Why I Stayed in Brazil for So Long

Ricardo, the “r” pronounced like an “h”, was neatly dressed in a shirt and ironed pants. He wasn’t the kind of person I’d expected to take part in these kinds of ceremonies. He was clean cut, and followed a degree of protocol in his questioning that I didn't expect from someone inviting us to take psychoactive drugs.
While we were still deliberating, Luciano's mother was ready to go, in a dress and high heels, make-up on, thick lipstick on her wide mouth, visibly thrilled by an opportunity to get out of the house. Finally, we made it to where the gum tree plantation began, where the day before we’d crushed the leaves to smell the sharp and distinctive eucalyptus oils. We were late and anxious as we approached the white tarpaulin covered tent, lit up from the inside and tense with expectation.
We were welcomed into the gathering, a group of chairs arranged in a semi-circle. Women and men sat on opposite sides of the room. The altar was in the centre, decorated with candles and sacred Santo Diame symbolic objects. Behind it was a table with two drinking urns, filled with a muddy brown liquid.
We’d talked about not taking it, but not wanting to pass up on an unusual opportunity, we got up to queue. It didn’t taste nearly as bad as I thought it would, slightly bitter and thick.
Luciano’s mother kept saying how she felt nothing. She asked me if I was feeling anything, but I wasn’t sure what I supposed to be feeling. She eventually got up and left the tent to smoke.
After that, we sang hymn after hymn, guided only by the white paper leaflet and the repetition of religious mantras. Ricardo had emphasized that this was a spiritual experience, about getting closer to God. I started to think about where I was- an isolated farm in the middle of the São Paulo countryside with no internet connection, and a boyfriend I was leaving behind in a month’s time.
Eventually I stopped looking at Luciano. In the row in front of him a guy starting to wretch with his arms folded, the vomit coming out in fitful bursts all over his chest and onto the floor. The lady in the front row began to sway and chant, her body shaking in spasms.
Luciano’s mother laughed at it all. She guffawed at the sound of the strange wails and cries, the objects of her ridicule blissfully unaware. I laughed too, vulnerable in my closest contact to her since we arrived in Bauru, knowing that this was rare chance to connect with her. I often wonder what it would have been like if she hadn’t been there.