From a Big Apple to a Bigger River

July 8

Kite Wars

On Saturdays the central plaza is filled with young and old, all flying kites, ‘pipas’ or ‘papagayos’. I recall passing through Praia de Pipa in Pernambuco in 2009 and I thought I was going to ‘Pipe Beach,’ since ‘pipa’ means pipe in Spanish. At the time I didn’t speak much Portuguese and soon learned that pipe is ‘cachimbo’ and I was in fact at ‘Kite Beach.’

Kite running is a timeless tradition in Amazonians towns, encouraged by the constant wind gusts blowing overhead. Every weekend aerial battles ensue, silent wars between grown men and boys. Always flying some version of a homemade kite (tissue paper & light wood), an official team is made up of either two or three, one to whip the string left and right keeping the kite active and agile, one to collect the string and manage the spool, and one to chase the fallen kites. If you’ve read the book Kite Runners you probably have a good idea of what a kite battle is like. The spools are dipped in liquid glass, although I’m told this is prohibited, which makes the string stronger, and also sharp enough to cut an adversaries kite down from the clouds above. Once a kite is chopped down from the heavens above, a chase ensues. Runners, and what often seems like entire neighborhoods of kids, follow the fallen kite until it lands in a tree or in some mean old lady’s yard.

I spent Saturday hanging out at Josefines house (there was a ‘calderada’ party to make delicious fish soup) and she would throw fits every time she’d catch a little barefoot boy hopping her yard fence. Jo would run out into her yard yelling, the poor boy recruited to hop the fence apologizing before even hearing her shouts of displeasure. If it lands high up in a tree, they send the skinniest kid up the tree to fetch it, since he can crawl precariously out onto the weakest limbs (of course there is NO regard for personal safety since capturing a fallen kite is a akin to winning the lottery). If it gets caught in electric lines runner go fetch a long wooden pole with a net to poke it out of the labyrinth of wires traps.

There is something entirely peaceful and relaxing about watching a kite hover hundreds of feet overhead, flickering in the wind as if it were alive. In the same park one may see a 6 year old flying a kite next to a tattooed 30yr old with gold chains and a fancy car parked not far away. The dynamics are fascinating. Everyone loves it. Couples sit and watch kites battle, children gather in bundles to wait for the moment a kite it cut so they can chase it down and commuters complain about kite flyers flooding into the streets, as battles sometimes require some strategic angles of attack. Every Saturday I gaze up at the skies and remember that there are many mini wars going on around me. Who ever thought the site of battle could be so relaxing.

To Yucca or not to Yucca

I have tried to explain what a tortilla is, but no one seems to get it. I say, it’s like a pancake, but made from corn or flour. In Honduras we eat it with every meal, no matter what is being served tortillas are often nearby. I mention this because here ‘farinha’ or ‘farofa’ is served with every single meal, no matter what it being served. Yuca, in Spanish, is a root vegetable low on nutrients and served from Bolivia to Mexico. No matter which country you are in, Yuca is called Yuca. In Brasil Yuca has three names, depending on the region you are in. Here it is ‘macaxeira,’ in the Northeast its ‘mandioca,’ and in the south its ‘aipim.’ Three different words for the same thing. Crazy. Farinha, which basically means flour, is ground up yucca which is cooked on a massive flat skillet until all the moisture is evaporated. Then it is sifted and set in the sun to dry. There are countless versions of this process, and some types of yucca are poisonous so making ‘farinha’ requires a certain knowhow. ‘Farofa’ is when you mix farinha with anything in a frying pan (sausage, eggs, onions, carne de sol, etc) and it turns into a tasty and filling side item for beans, rice and meat. This is served at absolutely EVERY meal and can sometimes taste a little dry and crunchy. I’m a big fan and splash it onto everything I eat, part of my eternal crusade to get full. My hollow leg syndrome.

I explain that everyone has ‘macaxeira’ (ma-ka-shei-ra) or yucca, every country eats it and it is a common staple among low-income families. My personal favorite in Honduras is yucca frita con chicharron. Heartattack on a plate…with tortillas of course. However, for all the yucca I’ve eaten, before Brasil I had never encountered farinha de macaxeira (which is also slang for cocaine so careful the context in which you say it). Why is it that no other country makes farinha from their yucca? If I had to choose Id take tortillas over farinha any day of the week. Here I am stuffing myself with farofa, trying to explain what a tortillas is and how ubiquitous they are at every meal. Then I tell them about Honduran ‘baleadas’ and my street food love affair with them.

My top street foods of Latin America, Honduran baleadas (nothing better!!), Salvadorean pupusas, Bolivian saltenas, Buenos Aires chori-pan & chimichurri, Peruvian ceviche (although street ceviche is sketchy) and of course Mexican taquitos. Each tasty treat costs about a dollar or less in their respective country. In Honduras I fondly remember baleada eating contests after latenight soccer games, which always results in a swollen tummy full of flour tortillas, Ana Luisa and I call it ‘baleada belly.’

Giant Piranhas

I woke up the morning after the Festival Folklorico with a massive hangover. A region wide celebration including competitive Quadrilha dance contests, carnaval games and street food, and lots of drinking and music, the Festival Folklorico is a highly anticipated event. Kind of like a more conservative version of carnaval, with traditional dances and costumes galore. We were all to meet at Erivaldo’s on Saturday to ‘matar resaca,’ (kill a hangover) with grilled fish and of course, farinha. Everyong swears that eating fish cures many things, apparently it cures hangovers as well.

I bike over to Erivaldos and in his massive backyard (he lives at and manages AANA – Artesanatos de Novo Airao) I find a table piled high with fish, there were scales everywhere so I knew they had just been de-scaled and were fresh. I go over to the grill and notice that they look just like piranhas, but I was sure they weren’t since they looked way too big to be piranhas. I remembered fishing for piranhas in Rio Beni of Rurrenabaque, Bolivia and having to eat 10 of them to be full. I look closer and inspect their teeth and low and behold, they were indeed piranhas. Not even in aquariums have I ever seen piranhas this big, about the size of my entire chest and torso. Razor sharp teeth perfectly lined, as if they were designed by an architect. Even piled high, obviously very dead, my heart shuttered when I put my finger in its mouth to feel the teeth’s precision. Caraka!, aquele peixe acaba com voce mano! I proclaim that a couple fish that size would carve me up in seconds. Great, now swimming around in this dark black water there are not only alligators, snakes, lions, tigers and bears, …but giant flesh eating piranhas.

The fish was delicious, however there is only one tried and tested way to beat a hangover, keep drinkingI Brasil tied Paraguay 2-2 in the Copa America and the Festival Folklorico continued for one more night.

Weve been on the river for about 4 days now, transferring supplies to the Brasil Nut factory and waiting for another convoy to arrive. Day one was spent travelling, day 2 unloading supplies, day three passing through communities to pick up ‘aruma’ (reed) which I am supposed to pick up for Erivaldo’s artisan program. He gave me $R200 and the necessary documents to be able to leave the reserve with ‘materia prima.’ So far the communities have not followed through (I’m supposed to buy each bundle of 50 reeds for $R20) but I will probably return with no aruma for the AANA artisan workshops.

Erivaldo will be disappointed that the communities are not holding up their end of the bargain. We are to meet another convoy along the river, it feels like were in the middle of nowhere but apparently we are at a point called ‘Recreio’ (recess), a point where two rivers diverge. Last night was one of those nights where the jungle becomes real and all her sites and sounds are magnified. As Ive mentioned, the rivers this time of yearare flooded and most of the trees and jungle near or along the river basin become flooded forests (igapo). As you chug upriver, you pass what look like floating bushes but which are actually treetops. The flora here thrives and has adjusted to the yearly flooding, however you never really know the size of a tree because most of it is underwater.

Its getting late and we decide to doc in a little cove, which requires slowly inching the boat up to the stronger branches of the treetops and tying off. As a result the boat is essentially floating on the treetops many meters above the roots and base of the forest, with limbs and branches crackling and invading open spaces on the boat decks. During dry season the river will recede (making journeys such as this one impossible) and glorious beaches stretch as far as the eye can see. The beaches nearby at Anavilhanas are especially popular.

I sleep on the top deck, in a room with 4 bunkbeds, and there is another dormitory below for the captain and first mate. When needed, hammock hooks abound. It is a full moon and the still river reflects the breathing forest like glass. Suddenly, Janilho my bunk mate, jumps out of his bunkbed and sprints downstairs. I hear screaming and giggling and what sounds like lots of furniture being hurled around but am too tired, and uninterested to go below to check on the rowdiness. A few minutes Janilho comes back and says they saw a snake and that we should close all our windows and doors, which are usually left open for ventilation. I check his face for a hint of a smile, ‘maybe the guys are putting me on, pulling my leg,’ but see no traces of sarcasm.

I sleep facing two windows and quickly shut them. All of a sudden I feel trapped, a prisoner in a bunk (with a stinky bunkmate), and am suddenly very aware of every rustle and chirp going on in the treetops beside us. I look out my window and the moon’s dance behind passing clouds creates what seems like a web of shadows and mysterious coves. I am alert to every rock and sway of the boat, I hear branches breaking deep in the brush of the treetops and wonder what kind of animal could be brave enough to purposefully break branches at night. Animals are usually in either survival mode at night time…or in hunting mode. I hear thumps out on the deck and envision an anaconda landing on our boat from one of the many branches that have invaded our space.

Clearly I have watched too many Amazon jungle killer alligator/snake movies, so my imagination is filled with ready imagery. I laid in bed and thought of the ridiculous movie Snakes on a Plane; what if we wake up and find a slew of snakes coiled in our buckets, down below under the motor or in our hammocks. In the distance I could hear river dolphins coming up for air, spewing out water as they breathe in another gulp of air. It has become a reassuring sound as I lay in bed reading before sleep. Goodnight.