An Angolan lesson I'm in a scorpion fight...eyes bolted to the opponent, tails swinging and a piece of rope around my waist. The tanned, sculpted body reels into action: palm.. soul.. float in liquid motion to the hypnotic twang of berimbau. Maybe a prison chant or a puberty ritual, this angolan dance is an exhibition of human contortion in the face of an opponent. Blessed with grace, perfect balance, it is a beautiful violence. Calma..calma says the mestre as I pick my heavy weight off the floor for one more attempt.. ginga! as left blends into right...the souls of my feet are split, wrists bruised, and muscles under construction, ..I limp back to my hostal suckling on a coconut and comforting myself on the thought of breakfast..acai, banana, guarana, granola ready for afro-brasillian culture. Underwater
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