Brazilian dreams, and unconditional love

 The early morning sunlight glared up from the pavement in front of me. Still five miles to the Brazilian border, and my energy was flagging. It turned out Santa Elena wasn't exactly on the border; just the last town with a bus station before the border. I laid my bag down for a respite, when a pick-up truck appeared over the horizon, slowing to a stop as it approached me.

My apprehension turned to relief, as I saw the Venezuelan National Parks logo on the cab door. After a quick exchange with the driver, he offered to take me to the border, insisting we stop at a small cafe to have breakfast first. Afterward, we continued until a large section of concrete, running parallel with the road came into view. On one side was painted "Venezuela," and on the far side, "Brazil." He wished me luck as I got out and walked to a small customs building. The official barely glanced at my passport, stamped it, and sent me on my way.

I walked another mile before coming to a bus station. Luckily, I did not have to wait long to depart for Boa Vista, capital of the Roraima state in northern Brazil. The road was a red dirt weal cutting through dense rain forest. We bounced along in the deep grooves worn by public transport vehicles and lumber trucks. 

Two young women and a man, in the back of the bus invited me to join them, and share a snack. Communicating in Portuguese should have been easy enough; after all, it is romance language, closely related to Spanish, in which I was near fluent. Wrong. I soon discovered the difference between "related," and "mutually intelligible." I had to resort to hand gestures. It sufficed for the time being, as my new friends and I passed around their little bag of brown sugar and granola, sharing the same spoon. 

It was evening by the time we arrived in Boa Vista. As I had no plan, I happily joined my three companions, and we all clambered into a minivan, with about a dozen other people departing from the town square. We bumped along for a few miles until we came to a huge tent by a river. The tent housed numerous tables, a bar, and a stage. Live music was playing, drinks were flowing, and people were dancing on the sandy riverbank. The band was performing a cover of Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall (Part II)."

"We don't need no education...," the singer taunted.

"How appropriate," I thought, tipping back an Antarctica beer. 

After several hours of revelry, we boarded the minivan back to town. Still giving no indication that they wanted to part ways, the four of us walked to a churrascaria, a Brazilian restaurant where waiters carrying meat skewers made the rounds, carving off succulent slices to order. I ended up staying in the same hostel as my friends; we exchanged addresses, and parted in the morning.

The next leg of my journey to Manaus was the longest yet. We rode all day on more muddy jungle roads, through lush forest, passing huts and smoking tree stumps, ugly scars left by the slash and burn of deforestation. I was shocked when we passed a tall marker that read "ECUADOR."

"Wow, we went really out of the way!" I thought, before remembering that "ecuador" is the Portuguese (and Spanish) word for "equator." 

Rest stops consisted mostly of wooden outhouses. While standing in line, amid a flock of pecking chickens, a woman pressed a wad of tissues into my hand. Inside the outhouse was nothing more than a hole in the ground. We crossed narrow log bridges with no guardrails. Other times, we had to be ferried across rivers, waiting for as long as an hour, while a Brazilian military convoy went ahead of us. 

We finally arrived in Manaus at 2 a.m. I followed a group from New Zealand to the Rio Branco hostel. After a much needed nap, I walked around town to the opulent Teatro Amazonas, built in 1896, the cathedral, and floating port, bobbing atop the dark waters of the Rio Negro.

I made my way back to the restaurant across from my hostel, where I drank a "suco de guanara," a thick concoction that tasted like chocolate covered peanuts. Denizens of the establishment included a parrot, and a little monkey who playfully climbed into my lap. It was like a dream from which I did not want to wake; but like those beautiful dreams, there is that moment of painful awareness when the blissful state is about to end. Sitting with the monkey on my lap, I looked across the street to the hostel. I had to call home.

I had been avoiding it, not knowing how to broach the subject with my parents, that I had basically dropped out of college, the circumstances under which I had done so, and the fact that I was now on a different continent than when I had last checked in with them. It had been nearly eight days since they had heard from me. The university administration may have tried to call them. Had I been reported missing? In my paranoia and insistence on secrecy, I had inflicted a terrible punishment on the people who loved me most. 

I walked reluctantly to the front desk, and had the receptionist place a collect call from a dusty rotary phone. He handed me the receiver. There was some clicking, then static, then finally my father's voice. Before I could say anything, I heard, "Tammy? I love you...where are you?"

Weak with relief, I managed to get out the word, "Brazil," before gushing that I was out of money, and a plane ticket anywhere would cost more than my $500 credit card limit. He advised me to go to the American Consulate to see what my options were, and to advise how he could help me from stateside. 

The next morning, the kindly consular officer tried to negotiate with my bank for a credit limit increase. While he was on the phone, I had the opportunity to take over his English class, full of eager children. The officer's best effort failed, however; the bank refused, and he suggested my parents would need to telex me a ticket. 

I bade farewell to the other hostel guests with whom I had become acquainted. I regretted not being able to take the four-day boat journey on the Amazon River to Belem, especially with New Zealand at my side, but I was indeed broke, and owed it to my parents to get home yesterday. 

Late that evening, I boarded the Lloyd Boliviano flight to Miami, hoping that once I made my way back to Ohio, my father would be as forgiving in person as he was on the telephone.

He was.