Descending down a Brasilian Mountainside
Bitter thrist in my throat always. Slipping down feef first, short backs painted brown with earth and mud-feet and legs torn up with scrathes-decoration ´de mata´-cathcing quasi falls by grabbing bamboo branches with both arms raised above me and feet nearly lifting off the ground and the bitter thrist in my throat always-a gift from the palmita like tree we cut open and chewed -and chewed more when it couldn´t kill our thrist-and more until it left us like this-always with the bitter taste of thrist in our throats. Stopping with Virjilho who thinks I´m lovely and me him-talking in portuguese and listening to the water close by-close by and guarded by thick and steep mata-learning the name of the fruit he is painting my face with and me his face in return-and always-the bitter taste of thrist in my throat-making these moments sweeter in contrast.
The descent is so much faster than our rise-which was perfectly brasilian-Tony leading us to the path he thought he knew-and us blazing our own trail in the end-hot at times when we were in open-before we stopped to get to know a tree´s shade and the little bichos on plants all around us-pictures taken of people who look like they just woke up from a nap in the sun-me sprawled against the tree trunk and other spread out likewise-until we rose further and entered the cooler mata-forest-and from there the rise was just feeling the moutainside-stopping when we felt pulled by imense views or lulls in energy-people taking turns always weilding the matchete-unless you were me-the only girl.
We find the trail we blazed before-and continue with our thrist-lighter and more carefree than our rise-talking of the monkey kings valley where we were reaching the end of our trek up Gramina and eating and picking the sweet red berries hidden all over-the berries glazing over the bitterness still clinging in our throats-before long Virjilho and I are behind the others who were running for the water ahead-and it is sweet to call him a detective (and he in turn to teach me to spot the berries-michelita detectiva) and wait longer with the bitter taste of thrist in my throat until we reached the little river-where I cooled burning skin and changed the smell of my hair-from heat and honey to wet and musky. Drinking the clear water running of little rocks and bits of grass until my stomach ached and the bitter taste in my throat could only whisper.
And walking back-barefoot-hair still wet from my impromtu bath-talking with Tony again-we find each other for conversation so many times here in moments like these-with a earth road -which was by then my good friend-red and hot and hard and familiar-learning more about what Tony sees and how this little community- almost forgotten in the Brasilian mountainside- works-thinking at times of other walks like this-soles at times awakened sharply by an out of place rock-and always-always the bitter taste of thrist in my throat.
The descent is so much faster than our rise-which was perfectly brasilian-Tony leading us to the path he thought he knew-and us blazing our own trail in the end-hot at times when we were in open-before we stopped to get to know a tree´s shade and the little bichos on plants all around us-pictures taken of people who look like they just woke up from a nap in the sun-me sprawled against the tree trunk and other spread out likewise-until we rose further and entered the cooler mata-forest-and from there the rise was just feeling the moutainside-stopping when we felt pulled by imense views or lulls in energy-people taking turns always weilding the matchete-unless you were me-the only girl.
We find the trail we blazed before-and continue with our thrist-lighter and more carefree than our rise-talking of the monkey kings valley where we were reaching the end of our trek up Gramina and eating and picking the sweet red berries hidden all over-the berries glazing over the bitterness still clinging in our throats-before long Virjilho and I are behind the others who were running for the water ahead-and it is sweet to call him a detective (and he in turn to teach me to spot the berries-michelita detectiva) and wait longer with the bitter taste of thrist in my throat until we reached the little river-where I cooled burning skin and changed the smell of my hair-from heat and honey to wet and musky. Drinking the clear water running of little rocks and bits of grass until my stomach ached and the bitter taste in my throat could only whisper.
And walking back-barefoot-hair still wet from my impromtu bath-talking with Tony again-we find each other for conversation so many times here in moments like these-with a earth road -which was by then my good friend-red and hot and hard and familiar-learning more about what Tony sees and how this little community- almost forgotten in the Brasilian mountainside- works-thinking at times of other walks like this-soles at times awakened sharply by an out of place rock-and always-always the bitter taste of thrist in my throat.
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