Brazil: Truly a trip
One of the most interesting places I've ever visited; sharing restaurant reviews, cultural analyses, candid photos, and other stories
Brazil has always intimidated me.
It is both the violent reputation of the country, as a friend once told me he witnessed gunshots in the street, and its sheer size, which leaves me needing weeks just to scratch the surface. I know it is a country that I must visit as a global nomad, but have never wanted to do so alone despite five years of solo traveling experience and working knowledge of Portuguese.
So when an opportunity came up to travel Brazil for four weeks with a close local friend, I jumped at it. We planned a trip starting in the behemoth metropolis São Paulo, to remote beach village Jericoacoara in the tropical northeast, to semi-temperate island Florianópolis in the south, and ending in tourist-favorite Rio de Janeiro.
It seemed too perfect of an opportunity. I got lazy and left all the trip planning to my friend. I didn’t lift a finger to research anything. Perhaps fate would have it, then, that within 24 hours of my landing in São Paulo, my friend suddenly had to leave Brazil on an extended family emergency, and just like that I was left alone to embark on a four-week journey through the last place I wanted to explore alone.
Honestly, my trip was not easy and it was certainly not a holiday. In fact, I was pretty miserable at times. I never felt like such a foreigner anywhere in my life. But it was also, without a doubt, one of my most interesting travel experiences. Truly a trip.
What’s the TL;DR on Brazil?
Given its enormous size and diversity of cultures and landscapes, I expected Brazil to be a unique place, but still found myself mind-blown on a daily basis by just how unique it is. No country has differed from my expectations as much as Brazil has.
I assumed Brazil would be similar to other Latin American countries - wrong.
I assumed Brazil would resemble a typical developing county - wrong.
I assumed Brazil would have warm and welcoming people - wrong.
Brazil is a country of extremes. I find it quite difficult to generalize it in the way that I can many other countries.
Race and diversity
São Paulo is a true melting pot of diversity. I’m talking London and New York levels of diversity. There are Latin people and White people and Black people and Asian people. There are Muslim men wearing taqiya hats and local women bearing German names like “Denise Klein”. It has more Japanese, Arab, Italian, and Portuguese residents than any other city in the world. Everyone looks like they’re both a foreigner and a local simultaneously; a local told me that he cannot tell if someone is Brazilian until they open their mouths.
Accordingly, locals have no problem accepting that I, an ethnic Chinese, can be from America, which is an uncommon understanding in many parts of the world. In fact, at one point, one of the friends I had gotten to know and hang out with in Rio called me a “white guy”. It was a context-appropriate joke about my American identity… except that I’m not white. After a moment of stunned silence, my other friend noted that I was not white, and the first friend looked genuinely mistaken. Later, my other friend explained to me that people in Brazil see and categorize people by skin color more than they do true ethnic background.
In smaller cities, locals were sometimes surprised to learn I was from America, as very few Americans venture beyond São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro. To any American who has traveled extensively, this is shocking. It contributed to my sense of foreignness; American hegemony and cultural influence is noticeably weaker in Brazil.
The most alienating phenomenon might have been when local Chinese residents, typically beacons of ethnic comfort, spoke fluent Portuguese with nary a glance of acknowledgement towards me.
A common myth is that “Brazil has a lot of Japanese people,” and many friends who are globally traveled have recounted this fact to me. However, I found this to be mostly untrue. Sure, São Paulo has the largest Japanese diaspora in the world, and I observed much evidence of this: a Japan-town neighborhood, numerous Japanese convenience stores outside of Japan-town, a well-developed Japanese culinary scene (including world-ranked restaurants), and many Japanese-Brazilian girls on dating apps.
Outside of São Paulo, however, I saw no evidence suggesting that Brazil has a particularly large Japanese population. In 7 days in Jericoacoara, I saw a grand total of two, who were both Japanese-Brazilians on holiday from São Paulo. In Florianópolis, I saw one, a Japanese-Brazilian woman who had moved there from São Paulo. In 10 days in Rio de Janeiro, global tourism hotspot, I saw one Japanese-Brazilian family. In all three places, the number of Japanese restaurants was likely not higher than the global average, although Rio de Janeiro curiously boasts a pan-Asian, but primarily Japanese, restaurant that’s managed to earn a Michelin star.
(I’m curious how it tastes. Does it compare to Michelin-starred restaurants in Japan, or does the Michelin guide lower its standards for ethnic foods outside of their home countries?)
Brazil’s world-class food scene
I had the opportunity to experience three fine-dining restaurants in Brazil.
The first, D.O.M., is obviously the grandfather of the nation’s fine dining scene. Its hallowed atmosphere and lighting, precisely-executed service, and primarily French-inspired menu (with obligatory representations of local ethnic ingredients like cupuaçu and Amazonian ants) suggest its ambassadorial role in fine dining’s traditional vanguard: a reverent bow to the French tradition. Indeed, D.O.M. has represented Brazil on the world stage for over a decade as her top-rated restaurant on World’s 50 Best since the inception of its Latin American ranking in 2013.
Top-rated until 2022, that is, until newcomer A Casa Do Porco came up.
A Casa Do Porco was one of my most memorable meals of the year. It’s everything D.O.M. is not: playful, casual, easy-going, even irreverent. The fold-it-yourself menu is printed on disposable construction paper, adorned with childlike doodles of pigs and a woman riding a flying tiger. A bar and a meat display jostle with seated guests in a noisy, bustling multi-purpose dining room.
Even the restaurant’s location in São Paulo’s Centro neighborhood is an ironic, if unintentional take on Brazil: a friend once described Centro to me in a passionate text message as “a fucking war zone”, “insanely precarious”, and “a wasteland… felt like we could have gotten jumped any second and had no way out.”
The charming hostess acknowledged this. “It’s not too long for a table, but you can’t leave me while you wait,” she teased.
Unconventionality aside, A Casa Do Porco’s tasting menu demonstrates skill, creativity, and finesse. It is not only a beautiful tribute to the humble pig but also a new-age take on Brazil, with numerous references to Japanese cuisine (pork sushi, dumplings, sukiyaki) and Brazilian cuisine (the main course was a deconstructed feijoada, the traditional working-class dish).
A Casa Do Porco’s recent rocket up the world rankings to #7 and flippening of D.O.M. for Brazil’s #1 restaurant in 2022 reflects a global trend of breaking old traditions in fine dining, and embraces the idea that restaurants can actually be fun while delivering world-class food. (As an aside, I’m currently in India, and the same “flippening” is happening here - with Bombay’s younger, more casual restaurant Masque surpassing Delhi’s venerable vanguard Indian Accent).
My third fine-dining experience, Oro, falls between the other two: a traditional French-style fine-dining experience without compromising on dish creativity and Brazilian authenticity. I am glad Oro came towards the end of my 4 weeks in Brazil, as I was able to better understand its culinary references, including heart of palm, pão de queijo, and steak tartare (in maki form).
One thing about Oro disappointed me, however. One of the courses was a trifecta of clearly Asian-inspired dishes, and after the waitress explained the course, I asked her what the brown sauce in which the Brazilian-ingredient mochi sat (it was clearly soy sauce-based, but I wanted to know more). “It’s an Asian sauce”, she said matter-of-factly. What? No shit.
Asian education and awareness worldwide still has far to go, even at two Michelin-starred restaurants in supposedly-Japanese-heavy Brazil. That’s an essay for another day.
The girl at the recepção
In Jericoacoara (Jeri), I kindled an unlikely friendship with the receptionist of my pousada, a sort of Brazilian hotel.
She was born in Jeri, a tiny village of just 20,000, located inside a literal national park and truly remote - there are no paved roads and the government does not offer postal services locally (I’ll share a photoessay on Jeri below).
Orphaned at a young age, she was adopted by a family in nearby metropolis Fortaleza, where she spent her childhood in an unhealthy relationship with her foster parents. She never finished university, either for money reasons or because she had a pregnancy - I forget. In 2020, just before the pandemic, she was forced to leave Fortaleza and move to Jeri with her baby son because of irreconciliable conflict with her foster father, her son’s father, and their extended family. In Jeri, she now stays with her sister in a cramped one-bedroom apartment, unable to afford a place on her own as growing tourism has inflated local housing to untenable prices. She constantly faces eviction risk at the whim of her sister’s manipulative and unpredictable husband.
All this is to say that the judgmental perception I would have of her based on these facts is that of an unfortunate soul, struggling to survive at the margins of society and with limited education or worldliness.
But she was clever, sophisticated, and mature. She spoke the best English of anyone I met in Brazil, which is what drew me to converse with her in the first place. Her American accent and wide vocabulary was learned from YouTube and Netflix. We talked world culture, we talked world politics, we talked life. She was into global hip hop and R&B, and eschewed the local forro and samba that most locals prefer. Her perspective on life was one of cynical realism, and she seemed at peace with her life circumstances despite not having two months of living expenses in an emergency. Our conversations grew longer each day, and at least for me, evolved from convenient encounters as I left the pousada into time deliberately spent shared. I would lean over the reception desk for hours, and I once brought us takeout dinner to eat together as she sat through her work shift.
On my last night in Jeri, I texted her via the pousada’s corporate WhatsApp account, asking her to meet me in the village square after her shift. I didn’t have her personal number. “Okay,” replied the corporate WhatsApp account, and an hour later I spotted her slim silhouette approaching me through the warm night darkness. “Hey! My Korean skincare products finally arrived!” she excitedly showed me a package her friend had just ferried for her from the the nearest post office, an hour away.
She remarked how straight my back was as I sat on the bench, and asked if I did yoga. She confided in me her hopes and dreams, and how she might be able to resume her online graphic design courses if she could afford a new laptop to replace her broken one. She told me about a remote relationship she had with a man in Seattle during the pandemic, and recounted intimate moments from their long-distance life together. “I always get gelato in the evenings - do you want one?” I declined, patiently waiting for her as she dashed to a nearby dessert parlor, ten seconds away in the quaint village square. She wanted to try living in Europe, so she could spend every weekend in a different country.
I walked her home that night at 1am, the darkest depths of night in that tiny village. “You must be really lonely, to hang out with me all night,” she teased as we embraced in goodbye.
I looked away. Maybe I was.
As I walked back to my pousada, I realized I never asked her name.
“Your size is not size”: (Fin)tech, industry, and culture
Ultra-large countries like Brazil, China, and India have economies large enough that they incubate giant industries serving only domestic demand. This is a dream for businesses, as they can tap into an endless growth runway without needing to worry about international expansion and its associated headaches.
Brazil’s food-delivery industry is a perfect example. The global face of Latin American tech is Rappi, a local services juggernaut valued at $5.25 billion and delivering food, groceries, pharmacy goods, and even cash to people all over the region. Rappi expanded from Colombia into every LatAm country, its founders are prolific angel investors in the global startup circuit, and Rappi alumni have seeded other prominent regional startups, such as Frubana.
But there’s an even bigger giant in Latin American tech: iFood. Its absurd name would would be laughable in America, yet iFood, a food delivery startup, has become the most highly-valued private startup in Latin America at $5.3 billion - edging out Rappi.
And guess what? iFood only operates in two countries, primarily Brazil, versus Rappi’s 20 countries. iFood has 80% market share in Brazil, which is all it needs to crush Rappi in the numbers game.
(For Southeast Asian tech aficionados, this dynamic may sound familiar: super-app Grab has expanded across and dominates most of Southeast Asia but is unable to win regional flagship market Indonesia, whereas competitor Gojek, who has more or less retreated from all other countries, commands majority Indonesian market share.)
My mind was blown by the advanced state of Brazil’s consumer fintech. The sheer penetration of credit and debit cards extends to even independent tour operators in remote villages, putting probably every country in the world to shame except China. I naively withdrew $250 in cash when I arrived in Brazil, only to find that I had no use for it.
A widespread alternative to cards is PIX, a payments protocol/rails developed by the Brazilian government and integrated inter-operably with every bank. With just a phone number or CPF (local ID) number, any Brazilian can instantly send money to another Brazilian via their banking app, and I saw this used frequently.
I love Brazil’s culture around splitting the check when going out to eat. Tip & service charge is an automatic 10% or 12% that’s always added to the bill, even at high-end restaurants. It’s common practice for friends to split the check precisely, going so far as to calculate exactly how much their share of tax and tip is depending on main plate + individual drinks ordered + evenly splitting shared plates and appetizers. Waiters expect each diner to tell them exactly how much to charge on the card, and understand that calculation mistakes happen - they will add up the amounts paid to see if the total bill is reached. Check-splitting is the norm even for tiny payment amounts of $3 or less.
Compare this to America, where people insist on splitting the bill evenly over some false sense of camaraderie or social reluctance to split costs precisely. American restaurants will also say “sorry, we only accept 2 credit cards” because they prefer to save $0.05 on Visa’s interchange fees. I’m pretty sure ramen restaurants in America charging $20 for a bowl of noodles can eat the 5-cent interchange fee more easily than a street stall in Brazil can.
1st world infrastructure, 3rd world danger
Brazil feels trapped between being a developed country and a developing country.
Nicer suburbs of São Paulo and Florianópolis are generally well-maintained, and look and feel like nice suburbs in Jakarta, Johannesburg, and across America. Food carts and consumer goods sellers on the streets, hallmarks of developing countries, are noticeably absent. All across the country, tap water is potable - a truly privileged luxury.
Simultaneously, SP and Rio feel like they are constantly under siege by muggings and violent crime. In no other place on earth have I had so many people, both locals and friends from afar, warn me never to take out my phone in public. Residences and businesses are closely guarded by electrified barbed wire and surveillance cameras. My Airbnb building was protected by a veritable siege gate.
I cannot begin to tell you how bizarre this all was; my mind was constantly caught between a lived understanding of what developing countries are like, my indoctrinated understanding that Brazil is a developing country, and the on-the-ground reality of Brazil’s wealth, development, and infrastructure.
The perfect analogy for São Paulo is Johannesburg. Both appear on the surface to be extremely well-developed cities, especially compared to their neighbors, but because of their wealth disparity are actually some of the most unpleasantly dangerous places on earth. In Johannesburg, I can’t walk 10 blocks in good conscience - need to Uber everywhere. In Rio, taking out a phone is terrifying - a local passing by me once barked at me “cuidado! Caution!” while gesturing at my phone.
Jericoacoara: A photoessay
The stereotype of Brazil being a beach paradise with beautiful people are at least somewhat true in parts of the country. Jericoacoara, in Brazil’s sun-drenched Northeast, is a tiny village located inside a national park. As I mentioned earlier, paved roads are prohibited, so everything is built on sand. The transfer from Jeri’s airport to the village was a Mad Max-style adventure in a 4x4, crashing over sand dunes.
I’m not a huge beach person, but I did enjoy my time in Jeri. The natural landscapes are beautiful. Actually, I might have become a bigger beach person after Jeri.
The sun sets pretty early in Jericoacoara - around 6pm. Surfers squeeze in their last waves and kitesurfers find their way to shore. When it gets dark, the caipirinhas start flowing and nighttime activities begin.
There were many, many dining options for such a small village. The food was unexpectedly good, and I always looked forward to lunch after my daily morning windsurfing lessons. It was here in Jericoacoara that I learned açaí is native to Brazil.
Reflections
Although my four weeks traveling in Brazil were not how I envisioned, it was an interesting trip nonetheless and one I’m glad I had. I have much more perspective on Brazil now, an important skillset for a self-proclaimed global nomad like myself. This essay could be 3x longer and I still would not do justice to all the thoughts I have about the country.
I literally made a substack account to read your posts! So in the most loving way possible I must point out that you mention leaving the capital, but it doesn’t look like you went to Brasilia 🧐