BlackNotBlack.com

A Bright White Sunrise, Part 2

What Ari wrote in his post "Finally Scored Some Shades" is true. I threatened to kill the bloke from Southampton. I don’t normally threaten people’s lives—in fact, this was the only time that I can remember doing it. But this primitive character, who looked like he probably gutted sheep for a living, took such joy in dominating a prostitute that I thought he should experience a little domination too. What I told him exactly, was to look into my eyes and tell me if he thought what I next said was a joke. Then I explained to him that he was sixty seconds from the end of his life if he didn’t apologize to the woman. I asked him if he believed me. He said, “I believe you, mate.” And he apologized.

Thinking back on it, it was inevitable that I’d try to take a stand, however futile, against this particular niche of capitalism that makes whores of us all. And as with the boy who I lectured for pissing on another boy’s face, I don’t think the Southampton bloke learned anything. I sometimes ask myself if I really would have killed him. All I can say is that I meant what I told him. And in the midst of our standoff I whispered to Doug: "Do not step in no matter what happens." But as it all unfolded, the hooligan understood what was in my eyes, and he got the hell out of there. I never saw him again.

That morning of the bright white sunrise was my last Rio encounter with the Finns too—they were flying out the next day. But my friends and I had finally discovered the Copa kiosks, and they were our home now. Each had a particular character—some were social and some were for quiet reflection; some were international and some local, some had live music, and some were just for drinking the night away. The carnival was over, and hundreds of thousands had returned home. A hurricane had passed and the sun had returned to Rio. Storefronts that had been sealed with corrugated riot doors lifted to reveal beauty salons and butcher’s shops and stationery stores. The street where we were staying in Arpoador took on a pleasant neighborhood feel—no different from a block of midtown Manhattan.

Doug and I visited Corcovado—just the two of us. It was a sunny day, and the park was crowded. Scores of tourists were taking photographs of the famous statue Cristo Redentor. I wandered around and sought a shot that didn’t look as if it came directly from a postcard. A small cloud sped across the mountaintop and I saw dozens of cameras lowered as their owners paused, waiting for the sun to return. In that brief few seconds I raised my camera and made the shot at the top of this post. I have never seen another photo of Cristo Redentor like it.

Rio changed all our lives. We learned what it truly was to immerse ourselves in another culture, to buy airline tickets on a whim and just fly away. We have since visited—together or separately—places like Reykjavik, Budapest, Dublin, Puerto Vallarta, Lisbon and many others. There have been countless adventures—Ari was once held hostage in a Budapest strip club; I once rode stormy seas smuggling two wild animals onto a tropical island. Ari and I actually did see the Finns again—six months later when we flew to Helsinki to meet them. Only a few months after that I moved to Guatemala and Ari left the United States too. But Doug’s story is probably more interesting than all ours.

Arriving as he did, days after his father's death, the trip was a chance to shed his entire bad history. He attacked Rio with an intensity that astounded me. He danced and drank with ferocity, laughed and joked like a madman, and everybody who met him loved him. He broke every rule of safety imaginable, from passing out overnight in a Rio gutter to scoring drugs from shifty street hustlers. He was invincible. He simply knew nothing bad would happen to him. After I moved to Guatemala I tried to get him to come and visit, stay for a few weeks or even months. But he could never quite manage it. And then a year later Steve passed word along to me—Doug had committed suicide.

We discussed why, and we all had opinions. I think his family drove him to it, and I think in the midst of all their negativity the invulnerability he felt in Rio was impossible to hold onto. But in the end it doesn’t matter what I think. Though god and country would have us believe otherwise, each person’s life is his or her own to do with as they wish. Only Doug knows the reasons for choosing to end his existence. But as a friend, I trusted him with my life, so it pretty much follows that I trust him with his own. I support his decision, even if I disagree with it.

There is a world in my mind where Doug still lives, and in that world, there is only one city—Rio de Janeiro. The same sun rises over and over, bright and white as burning acetylene, and "New Year's Day" is playing. The photographs I took, some of which are below, don't seem to originate from any terrestrial place, but rather from deep space. They are like fragments of interstellar static assembled to form images of events that occurred billions of years ago. And that’s how I’ll always remember Rio—as an instant in eternity, a flash from the other side of the universe, gone now save for a few shards of color so beautiful yet so weird it’s difficult to say whether they ever really existed. I guess that's how I'll remember Doug too.

Labels: brasil, brazil, copacabana, rio, travel

posted by Egan Ehlers @ 2:01 PM