This is a ceremonial ritual; a daily gathering of lost souls.
Along its circular route slides the home made bong, a half liter plastic bottle and a piece of robber pipe, surgically removed from a frightful mess underneath what used to be your kitchen sink, held together with candle wax and quarter-filled with brownish fluid of an evolutionary state all of its own.
This ceremonial ritual has been taking place for over two weeks by now, throughout the greater part of the Brazilian carnival you came halfway across the globe to partake in, and has left your rented apartment in a post-nuclear-disaster state, which only cockroaches and potheads can survive.
Half of the apartment is flooded, the other half is dotted with burn-marks, burned into the wooden floor and the broken furniture, and the stench, sealed in tight, has actually filed an appeal to be legally recognized as an autonomous being.
The one good thing to have come out of this situation is the accomplishment of Attention and Impression - the first two out of your trusty ‘seven stages to conquer’ plan. The girl in question is petite, blonde, has a beaming circular face, perfect round breasts and is as tinny and bouncy as a Ping-Pong ball and as radiant as the Sun itself, and is now, beyond a doubt, also aware of you.
Then, one bright and sunny day, the unspeakable occurs and hurls this little haven into a state of turmoil. Someone has taken it upon herself to clean up the apartment, which ain’t all bad, if not for the fact that she also decided to throw the holy bong away. An emergency meeting is immediately called for, in which the engineer frantically informs everyone that there isn’t as much as a scrap of pipe to be found in the entire house, and that without a pipe, no bong could ever be reconstructed.
In said state of desperation, a bunch of pale, dazed and confused potheads finds itself stepping out into the world for the first time in ages. The sudden exposure to heat burns their insipid skins, the sunrays make them squint, their mouths are as dry as a wasteland and all the commotion of the outside world throws them into such a state of bewilderment that several of them frenetically plead for an immediate retreat.
Nevertheless, the objective at hand is clearly of such crucial nature, that you decide to take command of the troops, and after a brief motivational speech, you devise a plan of action that shall save the day. You divide the platoon into companies; send one to scan the shopping center up the street, another to sweep the marketplace, a third to scout for garages in the neighborhood, which leaves only you and your petite dragon lady on pharmacy duty. The troops then scatter through the streets, and just like that, you also manage to initiate Division – the third of your stages to conquer, and Caesar’s first.
Two hours and about a dozen pharmacies later, and not a single tube has yet to have been located. Nonetheless, this amount of time spent in each other’s company, just the two of you, away from the herd for the very first time, has proven most efficient indeed. Now she does, beyond a doubt, also genuinely likes you.
It is at this point, that you run into the scattered shopping center company, who sadly reports an utter failure to obtain a pipe of any kind. They also claim to have seen the garage squad in full pursuit of a pipe-holdin’ hobo a couple of blocks away. They appear exhausted, slightly dehydrated even, as they await further orders. But this is no time for leniency, and therefore, you tell them to dig into every dumpster they can find, and send them on their way.
“You sure are a natural born leader,” says your personal little banner holder.
“Well, ‘s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it!” you proclaim, and set out for an ambush by the apartment without delay, just in case another unit is harboring any intention of retreating from the scavenge field. And true enough, just as you round a corner, the marketplace company is detected, heading back home empty handed. Showing due reproach, you harshly send them off, with their tails between their legs, to sweep the park, daring them to return empty handed.
It’s then that she proposes a cigarette break, and in the shade of a nearby dumpster, she gracious accepts a Pall Mall offered, and while in the process of retrieving it, lightly touches your hand with the soft skin of the palm of hers.
While sharing a comfortable moment of silence, just the two of you, crouched beside an overflowing dumpster, this lucky hand reaches for the ground in support of the rest of the body attached to it, but then freezes in midway. Your fingers hesitantly wrap themselves around an object just now detected, and slowly, almost mystically, lift it up to eye level. And behold! In your hand you’re holding the most perfect piece of plastic pipe you ever set eyes on.
It all became rather hazy from that moment forth. Memory fails to maintain a coherent storyline, leaving you with vague flashbacks of cheerin’ and backslappin’, a festive state of mind and an image of the masterpiece of a bong that was instantly engineered.
What remains fairly obscure is the matter of credit, or rather, the chain of events that led to her apparently taking credit for the discovery of the pipe, and being given said credit for having saved the day.
Nevertheless, all of that is secondary to the fact that, by sharing in the glory of salvation, an unbreakable bond has been formed between the two of you. For, what part does a small matter, such as truth or honesty, really play in the grander scheme of things?
All that matters is that you came, that you see and that you shall conquer.
* * *
It was an eighteen hour bus ride along the Brazilian coastline.
It was, beyond a doubt, the longest bus ride you’ve ever had to endure, and although a substantial part of it was an overnight, in which sleep presumably allows time to pass much more easily, the driver insisted on leaving the air conditioning on sub-arctic level, and it was simply too fuckin’ glacial for all of you to get a decent shuteye.
In retrospective, an eighteen hour bus ride is but a walk in the park, but at that small fried stage of your journey, it sure did feel like a crawl in the forest. Every hour felt like an eternity, which is roughly how I also feel about such things as watching football games or reading War and Peace. The one good thing to have come out of it, however, was the accomplishment of Intimacy - the fourth of your ‘seven stages to conquer’.
For dog-hour after hour, you shared not only a seat, but also every imaginable liaison two people at a pre-lovers stage can possibly share, other than bodily fluids, that is. You shared thoughts and feelings, desires, aspirations and points of view, rapidly catching up on twenty odd years of individual existence.
She told you of her family and upbringing, of her plans for the future and of her somewhat promiscuous past. Nothing wrong with promiscuous! In fact, it's underappreciated. For, without girls who easily put out, guys like you would have had a most boring and frustrating existence, and that’s a fact.
“Those days of judgment, when promiscuous women would have been burned at the stake, are over and done with,” you proclaimed, and proceeded by explaining that, “For men to be held in high regards for sleeping with great many women, while women to be regarded as sluts for doing the exact same thing, is nothing short of double standard.”
She appreciated your point of view, and as she was cuddling in your arms, you told her of your upbringing in the kibbutz, of your most timid background and even risked breaking that worldly image you’ve been projecting by confessing to a rather modest experience gained so far, and the hard labor even that much has necessitated.
Meanwhile, the bus made its unhurried way in between green hills, dotting the landscape like smallpox on the back of a crocodile, where the largest and most antipathetic cows you’ve ever seen were numbly grazing. Every now and then, you crossed a small, weary looking town, dotted with pastel colored churches, sticking out like flowers blooming in a heap of sun dried, crusty manure.
As the evening begins to set, the bus comes to a halt in the middle of nowhere, a whole bunch of spun and rinsed travelers jump off, backpacks and all, and the bus drives off, leaving a great big question mark in its vacancy.
Puzzled, you look at each other, then look around, and finally realize why this place is named Pedra azul.[1] Behind you, an enormous blue rock soars far into the sky, like the colossal erection of a stifled giant that’s been long since buried in the ground.
Left breathless, speechless and within a collective dream of a sort, one by one, these travelers scatter about the grounds, seeking solitary appreciation of this marvel of mother earth; this force of nature that should serve to cut us back to our rightful size.
Soon enough, though, you’re all reminded of the setting of the sun, as well as of the isolation of the location, take a quick vote and decide on the most illogical plan of action possible, namely scaling the unscalable slope of the blue rock.
On your hands and knees, kicking and pushing, not only the vertically challenging muddy ground underneath your feet, but your dragon lady’s shapely butt as well, the two of you ascend the slippery slope. Step by step, with the gallant men assisting the ladies, ever so grateful for leaving your backpacks hidden in the bushes by the side of the road, you make slow but steady progress.
This gives you plenty of time to focus on the next stage of your provate plan – namely, planting a seed for the Illusion of a future prospective. In your fertile imagination, you see the both of you sharing a Robinson Crusoean lifestyle, isolated from society and living together in the middle of a vast forest, or an evergreen jungle somewhere. This romantic notion takes wings, and sores into the skies, where the eagles cry, on a mountain glans. It lifts you up where you belong, together with her and away from everything else, and all of a sudden, you’re head over heels in love with this girl, whose exquisite behind is currently resting against your shoulder.
The gentle sun has already set behind Pedra’s azure stiffy, by the time you finish scaling a small waterfall and reach a plateau. Covered from head to toe in mud and sweat, you collapse onto a patch of grass, and breathlessly take in the breathtaking view of the hill patched valley, made ghostly pale by the dim light of dusk.
She wraps her short arms around your waist, and together you share a moment of sheer serenity, two brave explorers in defiance of the laws of gravity, nature and society. Behind you, a shrub stretches the visible length of the plate, and a friend, who’s gone there for a wee, quickly returns and urges all of you to follow him.
As, one by one, you squeeze through a narrow opening in the shrub, you find yourselves leaving reality behind and stepping into a fairytale world. Walled in by the hedges, lies a mystical garden. A maze of narrow trails, neatly paved in uneven cobblestones, leads in countless directions, amidst well groomed trees, flower beds and rose bushes.
As if under a magic spell, a bunch of weary travelers wordlessly brake up into factions of one or two, and begin to explore this enchanted lost world. Hand in hand, the two of you stroll down a winding path and over a small wooden bridge, across a stream whooshing the world into heavenly tranquility.
You follow the stream, rinsing your rejuvenated eyes on the gleam of goldfish, making brief appearances on the surface of the water. Finally, you reach a small cascade, where the stream drops into a small pool of crystal clear water. In the center of the pool, a pair of elegant swans amorously nests long necks in the bosom of a beloved.
All of a sudden, dozens of fireflies light up the dusky world around you in cold sparks so magnanimous, that the sheer concreteness of being becomes as light as thin air. Quixotically, you lean in for a kiss that is as inevitable as death itself. Dreamy, she leans her head back, her eyes pleading with you to preserve the unspoiled enchantment of the moment. “The right moment shall soon come,” her eyes promise.
“Let this moment be of the pure illusion of love.”
Eventually, factions reassemble in the midst of this paradise lost, to form a troop of moony travelers, who are also cold, tired and hungry nonetheless.
In the center of the garden, looms a spectacular hotel, as yet under construction. You circle it, relaying on your adolescent training in stealth and your keen eye, locate a narrow, slightly open window on the second floor, climb a nearby tree, leap at the windowsill and squeeze yourself into a small storage room. Once the backdoor is unbolted, the whole gang spreads through the hotel in search of beds, blankets and provisions. Alas, none of these basic necessities is to be found, and so you settle for this mere shelter from the elements.
In the dead of night, shivering on top of a stone-cold floor, where a bunch of travelers are huddled together for warmth, some wrapped in toilet paper, others in dreams of a thick carpet in front of a roaring fireplace, you sure are regretting not having had the commonsense to at least bring your sleeping bags along with you.
Instead, you wrap your arms around her petit body, providing her with an enclosure of flesh and the warmth of your beating heart. Amidst your fellow travelers, the consummation of your love is as likely as the consumption of wine at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. However, the right moment is bound to come soon. It is but the last remaining stage in a neatly executed plan that knows no possibility of failure.
And you sure do love it when a plan comes together.
* * *
Half a day’s ride in a local, steaming and suffocating chicken-bus sure does wonders in reacclimatizing a bunch of happy-go-lucky travelers, who has just survived a chilly night in paradise, only to gracefully fall back again early the next day.
As the sun begins to slide down from its meridian throne, the bus comes to a halt at its final destination, and a whole bunch of excited travelers jump off, backpacks and all. Before your eyes, stretches the municipality of Porto Seguro de Bahia, the promised land of post-carnival, beach-side dance parties, where Bahia's popular Axé music is played day and night.
One last push along a muddy path and through a thick forest leads you to an isolated little village, quietly resting against the backdrop of a white sand tropical beach, kissing an aquamarine ocean and riddled with palm trees, rocking in the gentle breeze. Then it hits you, with all the might of a utopian prophecy, that this is precisely the kind of place you’ve imagined the two of you living together in perfect harmony.
“This is your dreamland, and she is your dream-mate,” you realize, as your hand closes tightly over hers.
Suddenly, a shifty looking midget pops out of thin air, armed with a stack of photos and a glittering smile, paved with gold teeth and taking up most of his face. Behind him, towers a demigod of aesthetics and manliness, as dark as chocolate, evenly coating the muscular body of a lean hunter, straight out of the Dark Continent. In his hand, he holds what looks like a metal string bow, with a squash attached to its end, and his charming smile reveals perfect teeth, as straight as arrows and as white as an angel wing.
Wagging an imaginary tail, the midget approaches, and shows you his collection of charming little houses for lease, craftily working your Israeli egos with offers of rock bottom deals that would do your ancestors proud. Cupid, on his part, simply remains smiling in the background, while the wind runs through his long, sleek dreadlocks.
When the guys have settled on the bottom feeder’s deal of their liking, you turn your eyes to her for approval. Instantly, you are struck with a Medusan vision that turns you into a pillar of salt. The intensity with which she is ogling Cupid is electrifying, and is reciprocated with a gaze as cool as the Fonz. Presently, she tears away from your grasp, bounds the stretch of sandy beach separating the two of them, takes his hand and giggles.
While that pillar of salt commences liquefying in successive outbursts of craze, humiliation, but mostly bewilderment, they turn and skid away so smoothly; vanish so discretely, that none of the others present pays them much mind. By the time it reaches complete dissolution, all that remains in its stead is a quivering puddle of tears, where a man and a dreamer once stood.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
[1] Blue rock (Portuguese)
Along its circular route slides the home made bong, a half liter plastic bottle and a piece of robber pipe, surgically removed from a frightful mess underneath what used to be your kitchen sink, held together with candle wax and quarter-filled with brownish fluid of an evolutionary state all of its own.
This ceremonial ritual has been taking place for over two weeks by now, throughout the greater part of the Brazilian carnival you came halfway across the globe to partake in, and has left your rented apartment in a post-nuclear-disaster state, which only cockroaches and potheads can survive.
Half of the apartment is flooded, the other half is dotted with burn-marks, burned into the wooden floor and the broken furniture, and the stench, sealed in tight, has actually filed an appeal to be legally recognized as an autonomous being.
The one good thing to have come out of this situation is the accomplishment of Attention and Impression - the first two out of your trusty ‘seven stages to conquer’ plan. The girl in question is petite, blonde, has a beaming circular face, perfect round breasts and is as tinny and bouncy as a Ping-Pong ball and as radiant as the Sun itself, and is now, beyond a doubt, also aware of you.
Then, one bright and sunny day, the unspeakable occurs and hurls this little haven into a state of turmoil. Someone has taken it upon herself to clean up the apartment, which ain’t all bad, if not for the fact that she also decided to throw the holy bong away. An emergency meeting is immediately called for, in which the engineer frantically informs everyone that there isn’t as much as a scrap of pipe to be found in the entire house, and that without a pipe, no bong could ever be reconstructed.
In said state of desperation, a bunch of pale, dazed and confused potheads finds itself stepping out into the world for the first time in ages. The sudden exposure to heat burns their insipid skins, the sunrays make them squint, their mouths are as dry as a wasteland and all the commotion of the outside world throws them into such a state of bewilderment that several of them frenetically plead for an immediate retreat.
Nevertheless, the objective at hand is clearly of such crucial nature, that you decide to take command of the troops, and after a brief motivational speech, you devise a plan of action that shall save the day. You divide the platoon into companies; send one to scan the shopping center up the street, another to sweep the marketplace, a third to scout for garages in the neighborhood, which leaves only you and your petite dragon lady on pharmacy duty. The troops then scatter through the streets, and just like that, you also manage to initiate Division – the third of your stages to conquer, and Caesar’s first.
Two hours and about a dozen pharmacies later, and not a single tube has yet to have been located. Nonetheless, this amount of time spent in each other’s company, just the two of you, away from the herd for the very first time, has proven most efficient indeed. Now she does, beyond a doubt, also genuinely likes you.
It is at this point, that you run into the scattered shopping center company, who sadly reports an utter failure to obtain a pipe of any kind. They also claim to have seen the garage squad in full pursuit of a pipe-holdin’ hobo a couple of blocks away. They appear exhausted, slightly dehydrated even, as they await further orders. But this is no time for leniency, and therefore, you tell them to dig into every dumpster they can find, and send them on their way.
“You sure are a natural born leader,” says your personal little banner holder.
“Well, ‘s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it!” you proclaim, and set out for an ambush by the apartment without delay, just in case another unit is harboring any intention of retreating from the scavenge field. And true enough, just as you round a corner, the marketplace company is detected, heading back home empty handed. Showing due reproach, you harshly send them off, with their tails between their legs, to sweep the park, daring them to return empty handed.
It’s then that she proposes a cigarette break, and in the shade of a nearby dumpster, she gracious accepts a Pall Mall offered, and while in the process of retrieving it, lightly touches your hand with the soft skin of the palm of hers.
While sharing a comfortable moment of silence, just the two of you, crouched beside an overflowing dumpster, this lucky hand reaches for the ground in support of the rest of the body attached to it, but then freezes in midway. Your fingers hesitantly wrap themselves around an object just now detected, and slowly, almost mystically, lift it up to eye level. And behold! In your hand you’re holding the most perfect piece of plastic pipe you ever set eyes on.
It all became rather hazy from that moment forth. Memory fails to maintain a coherent storyline, leaving you with vague flashbacks of cheerin’ and backslappin’, a festive state of mind and an image of the masterpiece of a bong that was instantly engineered.
What remains fairly obscure is the matter of credit, or rather, the chain of events that led to her apparently taking credit for the discovery of the pipe, and being given said credit for having saved the day.
Nevertheless, all of that is secondary to the fact that, by sharing in the glory of salvation, an unbreakable bond has been formed between the two of you. For, what part does a small matter, such as truth or honesty, really play in the grander scheme of things?
All that matters is that you came, that you see and that you shall conquer.
* * *
It was an eighteen hour bus ride along the Brazilian coastline.
It was, beyond a doubt, the longest bus ride you’ve ever had to endure, and although a substantial part of it was an overnight, in which sleep presumably allows time to pass much more easily, the driver insisted on leaving the air conditioning on sub-arctic level, and it was simply too fuckin’ glacial for all of you to get a decent shuteye.
In retrospective, an eighteen hour bus ride is but a walk in the park, but at that small fried stage of your journey, it sure did feel like a crawl in the forest. Every hour felt like an eternity, which is roughly how I also feel about such things as watching football games or reading War and Peace. The one good thing to have come out of it, however, was the accomplishment of Intimacy - the fourth of your ‘seven stages to conquer’.
For dog-hour after hour, you shared not only a seat, but also every imaginable liaison two people at a pre-lovers stage can possibly share, other than bodily fluids, that is. You shared thoughts and feelings, desires, aspirations and points of view, rapidly catching up on twenty odd years of individual existence.
She told you of her family and upbringing, of her plans for the future and of her somewhat promiscuous past. Nothing wrong with promiscuous! In fact, it's underappreciated. For, without girls who easily put out, guys like you would have had a most boring and frustrating existence, and that’s a fact.
“Those days of judgment, when promiscuous women would have been burned at the stake, are over and done with,” you proclaimed, and proceeded by explaining that, “For men to be held in high regards for sleeping with great many women, while women to be regarded as sluts for doing the exact same thing, is nothing short of double standard.”
She appreciated your point of view, and as she was cuddling in your arms, you told her of your upbringing in the kibbutz, of your most timid background and even risked breaking that worldly image you’ve been projecting by confessing to a rather modest experience gained so far, and the hard labor even that much has necessitated.
Meanwhile, the bus made its unhurried way in between green hills, dotting the landscape like smallpox on the back of a crocodile, where the largest and most antipathetic cows you’ve ever seen were numbly grazing. Every now and then, you crossed a small, weary looking town, dotted with pastel colored churches, sticking out like flowers blooming in a heap of sun dried, crusty manure.
As the evening begins to set, the bus comes to a halt in the middle of nowhere, a whole bunch of spun and rinsed travelers jump off, backpacks and all, and the bus drives off, leaving a great big question mark in its vacancy.
Puzzled, you look at each other, then look around, and finally realize why this place is named Pedra azul.[1] Behind you, an enormous blue rock soars far into the sky, like the colossal erection of a stifled giant that’s been long since buried in the ground.
Left breathless, speechless and within a collective dream of a sort, one by one, these travelers scatter about the grounds, seeking solitary appreciation of this marvel of mother earth; this force of nature that should serve to cut us back to our rightful size.
Soon enough, though, you’re all reminded of the setting of the sun, as well as of the isolation of the location, take a quick vote and decide on the most illogical plan of action possible, namely scaling the unscalable slope of the blue rock.
On your hands and knees, kicking and pushing, not only the vertically challenging muddy ground underneath your feet, but your dragon lady’s shapely butt as well, the two of you ascend the slippery slope. Step by step, with the gallant men assisting the ladies, ever so grateful for leaving your backpacks hidden in the bushes by the side of the road, you make slow but steady progress.
This gives you plenty of time to focus on the next stage of your provate plan – namely, planting a seed for the Illusion of a future prospective. In your fertile imagination, you see the both of you sharing a Robinson Crusoean lifestyle, isolated from society and living together in the middle of a vast forest, or an evergreen jungle somewhere. This romantic notion takes wings, and sores into the skies, where the eagles cry, on a mountain glans. It lifts you up where you belong, together with her and away from everything else, and all of a sudden, you’re head over heels in love with this girl, whose exquisite behind is currently resting against your shoulder.
The gentle sun has already set behind Pedra’s azure stiffy, by the time you finish scaling a small waterfall and reach a plateau. Covered from head to toe in mud and sweat, you collapse onto a patch of grass, and breathlessly take in the breathtaking view of the hill patched valley, made ghostly pale by the dim light of dusk.
She wraps her short arms around your waist, and together you share a moment of sheer serenity, two brave explorers in defiance of the laws of gravity, nature and society. Behind you, a shrub stretches the visible length of the plate, and a friend, who’s gone there for a wee, quickly returns and urges all of you to follow him.
As, one by one, you squeeze through a narrow opening in the shrub, you find yourselves leaving reality behind and stepping into a fairytale world. Walled in by the hedges, lies a mystical garden. A maze of narrow trails, neatly paved in uneven cobblestones, leads in countless directions, amidst well groomed trees, flower beds and rose bushes.
As if under a magic spell, a bunch of weary travelers wordlessly brake up into factions of one or two, and begin to explore this enchanted lost world. Hand in hand, the two of you stroll down a winding path and over a small wooden bridge, across a stream whooshing the world into heavenly tranquility.
You follow the stream, rinsing your rejuvenated eyes on the gleam of goldfish, making brief appearances on the surface of the water. Finally, you reach a small cascade, where the stream drops into a small pool of crystal clear water. In the center of the pool, a pair of elegant swans amorously nests long necks in the bosom of a beloved.
All of a sudden, dozens of fireflies light up the dusky world around you in cold sparks so magnanimous, that the sheer concreteness of being becomes as light as thin air. Quixotically, you lean in for a kiss that is as inevitable as death itself. Dreamy, she leans her head back, her eyes pleading with you to preserve the unspoiled enchantment of the moment. “The right moment shall soon come,” her eyes promise.
“Let this moment be of the pure illusion of love.”
Eventually, factions reassemble in the midst of this paradise lost, to form a troop of moony travelers, who are also cold, tired and hungry nonetheless.
In the center of the garden, looms a spectacular hotel, as yet under construction. You circle it, relaying on your adolescent training in stealth and your keen eye, locate a narrow, slightly open window on the second floor, climb a nearby tree, leap at the windowsill and squeeze yourself into a small storage room. Once the backdoor is unbolted, the whole gang spreads through the hotel in search of beds, blankets and provisions. Alas, none of these basic necessities is to be found, and so you settle for this mere shelter from the elements.
In the dead of night, shivering on top of a stone-cold floor, where a bunch of travelers are huddled together for warmth, some wrapped in toilet paper, others in dreams of a thick carpet in front of a roaring fireplace, you sure are regretting not having had the commonsense to at least bring your sleeping bags along with you.
Instead, you wrap your arms around her petit body, providing her with an enclosure of flesh and the warmth of your beating heart. Amidst your fellow travelers, the consummation of your love is as likely as the consumption of wine at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. However, the right moment is bound to come soon. It is but the last remaining stage in a neatly executed plan that knows no possibility of failure.
And you sure do love it when a plan comes together.
* * *
Half a day’s ride in a local, steaming and suffocating chicken-bus sure does wonders in reacclimatizing a bunch of happy-go-lucky travelers, who has just survived a chilly night in paradise, only to gracefully fall back again early the next day.
As the sun begins to slide down from its meridian throne, the bus comes to a halt at its final destination, and a whole bunch of excited travelers jump off, backpacks and all. Before your eyes, stretches the municipality of Porto Seguro de Bahia, the promised land of post-carnival, beach-side dance parties, where Bahia's popular Axé music is played day and night.
One last push along a muddy path and through a thick forest leads you to an isolated little village, quietly resting against the backdrop of a white sand tropical beach, kissing an aquamarine ocean and riddled with palm trees, rocking in the gentle breeze. Then it hits you, with all the might of a utopian prophecy, that this is precisely the kind of place you’ve imagined the two of you living together in perfect harmony.
“This is your dreamland, and she is your dream-mate,” you realize, as your hand closes tightly over hers.
Suddenly, a shifty looking midget pops out of thin air, armed with a stack of photos and a glittering smile, paved with gold teeth and taking up most of his face. Behind him, towers a demigod of aesthetics and manliness, as dark as chocolate, evenly coating the muscular body of a lean hunter, straight out of the Dark Continent. In his hand, he holds what looks like a metal string bow, with a squash attached to its end, and his charming smile reveals perfect teeth, as straight as arrows and as white as an angel wing.
Wagging an imaginary tail, the midget approaches, and shows you his collection of charming little houses for lease, craftily working your Israeli egos with offers of rock bottom deals that would do your ancestors proud. Cupid, on his part, simply remains smiling in the background, while the wind runs through his long, sleek dreadlocks.
When the guys have settled on the bottom feeder’s deal of their liking, you turn your eyes to her for approval. Instantly, you are struck with a Medusan vision that turns you into a pillar of salt. The intensity with which she is ogling Cupid is electrifying, and is reciprocated with a gaze as cool as the Fonz. Presently, she tears away from your grasp, bounds the stretch of sandy beach separating the two of them, takes his hand and giggles.
While that pillar of salt commences liquefying in successive outbursts of craze, humiliation, but mostly bewilderment, they turn and skid away so smoothly; vanish so discretely, that none of the others present pays them much mind. By the time it reaches complete dissolution, all that remains in its stead is a quivering puddle of tears, where a man and a dreamer once stood.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
[1] Blue rock (Portuguese)