It was during Carnivale in Rio. Some time ago, I had the privilege of meeting Jonke - a well known writer and owner of the reputable local graffiti supply store. Jonke had invited me and a couple other writ-ers into one of the favelas. Some of the others had been there quite a few times before, like this German guy Skor, and Dab from Switzerland. Then there were Garret and I who had never been into the favela before - and this was Pavaozinho, which was a real honor because its such a hardcore neighborhood in the South Zone where the police are forbidden to enter. It has a twisting maze of pathways which switches direction every 15 feet or so all the way up to the summit of the mountain.

Once we get there, its clear that pretty much every dude over the age of 16 is packing heat of some sort, as reinforcements for the drug bosses.

In the midst of all that - Acme, an old school Brasillian writer whose really sick characters are up all city, was painting a beautiful caricature of some cachasa drunk that lives along this particular little strip. The rest of us picked our spots nearby and began painting. It was just the group of us in this little area along the winding stairs. The drug soldiers were busy holding posts elsewhere up the hill.

Of all the luck, this one guy stumbles down towards Acme, and just starts freaking out because he recognizes that this extremely accurate painting on the wall is a caricature of him. I couldn’t understand a word, but he was obviously really, really angry. His yelling escalated into scream-ing which caught the attention of these guys who are posted up above the twisting pathway along the hill. During all this commotion they come down and tell the drunk to shut up

or they will execute him on the spot for causing trouble in the streets. This quiets things right down imme-diately and a few of the drug soldiers stay behind and started smoking joints while watching us paint.

One of those who stuck around to hang out is this young soldier who looks about 14, standing near Skor holding a Mac-10. Skor - this odd ball German with a pony tail, hap-pens to be a bit of a gun-nut, so he approaches the young soldier to ask if he could see his weapon. With-out hesitation the boy hands over his piece to an overjoyed Skor who then marches over to his painting and strikes a pose as he motions for someone to come and take a photo. In that same moment, a massive guy comes along, and its clear just by his appearance and stature that this is one of the bosses. I assume that he’s come to find all these young soldiers

EATER NA MORRO DO PAVAOZINHO - DISPATCHES FROM RIO

and scold them for not sticking to their posts up above. This big dude sees Skor holding the gun and march-es over to the young, weaponless sol-dier, with a furious look. He towers above him, and barks down some fast angry, incomprehensible commands.

I look over at Skor and can tell that he’s just paralysed, and uneasy. Now the kid is talking and pointing over at Skor, who is just standing there, white and motionless. Just as I’m thinking that the kid is going to die... the little guy runs off out of sight while the boss yells another few words. His expression still contorted and angry, the boss just takes a deep breath and stands there silent. We echo back with silence, standing there for what feels like forever until finally we head the sound of footsteps running down the stairs. The same young is racing back carrying an AK-47, and heading straight towards Skor.

I was just breathless when the boss pipes up and says that if Skor wants to hold a weapon up in this favela - it might as well be a decent firepower. A big caliber to showcase that this neighborhood is armed to the teeth. The boss explained that he had been angry with the youngster for not offering something stronger than a wimpy Mac-10 and so he sent him to fetch a more photogenic gun.So finally there’s Skor, this pasty white, weird looking German stand-ing there in front of his piece with a Mac-10 in one hand and an AK-47 in the other, beaming ear to ear. †

It’s valentines day. Sort of, Dia do Namorados is the closest thing to it here in Sao Paulo. Even though I’m dining out alone tonight I don’t feel lonely; or at least that’s what I keep reminding myself. A lonely guy is seated at an adjacent table that is pushed just a little too close to mine. His rent a date seems bored and keeps looking right through him at me. Or at least that’s what I keep tell-ing myself. She turns his hand over to gesture at the lines in his palm, reading the telltale wrinkles. Maybe she knows that gypsy forecast of how fertile their future could be. While they murmur of children his thoughts must recall his family back in Japan. She can only speak a few words of english, and so can he. Strange but not unlikely lingua franca. He looks pure salaryman, almost hip in his well fitted bankers shirt, but he prob-ably saves the unbuttoning for fore-play. She is cute with expensive hair,

and youthful elastic skin that time, wine, cigarettes, and faux smiles will avenge. There is no mistaking this arrange-ment. I wonder how much she charges. Actually, that bit seems the least interesting. How did they meet? Stupid question. Oh internet, you ras-cal you.

What about the table behind me? There are two people speaking eng-lish, though they would probably find each other more interesting if neither spoke at all. Even without looking, I can hear and feel the awkwardness in their patterns of speech, and the oddly placed exclamatory interup-tions that feign interest that was never really there in the first place.Once I start to hear the tired words, they come like raspy regrets, flacid and nearly apologetic. When the words finally spill from their anemic mouths, they come relunctantly,

loose, broken, and without flair or elegance. The guy has already left the table mentally, and if I hadn’t already placed my order, I would get up and leave as well. I’m too easily irritated tonight, finally alone; just as I wanted.

She seems all too eager to talk about herself, and how she left that sociol-ogy degree behind. They must have heard each other speaking bad por-tuguese the other night and made a regrettable plan to trap each other in a situation that could only be awk-ward.

Meanwhile, the doorman for a well gated building across the street notes the plate as he presses up against a dusty smog covered car boot, un-knowingly revealing the beautiful lustre such a car would have if the owner had time between work and flowers and shower and dinner.

CLOSE - DISPATCHES FROM RIO

She is already downstairs waiting, and he already looks nervous and sweating. He greets her rapidly and spins in a mad rush to open her door; a most gentlemanly distraction from the dirt he rubs between his thumb and index on his sprint to the driv-ers seat. Even through the thick and dusty window, I can see her smile.

Some faces are forever, like it or not. Some manners become cliche and trite. Automatic response. Sometimes those oh so human characteristics come in handy; othertimes...

Last week in Rio I was being trite. Not because I wanted to see someone undress (for once) but because I was on autopilot. Senses were dull, people were dull. People often enjoy dull, it isn’t threatening. It’s predictable, and familiar, which is quite easily mis-taken as camraderie. I didn’t want to walk her home that night, at least, not just the two of us. Her friend was predictable and I was just dull. He had a name like Jan or Jurn that I could not recall. Shortly after the three of us left the busy nightspot, he spun around and walked back to continue drinking - like I should have.Autopilot is a strange master, and it was suddenly just the two of us walk-ing. She was a towering 6’5’ but her Danish white blonde hair made her seem even taller. Despite her reassur-ances, this walk home was already feeling long and far from my end destination; and I can’t help wonder-ing why I ended up in a social setting if what I really wanted was isolation.Damn you autopilot. I thought I could slip in and out un-noticed, without causing any ripples. In overwhelm-ing and unfamiliar Rio, anonymity seemed to be a fairly attainable vir-tue. Yet there I was, only a few hours after arrival walking with the one girl

who was least likely to blend in virtually anywhere, let alone become anonymous. She was like a giant beacon of headlight on a dark street, almost literally. Her long, tall hair seemed to flood our silouette with a sharpness that cut through the soft dusky shadows.

Maybe that’s why I got hit. On the same dark street that some guy had come to for isolation - there I was, a walking target in the harsh foreign glow of her light. There we were closing in on his isolation. All he saw was me.

He moved from across the street with purpose. I was too dull. He walked away from an attractive girl, and I re-call thinking that, like me, maybe he just needed some space to be alone. I grew duller still. He moved directly towards me. Maybe he mistakes me for another. Dull. I could see his chest rise to fill with a deep breath. When he sees my poker face he’ll know I’m not the one... Dull. Right on the side of the nose. I swerved too late. He connected. As I rolled over his fist, I look back to meet his eyes.He kept on walking, backwards. Two girls cried out but I wasn’t looking their direction. I tried to hold eye contact, only to see if he was regret-ful. He wasn’t, he wanted me to hate him, and to challenge him. But it was too fast and I didn’t have time to get angry, just confused.

“Here! I have your hat” Her tall, shrill voice woke me, and pulled me back to reality. I didn’t even realize the hat was off my head, or much care. I had my scarf with me that I carried to wipe the sticky heat from my face. This time I used it to wipe the few cold spots of blood that trick-led from my left nostril. I was fine.I don’t know how I managed to

weather a hit from a guy that size, but maybe my body wasn’t as dull as my mind that night.

Another block and I would sharpen. It took only half a block to grow angry. “Are you alright? O’my God” Her voice shreiked. Of course I was alright, I just didn’t want her sym-pathy. Above all else, I didn’t want anything eventful or significant to have happened along this dutiful walk that could be used as an excuse to converse in the future. Sharper.

I didn’t want to be linked to a note-worthy experience - a traveler story that would stir one-upsmanship from other backpackers by morning at the hostel. Sharper. I became fully awake. We rounded the corner and she used a long, narrow extension of her full arm and finger to mark her doorway. I told her I wanted a drink in a firm tone that let her know, I wouldn’t be walking her to the gate.

I stopped along-side the corner kiosk and watched her shut the gate across the street, as I leaned into the tall can half frozen on my face. The bloodspots told onlookers to make it brief. My growing sense of anger was palpable, and the hushed crowd cleared space for my elbow at the crowded counter. There was surely no way to sleep. Not now. Latent adrenaline surged as I choked back the icy froth. Why didn’t I… Sharp.Sharp and angry and dangerous and alive. Copper tasting pilsner tainted with the taste of regret. On replay, I could see it all again... each dull step.If I had been sharp this would never have happened, sharp like this. I couldn’t stand still any longer. I felt like I was pacing, my heart was beat-ing fast enough to make me break sweat. But I felt cold and clearer than I could recall in recent past.

I took my drink and spun around to cross through the parting crowd - All men, all angry. I didn’t want any of it.I just needed to walk until I came down from the adrenal high. I sized the entire crowd up in one crisp glance to see if anyone wanted to try me, to see if any of these jackals smelled blood, to see how it would play out. I imagined the feeling of hitting someone right then and there, and could visualize the sequence that would unfold. I didn’t want to hit anyone, I just wanted to watch the eyes of the crowd that pretended not to notice that I was leaving the kiosk. Theirs were eyes that wanted to keep looking, but didn’t want me to look back, didn’t want my awareness.

The eyes would follow me as I walked away. I could feel their pierc-ing stares. Even with my back to the crowd, I could tell whose eyes were upon me. I glanced swiftly in their direction, and their heads swerved to rest in unatural positions- not quite at ease. It filled me with ego. I could tell that my anger was palpable, real, sharp. I tried hard to stop thinking while I walked, tried to stop analyz-ing the potential threats. I wondered how many hundreds of blocks it would take to walk, before I became tired enough to sleep.

I was alone again with my thoughts. Impossible to stop my mind from rac-ing. I marched with purpose, flooded with an acute sense of clarity that transformed the now deserted streets. There was no longer a tranquility about the isolation, and a growing aprehension nagged me to move homeward. The unnatural silence stirred a primal instinct that made hairs stand on end. I felt trapped on the street, an outsider in an area I didn’t belong. It wouldn’t make a dif-ference on any other street now,

they would all feel the same.

Through the dark distant haze, and hot heavy air - I saw two bodies that moved. They moved with purpose, too much purpose - It seemed too de-liberate somehow. They didn’t move the way the crowd had moved back at the kiosk. Their movement was subtle and unnatural, like an ill fitted prosthetic arm - as if my approach was their cue to rise from out of the shadows. They were far from where I was, but I knew the distance would close fast. This was a long street with no intersections or side lanes, or traf-fic. My pace was steady, and I tried to swagger just a little and look bigger than I was. The two silouettes slipped into an alcove, but I could feel their eyes fix on me. Wolves waiting to pounce. My face grew hot, flush with blood, my ears burned. Sharp. I was being baited, trapped. I knew they would come for me. I didn’t want to run, I wanted to catch them off guard by pretending to be drunk. My pace took a mostly straight path, walking with a precision that would occasion-ally drop one foot into the path of the other. Then a requisite half-step backwards as I threw back my head to catch the remains of my tall can in most dramatic fashion. That was all it took. One drunk looking vulnerable foreigner at night on a bad empty street… how did it come to this?

One body - Fast - moving from behind a staircase. Another body runs across the street into a new set of shadows. I hung my head low and pretended not to notice as I feigned a misplaced step off the curb and into the open boulevard. I pretended not to care as the body rushed into the dim light straight for me. Nothing in his hands - but I didn’t wait to check.

I took one more big-fake-drunk-step just as he rushed me, and I used the bizarre momentum to launch all of myself into one massive upper blow connecting directly upside his nose as I jumped onto his chest. I wrapped my legs around his massive torso and drove my knee into his throat as his head smashed the pavement. I ground the weight of my body into into his face again, and pushed myself up over what felt like his eye. I stood, hot with his blood, dizzy and deaf.Still laying there, he turned his head to me and I drove my foot into his ear not realizing his head was beside the curb. I saw him writhe, and twitch. There was no sign of the other. Just this monster of a man, gurguling pulpy blood and mucus.

I watched him for what felt like forever. I was only frightened by my abscence of empathy. I knew what he intended. I saw the purpose, the speed, the chest, his eyes - hallowed and certain. I couldn’t see them anymore beneath an ungodly shadow of the crimson curb. I was a trembling mess, sway-ing above the weight of my cold throbbing fists. There was no part of me that wanted to stand there any longer, but a heavy gravity held me reeling in place. When I finally moved onward, it struck me how he could die there in the gutter, chok-ing up spit and failure… and only a few meters away I felt like I could sleep. Right there, beside his trickling blood. †

Deleuze and Guattari have writ-ten about the ocean as a space that has traditionally been considered as very smooth and indeterminate, and shapeless, but which with the grids of longitude and latitude, becomes a sort of sharp geometric space. In this manner space is rendered interpre-table, and predictableto some extent. Once you become a part of that landscape amidst a shifting mass of blue-grey for days and days on end, the human relationship to those grids becomes irrelevant. - Tacita Dean †

At least part of the undeniable force that the desert exerts on the human condition comes from the sense that within such a landscape, there exists a multiplicity of space. Not often per-ceived as a nurturing environment, but instead, one that conjures biblical images of drought and hardship.

The desert is so aptly named beyond its arrid definition. Desert space is barren, desolate, hostile, severe. It is seen as a singular, self contained en-vironment. Such descriptions, though cynical, are synonymous with the deceptive term. Such descriptions, though cynical are also far from in-acurate. Within each grain of sand lie deep metaphoric transiencies. Time, history and human have all tested its terrain.

Beyond its topology of smooth, and striated geometries lie a series of encounters, that expose the complexi-ties of leaving a definitive place, and extend the fluid ambiguity of space. At once linked to physical boundar-ies, yet seemingly boundless. Certainly, of the earth, but inextrica-bly otherworldly.

What at first may be perceived as nothingness, as nature, as wild open space - is so overwhelming that it eventually, and inevitably becomes at once alienating, and resoundingly intimate.

In this landscape the physical body tires of looking outward at the world, and begins to reflect inward. In such a manner the desert exists as a blank slate, a canvas for thought, and a mir-ror. What you take from the desert is who you are.

HERE BETWEEN THERE - DISPATCHES FROM JERICOACOARA