Alagado

I awoke to the sound of rain beating down on the tin roof of my hut in trench-town. Water was seeping through the cracks in the floor and I knew that I had better head for land quick. It wasn’t the rainy season and I had been told that during this time of year the water wouldn’t rise up past the stilts. I had not recovered from the night before and I was not fully aware of my surroundings. In a drunken haze, I had carelessly left my ratty blue jeans on the floor of my alagado the night before. An alagado was the local term for a shabby hut fabricated by left over bits of wood and aluminum that was built over the water on wooden stilts. My blue jeans were soaked with the nasty water but I did not particularly care. With great effort I managed to pull a pair of jeans that were two sizes too small over my hips. After holding my undernourished belly in as tightly as possible, I was able to clasp the button. Thankfully, the water had not risen above my boots and I had fallen asleep with my socks on, or I would have been forced to walk around with soggy feet. After lacing up my boots I grabbed my pack, my lighter, and the giant plastic baggie of grass from the banana crate I used as a nightstand. Weed was legal or unregulated anyways and thank God for that because my life had gone to shit and smoking the ganja was the only thing could make me complacent about my fate.

I was the only white man living in trench town which can be a dangerous proposition, but I was paid up with the right people. After my parents passed away, I felt the need to go as far away from home as possible and try to forget my own rotten existence. I wanted to self destruct. But rather than rotting away at home as I had been doing, I decided that I would much prefer to die somewhere exotic. And that was what led me to Brazil. I had been there once before on a missions trip but my accommodations had been much more luxurious on the previous trip. I probably could have lived somewhere nicer, but I also wanted to live someplace dangerous. Shanty-town was ideal. I paid more for my life than my rent.

As I stepped out into the torrential rain, I looked down at the inch of water in which I was now walking in. It was the color of shit and in all likelihood it was shit. Normally I would have sparked up my pipe before leaving but I didn’t want to take any chances with the rising water. The stilts holding up the alagado were a conglomeration of whatever wood that could be found. The whole thing was held together by rusty second-rate nails. As it was, the boardwalk as I liked to call the planked walkway leading to shore was swaying in the water. The residents of the trench-town referred to their community as the Alagados named obviously after their dwellings. The place reminded me a bit of a rundown version of the town of Dale in JRR Tolkien’s The Hobbit. I do think that old JRR would have liked Brazil. Everything was green and the machinery, while present, was not completely dominant unless you were travelling in a big city like São Paulo or Belo Horizonte.

With no place to spark up I decided to head for town.

(ongoing)