Otherwise

Here is a partial list of the birds and animals we see today:

Birds:
-Many Jabiru storks (Huge, fully white body)
-Many Maribu storks (Huge, black heads with white bodies)
-Amazon kingfisher (gorgeous little blue back, white body)
-2 Black collared hawk
-Black hooded cardinal
-2 Red blooded cow bird (tiny, crimson red)
-2-3 Tropiau (smallish orange with brown stripes)
-Falcons
-Cafezihna (small, light brown)
-Savannah hawk (large, browns and greys)
-Many Chacachacalacka (large, chicken-like body, white)
-Many Ibis (large white)
-Cocoya heron
-Black winged hawk
-Hundreds of Jacutinga (huge white with crimson red heads)
-6 toucan
-2 blue macaws

Animals:
-Hundreds of caiman (crocodiles)
-5 giant otters
-Red brook deer
-2 Caititu (little pig-looking creatures)
-10 capybara
-5 Coati (South American raccoons)
-2 howler monkeys
-Armadillo

A deliciously fun day. We take the safari jeep along dusty trails, stop at watering holes to spot wildlife and birds. The variety and quantity of birds is spectacular. Our guide, Mario, looks like a roughened, Portuguese version of Orlando Bloom and has the personality of Crocodile Dundee with a sharp wit. He walks us out into the mud beside a large pool of water to watch birds and caiman up close. Suddenly we hear barking, and trees crash and crinkle beside us. Giant river otters burst out of the bush like rowdies on a drinking binge. They dive into the water with great commotion. As they bark and flail by the pond’s edge, they compare to my teenage brothers and friends shouting and rough-housing in my parent’s pool.

Soon after, Mario leads us into deep mud-water. Many are wary to plunge into the dark sludge that reaches our kneecaps, but Mario confidently forges ahead. I follow close behind. It is best to stay near the person who knows what they are doing, I think. Reluctantly, the rest of the group treads the murky water. We follow the ever barefoot Mario though swamp, jungle and plain. We watch a group of long snouted Coati lounge lazily in a tree. We run stealthily to a tree with howler monkeys who move so quickly that half our group does not spot them. We tip toe across a dry plain to an armadillo’s homestead and watch as she blindly winds her way around our group.

In a thick bush area, I begin to feel a stinging in my scalp, then my back. I hear a strange noise and realize that I am being attacked by foreign bugs. I quickly run out of the thick onto a plain, my hands rapidly running through my hair, and over my clothes in an attempt to rid myself of the stings. Another group member sweeps off my back, picks into my hair. I pinch at my scalp, pull a thick bodied black insect from my roots. It felt as though it had been digging. Yuck. In the bush, another girl screams, but fails to run from the area of attack, paralyzed by fear. Mario runs back into the jungle, retrieves her. Our group is a little shocked, but otherwise fine. We tromp onwards.

By the time we reach our jeep safari, we have treaded for many hours through a variety of geography in the hot sun. We are tired and thirsty, though happy for all our sightings. We stop at a farm that also boasts a small convenience store to pick up some bottled water. While there, we are stopped by the tourist police who want to question every couple with a survey.

The farm is an entertaining place to be stuck for an hour. A mother pig with swollen teats is chased by her brood of squealing piglets who want to continuously suckle. She finally stops running, and relents, lays down in the grass and the piglets run over each other to get to some milk. Oddly, another large pig, likely a pregnant female, also suckles at her teats!

James and I buy a package of biscuits, and open opening it, several crackers fall onto the ground in little pieces. In no time, four skeletal cats and a whole troop of buttercup-coloured chicks and their plump hen mother devour the food. The mother hen pecks at the larger pieces, breaks them into tiny shards for her little fluffy babies.

After a supper of mostly feijoada (Brazilian beans and rice), we set to bed and sleep deeply.

I have a hard task ahead of me: to describe the beauty, variety and wonder of the Pantanal. I know I can not do it justice, but realize that what I write is only a small portion, like one sand grain on a beach, of the Pantanal’s fullness.

I have come to the Pantanal to see wildlife and in particular, I am eager to see a capybara. I have seen pictures of these endearing creatures, dog-sized guinea pig type animals. I have heard of their gentle nature, their mellow personality. Their faces are like a hamster’s, but more open, and they have none of the cloying squeakiness of their smaller cousin’s nature. From pictures, I note that they are dignified, unobtrusive, at home on earth and in water, and very cute. I am in long distance enthrallment with capybaras. I hope, I hope I can see one!

We arrive at our lodge, a series of long buildings on stilts, connected by wooden and concrete walkways. Almost immediately, there are two lime-green parrots in the tree nearby, shouting “hey!” like a couple of rowdy kids. I am impressed. And as I walk across to the dining hall, I see it. My capybara. It stands elegant on the small grassy plain below, and obliviously munches on greenery. I run like a child towards it, not even able to utter a word in explanation to James, who asks, “what? what?”.

Beside the capybara, I stand. Tears fill my eyes and my heart is light. James catches up to me, chuckles and watches the capybara too. With a stubbed but proud nose, round belly, coarse wheat coloured fur, webbed feet and a square back, the capybara is everything I’d hoped for. There is a gentle proudness to this beast, a natural dignity that defies human explanation. We watch for quite some time as the capybara uproots small plants, treads the field with his webbed feet. He is aware of us, but not particularly interested. This is not the haughy snootiness of a cat, but the natural behaviour of a wild animal going about his business. He seems not to mind us, perhaps even feels pleasant about us by his side.

I find out soon after, that this capybara is a camp creature. Some time back, as a baby, the animal had broken its leg. The people at this camp had set the leg, nursed the infant capybara back to health. His appearance before the dining hall is quite regular. He has come back to the plain in front of the lodge every day since he was cared for. He even has a name – Choochooga.

I eat dinner quite content. I have seen a capybara, even sat beside him. After we confirm that the hand sized spider above James’ bed is not poisonous, I settle to sleep with sweet dreams…

Another hot, humid day as we walk to the local research zoo. The research park/zoo opened in 1984, and includes lovely old buildings surrounded by rainforest. The sunlight barely reaches our skin as we walk through the natural canopy of the forest. Sweet, shy cat-sized rodents called cutia run across our path.

There are aquariums full of turtles, big and small, who just like in Dr. Suess’ book Horton Hears a Who, pile upon each other in shelled-back towers. In many aquariums, caiman (crocodiles) lay and swim with the turtles in a peaceful co-existence. There is a large, smooth, anta with a snorkeled nose and sharp pointy teeth. The anta seems gentle and mild mannered until a lithe green iguana stands in its path, and the large creature urgently stampedes towards the reptile. The iguana flees, and appears frightened but thrilled, like a teenager who runs from a heavy handed officer. We see several furry sloths in the trees above us, as still as the branches they curl upon.

We find a small pool with gigantic lily pads, larger than a car’s tires, and strange fuzzy slipper-like flowers. There are more animals to be seen: the impressive but lethargic spotted jaguar who meows like any domestic housecat, the vicious harpy eagles, and the giant river otter that moves like liquid.

After dinner (a per-kilo buffet affair), we order cupaucu gelato. We have been told that cupaucu is the tropical fruit to end all tropical fruits, and we are therefore curious. The fruit tastes powerfully like vanilla, nuts, fruit and a note of marzipan all in one. It is good, but unlike anything I’ve ever eaten. Its texture is gooey like a gummy worm.

Back at our hotel, we take the bar of laundry soap we bought and wash our clothes by hand in the sink. We feel proudly like world travellers now, ready for the banks of the Ganges or an African river. We hang our clothes on the railings of our room’s loft, and head for bed…

Our plan is to walk to a nature park on the outskirts of the city. The hotel manager says we ought to take a taxi as the walk there is somewhat dangerous. I am restless, however, and intent on getting some exercise. He notes my stubbornness, and tells us not to take anything of value, not even the cheap shell necklace around my neck. And he tells us we should not walk home after three or four in the afternoon. With small quantities of cash in money belts, devoid of any jewellery, we brace ourselves and begin our walk.

We walk quickly, with purpose. I try to give an air of steely confidence, as if walking down this busy commercial street is something I do every day. I am happy to stride, content to watch Brazilians go about their daily lives while I try to remain unobtrusive. The final stretch of the walk is indeed more creepy. The busy commercial street leads to an almost deserted, extra wide, run down avenue. Most disconcerting is the lack of people. Dogs roam the street and lick at garbage strewn on the sidewalks. A rusted car with a built in stereo on its roof roars past us, techno music blares.

Finally we reach the park and breathe a short sigh of relief. The park is an oasis of nature. Water runs through the rock and tree lined pathways. There are several exhibits – an butterfly conservatory, an aviary, a lookout tower and a boat museum. We pass a small pond where the Amazon equivalent of ducks paddle though water, their songs a high pitch squeal rather than a “quack”. Tall, slender white birds with long bills tread elegantly on stilt legs across our path. A low gravelly burble emits from them, a sound that defies their sophisticated appearance. A little further on, a gigantic green iguana slithers on its belly across a metal fence, then moves liquidly towards us. Its tail curls proudly upwards, like a ringmaster’s whip. It’s a beautiful beast.

Lunch consists of a bold pureed corn stew with teeny shrimp. It is tasty, though its strong flavour builds throughout the meal until I can eat no more. After lunch, the butterfly conservatory delights us with multi-coloured winged creatures that flutter and flit. In the bird sanctuary, a guide tries his best to communicate the different species of birds. He is very helpful, and obviously loves his job. A very calm bird sits on his hand, and the guide urges us to gently stroke her purple feathers as she coos. Meanwhile, an aggressive little bird speeds after people’s shoes, pecks and pulls at rubber and fabric with her long, skinny crimson beak. We rush away from her, as we’re wearing sandals, and don’t want our skin abused.

We grab a snack of strange muffins that look like they are made out of little styrofoam balls. They are rubbery, and dense with a forceful taste of anise. Once again, the punchiness of the flavour is delectable, but I can not finish mine. James eats my leftovers.

We take a taxi to an ornate cathedral, only to discover (we should have remembered this from Europe) that because we are wearing shorts, we can not go inside. We watch outside as a mass takes place. On our way back from the cathedral, a torrential downpour catches us. We are happy to experience rain in the Amazon, and it is a welcome break from the driving heat.

For supper there is Tucupi, a regional dish of duck stewed in manioc leaves. Curious of Brazil’s national alchoholic drink, Caipirinha (Cap-ee-RIN-ya), I make the mistake of ordering one. Due to esophaugus problems, I have spent the better part of the year abstaining from alchohol. I think one drink really can’t do too much damage. The Caipirinha is delicious; refreshing and sweet. It is made out of caxaica, an alchohol derived from sugarcane itself, limes, and sugar. I quickly reel from its effects, and worry that I will make a fool of myself in front of the children at the table next to us. Upstairs to our room James leads me, where I am free to be the fool I am. “One caipirnha”, I think, “just one!”

All in all, it’s been a great day.

Pronounced, “BAY-leng”. The Amazon greets us as we embark off our plane with a tornado of sqawking electric blue birds flinging themselves into a nearby tree.

The entrance into the city, however, is grim. The streets are deserted with modern, characterless grungy, buildings. The only person I note is suspect; he sits high upon his flat roof in a lawnchair, stares at the empty streets below him. We pass a prostitute, red lips glaring in the cab’s headlights. Our taxi has no seatbelt, and the roads are in sore disrepair. We jostle around the interior of our speeding cab like a pair of dice. Our driver doesn’t speak english, and I despair as my trials at Portuguese fail to make an impact upon him. After many attempts to pronounce the name and address of our hotel, he quickly drops us, and our backpacks, in front of “Le Massillia”. But the door won’t open, and a group of men leer at us from the bar across the street. There is a moment of panic; we are in a city half way across the world, in a hostile-looking street, a group of stange men ogle us, we speak pathetic Portuguese, and we are certain to die. This just before we see the doorbell.

Gratefully inside, we barely take in our room before we plunge into bed and sleep. We wake, still exhausted from our whirlwind tour of Rio, the flight the night before, and continued jet lag from flying from Canada only two nights before. We force ourselves, with much crankiness, to the dining area for “le petit dejeuner” which ends at 10 am. Outside our room, the damp heat slaps us like some wet towel prank. General impressions of the hotel through sleepy eyes are that it’s beautiful. Everything seems a pleasant blur of wood, slate, palm trees, hammocks and blue sky. But the romance of the hotel and the fresh tropical fruit at breakfast does little to sweeten my foul mood. We stumble upstairs for bed once again.

Once (a little) more awake, we head out to see the city. The air is now blisteringly hot and oppressively humid, but we press on, determined not to let tiredness nor heat wilt us. Past hundreds of vendors who sell their wares on crumbling sidewalks, outside charming decaying colonial buildings, we walk to the docks. Here is the Amazon before us; as wide as a lake and chocolate milk brown. The rainforest across from us is just as I had hoped – thick and canopied.

Beside the docks is a remarkable market. Hundreds of small stalls burst with fruits and vegetables, fresh seafood and spices, aromatic food and merchandise. We wander the market, overwhelmed. Who, of the hundreds of people selling fresh, delicious produce, do we buy from? We settle on a merchant selling clusters of tiny bananas and packages of very local Brazil nuts. The bananas are sweeter and more fuller bodied than the versions we get imported to Canada, and the nuts mildly woody – nothing like the bland, stale ones I’ve tried back home.

Past the market, I begin to feel wretched again. A policeman whistles at us for walking on some grass, and exhaustion from heat, humidity and jet lag builds to a general state of wicked grumpiness. I barely see the charming buildings, the upright monuments and statues, the pleasant parks. I am hungry, and afraid that any more bananas will result in a case of urgently running to the washroom. We roam back and forth through nearby streets in search of something edible, but can find nothing but a small ice cream shop. I buy a pastry filled with I don’t know what, as does James. My pastry turns out to be a blend of savoury seafood. I pray my stomach can handle it.

Once again outside in the heat, my irritability increases. I smell rotting seafood and overripe fruit and watch filthy, matted dogs struggle over a piece of gristle as mean vulture-like birds circle overhead. The heat is a torment, a clamp upon me. “I want to go home! I hate this crumbling city with its millions of dingy busses and rusted cars crashing past me, its disgustingly dirty dogs, its smelly harbours and grizzled river birds. I hate this wretched country!”, I think as I motor, on foot, past people I’m sure only want to rob me of my stupid, undeserved North American wealth.

We enter a large pastel blue building in search of a bathroom. There is no bathroom, but we are drawn upstairs anyway, to its airy openness above the market, its windows open to the river and to the rainforest across. I stagger to a heavy wooden table, plunk into a sturdy chair and lay my head on the table. It was crazy, “louco”, I think, of us to come here to Brazil, where we know hardly speak Portuguese. I feel like a greasy exploitive gringo who only spreads frustration. My need to go to the bathroom has dissipated, but my need to talk is urgent. Verbal diarrhea ensues.

Its hard to be in a place we are so obviously different. Our far-awayness is evident to all by the pale colour of our skin, the practical plainness of our clothes, and the fact that our Portuguese is sub-par. Especially frustrating for me is not being able to converse with anyone. Every interaction is a struggle to communicate. I talk my frustrations away. After a trip to the washroom and a bottle of water, I am renewed. We head for some food.

Pirucu de Casaca is a blend of pirucu fish, manioc flours, coconut milk, palm oil and banana. It has a happy, funky (the good kind of funky) flavour. James has Manicoba, a strong, heavily smoked stew made from manioc leaves, with sausages and other unidentifiable meats. It’s the colour of blackened spinach, and its taste is reminiscent of cigarrettes. I am impressed with how much he eats, considering the dish tastes like vegetables and charcoal. After this, we treat ourselves to passionfruit and acai gelato. The passionfruit is startlingly refreshing, vibrant and yet soothing to the palate. The acai (ah-say-ee), a deep aubergine colour, is creamy, wheaty and full bodied. I like it a lot.

In the evening we go on a sunset cruise down the river. There is a mild breeze as an energetic couple shows us traditional Brazilian dancing and costumes. The two person band plays a samba tune, and James and I get up to dance in a circle with strangers. The sun sets magenta over the Amazon canopy, and I think, “What was all the fuss before about?”

Pronounced, “HEE-oh de Jan-AY-ro”, my first impression of this city is a heady, potent smell of salt water, carried upon hot, humid air as we weave in and out of traffic along the highway at night. We pass ramshackle buildings, all covered in graffiti. Actually, everything in this city below two stories high is covered in graffiti – statues, old colonial buildings, modern habitats, bridges, railings, benches, fences. It lends this pretty ocean city a gritty aura.

The downtown streets are achingly narrow. Lodged in our taxi, we skim past pedestrians with hardly an inch to spare, their bodies vulnerably close as we, and every other car, braid in and out. The city is impossibly loud. Airplanes fly just overhead our hotel room, mangy dogs with long, dirty nails skitter across the cobblestone and bark and howl in packs from every street corner, ambulence sirens mix with the chug-chug of trains and the metallic sounds of trolleys and cars as they bump their way along the uneven streets. And as we try to settle into an uneven sleep, happy drunks cajole each other into hilarious fits of laughter just below our room.

I wake early, in spite of broken sleep, too excited to rest. The city outside is alive. Our hostel is up a steep mountain, and upon opening the window, the city splays below me like a seductress. We hail our taxi after a breakfast of fresh buns and creamy, tiger-lily coloured tropical fruit. We have only until four pm this afternoon to see Brazil’s most quintessential city!

Out of Santa Theresa’s cobblestoned streets we wind, upwards, upwards in circles. Through tropical vegetation, we catch glimpses of the city below and the ocean beyond, with islands like sea monsters that jut from the water. Up to the Corcovado, the famous statue of Christ that either oppressively looms or protectingly watches over the city, depending on your viewpoint. We are treated to a 360 degree view of the city and surrounding topography. It is stunning. Clear water inlets, shapely bays, blue ocean water, lush emerald islands and mountains, white sand beaches.

For lunch we grab defiantly fresh mango juice, and empanadas filled with a strange gel-like cheese. The pastry conjures up images of phleghm and I can not eat it. I am happy, however, for the thick mango puree as we barrel through the neighborhood of Centro, onto Sugarloaf Mountain. At the top, the views are once again overwhelmingly pretty. Like Vancouver, the city sports mountains and ocean, but in Rio, the water sparkles blue (rather than dark green), the islands are closer to the mainland, more numerous, and boast a blend of red rock cliff faces and dense tropical palm forests, the beaches are white or cream coloured, and the water is mild. After we pass several capuchin monkeys, whose faces are as sweetly delicate as a porcelain doll’s, we glumly take the gondola down to where our taxi and trusty driver await.

Before we head to the airport though, James and I run to a nearby beach. There is just enough time to sink our bare feet into the sand, which feels and looks like demarara sugar, and to let a few powerful waves crash over our legs. As we turn back to our taxi, we so wish we had more time in this gorgeous city.