Exotic, Hazy Bliss

“Excuse me, sir. Would you like another?” I jolt out of a midday siesta to startlingly gaze upon a casually-dressed server pointing to an opaque plastic cup perched beside me on a small, weather-worn table. I mindlessly stare at the vessel, the melted ice having formed a pool of warm water and floating, mashed fruit. In half-Portuguese, half-gibberish, I respond in the positive, reinforcing my craving for a second tasty treat with an ecstatic grin. The waiter acknowledges with a thumbs-up and vanishes before the next wave crashes along the grainy, white Brazilian shoreline.

I’m left to the familiar sounds and smells of tropical paradise. Transparent, turquoise waves lap against the soft, course shore as palm trees rustle from a steady, refreshing breeze. Soul-gripping reggae music whispers in the distance as serendipitous calls of rogue seagulls lay the perfect soundtrack to a beach-bound day. Each deep breath brings a waft of sea salt with the occasional smoky, tantalizing aroma of grilling seafood from nearby restaurants and beach huts.

I drift in and out of consciousness, my mind and body set on chill mode. No laptops, no cell phone, no digital gadgets to consume my attention. Complete detachment from the grid and life in general. No responsibilities other than those dictated by the inadvertent events of the day. Only peace and serenity.

Staring into the frothy sea, I’ve come to fall for Bombinhas – a small, communal beach town residing on a peninsula jutting out from the Brazilian mainland into the South Atlantic. Blanketed with breathtaking mountains and thick, green tropical plant life of all varieties, the area is inhabited by a quiet, indigenous community. The shore is nothing short than exotic. A crescent-shape coastline of soft, white sand tipped at either end by stock piles of mammoth boulders forming knee-deep, natural lagoons littered with tiny, curious aquatic life. The brilliant sun glistens off the water like millions of sparkling diamonds.

During the day, the town is subtle and quiet in every form and lifestyle. The town’s main drag a blend of tourist shops, restaurants, hole-in-the-wall beach shacks intermixed with residential homes and businesses. As the sun gradually dips slowly behind the forest green peaks to the West, the dormant Brazilian culture, hibernating from the summer heat, awakens in full force. Beach bars become disco balls of dazzling lights, illuminating the sands with florescent colors like a Pink Floyd concert. The street and beach swarm with hosts of intriguing and blissful faces. Wandering street dogs trot among the crowds in search of a free meal or gentle company. Beneath a veil of stars, the world becomes steamy, enticing, alive. A fever dream of seductive lights and pulsating music you eventually succumb to and join. Yes, curiosity has killed the cat.

My attention returns to the plastic cup practically melting on the small table, its former contents the cause of my drifting bliss. My dormant senses snap to heightened awareness when I spot someone and something in the distance. The ever-reliable waiter rushing in my direction with my all-day companion resting on his tray. He deftly maneuvers around throngs of sunbathers like a fighter pilot in the middle of an intense dog fight. One ill-timed change of direction, one misguided instinct or decision and kaboom! Utter tragedy. He arrives. Crisis is averted. He gingerly passes me the now all-too-familiar concoction as if handling a priceless treasure. No spill, not once ounce. A man of great talent no doubt given the number of incalculable circumstances a waiter must respond to on a beach.

I cup the chilled drink with both hands, hiding it contents from prowling eyes which might be watching, scheming, waiting for the opportunity to hijack my prized possession. “Mine. All mine,” I discreetly whisper. I’ve mutated into Gollum.

I gladly pay the young steward for the divine brew and his unwavering dedication to his trade. Before disappearing into a sea of beach umbrellas and tanning oil, I catch his eyes and lock on. I sip the Brazilian potion and do nothing other than simply raise the drink in the air and nod in approval. He nods and with a flip of his notepad, scribbles a note and vanishes again.

A vanilla haze of pulverized lime, ice chips and other potent potables form a whirl pool as the ingredients are stirred in increasing momentum. Cold, condense sweat beads inch their way down the exterior hull of the cup. I raise the beverage to my lips and sip. A burst of frigid, sugary sweetness and lime tartness coats my taste buds. The flavor is undeniably addicting. Much like its margarita neighbor to the north, this drink takes its ingredients to epic and obnoxious proportions. By far, not the healthiest of drinks but did I care? Not in the least.

Moments later, I’m back to my blithe merriment, listening to Portuguese reggae, singing my own lyrics while sipping away nonchalantly. Today was going to be a good day.

This is one of the pure pleasures of traveling – overloading your senses with smells, sounds and tastes utterly void in your life. A no-holds approach to cultural assimilation. If you’re going to dive into something, you might as well do it with both feet. And do it often, for rarely do we have such an opportunity to experience the unfamiliar, the bizarre and the wonderful.

Traveling allows us to experience the world from a different filter, from one we don’t already know. And yet, when we travel, we often find commonalities across all cultures, people and lifestyles. Commonalities that serve as a reset button for us to regain direction as we navigate an ocean of sensory overload. A “breather” to enable us to dive back into cultures not of our own.

Decompressing along the coastal beach of Bombinhas, you’d never think you were in Brazil. The picturesque scene could have easily been mistaken for any subtropical beach. But when it comes to the beach, you can always count on a few familiar things: great food, happy people, perfect weather, a disarming atmosphere and a tasty, cold beverage in hand. It all blurs together figuratively and literally.

Visiting Brazil, I’ve come to embrace the country’s national drink: caipirinha (pronounced kai-pur-een-ya). In its purest form, a caipirinha is deceptively simple: fresh lime, natural sugar, ice and cachaca (pronounced ka-sha-sa). Travel anywhere in Brazil and you’ll find some variation of this drink. Cachaca is the national spirit of Brazil and is the key ingredient to any caipirinha. It’s made from 100% fresh sugar cane juice and let me tell you, straight up, it’s jet fuel. It’s moonshine of the Southern hemisphere. Comparable to a Chuck Norris roundhouse, cachaca packs an explosive kick which probably explains the ungodly load of sweet and tart needed to mask the potency.

The caipirinha is a seemingly innocent cocktail on the surface, but in reality, a depth charge of taste and punch, reflective of Brazilian culture which comes at you full force. Like a Venus fly trap, sweet, enticing, pretty and then – wham! No escape! You’re in the caipirinha’s grips. Nothing else to do but submit to the will of the cachaça influence.

There are countless stories floating about the origins of Brazil’s flagship cocktail. The most popular and most accepted being that the beverage originated from an ancient recipe made with lemon, garlic and honey to combat the Spanish flu. Alcohol was added to expedite the therapeutic effects until one day, someone decided to skip the honey and garlic, add tons of sugar and take things to a whole new level.

So how does one make one of these deceptively, powerful concoctions? Easy. To make the standard caipirinha, follow the recipe below. You can pick up cachaca at most state stores.

1. Cut a lime into miniature wedges. If feeling adventurous, add in other fruit. Place wedges in a drinking glass you can mash ingredients in.
2. Add two heaping tablespoons of sugar (yes two!) with the lime wedges.
3. Mash ingredients together.
4. Add ice and pour in 1-2 ounces of cachaca.
5. Shake vigorously.
6. Consume with eagerness.

— Kevin Thurwanger