Brazilian Babes

The way America knows it has the world´s strongest military, or how Russia knows it has the world´s most land, Brazil knows it has the world´s most beautiful women.

Of all their glorious features, legs, hips, lips, accents, passionate insanity, affinity for New York, sun-kissed skin, angelic faces or excellent taste for swimwear, to name a few, they are most renowned for their asses. The babes of Brazil are also most proud of their ´´bundas´´ (their butts). Most of my learning came from a young lawyer-lady of Brazil who has become my unofficial Tour Guide to Rio. Her name is Nina, and a tincy bit of my heart melts thinking of her.

Rio De Janeiro welcomed us to a wonderful land of worldly pleasures and far exceeded the expectations our hedonic imaginations dreamt up… .

The sun would rise over LeBlon’s beach horizon and bring another blessed day to all the gorgeous faces, perfect bodies, gleaming smiles, Holy bundas! I was elated, as if hovering above the silky sand and floating across the beaches that have set the bar high for Heaven. Well, the Heaven I´d hope for anyways. (Do you get to live out unfulfilled dreams when you ascend into The Sky?)

How do I communicate this sensation Brazil bestowed upon me? You know when your esophagus reflexes a sudden gasp? Then, a chill flashes up your spine and your toes curl to grip the ground? With my spirits defying gravity, my cousin would slap me and I’d snap me back to reality, even if only for the moment.

We were wiping the dripping drool from our dropped jaws. It was not the suavest first impression in Impenema Beach. However, we’d soon regain poise, but only for the moment, because, then, another impossibly perfect woman would walk by, proving that The Lord is a loving Lord and the brain would cease to function.

Merely the site of them bouncing up and down the sun drenched beach! I tried to talk to some. With words, rather than just lustful eyes. I had to keep it slow though, taking baby steps. I started with a wave, then a smile and soon graduated to an `Ooi!´. A few women were even kind enough to talk back. I attempted Portuguese. Which, in my simple American Boy mind, an attempt at Portuguese was to add a bunch of égés and ujz sounds to spanish words. This failed, but my tone was adoring and I’d soldiered on to the promise-land of an actual conversation.

This sensation I´m trying to describe was like a sweet delicious poison. With each intoxicating breath, each sip of Caipirinha, each word that slipped from her tongue, the poison would soak, almost soothingly, deeper. I was hopelessly and helplessly drunk on lust and falling into a blissful abyss of a wonderful oblivion.

Yeah, maybe excessive. But the women are gorgeous. And, teaching Brazilian gals the word “gorgeous“ is beautiful within itself.

´´They have everything. The face, ass, breasts, skin. They have everything´´ – The pretty Panamanian woman who educated us on The Panama Canal. (Panama Canal grosses 5,000,000,000 USD per annum)

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Learn to Fly Like a Brazilian

“If you stop running, we will crash” – Zero

1700 feet above Brazil’s parading Carneval launch on Leblon Beach I´m soaring through the clouds. I’ve never seen building from this close at this vantage point! The people are all moving like bugs and the laid-out ladies on the beach are waving up at us! This is what Superman feels like…

The rickotty car buzzed up the steep & narrow road, winding through the jungle´s vegetation.   The horn was warning on-coming traffic that might be around the corner with short consistent blares.  It was another one of those ´I wouldn´t be surprised if this is how I died´´ moments. And then it occured to me that if today I should die, I rather it be because I jumped off the mountain with only a kite on my back.   Not on the car ride to the summit! That would be some embarassing bullshit. 

Zero was my instructor.  For the next hour, my life was in his hands because I had placed it there.   He seemed like a nice enough stranger, why not?   Very matter-of-factly Zero confirmed my suspiciouns by stating “OK Joe, the real danger is over“  I cocked my head inquizically.   “I am a very very bad driver, so it is good we have to do no more driving.   Flying, I am much better at.  So now we will fly.  This is where we will launch.“

After hiking up terrain too steep to drive, we approached our launch area.   It was  flat and cleared of trees.   A natural runway developed which lead to the drop off.  I walked closer to the edge for a view, but nothing.  Too many clouds, all I could see beyond the cliff was grey.   At the beginning of the run-way was a little building serving coffee.  I figured a few espressos would calm my nerves.

Zero told me we would check the gear then run off the edge.   “It is important to run full speed off the cliff.  If you stop running, we will crash, and we don´t want to crash, so do not stop running, OK” And he paused awaiting my respoonse.   Keep running, or we will crash.  It was a rather simple concept I figured, as I plunged into a mentality of sheer-obediance.   This man´s word is my order.  What Zero says, I do.  I will not think for myself, I will obey Zero.  Obey Zero.   

Then zero nonchellantly listed off the process of the jump which was too much too fast for me to gather.  I did however offer him the occassional nod or flash a smile.  When it seemed important I asked for clarity. 

We practiced how to keep running without stopping.  There was a clearing in the clouds which meant our opportunity to jump off the mountain. 

Now, we´re running and running and running and not stopping and HOLY SHIT- we´re flying.  We~re in the air and my legs still sputtering.   No two ways about it, I´m a god-damn bird in the sky!  Dream-come-true status, I am actually above the city, arms spread, wind at my face passing through the clouds, looking at all the little people below!  Enthralling!!

Zero let me steer, and showed me that to speed up we aim down.   Shift weight for a move left/right and aim up to slow down.   I was given the reins!   Left, right, OK time for some speed.  Maybe a little faster, maybe even faster! And I aimed down and gained us speed and speed and speed as we soared through the air, until Zero took the controls away from me in an effort to avoid an unrecoverable nose dive.  What a good instructor he was!   Watching out of our lives and eventually bringing us to a landing on the beach. 

The overcast kept the distance out of visability, but the view below was as clear as a street-walkers intentions. 

 

Panama Red

I’m a man, with no plan, looking for a canal.

The hostel junkies are tempting me with tales of adventure. I’m fighting the urge to go get banged up at the local micro brewery “La Rana Dorana”, then, explore the fish market of fresh local catch, all the while listening, sort of, to the instructions on how to do The Canal “right”.  These gals are dangerously compelling. They run a boat from Colombia to Panama for travelers. The land-boarder of Panama/Colombia is loaded with gorilla warfare and it is accepted as an impossibility to cross the terrain.  The one gal is French-Colombian, looking much more Colombian but sounding far more French. The other is German and fits the part. We matched travel stories, routes & an affinity for the freedom afforded to those who drift without reservation or a set agenda. It was about as cliché as the travel-conversation’s come.

In the center of Viejo, the old city, I bumped into the Bushwick boy I split a taxi with from the airport. Immediately, I knew this guy was cool and could be trusted to help run up the score on borderline-dangerous ideas. We parted ways after the airport taxi ride, but the nice part about Panama City, as the lovely Victoria Guide at the Canal would later explain, is that you keep seeing the same people.

The Bushwick-bro, who had a hint of French to him, and I walked through the coast and then the brewery, reconn-ing Panamanian preferences for rums and beers. I’d star Beer Balboa above all.

The sun sizzled my skin to a tan-pink throughout the day.  Later it radiated a vibrant Panama Red.   Feeling accomplished and dehydrated, I dragged my haggardself to the airport just in time to lay on the ground lifeless. I rested, prone on the floor, just outside the plane’s gate.  My phone re-charged.  The Seattle Seahawks boarded the plane just before me. I insist on being the last on the jet for reasons I don’t really know. It took me a little to figure out who these Goliath-looking passengers were, but once the truth broke through my daze and sacked me, I exclaimed a big congratulations to them on their decision to visit Rio De Janeiro, rather than congratulating them for being Super-Bowl Champions.

I passed out for all 6 hours, said good-bye to the Seahawks and found my cousin in the other terminal. I told him “the Seahawks were on my plane !” assuming that would be the last time I’d come face-to-face with the World Champions. I was wrong though.  Thrice.