The story of the French convict Henri
Charrière, better known as ‘Papillion’, is an exciting tale (which, although
meant to be true, is apparently largely invented by Charrière himself) of
survival and eventual escape from the infamous Devil’s Island. The film version
of his autobiography starring Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman is definitely one
of my favourites. It was only whilst planning my travel through the Guianas a
few months ago that I realised that the former penal colony on the Îles
du Salut (the ‘Islands of Salvation’ in English), which Devil’s
Island forms part of, is located off the coast in French Guiana. Visiting these
islands became the one main thing I wanted to do when backpacking across the last
European colony in South America.
I was fully aware whilst crossing the Maroni
(Marowijne)
River by ferryboat from Suriname to French Guiana (which the French themselves
call ‘Guyane’) that I had to find ways of cutting my costs during this part of the
travel. Transport is expensive and the cost of accommodation ridiculously high
– especially in Cayenne, the capital of this French overseas territory. My
first cunning plan to cut costs was to try to find a car ride from one of the
other passengers on the ferry: in order to get from the French immigration
office in St. Laurent du Moroni to the town of Kourou. There were two things of
interest for me in Kourou: hopping onto a boat heading to the Îles
du Salut and visiting the Guiana Space Centre which is a few
kilometres outside the town.
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| Arriving in St. Laurent du Maroni |
Whilst waiting in the queue at the
immigration office on the Surinamese side of the river, I had started chatting
to a Dutch man who was part of a golfing delegation. His team of Surinamese
golfers were heading to Kourou in a few large cars in order to challenge a team
from French Guiana. “Bingo!” I thought. “I just got my first ride”.
The golfer I befriended talked to me
about his childhood, spent between the Netherlands and Suriname (he has dual
nationality). He used to spend much time in the Surinamese border town of
Albina as a child and, at times, his dad would take him by boat to the other
side of the river to visit the former penal colonies there. He mentioned that
the French also kept persons affected with leprosy on a small island in the middle
of the Maroni River. So much for their human rights! I was tempted to remain in
St. Laurent for the night but was aware that I’d get my fair share of
historical prisons at the Îles du Salut
so I might as well press forward and reach my targeted destination. Moreover, I
didn’t want to lose out on the chance to get a free ride with the golfers.
Whilst on the ferryboat, I really tried my best to charm the guys with tales
from my travels and thought that the lift was a sure win.
Immigration formalities on the French
side of the river were straight forward. They stamped the entrance on my
passport and welcomed me to the territory. It was strange to switch to the
French language all of a sudden and see the French flag flying at the port.
When I got to the cars of the golfers, I got a nasty surprise. All vans were
full and nobody was willing to shift their belongings by an inch to make space
for a hitchhiker. It seemed particularly easy to make space in one of the cars
but the golfer’s obviously rich wife could not be bothered to lift a finger, or
allow me to lift a finger. “Can’t you
see there’s no space?” she asked with an arrogant tone. All I could see were a
couple of suitcases that I could have easily shifted to a different position
before hopping into the car. I obviously didn’t argue with her – so here went
my first lift. I tried to hitch a ride with some other cars but none stopped.
It dawned on me that I may have to simply catch public transport on this part
of the route. Vans take you from St. Laurent to Cayenne for 40 Euros but can
drop you off at Kourou for 25 Euros. I eventually heard that my friends, Debbie
and James, fared better with hitchhiking on this part of the route. Not only
did they get a ride, but the friendly persons who picked them up actually
invited them for food at their home! So hitchhiking is a feasible option here.
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| The French flag flying proudly |
It was already past midday and I
wanted to, at least, save myself the cost of sleeping in a hotel that night.
The most expensive thing about travelling through French Guiana is
accommodation in the cities. When looking around online, the cheapest
accommodation I could find in Kourou and Cayenne was approximately 55 Euros for
a single room. In rural areas, you can generally sleep on hammocks for a cheap
price. At this point, I faced the option of trying to hitchhike and arriving
late to Kourou, thus risking the need of a hotel, or catching the van and having
enough time to find a spot to camp for free before darkness falls. I had been
told that Kourou isn’t the safest place on earth, so stumbling around town
after dark for a place to camp was not something I wanted to put myself
through. After a few more failed attempts to hitch a ride from passing cars, I
asked around for the van in my rusty French and eventually found it with the
help of a bearded Chilean backpacker. I paid 25 Euros (feeling the sting of
hitchhiking defeat) and was eventually dropped off in Kourou a couple of hours
later.
As we approached the town, I was
eagerly looking for a natural spot to camp in or at least sleep outside in my
sleeping bag, away from prying eyes. Nevertheless, the best fields were too far
from the town centre to be practicable options since the town is quite spread
out. I eventually hopped off close to a sign that pointed to a departure point
for boats heading to the Îles du Salut.
I reckoned that I could sleep in that area and then try to get on a boat early
the following morning. The main issue to keep in mind about picking a spot to
sleep in the rough (especially in an urban area) is safety. I’ve been doing
this kind of thing for the past 18 years or so and the main factor I always
consider when picking my spot is: no one must see me and no one must stumble
over me by coincidence whilst I’m asleep. Though I do tend to sleep with one
eye open in such circumstances, you can never be too sure that you won’t get
surprised by someone who creeps up on you as you sleep. But if no one knows
you’re there in the first place, cannot see you, and you’re in a place where
people are not going to be crossing through during the night, then you’ll be
fine.
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| Looking for a spot to sleep near the pier |
It is also important to carefully
choose the area or neighbourhood where you plan to spend the night: sleeping
outside in a socially problematic area increases the risk that, if someone does
find you, they may consider robbing you. In a peaceful neighbourhood, just
because someone may find you asleep outside doesn’t mean you’ll come to any
harm (though it’s advisable to avoid being found anyway). At most you may frighten
them! The darkness may be scary to
many people but, when sleeping out in the rough, it’s a great ally. The
darkness covers you like a blanket so I never let myself fall asleep until
there’s total darkness and cannot be seen. I always like to wake up and leave
my sleeping spot just before sunrise – before my magical cover of darkness
disappears. I generally leave no sign that I was there, especially if I plan to
sleep outside in the same area once again the following night. With these
principles in mind, I looked for my spot for the night.
The town of Kourou seemed really quiet,
with a lot of greenery amongst the wide roads and very unremarkable detached
houses that lined them. I walked down the road leading to a river and realised
that I was entering a rather poor area. It was a Friday afternoon but most
things seemed closed and not too many people roamed the streets. I finally got
to a little wooden pier close to a sign stating ‘tourist information’ – but found
no information at all. I tried to ask the few people in the vicinity if they
had any idea about the departure of boats for the islands and one drunk-looking
man man told me that I should return there very early the following morning,
when there were generally people selling tickets. I wasn’t sure of the veracity
of the information given by this inebriated fellow, but it was the best I could
get.
I then switched my focus to finding a
place where to camp for the night but, despite the amount of greenery around, I
located no spot hidden enough to make me feel safe. Indeed, I had read that the
larger towns in French Guiana can be unsafe at night and this area of Kourou
didn’t seem the safest. As I was looking around, I met Helene, a middle-aged
woman who I initially thought was a local. As we started chatting in French, I
discovered that she was actually a tourist from mainland France who was also
looking for information about boats going to the islands (and she too was told
to return early the following morning). I told her about my intention to camp
outside in the area that night but she warned me that a police officer had informed
her that this particular neighbourhood should be avoided it at night. This was
a helpful piece of information since it confirmed my worries about sleeping
outside near the boat departure area.
Helene told me that she was staying at
a little hostel by the sea about three or four kilometres away where people
could sleep on a hammock for seven Euros per night (no such place had come up
when I was looking for budget accommodation online). This isn’t cheap for
hammock space by normal standards – but for French Guiana (and Kourou in
particular), this was a great opportunity. More than the need to sleep
comfortably, I was more concerned about finding a safe spot where to spend the
night peacefully and to leave my things whilst I roamed around town. The one
main problem about going to this hostel was the fact that it was about a 30 or
40 minute walk away and Helene felt that it wouldn’t be easy for me to get
there with my heavy backpack. After we parted ways, I left the area around the
boat departure point (known as the Brazilian neighbourhood) and walked towards
the beach, where I hoped to find a safer spot where to sleep.
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| The Atlantic Ocean at last! |
The sandy beach lined with palm trees
was really beautiful and I was delighted to finally put my feet into the
Atlantic Ocean – after having started this long travel from the Pacific Ocean approximately
two months before. Both Georgetown and Paramaribo are very close to the ocean,
but both are actually built along rivers leading to the sea itself. Therefore,
this was the first time I was actually standing by the Atlantic Ocean since I
had started the travel. There were a number of people walking or jogging next
to the sea so I still didn’t find my hidden spot for camping. I slowly walked
up the beach for a couple of kilometres with all belongings in order to scout
for a camping spot – until I realised that I must be close to the hostel
mentioned by Helene. She had told me to look out for an area called the
‘Village Indien’ if I decided to look for the hostel. I asked a couple of locals
if they knew where the neighbourhood was and realised that I was indeed really
close.
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| Walking up the beach towards the Village Indien |
Finding the ‘hostel’ itself wasn’t so
easy since it’s actually just a little wooden house that looks like any other
house in the neighbourhood. This house simply has a space at the back where
they have an enclosure in which you can hang a hammock. The neighbours
indicated the door which I had to knock on so I went ahead and asked the chubby
friendly lady who answered the door if I could camp in her backyard. I
eventually noticed that there was a little sign outside the door – which was
not so big or clearly noticeable – that indicated that this modest house was
actually some kind of hostel. The sun was setting by the time I reached my
accommodation for the night so there wasn’t much time to do anything else for
the day. I would have loved to visit the Space Centre whilst I was in Kourou
but it was going to be closed for most of the weekend and there are no free
guided tours on Saturdays and Sundays, which are the highlight of any visit. I
guess the timing was unfortunate but I was happy to, at least, have the chance
to reach the Îles du Salut if only
I managed to find space of a boat heading there. It’s best to book a place on a
boat beforehand (especially at weekends) but I had no idea how to do this, not
having either any phone number to call or a phone. I reckoned I would try my
luck the following morning.
 |
| The prison islands on the lovely horizon |
That evening, Helene returned to the hostel
and was glad to find me there. She had bought some French baguettes, Camembert
cheese and delicious chocolate which she shared with me. We chatted for a while
in French, though my level of spoken French isn’tt so good despite the fact
that I’d studied the language for five years at school. I can read and write rather
well but I never got my ear around understanding the French accent – especially
when spoken by French people (I fare much better understanding the accents of
Francophone African people). Helene, a nurse by profession, was visiting a
friend who worked in the jungle of French Guiana and was heading down there in
a few days. Nevertheless, she first wanted to visit the prison islands and the
Space Centre. I really wished to visit French Guiana’s jungle too, which is
apparently one of the most untouched jungles in South America since it wasn’t
exploited much by the French. However, having spent much time in the jungle
elsewhere, where it is far easier and cheaper to access, I decided to limit
myself to Kourou and Cayenne on this travel.
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| Camping amongst the palm trees |
 |
| Sunset on the beach in Kourou |
That night, I slept on the floor in my
sleeping bag next to Helene’s hammock since I had no hammock of my own (I had
given mine to my girlfriend, Sofia, who was crossing the Amazon on a cargo ship
whilst I was crossing the Guianas). We were amongst the palm trees right next
to the long sandy beach and we could see the prison islands on the horizon.
After a stunning sunset, the stars shone brightly over this lovely part of the
world. It’s a pity that Kourou wasn’t built in a more attractive and welcoming
fashion. As the access point to two of the main attractions in French Guiana
and with an amazing beach which goes on for a few kilometres, this town could
really do more to welcome tourism.
 |
| On the beach under the moonlight |
The following morning, I got up really
early and walked back to the area where the boats heading to the Îles du Salut were meant to leave from.
The place I took to be the ticket office was shut but I saw a few people
standing around so I suspected that it would open sooner or later. On a bench in
a little park were two youngsters sleeping next to their backpacks. I sat down near
them and we eventually started to chat once they woke up. They were also
waiting to visit the islands and had slept in the garden in front of the ticket
office after having been to a small reggae concert in the neighbourhood the
night before. I guess the area wasn’t as dangerous as the policeman had warned Helene
… or perhaps the two youngsters had just got lucky.
The guys, Esteban and Mikael, wanted
to practice their English so they spared me from blabbering away in my awful
French. They are both from mainland France but are studying in Cayenne. Esteban
had already been here as a child and recalled visiting the islands as a special
memory from his childhood. He wished to relive these memories, he said. We
wondered if we were in the right place to get tickets since everything remained
closed even after 7am. Nevertheless, more people started gathering around as
the time approached 8am. My main worry was that, being a Saturday, the boat
might already be fully booked. Once the ticket booth did open, my fears were
confirmed. The boat leaving at 9am was fully booked but there were a few places
left for the 11am boat. Nevertheless, the man at the booth recommended that we
wait till 9am in case some people don’t turn up for the boat. Indeed his
suggestion was fruitful: we all got lucky and made it to the earlier boat,
which was great since I would otherwise have had very little time on the
islands till the boat returned that same afternoon. Therefore, I paid the
(rather expensive) return ticket of the boat and entrance to the island (a
total of 42 Euros) and off we went on this magnificent catamaran towards Île Royale, the only island of the three
which one can visit on such excursions.
 |
| The catamaran going to the Iles du Salut |
People can camp on Île Royale for free and I did seriously
consider this option. The problem was that I wouldn’t have been able to return
the following day (a Sunday) since all boats were fully booked. I therefore would
have had to spend two days and two nights on the island but didn’t have enough
food with me to last that long. Buying food on the island itself would have
been too expensive to consider. I therefore decided to return to Kourou that
same afternoon since there was place on the boat returning at about 4.30pm. Loving
the sea with a passion, it was great to sit in the front of the catamaran as it
sped gracefully towards the islands – which are about 14 km from Kourou.
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| Sailing to the islands |
As the boat approached the islands, I
tried to imagine that I was a convict reaching my destination of prolonged
detention several decades ago. These islands were used as a penal colony for
those considered as the worst criminals in France from 1852 until as recently
as 1953. I was struck by the natural beauty of the islands so it was hard to
feel any dread – until I saw the prison buildings and recalled the hellish
paradise depicted so well in the classic film starring Steve McQueen. The sun
washed colours were just as I recalled them in the film. As the passengers
hopped off the catamaran, my new French friends told me they were going to find
a spot where to swim but I was really eager to explore what remains of the
prisons. I promised them that I would catch up later. Île Royale is the largest of the three Îles du Salut, but is still small enough to find somebody along
the shores if you walk around for a short while.
 |
| Approaching the gorgeous former penal colonies |
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| The sun-washed colours of the tropical island |
I spent a few hours roaming around the
ruins of on Île Royale and visiting the
small museum which was once the Prison Director’s house. I learnt about the
famous prisoners who were kept on the islands, especially the political
prisoner Alfred Dreyfus who was detained on Devil’s Island between 1895
and 1899 for treason. A number of prisoners tried daring escapes throughout the years, and some succeeding to
defy the powerful currents on more than once occasion to escape from the
prisons which were considered inescapable. The famous Henri Charrière,
though, was probably a fraud and the stories he claimed to be his own possibly
actually happened to some of his fellow inmates. Apparently, he was also not as
innocent of the crime he was convicted for as he claims in his autobiography –
there seems to have been a lot of evidence that he did commit the murder that
sent him to the island penal colony. Having spent so many years of my own life
working with detainees in sub-standard and overcrowded detention centres, the
stories of suffering that I came across here in the Îles du Salut particularly struck me. Humans do tend to dehumanise
others with too much ease. More worryingly, some of the convicts here were only
guilty of diverging political opinions from the status quo.
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| What were once treacherous prisons |
 |
| The museum in the Director's House |
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| Paradise or hell? The infamous Devil's Island |
Whilst exploring the tropical island,
I saw a few monkeys playing in the trees. At one point, I was forced to take
cover under some of the ruins as a massive rain storm crashed over the island
for about half an hour. I eventually climbed to one of the high points of the
island and saw the infamous Devil’s Island beneath me. This is where the
political prisoners were held. It was meant to be the most difficult of the
islands to escape from due to the powerful currents between it and the other
islands. I got a small taste of these currents as I swam for a while with my
French friends. Esteban rested in a hammock hung between two palm trees whilst Mikael
carved out some coconuts that had fallen from the trees above. I eventually
said goodbye to the French guys and headed back to the little port from where
the catamaran took me back to Kourou. That night, I once again slept in my
sleeping bag next to the beach. Helene had gone to the Space Centre that day
but couldn’t find any tickets for the Îles
du Salut the following day despite trying to book beforehand. I suppose
that Sunday isn’t the best day to simply turn up and hope to get to the
islands.
 |
| Inhabitants of the islands |
 |
| The lighthouse behind some palm trees |
 |
| Not everyone made it out alive |
I was soon to find out that Sunday is
not a good day to many other things in French Guiana. My plan was to get to
Cayenne as early as possible in order to explore the capital of the territory
before trying to figure out how to get Saint-Georges, at the border with
Brazil. I was up very early the following morning and took all my belongings to
the centre of town, where I hoped to get on a van heading to Cayenne. Nevertheless,
after spending a couple of hours waiting, I realised that there may be no
public transport working on a Sunday. Some people passing by confirmed that no
vans may come at all. I therefore only had the option of hitch hiking. I walked
to the main road heading out of town and stuck my thumb out as I walked. Nobody
stopped so I kept on walking. Several large fancy cars passed by but few even
gave me a second look. Some made me apologetic signs which I didn’t understand
and a few made what seemed to be angry signs, as if I should not have been
there disturbing their existence in the first place.
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| The towns of French Guiana along the highway |
I was almost out of the town and onto
the highway when an old battered white car stopped. A charming young man gave
me a smile and told me to hop on. He was a Brazilian person working in a
natural reserve in French Guiana. No wonder he was so friendly! Unfortunately,
he could only take me a part of the way to Cayenne since he had to get to his
workplace but it was better than nothing and gave me the morale boost I needed
to believe that people would actually stop for me. Nevertheless, after that I
remained a very long time in the middle of nowhere waiting for my next ride.
One – perhaps two – hours passed and no one else stopped. I guess there were no
more Brazilians around. Was it because it was a Sunday? Was it my looks? I
wondered why no one was stopping as several large cars with arrogant looking
French people inside zoomed by. Many things passed through my mind as more cars
sped by without stopping. I wondered if I would even reach Cayenne by that
night and how many days I would need to eventually get to Belem in Brazil,
where I had to meet Sofia.
10am on a Sunday. The blazing sun was
beating down over me. My thumb was up but my morale was down. I had started my
day at about 6am and 4 hours later I was barely a fourth of the way to Cayenne.
Would anyone else stop? I had to believe it but with every car that passed, my
belief diminished. Hitchhiking is like fishing – you wait and wait and
sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you must wait ages to catch a fish and at
times you catch nothing at all. You need time when hitchhiking – time and
patience. Just when I was really starting to believe that nobody else would
stop, an elderly French man slowed his car down to a halt. I was so happy!
Finally a French person had stopped for me. My happiness was short-lived
though, as he had to leave the highway after about 10km and couldn’t take me
any further. I barely gained much ground with that ride but at least it was
another morale booster of sorts. About another hour passed until I hit an
unlikely jackpot. An angry looking man of African origin stopped his shabby
dark blue car next to me. He asked where I was going. “Cayenne!” I said. He mumbled
something and told me to get in the car. I did, but was half worried – given
his aggressive expression – that he’d take me to some abandoned area and beat
me up. To reassure myself, I started to chat with the guy and he turned out to
be the nicest person – he just had a rough way about him. He, too, was not a
local but was a migrant from the far off African country of Guinea Bissau. He
told me that French Guiana was a good place for him to find work, though how he
arrived to this far off land I never discovered.
This time, we went all the way to
Cayenne, stopping on the outskirts for the kind driver to pick up some
groceries. I noticed a lot of poor looking people playing cards outside the
shop. Some looked at me in a strange way. My African friend eventually returned
to the car and asked me where I wanted to go. “The centre,” I replied. “I’d like
to get to Saint-Georges at some point” I added. My new friend mumbled something
and took me to a spot where shared taxis leave for the border town. He dropped
me off there and I thanked him for his kindness. He mumbled a reply and drove
off. This man had been so helpful and benevolent despite his rough ways – a
real lesson not to judge people by their way of expressing themselves. It was
early afternoon by the time I arrived to Cayenne and I saw a couple of shared
taxis that were waiting to fill up before heading to the border with Brazil. I
decided to walk around Cayenne for a while to at least visit the centre of town
before leaving.
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| Colonial houses of Cayenne |
I would have gladly spent the night in
Cayenne but my attempts at couch-surfing failed miserably. I had written to
about 15 different people with what I thought was a really nice introduction
but only one girl replied, telling me that she was sorry but she was about to
move apartment that same week and could not host me. A Spanish couch-surfer I
met on a cargo ship in the Amazon had told me that she invents such excuses
when she doesn’t want to host someone. I wasn’t sure if my lack of success at
couch-surfing in Cayenne boiled down to the fact that I had requested a place
to stay at too late before my arrival, or if it was because I had no
recommendations being new to couch surfing. It may have also been due to the
fact that I am male and 37 years old. The point was that I had no access to
free accommodation and that hotels in Cayenne charge ridiculously high prices. Hence
my mind was made up to simply walk around the centre and then leave for Saint-Georges
that same afternoon.
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| A church in Cayenne |
Cayenne struck me as nothing really
special. The architecture was rather bland and I suspect that this town would
not attract any attention if it happened to be anywhere in mainland France. I
admit that I didn’t spend enough time in town to really make a good judgement.
Also, being a Sunday there was hardly any activity in town so I was not seeing
the town at its best. I did like Place des Palmistes (a square full of palm trees)
and a few colonial houses next to the coast. On the whole, I much preferred
Kourou which at least has a lovely beach if nothing else.
 |
| Place des Palmistes |
After my stroll around Cayenne, I went
back to the corner a few blocks from Place des Palmistes where the shared taxis
towards the Brazilian border left from. One could try to hitchhike to Saint-
Georges and Esteban told me that he had managed to do so successfully.
Nevertheless, he himself admitted that he met a policeman who had heard some
bad stories of people being robbed and abandoned with nothing left along the
isolated road heading there. I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the risk and I was
looking forward to head on to Brazil as soon as possible. I still had my mind
set on reaching Patagonia by January – so time was running out for me to cross
through and explore Brazil, being already the second week of November at that
point. I also wanted to be in Belem by three or four days later since Sofia was
meant to arrive there more or less by that time after crossing the Amazon by
boat from Manaus.
The two-hour van ride to the border
was rather smooth and passed through some admittedly isolated stretches of
jungle road. Once we arrived to the beautiful Oyapock River, I was told that I
didn’t need to stamp my passport out of the country, being a European Union
citizen. I just needed to hop onto a little boat that would ferry me a couple
of kilometres down the river to the Brazilian border town of Oiapoque. The boat
passed under an unused bridge – the first bridge connecting Brazil to the European
Union. The bridge seemed to be rather complete to me but apparently it hadn’t
opened to the public yet. It was meant to be ready by the World Cup but somehow
the plan didn’t work out that way. I wonder if they were expecting crowds of
people to come down this route overland from the Guianas into Brazil for the
football tournament!
 |
| The boat waiting to take passengers to Brazil |
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| A bridge between Brazil and Europe |
 |
| The beautiful Oyapock River |
I was eventually glad to get back to
Brazil, where the people are so much friendlier than in the French territory despite
being poorer and everything is so much more affordable. Close to the riverside in
Oiapoque, where the boat dropped me off, I bought a bus ticket to the city of
Macapa with my last few Reales (the ticket cost 90 Reales). I barely had a
handful of Reales left after that. I then walked a couple of kilometres to the
immigration office to get an entry stamp into Brazil. I told them I would be
needing about a month and a half in the country and was duly given 45 days by
the officer in charge.
 |
| View from the Brazilian border town of Oiapoque |
I then went to find a bank to save my
financial situation. I found two banks but none of the ATMs gave me any cash. I
had some US Dollars and Euros I could change but barely enough Reales to buy a
cup of coffee. With that, I walked a few kilometres to the bus terminal. I had
enough time to get there to catch my bus despite the distance and the weight I
was carrying since the bus was leaving in the late afternoon. When the time
came, I hopped onto my bus and headed towards Macapa with the plan of getting a
boat to Belem – but first I had to find a bank that would allow me to withdraw
money. I smiled as the bus scurried south along the bumpy road. The nature was
beautiful all around, despite too much human intervention on the land. I hoped
that the extensive human settlements were limited to the areas around the roads
– though Brazil isn’t historically known for land conservation and
sustainability. Bump after bump, I set off to discover this land I have dreamt
of since I was a little child, wondering if I’d be dazzled or disappointed by
South America’s largest country – but with already much love for Brazil and its
incredibly friendly people.
