Her name is Coco. On my way to Ouro Preto, a man walks and discusses with the road. The ground all around is brick-coloured. The cows have grey skin and flat heads. Roped up workmen in orange overalls mend their falling mountains.
Termites dig the red clay, looking for invisible diamonds.
They erect crumbly steles to the numerous gods of the under-world and of fertility. The earth is full of dreams. It grows in trunks, palm-trees and blossoms in scarlet flowers. The pattern for that entangled country is a bush of bamboos. Brazil is crumbly, like thoughts, loves, palavers, movements, the earth gullied by the rains and the insecure brick-sheds of the favellas.