Brazil
September 23rd 2018
Why Rio?
Why not Rio? After enduring six months of winter in northern Germany, I longed for a place where snow was merely a fantasy.
I blindly picked Brazil from the hostel's atlas with closed eyes. I don't know more than a couple of phrases in Portuguese, so I chose one of the few cities where English would be more common. Rio de Janeiro.
I spent my first day here converting money, getting sensible clothes, and finding a hostel to stay at.
It had been a year and a half since I found myself in a place where my German was not helpful. My German accent, however, would be useful. In places where English was uncommon, I discovered being American was more of a drawback.
Travelers often joke about pretending to be Canadian. It had become so common that in some places, people assume anyone claiming to be Canadian was actually an American.
Having immersed myself in Austria, Germany, and Switzerland, my German fluency grew to the point where I had to consciously avoid a German accent.
-From the personal journal of Alex Reed.
Only entry between graduation and Morocco.
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The taxi let me out and sped away, hungry for its next fare. The sun had long since dipped below the skyline, but the heat lingered, thick and humid, wrapping around me like a wet blanket.
I’d asked the driver to take me somewhere with music and bars. I didn’t care where. Still getting my bearings in a new country, everything felt unfamiliar and unpredictable, just the way I liked it.
Rio wasn’t the biggest city I’d visited, but it definitely cracked the top ten. If I stayed here longer, I’d need to actually learn the lay of the land. For now, I let the music guide me.
I wandered past packed patios and food stalls lit by strings of bare bulbs, the air alive with smells of grilled meat, spices, and sweat. Street musicians competed with the thump of club bass lines. Eventually, I found what I was looking for: a relaxed patio bar under a permanent canopy. Ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, barely enough to stir the sticky air.
The bartender gave me a puzzled look when I ordered. I’d spoken in German.
“Sorry,” I corrected myself. “A draft beer, please. Whatever you recommend.” I switched to English but kept the accent.
“You are German?” he asked, replying in English as he pulled a tap handle.
“Ja,” I nodded, leaning on the bar.
“Welcome to Brazil. I’m Miguel.” He slid a tall glass of amber beer toward me and collected the twenty-real note I’d placed on the counter.
“Alex. Thanks.”
He handed back my change. “You here for work, or…?”
“Visiting a cousin,” I said, giving my usual cover story. It wasn’t exactly a lie, it just wasn’t true.
I took my drink and settled into the seat at a far table near the low wall separating the bar from the street. The music washed over me, a rhythmic pulse that drowned out thought. By the time I was on my fourth beer, I wasn’t thinking much at all.
That’s when she appeared.
A tall woman in a black dress that clung in all the right places. Her skin glowed bronze in the low light, eyes hazel and watchful. Long brown curls framed a mischievous smile that promised trouble, or escape.
“Buy me a drink?” She asked, sliding into the seat across from me without waiting for an invitation.
I held up two fingers to Miguel.
“Maria,” she said, offering her hand.
“Alex.” I took it and kissed her fingers, more out of curiosity than charm.
The music made quiet conversation difficult, but we studied each other in the silence. She was gorgeous, confident, and deliberate. I couldn’t decide whether she was flirting or scouting.
“Why are you sitting alone?” she asked finally.
“Long flight,” I replied, leaving out that the flight had landed yesterday.
She giggled. “I love your accent. Where are you from?”
“Berlin.” A simple answer for a simple question.
“I like your accent too.” She smiled, brushing her hair from her shoulder. “Are you from Rio?”
“Sim,” she nodded. “Born and raised.”
Miguel returned with our beers. I handed him another bill, but he shook his head, already walking away. Odd. I watched him retreat to the bar, something uneasy prickling in the back of my mind. Then I turned back to Maria and raised my glass.
“Prost,” I said, clinking it against hers.
“Cheers,” she replied.
We made small talk. Safe questions, vague answers. The patio grew more crowded. People laughed, flirted, danced. A few solo drinkers nursed beers at the bar, and a group of friends gathered around a birthday cake near the entrance.
“Maybe we go back to your room,” Maria said, leaning closer, her foot brushing my leg. “Get to know each other better?”
I raised an eyebrow. That was usually my line. Either Brazilian women were more direct, or Maria had an agenda.
Before I could answer, raised voices pulled my attention. Two men were arguing across the bar, voices sharp, gestures wild. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, my Portuguese was minimal, but even fluent speakers would’ve struggled over the noise.
The argument ended just as abruptly as it had begun. Both men stormed off in opposite directions.
I turned back to Maria, catching her staring after them. Her expression was unreadable.
I reached for my beer, lifting it halfway to my lips.
“Don’t drink that,” a voice said in German beside me. A man I hadn’t seen before sat down, gripping my wrist and guiding my hand back to the table. “She slipped something into it.”
I froze, eyes locked on his. Early forties, sharp jaw, cropped hair, a scar above one eyebrow. He radiated control.
“Are you sure?” I asked in German, barely a whisper.
“What is he saying?” Maria asked in English, her tone confused but slightly off, like a practiced script.
The man took my beer and placed it in front of her.
“You put something in his drink,” he said, switching to English.
“You lie!” Maria stood, face twisted in shock or an imitation of it. “I did nothing!”
“If you didn’t, take a drink,” he said, grabbing her arm and forcing her back into the seat.
“I’ll do no such thing! Let me go!” She slapped him hard.
He didn’t flinch. His fingers tightened around her arm.
“Drink it, or I’ll pour it down your throat.”
Maria stared at him, silent now.
When she didn’t move, he let go of her arm and grabbed her hair, tilting her head back, glass poised at her lips.
Movement caught my eye.
“Three men,” I said in German. “Two with knives. Eight meters behind you.”
“Stand when I do. Jump the wall. Two blocks straight ahead. Meet me at the corner. Got it?”
“Yes. Four meters,” I replied.
“Now.”
He shoved Maria off the bench and launched himself backward, sending his chair flying.
I vaulted the low wall and hit the street running. After half a block, the crowd thickened, forcing me to slow. My heart hammered in my chest. I glanced back twice, no one followed. Still, I kept moving.
At the corner, I leaned against a wall, feigning boredom while scanning both directions. Minutes ticked by.
Then he emerged from the crowd.
“Let’s go. We don’t want to be here if they start asking questions.”
“Who were they? Who are you?” I asked, falling into step beside him.
“Not here.” Was all he said.
We walked for an hour, twisting through alleys, zigzagging across blocks. Eventually, we reached a nondescript door. He unlocked it and ushered me inside.
It was a small apartment, bare bones. A table, two chairs, a bed, a kitchenette. A cracked bathroom door stood open.
“Sit,” he said, switching to English again. “We need to talk.”
“Who were those men?” I asked as I took a seat.
“Traffickers,” he said. “Most likely. Seen their kind before. Some harvest organs. Some force labor. Others ransom.”
“How’d you know?”
“I saw her spike your beer while you were watching the argument. Could’ve been a setup, or she just took advantage of the distraction.” He paused. “Let me guess. She wanted to come back to your place?”
“She did,” I admitted. “I was considering it.”
He nodded. “You’d have woken up in hell. If you woke up at all.”
“Thank you,” I said, offering my hand. “Alex Reed.”
“Wiliam Decker. Call me Decker.” He shook it. “Your German’s good. But you’re American.”
I blinked. “Yeah. Spent the last year and a half in Germany. How’d you guess?”
“Your wallet. Saw the edge of your ID when you paid the tab.”
I hesitated.
“You alone?” I asked after a moment.
He shrugged. “For now. You?”
“Yeah.”
“Running from something?” Decker asked.
“No. Just... not looking back.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. I won’t pry.”
I studied him. “So what’s with all the questions?”
“Trying to figure you out,” Decker said simply. “You’re smart. Adaptable. That’s rare. I’ve been traveling a long time. It helps to have someone watching your back.”
“You want me to travel with you?” I asked, in surprise.
“Maybe I do. You handled yourself well tonight. With training, you’ll do fine.”
I nodded slowly. “I’d like that. What’s your reason for traveling?”
“I lost someone important,” he said. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”
“Where to next?”
“Your call,” he said. “Just not here.”
We spent the evening talking, planning loosely. Two days later, we left Rio and not long after that, Brazil entirely.
Before I knew it, two months had slipped by, and we were boarding a rust-streaked cargo ship bound for Africa.
I could’ve easily paid for two plane tickets. Decker, however, had other ideas. He bartered with the ship’s captain, passage and meals in exchange for labor. I didn’t mind working my way across the ocean, but the idea of crossing it on a cargo ship gave me pause.
I’d been on canoes, fishing boats, even a speedboat once. But open water? That was something else entirely.
I spent the first two days curled around a bucket, unable to keep anything down. The crew found it hilarious. I became the ship’s unofficial entertainment, a landlubber who turned green the moment the hull groaned.
Decker, of course, was fine.
“You’ll adjust,” he said between mouthfuls of stew on the second night. “Eventually.”
“Easy for you to say,” I muttered, gagging as the floor rolled beneath me.
But he was right. By the third day, the nausea faded, and I could finally stand up without feeling like the ocean wanted to kill me.
Once I had my sea legs, I started earning my keep. Most of the jobs were the kind no one else wanted. Scrubbing decks, peeling potatoes, washing endless stacks of dishes. I didn’t complain. I had no real skills when it came to ships, but I knew how to work hard. That was enough.
Decker and I quickly settled into a rhythm. Mornings began with exercise on the top deck, jogging in tight circles around stacked containers, pushups and sit-ups on the steel deck. On the fifth day, Decker added something new to the mix.
“Krav Maga,” he said, showing me how to block and counter. “Fast. Direct. Brutal. You’ll like it.”
I already had some experience with high school boxing, and a bit of wrestling. Decker’s training was something else. Efficient. Practical. Designed to end fights quickly and decisively.
After our workouts, we’d shower in lukewarm water and grab breakfast. Usually eggs if we were lucky, beans if we weren’t. Then it was time to report for duty. We filled whatever roles the crew assigned: galley help, cleaning, basic maintenance, cargo checks.
The crew was a patchwork of nationalities. Brazilians, Congolese, a couple of Spaniards. Most spoke Portuguese or Spanish, with a handful fluent in English. I did my best to follow conversations that weren’t in English or Spanish, leaning on gestures and the occasional helpful translation. By the end of the journey, I’d picked up a fair amount of Portuguese, mostly curse words, of course, but enough to get by.
Evenings were the best part. After dinner, the crew would break out cards, instruments, bottles of cachaça. We laughed, gambled with cigarettes, told stories that grew taller with each retelling.
By the time we reached port in the Congo, I felt like I’d earned my place aboard.
As Decker and I stepped off the gangplank with our packs slung over our shoulders, the captain stopped us.
“I make this crossing every month,” he said, pressing a weathered business card into Decker’s hand. “If you ever need passage again just ask.”
Decker nodded and shook the man’s hand firmly. “We will. Thank you.”
We walked down the dock into the humid African air, unsure what came next. I was ready to find out.