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 o...