photo courtesy of Diego Moreno
Icapui, Ceara, Brasil.
It's the end of the day and my cheeks are well kissed, my arms tanned and my hair tale-telling of a day in the wind. Our story has gone from a couple Word documents and library research to real faces, and dancing and homes. The theatre groups that comprise our sources have handed us a story, their chubby babies and a deeper look into this spirited town.
Our Brasilian translators are fast friends, and we've spent the day sharing meals and stories. Since Diego and Natalia are from Fortaleza, a major city, the dusty, fisherman's Icapui is new for them too, and we discover together with our notebooks and cameras and wide eyes.
I try to blend in and sometimes it's not hard because my hair and my skin could be native. But then I open my mouth and try to answer rapid Portuguese and I am suddenly, obviously American.
I wake with music playing in our hotel -- an open and sandy row of simple rooms. The Brasilians in Icapui dance like me, anytime and anywhere. They smile and hug and tell us stories because they think we should know. We should know why their fishing industry is in trouble, and what stories their mother told them in the womb, and why chicken hearts on a stick are a delicacy.
But the end of the day feels like the end of four. Boa Noite.