Halfway down the next block, I started chuckling - at myself for trying to act nonchalant, but also at the perfect image of Brazilian fruit falling from the sky. Never had I been surrounded by so many fruits - cupuaçu, guaraja, manga (mango to gringos), acerola, caju, carambola - the list goes on and on. It made me think of the mysterious Amazon jungle of my imagination, where people for thousands of years have led well-nourished lives in a green world dotted with bright colors of tongue-curling sugar.

The locals, often eager to converse with foreigners, were always asking my opinion. "What do you think of the Amazon, of our beautiful state of Pará? Americans think we're half-dressed natives paddling around in canoes, right?" Normally, the conversation soon came around to the fruits, the best collection of candy-sweet produce you'll find anywhere in the world, they'd say. I could only agree.

I had started my trip through northern Brazil in Belém, the old colonial city at the mouth of the Amazon River where, years ago, city planners lined their plazas and parks with mango trees that now tower high above pedestrians. They cause a visitor like myself to take notice, maybe a little apprehensively, of the damaged fruit lying sporadically along the sidewalk. (And it didn't help that I had recently read a travel article by a Brazilian author who waxed poetic about his own close call with a Belém mango.)

Although not one of Brazil's most touristy cities, Belém certainly ranks among the most interesting for its colonial history and the vibrancy of its daily life. It receives its share of visitors, and the mangeira-lined avenues have become one of the city's more salient features. Mango trees are everywhere in Brazil, but those in Belém lend themselves as symbols to the grand mystique of the Amazonian bounty.

Seasons on the equator don't change much, and down along Belém's waterfront, in the famous Ver-o-Peso market, all the region's most common fruits are sold at any time of year. Past the market, where traders carry their bundles of fruit and bound, screaming livestock off their boats every afternoon, I bought a sack of acerola for three reais. Seeing I was a gringo, the trader offered a smile and reminded me that the tart red berries are reputed to have the highest Vitamin C content of any natural substance. Probably my imagination, but I could almost feel my health improving as I strolled up the street, spitting seeds into the gutter.

For all Belém's gritty charm, one soon craves an escape from its noise and bustle. With three days before my upstream departure for Santarém, I took a ferry ride across the bay to Ilha de Marajó, the huge island that breaks up the Amazon's mouth. While lingering on the back porch of the pousada where I stayed in the quiet town of Soure, Alcy, the caretaker took out a three-ring binder. Assembled by the pousada's owner, it contained photographs and descriptions of about 40 Brazilian fruits. Even Alcy, a life-long resident of the area, didn't know many of the names.

I asked Alcy about a well-reputed beach just outside town, Praia de Araruna - just a 15-minute walk, she said, and pointed me in the proper direction. After several wrong turns along Soure's unmarked sandy streets, and a long trek down a dirt road past scattered buffalo and flocks of scarlet birds foraging in a dreamy wetland, I arrived at the beach nearly an hour later. But there was nothing to quench my growing thirst - no coconut water, none of the tart fruit juices that had become part of the daily routine.

It was only mid-December, the start of the summer season, and Brazil's vacation crowds had yet to filter out to the island. The fine white sand crunched under my feet like loose-packed snow, and piled up in drifts against the lonely benches and boarded windows of the beach's thatch-roofed barracas. Waves rolled up in jumbled confusion from the Atlantic and the wind began chilling my wet skin.

I made it back to town at dusk and found a family restaurant among the stilted shacks on the outskirts, but no one was there. Alcy had recommended the Paraíso Verde restaurant, which was difficult to find in the dark. The owner, when he glimpsed me wandering past the cement wall around his courtyard, waved me in excitedly. I was his only customer and he seemed to be savoring overy opportunity to indulge his pent-up hospitality.

The courtyard contained an organized forest of fruit trees, the product of years of careful cultivation. He named off the trees and their fruits, boasting of the care he'd invested since purchasing his corner lot 14 years ago. He picked a red caju - a gritty fruit that produces the cashew nut - and handed it to me, then pulled down a bright-yellow carambola, and gave that one to me also. He sat at my table while his wife cooked up tender buffalo cuts and described his island's beauty in spurts of energy.

At the far end of town, an expensive hotel was entertaining its handful of high-dollar guests with a poolside show of traditional dancing, serving up 20-real plates. But the Paraíso Verde had its own charm, its own little jungle dotted with a full palette of sugary colors. Summer was only just starting, and the crowds would soon arrive - just as they do every year, the owner assured me with a wistful smile, looking down as he turned the red caju over in his hands.

Questions?
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