Some observations from the first trip to Torres.
31 October 2009
Bus to Torres. 10ish in the a.m. Bags are packed securely and a weekend beach adventure awaits. What to come? Presently the joy of motion is in my bones and my heart. On the go. Somewhere new. And a break, at that.
The bus is cushy and well-lined. Just out of the city proper we are witness to the poverty that pervades Brazil. Withered horses graze in patchy fields of deep green grass. Indeed, it is the greenery that saves so much of the scenery. Trash and ramshackle housing supplies additional balance in favor of the gloom. But, alas, this is truth. And who suffers the most?
Jenn says: “I have so much compared to some people.” But is there no serenity among the poor? Is there wisdom and contentment in the patched boxes of fragmented boards?
The Trash
I see disadvantage in terms of education, nutrition, water supply and perspective—among others. But I also see some natural beauty that could be enjoyed were it not for the trash that appears locked to the landscape. Layers of plastic, paper, scrap this and scrap that are affixed to cement, grass and dirt. Bits and big bundles slowly release their elasticity and veritably soak into the earth. One gets the impression that it has been here for a while and here is where it shall remain.
Mental image forever burned into memory: goat munching away atop giant mound of rubbish.
It has been a most unusual Halloween.
1 November 2009
We arrived yesterday without incident and managed several successful adventures that rounded out the day quite nicely.
The first was a walk to see the beaches that make up this community. Along the way we stopped for a bite to eat at a place to which we will likely not return. Aside from the mediocrity of the fare, it was less than clean. And when we were finished, a woman came along (she perhaps a bit slow) and asked if she could have the rest of Jenn’s sandwich. Jenn said, “Sure,” and the stranger promptly plopped down into her chair and began munching happily away.
Occasionally she offered a couple words which came garbled through mouthfuls of unidentified meat and veggies. It was a surreal and slightly harrowing sight.
It’s later in the day—just about noon—and so much has been accomplished. A delicious breakfast was supplied by the Pousada Solar Inn. There were cakes, of course, and the oh-so-delicious coffee that Brazilians usually have on hand.
Now the beach is where we have taken up camp. Here amongst the crowd—just to the rear where there is adequate space—we lounge as the others. Umbrellas create an eye-level canopy under which bodies recline or lie supine taking in sun, cool shade, and a light breeze that heals the heart. The water is cool—but not Lake Michigan cool—and it only takes a couple dips to acclimate.
I welcome the taste of salt and immediately recall days spent on Folly Beach and the Isle of Palms, enjoying the same repose and contentment that currently settles in my bones.
Last night sleep came easy and thick. I fought it only as one who knows the battle is lost but welcomes the defeat as it means sweet rest and what-the-hell-were-we-fighting-for-anyway? Such notions at the end of a long full day bring dreams of calm and quietude. From such dreams I wake with wonder and slip back under the covers for more. Ahhhhh, beach life.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
An Infrequent Inspiration...and the Sea at Torres
Rarely do I get the gumption to write a poem, but for some reason the mood struck this morning and I banged out the following:
On Term’s End
Semesters end after paths doth wend,
But onward lo, and up again we’ll climb.
Books and books and reams and reams,
A sea behind, on which our minds did surf.
Across the subjects—ages all,
A diligence applied.
Far and wide all futures signed,
Now rest the pencils, too.
A break, a chance for summer rant,
Rambling hither and yon.
Minds at peace with toil complete—indeed!
We’ll grind again.
'Tis a bit premature as the semester is some days from being finished. But we are in the final stretch here for exams and 23 December approaches rapidly.
Last weekend saw another visit to Torres, a coastal town just a bus ride away. The draw of the salty water runs with the same force as the current that kept me in the shallow. So I must go to the beach where I shall never tire of the great touching of sand and sea.
There is awe and there is ease. Across a great distance one's gaze must stretch, and by this hopes will swell. To see so far, to see a sky of such expanse, to feel the rumble and soak in the foam that force created--this is the wonder. And the inverse: the simplicity. Repetitious arrangements natural and sweet to soothe and heal. To feel in motion while in the deepest repose amid letters to read and those to scribble. Calamity and calm in equal measure chill in the wings awaiting invocation.
Some notes from the Moleskine:
27 November 2009
Bus to Torres, again. Packing was much easier this time, the vision for the coming days being clearer than before. Small bag and guitar case padded with clothing.
The taxi ride to the bus station was the most eventful in recent memory. Our driver clipped another car in the race to destination central depot. Small matter for these chaps--though words were exchanged and glares given. A tidy run in the end costing just under eight reais.
Lounging dockside after a taste of the cerveja we were joined by the likes of our traveling companions. Anticipation and an urge to be mobile spurred us on and we headed to the plush bus.
To begin we felt as in a cozy den with the shades filtering the light blue. The enclosed and cushy space dampened our words and gave the impression of a slumber party. Smiles all around and a toast to the day, the week, the what-to-come. Then off to separate corners for music, gazing, and idle dozing.
28 November 2009
A dog stretched downward and someone noted its exhalation. And, perhaps, this person reckoned that the dog, unencumbered by questions of whether to breathe in at certain times as opposed to others, was operating in the most natural way.
So I wondered the same as we rambled along a sidewalk in search of the evening meal and paused to pet one of the many friendly flea bags that call this place home.
Following last night's settling into the Pousada, a meal was enjoyed but with unwelcome visitors. A member of our group was on the receiving end of two beetle visits. A not-too-pleasant event at supper-time, or any other, really. In truth, though, the juxtaposition of the crawling beetle and the legs-on cammarrão com casca (scrimps, squims, shrimp) made me look at my appetizer with some hesitation. The phrase "cockroaches of the sea" (though usually pertaining to lobsters) flashed in my mind. I imagined scores of shrimp scurrying about the ocean floor with legs quivering. Seconds later I was snapping off legs, cracking exoskeleton, and further feeding on the little morsels.
Exit Moleskine.
The weekend could be described as "moments between meals." Much revolved around which item on a stick would be consumed next or, indeed, if one more such delight would result in serious gastronomic overload. Crepes filled with bacon, cheese, palmito and other savory delights would be followed by the sweet: chocolate, strawberry and others.
Guitars made a regular appearance in our leisure, as well. On the beach or in the confines of the handicraft-adorned room, strumming and humming and occasional singing brought a welcome departure even further from the responsibilities that felt so very far away.
In this final reflection, it seems that the real draw for the beach is in the quietude. It is in the moments shared, among friends, where no words are required and a collective dinnertime gaze at nighttime waves bespeaks of hours stilled.
On Term’s End
Semesters end after paths doth wend,
But onward lo, and up again we’ll climb.
Books and books and reams and reams,
A sea behind, on which our minds did surf.
Across the subjects—ages all,
A diligence applied.
Far and wide all futures signed,
Now rest the pencils, too.
A break, a chance for summer rant,
Rambling hither and yon.
Minds at peace with toil complete—indeed!
We’ll grind again.
'Tis a bit premature as the semester is some days from being finished. But we are in the final stretch here for exams and 23 December approaches rapidly.
Last weekend saw another visit to Torres, a coastal town just a bus ride away. The draw of the salty water runs with the same force as the current that kept me in the shallow. So I must go to the beach where I shall never tire of the great touching of sand and sea.
There is awe and there is ease. Across a great distance one's gaze must stretch, and by this hopes will swell. To see so far, to see a sky of such expanse, to feel the rumble and soak in the foam that force created--this is the wonder. And the inverse: the simplicity. Repetitious arrangements natural and sweet to soothe and heal. To feel in motion while in the deepest repose amid letters to read and those to scribble. Calamity and calm in equal measure chill in the wings awaiting invocation.
Some notes from the Moleskine:
27 November 2009
Bus to Torres, again. Packing was much easier this time, the vision for the coming days being clearer than before. Small bag and guitar case padded with clothing.
The taxi ride to the bus station was the most eventful in recent memory. Our driver clipped another car in the race to destination central depot. Small matter for these chaps--though words were exchanged and glares given. A tidy run in the end costing just under eight reais.
Lounging dockside after a taste of the cerveja we were joined by the likes of our traveling companions. Anticipation and an urge to be mobile spurred us on and we headed to the plush bus.
To begin we felt as in a cozy den with the shades filtering the light blue. The enclosed and cushy space dampened our words and gave the impression of a slumber party. Smiles all around and a toast to the day, the week, the what-to-come. Then off to separate corners for music, gazing, and idle dozing.
28 November 2009
A dog stretched downward and someone noted its exhalation. And, perhaps, this person reckoned that the dog, unencumbered by questions of whether to breathe in at certain times as opposed to others, was operating in the most natural way.
So I wondered the same as we rambled along a sidewalk in search of the evening meal and paused to pet one of the many friendly flea bags that call this place home.
Following last night's settling into the Pousada, a meal was enjoyed but with unwelcome visitors. A member of our group was on the receiving end of two beetle visits. A not-too-pleasant event at supper-time, or any other, really. In truth, though, the juxtaposition of the crawling beetle and the legs-on cammarrão com casca (scrimps, squims, shrimp) made me look at my appetizer with some hesitation. The phrase "cockroaches of the sea" (though usually pertaining to lobsters) flashed in my mind. I imagined scores of shrimp scurrying about the ocean floor with legs quivering. Seconds later I was snapping off legs, cracking exoskeleton, and further feeding on the little morsels.
Exit Moleskine.
The weekend could be described as "moments between meals." Much revolved around which item on a stick would be consumed next or, indeed, if one more such delight would result in serious gastronomic overload. Crepes filled with bacon, cheese, palmito and other savory delights would be followed by the sweet: chocolate, strawberry and others.
Guitars made a regular appearance in our leisure, as well. On the beach or in the confines of the handicraft-adorned room, strumming and humming and occasional singing brought a welcome departure even further from the responsibilities that felt so very far away.
In this final reflection, it seems that the real draw for the beach is in the quietude. It is in the moments shared, among friends, where no words are required and a collective dinnertime gaze at nighttime waves bespeaks of hours stilled.
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