Carnival Brazil
Departing for Carnival in Rio de Janeiro from the frozen tundra of
North America and arriving in the super-heated mythic realm of Carnival Rio is a bit
disorienting at first. The steamy hot waves of Brazilian air are laden with an almost
tangible eros which seizes the heart and mind, sending anxiety waves through the
psycho-sexual body. The scent and journey to come is unknown to most new virginal Carnival
seekers. The urban metropolis lies cuddled right next to the famed tanga filled beaches, a
valium inducing spectacle for the first viewer, who is groping breathlessly for a taste of
that mythic Brazilian anatomical splendor. Where is that girl from Ipanema or that boy?
After a bit of acclimatization, our minds and hearts are now swirling into gladness,
having ingested the beachfront intoxicants: salt smell, some mariscada (a seafood stew of
mussels over white rice), precocious children and laughter, plugging us into that timeless
circuitry of Rio cafe nocturnal life.
In Carnival, for four days, caste is suspended and those who
spend the rest of the year in the muddy back alleys of Brazilian society own the streets.
The city erupts into Carnival balls, parties, spontaneous street marches and the samba
parade which is the main thing, where only seeing is believing.
Old Havana Carnival
Amidst the rambling decaying backdrop, the
cacophony of visual uniqueness breaks down the accustomed dimensions of experience and
possibility. Just as the whole stage is set in another time, so does the Havana experience
create a new relm of sensuous thought and actualities. The usual sociological restraints
seem to be removed here in Cuba -- As if the governmental restrictions and limits have
engineered another dimention of openness to offset the neglect and material impoverishment
-- An amplification of sexual energies; as if the whole town were saturated with the drug
ecstasy. Dream-like walks and sensuous meetings happen easily; as if in a cocoon of
protection.
You walk down the street and meet a gorgeous doe-eyed beauty. "We passionately kiss
at the fabled Naciaonal Hotel over Hemingway's favorite drink, mojitos. Such lips --
ambrosia from the heavens as late afternoon light falls." Twilight arives and the
girls keep coming. The decaying stage set is filled with a cornucopia of the lushest
actresses. Lolita lives in Havana. "Her eyelashes and jewel-like eyes took me over,
kisses laden with drug-induced potency." One leaves the previous winterized
dimensions and enters the realms of the Gods thru her lips. She stuns me with her
sexuality and skillful surrender and is in possession of the power of trance.
My mind is boggled by the sudden cornucopia of heat and lust and possibility. One must be
a phenomenal master to handle the matrix of exponentially expanding possibilities. Is this
fiction, fantasy, a dream or all? Itıs an intoxicating pleasure to float thru this sphere
constantly replaying the dance of love, as if you were cast in one fiery, fluid, sensuous
comic sex drama.
The dark sultry backstreets remind one of ancient India. The bright rich Havana light
fills the dark recesses of the muddy watered soul. Last nite, a serenade on the streets, a
lullaby of violin, conga and cowbell love, from open air bars that pull in the thirsty
walker to sing the songs of love. The heart remembers its beat and rhythm. I've breathed
the vapors of a unique essence. Little did I know the powerful brew that has been stirring
here for centuries.
Our correspondent, Michael Levine sent us this wonderful description of
fiery volcanoes and voluptuous females
Stromboli and Panarea
Jewels of the Aeolians
Who would fathom that such seemingly innocent specks on the earth's
grid, within eyesight of each other, could produce such uniquely wondrous
pleasures. From Ingrid Bergman's fearful landing on the island in the
classic 1949 movie Stromboli, to Jules Verne's return exit in Journey to
the Center of the Earth and Aeolus's residence as God and King of the
winds, Stromboli has had classic billing from the mythological past to the
cosmic present. It doesn't disappoint. A bit foreboding at first glance
with its black sand and rocky beaches, but then you look up and are
captured by the light, seemingly alive on the volcanic peak and signaling
you're in for something special. A frequent visitor told me the island
chooses you -- you don't choose the island. The unique mystery of an
unknown destination is always a test, even for the seasoned traveler. There
were stories in Rome from a friend who said you must go to Stromboli; the
smells, the flowers. The vision was planted. I was guided to a charming
cliff-side gem of a hotel called Villagio Stromboli.
A silken powerful light on the volcano's top encompassed the
island, the God's housekeeping seal of approval. A twilight walk through
the environs yielded visions of lemon trees with clusters of big fat
lemons, splendid purple wisteria, and whole trees of white, red, and pink
hibiscus. A slow, soft pulse was the rhythm of the island which has the
only active volcano in Europe and one of the most active in the world. As
you float home at night, the hum of the cicadas, the starry sky, and bursts
of night flower ambrosia are your companions. A chorus of ciao, ciao and
buono sera on dark walkways from passing strangers are a sweet song. You
can take a short hike to an observatory and over a sensational plate of
Sicilian pasta you can watch the volcano spew out red embers with the
waxing moon as a backdrop. What a sight it is, better than Old Faithful.
You know that making the full ascent is a certainty. From the observatory
you witness singing Germans float down from the top and French contingent
with hiking poles, a mini Mt. Fuji pilgrimage. I can't wait to do the whole
ascent. I met a lady from Rome who told me about Stromboli 20 years ago
when there was no electricity, and water had to be shipped in from Naples.
An Austrian lady who owned a watercraft business for many years next to the
Villagio Stromboli tells me people either love or hate the island.
Try as you might to retain your urban heritage, Stromboli reduces
you to some elemental primal beginnings. Most clothes are stripped. The
overpowering mid-day sun wets anything you try to produce as an accustomed
ensemble. A Balinese sarong for a man seems to work well, and you slowly
acclimatize. Beware as you wile away the hours consuming the potent
Strombolian wine or else you will have a head-on collision with the
rampaging lush bougainvillaea omnipresent. The intensely sun-drenched
volcanic hillsides slowly transform you into being a humble servant of an
ancient power. The Gods of fire and wind rule here. Pay respects or forever
be banished.
Stromboli is reserved for the visionaries and the humble willing to be
subservient to an ancient process. It spews out like the fiery embers,
those unwanted. The earth has certain places reserved for all seeing and
prayerful devotees. Stromboli is not a pagan stronghold. As the sun sinks,
one waits for the emergence of the cool magical lunar night light to
conduct its stellar show of matchless fireworks. No computer runs this
masterpiece theater. Aeolus and Ulysses are the masters here.
The strong vibrations of the island can open oneself up to deep
stirrings, especially enhanced with the fabled wine. One seems to be ready
for the ascent and visitation with the Sciara del Fusco, the pit of fire,
and meeting with the crater's top.
I signed up with an authorized guide for the volcano's ascent as
advised. Almost immediately the guide knows a more direct way to the
observatory, the first leg of which proves to be surprisingly arduous
ascent, just as advertised. We began at 7 p.m. with a hot sun still alive
and distant islands in view. It's a steady climb at first and then quite
steep. A French mother urges her son, who falters a bit, in her inimitable
French "Allez courage." A truly special communal event is in progress with
about 50 international travelers. It takes a full three hours to reach the
top of the crater. The hypnotically alluring big white moon kept pulling us
upwards. At the top are three different craters with intermittent displays
of red cascading explosions in the black night and a middle crater that
roared like a monstrous jet engine preparing for takeoff. I laid down on my
back on the ground and the earth's heat penetrated my inner core. At 11:30
p.m., we started the descent and said, "arriverdici." What an absolutely
unique challenging descent it turned out to be. The first 20 minutes were
like skiing down deep soft black sand. The quick way down proved to be a
novel kind of workout. We donned protective breathing masks to protect our
dainty lungs from the black sand dust. A Dutch couple had geologists lights
on the foreheads with their masks that made them look like they were about
to do micro-surgery. We were hilarious as our socks and sneakers filled up
with black sand to the intolerable point. We all stopped and everyone
de-sanded; a unique pit-stop. Little French children were real warriors in
the arduous descent. Finally, the lights of town appeared and soon friends
were sitting together imbibing sweet almond granitas, celebrating the rich
journey we had all successfully undertaken. Wonderful moonlit serenades
filled the enchanting hill-top square. As you float through Stromboli at
night, your nose is thrilled and surprised by an endless cavalcade of
wondrous infusions. Distinct volcanic emissions, like the burning wood of a
fireplace, fill one layer. Then a super cool night flower section Sirocco
African wind section appears. The experience is very similar to the layers
of the sea water that go from hot to cold depending on which section you're
swimming in. Your senses are dramatically and ecstatically awakened as you
partake of the Strombolian symphony.
There are wondrous open air pizza restaurants where little children
scamper around merrily, and girls named Valentina hover around the deft
pizza maker who throws in new wood to the sizzling fire. Italian life is
civilization long in counting with certain strut and look. You come to
enjoy the wondrous expression and pay your respects to the cumulative
masterpiece.
Panarea, a 20-minute hydrofoil ride away, has a whole other rhythm
in motion. The first moments I entered its hallowed territory, a truly
shimmering lush breathtaking light enveloped it. At first glance in August,
it looked like an outdoor Milan fashion boutique. A profusion of
sensational matching colors and barely covered voluptuous breasts were
everywhere. A literal nubile parade of rich young Italian eros ruled
Panarea. Gorgeous sarongs covered an infinite array of temptresses, one
after another, after another, as if on a great Aeolian fashion runway.
Imagine Arizona desert boulders, newly minted white-washed Mykonian houses
and blushing pink bougainvillaea, cactus, and hibiscus, and you have
Panarea. A white plume of volcanic smoke on Stromboli hovers in the
distance. It's as if the roaring craters spewed out a new carnal oasis in
the footsteps of Ulysses, a young Sardinia. New wealth is creating their
own manifestation. Throughout the day and night, Panarea looks like an
outdoor Italian supermodel lingerie convention to befuddle mortal mind. An
epidemic of mythic beauties mushrooms at all angles of sight, enough to
cause angst or potential heart attack situations for the more vulnerable to
this type of onslaught. Italian exhibitionist eros is something to behold.
You must adjust your sensory frequencies or the box will overload. There's
a wonderful multi-level disco complex with a rooftop lunar seaside
candlelight dining scene. It feels like entering a mysterious white
spaceship. It is certainly one of the best disco complexes in Europe. At
4-5 a.m., hot fresh croissants await to be consumed on the beach front. A
local jewelry seller says many men can't handle the visual erotic scene and
start drinking and ruin their vacation. There's sensational food at the
Hycesial Hotel and Restaurant; baked mozzarella, smoked antipasto, stuffed
brochette swordfish, black ink squid pasta, and grilled calamari. A
beautiful girl from Rome tells me the upper class comes to Panareo, but she
was certainly in her own class. It seems as if the girls have to pass a
breast examination on the mainland before they're allowed to enter the
sacred runways of the island. An endless invasion of anatomical splendor
arrives by ship and hydrofoil, a true peacetime assault of lithe nubile
youth ready for the social wars of Panarea. The daytime party scene is a
commingling of an armada of spectacular boats, patrolled by dancing
goddesses.
You walk out at night with the handful of delicious jasmine flowers
that you just picked with one of the lovely ladies in mind that you met and
hope she will offer you a dance of love on a magical night. You take your
chances, but you know you fought a brave battle in these remarkable places.
------
Michael Levine lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts when he's not traveling to
sensational islands with beautiful babes. You can contact him through
Inspired Planet.
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