The Brazilian Bug

The date is ticking, its slow, daily seconds bringing me dangerously close to mid-June. I have spent three months in Brazil. Some say you can encircle the world in eighty days; it took me ninety to glimpse the Brazilian coast. Recalling my first steps in Iguaçu in March seems disproportionately distant.

I have taken buses over six thousand kilometers in Brazil. I have swum at forty-one beaches and sung by candlelight during power-shortages. I have eaten over sixty pratos feitos; I have gotten food poisoning and most likely dengue fever. I have learned Portuguese well enough to discuss just about anything: it is the satisfying result of daily discipline and raw curiosity. I have found balance in a country trying hard to destabilize me: in the outrageous dancing and the melody in the language, in the unique blend of conservatism and open-mindedness, in the down-to-earth common sense that sometimes seems to have abandoned the old world. I have seen the milky way in a pure, desert sky: a diagonal horizon forcing me to once again change perspectives. I have been robbed: a golden-lit and empty street, a rusted blade and a broken man. I have swum and surfed with dolphins in wild, turquoise waters. My shoulder has been soaked in tears, and so have my cheeks. I have met a man whose eyes had long been killed by hunger and drugs. I have made love on warm, sunrise-kissed sand, the rising tide embracing our entangled feet. I suspect many bugs in this country spread a different type of fever, a fever to live.

I have met more people than I care to count. Some have the role, in my life, of being forgotten. Others, I will remember: 

Gustavo, with his dedication and resilience. He held my hand for my first Portuguese steps, I held his in a difficult time.

Paloma, with her passion and faith in life. She is a volcano, a storm with the stable certainty that the horizon is still were it is supposed to be, even if she does not see it.

Vitor, with his lightness that some would call childish, and that I choose to call wise. A positive force, a man without pretense.

Ailin, the calm presence that I needed. A girl I could share silences with. A sensitive, creative soul somehow thriving in a sometimes-difficult reality.

Tim, with his instant confidence and vulnerability. A man that was hurt, but that believes risking it again is the way to move on, part of the healing.

Lucas, with his instant confidence and vulnerability. A ball of energy, a clean slate, a man ready to face the first blow or to continue dancing through life without any hits.

Gabrielle, with her rational superstition. A woman full of art and wit. A person that allowed a peaceful crash and exchange of lives; lives different in any observable way, yet in harmony when shared.

Valentin, with the immediate connection he came with. Discussions that felt like holding a mirror in front of each other’s eyes; a mirror that depicted a reassuring and welcoming vision. A man making me proud to be a man.

Adele with her living fever, stung by the Brazilian Bug. Sparks should burn in everyone’s eyes as they do in hers.

Justine, with the chunk of home that she carried across the Atlantic. She reminded me of how important and precious my long-term, slowly built friendships are. She has known me throughout the past decade, and seeing that paths sometimes meet and move parallel to one another is a heart-warming thought.

Brazil, thank you for placing these people on my path, or placing me on theirs. Thank you for being the silent witness too these exchanges that – even if slightly – have changed our lives.