Ya’ll. I have so much word vomit for you. I apologize in advance for my going on and on and on. Brazilians are just so fascinating.

So, my cultural, basic white girl biases are in a tizzy. The myopic ‘Merican bubble I hail from has not prepared me to roam the streets of Rio de Janeiro.

No one is who it seems they should be and no one speaks the language my brain thinks they should be speaking based on how they look. I don’t think we’ve come across another American the whole week. It’s fascinating and frightening all at once.

We took a tour to Angra dos Reis and Ilha Grande to experience the untouched and unmotored islands off the coast of Brazil. This required a 3 hour bus ride each way and an additional 3 hours of boating to reach these places. On the busses and boats, Argentina, Germany, Tunisia, Chile and Brazil were represented, along with we two Americans in the minority.

At one point, the guides informed us that we would be dropped off on a deserted island beach for 30 minutes, but the boat would comeback for us. Luckily, Dave is linguistically gifted so he understands what’s going on and tells me where to go and what to do. Language barriers absolutely freak me out and so I freeze, even though a lot of times I mostly understand or know the words to reply.

They marched us all off the gangplank, one by one, even the old and infirm. They didn’t care if you could walk or swim or if the current was strong. One guide, who looked like Whitney Houston in a gray wig, yelled “Vamos!” over and over and swung a stick aggressively whilst dancing until everyone exited the vessel. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t rampantly playing out pirate scenarios in my head.

Thankfully, they did come back for us and no pirates raided the island while we were there. The senior citizens were pushed, pulled and dragged back aboard and all was well because there’s a bar every ten feet here, including on boats. As per the usual, we watch the people get drunk and laugh when they start dancing and singing and stumbling. This all plays out with a soundtrack of vacationy-sounding music in the background.

While watching the multinational group swim and sunbathe, I realized there is an almost failsafe way of discerning South Americans and Europeans from the people of other continents:

THONGS.

Also bikinis and Speedos. It doesn’t matter if one is fat or thin, very old or young.

THONGS.

If they are wearing a bikini which is also a thong or super tight and tiny “man swimming panties”, they are just about guaranteed to be European or South American. I’ve never seen so many butt cheeks in my entire life.

Yesterday, I watched a young guy buy his girlfriend Caipirinha by the dozen (Brazil’s national cocktail made from sugar cane hard liquor, sugar and limes) and rub tanning oil on her thonged and juicy behind for at least four hours straight.

There was also a distinguished looking old gent (wearing a bright red Speedo) who followed this fascinating circuit at the beach all day long:

1. Run along the beach for 20-30 minutes tossing hair in the wind. (Hand weights optional)

2. Swim for 5 minutes. Toss wet hair in the wind.

3. Bend over and apply tanning oil to entire tanned and wrinkled body for 45-55 minutes directly in front of white American gal.

4. Repeat indefinitely, every day.

On the excursion to the islands, the water ranged from a deep and clear emerald green to a bright, Caribbean blue. Once in the water and while snorkeling, the ocean floor would reflect the sun and appeared to be a glowing, golden, sandy garden.

Everywhere we walk, the air is heavy with grilling meat, smoking ganja and horns honking to the beats of Samba. Rio is kind of like a never ending holiday, complete with block parties and dancing in the streets. The shops open and close on whims and may or may not be open when you want to eat or shop.

Sketchy vendors at Copacabana beach peddle grilled shrimp skewers and steamed corn and cold coconuts and Mary Jane and cocaine and ice cream and cough drops and fried cheese. You can outfit yourself with thong bikinis dripping like rain from umbrellas carried in the wind; sarongs, bracelets, necklaces and even sandals and backpacks. The bathrooms at the beach cost R$2.60, (That’s 65 cents in American) and just so you know, you cannot leave even your flip flops unattended or they will vanish like the tide. I peed in the tide a lot because who with a tiny bladder wants to pay 65 cents every time she pees?

Every day this week, a strange little yellow VW bus has patrolled the streets with a speaker affixed to its top, frantic yelling crackling from inside. I couldn’t even tell what language was being spoken, but the phrases were delivered in so serious a manner and repeated so many times, this is what I decided was being said:

“People beware. The end is near! The apocalypse is coming. Get out of Rio. Go back to your countries! Buy a thong and a coconut and go quickly! Don’t leave your flip flops alone on the beach. Go now!”

Turns out, it’s the egg seller. He rambles the streets around Copacabana selling eggs from a 1979 Volkswagen. And people are buying the eggs. There was a line. I took a picture.

Probably my least favorite thing is the basic necessity of the Brits and Americans to drop our polite northern hemisphere manners and learn how to push and touch a lot of bodies. There is no such thing as taking turns or waiting in line here. You just shove your way through the oiled up butts and bare skin and make your way to where you want to be. You don’t even have to say sorry because everyone is doing it.

My one last curiosity to report is the car vending machines. Under the buildings, there are parking garages. Rather than driving in and parking, people turn their cars over to an attendant who puts it in a machine which whisks it away to be stowed carefully in a corner somewhere. Every time I see a car being brought out, I wish it was a giant Snickers bar instead.

For now, our time in Rio is through, but I’ll continue dreaming about the mountains rising up out of the sand and jungle like coat hooks, catching the cloaks of clouds on their tips and the high rises and favelas rolling out of the hills like a tsunami all the way to the sea.

It’s been fun, Brazilians. Keep oiling your butt cheeks.