“Language is the road map of a culture. It tells you where its people come from and where they are going.” ~Rita Mae Brown
When Coen and I started traveling, in 2003, everything was new and exciting. Having our first conversations with strangers with whom we didn’t share a language was a challenge.
“I have some chicken on skewers left. Would you like one?” Marcel asked.
I looked at Coen. We just had noodle soup for dinner and aren’t hungry.
“With peanut sauce,” Marcel’s wife Sandra added with a smile.
“We would leave on Monday, be gone the entire week fishing in either the lakes or if there was not enough water we’d go out on the ocean and return on Saturday. We’d have one day at home and we were off again.”
With his six brothers and parents, Marinaldo lived on fishing. Day in, day out.
“The sound of silence”
~Paul Simon
My parents had an album by Simon & Garfunkel. I loved listening to it and when I started learning English in high school, one particular song triggered me: The Sound of Silence.
There’s the taste – strong but not bitter and incredibly sweet – but it’s the serving that makes me smile: in minuscule cups. I appreciate something small and excellent, like Meu Doce Pará cookies that are smaller than the tip of my pink.
I love Brazilian coffee.
“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself”~Franklin D. Roosevelt
“Aren’t you afraid to get robbed?” is a question we receive on a regular basis.
“No, we’re not. And if it happens, so be it,” we generally answer pragmatically.
Meet Viktor, his wife Jacqueline, their daughter Isabella. They make a living by baking and selling minuscule cookies, of which the baking is done in a small kitchen of their apartment.
They call their cookie-baking business Meu Doce Pará.
The rustling of leaves brings peace of mind. It slows me down and makes me aware of my surroundings: nuts and flowers, delicate mushrooms, fabulously twisted lianas, colorful leaves. I spot butterflies, crickets, leaf cutter ants. I take note of the soothing sounds of humming insects and scurrying lizards.
A forest is hardly ever silent.
In the early morning we sailed through the Baia de Guaraqueçaba in an open motorboat: a world of sapphire-colored water surrounded by blue-grey mountain ranges outlined against a cobalt, slightly clouded sky. With dolphins accompanying us in the distance, the scenery couldn’t have been more peaceful.
We were on our way to the Ecological Sebuí Reserve in southern Brazil.
“You know, for me, this is what travel is about.”
“What?” I asked.
The sunset?
The rough camping on this white beach of the Tapajós River?
Is he looking at some birds?
Enjoying his cup of coffee?
The Brazilian dish called maniçoba is poisonous unless it has been cooked for at least 3 days.
This intriguing fact demanded further investigation.
Yesterday I came across a post by Leo Babauta, the Illusion of Control.
The article describes exactly what has been happening in my life these days: Going from the illusion of control to letting go of control.
Interesting detail: it turns out to be surprisingly simple.
The Land Cruiser crawls through potholes, jolts over bumps, and carefully drives onto wooden constructions called bridges. Hour after hour, day after day, we drive at a turtle’s pace on the infamous, 800-km-long BR319.
Welcome to the main highway between Manaus and Porto Velho, in the heart of the Brazilian Amazon.
