Pedacitos of Peru

Firecrackers
The connotation of the word firecrackers is that of cute little sparky spritzers going off in the backyard, or a carefully manned and orchestrated extravaganza replete with safety standards and cordoned-off areas.  Not so in Peru.  In Peru they're not so much firecrackers like the Burning SchoolHouse, they are definitely more like sticks of dynamite stuck in cardboard boxes of sand, being manned by people scurrying around in hardhats, through a small patio in the Plaza, which has been cordonned off by caution tape.  Which does nothing to keep out a) the milling children or b) the milling dogs.  It was a complete miracle that nothing got blown up and that the millions of leafy green trees in the Plaza did not ignite.  And how does a hardhat protect you from getting your face blown off?  (That said, I just found out an old friend of mine is moving to Lima, Peru for 3 years so her husband can build a new mine.  I tell you, if he uses the firecracker dynamite to blast -- no problem!  It'll be done in 3 months!)  No one seems in the least phased by it though, and the photos I have of these puppies on 'Fireworks setting' are bold Pollack-esque Fireworks of Art.

Food
You know how they say, "When in Rome..."  Yeah, had to try the guinea pig.  Had to.  You know how they also say, "It tastes like chicken"...also true.  With one major difference. When you eat chicken, you don't see it in all its breaded horror, its cryogenic scream frozen in time like a carbonited Hans Solo in The Empire Strikes Back.  My dinner companions had to help me finish it off.  The gnarled claws, clutched in defensive stance are also offputting.

Rivalling cuy is the yummy alpaca meat. Though my brother's girlfriend keeps telling me to stop eating the cute, furry animals of Peru, I really can't seem to.  Alpaca tastes a lot like gyuten, that lean, succulent meat that picks up well in chopsticks; I always used to eat it while living in Koshigaya.  A month in, my co-workers informed me that gyuten translates to "cow's tongue", but by that point it was already too late.  In my defense, alpaca is the only red meat with zero cholesteral.  Sad, but true.  (Especially after you hug one!)


Meds
Like in many Latin American countries, you can just self-prescribe, and if all you want is two painkillers, they snip two out of the foil.  Not necessary to buy the whole pack.  I also know for a fact that you can buy singles of Viagra, right over the counter (buying for a friend, not a "friend";)  However, one day I went to the pharmacy to just get some paracetamol for the onset of a cold, since I didn't want to be even more breathing-impaired than I already would be at altitude.  I don't know why I did this, but on a whim I said, "This doesn't have amoxycillin in it, right...I mean, I guess that's a ridiculous question, I know it's just Paracetamol, it's just that I'm allergic..." and the pharmacist responded, "Yes, it is amoxycillin!"  Dear Lord!  Who prescribes amoxycillin for "the onset of a cold"!!?  I could have been killed, dear woman!  (More likely, turned into a giant hive).

Homestays
#1  I explored most of Peru as part of an Intrepid Group; after visiting Colca Canyon, twice as deep as the Grand Canyon, hosting the majestic soaring condors, and a pit stop to see the alpacas, vicunas and llamas of Patapampa, 4800 metres above sea level, where my Intrepid mate Bernie and I bought our Devil Balaclavas (well, I did), we made off to Chivay, the site of Homestay Number One.  It was a long and dusty drive, so the first thing I saw in this quaintly cobbled town was the washroom!  Our host moms came to the town square to pick us up in their embroidered bolero jackets, ground-sweeping skirts and cowboy hats, and after a tour of the premises (several buildings made of stone and cement with wooden beams and thatched rooves) we started in on the chores (collecting twigs for the clay oven).  We had the amazing luck to chance into the Alpaca beauty contest, and outfitted traditionally, the women in their embroidered outfits, and men in colourful ponchos, we headed to the outskirts of town where alpacas strutted in their finest, winning ribbons and getting towed and toured by the locals.  You've got your Huacaya alpaca (the full, puffy, granny-perm variety, shorn once a year and comprising 82% of the alpaca population) and your Suri alpaca (is that where Tom and Katie stole the name?), the dreadlocked variety shorn every two years.  There were faun alpacas, beige alpacas, brown alpacas.  Silver grey and rose gray.  White and black.   For supper, Mama Julia cooked alpaca meet in the clay oven, with only ignitable twigs to fuel the fire.  It was freezing in that little stone enclave and all Mama Julia had to warm her was another embroidered mantle and her Keiko propaganda apron.  I lent her my silver survival suit and she kept popping the paracetamol I gave her, but the poor thing was just frozen.  We went to our stone sleeping quarters and huddled there from six p.m. onwards with alpaca socks and hot water bottles.  Julia introduced me to her son; she told me he was nineteen.  When I met him, he told me he was sixteen.  A couple in my Intrepid group (the girl is 18, the guy is 19) were asked by their homestay mom if they had children yet, and were surprised when the answer was no!

#2  Our second homestay was on the shores of Lake Titicaca.  We always did a little shopping before our homestays, stocking our "Plastic is Not Fantastic" canvas Intrepid carry-alls with oranges, sugar, flour and Milo.  If our first homestay was made of stones, this one was made of straw.  Straw and mudbrick.  With thatched rooves and wooden doors.  Even the water supply was sheathed in long bundles of straw.  The walkways were made of bottle ends.  Men here wear woolen pants and vests with bowler hats and the women wear embroidered blouses, full colourful skirts and their long black hair twined in two braids with pompoms on the ends.  Married women wear flat hats with upturned edges and pompoms, like the Queen of Hearts.  Single women wear a colourfully striped nightcap with a pompon at its tip.  At this homestay, I was with Rosemary and Tony, and Rosemary and I joined Florentina in her chore of peeling potatoes. However, the potatoes are miniscule and covered with tiny eyes.  It is a painstaking and laborious job and when you see the pile of potatoes, its like an unending sea of bobbing corks!  Richard, the homestay dad, was hanging laundry in the sunlight and that looked like a lot more fun.  My two host families taught me some Quechua words and counting from one to ten, before we set out to play a little volley bolley, Foreigners against the Locals.  Those people know how to play!  At night, we lucked into another local festival, where we got to guss up in our traditional attire, and see the parades of people dancing in brilliant orange and blue tunics with brightly striped scarves called chaleco de Tinkus.  Lots of people drinking Pilsen, and of course the omnipresent fireworks.  Lots of what I call 'roller-coaster' fireworks wherein the people have this pinball structure of several metres for the sparks to ignite.  Sometimes the sparks go along a wheel, or giant flower, or spell out the name 'Jesus'.  In Mexico it was the outline of Benito Juarez.  Young children used to shield themselves from the errant sparks with cardboard shells on their backs, but I didn't have one and when a stray 'chispa' ignited my hair, my friends had to put it out, to the mantra of passersby telling me, "No pasa nada."


Elections
Exciting times.  Elections were on while we were in Peru.  On the left, we had Ollanta.  49 years old.  Lieutenant Colonel in the army, who fought against the Shining Path (Maoist insurgent guerrilla organization).  Fighting for a more equitable distribution of wealth from the country's key natural resources.  Better minimum wage and pension packages.  On the right we have Keiko.  36 years old.  Former First Lady of Peru (at nineteen!).  Got her MBA from NYC.  Constructed many orphanages and created the first pediatric cardiovascular intensive care unit.  Lots of campaigning and postering and general fanfare.  I got handed an Ollanta matchbook and calendar at one point, but had to hide them lest some incendiary right winger attack me!  Also, a 72 hour moratorium on alcohol (sober votes only, please!)  Ollanta ended up winning (Peru's 94th President), probably because Keiko's father, and former President, Fujimori is in jail for corruption and human rights abuse after a self-imposed exile in Chile and fleeing to Japan.  Among other things, he sterilized 300,000 women against their will (some of whom died) to meet international population targets, back in the 90s.  At my homestay, they were talking about how he slipped sterilizer into the food packages he handed out to the impoverished rural people.  Nice to know women have a choice in their own fertility.

10 Things I Love About Being Back in Canada, 5 Days In.

10.  No one steals my underwear from the laundry.
I am still missing my 90-peso-purchased-in-Argentina-but-100%-Brazilian Triumph underwear! Brazilian underwear is so ergonomic and aerodynamic.  I knew when I was piling stuff into the the bag to go to the laundress in Lima that it was a bit of a risk, but the soap in my dorm was so dodgy with more hair sticking out of it than a pigskin, that I couldn't be bothered to go the whole handwashing in the basin route.  And I thought, "Who's going to steal my underwear?!" (Not that hygiene is necessarily priority one (See items 9 and 5)) Now I know. Do miss those freebie shirts from mixed-up orders though!  Good thing I ended up back in Brazil to restock the underwear supply;)


9.  Gloves
So nice to see employees in the Food Preparation Industry using gloves (without holes in them) to make sandwiches (and then removing the gloves to make change.  Or go to the washroom.) Of course, I am pretty much basing this on a recent trip to Subway.  An now that I am writing this, I am remembering that dude selling hotdogs outside the nudist beach.  He didn't have gloves.  And he was a Jack-of-All-Trades, making change, roasting weiners.  And who knows which washroom he was using.  Probably not the swanky hotel next door...so, same same.


8.  Pedestrians Have the Right of Way
The first time I was back in Canada at the crosswalk and the cars let me by, I was pleasantly surprised.  The second time I was downright suspicious. Why would so many people be giving me the right-of-way with no good reason.  Then I remembered, it's the law here, and for some reason, people respect that.  Also, we don't have much of a population.  So, why not.  However, I still feel subconsciously that the drivers are secretly waiting to gun me down the minute I step onto the zebra crossing.  I zoom it across, never breaking the 'eye contact contract'.  That said, I actually do miss those timed lights across the four-tiered Paseo Colon in Buenos Aires..  If I gunned it, I could just make it in the 30-second allotment without getting sideswiped.


7.  Bagels and Salads (with a little bit of PB and J on the side)
So excited to have bagels back!  Thick, oil-dipped, ponchy, spongy whole-wheat(ish) goodness toasted golden brown and slathered with PB and J!  Not "marmelada" but actual jelly.  Or banana.  Or honey.  Do miss Argentina's media-lunas with melted cheese and ham, and submarinos (how can you not love a chocolate bar dissolved in milk) but cannot live without bagels. And salads! Eating without fear.  Salads with lots of random veggies: avocados, alfalfa sprouts, cherry tomatoes, blueberries, baby carrots, cucumber...

6.  Hot Water Showers
Forget hot water.  Running water. Period.  It is absolute genius.  You turn on the tap, water comes out.  Every time.  After running.  After cooking.  After using the washroom.  Nine times out of ten you get soap, toilet paper, paper towel.  Provided to the public. In your home, you get HOT water.  Really hot water.  Not tepid-masquerading-as-hot, or hot-if-you-land-in-the-lucky-two-minute-time-slot.  Decadent!  And bubble baths with your toes poking out of the bubbles and a glass of red wine perched on the tub ledge!

5.  I can flush toilet paper down the toilet
Another small miracle.  So cool.  So efficient.  All the smelly tissues immediately evacuated from the vicinity.  No worries about emptying the wastebasket every day or having mischeivous pets upend and dismantle the waste basket.  Or worse, mini sewage disasters because tourists don't understand signs that say "Please pull the paper in the basket" or "Please do now throw tissue to the bowl of the bath".


4.  I can walk the streets at midnight
The first night I got back, I forgot it was a Civic Holiday.  I took a cab to my friend's but she was already in bed, and the house dark.  Like the entire street.  And the street after that, and the one after that as I walked back to the main street seeking another cab to take me home.  It was like being in a ghost town.  I did get accosted by a lady begging money and then scoffing "Yeah, right!" when I didn't cough up change, so I felt less culture shocked.  I later saw her chugging back a Coke at the same Internet cafe I was in.  Seriously.  Where are the people in this city?  Surely with a population of two and a half million, they can't all be at the cottage!


3.  I can hail a cab.  Right off the street.
Once I did finally locate a cab, I could hop right in it.  So nice not to have to pre-call or find a swanky hotel and get a cab from their vetted stock.  So nice to not have the worry of express kidnappings; to not have the fear that after shopping at a mall, the cab driver parked outside will take you to a remote location and demand your debit and credit cards and PIN numbers at gunpoint.  Sadly, when I was in Guayacil, two Dutch tourists were kidnapped by a taxi driver and gang-raped by him and two accomplices.  It's such a good feeling to know that the majority of our cab drivers are above-board and safe.


2.  It is what it is:  Prices. 
Sure the HST is annoying and 'what you see' is not actually 'what you get', but at least if you can do mental math you know what you'll be paying once you get to the register.  It may seem overpriced and inflated, but at least you know everyone's paying that same overpriced and inflated price.  It's nice to know you're not being charged 'the gringa price', that although the price says "500 Dong" the guy is going to look you in the eye and say, "For you, 1000 Dong" and not back down.  It's nice not to have that Egyptian guy in Aswan tearing a strip out of you because you actually know the price is six times too high, denying that his register does in fact have change although he just made some for the Muslim woman next to you, counting on your baksheesh to pay his rent. It is nice not to be yelled at, or have that rude flicking-of-the-wrist-off-the-chin-gesture aimed at you.  And hey, it's nice to just throw your wallet on the coffee table and know it will be there twenty minutes later.  Or stroll down the street with a shoulder bag and have someone actually respond to your smile instead of your sack!


1.  Steven Harper and Rob Ford
Just kidding.  I think I was back all of twenty-four hours before having to write a vitriolic email petition to Rob Ford's "people" about saving our public libraries.  What is this nonsense about having more libraries than Tim Hortons'?  Isn't it sad when more people are addicted to caffeine than literacy?  Harper...well at least he is "thickening the relationship" with Brazil;)  But I digress.  Reason Number One is actually:  Family and Friends!  Upon arriving in Toronto I was inaugurated back into city life by Alexa with caipirinhas on the back patio (nice segue back from Brazilian life).  Day Two was a lovely stroll in High Park (the old hood) with Sara and an evening of blackbox theatre with Sheena, Claire, and Kathleen tailgated by bar-hopping with Jenny and Steve, ending at Sweaty Betty's in the wee hours in the morning.  Then there was the day at the nudist beach with Janice, keeping it real, a quick lowdown with my supreme travel agent and neighbor with flavour, Andrea, and dinner and drinks after a shopping spree in Mirvish Village with Vicki, Diego and Claire.  Looking forward to more GT's in the GTA come late Augz.

Now, I'm up here in Thunder Bay relaxing with the fam, welcomed back with banners and fanfare at the airport. My mom got me books by all my  favorite authors and movies from...yuppers...the public library!  She baked me my favorite chocolate cake, among many other meal requests, and we just spent a lovely afternoon at the art gallery.  Went canoeing with my Dad yesterday and tomorrow morning he's cooking me pancakes!  And I can run the trails every evening, without fear of bandits, rapist, or trampling wildebeests.  Life is good.  Life is very, very good.

(I have to put in a disclaimer here that I did have a great mid-way-point dose of friends and fam when the girls came to visit me in SanFran and L.A.  Hanging with Edith, Em and Sara in our townhouse, visiting Alcatraz and joyriding the coast, gave me a much-needed dose of home, after which I was subsequently spoiled rotten by my brother who actually made me Montreal-style bagels from scratch, cooked my fave macaroni, (and rigged me up with an archaic, yet fully-functioning internet connection in my loft room) in good ol' Argentina.

Still, I've been to see the Wizard, and though the yellow brick road was epic and demands to be revisted, there truly is no place like home!

Following in the Footsteps of the Incas: The Trek to Machu Picchu

The  Trail

Though most people know the route to Macchu Picchi as being the incredibly popular and populated Inca Trail, the trail I was on was actually the Socma-Kachiqata Trail.  But who's going to remember that?  This is basically a new trail of which the guys at Intepid are doing a recon.  They tell us it's been hiked before but our group of four hikers was the only group of hikers on the trail, so it's quite possible we were the recon.  It is a cool trail, full of divergent scenery, terraces, small villages, and Incan ruins.  The trails twist and zigzag along the mountainside. We encountered little kids all along the route, cute little imps with chapped cheeks and runny noses.  Though we aren't supposed to give them gifts, we did end up giving them snacks of saltines and apples and I squirted sunblock for them to rub on their cheeks, because they seemed to get a kick out of that. They didn't really know what it was though, and one little guy rubbed it all over his face, eyes and mouth, lathering it up like soap!  I met a pair of brothers on the hill and though the older brother chatted with me in Spanish, the little guy was mute.  I said to the older sibling, "This one doesn't talk yet, then?" to which the little brother burst out in an animated natter of Quechua.

The Passes

 The two passes we hit were the Pucakasa Pass at 4300 meters and the Kachiqita Pass at 4400 metres, but our campsites were a mere 3680 and 3600 metres.  The nights were see-your-breath-cold, and despite the fact that I had a "minus-five-according-to-the-Peruvians" sleeping bag, and despite the fact that I was wearing thermal underwear, two sweaters, alpaca socks and my Canadian Tire silver survival suit, I still froze my ass off (an expression I fully understand now.  Literally.)  I did not sleep a wink, but daydreamed and cursed my awesome, sweat-inducing MEC sleeping bag, lost somewhere in the mountains of Swaziland.

The Food

When we think of camping in Canadian terms, we picture frankfurters with baked beans, and sealed silver tins with forgotten can openers on the kitchen counter back home.  On this Intrepid Trek, we literally had 3 course meals.  Our porters, replete with little Chef's Caps and aprons, would present us with hot mate de Coca or Chicha (this yummy, hot fermented corn drink) with bowls of popcorn and plates of crackers while we played the cardgame Shithead and warmed up. That would usually be followed by some appetizer like a steaming soup or tortilla chips with guacamole.  The main course was ample, with rice or potatoes accompanied by a traditional Peruvian dish like lomo saltado (succulent, juicy meat) or Aji de Gallina (a spicy chicken dish in a decadently creamy sauce) or Rocoto Relleno (stuffed peppers).  Followed by dessert...soaked peach halfs, accompanied by a hot toddy or some other elixir while listening to Third Eye Blind or Linkin Park on Raul's IPod and playing more rounds of Shithead.  Come morningtime, the guides proffered cups of warm tea through the tent flaps to wake you up and brought basins of hot water for sponge bathing.

Chemical Toilets

The only real downside (yet, upside) to the camping was the chemical toilets.  First of all, due to the inordinate number of "wild" horses and cows on our route, we were always camped out in the middle of meadow muffins.  The chemical toilets, at first glance, seem on the up-and-up with their neat little Intrepid logo stamped on the tidy blue tent flaps.   However, when you're getting up at 4 a.m. for your third bathroom run of the night, since it is freakin' cold and you've just drank 3/4 of the jug of chicha (in addition to the 3 Litres of water you have to consume daily to combat altitude sickness), it is all you can do to hover yourself above the chemical toilet making sure no pant legs or sleeves touch anything and hold your breath over a toilet containing the entire camps' intestinal contents.  It is not a pretty site, and though we all eat the exact same food on this trip, seeing this gigantic mass of what looks like writhing worms of all shapes, colours, and consistencies, you have to wonder.  You really do.

Altitude pills

Initially, I was popping these Sorochi pills every 8 hours to try to combat altitude sickness.  As we climbed from coastal Lima towards the Andes, finally reaching Cusco at 3400 metres,  I could really feel the headaches. Like a vise grip on the skull.  The shortness of breath wasn't nearly as bad.  Despite being trainer-less for over a year, I think all those times my trainer made me run up and down flights of stairs must have done something for me.  I switched the Sorochi pills up for some glucose sucky lozenges that are supposed to be more natural, and then upon my Guide Tomy's advice, reverted back to just downing 3 litres of water a day, and the headaches completely disappeared.  That said, on Day Three of the Hike, Sonia and I separated from the others, and got a wee bit lost in the rain.  We headed toward one of the ruins, figuring our campsites were usually close to some archaeological site, when we saw our companions, one of them on a rescue horse, heading down the other path, far in the distance.  We were sopping wet by that point (I had forgotten to pack my damn Rain poncho) and whether it was the lack of insulation in my sleeping bag, eating those salads at the 11-sol fried chicken place on Angamos Street, back in Lima, or hiking in the rain for three hours followed by trying to dry off like a one-legged dog inside the tent, when I got back that night, things were not looking good, health-wise.  The five o'clock wake-up call with the Hot Mate Tea on the final morning of our hike left me feeling dizzy and spirally, and things just got worse from there.  Hiking down to Ollantaytambo, everyone was fascinated by the skeletal remains tucked into rock-strewn cubby holes in the mountain and fetal-positioned skeletons, looking like they were stargazing from their stone shrines.  I was busy looking for shrubbery to throw up in, and pretty much christened the entire last section of the Socma-Kachiqata with the ghosts of meals past.

Porterhorses

On the Inca Trail, the porters (actual people) carry all the trekkers' luggage, sleeping bags, and assorted paraphernalia, but on the Socma-Kachiqata Trail, we had packhorses.  Three packhorses and one rescue horse.  For much of the journey the rescue horse did a lot of 'nothing much' and got cut-eye from some of the other horses, but on the final days, one of our travelmates got sick and Lady Godiva'ed it up to the final campsite.  Also, Sonia, one of my travelmates, got to ride a horse for the first time!

The IV

That night in Aguas Calientes, I discovered the true meaning of bone-chilling cold.  Despite the multitudinous layers of blankets, sweaters and thermals, (my Diablo Balaclava and gloves notwithstanding), I could not stop shaking, or keep even Gatorade down.  My Tour Leader, Ollie ended up calling in the Doctor and Nurse when I started hallucinating about snakes, and they hooked me up to an IV right inside my hotel room.  New experience.  Can't say I enjoyed the sensation of having  a needle skewered into my bony hand.  Or the feeling of a thousand ants sandpapering across my skin as the meds plummeted into my bloodstream.  Even weirder was that I paid the doctor in cash (100 dollars) under the table, literally, at a restaurant in Agua Calientes the next day.  The main thing though, was that I was able to visit Machu Picchu.  I was intending to wake up at 3 a.m. and queue up to hike Wynu Picchu to the top. But that didn't happen.  I even missed the 6 a.m. trip with my Inca Guide, Tomy.  Luckily, my Trip Leader, Ollie, knows all there is to know about Machu Picchu, and took me on a private tour at 8.

Machu Picchu

I thought that after all the trouble of hauling my sick ass to Machu Picchu, I might have felt oversold, but it truly was spectacular.  It's a lot lower than some of the passes we took, at 2430 metres above sea level, 80 northwest of Cusco.  Archaeologists believe it was built as an estate for the Incan Emperor, Pachacuti in the 15th century.  It truly is a "Lost City" rising up on this sheer montain, with spectacular condor views.  It reminded me a bit of Tulum in Mexico, the soft grey of the stones contrasting with the deep blue of the sky, and verdant green patchworks everywhere.  Like wandering through an interrupted croquet party at an abandoned estate, in Alice in Wonderland.  Dehydrated and hallucinogenic as I was, it was the perfect setting!

Canyoning and Chocolate Therapy: A Quickie Blog

Canyoning. 
Basically, rapelling down a mountain while a waterfall smacks you about.  Being that I´m in Ecuador, canyoning went something like this:  Guide collects our money (I was accompanied by a French tourist who let me practice my beleagered and battered French on him.  My words hobble around on crutches). Guide then proceeds to chitchat on his cell phone while Jean Francois and I roast on benches in our wetsuits.  We get on the road about an hour behind schedule.  Guide drives up to the first set of Falls, near Rio Verde, which are pounding down in a murkey coffee colour.  Pronounces the Falls too dangerous to canyon and tells us the trip is cancelled. Then, in a sudden epiphany, he wrenches the steering wheel 180 degrees and takes us to Rio Blanca, which he pronounces okay to canyon down.  And in fact, there are a few other groups canyoning there.  I ask if there are any gloves.  There aren´t.  (This is Ecuador).  I am asked why I would need them.  My hands now look like I played Bloody Knuckles with the mountain.  The guide gives a couple of instructions about how to loop the rope through the ocho (metal device in the shape of an eight) and to spread our legs against the rocks on the descent, but there are no instructions given on:
how to position our backs in relation to the mountain
what to do when the waterfall is pounding you in the face
what to do when the waterfall completely knocks you off course and you can t get your footing back
what to do when the rope slices your first layer of skin off, because you ve skidded off the rope and are falling ass over teakettle down the mountainside.
It s pretty much old school instruction.  You just watch the elders.  That said, you get an incredible rush once you get the hang of it and can skuttle your feet like a little crab or ping pong off the mountainside like a frog with fresh spray in your face.  We descended four sets of falls, increasing in complexity and dimension.  I think the longest fall was about 30 metres.  Some of the advanced guys harnessed the ropes over their shoulders and ran frontways down the mountain, bodies parallel to the falls.  And at the very end, we got to try the vertical waterslide, kind of similar to that scene at the beginning of "127 Hours" with  James Franco and the two girls.  We rode back to Banos like wet dogs in the back of a pickup.  Cratered knuckles aside, a great day!

Chocolate Therapy.
After a nice long soak in the Thermal Baths back in Banos (stings the knuckles but soothes the muscles), I went for Chocolate Therapy.  Being that this is Ecuador, the masseuse s four-year-old daughter was peppercorning around the massage table, blowing air in my ears, and peeking at the chocolate process, nattering on about everything and anything.  She was like a little sea urchin, and unbelievably cute.  While watching her mom paint the chocolate sauce on me, she commented, "Now, you are getting brown.  My mom is white.  Well, she used to be... I m black!"  She told me about her old dog that snores, what she does in Kindergarten, the yellow princess bike she wants...She was asking if her mom was going to put chocolate sauce on my face, and warned me to close my eyes and mouth.  At one point, she overturned and smashed something, and the Mom told her to skedaddle. But she protested quite logically:  "It already happened, Mom.  It s not going to happen again. It s already over."  She asked me if I have any babies, and I said, "No, not yet.  They re in the sky."  I forgot that in Spanish "en el cielo" means "in heaven", so she responded quite conversationally, "Oh, your babies are dead."  I quickly corrected her, "No, no. I mean they re not invented yet.  They re waiting for me to be ready to have them." (I think she was less confused when she thought they were dead.)  Then, after a few moments of silence, a propos of nothing, she props her chin up on the massage table, heaves a great sigh and says, "It s because my Dad has another woman!"  It was so out-of-the-blue that I burst out laughing.  I felt so badly for the masseuse and was worried she was going to feel I was laughing at her life, but thankfully she burst into giggles too.  After that, she did shepherd her daughter from the room, and I lay drying in chocolate mask on the table trying to control myself.  Once the chocolate is dry, you pop into the hot shower, (being that we re in Ecuador, "hot" means "tepid"), and then finish off with a decadent massage.  Because it s so cold, you get massaged under a fleece blanket.  Weird, but so cozy!  I gave the woman a huge tip at the end.  Towards the yellow princess bike fund.  Don t think Daddy s funds will cover it, what with his "other woman" expenses!

10 Things to Miss about Argentina

Ten Things to Miss About Argentina

1.  Media Lunas and Submarinos, Pizza, Steak and Red Wine

Argentina has the, bar none, most amazing pastries in the world, stuffed with dulce de leche (this soft, caramelized goo), croissants made with butter or fat (yum yum), and not just hot chocolate, but submarines, which are bars of chocolate dunked in boiled milk, such that they sink to the bottom and melt.  And for lunchtime, they have huge flakey croissants stuffed with ham and melted cheese.  There´s just something about the food here.  On the pizzas, the pepperoni is like silk, your teeth cut right through it, it´s so soft, no tug-of-warring, like a dog with a bone, over tough salami.  And the steaks are juicy and succulent, the crème brulee with a light caramelized crust that pops and flakes with the tine of a fork, and red wine that hums.  I have no idea how the Argentinians stay the size of their shadows, eating so decadently so late at night.  They must be vampires.

2.  Theatre and Film

Argentina has all kinds of interesting theatre pieces.  I went with Chris, his girlfriend Lucia, and Lucia´s family to see Dracula.  It´s been on run for 20 years, which is probably how long ago I saw the movie.  The craziest part was when they killed Dracula and has this bizarre SFX not unlike some of the wizardry you see at Screamers at the Ex, whereby a mechanized demon came out of Dracula´s chest and danced around like a bobbit.  There is some cool black box stuff too.  Ale and I saw a one woman show where the woman wore a white eyelet gown and placed all kinds of crystalware and food colouring splashes across an overhead projector, letting the shapes and colours drape across her body, which acted as the screen. We also saw a play at the National Theatre about the immigration wave, spoken in ´´broken Spanish”.  I was relieved to discover Ale didn´t understand much of it, either.  Another night, Lucia and her family took me to hear Lu´s brother perform in ´Teatro de los Ciegos´.  The entire theatre is in darkness while the orchestra plays.  Though it does challenge you to augment your sense of hearing, and learn to truly isolate and appreciate the sounds, it did cause me to feel claustrophic and anxious.  I tried the Temezcal a couple of years ago in Mexico, and while the shaman was chanting in the pitch black cave and we all gave each other domino massages, I had the same feeling.  If anything, the feeling for me exiting was euphoric and such a relief, it felt like an epiphany.

There was an interesting film fest on while I was there as well, and unlike TIFF where I´m working and miss a lot of the good films, this time I was off and could see as much as I liked.  I saw a bizarre French love triangle film with misplaced subtitles that made it all the more mysterious, a profoundly disturbing French film,  a non-sequential German film, an interesting Canadian film, where the director spoke about the film for about as long as the film lasted, an Argentinian documentary and a really eclectic and disturbing film called “Behind the Red Door” which shows the subculture of a seedy hotel and all the various dramas playing out behind each red door as the dusk heads towards dawn.

3.  Stoneface and The Hand

Argentinians have a certain fame for being quite proud and dignified (some would say “presumido”, a stereotype I heard a lot while living in Mexico).  The Mexicans would often claim to identify an Argentinian according to their long, straight hair, thin body, gypsy aspect, and over-confident air.  What I found in going through Argentina were two extremes.  At one end of the spectrum, people bend over backwards for you, stopping construction work momentarily to allow you access along the sidewalk, moving an obstacle out of the way to let you pass, or jumping out of their chairs and squeezing into a table to let you by in a restaurant.  This is always accompanied by a ´´por favor” and grandstanding hand flourish when you thank them, as though this is the absolute minimum they can do to accommodate you, though their grand sentiment far outweighs this tiny gesture.

The other extreme is what I like to call stoneface.  This happens a lot when vendors don´t have change.  Which happens a lot.  Especially when I go to the Shell Station on Paseo Colon.  Once I was trying to buy a Gatorade and some Doritoes with a 100 peso note (the equivalent of 25 dollars).  The woman gave me stoneface, with a slightly arched brow, as though to say, “I don´t know what you want me to do with that.”  She proceeded to tell me they were out of change, and didn´t make a move like they sometimes do, to procure any.  I asked, “So, what…I can´t buy these things then?”  She replied (as the Argentinians do), with “Obvio”, and continued to stoneface me, as though to say, “I don´t understand why you don´t carry your own float, if you want to buy things.”  I don´t understand this, when they have an ATM dispensing 100 peso notes.  At the back of their store.

4.  Psychologists

Psychologists are a bit of a phenomenon in Buenos Aires.  Apparently, Buenos Aires, as a city, has one of the highest concentrations of psychologists per capita. They say there are 111 psychologists for every 100, 000 inhabitants.   Everyone is one or is seeing one; some people are even seeing two.  Apparently the number of psychotherapists (including psychologists and psychiatrists) jumped from 5500 in 1974 to 37,000 today.  A cab driver once compared Brazilians to the samba, sultry, sexy and steamy and Argentinians to the Tango, intense and brooding.  I´m not sure why all the psychoanalysis but the city does thrum and vibe with intensity and passion.   

5.  Taxi Cab Drivers

Speaking of taxis and psychology,  I find that the taxi cab drivers are excellent psychoanalysts.  In a cab ride from San Telmo to Palermo, a cab driver can have you sorted on the problem of the day.  I´ve also learned a lot about the crime rate and political manifestos of the day.  Riding back from Arenal one night, Yaelle, Luca and I got an earful about the Armenian Genocide, and resulting diaspora in Armenia Street in Buenos Aires.
Of course, the taxi drivers aren´t always reliable.  I went to this ”remissario” service to get a round trip ride (discounted) to pick up Nem from the airport, but after waiting for 20 minutes (with 2 phone calls where the guy assured me the taxista was on his way), I gave up and hailed one on the street for 160 pesos one-way instead of 130 round-trip.  I was complaining to Lucia on my cell that I was getting charged double, and the driver, overhearing me hollered, “No es el doble!!  No es!!” (Es el doble!)  Then he told me the remissario driver never showed up “because the price didn´t suit him”.  The price didn´t suit him?  He made the damn price.  He should have quoted another price if the price wasn´t going to suit him. Then, my brother told me the remissario driver did actually show, but an hour late, with an hangdog expressions and excuses and denial. And these are the guys bringing you to the airport!

6.  Entwined Cats and Entwined Couples

The first time I was ever in Buenos Aires, I felt like a peeping tom, compelled by all the entwined couples on park benches and promenades.  I´ve since been to Brazil, so my impression has downgraded from R to AA.  Still, it is quite something to see so many couples as you walk through the plazas and mercados, so completely entwined in passionate kisses that last the length of a four-circuits-around-the-park run at the Parque Lezama.  The other species twining through the parks are the cats (Though I am currently in Peru, and would have to say the sheer numbers of cats here rival the number in Buenos Aires.  I was at the Parque Central today and saw 17 cats at a glance, stomping through the cantuta beds.  I was reading in the park, and a stray cat hopped up into my lap and napped there while I read.)  The cats in the Recoleta are especially prevalent, all these live furry creatures scampering among the still tombstones.

7.  Thursday Night Dinner Parties

When I first arrived in Buenos Aires, Chris had these cool Montrealer neighbors, Yaelle and Luca (and their two-year old son, Yohan).  They were travelling the world, like me, for six months (thus dispelling the belief that once you are married with children the moratorium on travel begins.)  Luca is a chef, and Chris an aspiring-chef, so on Thursdays they would concoct all kinds of culinary delights for an array of tourists and ex-pats, including some tangueros from Luca and Yaelle´s tango studio (which I later joined), Chris´ PhD. Student, and some visiting Chileans (though Chris drew the line at the homeless man (and poet, I might add), Roberto, who I befriended on my runs through the park).  After Yaelle and Luca departed for Brazil (along with me), the dinner parties were put on hold.  But as luck would have it I met Nem in Brazil (also an aspiring Chef!) so when he came to visit, we reinstated the dinner parties, with an amazing Bahiano flavor.  After Nem went back to Florianopolis, we tried to keep up the tradition, but with me as co-pilot, things just weren´t the same.  Apparently keeping the al dente pasta boiling for an hour doesn´t fly!

I was also spoiled with Sunday teas at Lucia´s grandparents home, and impromptu lunches at her parents´ home.  Being in Argentina was such a change from the usual backpacking drill.

8.  Milongas and Manifestos

Of course, while in Buenos Aires, I studied Tango with a whole slew of tango instructors.   The way they tell it, it´s a straightforward dance all based on walking, but studying tango makes you forget how to walk.  It´s like doing a kissing scene in a play.  Suddenly you forget what is naturally driven by feeling and examine the mechanics and logistics of what looks good.  In tango, I started to forget how to move my heels and toes, and when advised to ´´walk normally´´, would start walking like a caricature of Charlie Chaplin.  I think having a background in ballet, jazz and salsa further confused me, the way that knowing Spanish before you speak Portuguese confuses you.  That said, I went to some cool milongas with Yaelle, Luca, Amy, Martin, and Alberto (all people I met through Chris and Luca´s Thursday night dinner parties), and later with Juan Pablo and Raul, my Practica Instructors.  Places with cool names like ´´La Catedral” and “La Viruta”.

While Milongas are places you go to on purpose, the Manifestaciones are places you end up in by-the-way.  Manifestaciones can happen anywhere at any time.  Sometimes they are about labour disputes, sometimes about the rise in the cost of living.  Exiting the subway at Bolivar one day, I had to plough through a manifestation by angry futbolistas demanding that the San Lorenzo de Almagro football club be moved back to the working class barrio of Boeda.  Another more serious protest downtown was led by the Qom community, an indigenous group from the province of Formoso, over the police dismantling of a roadblock which led to two deaths.  These manifestations are so frequent and spontaneous that most residents, when questioned, can´t even tell you what the manifestation is about.  Going to pilates one day, I heard what sounded like bombs going off above the station.  Ascending the steps, I saw scarved men with nunchuks carrying signs with Che Guevara plastered all over them.  Though he died over forty years ago, his legend lives on, inspiring roadblocks which close down the central streets for miles.  That said there is always a lot of “luz y fuerza” and are sometimes accompanied by costumes, cat-piss wine, and even a live band.

9.  VIP gates and secret clubs

Due to the vast amount of robberies and scams occurring in Buenos Aires, everything is under lock and key.  When you arrive at a nice restaurant, when I go to pilates class at Lu´s dance studio, when you go to a fancy lingerie shop, or to take a tango class, the gates are locked and you have to ring a bell to get in.  It´s very ´´Bethlehem” with the ´´innkeepers´´ either assessing you as a legitimate client, or reputable looking enough to be buzzed in.    A lot of places, like theatres and clubs are simply neoclassical buildings with no placards to announce what they are.  You have to know the address of where you are going or ask around, and the whole thing has a very ¨open sesame” aspect to it.  I was talking to the owner of a lingerie shop who informed me she was once robbed at knifepoint by an eight-month-pregnant woman and her accomplice, and scammed once by an elegant looking foreigner who paid for all her items with counterfeit money (which the owner only discovered later when she went to exchange it.)  I was victim to the age-old spill-and-steal scam in the Nuevo de Julio subway station.  Two men approached me for directions, while another ´´innocently” splashed paint on my back.  Then I had a few helpful passersby offering to do the wipedown.  I clutched my bag and told them I didn´t need their help, but they were persistent, and sent in two or three more alloys after I refused the first.  I glared at them, and hopped on the subway home.  But I have met several tourists here who have been pickpocketed in similar heists.

10.  Antiques and Street Fairs

I love just prowling through the cobbled streets and looking at all the antique shops crammed with everything from ancient record collections and dolls, to hideously ornate candelabra.  It´s like your grandmother´s attic, but transplanted and multiplied across entire blocks.  They also have the Defensa Street Fair every Sunday with buskers and tangueros, where you can buy original art, mate tea holders, innovative clothing and scarves, handcrafted jewelry, funky Tango CDs, kitchen tiles, and about a million and one other things you don´t realize you need.

A sidenote about laughter:  A friend and I were chatting the other day about how, in text talk, laughter is written as “jajajajajajaja” in Spanish and “rsrsrsrsrsrsr” in Portuguese (or “kkkkkkkkkkkkk” if it´s something really funny), but in North America, our laughter is only denoted as “lol”.  So restrained.

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!