Siesta

Only mad dogs and Englishmen . . .

In an alien landscape

From a distance I thought there was a large moth fluttering up and down in the roof space of the supermarket, above the well-stocked aisles, but it was just another hummingbird. Here they are known as Beija-flor, which means flower-kisser. No flowers to kiss in here though. Distracted by the naked fluorescent strip lights and reflective windows (it being dark outside), it kept flying back and forth, alighting on the wires of the supermarket signage, while it gathered its bearings and rested, affording me a few moments to observe its bright-green plumage. It must be quite a common occurrence though, for I was the only one who was taking any interest in our little feathered friend, within this diabolical, and oh so human landscape of fluorescent strip-lights, semiotics, garish packaging and piped musak.

Autumn Leaves

Still trying to get my head round this. It being September,  I would usually be walking through crispy, or more likely soggy, piles of autumn leaves.

Stray dogs, sparrows, frigatebirds and vultures.

The waiter weaves between the yellow plastic tables and chairs set out randomly on the sand beneath the MasterCard emblazoned parasols, dancing to the samba playing over the beach-bar sound system. It's September the seventh, Brazilian Independence day, and people are taking advantage of the holiday, relaxing on the beach. 
I hear the sound of timbales, and look around to see that it’s the waiter again, tapping his metal tray. 
Someone else bangs on an empty plastic tub, which passes for a tom-tom, with a similar instinctive feel for the rhythm. I get the feeling we're one-step away from an impromptu jam session. 

A stray dog strolls over and lays down in the shade between where I am sitting and a young couple at the next table. Their small boy is playing in the sand and he obviously thinks that this latest arrival has turned up purely for his amusement alone. He pours two hand scoops of sand over the snoozing animal. His mother gently chastises him, and the dog cranes his neck up to see what the problem is now. 

A little while later the owner is less worried about upsetting the dog's feelings, giving it a swift kick in the ribs and a "shoo" to send it on its way. 

Meanwhile the sparrows flit and dart from place to place, deftly vacuuming up scraps of food, which have fallen onto the sand. 

In the air above all this a frigatebird, its wings like semi-collapsed cut-throat razors, slices effortlessly through the air, foraging for food on the shoreline. 

Higher still vultures lazily circle, hardly moving a feather, but no doubt keeping an eye on developments below.

Landfall

Having flown across the Atlantic ocean from Lisbon, we reach the north east coast of Brazil early in the afternoon. The GPS in the chair back in front of me shows that we are directly over Natal. Still a few hours flying time before we reach Rio de Janeiro. Natal, I remember from my youth as a brand of congas, which I coveted, but my own were bright yellow fibreglass congas made by King. King Congas. Raised on Santana and Osibisa, congas entered my bloodstream at an early age.

From Rio a short flight to Florianopolis, which unlike my first visit, the sky is heavy with cloud, and I can only see fleeting glimpses of the coastline below.

Amigo Jim picks me up from the airport saying, "Welcome to your new reality."