The Astounding Travel Adventures of a Miraculous Fellow

Alright, here are the highlights of Brazil, in pure photographic picture form without all the verbs, nouns, and other hoohah that I always put in my blog posts.

http://picasaweb.google.com/jeffwheeland/Brasil?authkey=53-FItV9-S0#

Enjoy.

Hello, I am Jeff Wheeland. Nice to meet you.

Nooooooooooooooooooooo!

Sniff…sniff.  I left Brasil.

It’s not you, Brasil.  It’s me.

I had to do it.  After seven glorious weeks, it was time to go.

As I drove across the border, overlooking the Paraguai River that divides Brasil and Argentina, I nearly opened the door of the car, flung myself overboard, and swam back into the waiting arms of a friendly Brasileira, who would, undoubtedly, nurse me back to health.  Maybe, even “naughty” nurse me back to health, if you know what I mean…wink, wink.

Alas, I stayed in the car.  It was time to give Argentina a chance.  So, upon arrival in this non-Brazilian country, I wandered off into the wilderness to think about my experiences in the tremendous Eden that is Brasil.

As I started to ruminate about Megafox and the water buffaloes of Ihla do Marajó, I began to softly weep.

When I thought of frolicking on the sand dunes and crystal-clear lagoons of Parque Lençois Maranhense, the trickle of weeping quickly turned to sobs, and a stream of tears began to form on the nearby ground.

As I pondered the refreshing, ice-cold beer and Caipirinha-induced hangovers with whom I frequently found company, the stream of sobs turned to a small river.  And the river runs through it…not totally sure what “it” is, but the river definitely runs through it.

Upon musing about Salvador’s crazed African Candomblé religious ceremonies that we enchantedly watched while church members were put into a deity-induced trance and I was cleansed of my sins by a cigar-smoking, cachaca-drinking priest, the river of tears began to flood the plains.

While reflecting upon the magical Happiest Farm on Earth, its tiny houses, and delightfully obese dog, the tears began to flood Argentina’s lands, and form a giant flowing mass of water.

Finally, upon thinking about the friendliness of Brazilian females and their love of Samba, Skol beer, and foreign blond-haired men, I had enough.  The sobs were continuing unabated from my eyes, and little did I know, that downstream, a great event was occurring from the river of tears — one that would be my final homage to this great, great land, known as Brasil.

The local indigenous people have come to name this phenomenon Las Cataratas de Iguaçu, or Iguaçu Falls. These sob-induced falls now cross the borders of both Argentina and Brasil.  I have even heard that there are now full national parks, complete with tourist facilities, in both countries as a monument to a gringo’s seven breathtaking weeks in Brasil.

So, that is it.

Goodbye Brasil.  You’ve taught me to dominate the sport of Paddleball, to inhale Caipirinhas, to be a frenzied futébol lunatic, to run-in-place or “dance” the Samba, to unconditionally love Megafox, to ride water buffalo, to clandestinely snap photos of bikini-clad, beach bunny Brasileiras in Ipanema, to speak Portugunol, to never, ever, ever swim in the alligator- and piranha-saturated waters of the Pantanal, and, most importantly, you’ve taught me that you are a phenomenal country that should have its secondary national anthem be:

“And Iiiiiiiiiiiii eeeee iiiiiiiii, will alwaaaaaays looooooove yooouuuuuuuuuuuu…”

Thumbs up, Brasil.  Thumbs up.

You’re up Argentina, but you’ve got a lot of work to do.  I’d suggest starting straight off with…oh, I don’t know…maybe a foursome to get you set in the right direction.

I’ll be waiting.

After leaving behind the giant beavers of Rio and Sao Paolo (and the women they are attached to), I headed out West in search of the Giant Beaver of the Pantanal.

Toucans...or TWOcans. Pun intended. Holy shit that's funny!

For those not in the know, the Pantanal is the world’s largest marshland, 262,000 square kilometers, over 20 times larger than the Everglades in the US.  This area is very well preserved by the Brazilian government, and is one of the best places on Earth to see abundant wildlife: anteaters, jaguars, armadillos, alligators, piranhas, toucans, Giant River Otters, Giant Anacondas, Giant Rodents, and, with any luck, the Giant Beaver.

Alligators and the Pantanal -- more common than Stank on a Frenchman.

After taking a 20 hour bus across the country far into Nowheresville, I started seeing animals everywhere.  Colorful toucans flying overhead, emus charging around weirdly, capybaras (giant hampsters) standing there looking stupid, alligators menacingly eyeballing the stupid capybaras, um…what else…kangaroos bouncing gleefully, polar bears nursing their young, eh…teradactyls playing poker…

Ok, so I made up those last few.  But, I saw tons of animals, and this was still on the bus.  The next morning, myself, two Australian girls, and a bunch of French clowns took a jeep down the wilderness road to search for more animals.  After 15 minutes of driving, our guide jumped out of the car and spotted fresh jaguar tracks on the ground.  It is very, very rare to spot jaguars in the wild, so we looked around for awhile, but it was gone.  I suggested we use one of the French people as bait, but after a couple of hours of waiting, not even this plan could entice a jaguar out of hiding.  I guess even the mighty jaguar of the Pantanal is no match for the mighty stink that emanates from a Frenchman’s armpits.

Macaws. Um...nothing really funny to say about them.

As we moved on, we spotted an incredible assortment of animals just lying around, without a care in the world.  Monkeys, macaws, snakes, lizards, alligators, birds, and more birds, not to mention even more of the animals I spotted from the bus.  My favorite animal is henceforth the Giant Hampster, because it is so stupid looking, and makes amusing noises when it becomes terrified as a gringo chases after it.

Piranhas -- Who's Eating Who Now, Lil' Fishy?

The next day we tried our hand at piranha fishing.  I guess technically, “tried” isn’t quite the appropriate word, because all it took was putting beef on your hook, lowering it in the water, and lifting within 3 seconds with a piranha on the hook.  These little bastards are terrifyingly aggressive.  Our guide told us a story about a tourist who was boating at night, crashed, gashed his head, and fell in the water.  Within one minute, he was completely eaten by piranhas.  Yikes.  There will be no swimming for yours truly, Lord only knows what they’d do to this sweet, sweet man flesh.

Yowza.  Anywho, these dumb little fish were so nuts for meat that we even chopped up a piranha we had caught, baited the hook with it, and, within 3 seconds, caught another piranha.  Filthy cannibals.  As we got more and more bored, we invented a game enjoyed by man and alligator alike: man catches a piranha, smashes it against the boat, then carefully hurls it to a nearby alligator to catch.  I call it “Ultimate Piranha.”  After tiring of this lovely game, we had caught our share of piranhas for a the night’s meal of fried piranha and piranha soup (which our guide creepily called “Brazilian Viagra”).  A meal suited for a erectile-disfuctional King.

Them Gators is Good Eatin'

After our fishing adventure, we took a boat trip up river in search of more animals.  Again, this was not very difficult.  There are alligators lining the shores up and down the river, and other animals flying, jumping, and frolicking about everywhere you look.  We hiked up a small mountain in the middle of the marshes, and looked out on complete and total wilderness, without a sight of human settlement.

Alas, the elusive Giant Beaver was nowhere to be found.

Monkeys gearing up to throw some feces at us.

That night we went out on a nighttime boat tour, and as our guide flashed a spotlight around, we saw hundreds of alligator eyes staring back at us.  These little creepers were sneaking around everywhere, mainly because they are protected by the government so that the locals can’t eat them, or make them into leather boots, leather hats, leather sunglasses, or leather chaps, Brokeback Pantanal-style.  Unfortunately, we did not see any other animals that night, and another boat driver came back and told us we missed a jaguar by about 15 minutes.  Drat.

Thus, while we missed the opportunity to see any anacondas (and I was unable to yell “There’s snakes out der dis big?!”), saw no jaguars, and confirmed that the only Giant Beavers in Brazil were fueled by Samba music and Skol beer, the Pantanal gets a giant A+ in my book.  This place is amazing, full of wildlife, untouched nature, and man-eating animals just itching to play a game of “Ultimate Piranha.”

Capybaras -- Giant Hampsters

Rio de Janeiro

Rio de Janeiro. One the most marvelous cities on Earth.

Sure, it’s horribly dangerous. Sure, there are terrible slums that are stacked right on top of all parts of the city, rich and poor. Sure, the inequality is astounding and disturbing.

But, holy shit, is it still a beautiful city.

Lush rolling mountains dot the hillsides, and drop right into the clear blue Atlantic Ocean. The Pao de Azucar — a huge, cliff-sided, granite rock — sits right in the middle of the bay. A giant Jesus statue on top of one of the mountains overlooks the city saying “Hey Brazilians, I can see you sinning. But it’s cool, I couldn’t be mad at you lovable rascals.” And of course, there are beaches that stretch for miles and miles, full of scantily clad Brasileiras that don’t really mind a blond-haired, blue eyed foreigner is pretending to take pictures of the ocean, but really snapping photos of their hindquarters.

Pao de Açucar -- A Big Ass Rock

Now, however, for the first time in two months, I am traveling alone. My travel buddy, Pat, left. I am alone. So alone, so cold. Darkness seems to envelop everything. I lost a solid wingman, a good translator, and a technically-sound drinking partner. He was “Goose” and I, of course, was “Maverick” (although he seemed to attract the more handsome ladies an unnervingly disproportionate amount of the time)…but fuck that, this is my story, so I’m Maverick. In fact, he’s not even Goose, he’s just some air traffic controller at the fighter jet school. Yeah. That’s it. If there’s ever a “Top Gun 7: Out of Control Love Traffic” maybe Pat can be the star and win all the female air traffic controllesses…but I’m not bitter.

Anywho, now, as a solo traveler in Rio, I did what anyone else would do. Find some people to go out with, and meet some Cariocas (women from Rio). And this I did. I headed out with some Germans that I met in Salvador a week earlier, and hit up Rio’s crazy party part of town, Lapa. This place is right next to a favela, but the danger of the area only adds to the excitement of the giant clubs. Upon entering, the place was full of a 15 member band, and one thousand Brazilians, whose body parts were swinging wildly about in what they call “Samba.”

The Beach in Ipanema...Wait, what's that on the left?

Now, as far as I can tell, Samba dancing is physically impossible for non-Brazilians. The first time I attempted it, I dislocated both of my hips, ruptured my spleen, exploded both of my kneecaps, and somehow managed to burn off one of my eyebrows. After a couple weeks in the hospital, this night in Lapa was my chance to try again. I realized now that Samba is not my most fluent dance step (clearly, for me, this is the “Smiling Slow Roger Running Man,” a combination of the Roger Rabbit and Running Man, all performed in slow motion with a big shit-eating grin on my face) but in order to meet the locals, I had to do something. So I just started running in place, then managed to blend in a couple of steps from the “Funky Chicken,” all the while whistling a song I thought could pass as Brazilian Samba.

Jesus and I -- The Gruesome Twosome

Surprisingly, this was sufficient; I think not so much for being mistaken as a Samba dance move, but mainly because it drew the attention of local Cariocas who wandered over to see: 1) why there was a dying antelope flopping around on the dance floor; and 2) why it was whistling “Who Let the Dogs Out.”

Alas, one Carioca got close enough to get tangled in my flailing limbs and was forced to dance with me until the Jaws of Life were found to release her from my flesh trap. But, as time went on, she took a liking to this simple-minded foreigner, and started teaching me slow-mo Samba.

Unfortunately, teaching me Mandarin Chinese in 45 minutes would have been simpler than teaching me Samba, but this little vixen stuck around through constant toe crushings, until we ending up doing routine dental checkups on each other with our tongues.

Oh, to be in love with a 21 year old Brazilian woman. While solo travel can be difficult for some, Rio de Janeiro can much it much, much easier on a man, as it’s one of the coolest places on Earth. Although, in reality, hanging out with a 21 year old Brazilian could almost even make Caracas into one of the coolest places on Earth.

Almost.

 

Pat, Me, and Helio

I have a friend whose name is Helio.  He is Brazilian.  During the week, Helio lives in a nice house in Sao Paolo, one of the largest cities on Earth, with almost 30 million people.  He doesn’t know most of them.  Like Batman, however, during most weekends Helio has an alternate identity.  In this identity, he is still Helio, is still Brazilian, still doesn’t know all 30 million people in Sao Paolo, but he lives in another place…a place unlike any other on God’s Blue Earth.

The Cathedral of the Midget God of Aguaí

The next thing we passed was a perfectly groomed soccer field, which is basically the most cherished thing in all of Helio’s family.  If the farm caught on fire one day, they would all sprint outside with shovels and pickaxes, and move the field yard-by-yard to safety.  Maybe later they’d try to save the monkey.

Look Kids, No Hands!

 

The Fattest Dog on Earth

 

 

For once in my life, I am a giant.

Anywho, true to form, this replica had two floors with a balcony, that we climbed out on to scream to all the others in Midgetville “I am enormous!  Bow before me!”  This tiny little village also had a tribute to the Mayor of Tinytown, with a perfect replica of the Aguaí mayoral office.  After playing “Merciful, Handsome, Yet Spiteful Mayor” for seven or eight hours, I wandered around the property for awhile longer, only to find the tiny train tracks!  While no longer functional, in the past there was a little train that rumbled around the property.  This farm, for children and simple-minded doofuses such as yours truly, is probably the greatest place on Earth. 

Bow Before the Giants of Aguaí!!!

Later that evening, after all 25 of us feasted on a Brazilian churrascuria (barbecue) consisting of a couple of painless slices of the “Fattest Dog on Earth” (which was about 400 kilos of beef) we headed out to Helio’s friend’s house for a little pre-party before a big concert in Aguaí.  When we arrived, we met a bunch of Brazilians who did something very, very strange for their race: they spoke English.  Thus, for the first time in my month in this fine country, I was able to communicate to people.  It was delightful.  Moreover, these people had a wonderfully attractive collection of women with them, most of whom spoke English as well.  One of said women was blond-haired, blue-eyed, and deliciously beautiful.  Naturally, she had zero attraction to me, but was quite taken with our little friend Patrick.  By the end of the night, after hours of gazing into (what I consider, when comparing to myself) this hideous creature named Pat’s eyes, a strange thing happened for a Brazilan woman when talking to a man: nothing.  While constantly dogding my efforts to sneak-attack-kiss her from all angles throughout the night, this lovely specimen got absolutely no loving from Pat.  There are two possible reasons for this:

 

The End of the Night