Noah's Travel Journal - South America, Tenth Entry

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Click Go The Heels

As far as many knew, I was still on a tropical island somewhere and was AWOL from my website operations. These months of neglect would have left any other child scarred for life, but not my baby. Thankfully there was a little visitor counter to show the love and support necessary at this crucial stage in the site's life. Call off the government agencies because I'm slinking back into its life on the anniversary of my departure.

On an anniversary such as this, a travel log seems futile in conveying what has actually taken place during my leave of absence. This is the same reason I abandoned my practice of recording other-worldly daily events, for that of observing the continuity of all experiences, way back in Ecuador. It is however necessary on some level because of the vast amount of physical distance that has been covered since that remote Brazilian island.

From the island with a few hundred residents it was only a few hours back to the second largest city in the country. After a 3-day stay, Rio de Janeiro had grown as tired of us as we had of it, and conspired with the cosmos to detain our next bus to the North for an extra half hour so we could board despite our taxi driver. After 32 hours of our life had been leeched away by mechanical malfunctions we arrived in Brazil's third largest city, Salvador de Bahia.

After many warnings from locals about not staying anywhere other than hostels, we located a seedy apartment in downtown Salvador. It was a sweet deal, but when we showed up to move in the following day, we were informed it was no longer available and were ushered into its more "modestly priced" twin on the floor below. Although I spoke broken Portuguese, my tone with the slumlord was unmistakable. I wasn't impressed by the vacuum cleaner roaches, large potpourri sewage pipe, and an eye-level, neon strip club nightlight that he threw in free of charge.

Even with our unmentioned flea roomies and dangerous neighborhood, we were exactly where we needed to be. We had come to the epitome of Afro-Brazilian culture for capoeira and I'd be a fool to complain about anything short of an assault... Let me take this opportunity to acknowledge that I did end up fleeing from assailants, but without event (whine, whine, bitch, bitch, I'm over it).

Within a short time I had two capoeira masters who's practices were as noticeably different as my Spanish skills to Brazil's native tongue. One was an old street fighter who reminded me of a cross between Daniel San's Mr. Miagi and a prison warden. The instruction was doled out on a need-to-know basis, but the timeliness was questionable. Barefoot on blisteringly hot concrete was where my newly learned maneuvers were deftly countered with a head butt or a knee to the groin, which would be the next tactic on the agenda. So progressed my initial tutelage in the Angola style of capoeira.

On the picturesque Barra beach was where I ended up spending the majority of my training time. My other master was a performer and practiced the more artistic and showy style of Regional capoeira. Focused on more acrobatic and playful maneuvers, the only pain my groin experienced was that of forced stretching. Looking across the ocean at sunset while my flexibility was being tested always brought tears to my eyes. I'm pretty sure they were beauty-induced tears, though it was hard to determine over the din of ripping muscles.

Exercising so much cut my insulin habit down considerably and a feeling of invincibility even had me drinking water from the tap. Contrary to my invincibility theory, I found that poisoned water in small doses doesn't spawn immunity, but rather correlates interestingly with a 2-day bout of wanting to die. The climactic scare in our health status occurred with my brother's passing of an 8-inch worm that we lovingly referred to as "W," in memory of evil crap-eating parasites back in the U.S.

In the hospital, the ordeal was handled with the medical professionalism found only in the most awkward nightmares. After presenting an illustration by Zan to facilitate the communication and testing process, we were laughed out of the secretary's office not once, but twice. The second time the nurse pantomimed pulling down trousers for a squat while cackling high above the chorus of chortles in the packed office. Parasites: negative. Satisfaction of knowing the odor of that work environment: positive.

The large "?" gracing the website's map of my planned sojourn was never more appropriate than during the state of limbo I was residing in. I had not even strung together loose plans after Brazil, and a number of crucial dates were converging just ahead. My 3-month visa was dwindling and was accompanied by non-compliance fines that I was too lazy to investigate. I was forced on to the knife edge of the instant and waited for a big event to direct me to a border. Our capoeira training culminated in a performance on the stage of the Mercado Modelo where different groups from around town perform for tourists. While we waited ring-side an American sailor in his late 20's offered a spot on his boat for a hard-working crew member who wanted to do extensive sailing in the Caribbean. I was still waiting for a key event to direct me, so I directed the shocked sea-salt to the market where there were sure to be some adventurous young travelers. Mid-way through the performance I wanted to kick my own ass instead of my opponent's.

The following afternoon we were approached again as we practiced for fire dancing. The promoter for a traveling company of performers tried to recruit us with a salary and numerous exotic destinations around Brazil. I almost botched the opportunity again after misinterpreting her offer for a sales pitch while trying to focus on training. My disinterested tone conjured a wide-eyed, have-you-heard-anything look, which slapped me to my senses faster than any back-hand. An email address kept the escape avenue open.

As I logged on to my email a few days later to inquire about the professional performance troupe I'd been dreaming of, I received the only email that ever brought tears to my eyes. The DESA organization had selected me as one of the winners for the annual Athletic Achievement Award. Just like that the question mark morphed into an exclamation point and plans changed instantly. I fled South to Buenos Aires to see dear friends from the Chilean diabetes camp and witness the most talented circus performers in all of South America. It was the only proper way to spend the surreal twilight hours of the voyage.

I had said I would place myself where my fight could be best waged, and to turn away on some pretense of culture shock or despising the politics of my home country would be a cop-out. Excuse me if you are choir member who is about receiving my preachy tirade, because losing sight of the important things in this world happens to everyone. Over the time away I was constantly plagued with the weight of the world burdening all of our shoulders while so many remained oblivious to its pressure. Everyone has his own part to play in the war for consciousness that is waged eternally, but if it isn't in harmony with the prosperity of the earth it's a losing battle. If there is no battle ground, how can a stand be made?

Every individual's attainment of self-awareness and consciousness is ideal, but action is essential in the incubation period. Behind the corruption, hate, societal expectations and problems, there is a miracle that we are living every day. We are walking on the narrow divide to recognizing this or simply destroying our world if we stray from the path; the miracle goes on unfazed. This war is much larger than diabetes, but the drama of the epidemic contains all the same elements of this larger struggle. All of this righteous babble can be distilled down into one word: NOW.

11 months after departing, I arrived in West Chester, Pennsylvania to give a culmination speech of my voyage at the DESA National Conference. I saw it as the closing of a preface rather than the end of a novel. It's been a whole two paragraphs since I've leaned on a cliché as a crutch, so let me just say: it was the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end... The way every day should feel.