Short Indian Dialogues

(1) 

- Hello, Sir.

- Hello.

- Are you Indian, Sir?

- No. 

- You look like Indian, Sir.

- Oh, I'm trying to. But tell me.

- Yes, Sir?

- Why did you start talking to me in English and not in Hindi and called me Sir?

- Uhmmm... (then he looks kind of lost, mutter a few words and disappears as soon as he realizes I'll not buy anything or follow him anywhere). 

(2)

- Hello, Sir.

- Hi.

- Are you Indian, Sir?

- Nope.

- Where are you from, Sir?

- I'm from Brazil. 

- B...?

- Brrrrazil.

- Oh, Ronaldo. 

- Yes, that's it. 

- You like cricket, Sir?

- Oh, yes, sure. But I don't understand the game very well.

- Uhmmm (followed by a stare that betrays his thinking that I must be from another planet)

(3)

- Hello, Sir.

- Hello.

- Where are you from, Sir?

- I'm from Brazil. 

- B... Where, Sir?

- Brrrrazil. 

- How you like India, Sir?

- I like it a lot. I'm almost becoming Indian myself. 

- Oh, thank you, Sir, thank you (followed by that typical Indian smile: blindingly white, sort of childish and undoubtedly sincere) 

More on flying - and falling

This site deserves a peek for its amazing videos of harsh landings on the world't most dangerous airports:

 http://www.otbeach.com/news/airlines-and-airports--1/top-10-most-dangerous-aircraft-l

andings-in-the-world--418.html

I haven't been in such a flight or really bad turbulence but it really looks fun. I guess I could call my bungee jump in Victoria Falls in June 2006 a flight though. No fuselage, just a rope attaching my ankles and a couple of seconds in free fall.

It's difficult to explain what I felt. I was in a Conference in Zambia, held at Sun Hotel in Livingstone, a walking distance to the Victoria Falls Park. It was also possible to visit the Zimbabwean side of the falls, crossing the border on foot. They have this bungee jump platform on a bridge over a stream beside the Falls. It's the second highest jump of this kind in the world, at 108 m from the river. And it would be my first try.

It was the day after the Conference ended and the organizers would have a bus take us from the hotel to the airport after lunch. If I really wanted to jump, I'd have to be among the first in line so as to have time to come back to the hotel and 

board the bus. I wake up early, walk to the bridge, a slight headache that got stronger as close as I got to the spot, questioning myself if I'd have the guts to jump. I arrive, pay the fee, watch a video with instructions and information, sign a form releasing the company of responsability if I died or suffered injury, go to the platform, my blood pressure falls, a towel and a rope are attached to my ankles and waistline, I start sweating, a line forms behind me for the jump, a dilemma becomes unbearable: if I don't jump, I'll feel so embarassed, such a coward, that I'll never forgive myself; but I apparently can't muster the courage and bring my body to obey me. I approach the tip of the platform, feel the wind and the emptiness that surround me. I can't resist doing what I should not: looking down. Then I tell the guy responsible for the jump:

- I can't do it. I can't.

- Yes, of course you can, he replies.

- No, I can't.

- Oh, c'mon, you can.

- Ok, but you'll have to push me.

- Ok, I'll count to 5 and push you. 1... 2... 3...

And he pushes me. It was such a gentle push but enough to make me lose ground. I not only was caught by surprise, I obviously had no strength left in my legs. Absolute despair (see the picture). And then one of the weirdest sensations invades me: the certainty of death. I remember thinking that all was gone and nothing else was important. I thought of my mother. I guess I didn't have time for my whole life story, things done, things not accomplished, to flash before my eyes. I also felt a deep sense of freedom, of liberation perhaps. Until I reach the bottom point and get pushed up to the half of the height by the rope's tension and realize I could still enjoy the rest of my jump, dropping 3 more times and I could still enjoy life. And then as soon as I'm lifted 

back to the platform, I feel this urge to jump again. Unfortunately I had to rush back to the hotel.

Time has passed and I probably lost a lot of the courage I 

mustered just after the jump. But I still look forward for the highest jump worldwide, which happens to be, at 216 m, twice as high (that's Bloukrans Bridge, in South Africa)

By the way, I'd highly recommend visiting Victoria Falls and staying for a few days in one of the hotels in the vicinity. Besides the sheer size and wonder of the Falls and the surrounding forest, the view of River Zambezi at sunset, as elephants and other animals cross it, and an orange light pervades the sky before a quasi-total black sets in, are well worth the trip. Even more so if you happen to be in the hotel's restaurant, facing the river and sipping wine while this nature wonder unfolds.

more on restless travelling (this for the Portuguese speaking readers)

Este poema foi deixado pela Verinha, minha irmãzinha adotada, em um dos comentários. Mas merece ser trazido à página principal:

(Viajar! Perder países!)
de Fernando Pessoa

Viajar! Perder países!
Ser outro constantemente,
Por a alma não ter raízes
De viver de ver somente!

Não pertencer nem a mim!
Ir em frente, ir a seguir
A ausência de ter um fim,
E a ânsia de o conseguir!

Viajar assim é viagem
Mas faço-o sem ter de meu
Mais que o sonho da passagem.
O resto é só terra e céu.

Air travel paradise

A lot is said and written about the nightmare air travel has become. I had my share of delays, tough and tiring layovers, even some lost pieces of luggage. I had a 36-hour flight in a military airplane, making 6 stops along the way to the other side of the world and barely having more than 2 hours for some light sleep between one and another stop.

But I'd rather recall a nice experience I once had flying Lufthansa from São Paulo to Frankfurt. I was in the line in the airport preparing myself psychologically for a 12-hour trip, that would be followed by some hours in the airport and another long trip to Adis Abeba. Then I ask the attendant at the ckeck-in counter if I could use my miles from Varig's mileage program for an upgrade in the Lufthansa flight. It wasn't possible, but looking at the deepest disappointment and misery I couldn't disguise, I was given a courtesy upgrade to Business class. If there's one thing I don't like about travelling in business class is the fact that I'll eventually have to come back to flying coach. But once I'm there, I take full advantage of the pampering the attendants lavish on this class of people to which I'm temporarily allowed to belong to, these special people who soar above the mere mortal ones who are in the cramped seats conveniently hidden behind curtains in the other end of the aircraft.

So I'm there, sipping my fair share of Krug champagne before dinner is served. During the dinner proper, a lesser champagne is offered. I call the flight attendant and ask her if they still had the Krug. They did and she served me more of that nectar. After a good meal, and almost ready for a nap fueled with what that great fermentation process can do to those wonderful grapes of that incomparable terroir, comes the flight attendant and asks me if I had some room left in my carry-on bag. Yes, I think so, I reply. She leaves for some seconds and then returns with a closed bottle of Krug, saying: "this is for you, as I see you like it". I couldn't care less that it was obvious I considered champagne one of the best substances ever created by mankind. I thankfully accepted and almost kissed her right then and there.

(At this point, I'd better say that I'm not a wino, I just happen to love the bubbly).

If there was ever something beyond question in my mind, it was the fact that I would try and fly Lufthansa again as soon as the opportunity came. And it did. I had arrived early in São Paulo coming from Brasília. I timed the moment to go to the check-in counter carefully, so that it wouldn't be so early that they could say they would still try to sell available business class seats before granting any upgrades; or too late so they would have the excuse that the catering for business class was closed and they didn't have extra meals for that class. I arrive at the counter just to find out the flight was booked and if I had delayed a little bit more, even my coach seat might be at risk due to overbooking. Will I ever find another German blue angel who guesses my each and every wishes? But perhaps it's better this way. After all, a repeated experience, ceasing to be unique, loses much of its appeal in the memory (and is less interesting to tell).

Restless travel style and Wanda's help

Something quite difficult when I consider travelling abroad is to find a friend: (1) interested in going to the same place I want to go; (2) available to travel in the same period I am free. In one of the few times these conditions were in place, I spent a great three weeks on the beach near Salvador and Praia do Forte and in Jericoacoara. A lot of time just chilling out, sunbathing, drinking caipirinhas, unaware of good or bad news, no TV, no newspapers, limited time over the cell phone. A short spell in a small version of paradise and not as boring as heaven probably is.

But travelling alone, and the world being so big, I leave no time for contemplation. I'm constantly on the move, trying to see as much as I can in as little time as possible. It's a 
travelling style (a friend called it Japanese tourist style) that doesn't befit everyone. But being as energetic as I am, walking 8 or 10 hours a day or taking 5 or 6 different means of transport in 16 hours is part of the fun. The main drawback, besides having to carry my backpack for long hours in a row, is the overload of experiences and information, which I am only able to digest completely a few weeks after the trip's end.

An ambitious itinerary coupled with a tight schedule means a lot of time on the road, and, in the Balkans, it meant more time in buses, trains and cars than actually strolling streets and sightseeing. It is not as bad as it may look like. I read a lot of those interesting, deep - and long - "The New Yorker" articles, I finished a book, I made friends with locals who showed me their cities, I enjoyed the scenery and I even rested a little. Sometimes I made several stops along the way, frantically visiting 3 or 4 different attractions in one day. Two samples from my travelling schedule in the Balkans:

March, 23, 2008 - Sunday - objective: leave Bucharest to Brasov and see 3 castles and fortresses - these are approximate times:
5:30 am - wake up;
6:00 am - taxi to train station;
7:00 am - train to Brasov;
8:30 am - stop at Sinaia for a visit to Peles Castle;
11:00 am - back to the train to Brasov;
12:00 pm - arrival at Brasov's train station; local bus to bus station (it's always fun to try and find out how to use the local public transport, beginning by finding someone who speaks English and gives you information on what bus to take, where to buy the ticket and where to get off);
1:00 pm - bus to Bran;
1:30 pm - visit Bran castle (allegedly but mistakenly regarded as Dracula's castle);
3:30 pm - bus to Rasnov castle/fortress;
4:00 pm - visit Rasnov;
6:00 pm - taxi to Brasov;
6:20 pm - another taxi to Brasov's city center;
6:30 pm - look for and check in a hotel (leave the backpack that was hurting my shoulders after climbing all these hillocks and castles); shower and rest;
8:30 pm - visit Brasov old city; dinner;
11:30 pm - back to hotel and sleep.

March 29, 2008, Saturday - objective: seeing Rila Monastery and proceed to Macedonia:
7:30 am - wake up;
8:15 am - taxi to bus station;
8:30 am - bus to Blagoevgrad;
11:00 am - bus to Rila;
12:40 pm - bus to Rila Monastery;
1:20 pm - visit Rila;
5:00 pm - bus back to Rila;
5:40 pm - hired private car back to Blagoevgrad;
6:20 pm - bus to Kiustendil;
8:15 pm - bus to Skopje/Macedonia;
12:20 am - arrival in Skopje; check-in at the hotel

It would have been impossible to visit the impressive Rila monastery, nestled in the mountains close to Sofia, in just one day unless I had booked a group tour (which I hadn't) or relied on a Bulgarian friend (which I fortunately could). Upon arriving in Rila, we found out that the bus times to and from the city would either make it impossible to visit the monastery or to come back in time for the bus back to Blagoevgrad and from there to Kiustendil in time to catch the en-route bus to Skopje.

But I had a friend with me who managed, with the aid of the cleaning lady of the tiny bus station at Rila, to find a way out. She managed to arrange us a private car so that I could be in time for my bus in Blagoevgrad. Wanda was so nice! She didn't accept any sort of compensation. Well, to be true, she asked for something: that we sent her a letter, which would be a change in her rather uneventful routine in the small city.