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Foremost among the many important doctrines preached by the Peace Corps training staff was the necessity to respect host national values and it was reiterated and pounded into our young , idealistic minds that we volunteers were to never insult or refuse the hospitality offered by our hosts. To me this made perfect sense, my mother and father taught their nine children the very same principals—it’s basic good manners.
For the first year in Brazil I had numerous “novel experiences” of exotic tastes in foods whose origin was an enigma –but the locals were eating it, and so did I. And the theory bore fruit; I was welcomed into an extended family of Brazilians that taught me nuances of the language (there are twenty four mangoes—the hairpin curve, the fruit, the reprimand, the etc, etc.) . I felt comfortable in the Nordeste before I could really communicate in the tongue.
One Friday night in Fortaleza, after the most of the party had cleared out, I was sitting in a cachacaesque fog contemplating the full moon and the glowing white caps intersperse between the jangadas scattered above the high water mark on the beach. Solitary figures walked the beach; occasional couples could be seen embracing in the tropical night and here and there small groups were gathered in circles singing, laughing and talking story.
I was drawn into one such group by my companeira de la noite who was too lovely to refuse. We were immediately on the receiving end of a small corn cob pipe oozing sweet smoke. My hostess winked at me and inhaled the aromatic cloud, rolled her eyes and then closed them, leaned over toward me, smiled and whispered , “Pipa de Paz’ --Peace Pipe. A mild roll of laughter went through the gathering as I took the pipa in hand. Being the only non-local and an Americano to boot , I was the focus of all eyes. My Peace Corps indoctrination came back to me—how could a Voluntario de Paz refuse a gesture of Peace ? There was only merriment in the air. I was duty bound to carry on as my host nationals invited. So I took my turn inhaling the thick aromatic smoke from the “Pipa de Paz”, although I had totally quit smoking when my wife had thrown in the towel and returned to America some few months previous. The smoke was smooth and pungent but seemed to have no effect on my slightly booze besotted head. Joking and laughter resumed and the pipa de paz made the rounds again and again. Some confusion arose when it wasn’t clear in which direction the pipe was moving. Time too joined in the confusion and minutes seemed eternal, but the humor and
comradely was a constant.
Then there was a lull, a total silence in which we could hear the waves finger the shore. As I looked at my companeira one of the young men jumped into the middle of the circle and seemed possessed or taken by a seizure as he made weird slightly familiar sounds and began moving about with exaggerated hand and leg thrusts. Now the hilarity became boundless; a few fell to the sand in helplessness of laughter. The contagion was complete, all were bent over seemingly out of control. My companeira, fully convulsed herself, leaned over and told me that the fellow stage center was imitating an Americano in speech and manner. I thought the lampoon excellent and tried to say something to complement the comic, but the situation flew totally out of control; the laughter grew louder and had spread beyond our little circle and others in the vicinity were drawn toward us.
My companion, having far more experience and wisdom in these matters than I, gently took my hand and led me off beyond the lighthouse into the darkness of the soft, warm night.
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