Decisions

I played in my first Brazilian Capoeira roda yesterday. It was a sweaty, hot, magnificent experience. My capoeirista buddy James (pronounced Jameees here) encouraged me to get out of the house and go practice. I will admit to having reached a certain level of boredom here in Brazil. The problem is not that this place isn’t interesting. Just the opposite in fact, there is so much to see and do. But alas, I am a social creature and much prefer to share this world with my monkey brethren. With few friends to call my own, a lack of adequate transportation, and a constant fear of spending all my money, I tend to stay imprisoned in my own self-imposed green mile, shawshanking my way to frustration and a lonely gringo fervor.

But this is changing. I made a deal with myself a few days ago to avoid boredom at all costs—to buy a guide book and rock out the day with minor excursions into the city. And I have little doubt, with English work looming, gym time, Capoeira time, girlfriend time, self-study time, guitar time, surfing time, and all other manner of ways to spend time, I will be awfully busy soon. Boredom will not be an option.

So the Capoeira roda was a right of passage of sorts. To have finally played in Brazil is a Hajj—a great quest to the holy land that must be done at least once in a given life time. Having been out of practice for a few months, I was a bit nervous before playing, especially in front of some extremely high caliber capoeiristas. But true to form, I shucked off my trepidations with the beat of the berimbau, cart wheeling my way into the sensory full body religious experience that Capoeira tends to be.

After the roda, James and I ran off to Rio Vermelho to throw down a couple beers, heading to a small bar owned by his girlfriends’ dad. The bar sits on a little side street in the middle of a couple favelas (shanty towns), and is this really lively place, the kind of thing that is sure to win National Geographic playmate of the year. People play soccer in the streets, grill meat, butcher fish. Kids sell home made pizzas to passing traffic. The smell of bread wafts out of the bakery shops, and toothless old men sit in windows and chat about the activities of their day. On every open street corner, little plastic tables are set up to welcome thirsty chatty patrons. People smile and wave and say hello as you pass by. So authentic, the place would get a magazine fold out for sure.

On another note, I have been contemplating buying a motorcycle here, or shipping my FZ1 from the States. The cost would be about the same, around $2500 to ship the bike or to buy used. The moto experience here is hardly recreational, and most people own smaller versions of the Honda, Yamaha, street bike you find back home. A 250 hp is considered a fast bike, although you do see crotch rockets and Yamaha cruisers pass from time to time. Buying a car is ridiculously expensive, and so is the gas at about double the cost of current gas prices in the US of A. So a motorcycle is definitely the most economic option, though conversely also the most deadly. I see a crash damn near everyday, and half the people I talk to tell me to avoid riding at all costs. It’s hard to know what to do, considering I probably can’t afford a car and would really like the personal freedom that a bike would bring.

Random spirit(s) shot.

Portuguese Cod in African Dende oil. Are you kidding me?

A calamity of epic proportions. Live breaking news. Yes, it's true, another monkey died.