, and my introduction to NASA, yet another artist's haven and home of my heart in this big wide wonderful world.

My skitter scatter hopskotch across the country to California, hopping through San Francisco and then to visit Donna in Chico where I tried to prepare for the unpreparable.

The event in the desert.

Ten days of unbelievable, inexplicable, life altering, focusing, heart opening, actualizing, self realizing, expanding, exploding, unexpected and utterly desired change.

And that doesn't do it justice in the least.

I will find a moment sometime somewhen to try to explain properly just what happened on the playa. But in reality, whatever I say, it will not be able to describe to you the reality of that place.

You just have to go there.

And then I took it with me.

Two months in Arizona, visiting family. Making new friends, getting to know the south west.

Another life altering road trip through Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado with a very significant stop in Sedona. Again – another whole tale for another whole time.

And the sudden realization that it was time – finally -

for the Nomad Poet to write a book.

And so I did.

Spent the whole winter in Boulder, as a gift to myself. Four whole months given to this task, with no other obligation during that time than to write. No stress about money or the future. Just write the damn book. My feet were itching to get out of America, to be somewhere ELSE again. But the need to tell this story was paramount, and I promised I would not leave the US until the first draft was done.

It was a hard promise to keep. But the community in Boulder blossomed and billowed around me in a cocoon of encouragement just slathered with love. And I barreled through it. Keeping my usual good timing when deadlines are involved. And when spring came around the end of the tunnel was near and the feet started moving of their own accord. They danced through Arizona again and tripped their way to San Francisco, heart of my heart, tugging at my feet to stay a while. The moon spoke to me and I changed my flight, tarried a bit longer, made even more bonds in the city I can't stop coming back to. But it was time to move.

And suddenly I had literally flown through Boston and Syracuse and found myself back in NYC and the final words had been laid down. My plane ticket was bought. My VISA was in order. My wits were scattered. My emotions were like a hurricane I couldn't begin to describe and I was flying away to a place I had been waiting to visit since I was a small child. A place I had always been afraid to come to, because I had some odd sense I might not come back from. But a strange sense of contentment filled me as I got on the plane. A sense of completion which had eluded me as I traveled across the country. Then there had been a sneaking anxiety because the story's end was still nottranscribed. But now as I flew south through Florida, and Mexico City, finally landing in Sao Paolo, Brasil – I knew it was safe to come here. Because the story had been told. Odd, I know. A child's fancy, but one which kept me superstitiously away for so many years. Strangely enough, it wasn't until half way up the coast of Brasil that I realised it was just a way of cleaning the slate. Making sure the first story had made its mark, before being confused by the next one.

Not a neat introduction, I am sure. A summary of nearly a year away from journaling, and yet having completed the most writing ever in my life.

And now I am in Brasil.

The first thing I noticed about Brasil is all the kissing. I am pretty sure that if there is a place where kissing might become an Olympic sport it would be Brasil. My first day in Sao Paolo after several months of chaotic travel all over America, a dearth of sleep, and some small anxiety as my nomad feet tried to remind my sleepy head how to regain travel mode and get my sea legs back, found me in a park of towering jungle flora in the midst of Avenida Paulista sitting on a park bench in the deep muffled shade watching in bemused awe as uncountable local couples sat locked in embrace, completely unconcerned of being observed by any passers-by as they entangled limbs and played tag with tongues and lips and teeth and seemed to be in a competition to see who had the longest breath. They ALL seemed to win. It was a little arousing, I must say. Brasilians REALLY like to kiss.

I spent my first evening in Sao Paolo with several couch surfers of the Paulista variety, as well as surfers from Mexico and Columbia. I had already made acquaintance with an adorable chinchilla and somehow worked my way through several bars and clubs to finally enter into one of the underground caverns where I spent the rest of the night dancing in between bouts of Brasileiros trying to randomly make out with me and entice me away to the “back room.” There was even an episode, witnessed only by my friend Luis, another nomadic ambassador from Columbia, in which two of my latest fans on the dance floor had a little clash of tensions around me – LITERALLY around me ( I thought I would be squashed between them) - very reminiscent of the South Park episode where Bebe grows breasts and all the little boys turn into grunting apes marking territory, stomping and hissing. It was rather amusing. I firmly but gently extricated myself from their little circle of manhood and continued dancing my way through the night. Eventually we were too tired to dance anymore although the party continued on without even slowing and I was amazed to find it was already daylight outside when we stumbled out of the cave. Tadeu explained there was no end to the night here in Sao Paolo. They might go til ten some days... My sleep crinkled eyes shied away from the light as we stumbled home, welcoming the dawn of my first morning in Brasil.

After a brief nap, the entertainment continued as we walked over to another couch surfer's home and were invited to be welcome, to sit or lay down in her living room strewn with couches and

pillows and white shag carpet. Over the next few hours more people continued to trickle in as CS Sao Paolo emerged around me. There was music and salsa and forro dancing. There was sushi, sashimi, and miso soup. There were sakiritas – margaritas made from saki?? - with a boundless variety of fruits. There were people piles and photo shoots and movies and twelve hours later people were still up, doing dishes, and chatting with unexpected liveliness for four am. It seems Paulistas like their parties to linger.

Another mild nap and I was off to downtown Sao Paolo, doing a walk around the city center seeing some of the beautiful architecture of a time gone by. Tasting bolinhas de bacalhao – or fish balls – in the Japanese market. Climbing to the top of a tall skyscraper to see the sunset view of the city, with its Eiffel Tower mimic decked out in a rainbow cascade of neon. In the next days I visited a local market, a hostel run by another couchsurfer, another infamous club where the dancing was keyed in to eighties music from my own country, and co-planned a gathering in Ibiropuera Parque to meet more Sao Paolo CS'ers.

I entertained them to no end by wearing my bunny ears as a way for people to find us in the park and by bringing along my hula hoop – or bombole – for everyone to play with. More joined us, as well as several Chileans and a Swiss traveler. I got to make it to the weekly CS gathering at a local Mexican restaurant where I entered only to find I knew nearly twenty people already from my various adventures throughout the city. Sao Paolo was nothing if not welcoming and a very active CS community.

And then I was zipping my way through the Metro system to the bus station and off to Rio de Janeiro. My seat mate on the bus was a seventy year old man who discovered that I could fala portuguese poquenyo and so insisted on talking to me the whole six hour trip. I managed to tell him all the things I knew how to say quite well, and understood a good amount of the things he tried to tell me, but when the limits of my beginner speech were reached he seemed highly irritated, despite my only having been in his country for six days, that I couldn't continue to converse with him on endless topics. I remember specifically learning from him atrasado – delayed – as he was very annoyed by the border police who kept the bus half an hour at the state border, and then we were coming into Rio...