The letter:

Wow. Thank you so much for the Brazilian information. I only wish I had seen it before I went to Brazil. There is a helicopter company in Itajuba, MG where I worked for three weeks last February. The culture was fascinating but I made most of the mistakes you warn against in your site! Although the women were so beautiful and friendly I figured out the greeting-kiss very quickly.

I plan to go back without the business complications as soon as I can, and am more prepared for it now. It's a shame that we Americans don't value Brazilian culture enough; there are no schools in my area that teach Portuguese. I am trying to learn from cheesy computer programs, tapes, and translated poetry books. Oh well. Luckily the town I was in is a college town and at least one person in every crowd spoke enough English.

Here's a quick interesting story: When I first arrived in Brazil, there was a six hour car drive from Sao Paulo into the Brazilian Highlands where I was to work. I didn't know what to expect, but I knew I was in for some exotic living. When we reached the town I met the people I was to work with and they took me to the town square where I had my first Brazilian meal. They ordered for me saying "You like this." What was my first meal?...Chicken Mc friggin' Nuggets and fries! Without any Sauce! What a let down. Eventually I had churrasco and other native dishes that made up for it.

Anyway, Thanks again and keep up the good work. Mark A...

Mark's story:

My father dropped me off at Greenville Spartanburg airport last Saturday moments before the icestorm hit. While in line at the check-in I watched the flight numbers on the monitor start flashing one by one as they were cancelled. Then all the flights into and out of Atlanta were grounded. My trip to Brazil was off to a baldingly typical start.

Luckily all this was to be paid for by my company so I hitched a ride in a taxi to downtown G'vlle and rented a room at the Hyatt. I then sallied forth in search of an open bar. Addy's was, of course, open where I ordered seven beers and a filet mignon and prepared to wait out the storm. A few tough regulars who lived close enough to walk blustered in and we had a normal night on the town (except I didn't have to drive.) Eventually I stumbled back to my room and slept the sleep of the laid-over.

The next day delivered better weather and my rescheduled flight went off on time. The only problem was that the only seat left on the 9-hour leg from Atlanta to Sao Paulo was in COACH! What hell it must be to be poor. I felt like one of those chickens you see in the big trucks that you feel sorry for until you get to Bojangles and then somehow forget about their suffering. The woman who was seated next to me had a penchant for picking her nose. I've spent whole nights in some pretty uncomfortable situations (coyote evenings), but this one was in the top five. Fortunately this was the last unpleasantness of the whole trip.

The plane flew into Sao Paulo just after sunrise. This is the second largest city in the world, containing 16 million people. No description of the city could have prepared me for its size. On final approach, I looked out the right side of the plane and saw high-rises all the way to the horizon. I looked out the left and saw more high rises bordered by shantytowns to the other horizon. You could drop Detroit on this city and two thirds of the local population would survive. My driver was waiting for me at the Customs exit and, although he spoke no English, we communicated well enough: "Toilette?" "No."

The car trip from Sao Paulo to Itajuba` was the most beautiful ride I've ever taken. This town lies about halfway between Sao Paulo and Rio in an area called the Brazilian Highlands. In half an hour we left the coastal plain and started climbing mild rolling hills dotted with cattle. Soon the hills gave way to piles of old mountains that were of a green that can only be seen here during that one week in spring when everything starts to live and you gamble on wearing shorts out at night. The roads there seem as old as the mountainous scars that have been there since Pangea split. I swear I saw a mountain that looked just like Table Rock except it was stuck up on top of about three other mountains. The size, age and majesty of this area were the first things to make me feel truly insignificant since public education.

The few scattered towns we passed through did look like the third world, although everyone seemed gainfully employed, most of them being farmers. The long spaces between towns had police stations and bus stops at the roadsides at regular intervals. Apparently, if one can get to a public road in Brazil it is possible to get anywhere in the country. If we had their system, the Darling family could tromp out of the woods and get right on a Greyhound and wouldn't be limited to Mayberry; they could go to Arkansas and Charlene could court a Sheriff there, or Utah.

In about three hours we arrived in Itajuba`. It is a rather large town for that area. It's hard to describe its size. My hotel was atop a steep hill at the edge of town and looking out from the front I could see the whole town. It is nestled in a large valley in the upper regions of the Highlands. It is a beautiful quaint city framed by tall green mountains on all sides. Safe and well lit, the streets wind crazily through town and are all cobblestones. There is almost no litter and no shabby looking junk lying around (like in Piedmont). A quick red stream feeds a brown laconic river that winds between the streets and cools the shoppers when its breeze crosses the bridges. Bicyclists and pedestrians outnumber the cars. The town is so small and closely-knit car drivers stop to pick up anyone they know and convey them to their destination, even if it's out of the way.

The people are very friendly and helpful. The only time I had any trouble with people was my first meal there in the town center when the waiter tried to screw me out of 5 Reals (about 4 dollars). At least four people at the company I was working for spoke English. They and the other English speakers wanted to spend time with me to help hone their verbal skills (they could not pronounce "trout" and thought that "bubble wrap" was the funniest thing they had ever heard). Itajuba is a college town, which accounts for the fact that I saw hundreds of educated, beautiful, young people there.

The operation, Helibras, has about 200 employees and three bases: Itajuba, Rio and Sao Paulo. All of the employees seemed competent at first and only the workers in shipping really were dumb enough to inconvenience me. It's like I never left home. The work went smoothly until I ran out of parts and had to return home to wait for Customs clearance. I then returned to Brazil to finish the job.

During my second stay I became acquainted to rural Brazil's nightlife. Ismael, a process engineer and English teacher, offered to take me out Thursday night. He and his wife took me to a restaurant, which served a Brazilian staple: churrasco, or barbecue. Every home, restaurant and soccer field outhouse has an open pit for a wood fire over which large, skewered chunks of beef are roasted after having been seasoned with only rock salt. As the meat cooks, the outer portions are sliced off and consumed while the rest is returned to the fire for continued cooking. The most popular beers there are of German lineage, My favorite being Bavaria. After eating we went to the town square to socialize. Even at eleven p.m. entire families were still out talking, walking, and enjoying the warm evening. Ismael introduced me to several people, most of whom were former English students of his. The most stunning of which, Andrea (if you can believe it, Andi) immediately asked me out for the next night in her broken saucy English. In fact, almost every woman I met hit on me (I would have applied for citizenship simply because their women have better taste than Americans until I discovered that there are 21 STD clinics for every one Ob-Gyn).

We later went to a dance club (yes I went to a dance club) called Galpao, which is pronounced gow-pow and means "shack." It is like the Gargoyle club here in Greenville except it is clean, has better music, and is louder. Ismael's wife was determined to find me a date. Believe it or not, she was shocked and confused that I am single. She said "You so beautiful. Why not women like you?" I told her I have my personality to drive them off but she only gave me a dubious look. She did find me a partner, a gorgeous little mocha doll, but she spoke no English so all we did was dance and smile at one another. Thrilling!

The next night, Andrea took me out. We went to dinner with her sisters Andreanna and Allesandrea (really, their parents must have cleft tongues or something) and her two college friends Vanessa and Sylvia. Imagine me at dinner with five beautiful exotic women all vying for my attention. You think I'm normally a social retard, you should have seen me then! Only Venessa had mastered English, so I could only offend her.

I was introduced to my downfall at that dinner. The girls asked me if I had tasted caipirinha, pronounced "carp a dia." It is a fruity drink made from pinga, which is a liquor made from sugar cane, lime juice, and sugar. I offered to try it believing my prodigious American stomach could handle anything. The owner of the restaurant brought me a small amount of the pure liquor in a small glass to sample first. I, assuming they drink booze the same way we do, swallowed the "shot" immediately…and immediately regretted it! It tasted like a cross between Grappa and Everclear! huk huk! The table exploded with shocked laughter as the burning Drano seeped through me and my face turned an unhealthy vermilion. The owner called me alcoolico in a not too friendly way but eventually prepared me the mixed drink. With the lime juice and sugar added it became a dangerously tasty drink, not unlike a Margarita without the sour. But more on that later.

Saturday was to be the longest day I had had in a year (yes, even longer than this boring story). Andrea was having a Barbecue at her parents' house because several of her college friends were in town on a pre-Carnival vacation. A barbecue to them is really just a party. When I arrived at about 3 PM about four dozen people were at the large house in the courtyard where a covered kitchen and fire pit were. Loud local music blared from a stereo and groups of people talked or played cards or just milled about. Several people helped tend the meat and sausages on the fire. Once it was discovered that I was American, they all took turns asking me an almost identical battery of questions. They all spoke some English and some were even proficient. All the women commented on my good looks (what's wrong with you ignorant Americans?) especially the eyes. Apparently, Brazilians think that Americans with blue or green eyes are crazy, I don't know. There were cases and cases of beer there as well as plenty of pinga. Andrea kept my glass full of caipirinha throughout the afternoon (cue ominous music here).

I didn't notice that the radio had stopped and it didn't register that a couple of the guys had wandered out to their cars and were returning with various percussion instruments. But gradually a Latin beat started and eventually a six-piece samba band started playing. It was just some of the group of friends. It seems that everyone can play a little music there and impromptu concerts are regular business. They played so tight and well I was shocked that at the end of their first song no one applauded! They didn't even stop their conversations. I guess everyone treats it as background music. Later in the evening Allesandrea and another friend (forgot her name) tried to teach me to Samba. I could only do it at half speed, but they both claimed to love me afterward. At about 9pm the party started fizzling out and I became a little disappointed because I would normally keep this up until midnight or so at home. Andrea explained to me that everyone would meet at a disco later. I assumed she meant soon, but it wasn't until 11:30 that we left her house. When we all met at the Bar Cultural I discovered my error. All the other guests had gone home and napped, showered and changed, while I had sat and drank the last of the booze left over from the party. They noticed I still wore the same clothes and asked if I had slowed down since they left. "You crazy American! You drink all night?!" I took this as a challenge and swore internally to shut their little bar down. This bar was made from a huge, square, one-story building with a large courtyard in the middle. In each of the four sides of the place were separate clubs; one American "rock and roll" type, one heavy dance club type, etc. For those of you who know me you'll be shocked to know that I danced almost continuously from midnight to 6 am when they finally stopped playing music. With the rising sun Andrea and company took me to a market that was opening to feed the farmers going to work and the wastrels leaving the clubs. After spewing my evening onto the side of a building I had some sort of cheese danish thing and a coke. I was conveyed to my hotel where I slept until 10am. Then a guy from Helibras, Zildo, came to take me to a lunch I had forgotten I had scheduled. He pretended not to understand "hangover" and refused to let me go back to bed. I went and ate his wife's' crappy food and returned to bed and slept till Monday morning. Then the trouble began.

I returned to work where I was waiting for parts to clear customs, again, only to discover later that they had the parts in stock there the whole time. Halfway through the day I was feeling queasy and Ismael took me to their company Doctor. While waiting in her office, I puked up all the water I had drank that day and she sent me to the hospital. I had a wonderful nurse there who took swell care of me but I still had a miserable day. I never want to be a patient again. I was claustrophobic being unable to move because of a needle/baggie thing attached to me. The only entertainment I had was watching the ants crawl in and out of the hospital's open windows and the flies buzzing around. It turned out to be a case of dehydration due to the whole winter to summer switch, a stomach virus I had been stoically ignoring, and a little too much debauchery. I returned to work the next day, finished the job that week and enjoyed a pleasant test flight through a thunderstorm. I wouldn't mind it in a plane, but a helicopter is just a big static producer. That was the only time I've ever been nervous about flying.

Before I left I had to find some pinga to bring back with me. I was pointed to a bazaar type street oriented shopping area and was directed through the back of a butcher's shop, through a beaded doorway behind a warehouse, and down mud colored corridors to find the place. Children and barnyard animals were squealing and running past my legs. I felt like I was in an Indiana Jones movie, you know, during a lull in the action when he somehow knows exactly where to find some ex-con informer that's hiding out in a dusty bar in Buda-Pesth. I found and bought the booze and returned home without incident.

Apart from my infirmity this was a very fun trip. After three weeks, it was high time to come home, but I think I will accept Allesandrea's invitation and return next year for the Carnival. I just need to take some Samba lessons first. Anyone want to study with me?