Visiting a Friend pt. 1 | Brazil
Journal excerpts dated March 10th, 2023:
I arrived in São Paulo thinking Kiana would not be at the airport to pick me up for several hours. After making it through customs and the duty-free shops unscathed with my luggage wheeling in tow, I made my way toward the sign that read “Sanitárias.” Brazilian heat wafted in through the automatic doors leading outside. A faint smell of smoke, like a campfire, hung in the air. I barely registered the click-clacking of flip-flops on tiny feet rapidly approaching me from behind. I couldn’t turn around quickly enough before I was the tree to her monkey. I swelled with pure excitement from her full-body hug. It had been two years since we’d last seen each other in person, and only one of four times in the last decade had we seen each other face to face. Each time we meet, it feels as if we’ve just been together yesterday, yet she tells me of a past boyfriend I never knew she had, and I talk about the job I’ve had for a year that she knows nothing about.
I had always wanted to see Brazil since I was a kid because of the stories she’d tell. I’d been nervous for my first international flight, and here in front of me stood a woman who sailed across the Atlantic Ocean and back — twice. What did I have to be nervous about?
Kiana and I sitting on the trunk of a car after leaving the airport, March 2023.
I had sat next to a Brazilian couple on my flight there. It felt odd to me to think they were returning from their own adventure in the United States. We spoke no words to each other the entire flight, yet strangely, the longer we sat there in silence, I felt more and more kindred with these humans; for all the differences in our lives, we shared one thing: seats on Row 33 of UA-845 out of Atlanta to São Paulo.
Our lives, all of our lives on that plane, collectively culminated into that moment. Together, we were encapsulated miles above the Earth in a metal tube hurtling through the atmosphere at 550 miles per hour. My mind wandered, and I thought, “These could be the last people I ever see; we could die together.” And in that way, in my heart, I felt connected to them, if only for a moment. Somehow, we were cosmically intertwined to spend those few hours together, and I thought, perhaps, they could feel the same for me. Or, more likely, they wondered, “Who is this fucker hogging the armrest?”
We landed at 7 a.m. local time, a gain of two hours for me. As I waited in line to check into the country at immigration, I noticed the most handsome Australian man I had ever laid my eyes on. I think I was feeling connected again. Not just to this hot, hot, hot, Australian man who looked like the cover of GQ and probably smelled of sandalwood, but also to all the other less attractive humans patiently and nervously waiting.
What did their stay have in store for them? I felt a bit of a narcissistic pride in knowing that my trip would have a bit of dirt on it. I didn’t even know where I would be sleeping that night; I’d be surfing couches of locals and seeing ‘the real’ Brazil, not some tourist brochure. Ultimately, what I got was an experience I could have never been prepared for.
I first noticed that fiery smell that I mentioned long before making it through customs and duty-free. I knew I was getting closer to seeing the Brazilian sun as the smell intensified. This is where I want to take the moment to talk about the duty-free shops. I was unprepared. It was like walking through a dystopian shopping mall at the peak of late-stage capitalism where everyone works on commission, and perhaps that commission was not getting shot out back by your boss after your shift. I spoke no Portuguese, and the entire ordeal was arranged in a maze-like fashion, as if purposeful in the hope that if you got lost, you would purchase some Chanel No. 5 just to find the fucking exit. It was not an anxiety-friendly atmosphere. Pro-tip: make no eye contact, walk straight, and anyone that talks to you, just wave and say “Obrigado.” Also, the Portuguese word for “Exit” is “Saída.” You’re welcome.
A typical exit sign.
After finding the saída, I made a hasty approach toward the restroom, where the flip-flopped girl attacked. Kiana and I were immediately locked into a conversation of one hundred thousand tangents; a million thoughts were born. One idea began, and that birthed another. We moved so fast that one topic buried the next, never to see the light of day again.
We exited the airport and made our way into the dimly lit parking garage, where wafts of human piss blew up through the stairwell, not unlike their American counterparts. We ran down the concrete stairs and talked about boys as the fluorescent lights above flickered like a horror film.
We made it to her car; it was a white Fiat Uno from sometime pre-2000. She opened the trunk for my luggage, and the interior brake light dangled from its mount, swinging back and forth to greet me. As I clamored into the front seat that was practically square up against the dash, she informed me the seat was broken and wouldn’t move back any further. I was sure I would figure out how to make more room for myself, but we had places to see and people to be, so it was shins to the dash for the time being.
Before we even made it out of the garage, Kiana was lighting up a spliff for us. She told me she loved that car because the windows were dark, and no one could see us. But there was no A/C, and the Brazilian heat would cook us, so we rolled down the crank windows to stay cool. She warned me to roll up the window at red lights as she passed me the spliff. She didn’t have to tell me twice. I took a drag as I fiddled with the seat mechanism to give myself more room. I grabbed the bar and yanked as I pushed against the seatback. I flew aft, completely lying down in the passenger seat.
“Yeah, that shit’s real broken.” she laughed, and I pulled the seat back into an upright position.
It wasn’t completely fixed, but it was much better than before. As we drove, Kiana talked about the massive wealth disparity in Brazil and the general squalor many Brazilians live in. She talked about Jarinu, where she grew up, and spoke of Brazil fondly like an old friend. I passed the spliff back to her and asked her where we were going. She said to visit Maiharra, a friend she met while working on the Women and the Wind. That is where we would be staying that night.
The city swallowed us as we drove deeper and deeper into its heart; its pulse was palpable. You could feel the life and raw energy of it. I didn’t realize that São Paulo was the fourth largest city on the planet before getting there. The sheer size is genuinely beyond comprehension until you see it. When I first visited New York City, I thought I would never be in awe of something like that again, but this was a different caliber altogether.
We turned off the highway toward The Jardim’s where Maiharra lived. As we exited the freeway, I looked to my left, and under the ramp sat a stove. It was set ablaze beneath the underpass with black smoke billowing high. The acrid smell of burnt plastic hit our nostrils as we passed it, and Kiana looked at me and said, “São Paulo bebé!”
I was oddly enticed by the chaos that surrounded me. I was immediately aware of the blanket of security that the United States offers its citizens, but with that comes an almost sterile and uninspiring environment. People have a different social contract than they do in the United States. Driving, for example, it seems as if no one knows the laws in Brazil, but they surely know the rules they have made for each other.
Despite a lack of sleep from my flight, I was fully awake and with heightened senses. There was a fear in my heart, but one that made me feel alive, a welcomed one. In the U.S., we live with anxiety that we will get sick and can’t afford healthcare, or that we will lose our jobs and have no social safety net, or that some psycho will walk into a shopping mall and shoot into the crowd. Brazilians trade that anxiety for a more raw version of fear, something more animalistic and based on survival. Not better or worse, but different, and in a way, it was refreshing to me because with that fear came a sort of freedom.
We pulled into a small back alley with the city rising above in all directions. We climbed out of the car, and I lit a cigarette as an older woman opened the shutters from her second-story balcony to peer down at us. I gave her a little wave and took a drag off my cigarette. She returned my wave with a smile and retreated into the shadowy recess of her home. I closed my eyes and felt the sun on my skin, and then it dawned on me: I had never asked Kiana.
“Does Maiharra speak English?” I asked.
“Uhhh. Kind of?” she didn’t seem very confident in the answer.
Maiharra and Kiana, meeting outside of Maiharra’s home in São Paulo, March 2023.
Mairharra’s home was a quiet oasis amongst the busy streets of the city. A beautiful little alleyway lined with tropical plants; electrical wires that serviced the residents dangled above just out of reach. The peace was shattered as a small woman with straight black hair and beautiful bright eyes unleashed a scream of elation.
This was not just my first time meeting Maiharra but also Kiana’s first in-person meeting after years of online correspondence and phone calls.
“AMOOO!” she let out, and then there were kisses, hands, and tears. Maiharra jumped onto Kiana the same way Kiana did to me just an hour prior at the airport. They spun in circles and then more kisses. And lots of Portuguese — all very quickly. I still had some of my American anxiety tucked away, and I squirreled around anxiously at the energy.
An American ‘Hello!’ typically lasts a few seconds. However, this beautiful Brasileira ‘Hello!’ lasted long enough for me to wonder what to do with my hands. I pulled out my phone in time to catch the last moments of their lengthy greeting just as Maiharra turned her attention to me, giving me an affectionate welcome to her home and Brazil.
Maiharra has worked with the indigenous populations of Brazil for several years now. She has been documenting the fight to protect their lands and culture from people who wish to illegally take it from them, people who want to assimilate them into a different culture and wash away their traditions. She took Kiana and me to a gallery that she helped manifest. The three-story exhibit was held at the Instituto Moreira Salles on Avenida Paulista. It showed the struggle that has been going on in the West for decades.
As we browsed the gallery, she would point to photos of indigenous people on the walls. She would say, “That is my friend!” and then pull up photos of them together in a village deep in the Amazon. She has a deep love for these people and their lands. She showed us photos of active deforestation and illegal logging in the jungle. I could not have asked for a better first stop in this country. To learn about the indigenous culture from someone who plays such a huge role in preserving it was an incredible experience.
As we left the gallery, we stood on the balcony and peered into the below streets. A tightrope walker had strung up his line above the Avenida and was making a pass over, more evidence of this strange danger and freedom I was feeling.
A tightrope walker making a pass on his rope above an underpass on Avenida Paulista, March 2023.
We spilled out onto the street and wandered around in what seemed a directionless manner, taking photos and eating street foods until we came upon a busy corner. This had been our next destination. It seemed like an open-air market. Vintage clothes hung from racks in corners; people came and went. Kiana took a deep breath as I registered the smell of popcorn washing over us.
“I can see it now.” Her eyes lit up.
“What? What do you mean?” I asked.
She told me this was the theater where they would have the Brazilian premiere of Women and the Wind after film festivals were all said and done. I looked around the space again; that looked like a thrift shop — with a restaurant in it, maybe? I looked closer and saw the movie posters lining the walls and the round flashing bulbs. It was a movie theater. Kiana pointed out a poster for a film she wanted to see: ‘Triangle of Sadness’ it read.
Other businesses were also operating out of the theater; it was a charming venue. It was here that Kiana extended the invitation to me to attend the premieres. Three continents, three big events. Kiana has big aspirations for this film, and it was here that I knew she would achieve it.
We sifted through the racks, looking for nice garments to take with us. An older woman strolled directly in front of me, perhaps curbing me, so she got the first look at the best picks. I was unbothered by her. Kiana and I both found a pair of vintage jeans.
“Do you want to try them on?” she grinned.
We ran to the changing booth. It was a small circular thing that was just my height, with a shower curtain to conceal us. We both climbed in, giggling and stripped down to our underwear. Kiana was dissatisfied with her picks; they were too big. And I couldn’t get mine over my ass. We took them off and swapped.
“These are super in style in the U.S. right now,” I told her.
She snatched them from me and put them on, a perfect fit for 40 reais. She wore them immediately and left the pants she had been wearing in her shopping bag.
Maiharra then took us to a cute spot for brunch, where the line was an hour long. She told us to wait on the street and ran past the hostess. A few moments later, she appeared back in the doorway and waved us inside.
“I know the owner.” she informed us, “I fucked her boyfriend once, but we’re cool now.”
We tinked champagne flutes over fresh avocado, fried eggs, fruits, and bread. I ordered a tiny yet forte Brazilian coffee while we sat and talked for some time. The morning had faded to early afternoon when I offered to pay for the three of us. With my limited Portuguese, I asked for the check. Our bellies were full, and the sun was high and hot; we were also high and hot. An afternoon nap was in store for the three of us, so we made the trek back to Maiharra’s to refresh for the evening.
