Fio Dental - Chapter 11: Lençóis


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South America » Brazil » Bahia » Lençóis
July 17th 2006
Published: May 26th 2008
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Swimmers in RiverSwimmers in RiverSwimmers in River

Easy to meet...very approachable...
The 7:00 am departure on Real Expresso from Salvador to Lençóis should be known as the European Express. Fully booked with Danes, Italians, British, and Dutch, it is only the Brazilian merchant getting off in dusty Feira de Santana that seems out of place. Otherwise, passengers are destined for Bahia’s Chapada Diamantina, a national park. It attracts naturalists and trekkers who explore its undisturbed wilderness. Most ignore the appalling slums of suburban Salvador, which spread almost fifteen miles to the west of the city. I could not. How could I? How could anyone? Thousands of people live on top of each other in squalor. Some “homes” have an electrical connection. By the looks of it, running water is not too potable; weathered and gristled women line up at a public fountain and fill up three or four cumbersome jugs. I often wonder which is worse - urban or rural poverty? Some of the dwellings towards Lençóis are but sheds in which a family of five must eek out a living. In the country, I imagine a greater sense of community, sense of peace, and hopefully happiness. The scene in Salvador is hopeless.
The six-hour ride into Bahia’s interior brings to light
Laundry ServiceLaundry ServiceLaundry Service

Same river...
Brazil’s sheer vastness. Distances between small communities are great, services are practically nonexisitent, and only the floating vultures interrupt a scrubby landscape of brittle shrubs and thin stems of pale green cactus. Every few dozen miles the flying scavengers crowd together atop the carcass of a pony and rip it to shreds. In a few hours, only pieces of skeleton will be left. The middle-aged man seated next to me speaks very little. He has not likely shaven or trimmed his noise or ear hairs in years; yet he is innocuous. I look behind my seat to see fair-skinned tourists asleep or studying maps depicting hiking trails through the national park. I have almost zero in common with these people. Their idea of a hike is three days to discover a new path around a mountainside. Mine revolves walking into town for dinner, or at least ensuring that my hike ends before dinner time.

A hippie haven of those looking to flee reality congregates in Lençóis. It is a mutually beneficial split between lifetime residents and an alternative crowd that would be the first fired on The Apprentice. The typical foreign tenant dawns a single frosted ceramic earring, a
Cave TourCave TourCave Tour

The guide's lantern was the only source of light...
bandana wrapped around his head, and keep a thin vertical strand of shin hair neatly trimmed. The ladies in their early 20’s often wear long linen skirts and monochrome t-shirts. If not available or running through the laundry, camouflage pants rolled up to just below the knee will do. Flip flops or ripped sandals are mandatory for this subculture. I, in a collared polo shirt, leather walking shoes, and a schoolboy’s daypack around my shoulder, look like the bearded lady in a 19th century Midwestern traveling freak show. How granola is this town? It’s the first I’ve seen in Brazil with a vegetarian restaurant. To my amusement, some of the recent college grads and Aussies on their overseas experience accept “authentic’ shark tooth necklaces from vendors in order to enhance their image.
To call Lençóis colonial would be inaccurate, but it retains a similar feel. Besides the numerous guesthouses and ecotourism firms, it stands as a quiet, humble yet picturesque town of gridded and aged stone streets. The few police officers stop for ice cream on their rounds. Some go unarmed while puttering around on a 1950’s era motorcycle with side carriage. Women haul massive loads of laundry over their
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PETA would not approve...
shoulders to do the daily wash in the tannin-infused river. Each lady has a particular spot they claim, which usually is where a small waterfall spills into a collecting pool before continuing downstream. The soaked, but clean clothing is spread out on dry rocks in the afternoon. The setting for the drying cycle is bright sunshine, partly cloudy, or we’ll do it tomorrow. Requesting laundry service in Lençóis requires the customer to know the forecast to ensure clean clothes will be returned before you leave town on an expedition or for good. Never have my T-shirts come back so brilliantly white, more so than the day I ripped them open from the plastic packaging.
Lençóis is too small to go unnoticed even for two days. There is no place to hide and everyone knows your face from where you dine, make a telephone call, or book a daytrip. Everyone has his place in Lençóis, be it the shopkeeper, tour operator, visitor from Connecticut, village drunk, or village idiot. Lichen grows on power lines. Bats chirp and flutter around the church’s cross at dusk and duck to avoid homes’ oversized satellite dishes in which a family of three could take a
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This was NOT among the larger ones...
bubble bath. Are homeowners seeking better reception with these monstrosities, or trying to establish contact with life beyond our solar system? As with most towns in Brazil, the men gather in cafés and play dominoes in the central square. The women are hard at work.

Zen Tur promotes a one-day excursion package for the casual visitor: me. Called Roteiro I, I prefer it be named the Sampler Platter. Two tour guides patiently herd eleven passengers around the Chapada Dimantina for a day’s worth of sightseeing, concentrating on the highlights, less strenuous climbs, and making sure that we take breaks at all the approved souvenir stands agreed to well in advance. I dislike the concept. Yet, without a motor vehicle of my own, hitchhiking in Brazil out of the question, and an unwillingness to dedicate three days plucking thorns out of my thighs on unmarked trails, I capitulate.
I don’t know if I have been in more caves or more churches while traveling, so you can imagine the rolling of my eyes when our first stop was the Gruta da Lapa Doce, a hidden cavern 75 yards down a rocky but well sculpted trail of top-notch stonework. If only the
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One of the best photos I have ever taken...
handrail received the same attention. Tree branches tied together with dry vines and nailed to vertical posts have snapped off in places upon the slightest touch. Once I was almost sent tumbling over. The wood had been devoured by termites. Much to my delight and initial confusion, I took note of no power lines accompanying the footpath into the cave’s mammoth oval mouth. Our guide then lit a dented propane lantern on the powdery floor of the cave. The entire tour would be in the dark but for this lone source of light. How original! The tour consisted of the anticipated formations of stalagmites and stalactites (and don’t ask me which form from the ceiling and which from the floor!) At certain points the guide played games with his lantern, juxtaposing it between the rocks and those on the tour to create a tortoise in shadow on the wall or a girl riding on horseback.
Without warning, he extinguished the lantern. Blackness enveloped us instantaneously. The feeling was ominous, for without that lantern prospects of exiting the cave were almost zero. I was especially friendly with the guide. Upon surfacing from the cavern, he showed us the house where he
Taking a PlungeTaking a PlungeTaking a Plunge

The drop from the ledge was about thirty feet...
was born and still lives. Of mud bricks and thicket between the splintered roof tiles, he has no electricity, no plumbing, and no rear entrance. He proudly told us of his bicycle and the two-hour ride each way to market to buy provisions. He helped us aboard the van. I tipped him a minimal two reais, not even a dollar. None of the others even went for their pockets.
The time between stops usually entailed the Brazilians checking their cell phones, the Italians talking about food, and my face plastered to the side window to make sure I missed none of the passing coffee plantations, rickety bridges, and or young men on horseback with cart in tow. Our lunchtime stop was at the Gruta Azul. Directly translated: Blue Grotto. I have never been to its elegant and very distant relative on Capri, but this cavernous pool of shallow blue ground water at the base of steps amounted to staring at a duck pond, but without the ducks. A blue hue became apparent only when a ray of sunlight managed to reach the murky depths. I would have preferred to spend my time doing something far more useful. Learning how to win at Tic-Tac-Toe comes to mind. At least over lunch, I chatted with a couple from Trent, Italy. Somehow the conversation turned to hunting practices of Italians and Americans. I explained to him the various types of game and how some hunters violate the law by aiming headlights in the face of deer.
“Then they fire their shotguns from the vehicle, on the side of the road. This is illegal as well.”
“Sounds too easy”, replied Claudio.
“Hunting cattle in a corral with hand grenades would be more challenging.” What would I know, really? I have never discharged a firearm. Neither has Claudio.
Claudio added, in English, “In Italy, we shoot pigs, you know.” Gee, not that much more stressful than shooting Holsteins.
“Pigs?”
“Yes, wild pigs.” Ahhh. Boar. I searched for the word in Italian, but knew what he meant. Behind us, in marshy wetland, dozens of vultures and swans shared the same drinking source. Some of the vultures were as tall as my thigh, and were as ugly as they were tall. The sun shone brightly. Three men were leaning against a concrete support behind our table drinking directly out of coconuts. The Gruta Azul offered little, and
Texas?  Mexico?Texas?  Mexico?Texas? Mexico?

Atop a bluff...
the three of us did even less.

In the lingering afternoon sunshine, our van weaved and rocked along dirt roads, far safer and more even than the ones supposedly paved. But for the standing water and dry river beds that have eroded the surface, at least off-roading in the Chapada Diamantina is safer than the deadly potholes on what road maps indicate as highway. The van violently avoided their treachery and passengers were thrown into each other time and again, a natural way of getting to know each other better. Some of the craters came in a random distribution so nasty that the van had to drive off the road entirely to steer clear of them. Their shape, depth, and hollowness were so impressive, they would make the moon envious.
The van climbed through a sign that read Morro do Pai Inácio. Ears popped as we gained altitude and came to a stop at the foot of a communications tower nearby, which a craggy footpath lead up and out of sight over a hilltop. I signed my name in the registry, the only American to do so for a few weeks. Before the ascent, all visitors make a voluntary
Road back to town...Road back to town...Road back to town...

Twenty minute climb...
contribution, but to what was not immediately known. I dropped a few reais in the bucket and followed our guide straight up. The only thought that occurred to me at the time was the dreadful climb up Pacaya, two years ago in Guatemala. The three hour death march to the volcano’s active cone sapped me for days. Mercifully, this task was shorter, though still steep. I handled it without looking like a complete fool in front of the others.
When abroad, it is common to photograph a memorable landmark or feature only to commit it to a file to be retrieved for the entertainment of others after returning home. Such instances are not inspiring. The next level of meaning when traveling is when you encounter a situation that actually gives pause. Your feet involuntarily stop and a chilling thrill tingles and penetrates your back and shoulders. Luckily, and it happens infrequently, I encountered this while walking through Tiradentes. I had come to see Brazil’s colonial past and there it was in al its glory. Upon resuming my initial walk through Tirandentes, it was if my feet floated every so slightly above the cobbled surface. The sensation never occurred there the second or third time through. Then, once on a very rare occasion, perhaps years apart, something truly magnificent takes place that surpasses not only every expectation, but also humbles our misplaced and temporary significance on this planet.
Some places on earth are not meant to be touched by man’s presence. The panorama from the summit of Morro do Pai do Inácio qualifies as one of the most awesome views of nature available to the human eye. Staggered about two miles apart, cactus and shrub covered bluffs form the flanks of a gaping verdant valley. The shifting sunlight uncovers shades of green they just didn’t tell you about in high school art class. Bare rock faces inward and reflects brilliant sunshine. The buttes line up and form a perfect stage for what is unquestionably one of the most paralyzing spectacles I have had the privilege to come across. It is a beauty so wild, serene, yet heart-stopping, it will bring a man to tears. The brain rejects the initial message it receives from the cornea, for it cannot grasp that any such image exists in the concept of reality - but it does.
Such a sight can only be destroyed by putting a human face between it and a camera lens. And sadly, my companions did just that. It isn’t that they did not see what I saw. However, they were not moved in the same way. For them, it will all be captured in a space of four inches by six and projected onto the living room wall for the neighbors to gawk at while munching on popcorn. Some even wanted to see how powerful their cell phone signal had become given the vantage point. I pity them, as I do those who looked out and saw the same image I did, but felt nothing.

“It’s a caipirinha, Rich”, Rolf started in, stirring his recently arrived drink. Dusk had already enveloped the Praça Aureliano Sé. Each of the cafés’ tables were set on the square to attract pedestrians for refreshments.
“Yeah, I know. How is it?” I did not care to know, just making small talk with this friendly Dutchman and his wife.
“Quite decent, actually.” Caipirinha’s are a chilled cocktail, based with a sugar cane spirit called cachaça. Cachaça to a Brazilian is like tequila to a Mexican. Crushed lime and sugar are added to cut the bitterness of the cachaça. The liquor comes in various grades, qualities, colors, and flavors. “You want one?” No, I really didn’t. Ten years ago, caipirinhas were all the rage and fashion in Germany. At a party in Munich, I had underestimated their potency.
“OK, but just one for now.” Ahh, I was lying to myself. It went down very well. The rest of the evening went something like the following: Rolf and wife disappeared after the three of us had dinner in a Mexican restaurant. Caipirinhas washed down the burrito and refried beans. Upon approaching the lone bridge I needed to cross in order to get back to my room, I had the option of continuing with my primary plan of going to bed, or investigate the commotion in the corner bar. I chose poorly.
The scruffy locals within are the type that do not mingle with the granolas. Granolas may dress down, but do indeed walk around with an air of exclusivity. Caipirinhas went around. And around. The sound of aluminum bottles caps bounced of the damp ceramic floor after being removed from 600 ml beer bottles. The coarse patrons chimed in to welcome me. I had a home for the evening among the disenfranchised, mentally unstable, and dentally challenged. “Mais uma, Ricardo?” I had long forgotten how to speak Portuguese in the negative. Blurs of inane conversation went back and forth. Some of the beer destined for our juice glasses missed its intended target, but found its way onto the floor, bar stools, and all of our shirts. My newly made friends’ repertoire of communication skills was limited to the universal thumbs up whenever drinks landed in front of them, “America good!”, and “We have friendship, you, me.” I had had a few, but being bear hugged by a putrid farmer whose breath could drop an elephant did bring me back to my senses.
“I have to go.” It was past two in the morning. After ten minutes of goodbyes and incoherent promises on my part to see to it that everyone be issued a visa to come visit me, I stepped away from the jubilation into a silent Lençóis. I traversed my way back through the town’s intricately winding streets and somehow fell on my bed.
In the morning, I begged for divine intervention to extinguish the percussion concert in my skull. As I managed to go back into town for more coffee, the numerous streets that I twisted through the night before had strangely become only one. And it was perfectly straight.


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