I was in Sao Paulo, Brazil, one of South America's most cosmopolitan cities. I had flown down from California on a commercial flight. The pretext for the trip was to meet a transplanted New Yorker, Ed Zanni, who was selling undeveloped rural land in chunks large enough to raise beef cattle and make a decent living. And although I was sincerely interested in land, I also just had a hankering to see Brazil.

A taxi took me to the Zanni home. Ed's wife wrote out directions on how to get a flight to Cuiabá, the capital of the wild and wooly state of Mato Grosso. Once there, I was to check into such-and-such hotel. If Ed was not there, an Englishman friend could tell me his schedule. "He might be out on some of the land," Mrs. Zanni told me.

Cuiabá

Without difficulty, I found the recommended hotel. As expected, Ed was not there. But the Englishman was. Employed as an engineer, he was overseeing an electrification aid project sponsored by the British government.

Two days later, Ed Zanni showed up. "Sure, let's go look at some land. I have a nice two thousand hectare (4,940 acres) piece a ways up north. We'll need a jeep to get there, and it'll be up to you to pay for the rent, gas, and driver," he said. It was a strange way to do business, I thought. But I agreed to the deal. So Ed put the word out on the local grapevine that we needed a jeep and driver for two days and one night.

Oscar found us the next day. Ed explained our destination. I gave partial payment. The next morning we met at Oscar's at-the-edge-of-town home. At eight-thirty it was already getting hot. But inside the house, with its foot-and-a-half thick adobe walls and ten-foot ceilings, it was pleasantly cool. After being seated at the kitchen table, the wife served us men the inevitable cup of cafezinho.

I have nothing against coffee - except its taste. It is vile.

But when one is a stranger in a strange land, it behooves one to be polite and accept the local courtesies. So it came to pass that in southwest Brazil I, for the first and one of the few times in my life, drank coffee. When in Brazilian homes, such as Oscar's, and the small cups of blackish syrupy coffee were served, I politely sipped my way through one cupful per visit. The Brazilians seemed impressed that I declined both sugar and cream. My theory was, and still is, that nothing can mask the deplorable bite of coffee. So I may as well down it straight. Fortunately, the small cups only hold about three ounces.

Finishing the cafezinho and some delicious homemade pastries, Oscar strapped his pistol on his right hip and we headed north in his Willys - made in Brazil - jeep. I know not exactly where we went, because after completing the trip I had no interest in returning. But I remember the roads and the countryside and the people. Especially the people.

The red-dirt highway

The highway north from Cuiabá was two lanes, dirt. Graded, maintained, and hard-packed, it had wide gently sloping shoulders. We maintained a comfortable forty-five or fifty miles per hour. The highway reminded me of the Alaskan Highway north of Fort St. John in British Columbia, Canada. Except the highway in the Mato Grosso was red, instead of brown. Red highway, red shoulders, red dust. Slowly a red patina settled on my face, my clothing, and my small suitcase in the rear of the jeep. Later, I was informed that the red soils of Brazil are famous for the growing of coffee plants.

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