In which The Author, lamenting His scholastic Situation, and having Moved On, elaborates upon a Subject Of Great Interest, that being His Blossoming Beard, and having given Sufficient reasoning for growing Said Beard (namely, the Possibility of being Mugged in the Pit of Vipers that is São Paulo), decides to Commemorate said Beard with a Photo, which is very grainy Indeed.

So today is the first day of spring term, 2009. Since I won’t be showing up to school this week, I have emailed all of my instructors and told them not to drop me from their respective classes.

We’ll see how well that works out.

Speaking of beards, I have been getting a glut of questions from HIGHLY-concerned viewers/readers about my facial hair. Allow me to explain…

According to wikipedia, crime is the most critical problem found in the city of São Paulo. Additionally, the US Department of State rates the crime rate for São Paulo as CRITICAL. “Despite various organizations and state government entities reporting decreases in crime levels throughout São Paulo state, crime is still widespread with various degrees of severity. Violent crimes such as murder, rape, kidnappings, armed assaults and burglaries have become a part of normal everyday life. Every São Paulo neighborhood is susceptible to high crime rates.” And according to my Lonely Planet guidebook, a law has recently been passed in the city of São Paulo that makes it not only legal but highly encouraged for motorists to simply slow down instead of stopping at red lights after dark because of the high number of carjackings that occur.

All that said, I have to travel through São Paulo later on this week, and have carefully cultivated the meager assemblage of hairs on my face into a “don’t mess with me” look. In addition to sporting the aforementioned facial hair(s), I might spatter some blood across the front of my shirt.

I also plan to wear an eyepatch, speak almost exclusively in “aaaargs” and grunts, and drool while entertaining a slight nervous paroxysm in my “good” eye.

In the event that all of these precautions aren’t a sufficient deterrent to ill-doers, my backup plan is to carry a Bible around and start evangelizing at the top of my lungs if I think I’m about ready to get into a scrap. In my professional, medical opinion, it takes one determined criminal to inflict violence upon a pirate, let alone a Benny Hinn Pirate.

And that’s why I have some facial hair at the moment.

In Which the Author uploads photos taken at the Santa Cruz Zoo.

Click here to see them.

In which The Author discusses how unfreakingbelievably beautiful Bolivia can be.

I just got back from Samaipata, which is situated 170 kilometers east of Santa Cruz and sits at about 1650 meters above sea level. I got there by a harrowing originally-was-supposed-to-be-only-three-hours-but-somehow-mutated-into-a-hideous-beast-monster-of-a-six-hour-trip in a private taxi, complete with live chickens in the back.

But it was worth it. As soon as the sun came up the next day at my cozy hostel (Hostal Andoriña) I rose and bounded with all the grace of a gazelle out the front door, much to the concern of the other residents of the hostel. But I didn’t really care so much, for Today was The Day that I would get to see something about which I’ve been dreaming for some time now: the pre-Incan ruins of El Fuerte.

El Fuerte is situated about 6,600 feet above sea level in the eastern foothills of the Bolivian Andes. The most ancient of the ruins are about 3,500 years old, according to the latest radiocarbon dating information. In that span of time, it has been inhabited by three different cultures: the Chanes, the Incas, and the Spaniards. Read up on it here.

The distance from where I was staying to the ruins was a paltry 9 kilometers one-way, so rather than hire a taxi for US$10 I just decided to hike it. And what a lovely decision that turned out to be! As I climbed up and up, I suddenly found myself in the clouds with a light mist falling around me. I arrived at the information center for the ruins right around 9:00 AM and discovered that I was the only person there that day, most likely due to the weather (which, in my opinion, provided the perfect setting in which to view ancient ruins: misty, foggy, creepy). I spent the next several hours exploring around and walking on land that has borne the footprints of the Chane, the Inca, the Guaraní, the Spanish, the Portuguese, the Jesuits, and countless nationalities of tourists.

It was wonderful.

I walked back down the mountain, had a quick lunch, and got a taxi back down to Santa Cruz. This time, I was able to get pictures! Click HERE to see them.

Anyway, I’m tired, so I’m off to bed.

In which The Author, having been confined to The House since His Glorious Arrival, and being Exceedingly Antsy to sojourn forth into Parts Unknown, and having been Lured into a False Sense Of Security with his Portuguese-language Skills, beguiles Himself into sojourning forth into Said Parts Unknown, namely Chapada National Park, with Two Non-English Speakers who, despite their most Valiant Efforts, can’t understand why the Colossal, Abnormal Swelling on The Author’s neck could be Capable of causing serious Medical Problems, but He still has fun anyway, despite nearly Becoming Unintentionally Intimate with a Renault, thanks to Brazil’s generally-accepted Method of Driving, which was most likely the inspiration for that of The Bad Guy In The Chariot Race Scene In Ben-Hur.

Today was the perfect opportunity for me to get out and about and actually experience a little bit of the natural world for which Brazil is so famous. Not only was the port side of my neck suddenly and mystifyingly swollen –nay, bloated—to worrisome proportions, but ‘twas raining buckets for as far as the eye could see, which was about half of a city block.

And so, after binding and gagging the little angel on my shoulder, we set off with great aplomb for Parque Nacional Chapada. The aplomb consisted of cutting arm and head holes into several large plastic bags and fashioning them into something approximating ponchos. Being confident in my tried-and-true Akubra, I smugly declined the “capa” that was offered me and studiously avoided the somewhat-concerned gazes that were subsequently directed at me. After all, it’s just rain, right? Right?

Our first stop was Cachoeira Martinha (kah-sho-ay-rrah mah-tee-nyah [Martina Waterfall]). She was the first of about 10 different cachoeiras at which we stopped throughout the course of the day, several of which can be seen on the video at the end of this entry.

But I wasn’t necessarily there for the waterfalls. I was there for the birds. And lo and behold, I accomplished one of my life goals today.

I got to see a toucan.

And then I nearly died. Allow me to rephrase that… over the course of the 57 kilometers back to Cuiabá, I teetered continuously on the precipice of Sudden, Instant, And Even Immediate Death. The best description that I can give of standards of driving in Brazil is as follows: a rigorously-enforced, mandatory boycott of sanity.

I’ll try to get some video of it.

Anyway, for those of you who are following along with the geography of the whole thing (Dad!), I’m right in the very center of the continent right now. On Thursday we’re going south to Campo Grande by plane and then headed toward the Bolivian border by bus. If you like to use Google Earth, the city on the Bolivian side of the border is Puerto Suarez; the Brazilian side is called “Corumbá.”
I don’t know if we’ll have internet there, so this update and tomorrow’s could be my last until we reach Santa Cruz.

Unless I venture out onto the streets again, in which case it’ll probably be my last ever.

In which The Author, being tempted by the sultry voice of the Hammock On The Front Porch, and having discovered that said Hammock offers the best Vantage Point from which to poach Wireless Internet, and being force-fed all manners of delectable victuals by a Most Obliging Hostess, accomplishes absolutely Nothing.

Well, not absolutely nothing. I did submit a couple of final projects electronically. And drank copious amounts of fresh pineapple juice. And lounged.

But tomorrow I’m going to a location called the Chapada to look for jaguars.

And Wednesday we’re supposed to go orchid hunting.

And then Thursday, it’s off! to Bolivia.

I’ll post in more earnestness tomorrow after The Searchings For The Jaguars.

Ciao.

In which The Author, armed with one carry-on laden with books and another bursting with Adult Diapers, and having out-maneuvered the Transportation Security Administration by checking all Toothpaste And Other Highly-Explosive Liquids/Pastes with Ken’s baggage, and having patted Himself on the back for being such a Smooth Operator, finds out What It’s Like to travel from Redmond to Portland to Chicago to Sao Paulo to Brasilia to Cuiaba with one (1) eighty-year-old.

I am now a wheelchair expert. The last 27 hours have methodically trained me to be able to calculate the width of a wheelchair seat to within millimeters, all from a worthy distance of 25 feet. The point of this exercise, obviously, is to determine whether or not said chair is spacious/gracious enough to accommodate the derriere of my ward. I made Redmond get us a golf cart. Portland was acceptable, but Chicago was absolutely not. I took one long, critical look at the diminutive assemblage of wheels and plastic that was produced to transport us all the way across O’Hare International Airport and couldn’t help but wonder if it was the sick lovechild of some long-ago affair that a skateboard had with a shopping cart. I cleared my throat, looked Chanelqua (our porter) in the eye, and confessed that I had been hitherto unaware of the existence of “wheelchairs” that actually fit down the aisles of a Boeing 737. Were they, I queried, designed to transport passengers piece-by-piece? They brought us a new chair.

Notwithstanding the hassle of overseeing wheelchair auditions at every single airport, there is at least one fantastic advantage to traveling with someone who requires wheeled transport. Our flight from Chicago to Sao Paulo was completely full, yet Ken and I magically cleared customs in about four minutes.

And I’ve invented a new language. I’m going to call it Portspanglish©. As the name suggests, my new dialect incorporates elements of Portuguese, Spanish, and English. Central to the efficacy of this idiom, however, is a fourth dimension: that of highly-animated gesticulation. (I left it out of the name because “Gesticuspanglishuese” sounds a bit like an infection that sailors might get after months at sea without a fresh change of underwear.) In all fairness, Portuguese is a mesmerizingly beautiful language, particularly when the speaker is one of GOL Airlines’ flight attendants.

Anyway. We got picked up at the Cuiaba airport by Ken’s brother David and off! we sped to David’s house where a dinner of chicken pie, rice, beans, fresh bananas, and authentic Brazilian coffee awaited us. And now, time for installment one of our show, “Life Lessons with Jack!”

• Jack’s rules to live by, #759: Never, ever give Brazilian coffee to an 80-year-old who has just been on 27 consecutive hours of flights. Just don’t.

And now back to our regular programming. Actually, that pretty much concludes the show for today. Stay tuned for more fun stuff, and click HERE to see a little video from today.

In which The Author, being beset by a Mighty Urge to travel the planet, and ever eager to do so on Someone Else’s Dollar, agrees to accompany An Octogenarian to Brazil and Bolivia.

Just to bring any of you who aren’t paying attention up to speed, I agreed to accompany an elderly man named Ken down to various and sundry exotic, tropical, and subsequently mosquito-infested locations in South America.

For three weeks.

Now that you’re up to speed…