Paranaguá, Brasil
The port of Paranaguá sent a hemispheric glow into the night sky. Within the semi-orb of light the arms of cranes stood like beings from a Star Wars scene poised to lumber away. Red and green buoys marked our way up river and into the extensive Baia. Overhead the constellations were sprinkled in a giant arc, the southern cross sitting on the horizon and Orion hunting above. The smell of bacon drifted across the deck. Bacon? At 0500 hours? Expeditions are adventures and adventures don’t always take heed of the clock. Thus we ate our breakfast long before the sun had thought of getting up.
Adventures are new experiences, whether shared or solitary. Today we exercised our options and ventured forth in two directions, inland to Curitiba and a train to higher altitudes or back toward the coast beyond Guaraqueçaba to the Reserva Natural Salto Morato. The sun shone on all and whether looking out across the mountains to the sea or across the forests to the hills, each and every one of us saw and processed scenes differently. Our journals may mention an ordered tiny town or maybe colorful boats reflected in a mirror sea. They may describe a museum and archaeological remains or a park visitor center and a slithering snake prowling along the beams. All should mention food for it played a significant role from midmorning muffins to lunch-laden tables and fresh fruit snacks. Water must be spoken of whether rivers or waterfalls, for without its prevalent presence this land would be different indeed. All of us saw, and some of us walked within the rainforest canopy.
We swayed across a swinging bridge suspended over a winding stream and stepped into the greenery of the woods. Our bodies seemed to absorb the humidity, fingers and toes swelling like the stem of a cactus. And yet moisture escaped from within gluing our hair to our foreheads under the brims of our hats. A symphony of sounds echoed round us. Black-tailed trogons disputed territorial boundaries in an auditory way. A swallow-tailed manakin, a tiny colorful chap, had a voice that rang and carried far and wide. Leaves slowly drifted to the forest floor, those of cecropia trees making a resounding crash while others settled slowly and almost silently. Water burbled over rocks in a brook and with a crescendo and roar cascaded one hundred meters to the stream below. Here we could paddle our trail-weary feet or plunge into the pools for a whole body treat. A caterpillar, ornamented with branching spines slowly worked its way across a leaf. Its spiky countenance warned fingers to stay away but drew our attention to other pointed things. The search image, once established, produced surprising results. The leaves on nearly every plant tapered to a delicate tip, all the better to direct the raindrops when they fell, to send them on their way to the forest floor below.
This was our last port of call in Brasil. We continue heading south. At home election results are already yesterday’s news but here it has just arrived. And so the evening brings a time to synthesize the day’s events together or in solitude.
The port of Paranaguá sent a hemispheric glow into the night sky. Within the semi-orb of light the arms of cranes stood like beings from a Star Wars scene poised to lumber away. Red and green buoys marked our way up river and into the extensive Baia. Overhead the constellations were sprinkled in a giant arc, the southern cross sitting on the horizon and Orion hunting above. The smell of bacon drifted across the deck. Bacon? At 0500 hours? Expeditions are adventures and adventures don’t always take heed of the clock. Thus we ate our breakfast long before the sun had thought of getting up.
Adventures are new experiences, whether shared or solitary. Today we exercised our options and ventured forth in two directions, inland to Curitiba and a train to higher altitudes or back toward the coast beyond Guaraqueçaba to the Reserva Natural Salto Morato. The sun shone on all and whether looking out across the mountains to the sea or across the forests to the hills, each and every one of us saw and processed scenes differently. Our journals may mention an ordered tiny town or maybe colorful boats reflected in a mirror sea. They may describe a museum and archaeological remains or a park visitor center and a slithering snake prowling along the beams. All should mention food for it played a significant role from midmorning muffins to lunch-laden tables and fresh fruit snacks. Water must be spoken of whether rivers or waterfalls, for without its prevalent presence this land would be different indeed. All of us saw, and some of us walked within the rainforest canopy.
We swayed across a swinging bridge suspended over a winding stream and stepped into the greenery of the woods. Our bodies seemed to absorb the humidity, fingers and toes swelling like the stem of a cactus. And yet moisture escaped from within gluing our hair to our foreheads under the brims of our hats. A symphony of sounds echoed round us. Black-tailed trogons disputed territorial boundaries in an auditory way. A swallow-tailed manakin, a tiny colorful chap, had a voice that rang and carried far and wide. Leaves slowly drifted to the forest floor, those of cecropia trees making a resounding crash while others settled slowly and almost silently. Water burbled over rocks in a brook and with a crescendo and roar cascaded one hundred meters to the stream below. Here we could paddle our trail-weary feet or plunge into the pools for a whole body treat. A caterpillar, ornamented with branching spines slowly worked its way across a leaf. Its spiky countenance warned fingers to stay away but drew our attention to other pointed things. The search image, once established, produced surprising results. The leaves on nearly every plant tapered to a delicate tip, all the better to direct the raindrops when they fell, to send them on their way to the forest floor below.
This was our last port of call in Brasil. We continue heading south. At home election results are already yesterday’s news but here it has just arrived. And so the evening brings a time to synthesize the day’s events together or in solitude.
