Woes on a flight over the Amazon

I’ve never hated 4 a.m. as much as I did today.

It’s not the painstaking time of day. It’s not fumbling through my things to find where I hid my passport. It’s leaving Icapuí.

The same potholes that haunted me my first night, cooed me to sleep on my four-hour taxi journey back to the Fortaleza airport. Portuguese “hellos” and “thank yous” now roll off my tongue.

Sitting on TAM’s 5C, sipping my last guarana and ogling my photos, I ruminate first experiences and first meetings that have since morphed into life lessons and everlasting memories.

It’s hard to forget the little faces and little shoes; the sheets that double as blankets in the brutal heat; the mototaxis threatening to send you flying. Plastic Havaianas will never look or feel the same. Naps in bed will be passé; only hammocks will do.

Strangers I met seven days ago are like family – goodbyes are dreaded and heartbreaking. Pasa Tempo chocolate cookie morsels still linger on the back of my molars. My fingers still smell like churrasco from last night’s feast.

We go abroad to learn other cultures – to appreciate them and to understand them. Somehow, by the end of this adventure, I have learned more about myself. Even when my skin disagrees, I can blend in. I can see poverty and despair, yet rejoice in its happiness. I can throw a “thumbs up” and be everyone’s friend.

Pity is for the ignorant – those who think that money is life and civilization must be modernized. With a few tree trunks and smiles brighter than the sun, communities such as Icapuí tug on the strings of the heart, swearing to leave a tattoo forever.