They told me I didn’t have to take my shoes off but somehow it didn’t feel right to leave them on. As I walk the corridor past the kitchen, I hear the wood floor creak as I step on the coir mats barefoot.

From the outside, the boat looks like a floating Hobbit house. The hull is dark jack planks and the roof is bamboo poles and palm leaves – everything held together by coconut fibers and rope. It smells like a dry forest here.

The boat is a historic barge that used to carry goods but now is converted for tourism and furnished for meals and spending the night. From a lounge chair I watch the deck where the captain is maneuvering us out to start the trip. There are two white mattresses and pillows right behind him where I know I’ll lie down and read my book (“My Year of Rest and Relaxation”). A white sheet stretches over the captain, providing shade, and he has a glass bottle of whiskey filled with water so I make a joke about drinking and sailing. It’s a slow way down the river.

I hear drums nearby and spot a family in a secluded fenced house by the river. They’re sitting around a small fire and their voices are swallowed by the unhurried rhythmic sound of the drums. The grandfather gets up waving a long stick in his hands in a menacing way and chases a 5-year-old. When the kid starts laughing, the drums stop and the entire family bursts laughing too.

I’m lulled by the tranquility and the heat and these snapshots of life. I watch every jackfruit, coconut tree and house before lunch is ready. The boat continues while I eat my fried fish with rice and vegetable curry. I’m usually a fast eater and force myself to slow down to match the pace of life out here. When I’m done, I change to a smaller motor boat to roam the narrower canals beyond the river.

We cross boats carrying everything from big stones and dirt from construction work, to gas bottles and groceries being delivered door to door. A father and son fish under the shade of a palm tree and two young guys tend their duck farm guiding hundreds of tiny ducks across the water. Kids fight inside an old docked boat next to a lady washing dishes in the river water. Most people wave and greet me even though I try not to intrude too much by staring for too long.

The rest of the afternoon feels like a slow piano playing. I close my book and my eyes just to hear the birds. There’s always hornbills, kingfishers, crows or ducks around.

Before sunset we dock and I go for a walk. The family I saw earlier are finishing their dinner, the drums replaced by dishes and metal pans. I continue and wander between the houses and the trees I saw from the river. I spent a whole day on a boat but my body feels grounded, no swaying. I walk until the orange sun sets.

The next morning I wake up to the sound of people screaming on speedboats that rock my bedroom as they burst by. It’s 7AM.

Leave a comment

I’ve seen two coconuts fall from the top of palm trees crashing onto the ground with a disturbing hollow, splintering crack. I bet the damn things can kill a person. And according to “The Times of India”, just two months ago — a day before my birthday — a 48 year old man riding his scooter was indeed killed by a falling coconut so I’m keeping my eyes up and moving around palm trees.

As the taxi driver picks me up in Goa he spits from the driver’s window. I’ve noticed “NO SPITTING” signs inside buildings and museums and the occasional red tinted spit in the streets but I wasn’t ready for two hours of this. “I’m fasting” he apologizes and it makes me appreciate my Muslim friends that never fasted like this around me.

We pass by a TATA motors dealership and an entire family celebrates the purchase of a new mini bus. There’s a big “Congratulations!” sign with big sparkling letters and the bus is adorned with yellow flowers and ribbons. I have time to see the family posing in front of it for a picture. It’s a mini bus that will probably be used for transporting tourists and I find joy in how excited they are and the possibility of growing the family’s business.

I’m staying in a little jungle cabin in Agonda close to the beach. There’s a sleeping cat on my front porch and I have to step over it to go inside. As I drop my luggage, I celebrate the fact that I won’t have to carry this 60L backpack for a few days.

Along Beach Road the shop owners play games with neighboring friends and sleep under the shade of the beach towels they’re selling. There’s no hustling, no “Hello my friend, where are you from?” and no one confusing me for Spanish. The street is full of hotels and one is named “Monsoon beach huts”, the one thing tourists want to avoid on beach holidays. When I reach the beach cows lie in the sand sunbathing. Laying down my towel I see a couple holding hands, dancing and kissing and goofing around by the water. I search for a tripod, a camera or a phone recording but it turns out they’re just happy and in love.

I sunbathe, walk along the shore and read in cafes while everyone around me seems to be journaling on Moleskine. On one of my walks, I notice the beach is filled with a galaxy of tiny sand balls. There’s an intricate pattern to it that I can’t explain as if it’s an art installation. But as I stand there scanning the sand I see tiny transparent looking crabs peeking from tiny holes before finally coming out. I crouch to see one moving a tiny ball to a precise location before moving the next tiny ball close to it. I jump over so I don’t destroy anything. They’re sand bubbler crabs and I can’t believe the beach is full of them and their amazing creation.

On my last day here I’m not looking up for coconuts anymore.

Leave a comment

I started to feel myself again. Varanasi was intense. It’s not just the new haircut but I’ve washed my clothes and my shoes (and missed the ones I left at home). I drank bubble teas and browsed second hand bookstores and picked a new book (“I Who Have Never Known Men”). I spent time in cafés and art exhibitions and went for a tasting menu at Farmlore where I sat at the chef’s table and had the best bite of the trip: a champagne coupe with white cauliflower puree topped with pomelo juice sacs, peas and a bright yellow lemon ice cream scoop. Bangalore fed my taste buds and my inner Fancy Nancy.

Yesterday I visited the royal palace and the audio tour guide’s battery died after 10 minutes but not before I saw a photo of Maharaja Srikantadatta Narasimharaja Wadiyar – the coolest picture in the palace. I found his Wikipedia and learned he was the son of the last king of Mysore. He worked in fashion and supported the regional silk business. He was into cricket and politics, he collected art, watches and cars. And despite all that he held “leftist-communist” ideals and was an atheist when he was young. I don’t know much more about him but I want to make a t-shirt with this picture of him wearing aviator sunglasses.

I found comfort in the mix of familiarity and alienation that only a massive city can deliver. I noticed people drink water but their lips didn’t touch the bottle. I saw lots of men holding hands. When a lady dropped her purse, she performed a quick ritual touching her forehead and chest before she picked it up. I went to a store looking for sunscreen and the lady in that department asked “Indoor or outdoor?” – I chose outdoor. I had my first coffee in 6 years. And at the laundry store, they charged me per shoe with individual billing lines for left foot and right foot. Bangalore, you’re weird and that’s a good thing.

Through the airplane window I see the deep blue ocean, the red dirt and the green mountains – pure RGB. I’m spending a few days in Goa. I learned about Goa in school as it was the capital of the Portuguese empire in the “East” but it reminds me of this one pop song that lists all the Portuguese colonies and romanticizes the idea of being a “Conquistador” (the song title).

I’m joining a walking tour in Fontainhas, an old neighborhood in Goa. When everyone was introducing themselves and it was my turn, there was an “ohhhh…” when I said I was Portuguese. Guess today I’ll be the representative of the colonial sins of my ancestors. The neighborhood is colorful; every building painted a different color and a more vibrant version of a traditional village back in Portugal. Between brightly painted houses there are moldy houses with broken windows and missing walls and blue plastic sheets covering holes. When we reach a tiny square with a well in the center there are two old neighbors chatting in a slow version of Portuguese. When they stop talking the only audible sound is a distant dog barking.

I can’t stop feeling a fascination for this place where things are out of place. After a spicy fried fish with curry, I’m served serradura (a very familiar popular Portuguese dessert). The pure white Christian churches blinding under the hot sun. There are Indo-Portuguese Goan mansions that give old-money vibes with high ceilings and sloping roofs, large windows and big front door staircases that lead to a porch area all around the house. We pass by the hallmark of old Portuguese colonies in Asia: casinos. And to finish the tour we go to an old café where an old gentleman sings a few songs for us. When he learns I’m Portuguese he gets excited and sings “a very famous Portuguese love song” that I’ve never heard before.

I spend my time in silence as a sign of respect for this place but mostly because there’s no one around. I wander for days and wonder what this place would look like if the Portuguese hadn’t arrived in the 1500s. Without the spice trade, the Inquisition, the slaves – just the deep blue ocean, red dirt and the green mountains.

That’s how I arrive in Varanasi, the City of Light and spiritual capital of India.

The taxi drops me far so I’m walking to the hotel. As I reach the main street, I face a horde moving against me. My huge backpack can’t squeeze in-between people indifferent to my presence. I try to sidestep but the crowd doesn’t give way. A man following me holds on to my bag and I’m basically carrying him until the weight becomes too much, and I stop. I escape the main road to a narrow side street. I’m dodging silent cows and loud motorbikes and when I finally find my hotel, I drop my stuff and leave.

People here move slowly. As I stroll along the Ganges River, I feel small compared to the colossal buildings – forts and castles and palaces brought to life by cinematic light. My nose is overtaken by the river and fire and incense burning. I find freshness in the scent of flowers I can’t see. I cross squares full of people sleeping on the ground hugging their belongings. The ones awake stare at the dark river, trying to see what’s not there anymore. I grew up fearing darkness but here, walking alone at night in the most foreign place I’ve ever been, I feel invisible and safe.

Flames and smoke blur the sky ahead so I turn around. Not today.

The morning is hot and bright streaming through the blinds of my room. Entire families bathe in the river right next to boats. Kids jump, laugh and shout in the water. People prepare their breakfast next to someone getting their head shaved. I meet Jendra coming out of the river after he almost drowned his goat to wash it. “Do you want to drink? I’m going to drink and take my boat to work on my field over there” he says with a scratched-out voice pointing to the other side of the river.

I have my first breakfast in what will become my favorite lassi shop. They hand scoop soft yogurt and serve it in small clay cups to be thrown away. I choose the mixed fruits – it has shredded apple and pineapple, pomegranate, bit of papaya and mango and they top it with chocolate powder. While four friends share one cup I devour four. There’s a little girl with eyes painted black. It’s said to reduce the power of “evil eyes”, glances carrying curses but I feel she’s the one cursing me when she stares.

I wander for hours until a group of men pass carrying a body on bamboo stretchers above head. It’s draped in white cloth topped with glowing marigold flowers. The silent men are dripping, followed by a woman chanting. The Manikarnika Ghat cremation site is around the corner. I follow her.

There’s no wind to carry the smoke of the large pyres burning. I don’t want to look but when I do I see glimpses of bodies burning. The men I saw earlier carry the body all the way down to the river and dip it in the water. A family member wades in and washes the feet. Then they take it to a wooden pyre and light it up. Families gather near and far and there are so many unrelated people watching too. It’s the opposite of the avoidance I’m familiar with. A black unfed cow approaches one of the pyres and someone holding a large wooden stick with steady hands sends it away. The same stick used to work the fire. I see a leg sticking out from the fire and leave.

Later at sunset, priests walk amongst the waiting crowd and take their place at an individual podium facing the river. I don’t understand the ritual but I’m hypnotized by the lamps moving to the sound of loud bells and chanting but mostly by what it does to the people around me. An old lady raises her hands towards the sky and her head dances in her shoulders. A young boy standing on his father’s shoulders doesn’t blink an eye, but puts his tiny hands over his ears because the bells are too loud. So many people lit small lamps inside leaf bowls and released them into water that the boats seem to be floating on a river of light. When the final bell rings everyone leaves and I realize that’s the crowd I faced on my first day.

I don’t know how I will sleep tonight, but I long for tomorrow.

On my last day I walk the wood marketplace where families buy the fuel that feeds the cremation sites.

I enter a temple and see nothing. When I leave, I see everything again…

Naked guys painted white and clothed families bathing in the river.

Narrow streets where a movie is being filmed. A movie inside a movie.

I eat with the hands that avoid touching this place.

I watch Ganga Aarti one last time and melt into the crowd heading home.

I’m the only one left at 1AM after the Agra-Varanasi night bus missed my stop – or was it me missing it? Well, I’m not quite alone, there’s a three-inch mouse sniffing my backpack and a scrawny goat just pooped after chewing trash for an hour. I’m standing in front of the “WORLD FAMOUS PETHA & DALMOTH” shop but how is it world famous when no one bought anything in the last 2 hours I’ve been here?

I call the bus driver when he misses my stop. I don’t see the actual bus but I’m tracking it on the GPS locator app and he’s gone. “You’ve got to come back and pick me up.” I beg. “Are you crazy bro?!” he laughs, then hangs up. I spend an hour with their customer service but realize it’s pointless, he’s not coming back so I book the closest hotel, 30 minutes by car.

What was once a busy area run by a bunch of boss-man-wannabes fighting over customers moving between vehicles is now quiet and sleeping. There are no cars when I carry my bags through the 6-lane highway to reach the lamp lit shop on the other side. Uber doesn’t work here. The owner sitting behind a curtain of chips and chewing gum doesn’t speak English but understands “Taxi” and picks up the phone. He says there’s no taxis but he’s calling someone.

That’s when a young kid riding a packed rickshaw pulls up and drops a few people off. I run there but he tells me he’s not a driver for hire, he’s just dropping his school’s cricket team members after their tournament. It’s his family’s rickshaw. I’m trying to convince the four students to give me a ride but they say it’s late and a big detour. They pass my phone around zooming in and out on the map. After a few minutes discussing it he smiles and invites me to hop on. My bag sits in the back, I’m right in front next to the student driving and his friend. The left side of my body hangs outside because we’re three in a seat for one. We’re dropping his friends first and on the way we chat about their team’s win earlier today, Ronaldo and Portugal. They’re curious about my life specifically what I do for a living. “Does it pay well?” they ask.

They’re following directions on my phone when they turn to Hindi to discuss something that I can tell is about me. I sense uneasiness in their eyes, still kind and young, but somehow battling contradictory ideas. They’re in his ear – the driver doesn’t say much. We move slower and drop his three friends. “I think you should pay something for the ride” the one who was doing most of the talking and translating says before leaving. “Of course, how much?”. I say yes without blinking to whatever amount he calls for. That makes them relax and we say goodbye – it’s just me and the shy driver for the rest of the trip.

I tell him about Holi in Vrindavan and he’s surprised I went there. “India best in the world!”. He tells me he has a girlfriend and asks me about mine. “Do you have picture?” and I show him the most recent picture of us in Brasil. He tells me he’s studying to be a policeman and that his grandfather was responsible for writing the Indian constitution. I can see a policeman in his observant presence. He brings up money again and how late it is and I tell him I’ll sort him out. When we finally get to my hotel at 2AM I give him twice as much as he’d asked for and he stares at the bills confused. I tell him that he and his friends made a big difference tonight. “This is just a token of my appreciation”. He takes a while to accept it but jumps out of the rickshaw and gives me a hug and a dozen handshakes. He calls me “my friend” when we part ways.

Tonight they helped me and yes, they asked for money but somehow struggled with both. I’m booking a flight out for the next morning but can’t drop the image of these kids looking at me in the rickshaw. I think it’s because they still hadn’t decided what kind of person they were. They’re young, coming home late from a cricket tournament and a stranger on a highway forced the decision earlier than expected. I’m proud of how they answered, mostly. And of how I answered too and didn’t make the money feel like a transaction. Maybe that’s all we can do, try our best whether we’re 18 or 40 years old.

Leave a comment

Subscribe now

It’s just me and a 10-year-old Indian girl, side-by-side, waiting for the puppet show in the hotel lawn to start. The puppet stage, draped in blue fabric and a flowery shawl, stands 5 feet away. The chair is so small my knees almost touch my chin. I didn’t plan it but they invited me and I decided to show my support for the arts.

“The show is about to start,” the puppet master announces standing up behind the stage.

I look over to my right and see the child’s father is coming over.

“Hi! Where are you from?” he asks, standing up behind me. I answer. At that moment, loud drums start playing calling the start of the show.

The puppet master says, “Sir, we’re starting…”

“When did you come to India? How long are you staying?”. “Sir, the show started!” The drums play louder. “Do you like India?”. “Sir! The show!”. “Oh, ok, ok…” and leaves me and his silent daughter to watch the show.

“This is a free show and, in the end, if you’re happy you pay what you wish. You can buy our puppets and we have bell necklaces for elephants that my family makes,” says the puppet master.

The actual show starts with a puppet in a long pink dress, blue vest and a knife in his hand, dancing and shaking from one end of the stage to the other before disappearing. A second female puppet comes up, dances for a few seconds and a third puppet does the same routine, retiring before the puppet master and his assistant come out from behind the stage. They stand before me saying nothing. Just staring. I look at them and at the little girl smiling by my side. “Is it over?” I ask. The puppet master wobbles his head. I’m confused. The little girl doesn’t move, the puppet master doesn’t move and I don’t dare move. “Is the show finished?” And he finally says it is. I stand up and bow thanking them. I unnecessarily pick the tiny chair up and move away, feeling the eyes of the two performers and the little girl on my neck. The puppet master and assistant come over and ask if I want to buy a puppet and I say “No,” and thank them again.

I’m sitting in the sidelines writing this in my notes when three French tourists show up carrying proper adult chairs. They sit down. After the same 3-minute show he comes from behind the stage. They clap. Oh my god – I forgot to clap. And buy one puppet and two necklaces like real tourists.

Leave a comment

As I’m seeing it for the first time from a balcony in the Agra Fort, 2 miles away, it completely occupies the horizon despite being far away and small. It stands alone with its dome, white minarets and surrounding buildings in the expansive exotic green field that separates us and it resembles the full moon in the night sky.

With one hour left before it closes, I decide to go there anyway. I need to see it today.

I run, take a rickshaw ride, then run again. I don’t need signs to navigate the gardens, courts and pathways through this enormous site. I’m guided by glimpses of the minarets peeking above the fortified walls and I feel nervous, as if it’s calling for me. As I go through the main entrance gate I see it centered in a dark frame made of the arch’s shade and the silhouette of people. The place is crowded but I crisscross everyone, who are too numbed by the view and taking pictures with their phone. I circle closer and when the sun shines through it’s like I’m the only one there, the white marble mausoleum outshining the rest of the world. To see it here feels like finding a lost memory, not a discovery. I can’t stop smiling.

There are hundreds of birds, both big and small, flying and chirping in the sky when a torn flower drops by my side. I look up and there’s a monkey eating another apple-sized pink flower high up in the tree. It’s not just monkeys; people act weird too, obsessed with getting the best picture in extreme poses induced by the local photographers and tour guides going the extra-mile. It’s hard to act normal in a place like this.

I’m back the next morning, queuing at 6AM. Monkeys go around doing monkey things but I spot a mosquito landing in a leg below beige cargo shorts. The more I look the more I see mosquitos feasting on arms and necks thriving on lovesick tourists’ blood. I forgot my bug spray. As I’m back inside, the quiet bluish silver morning is nothing like the moving golden orange tones of yesterday. I’m distracted by tourists dressed in traditional costumes posing like a Bollywood poster. For each woman there’s a group of 3 or 4 guys somewhere zooming in and taking pictures. They giggle and smirk, very proud of going unnoticed. I wonder how many pictures go around in WhatsApp groups and what this place would’ve been like in the 1800s free of all this.

I walk the site for hours and touch the white stone one last time before leaving.

I’m spending the afternoon in my hotel’s pool under the shade of trees that remind me of the loquat tree in my parent's garden. I’d spend the sunny weekends climbing it, trying to go higher and higher until the branches were too weak to support my weight. Over several seasons I learned to pick the fruit at the right shade of orange and brown for maximum sweetness. I’d pick and eat directly from the tree, spitting the silky-chunky pits to the ground – like the monkeys in Agra. I saw it grow, get sick and die and it became a natural symbol of time passing by. As I lay here, the sun reflecting off the water onto these so familiar leaves, I remember my parents and I smile. It’s like loquat trees are a Taj Mahal in memory of my parents and a time I didn’t think of them but they were there. Now it’s the other way around.

Leave a comment

When I travel, I tell myself I’m not a basic tourist. I seek the narrow streets, the quiet corners for a glimpse of everyday life. I’m walking one of those narrow streets when I hear “Camera, camera!”. Two guys recording a video on their phone look at me and point at my DJI.

“What’s that camera?” they ask as they come over.

I explain. They don’t hide their amazement with their eyes a few inches away from my handheld camera until one tells me “I’m also an influencer!”

“Oh, I’m not an influencer, I’m just making videos to share with my family and friends.” I confess.

“Oh…” His eyes move from the camera to myself before looking away already making plans for whatever’s next.

“Watch out for the monkeys” he adds before putting on his fake Calvin Klein sunglasses, walking away to pose next to a TATA Nexon - his friend recording a new Reel.

As I’m walking away, I hear something abruptly landing on a motorbike to my right. I feel a precise swoosh near my ear, my glasses gone in the blink of an eye. While my nose still feels the ghost of my eyewear, the world blurs into 2.75 myopia. I spot a monkey climbing a water pipe to the roof of a one-story house. When he’s there he casually crouches holding my glasses for everyone to see. As I turn around there’s a handful of people waving bills, shouting “frutti, frutti” and pointing to the nearby convenience store. I look at the monkey while his hands move around his mouth. I can hear him chewing on the tortoiseshell. I run to the store and explain what just happened. He doesn’t understand a single word I say. “Frutti! Monkey!” His eyes open wide before he disappears behind the counter coming back with a yellow pack of tutti-frutti juice for whatever money I hand over to him.

I go outside and there’s twice as many people as before and an uncle wearing a bright yellow long shirt waiting for me. He waves his right hand asking me to hand him the juice pack and leads me back to where the monkey is – which is right in front of the convenience store. The man shouts something in Hindi and shakes the juice in the air, arm raised. Shakes and shakes. Nothing... He then starts to throw the pack in the air away from the monkey. The monkey recognizes the effort and goes on to bend the glasses a bit more and licks the screws and the hinges with passion. When we finally throw the juice, the monkey simply puts the glasses by his side quickly drinks the juice before picking up my glasses again. Everyone’s laughing. Three students pass by and as I explain one of them runs to the store and gets a new frutti pack. He’s a hero just like Kitboga. In a languageless negotiation, my new human friend waves the juice to my new arch animal enemy. He can’t be bothered; it’s not his first time negotiating while holding all the cards. The monkey snatches the juice and keeps the glasses. An older gentleman with a long beard isn’t happy we gave him a second juice and says “you have to go up there and get it if you want the glasses back” in Hindi. That’s when my new human friend steps on the parked motorbike seat up the building into the roof. When he gets there the monkey finally runs away and I see my friend raising his arm in victory. When he throws the specs down to me, I’m not able to catch them because I’m not wearing them. They land on the dusty ground. I thank him so many times and we chat. I offer them money which they don’t accept and we just take a selfie.

On the way to Govind Dev Ji temple, I see monkeys holding caps and phones and frutti juice packs. I’m still recovering from the incident, my glasses in my pocket because I’m not wearing no monkey-saliva-on-chewed-up-scratchy-glasses. I spot a family of five monkeys wandering the temple, two adults and three smaller ones. I put away everything I own and go the long way around them. People leave their shoes outside the temple and so do I, barefoot at last. I can’t see the faces of people or much detail except for the precise shafts of light coming through the large window frames. I feel the cool 16th century old red grainy sandstone under my feet as I walk to see and touch the intricate carvings and the texture of the walls. A big group starts to chant, the echo filling the high-ceilinged hall. I can’t really see much so I just close my eyes. It’s beautiful.

I was pleased to see that my shoes were still outside. I don’t doubt the people of Vrindavan but I wonder if the monkeys are in the shoe business too.

On the way back I see more sugar-addict monkeys holding other tourists’ caps, bucket hats, sunglasses and even a cell phone but mostly tutti-frutti yellow juice packs. I’m no better than any of them, monkey or human. This is a place where monkeys evolved to cooperate with convenience store owners to take advantage of over-accessorized people visiting their land. We take what’s theirs, they take what’s mine.

After a full day of flights and cars I’m finally on my feet. It’s the day before Holi in Vrindavan, the land where Lord Krishna, the playful god of love, once smeared colors on Radha. In a region home to 5,500 temples dedicated to their love, I find myself navigating by instinct rather than faith, following the crowd.

As soon as I get to the main road, I see what looks like the aftermath of a colorful earthquake. Everyone’s covered in a thick colorful layer of dust. Yellows and blues and reds and whites. And why are there people missing their shoes? Lots of people actually, which makes no sense because the pavement is full of dust, dirt and trash. Maybe they want to save their shoes from this mess. I get a visceral recoil at the thought of bare skin meeting the grey sludge but the thought is interrupted by a splash of white powder against the back of my head. I turn back to a group of guys laughing and waving and one of them — fully covered in white paint except his sunglasses — is ready for round two, his arms inside the plastic bag full of powder again. I smile back feeling initiated. People talk to me in Hindi and one even thinks I’m from “Delhi?”. It’s the same as in the Middle East — I belong but for the fact that I don’t speak the language.

I notice a white dust cloud rising ahead right in front of a temple’s pristine big arch entryway. I walk towards it and join hundreds playing rainbow dodgeball. I pass by a teenager doing a Lebron James routine throwing purple paint in the air and as it rains down, I notice the particles are faster and heavier than I would expect, landing in my hair. The gathering happens in front of the temple, in the middle of a large road large enough to be divided by a small wall and fenced to keep people from crossing it. No fence can hold this celebration. The closer I get the more powder is thrown at me, my white t-shirt now a tinted Jackson Pollock canvas. I look for higher ground to have a better view of this spectacle and see two young kids picking up the dusty remains from the ground and throwing that back to people. I immediately avoid inhaling imagining that dirt in my nose and lungs. I keep going aiming towards Shri Banke Bihari Temple. I come across a series of wooden stalls piled up with vibrant colorful powder in big industrial plastic bags as if it’s shredded fruit loops. Even sacred white cows have been targeted and tarnished by revelers and they now walk the streets with splashes of color alongside the moving rickshaws, working in unison to keep dust particles in the air.

Subscribe now

I turn left into a narrow street, divided by steel barricades, almost cattle like — one going forward and one coming back. I move shoulder to shoulder with people heading to the temple. I look up and there’s a sense of incompleteness to the houses. Some painted halfway, broken tiles, concrete and no windows, paint falling off. People cheerfully chant “Holi Hai!” and something I can’t understand. As we go deeper into the neighborhood the tighter it gets until it gets so crowded we’re not moving anymore.

It’s slow and tight until I can’t move my arms anymore. My head and shoulders rise above everyone else — I’m tall in India — but it’s not an advantage because I’m a standing target for people to throw paint at. The chants and steps become less frequent until they subside. People try to find space in the sidelines that lead to small shops or the entrance of houses but everything’s closed and the liquidlike crowd takes back any empty space. It’s hot and I feel the surrounding wet t-shirts and dresses in my arms. An old man places his hands in my back and pushes me forward as if I could lead us out of here any quicker. A mom with a crying baby girl and two boys barely visible below waist finds shelter under her long shawl covering them from white powder raining on top of us. Way up ahead the police use a rope to control access to the only open area. Each wave moves the mob forward and liberates 50 or so people to enter it. That area is surrounded by heavy gates and thick welded iron bars and barbed wire on top but all that doesn’t stop a young couple from climbing, trying to escape. A policeman impetuously and repeatedly hits their legs and backs with a long slim baton showing no mercy. Everyone’s watching, no one blinks or says a word. The girl makes it to the other side but the guy falls back to more slaps and is pushed until he’s out of sight. I look back realizing there’s no way back against the crush. I give in and I’m squeezed forward in the following wave that makes it to the entrance of the temple. As I’m walking up the stairs ready to enter, a guard grabs me by the shoulder and points at my shoes. Everyone’s taking their shoes off and because the entire route is one direction everyone’s forgoing their shoes by entering the temple. They even have a dedicated “cleaning crew” brooming everything into a pile of half shoes half dark brown mud. I take a few steps back and scan the scene until I spot police officers using a tiny door on a side-gate. That’s how they’re navigating this chaos. I wave at the mustached police officer with the keys and point to the door. He nods his head and opens it up for me. It’s my first day in India, I’m not ready to say goodbye to my Salomons and walk on mud the rest of the day.

As I’m going back it starts pouring and I find shelter under the canopy of a closed shop. A group of teenagers runs down the street and a girl in an immaculate pink dress lingers behind, stopping right in front of me. She opens her arms up, closes her eyes and smiles at the sky accepting the rain in ecstasy for just a few seconds. Her friend grabs her by the waist and pulls her under cover next to me. The only one wearing shoes.

Do you remember that last day of school before summer break? The anticipation of trips with friends to the beach and music festivals with camping. Lunches that turn into dinners only interrupted by elders going away for a nap. Playing hide and seek with cousins and stopping to see the sunset behind the mountains. T-shirts stained with sunscreen and salt and sweat and melted ice cream. That’s how I feel landing in Rio de Janeiro today.

Every month for the past 6 years I’ve tracked my savings and invested my money. It all led me here. 40 and a couple of days old. Retired in Brasil. It’s the first stop in a year long trip around the world and the first time I travel with no itinerary and no return date.

In the 7AM traffic from the airport I see a young couple on a motorbike. He zigzags one handed, the other busy caressing the girl’s lower leg. We too rush home. We leave our bags and head out. Stepping outside I smell exotic fruit juice and see the familiar Portuguese pavement full of smashed fruits. Gigantic fig, almond, jackfruit, avocado, mango and cannonball trees paint the sidewalks with fallen fruit and raise the cobblestones with their roots. I know the language yet I hear familiar words unshackled from all the rules and constraints.

I see a girl going topless and picking her breast up for a guy to kiss. All that under the safety of a police observation tower monitoring Ipanema’s boardwalk. The policemen didn’t even look, either unaware or accustomed.

It’s Carnaval.

People casually lock eyes and kiss, exchanging face paint and sparkles before going opposite directions, sometimes back to their partners. No words required. “I kissed 5, what about you?” asks a girl next to me when she meets her friend. We attend a few “Blocos”, neighborhood party parades. We run to a party train to be greeted by stilt walkers before they lead us 3 hours deep into unknown territory, people in the surrounding buildings throwing water at us. We dance amongst fairies and people dressed in flowers and feathers and sparkles and pink wigs and not much else. People climb bronze statues and monuments in ecstasy. A friend gets his phone stolen, chases the guy down and gets the phone back to everyone’s applause. The music is tantalizing. Saxophones and trumpets and trombones and drums. There’s this friction drum called Cuica. Friction everywhere. I’m squeeze-carried-forward feeling part of this temporary family of dancing strangers enveloped by the street vendors under the scorching sun.

It’s so hot outside we need to find shade. This time we go to Saint Sebastian Cathedral. It’s this massive pyramid, almost volcanic, made of blocked out concrete windows, one on top of another. It’s imposing and brutal and makes us silent while approaching it. We don’t speak much inside either, everyone going their own way looking for detail and privacy. I walk around for 10 minutes or an hour watching the vitrails. I take a seat and remember that my dad enjoyed churches and I wonder if he’d like this one. As I come out my eyes adjust to the light and I see my friend breaking down crying: “I had this stuck inside of me for a very long time”. I know what she means and I’m happy she left it inside. I resist the urge to go back and let Rio carry us to the beach again.

We spend so many days at the beach and this one is not much different from the others. There are two young couples in beach chairs next to us. We’ve been here for 2 hours and there hasn’t been a moment of silence, rough funk music playing on a boombox. They’re finishing a bottle of whiskey and smoking joints at the sound of the most explicit lyrics I’ve ever heard. It’s a social place not a place of rest and relaxation. There’s a new beach hawker every 30 seconds. Selling barbecue cheese on a stick, shrimps, boiled corn, empanadas, candy, crunchy airy cookies and all sorts of brownies. The highlights are the bikinis carried in large umbrella structures, filled with 200 bikini tops and bottoms, plenty more inside a bag. There’s “mate” too, Brazilian iced tea that I like to mix with lemon juice. One after the other they approach you with a relentless attitude. Some explain why they need the money sharing stories of entrepreneurship, starvation and need. A kid selling chewing gum comes over, about 10 years old, and points at my dripping body: “Is that sweat?!” he asks nauseated. It is. He makes a disapproving click with his mouth and tells me to go wash it up in the water. He tries to sell me chewing gum and I answer “No thank you but good work.” How stupid I am wishing children “good work”.

We escape up the coast for a moment and rent a house by the beach. It’s not a private beach but there’s no one here but a guy parking his bike in the sand before staring at the ocean for hours. It’s so secluded we’re in awe during the day and absolutely frightened at night.

One day we take a boat tour. We’re in a toilet-less boat with 10 other people and I’m feeling yesterday’s pineapple shrimp feast coming through. I tell Ines. She asks how far until we can use a restroom. The captain looks around at the empty waters and says “30 minutes”. 10 minutes pass by and I spot a tiny island. We’re going to stop there but I can’t hold any longer. I can’t stay still anymore. I ask how long until we make it there and he says “About 10 minutes until we’re on the other side of the island”. What’s wrong with this side of the island? I don’t have 10 minutes. I ask if I can jump and he says yes. He thinks I need to pee but no, I keep going. While I’m front crawling I reassess distances. It’ll take me longer than by boat but I don’t care. I was about to ruin the boat tour for everyone. I swim more than I ever did. I change style and technique many times because I’m tired. I’m nowhere near the beach but I keep going. There are boats and people partying so I must be close. I finally arrive only to realize there’s nothing there. It’s a slice of land, barely an island, and the only infrastructure is a guy selling juices under an umbrella. I run around and find the only secluded place covered by trees and leave something behind this beautiful island doesn’t deserve.

We travel the state by bus and see just a tiny portion of it. It’s bliss, the Brasil I’ve seen on TV growing up. Coming back to Rio I’ve now built this romantic idea about how good this life is. So bohemian and natural that it lives in me now. It made me lighter and hungrier and happier. It’s the last day and the city feels both closer and harder to read. From the beach I look at the favelas lighting up at night blurred with the starry sky and I’m brought back to reality hearing the stories behind the smiles of people. Adonias pushing cargo up the hill at 63. Fabricio doing physical work with elbow issues. Children too young to be out of school. Parents doing what they can to make ends meet. I finally understand the pain of Brazilians in Portugal, of having to leave this imperfect paradise behind to go and work abroad. We’re brothers and sisters in carrying the word “Saudade”. I need to come back.

After a year traveling the world, mostly solo, I’m flying home to New York. I actually did it. It was the most demanding challenge I ever put myself through and I’m still trying to make sense of it all. I spent half the time in euphoric discovery and the other lost in overthinking. As soon as we land my mind rushes back to an anxious “what’s next?” The same question everyone asked before I’d even left.

We spent the first 2 weeks fixing up and redesigning our apartment, not enough storage for everything we bought in Japan. I postponed any video editing or reading my travel diary until one night I had a nightmare. Someone steals my backpack, my laptop and all my hard drives. One minute I’m having fun in this dreamed up pick-up basketball game and the next I’m desperately chasing this dark silhouette trying to recover my backpack. I was devastated by the idea of losing all the video footage from my trip. Robbed of a dream inside my dream I woke up sweating — the nightmare had done its job.

I spent the last 15 years working in corporate jobs postponing a fulfilling life for financial independence and grinding through performance culture until it was too heavy and too hollow to carry. My trip was set in motion by losing my parents and a desire I could no longer contain: to live life on my own terms. The absence of work created a black hole I didn’t anticipate but it also confirmed that I won’t be happy going back to corporate. I’m not ready for retirement communities, water aerobics or pickleball either.

The next day I’m back in front of Davinci Resolve editing videos. While I go through all this footage, I’m transported back to this distant life and I smile. I wrote a lot during the year, mostly to remember. I’ve decided to share that travel diary here. It’s the story of all the places I visited and my journey toward connection. It will transport me back in time to where it all started, in Brasil.