Gumba

Footwear gained. Acid house phone lost. Another night of rebolando do popozao and groping lady friends, more cheap cachaça than you could drown a cat with and pangs of guilt that I didn’t shoot all the footage I needed. Just my brain. Processing everything. In no particular order. I’ll be fine in a couple of days. 

Note to self, don’t watch City of God before entering City of God.

So the rain has been, along with more ants, and more ants that were bigger than the first lot of ants. And another species of creature I had absolutely no idea  even existed. At first I thought it was an oversized rat that had been feasting on hormone pumped chicken from Lapa, then I realised that even rats couldn’t grow that big.  Its tail was enough to get the gag reflexes going and the wirey mane of black hair encouraged flashes of cleaning a long left dirty saucepan using the hump of the creatures back to scrub away those forever irritating stains.  After much research kindly assisted by our dear friend Google, it became clear that our furry little friend was called Gamba, but somewhere along the line I slipped in the letter ‘u’ and decided to call it Gumba.  After much fun and hilarity from the new discovery, I was forced into shock when a photo was produced of a dead Gamba taken on a drunken crawl home. It’s little face, its little mouth. Possibly one of the most revolting animals I have ever seen, but yet hours of fun and entertainment. Maybe I just need to grow up or maybe you just hold onto these things when inhabiting an alien postcode and a funny little ball of fluff comes to visit you in the dead of the night.