PART 1 (below) | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5

No Shade.

The sun beat down and our brows were dripping with sweat. We’d been walking for over an hour, without shade, past the long expanse of barbed wire that marked the edge of the Brazilian Army base. It was the hottest part of the day, after a customary large lunch, and our shirts were soaked. Finally, the enormous military fence gave way and low, single story brick homes began to appear. A few of the little houses were even dressed with stucco.

We were no longer on a mission to proselytize, but to get water. That was all we needed. We stopped at the first house, wilted at the iron gate. We clapped—the Brazilian doorbell. No answer. We moved to the next house, clapped again. Nothing. A third house. We were drooping like sunflowers after a hailstorm, faces practically on the pavement. A head appeared, poking out of a darkened window.

Water, do you have it, I called.

The face might have nodded, it was hard to see. My eyes were stinging from the salt. The head turned into a shirtless man in his forties, approaching us at the gate, holding two steel cups and a 2-liter soda bottle full of icy cold water. He opened the gate, surveyed our broken spirits. He waved at us to enter his concrete yard, towards a patch of shade near the house. He told us to sit for a while and cool off.

All we could say was thank you, and we followed him with his jug of water. A dog pawed in the dirt next door, barked. We sat on little wooden stools and drank. I felt my body begin to recover.

You work in the military, I said.

He leaned back with approval. That’s right, he said. Twenty-two years I’ve been in the Army.

Over there? I pointed with my lips towards the enormous complex we’d walked past.

That’s right, he said. More water?

The shirtless man took the jug and topped off our glasses. Jilsom, he called, towards the house behind him. Grab another bottle of water and come out here.

The sun was moving across the sky, and on the concrete yard the sharp boundary between sun and shade was stark. The sun was winning, slowly marching towards us. The dog next door was growling.

Another man emerged from the stuccoed house, carrying a second 2-liter soda bottle filled with water. Unlike our current host, Jilsom was wearing a shirt but it was folded up halfway, exposing a sweaty beer belly. He approached and stood near us, rigid. He did not pass the jug of water.

You’re Americans, he said.

My junior companion looked at me, nervous, unsure of what to do. I looked up at the man from my low stool, perplexed. My face was a rosy mess of sweat and sunburn.

I am, I said. But my companion here is Brazilian. He’s from Sao Paulo.

He said nothing, continued to stare. His eyes were dark and his stance had the look of martial discipline. He slowly set down the jug of water at his feet and returned to the military posture.

His voice took an even harder tone. You’re lucky, he said.

“Because if I had my gun, I’d shoot you dead.”

True Story.

That happened to me a long time ago, more than a decade. But I remember it clearly, like a dream that you can’t forget.

It was strange to see the Amazon momentarily in the news this year; another piece of fuel for the pop reporting cycle. But it got all burned up, and now something “new” is on the news. Trump, the election; reality tv.

Fun fact: the Amazon has been steadily burning for decades. Since 1978, a quantity of jungle greater than the size of Texas has already been deforested. More than the size of the entire country of France. Thousands of slaves reportedly work cattle ranches throughout the Amazon, where a quarter of the world’s beef industry resides. 250 million head of cattle, feeding the global frenzy for fast food, stocked freezer aisles, hot dog stands.

What do we even do with this? It’s so abstract to even think about—people and places and happenings forever away from the local In-and-Out. Do we just shake our heads? Talk and mourn and discuss with friends? Feel anxious?

I feel as if it’s my fault that when I bite into a hot, juicy cheeseburger, the Amazon is burning. The blame doesn’t seem to rest on the slaughterhouses, the government regulators, the international meat conglomerates, and not the fast food or grocery chains. Not the institutions or the systems, but little old me. The narrative says that I did this, as if I personally set fire to all those trees.

What a load of cow crap. I guess anxiety sells papers. Just keep clicking our ads and eat less beef, that’s the easy answer. No supply-chain regulation, no sustainability stickers, no commitments by corporations to do better.

On the other hand, I can probably eat less cow. Besides, the consumer is the new worker. Consumers have tremendous power in a capitalist society, if they can organize. A million people switching to beans or tofurkey or Texas-raised bison probably have a lot more true power than a million votes do in our two-party electoral college. It’s just—carne asada tacos are so good! This is the dilemma.

You’re fired!

All of this is top of mind, because today I am headed to the Brazilian Amazon. I also just finished the first draft of a new novel, set in the same locale. Even more, I lived there from 2006 to 2008, when I was a young missionary.

Returning there now, in my 30’s, spending time on the river, getting lost: this is the part of the trip I was never able to take. I’ve been wanting to go back for so long. It’s a special place for me.

Now I get to do it.

Yes, this means I quit my job. I’ll say this: sometimes you gotta cut your losses and walk away. I will miss many wonderful, caring people that I met.

I’ll start a new job in the new year, based in Los Angeles. I’m genuinely excited. The new people have been generous, upfront, considerate. They said yes, take time to travel. Recharge and take care of yourself. No surprises.

~~~

So, the Amazon awaits. I’m flying to Belem, Brazil, the city at the mouth of the largest river in the world. From there, I will spend nearly six weeks traveling by boat up the river and finally into Peru. Practicing my Portuguese, dealing with the heat, meeting strangers, and getting lost. I’ll also take photos and share some stories along the way.

HOT SUN, that’s the name of this short, travel-centric series. It’ll probably be done by the new year. If you’re new here, welcome! I hope you enjoy the ride. This will be a mix of photos, stories, fiction, thoughts, or whatever seems to fit.

I myself am a bit nervous. I haven’t taken an extended trip like this in years. Also, hitting “send” on these letters is always tough. Is it good enough? Is it even interesting? Or too revealing—too sharp—to certain readers?

But, there’s something reassuring about this whole process of traveling and writing and having the courage to make decisions in my life—like the fear is telling me that I’m on the right path. I’m pushing myself into the space where I want to be.

~~~

So, thank you for being here. And if you end up enjoying any of this, show your appreciation by forwarding this email along to a friend you think might like it. Anyone not already receiving these letters can easily sign up here.

I love to hear from folks, so you can always drop me a line via reply. And next time you hear from me, I’ll be hot and sweaty, writing from Brazil.

Until the next issue of HOT SUN, tchau!

-jed

PART 1 | PART 2 (next) | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5