The Sun grins a neglected rotten tooth smile, nonetheless proudly displayed and adored. The men congregate, presumably to work, thought at this time of year on this side of the equator, appeasing the ultraviolet halitosis of our flaming celestial Cheshire Cat takes priority to any task at hand. Our congregation (and the entire population of Brazil) seems to have developed a simple system of success for maintaining some semblence of sanity in such a severe climate: 1) expose as much skin as possible (this includes elbows, thighs, neck napes, pregnant navels and the little piggy who went wee-wee-wee all the way home), and 2) take frequent - if neccessary, permanent - breaks from whatever it is you are cooking, selling, sewing, digging, sweeping, saying, screwing, whatever.

In the case of our obedient aforementioned gathering: building. A half built wall, one of many across the thick tropical jungle side (like countryside but with a lot less soybeans and a lot more cocos), yes, another half built wall lies before the middle aged, half clothed crowd. The stack of bricks on the ground are the color of oven roasted persimmons, dry as Phoenix sidewalks, and I can't help but wonder if this epidemic of unfinished walls is not an expression of poverty or short attention span, but in reality, unconscious altars to an unrecognized god whose power urges life to remain incomplete...ever in progress.

As our bus speeds down yet another expanse of `ever-progressing` road, sending my back seat cranium through the ceiling, I see stars and a little boy trotting away from said group of liesurely men (how magically writing and a good noggin knock can transform a fleeting moment into a profound experience). I wonder if the shoeless 14 year old will choose to hitch hike this forever bumpy road, and if a car stops, will he actually get inside or would his hitching digit prove yet another jesture of jest, another postponed project, another act of symbolism honoring the Sun god who insists on doing Ever Less.

I wonder also if he were to loose his bare footing, entertain me with a display of physical comedy and fall into the dirt, would his sweaty body, standing up give off the luminessence of South American red, like a pumpkin chalk angel, like everything I see here that has not been devoured by the jungle, glowing orange like the buildersī half stacked bricks, like the terra cotta Jesus at every other road side stand, like the tiles on my modest hotel roofs, like the soil bursting with coco palms, indeed, like the little boy's skin itself. No, he already glows with the orange of a fiery culture. He keeps trotting, the Sun keeps grinning, my bus keeps bumping and I keep seeing red.

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