The Amazon and Etceteras

The Amazon

The Amazon was one of those fantastic places that exceeded my expectations.  You hear so many horror stories about people on discounted Amazonian tours (Really?  That´s where you want to cut costs:  In the jaguar, anaconda-infested jungle?), so I red-eyed in and out of Manaus, and booked the good booking to go into the Great Selva, hassle free.  The way it worked at my lodge, each booking gets assigned one tour guide with a bit of overlap depending on when you arrive.  I was assigned to Cristoval, and though he was still assigned to Barry when I arrived, and a family of four when I left, the ´overnight in the jungle´ part of it, I was alone.  It didn´t occur to me that this was unusual until the family told me that when they were booking and feeling nervous about sleeping in the middle of the jungle, the Travel Agent told them, ¨You´re worried and there are four of you?  There`s a girl out there right now, all alone!¨


Of course, once Cristoval and I were canoeing out to our campsite and I attempted to landmark our route, I realized how impossible it would be to ever chart my way back, especially at night.  You start landmarking by memorizing things like "wobbly tree, with crook to the right of the fork", and then (being that it´s the Flooded Forest) you see a million other trees that look like that.   There are anacondas slithering through the Flooded Forest, though you can´t see them as you paddle through the oil-slick black water.  I said to Cristoval, " I hope you realize that if you get hurt out here, I`m going to be of no use to you!  I have no idea how to get us back to civilization."  I asked Cristoval if he was carrying the antidote on him for tarantula bites, and he told me they keep it back at the camp.  What good is that?  Sure, he can paddle back in an hour, but what about me? 

Setting up camp was cool.  Cristoval has his campsite set up with rudimentary forked and shaved wooden posts, for setting the tarp canopy and hanging the hammocks.  He made spoons and spatulas by carving the bark off sticks, and we gathered huge leaves to use as plates.  Despìte the fact that I had two caipirinhas at the campfire, I didn`t dare go to the bathroom once all night, as we could hear the jaguars crooning.  When I asked Cristoval how far they were, his response was "far away" (which he later clarified as being 500 metres!)  Actually, twenty years ago Cristoval`s Dad was in the jungle at dawn (6 am) cutting rubber trees, when a jaguar attacked and killed him. So I made sure I stayed mummified in mosquito netting and hammock until 7 am.


During our stay we went piranha fishing, sometimes setting long lines roped between two trees like a clothesline, with baited lines hanging down from the central line like pendants.  Sometimes we just did free fishing, in a little enclave in the Flooded Forest.  I was so anxious to catch a piranha, I tried and tried, improving my baiting and casting techniques daily, but, although I did kiss one, I never got to catch one.  The bait for pirhana fishing is (believe it or not) raw chicken and beef.   So for vegetarians who only eat fish...beware!  You might actually be eating an entire cow.  These pirhanas are smart; they know just how to nibble around the hook and despite my attempts to wait it and bait it, I was never able to snag one.  Every single other guest at the lodge caught at least one, if not five, but I was like the Anti-Pirhana.  Thankfully this aura also extended towards the mosquitoes as I didn´t get bitten once, though other people looked like they had the chicken pox.  So, every evening before the sun set, we tossed the residual bait overboard.  The fish must all have been spreading the word about the six p.m. buffet.


Cristoval was telling me about an extreme adventurist he took on a ten day Jungle Safari.  She insisted on doing it Survivor-Style, eating only what they caught, so they had to do the whole Lord of the Flies thing to get food.  They saw about ten jaguars, and  they learned to sleep high in the trees (she had to learn to pee standing up, from the fork in a tree.)  Not the vacation for me!  Another couple of French girls went on a tour with a fly-by-night guide who got them lost in the forest for six days and five nights, before they were randomly found by a hunter.  Their feet were completely swollen and they were bitten to bits by the time they were found.


Another danger of the Amazon are the huge tarantulas which tiptoe about at night.  We went on a day walk and Cristoval coaxed one out of its cave with his stick.  I wasn´t expecting to see something so huge and furry, like the Yeti´s knuckles, creep out of the earth.  Suffice it to say the Amazons deserve their reputation for being fiercely brave (that and the fact that they succumb to full body hair removal once every 15 days, something I tried once and will never ever repeat!)


Rocinha and the Favelas

One fascinating aspect about Brazil are the favelas.  These are huge shanty towns whose houses shingle the hills of Rio.  They say that 20% of the population of Rio live in these favelas, and Rocinha is one of the biggest of the 750 favelas in Rio.  It was featured in the movie "Ciudad de Dios" with actual residents from the favela appearing in the movie.  Though a large aspect of the favela is crowded, dirty and poor, it still hosts a network of fast food, cyber cafes, banks, cable services, pharmacies, and electronics shops in addition to the huge drug trade. The number of inhabitants in Rocinho is somewhere between 60 and 160 million inhabitants.  The narcotrafficantes operate out of a "boca de fumo" where they not only sell drugs to the locals but to the rich and wealthy inhabitants of Sao Corrado and la Barra da Tijuca. There was a big bust on the drug trade in the favelas recently, (which some people who live in the favelas say was ´´all show and no go") because the traffickers were using kids as messengers, drugs and arms carriers and between 1979 and 1989, the number of children killed by small arms fire increased 306%.  That said, most of the members of the gangs are under twenty and the favela lords are about thirty.  Even the youngest and lowest ranking favela members (between 12-16) earn about five times Brazil`s minimum wage (260 Rand or $162/month), so you can see why the trafficking continues. 

What you see now when you go to Rocinha are the new sports complex with pool, and a Smarties coloured housing complex with secure playyard bookending the simple, ramshackle structures with split cement walkways, broken CDs and used condoms littering the pavement.

It´s an oxymoronic place with cozy houses, tiled, with running water, beside rusting corrugated structures with dripping roofs.   The telephone posts are nested with wires that people have snipped and rearranged to augment their access.  We arrived up the mountain by motorcycle, and as we climbed up the streets were rewarded with a spectacular view of Rio, forests and beach and city.   Though the poverty seems extreme, one woman was apparently not even willing to sell her house for a million dollars, because she loves the view.

The favelas are run paramilitary-style.  Jorge Selaron, a Chilean artist who tiled an entire staircase with tiles from all over the world (I bought one of his paintings!), sums up the rules of the favela like this:  The art of living in the slum: no one steals, no one hears, nothing`s lost, dictate those who can, obey those who are wise.

Some of the things that are not permissible in the favelas (and are controlled by a quid-pro-quo system of juistice) are theft within the community, physical fighting between residents, rape, sexual abuse of children, wife beating, speaking to police and owning a gun without informing the local traffickers.

On the tour I was on, we walked past an unsmiling guy holding an AK 47, while barefoot children raced underfoot of vendors carting produce through the streets.

Sexto, Sabado, Domingo

Despite Rio´s repute for being ´the marvelous city´, it also doesn´t have a lot going on during the week.  I arrived pre-Carnaval and expected to see some rehearsals or pre-party parades.  Though I did stumble into one parade in the Botafogo by fluke, I spent one night wild goose chasing on foot, on the subway, and in taxicabs in the rain, trying to find a parade or dress rehearsal in the Sambodromo.  The refrain that kept getting parrotted to me was, "Sexto, Sabado, Domingo" (Friday, Saturday, Sunday), so if you arrive on an idle Tuesday, even at Carnaval time, I guess you`re out of luck.  I finally asked the taxi driver to just drop me off at a good restaurant nearby, and he dropped me off at...McDonald´s.

Saudade

The Brazilians have this thing called ´saudade´ which, according to the guide books, is something particular to Brazilians and Brazilian culture.  I once tried to translate it as "I miss" or "nostalgia" but got quickly corrected by Nem, who insists there doesn´t exist such a thing in English.  Since the Brazilians are for the most part indominatable optimists, I guess it´s the closest they get to ever being depressed.  I will say though that with the American music that got played in Brazil while I was there, I was feeling saudade.  Saudade of the DeVinyls and Bizarre Love Triangle.

Brazilian Telenovelas

I didn´t really get to tune in while I was in Brazil, but they are infamous programming in Brazil.  They run more like American mini-series, ending after about 6 months, but the plots are untoppable.  There´s one that´s called Caminho das Indias (Indians´Road) which combines Indian characters´ emotional dramas in Brazil with the Taj Mahal tossed in.  The telenovelas deal with issues such as land reform, the peasants´ movement, homosexuality, AIDS, and gun violence.

Uruguay

Uruguay for the long weekend.  Gonna miss that.  Funnily enough, when I was staying in Buenos Aires, jumping a ferry across the water to Colonia took the same amount of time as Catamaraning between Morro de Sao Paolo and Salvador during Carnaval in Brazil.  When the hip and hype of Buenos Aires get to be too much, taking it down a notch in Uruguay is just the right dose of cure.
Colonia was a very chill little place where you could sit on a patio and mull with a beer and Chivito, one of these famous sandwiches crammed with Canadian loin, tomatoes, mayonnaise, peppers, onions and french fries.  All the world carts around a thermos with a mate for their famous tea, to ward off the cold, and local bars play condombe music and serve amazing steaks.  The people are very friendly.  A little old man at this little diner called ´The Club` saw me pouring over my map, Pilsen in hand, and invited me to an asado with his entire family.  He took me on a guided tour of the Rambla, and I think he saluted almost every person we met, by name. 

Monte Video was a little different, and a little dead on the weekend, ironically.  They do however have this crazy street market which overtakes an entire grid of streets, and sells everything from action figures, to aprons, brass numbers to brass instruments.  There was even one stall selling an eclectic menagerie of electric fans, blender components, telephones, nunchuks and baseball bats.  One stop shopping for inquisitioners and hitmen.  When I was heading back from Montevideo to Colonia, I had to get to the busstop and had pre-ordered a cab.  However, the concierge at my wallpaper-covered hotel informed me that the taxi drivers had spontaneously declared a strike.  When I asked why he told me it was because a taxi driver had just been shot (In broad daylight.  By a drug addict.)  So, not so quiet on the weekend after all.  I was happy to get back to Colonia, where you wait an hour to be served at any cafe, another hour to get the bill, and thus spend the entire afternoon people watching.

Such is the pace of Latin American living.  I like.

Brazil: Beaches, Bodies, Bossanova, Caipirinhas and Carnaval

My trip to Brazil started like this.

Man in security line-up to board flight to Rio (carrying large zinc studded rock with jagged edges):  Wha'dayya mean Ah can't carry ma rock on 'a plane?
Security personnel:  Well, sir it's dangerous.
Man:  It ain't.  It's just a souvenir.
Security personnel:  Well, sir, we can't let you on the plane with that.
Man:  Ah just don' see wha' not.
Security personnel (biting back a laugh):):  Because you could hurt someone with it, by throwing it at them. [Please, don't explain.  It's better he doesn't know!]
With a resigned shrug, the man profferred up his rock (which was probably the foundation of the Iguazu waterfalls) and said to his wife, who was busy trying to cram an apartment's worth of contents into a carry-on "Honey, they jus' ain' gonna let me take the rock on board."

These are the people they are letting into the country. Meanwhile I had to beg, bribe and badger my way to a Brazilian Visa!
When I first arrived in Brazil my very first thought was:  'My God.  These people don't wear clothes.'  Even arriving in Rio at one in the morning, the heat was beyond oppressive.  Coming from India where shoulders and ankles cannot be exposed at any cost, even in 45 degree weather, it was something to see more skin than cloth.   Luckily I had that buffer zone of LAX where I saw  more booty and boobs in an hour than in the previous six months of travel.  In Brazil, the L.A. Factor gets further extrapolated.   You see it all.  Beer guts and Jesus cuts.  Tans and flans.  Welcome to the home of the Dental Floss bikini.
So here are some post-impression word strokes on Brazil.
The Language
First of all, when I arrived in Brazil having pooh-poohed away the phrasebooks my brother had encouraged me to read  while indolently lying about in the hammock, I was quite sure I could stumble along speaking Spanish as though I had a squishy banana in my mouth and get by.  Very wrong.  Sure enough, Portuguese is its own language!  I had a rude awakening when I went to the juice bar and tried to order some kind of "vitamina" (smoothie).  I had no idea what the woman behind the counter was saying, and ended up in some kind of ticket booth ordering an orange juice, because it was the only thing I knew how to say.  And even at that, I had no idea that 'suco' was the word for juice.  Or that 'naranja' is now 'laranja'.  So I ended up drinking some weird purple concoction that tasted hauntingly like cough syrup (but which I later came to love and know and procure as Acai, the purple Amazonian berry).  My first 'conversation' in Portuguese was with a random beach boy who talked on and on about 'perigro'.  I didn't know what it meant but it seemed from the context as though it must mean 'to impale oneself upon a sharp object'.  He said it happened to men a lot which seemed about right.  It wasn't until later that night when I saw a sign of a man falling with  the word 'perigro' emblazened across the top that I realized, 'Oh!  Perigro. Like 'peligro' in Spanish.  Danger.'  The thing with Portuguese is that it is so similar to Spanish it almost trips you up more, knowing the Spanish.  Kind of like how having a dance background in salsa or ballet trips you up when you go to learn Tango.  You'd think it would help but your feet want to point toe-first instead of heel-first. [Damn muscle memory!]  When I see a sign 'restaurante', I think of it in the Spanish way.  For the first two weeks I had no idea what a 'Hestoranchee' was.  You see the R's here in Brazil-Land all magically turn into H's.    Who knew Rio de Janeiro is actually Hee-o de Janeiro.  The Brazilian guy I am now dating (more on that to come) was asking me about a Canadian artist called 'Hickey Assley'.  I said, "I have no idea who  you're talking about, but I'm pretty sure there's no artist going around calling himself Hickey Ass."  In a Skol-induced epiphany later on, it occurred to me that he was referring to Rick Astley.  "Axl Hose" I figured out  because of the Axl, but it still makes me chuckle.  My favorite though was when he asked me , "What are your hobbies, as in past times, not as in 'Batman and Hobby'".  I am just as bad, talking about 'ruas' which  are actually 'huas'.   I live on the Hua Ondina.  Hu-ah!  I love it.  When I checked in for  my flight, the attendant glanced at the computer, then back at me politely enquiring, "Janela?"  I shook my head.  "No.  Jen-ni-fer."  I later realized 'janela' means window and he was enquiring as to whether or not I would like a windowseat.  My brother actually gave me the best advice on learning the language, which was: "Remember that weird expression everyone used to use when we lived in Chapleau, when they didn't get something? 'Yaoh?'  Just add that to the ends of words.'"
Passion is the Fashion
Not only is this true at the Copacabana, but in fact everywhere in Brazil.  I bought a book of plays by Nelson Rodrigues, figuring that studying plays would be a good way to learn the language, given the amount of sheer dialogue.  (This was before I realized all of his plays were about the Electra and Oedipal complexes.)  The two words I learned from that book that appeared over and over again were 'apaixonado'  and 'joelhos' because the characters were always passionately on their knees.
There was a famous triple-threat Brazilian couple who committed suicide recently, Romeo and Juliet-style.  Cibele Dorsa (the 'Brazilian Cindy Crawford') jumped off the same balcony as her drug-addicted boyfriend, Gilberto Scarpa, two months prior, because she couldn't bear a life without him.
Sexiness is obligatory in Brazil.  Women everywhere, especially around Carnaval time have boob implants and butt implants.  I have met an inordinate amount of beautiful, slim women in their twenties who have all had some form or other of plastic surgery.  One day walking the streets of Rio I counted at least eight people with The Jackson Nose.  I  felt like I might quite possibly be the only person left in Rio who has not had surgery.  What I find unusual though is that what gets characterized as sexy is subtly defined by the context of the country.  Brazilians are the only people I know who can get away with making braces sexy.  It's almost an accessory here.  A flash of bling.  And done with confidence it is somehow enticing.  The other sexual icon that fascinates me are the tan lines.  Tan lines are accentuated here.  Women wear strapless dresses boldly exposing their tan lines as pseudo spaghetti straps.  Even in paintings, womens' striped and shorn shoulders are revered.
I had to laugh looking at an ad denouncing smoking.  Whereas in North America we focus on the deleterious effects of smoking on unborn babes or a shiny white smile, the Brazilian ads focus on impotence.  A barely-clad beach boy with a frown has a large  fist blocking out his privates with the thumb pointed down, simulating his (now dysfunctional) family jewels.  Ingenious.
The cultural imperative on closeness weaves its way into the dating world as well.  I was at a beach party with the guy I am dating, Nem, during Resaca (Hangover Week) on the island of Morro de Sao Paolo.  At one point, he gave me a hurt look and asked if we were together at the party or not.  I wasn't sure if this was one of those weird rhetorical questions or not so I simply responded with the obvious:  "Of course we are."   He then indignantly  informed me that I hadn't touched him in an hour!  Which in fact was the case, because I was mingling a bit downstream (with a gay guy and another girl, I might add).  It's funny because I think on the Canadian spectrum I'm actually quite affectionate, but I can't compete with the Brazilians!  I'm pretty sure babies were conceived at that beach party!
Beaurocracy and Bilheterias
Though you might think of Brazil as having this super relaxed beach culture, (and you wouldn't be wrong), it also has its beaurocratic side.  A lot of times, when you go to buy something, there is a bilheteria, or ticket booth as an intermediate stepping stone in the purchase process.  If you want to buy an orange juice, you have to first buy the Orange Juice Ticket at the bilheteria, and with this ticket, you can then exchange for  an actual orange juice at the counter.  It's a kickback to the barter system!  I couldn't stop laughing one night when I was out at Sarkofo in the Pelourinho.  My dormmate, Cathrine was trying to  buy a simple caipirinha [best and most refreshing alcoholic beverage, bar none, with cachaca (fermented and distilled sugarcane juice), limes, ice and a truckload of sugar], but the bilheteria didn't have change (surprise, surprise.  Welcome to the Land of Latin America, where no one has change.  Ever).  Her Portuguese was even more fledgling than mine, so I was acting as 'the translator' and deduced that what he had given her amounted to a scribbled IOU of 10 reais.  Very official.  I went back to use her IOU to get myself a caipirinha and the bilheteria man thought I was trying to contest his IOU, spread his hands out wide in a gesture of supreme desperation, and declared:  "Nao tenho troco!"  (I don't have change!)
Another night, I went to a fancy schmanzy night club called Dolce in Iguatemi, with my newfound friend Maiene. [I met Maiene and her boyfriend Vinicius on the Island of Morro do Sao Paolo, where I spent the Resaca with Nem.  They were taking pictures of each other, and I offered to take one of the two of them together.   They befriended me, and I ended up staying with Maiene in her apartment in Salvador on my way back from the Amazon.]  So off we headed to the beautiful night club district in Iguatemi, where the clubs are harder to get into than the country.  We started off as five, but lost Ale and Cathrine at the front door when they didn't have ID.  Since I haven't needed ID  for a decade and a half, it was by complete fluke that  I even had a copy of my passport on me.  After two security checkpoints, at which they input all of your data into their computer system, you are given a plastic card.  I mistakenly assumed that this was a 'get a free drink' ticket, but it is a bar credit swipe upon which you can order all your drinks.  Well, you can imagine how that goes.  People treat the cards like Monopoly Mastercards, buying rounds, buying drinks they can't afford, losing their cards.  At the end of the night, you line up at the Bilheteria to pay up.  If you can't locate the card, it's a 600 reais (close to $400) penalty.  I met some girls in Rio whose companions didn't pay up at one of these clubs, and there is a special 'pay up' room where they creatively encourage you to pay your bill.  It ain't pretty.  It also isn't much fun hanging out in an interminable line-up at 4 am with drunk and disorderly patrons incoherently arguing their bills.
Crack Kids
Sadly, in the Polourinho District of Salvador, in amongst the colourful cobblestoned streets, are the omnipresent crack kids.  They are addicts from a very young age and live in the streets begging off tourists.  They can become quite incessant in their demands and even aggressive.  I had one run up to me and kiss my shoulder, but have heard of stories where they bite.  My dorm-buddy Claire and I were going for a walk one day when a straggly kid of about eleven grotesquely flashed us, and then wanted a tip for the show!  I was sitting on a shop stoop with Nem one night after supper, listening to some drummers in the street when a Crack Kid approached and begged Nem for money.  Nem told him  no and the child got quite indignant.  Nem shook his head and said, "Hey, me too kiddo.  I would love a beer right now but I don't have the money."  This infallible logic actually seemed to get through to the kid, and he shrugged his shoulders and went away.
I was on the second floor at the Laranjeiras Hostel one evening washing my face, and I had set my facial scrub on the windowledge where it toppled into the cobbled street below.  I ran down to get it, and wouldn't you know it, it was already gone!  Scooped up by a crack kid.  The security guard just shrugged his shoulders, as if to say 'What do you expect?'  Some crack kid is probably trying to smoke the exfoliating crystals as we speak!
The Story of Nem in a Nutshell

They say you always meet someone when you're not expecting it and this was certainly true of me and Nem.  I met Nem about an hour after arriving in Salvador, sweaty, tired and jetlagged, in a bathroom line-up.  It happened like this.  10 minutes after arriving at my hostel, I met some cool people who invited me to go out to a street party with them.  But they were leaving in 10 minutes.  As such, I had no time to shower or freshen up and had to throw my hair in a ponytail and leave in what I was wearing, a tee-shirt and gypsy pants.  We ended up in the Pelourinho, listening to a drumming contingent and then we split ways; I ended up at a salsa club with a couple of other girls.  I met Nem in the washroom line-up (I  didn't actually have to go to the bathroom, but was trying to elude this crazy guy, and thus apologetically had to slip out of the line-up and head for the terrace after the fifth girl asked me, “Are you in the line-up or what!”)  Nem followed suit (although he actually did have to go to the bathroom, but he held it...that's modern love;) and we spent the whole night dancing and talking.  Though I don't know how.  We always joke that my Portuguese is like a five year old's and his English is like a five month old's.  We speak 'Portunol'.  Connecting afterwards was also a problem as he had given me his mom's number (he was staying at his mom's house for Carnaval) and when I called she had no idea what I was saying (I had only been in  Brazil a couple of days at that point).  To complicate matters, when he tracked me down at my hostel, he asked for 'Jennifer from Spain'.  But we eventually figured it out.  Since I was staying on the island of Morro, off the coast of Salvador, we had to commute back and forth on the Catamaran.  Originally I had thought this would be a good opportunity to study Portuguese until I realized all my forces would be compromised just trying not to throw up.  So we had some turbulent boat rides back and forth trying to meet.  We have been dating for about two and a half months now and Nem surprised me by flying to Argentina to come and stay with me, my brother and his girlfriend in Buenos Aires, a couple of weeks ago. He's a Football Coach for kids/youth and is studying Physical Education as a mature student in Florianopolis. He also has a background in massage and cooking and has worked as a Masseuse in Sports Injury for an International Football team.  He makes me laugh like no one can, and despite the language barrier (which is lessening) we talk about everything and anything and nothing under the sun.  Our relationship is possibly improbable.  But it is also for-sure-fantastic.

Carnaval
My reason for going to Brazil!  I have always been curious about Carnaval but this was the first year I've had time off in that time-frame, so I jumped at the chance to go!  Given that Carnaval is one of the hugest parties in the world with people in attendance not only from all over Brazil but from all over the world, you would expect sheer chaos and calamity.  The fact is that the infrastructure of Carnaval is exceptionally tight.  There are basically three ways you can experience Carnaval:
Camaroches
These are like temporal elevated mini-clubs overlooking the Carnaval.  You can see the throng of plebian partygoers parading past without ever having to descend from your Rapunzel Tower.  They are expensive (usually a couple hundred dollars), but are safe and all-inclusive.  You can descend into the street and party whenever you want and then come back up to the Camaroche.
Blocos
These are groups of people affiliated with a samba school who party behind one Trio Electrico, which is a giant float with costumed dancers, singers and animators atop and on board.  You buy a jersey for that bloco and bip, bop and boogy in the cordoned-off area (manned by body guards) behind the float.  Only people wearing the jersey are allowed into this section (the abadas [jerseys] cost a little less, usually about $50 to $100 dollars.)
Fiz Pipoca
Literally this means 'to make popcorn' and from the viewpoint of the people up in the Camaroches, this is probably exactly what it looks like. This is the cheapest version, because it costs nothing.  You basically fill in the blanks on the streets and party where you can, pipping up and down like popcorn, in the thick and schtick of it.
I hung out with Nem and his friends during Carnaval and we did a combo of Fiz Pipoca and Bloco Beijo (Kiss).  We partied for 12 hours straight some nights, dancing, singing, merrymaking, eating Street Meat and drinking 4-for-5-reais Skol beer.  I still have the beat from the “Superman Song” (the official song of Carnaval) in my head.  It is a song mocking Superman for being a wuss, and even has a dance to go with it, not unlike 'La Macarena'.
The way  that Brazilians recover from this week-straight of partying is by having a Resaca, or Hangover Week.   Nem and I spent Resaca on the quaint island of Morro, at my brother's girlfriend's best friend and her fiance's pousada.  Though I don't know how you're supposed to recover when every night there are foam parties, costume parties, live bands (Ziggy Marley!) and beach parties. Nonetheless, winding your way along the beaches in the daytime, eating eggburgers and sipping Fruitarinhas, does you in good stead!
So, that's a quick snapshot of life in Brazil.  More to come on...the Amazon!