A Night out in Ilhabela | Brazil
Kiana, Felipe, and the Peruvian man out-front of his restaurant, March 2023.
Kiana, Felipe, and I chose one of the plastic patio tables to sit at and planted ourselves against the lattice backs of the flimsy chairs. A single napkin holder, double-sided, and of white plastic as well, sat atop each table. A few moments later, the waitress came over to take our orders for drinks and offer us a menu, but Felipe declined it; he knew what we were getting already. Felipe ordered something with a grin, and we each took a beer made from quinoa to sip as we talked. I say as we talked, but I did a lot more listening than talking in Brazil, but that didn't bother me, even though I could only understand every eleventh word. I had begun to create narratives of what I thought was happening in the conversation. Every few minutes, Kiana would pause and ask if I was following along. I'd always have some novella in my mind, more dramatic than what was actually happening. She would then explain what was actually happening. I was never very close.
Shortly afterward, the waitress returned with three plates, all meticulously assembled with care as if a Michelin Star was at stake. It was a traditional Peruvian dish called Tiradito. The restaurant's owner was a Peruvian immigrant to Brazil and spoke little to no English, but Felipe knew him; he came and sat down with us at our table. The plate is a ceviche-like dish. It was an artful display with Japanese influence. Yellowfin Tuna sashimi and sliced avocado— specifically Brazilian avocado— and there is a difference. Brazilians often call them "the normal ones?" when I ask what kind. This bathed in a pool of rich cream and lime juice and topped with a chutney of onion, peppers, and cilantro. Flanking the fish was a single slice of white yam and smokey dried corn kernels that I’d never seen or heard of before sprinkled around it.
The Tiradito we had that night, March 2023.
It was simple and light. I had never tasted anything like this and immediately understood why Felipe was obsessed with the place. From the outside, this was not exactly the epitome of fine dining. Still, the food, artistry, and care taken to create it were inspiring. I am indeed a foodie, and this was an experience; it was ethereal, and yes, I romanticize shit, but I am being truly authentic to my internal experience as it happened— so I say sincerely, I got goosebumps. It was very special, and I could feel that this was a rare thing in life. I felt so much connection with the world being here with one of my best friends and also with these relative strangers, and again, appreciation for this world that I had never experienced until now filled me.
I knew I wanted to feel this more, to have more connections, even if just for one night sitting adjacent to some Peruvian chef working out of a parking lot and listening to three other people speaking a language I couldn't comprehend. I just watched them with my arms crossed as if I could understand every word, and when you do this, you realize you don't really need language to understand other people.
The owner of the place beckoned his staff to bring a bottle of pisco over to the table, a Peruvian liquor, the national drink of Peru that he wanted to share with us. It is made from a specific type of fermented grape grown there. He poured each of us a shot on the house, and we raised our tiny glasses and tinked them together, shouting "Saúde!" altogether.
We sat underneath the night sky smoking cigarettes of mixed flowers, cloves, and hashish with a bottle of pisco and three languages between us. It dawned on me, I just took two semesters of Spanish. I could fucking talk with this man, and I hadn't realized that because I hadn’t made the connection he was Peruvian and therefore spoke Spanish as well as Portuguese. I nearly shouted at Kiana.
"Holy shit!" I said abruptly, "I can speak some Spanish!"
Kiana gestured for me to go ahead, almost like a mother when her kid wants to order in bad Spanish at the Tex-Mex restaurant downtown, though I quickly realized that my Spanish was less extensive than I had initially thought. Still, I got to share that I was learning his language and was excited to communicate even a little bit. He congratulated me, thanked me for trying my best, and offered me another shot of pisco.
I knew now that I wanted to be able to meet new and interesting people and hear their stories in their native tongue instead of my own. How much more could I access the world by tapping into a simple knowledge like language, and how much easier would travel be? And too, people from other countries have so much respect for travelers that take the time to learn their culture and language when coming to visit their home. I had failed until now to truly appreciate the vast amount of information to be learned from people with different experiences and in foreign languages. It was almost sad how disconnected and unwilling I had been to dedicate myself to learning another language. I tried Spanish; I didn't take it seriously like many other Americans. I didn't need to. Now, I wanted to shatter the bounds of my reality and expand it.
Plato's cave rings true; as Americans, we are insulated. I thought I was a pretty open person before I left, but now it feels like I am a goldfish taken out of a pond and dropped into an ocean and must now grow to fit this container. This experience gave me humility that I did not have before. For once, I was the foreigner, the one who couldn't speak the language, the one who didn't know the basic rules of the society.
I would later understand better how immigrants to the U.S. must feel, lost, not knowing the language, and not having their family or friends there. I saw myself as an infant again, learning to walk. And also, being here and seeing the problems that persist in a different society, I felt the privilege that the woman perceived of me back in São Paulo. Hell, it was a privilege that I was learning these lessons under the experience of a vacation, as a traveler, rather than it being a genuine part of my struggle.
Or perhaps I was minimizing my own struggle? The human experience is the human experience, after all. Still, we have to understand some of our issues in the United States; simply put, they are problems in a vacuum that so few other people in this world can even relate to. This is coming from a guy that has a crippling anxiety disorder and, in the past, depression of suicidal proportions. But these aren't the issues I am talking about. The human experience is universal in some ways.
But being here and witnessing this world had me wondering— am I only struggling in a vacuum? I am asking: Is it fair for me to compare my anxious feelings about being in a foreign place to that of an immigrant to the U.S. who is feeling similar feelings? Am I not also looking for a better life than what I had elsewhere, even though I had an objectively better life than the other person to begin with? I don't know if I should even ask these questions and just live my life. I'll explore ideas like this more deeply as we continue the blog, but I am getting too philosophical for now. Back to dinner.
We sat around sharing beers and pisco (Felipe— just a couple of beers, and a single salutatory swallow of pisco as he was driving) until the restaurant was near to closing. We said our goodbyes; as we got up from the table, the owner of the place offered us the rest of the bottle of pisco to take with us, but Felipe respectfully declined. We hopped in the truck and started to make our way back to the house when Kiana piped up.
"Man, we really should have taken the Pisco." she thought aloud.
Without a word, Felipe spun around in the street, and we were back at the restaurant. He banged on the side of the truck and got the Peruvian man's attention.
"Ei, queremos o pisco," he shouted over.
The man ran up with the half-empty bottle, sloshing, laughing. I imagine he knew we'd be back. Felipe handed the liquor bottle to Kiana, and she turned it up, taking a big swig and passing it back to me. We were back on the road to the house. The streets were dead this late on Ilhabela; there is little nightlife outside of the weekend here, especially on the residential north side of the island. Felipe zigged the car back and forth and drove at a creeping pace so we could talk and listen to music in the truck for longer.
"Wilson!" Felipe got my attention, "Do you know the national anthem?" he asked.
"The Brazilian one?" I asked back, and then answered, "No. Definitely not. Do you know the American one?"
"No, but the Brazilian one is better." He said confidently.
"Kiana, do you know it?" I asked her.
She smiled a big smile, "Of-fucking-course I do. It is better." She agreed.
This was a common thing in Brazil. Brazilians are confident that their way is better, and it is so funny to me. Coffee, Diners, Barbecue, and the National Anthem are just a few of the things Brazilians have told me are better in Brazil, and on most, I agree. Felipe switched the music immediately and began a swirling orchestral melody. I couldn't help but be tickled that they were about to sing the Brazilian National Anthem. I took a large swig from the bottle and passed it back to Kiana.
Felipe rolled down the truck windows and turned the music all the way up. It was midnight. But the sparse residents were going to get a nationalistic blast for the moment:
“Ouviram do Ipiranga as margens plácidas
De um povo heroico o brado retumbante!”
(The placid shores of the Ipriranga heard,
the resounding shout of a heroic folk!)
E o sol da liberdade, em raios fúlgidos,
Brilhou no céu da pátria nesse instante!”
(And the sun of Liberty, in shining beams,
shone in the homeland's sky at that instant!)
I started laughing, and Kiana climbed out of the window, sticking her upper half out, grabbing the rail atop the truck, and sitting on the door. Her hair was blowing in the wind as she shouted the lyrics, and Felipe hung his head out from the other window, shouting from the other side and banging on the truck side with the beat of the drums.
A clip of us in the truck that night as the Brazilian National Anthem played, March 2023.
"It's a lot longer than the U.S. National Anthem!" she yelled at me as she took another gulp of pisco, handed the bottle back to me, and went back to singing. I lit up a cigarette in the back seat to enjoy the show. I could only imagine what it was to be a spectator of this sight. But knowing the people of Brazil, they probably loved it. I felt a euphoric energy and pure happiness just being here and getting such a treat from my friends.
Ó Pátria amada!
Dos filhos deste solo és mãe gentil,
(O beloved homeland,
Of the sons of this ground, thou art kind mother!)
Pátria amada, Brasil!
(Beloved homeland, Brazil!)
They finished the song with a bang, yelling the final lyrics into the night, Kiana slipped back into the truck, taking a huge breath, and they both smacked the roof and dashboard as Felipe honked the horn several times, saluting the end of the song as we pulled into the driveway, the dogs inside started barking at the commotion. We hopped out, and Kiana greeted them with baby talk.
We spent the night sitting at the kitchen table, passing the remainder of the Peruvian liquor around us, listening to a mixture of MPB (Música Popular Brasileira) and some 2000s pop that Kiana and I wanted to hear, and dancing with dogs.
A clip of Kiana and Felipe dancing with the dogs back at the house, March 2023.
Felipe invited us to wake up with him at five in the morning (around midnight at this point) and drive back to São Paulo to go skydiving with him. I am unsure if Felipe is an instructor, a student, or both? And he jumps from both planes and hot air balloons. He has made several hundred jumps. Absolutely not was the answer we both gave— not that we wouldn't skydive. Still, we were not waking up that early, and anyhow, we had plans to take LSD in the jungle the following day. Felipe would be making the trip back to Sampa alone.
We killed the bottle and had a bedtime spliff with some sleepy-time tea, not that we necessarily needed any to fall asleep. We were exhausted from the day and pretty toasted from the pisco. I don't even remember falling asleep, but I woke up on the couch instead of in my room, and the windows had been open all night. When I cracked my eyes open, I shot up with my body at a ninety degree— I'd been exposed all night— and then my head pounded; I started searching for borrachudo bites. There were none. I turned my head up and saw the ceiling fan high above me. The breeze was enough to keep the little dust motes away from me, Kiana must have turned it on. Thank god for her.
To be continued…
Next Post:
Kiana and I trip acid in the jungle, eat some pizza, and talk ‘Wilson moving to Brazil.’
Kiana and I taking shade underneath a rock in the jungle on Ilhabela, March 2023.
