Beach Antics

Before the faux carioca explains the ugly picture in this posting she wants to get on the good foot and send out birthday wishes. May birthdays included Nicole B., Sharon G., Kristy J., and Brian T. In June Debs C. and Anna K. will celebrate birthdays towards the end of the month. Happy birthday to all. Remember that you have to get down in order to get up.

Sigh. The ugly, swollen and bruised left foot in the photo belongs to the faux carioca. Regular readers may have already guessed how this happened. The will is stronger than the body for the faux carioca and, yes, capoeira, it would seem, serves only to remind.

It was a picturesque sunny Monday at the beach on the island of Morro de São Paulo. Gentle waves, few other tourists, cocktails delivered when the beach bum so much as considered having a drink. Best of all there appeared to be little crime on this part of the island where residents are largely dependent upon tourists for their income. The anxieties and violence of Salvador seemed more than a 2 1/2 catamaran ride away. Yet the faux carioca couldn't simply settle into the sand and sip a caipirinha. She had seen her share of capoeira in recent days and was ready to give it the old college try. Foolishly she decided to practice with someone as inexperienced as she. They both screwed up--he didn't duck, she didn't have sufficient control of her movement to stop--and she spun around to kick the other fellow in the head hitting him squarely with her left ankle bone. The shock of the impact shot up her leg as she tried to walk it off. Her partner assured her that he was fine and was ready to give it another try. Absurdly enough, for a few moments she considered doing so before reason, self-preservation, and sheer pain kicked in.

For the remainder of the afternoon the faux carioca lay on the beach icing her ankle. When one clever fellow noted, "That's not right. You were the aggressor and yet you were the one who got hurt" her mood took a bitter and self-pitying turn. As the sun began to set behind the dark cloud conjured by her gloomy state of mind, the faux carioca limped along the beach silently cursing everyone who failed to notice and help. True, she was too idiotic to swallow her pride and ask for help but anyone could see she was in bad shape. She considered that a thong or a wig might have made her a more appealing wounded bird. At the beach's end, at the bottom of a hill the faux carioca's professor saw her and offered assistance back to the pousada. She gratefully accepted but realized after climbing two steps that she was going to hurt herself more if she had to walk the whole way back. Her only option was a wheelbarrow ride.

There are no cars on this side of the island and resourceful men-for-hire move through the hilly, wet sand streets offering to wheel luggage for tourists between the dock and the pousadas. So the old bag crankily dumped herself into a wheelbarrow and scowled at everyone who did and did not smile at the site of her. Now she is reduced to wearing flip flops everyday and trailing her gimpy left foot behind the rest of her corpse.

Is the ankle broken? Probably not since the foot can be moved but she's ready for the pain--wigless and thongless--to go back to the beaches of Morro de São Paulo where she found it.

This tale should really end here but the excitement of the following day cannot be omitted. In the morning the faux carioca enjoyed a limpy stroll on the beach with her real carioca Portuguese instructor. Along the way, they stopped to have some delicious coconut water straight from the coconut. Mmm mmm good. They stumped to one end of the fourth beach and stumped back to the second beach where lounge chairs and umbrellas could be rented. It could have been the heat. Or maybe it was the coconut. It may also have been the constant pain in her left foot that caused the faux carioca to feel nauseous by the time she sank into her wooden chaise.

Over the course of the next hour or so the faux carioca rapidly hop-stepped to a nearby bathroom when she twice felt overcome by the urge to vomit. Each time proved to be a false alarm. Thank gourd the third time is a charm. As the sun rose higher in the sky someone nearby ordered a plate filled with odoriferous seasoned fish. Another person puffed on a cigarette. A man reeking of stale body fluids stood too close. Wild-eyed and in a sweat, she sprang up from repose and looked around frantically for something to heave into between the chaise and the bathroom. Nothing. Uncontrollably she heaved anyway. Ever mindful of the other beachgoers' meals, she accomplished a feat she had not thought possible and hastily carried a mouthful of vomit to the bathroom where she continued to retch.