rio sem poop

‘Wait, so there’s no poop in it?’ 

I was amazed! Fascinated and excited. How could something smell so much like poop and not be at least partially composed of poop? 

Such is the real-life mystery-science of the river Tiete, which is pronounced Chee-Eh-Tay, or, as it should perhaps be called, Shit Creek. 

There’s also the Pinheiros, pronounced Peen-yay-roos, or Shit Creek 2. 

These are the two rivers running through Sāo Paulo, and they look and smell like oozing poop lava. 

But awe-inspiringly, as my friend was explaining that day in his car, the filth and the stink are actually not poop! 

Credit is rather due to microbial microbes or something. (I missed it, I stopped listening so I could marvel at the magic non-poop.) Some small life forms that like...feed on the opposite of oxygen. Or something. ? Microscopic creatures who, at their flourishing thriving optimal best, smell like rancid farts. 

There are actually tons of scientists and environmental activists working to clean up both rivers, and they've apparently had a whole bunch of triumphs in the last few years, mainly upping the percentage of treated sewage, whatever the F that means. 

The poop-critters were born of environmental degradation, the degradation from pollution, the pollution from rapid city expansion over a small amount of time, and so on. I'm going to write a children's song about this soon, but not now. It's uber complex. 

My friend in the car said that some of the cleanup efforts were silly, like that they paid a bunch of dudes to pull trash out of the river but those people just left the trash on the side of the river and then it rained and the trash slid back in. 

He said 'like FDR's New Deal in the US, how they paid men to build things and then take them apart.'

I was about to retort 'um helLO, FDR's New Deal only got the US economy out of the Great Depression so I don't know where you get off bringing that noise up as like futility context things stuff.' 

But then I realized that I didn't actually know anything about the New Deal and the only reason I thought I did was because I played an orphan in the musical Annie in middle school and in it FDR is a character and sings a song about the New Deal and it's actually the mega-uber-happy ending of the play. So why would he and the New Deal be immortalized in Annie if neither had successfully ended the Great Depression?

Sorry, back to the ghost-poop. 

The most remarkable thing about it I think is that you get used to it. Mark and I wanted to walk some long distance one morning early on in our Brazil days, and this distance involved walking over one of the bridges. The stench was alarming as we got closer to the river, but I think only because your logic brain panics because it can only deduce that a Tyrannosaurus Rex just took a dump nearby and will step on you next. 

But then you realize it's not danger. It's just microbial microbes or something. It's just how the river is. (Though only for now. The eco-friends are scrambling hard to make it clean and great again.) And then you kind of stop noticing. Sort of.

*Also later i found out there is some poop in it.

le french restaurant

I still haven't met any Brazilians I don't like.

OK that's a lie, I've met two, but they don't count because I don't see them as Brazilians, I see them as 'assholes.' And even if they did count, only two! Everyone else here is like the happy crowd at your favorite bar.

But in Rio when we went to Le French Restaurant I thought I had finally met a Brazilian Fail.

Apparently the lone staffer at this restaurant, Le Dude welcomed us with a weird stuffiness I hadn't seen since movies. He was all unsmiling and scowl-y at our self-concious laughing-at-our-shitty-Portuguese. And he kept correcting my Portuguese.

Bow i know it's insanely hypocritical to get annoyed at this since I ask people to please correct my Portuguese, but not when I'm HUNGRY. And also not if I don't know you and you're not even friendly.

Tickby heard him speaking Parisian French to some dudes later, so I chatted with him a little in French, which he corrected.

He also corrected food I tried to order, saying I would prefer something else.

So Le Dude was a giant boo-hiss. I was getting grumpier by the second.

Also he told me that I shouldn't have so much trouble learning Portuguese because he had learned fluent and perfect French in no time at all. I almost stood up and started booing out loud.

Then two things happened.

Second was that our food came, and turns out Le Francophile had been correct about what food I would like. THIS FOOD. It was too delicious to talk about. And the salad it came with was in a BOWL MADE OF CRISPY CHEESE.

But first before that, Le Dude came over and asked if I would like him to turn off the air conditioning. He was concerned that I was sitting with my elbows pinned to my sides and my arms crossed. At first I was annoyed. I thought he was correcting the way I sat. It seemed he didn't like that i wasn't looking blasé and French enough for his fancy restaurant. I explained that I'm one of those losers who's always cold and to please leave the AC on. (It was like 200 degrees celsius outside.) He seemed displeased.

A few seconds later he appeared with a white table cloth he'd folded into a blankety shawl and wrapped it around my shoulders. Still busybody, still all Le French and unsmiling, but I realized that he was in fact a sweetheart who just wanted everyone in his restaurant to have a comfortable, wonderful French time. And thus his grade went from an F-- to an A before the DELICIOUS food even arrived.

The moral of the story: just because someone acts snotty and French and tries to make you be snotty and French too doesn't mean he's not an awesome person. And also probably does mean he makes delicious food.

Fin

in the trees

Arriving at Ariau Towers felt like coming home to some land in my imagination where I knew I belonged. I'm sure the passport of my soul will show that I am a native of this most magical place.

It is a real life fucking hotel in trees.

When I was a kid I saw Disney's Swiss Family Robinson. About six hundred thousand times. Everything in that movie made my five-year-old heart sing and dance, And a lot of it was about to come true, except I probably wouldn't swing on vines and marry eleven-year-old Kevin Corcoran.

All the buildings are on and in trees and bolstered by scaffolds about fifty feet off the ground. There's a a bar-and-restaurant, dining hall, two chapels, bungalows,  dormitories, a small museum, a gift shop, an aquarium and even a night club, and it's all connected by miles and miles of catwalks.

There are entire hikes on catwalks through the jungle, which were by far my favorite part of our stay. Me and Tickby would just wander them looking for animals and laughing at how awesome it sounds when you burp in the wilderness.

Also, as we made the long walk from the docks to the lobby - all on catwalks - monkeys followed us.

(Do you know how badly i have longed for a monkey throughout my lifetime? MONKEYS.)

Plus, because it was off-season and the area had recently endured a destructive flood, it felt often like we had the entire place to ourselves, or were sharing it with a few nice people.

And finally: the whole place swayed. For serious, if you stopped moving or were lying in bed, you could feel the ground rocking gently under you, in what felt like the breeze.

Why none of this killed me - the heights, the ground rocking - I have no idea. Maybe because it wasn't a multi-thousand foot drop. Maybe because the motion wasn't in a car or gross bus. But i was in heaven.

Oh don't get me wrong, I got dehydration sickness and puked a couple times in the jungle, plus often had to take naps in between activities to recover from the relentless sun and humidity, but I didn't care. It was so wondrous I barely even noticed. I will go back there some day. I know it.

Oh, one more thing: our hotel room was in a circular carved-out-tree-like building, and was shaped like a notch, like one of the pie-piece notches in the Trivial Pursuit. It had a tiny balcony with chairs, an irregularly shaped floor, and painted moulds of jungle predators and birds on all the doors and walls. Ours was a jaguar. I was home.

midgies, mozzies, and why it's key to find the ozzies

'Midgie bites.' (But 'bites' sounds like 'baw-ites.')

'Nah, those are mozzies, mate.' (But 'mate' sounds like 'mite.')

'You know what, I think they're midgies and mozzies.'

'You're right mate, some of those are midgies and some of 'em are mozzies.'

***

I can't stress this enough: if ever you find yourself at any kind of establishment hosting an international crowd, FIND THE AUSTRALIANS.

It's not just that their accents provide endless entertainment, or how their amazing terminology for stuff does the same. (MIDGIES? MOZZIES?)

It's that the Australians are the most laid-back motherfuckers on the planet, and they will make you chill the hell out too. I swear that after one caipirinha with Sean I was no longer afraid of heights.

Example:

Scene - Me and the American dude we met arguing semi-ANGRILY about the upcoming presidential election (cause remember this all happened in October.) Australian dude chimes in.

Australian Dude: I'm not very political. I only ever voted in one election, maybe twenty years ago. My girlfriend was pregnant, so I voted for the fella who was gonna legalize abortion. He won, my girlfriend got an abortion, and I haven't voted since. (LAUGHS)

Cill: I thought you guys just said voting in Australia is mandatory.

Australian dude: It is! (ALL LAUGH)

Example 2:

Scene - We're all meeting for the first time.

Aussie 1: I'm Sean. (But 'Sean' sounds like somewhere in between 'Shone' and 'Shoon.'

Aussie 2: I'm Bruce.

Cill: G'DAY BRUCE! I'm sorry. I've just always wanted to meet an ozzie named Bruce so I could do that. You must get that all the time.

Bruce: Not really.

Cill: I'm sorry.

Bruce: No you're not.

Cill: No. I'm not.

(ALL LAUGH)

For the rest of the night, whenever there is a lull in conversation:

Cill (increasingly drunk): G'DAY BRUCE!

Bruce (somehow still cool with it, laughing): You really have been waiting years to do this, haven't you?

Cill: G'DAY BRUCE!

Bruce: I'm glad for you.

Cill: G'DAY BRUCE!

Bruce: I mean it.

Cill: G'DAY BRUCE!

(Bruce laughs every time this happens. Instead of, you know, punching me in the head.)

Example 3:

Scene - The american dude has initiated yet another 'let's go round the table and everyone say your favorite ________ of all time.' He has all his answers at the ready, almost as if he initiates this game wherever he goes. We've done everyone's favorite book, song, movie, and now, slogan.

Sean: Don't give a shit.

American Dude: No, but if you HAD to pick one--

Sean: No, that'd be my slogan: 'Don't give a shit.'

Cill: I like that! that would be mine too.

***

See? the most laid-back motherfuckers on the planet and they chill you on out too.

I realize it's idiotic to make such generalizations about people, especially people from a country so big it's almost its own continent, and it's probably offensive to say they're all the same.

But you know who's probably least likely to be offended?

The ozzies.

Because they are the chillest motherfuckers ever.

amazon dexter

I murdered a baby.

But let me explain.

One of the activities Tickby signed us up for was Piranha Fishing. 

I know! Sounds awesome, right? Piranhas are badass killers and WE were going to go looking for THEM and then (not kidding) make SOUP OUT OF THEM. These shits are like freshwater sharks. We were gonna hunt down a bunch of river sharks, pull them into our boat, and turn them into dinner. AWESOME.

Though i'm a vegetarian, bordering on vegan, and i'm not actually ever going to eat piranha soup. Or kill a piranha really. So um… there's that.

Just so we can remain friends: I don't care if you eat meat, I just don't want to. I'm not a tormented animal rights activist who torments others about morals and stuff. Or like, ethics or whatever. Enjoy your bacon burger. I don't mind.

But um, fish is one dead-animal-food that I do feel slightly sick and sad over. I can't help it, I think it's f-ed, to kill something by putting a hook through its lips and then stomping on its head or air-drowning it. F-ed.

I wasn't about to say any of this in the rowboat on our way up the Ariau river to go piranha fishing. I mean, I'm cool with people like our guides, who hunt and fish for just enough for for dinner and then eat it all. Also i didn't want everyone to make fun of me.

So I said I'd just rather not join in, for now I'd just take a few pictures. 

Our guide was apparently familiar with the likes of me.

Very patiently he said, "Cill, we need to control the piranha population. There are too many piranhas, and they're killing the caimans and all the other fish."

Hmm, thought Cill. I would be killing fish, but only fish-killers of other fish. I would be a killer of killers. I would be Dexter. 

Dexter is my favorite show.

So I decided to give it a whirl, even though it was pretty gross how we were using morsels of red meat as bait and handling them was a boner-fied gag-fest. 

But fine. I dropped my line into the river.

Tug. TUG. TUG. TUG. 

My first tug-job was a CATFISH. I had been Dexter for only like thirty seconds and already killed an innocent. Plus he looked like my 9th grade Earth Science teacher, which made it even sadder. 

'Don't worry Cill, he's okay!' our guide laughed, pulling the barbed hook out of Mr. Nelson's lips and throwing him back into the river (where he would likely be tracked and killed by a piranha in three nano-milli-seconds).

'Again!' shouted our guide. 

Soon came my second tug-job, lighter than the first.

BECAUSE IT WAS A BABY.

True, it was a deadly piranha, a river killer, and it had probably just gone all wood-chipper on Mr. Nelson. But it was only a baby.  

I was done. 

Everyone else had fun laughing at me and catching grown-up piranhas. And later in the dining hall there was fresh piranha soup, which Tickby said was delicious.

(gag.)

rolling on the rio (negro)

Sun blazing, sand burning our feet, we trooped toward the dock, where a boat would take us into the jungle. We kept doing the awkward, apologetic turn-back-and-smile at the muscle-bound dudes carrying our luggage. (For the record though they weren't even sweating and seemed to find it funny that we felt bad.)

Coming into view by the dock was a brightly colored, multi-story yacht with a bar, live music, two sun-decks, a dude-sized cooler-bin of full of beer-and-ice, and an on-board village of festive marquees and cardboard decorations.

And parked immediately next to that noise was the boat we would be taking, which looked a bit like a canoe with an umbrella taped to the back.

Its name: the Pantera Negra, translation: 'Black Panther,' which would have been funny even if its peeling shreds of paint hadn't been baby blue and white.

So I mounted the black panther, crossed that shit off my bucket list, and started getting excited all over again. I'd wanted to see the Amazon since third grade, and here I was.


Plus, the losers on the party-boat next door were doing it all wrong. They might as well have been in a gross college bar or on a Hudson River booze cruise. Here on the black panther I could feel the spray of the rio negro in my face (and did for the next two hours). I could smell the water and gaze out at the wildness we were heading into.

(Or pull my hat over my face and fall asleep, you know, whatever I felt like in the moment.)

And there was a cooler full of sodies too at the front of the Black Panther. So we had our own party.

But for miles and miles we just motored. I think it was a little over two hours. From the sweeping Rio negro, onto some smaller, 'side-streets,' laughing and taking pictures of each other.  I wish I was capable of describing how happy I was and how special that place is, instead of just making fun of stuff.

Like most tourists, my favorite part was that stretch where the Rio Negro and the Rio Solimoes meet and run alongside each other for like six kilometers without mixing and you can see - vividly - the two different colors.

And i guess my second favorite was that first view of our Hotel-in-the-Trees.

:)

heggy

Tickby and I landed in Manaus early in the morning.

Staggering out into the terminal, we saw materializing a distractingly beautiful youth holding a sign with the name of our hotel on it. He looked like male Zoe Saldana in Avatar but you know, not blue.

When we approached him and identified ourselves, he grew very excited, telling us what a great time we would have at the Ariau Towers.

"It is very nice!" he beamed. "Any time, you can call to the front desk from your room and ask for - if you want - a hammock and some cheese. They will bring it to you!"

It was probably three hundred degrees celsius and the idea of swinging in a hammock while eating cheese was a question mark, but this dude's joie de vivre had a way of flooding your mind with sparkles. For example, when he explained that we had to stay there at the sweltering terminal for another two hours because more hotel guests were arriving on a later flight, I felt a surge of euphoria.  He flourished his beautiful, attenuated arm around the dirty room featuring the Brazilian equivalent of Amtrak snack cart food, and said, 'You may sit, relax and enjoy something to eat!' And Tickby and I became downright giddy at the idea.

Also, if memory serves, his name was Stefani. Like gwen.

All morning we rode the waves of Stefani's bliss and bathed in the rays of ecstasy projected from his impossibly large almond-shaped eyes. By this I mean we sat at a filthy table that was nailed to the ground and crusted with old cheesebread and drank Coke Zeros, periodically laughing and waving to our irrepressible new friend.

Stefani's joy eventually carried us to the shores of the Rio Negro, where a a boat was waiting to take us on into the jungle and the Ariau Towers.

We noticed an enormous concert stage being erected on the beach, complete with posters for caffeine energy drinks, Coca Cola, and I think beach balls (?).

'Yes!' Stefani exclaimed as though we had asked aloud, 'Tonight will be a Heggy concert. Do you like Heggy?'

the radiant stefani

Heggy, Heggy, let's see now... nope! Don't know who Heggy is. Feel dumb. Certain she's a very important Brazilian pop singer. Or maybe it's a he? Or a band?

'Who is Heggy?' Tickby asked.

'Heggy! Like Bob Marley, like Ziggy Marley. Heggy music.'

Ahhhhh yes.

Reggae.

Still getting used to these R sounding like H shenanigans.

PS. My Portuguese teacher kept telling me to visit the 'Museum of Hockey' here in São Paulo the other day. He was in fact recommending the Museum of Rock.