Tuesday, May 31, on the plane back to Sao Paulo
Going back to civilization, after one week at Pulsar festival in Minas Gerais, next to a lovely waterfall, Cachoeira Alta em Ipoema – the most peaceful festival I had so far, no intense emotions, no high waves to navigate, only calm and peaceful sailing. But first things first. I arrived in Belo Horizonte rather disappointed with how my trip was proceeding so far. Despite my better judgment informed by dismaying past experiences, I decided to couch-surf, accepting the first offer to my public request. After the first night, with my host getting piss drunk and starting to make moves on me at a concert I reluctantly accepted to attend, I switched to a hostel. The encounter with L. the Argentinean was one of the best things that happened as of late. The first time I did m. with a complete stranger and with someone who had no sexual attraction for me. In any case, although the connection was transitory (as confirmed upon my return from Pulsar to BH), I got The Sense of Connection back, the so-long yearned for and missed sense of connectedness with others, the sense of being part of the world, as something extending beyond the layer of my epidermis. I was also reminder of my awesome perceptive powers, of my abilities to see through people’s layers and emotions. On the left side of his face stood El Guerreiro / The Warrior, his individual, self-concerned ego; on the right, the El Viejo/ The Old Man. He saw my Vieja/ The Old one/ La Que Sabe on my left side and declared he was scared of her. Gooey note following: my birthday is December 20, L.’s is December 19. On the bus ticket from Itabira to Ipoema, the cashier started writing 20, then corrected and wrote 19 on top. Make what you wish with this information. Belo Horizonte indeed, I got my horizon back.
Pulsar festival – I only made very loose connections, staying rather solitary, an odd presence only dancing at the chillout stage (alone most of the times, as for Brazilians the chillout is only for relaxing and smoking pot – maconha, bec, bazeado). I think I stayed a maximum of half an hour at the main/ trance pista, sleeping all nights, waking up early, managing not to get sick in spite of the night chill, hanging out with people from the Healing Area, though internally amused by the nauseatingly phoney lovey dovey – we’re all love and light attitude of most. With two exceptions – the Bolivian brujo, el curandero – who mostly instilled fear in me, fear of the powerful forces he had encountered and scary shit he’s seen, and Thiago (yes, another Thiago that helped, by the way, I spotted once the Thiago from Zuvuya on the first day only), one of the builders of the festival, who was the most down to earth, no pretense we’re a big hippie-happy family stuff, teasing me and making fun at times, but also being present, attentive and quiet when needed. He got that I was not interested in him sexually, without me needing to explain or withdraw, and just remained warm and friendly.
The second day I took just a tiny bit of acid, which only helped me intensify the sense of connectedness, of something as coming out of the world, deeply linked with everything, accepting things as they are, as exchanges of energy ebbing and flowing. No drama, just a sense of peace and calm, of being in the present and not ruminating over the past.
On the last day Thiago offered me a nice gift –Changa/ jurema preta – which I smoked for the first time, at the top of the waterfall, seeing far into horizon – Belo Horizonte indeed. I finally understood all the psychedelic art, with thousands of layers and colours which I perceived in the leaves of the trees. I got scared of not sensing my jaw, tongue and having difficulty with swallowing so I did not keep my eyes closed much, but for the time I did, I heard the powerful hum of the nature around me, something other than the sound of the waterfall.
I was anticipating my return to Belo Horizonte, mostly to see L. again. However, he was preoccupied with a young French girl and completely ignored me (to my amusement, not of him, but of myself, of how gullible I can still be after years and years of getting a hang of how people and connections work – no, just because you did m. with someone, it does not mean you’re connected now. That was then). Period.