To Kill A Dead Man

11 de Julho, Segunda-feira 9:00 PM
Pousada Konquista

We have braved the depths of the Atlantic rainforest, and behold!

We are unscathed.

Yara, our devious and multilingual guide, arrived at our pousada at 9:30, long before we were schedule to meet downtown. She told us the couple from Holland were “too hungover” to do the hike, and that the English were a no-show. Thus, she was stuck with only us two and our meager bankroll.

Yara. Yara is a trip.

My distaste for the greedy and heartless runs much deeper than Nate’s. Yara chainsmokes borrowed Marlboros, and hits up every tourist (Brazilian or foreigner) for money, services, or cigarettes. I avoided her through most of the expedition. She’ll slit our throats and leave us for the jaguars without a thought, and I don’t plan to offer her the opportunity.

2:00 AM

Trindade… Beaches like you wouldn’t believe. The rainforest is a place unlike any other, a place where life is so god damn prevalent it has nowhere left to grow. Standing in Trindade, one can only see three things: Sand, ocean, and trees. No bare land. The trees, like the tide, run right to the edge of the beach.

Our strange guide led us deep into the Mata Atlantica to various waterfalls, clearings, and pools. What can I say. The place is a fucking work of art.

On the beaches of Trindade…

The beach is shallow, with ten foot waves breaking 60-70 yards out. I walked / swam to the break, and when one of those warm, turquoise monsters grabs ahold of you…

It’s close to divinity.

That we should be led to such a marvel by such a moneygrubbing scumbag diminishes nothing. The place is a gem, easily the nicest beach I’ve ever seen.

The poetry to capture the place escapes me.

I can’t think of a way to describe our trek, through mossy canyons and knotted vines, over roaring waterfalls and under eclipsing canopies, that won’t sound cliche.

The rainforest and the beach are not experiences which I feel capable or duty-bound to share, so screw you all.

We returned on a clamoring, swerving bus which dropped us back in Paraty.


/*Editor’s note: Here…things get a little illegible. We at the editorial staff apologize.*/

Our last functional night in Brazil.

As one might discern from the substandard quality of my writing and handwriting, we’ve had ourselves a doozy. Paraty has reverted to its normal, deserted winter state after the swarming literary mass exodus this morning. The streets were nearly empty, and we sat at a lanche spot barely more crowded than the competitors.

Homeboy next to us.

You know what, fuck it. I’ll write about this later. It’s late, I’m tired… I’m sure you are too. We’ve both had too much pinga, the devil aguardente.

I’m feeling gooooood now but God help me when that sun comes up tomorrow. Fuck it, planning is for bitches.

Ride the lightning.



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