So far, I´ve met a fellow named Darren who is from London´s East End. He definitely looks the part, as though he could go from zero to menace in 0.4 seconds. Darren is a documentary film-maker and has been down here working on a project focused on Capoeira, Brazil´s "other" native fighting style of which Darren also trains.

For the last five days I have been having my ass HANDED to me by everyone. I knew that the scant regimen I was able to maintain in Colorado was certainly to the detriment of my game, but I had no idea how much I had actually lost in the last year and a half until now. Everyone is just having their way with me, which is what I "expected" though I didn´t really "understand" exactly what that meant. I feel like a white belt at Ralph´s all over again.

In addition to being the "sucky" guy, I have already sustained a couple of injuries. Friday is when the academy trains without the gi (I have taken to calling it, "Casual Fridays") and I was training with "Baby." Baby is just about to turn 18 and he handles all the merch: t-shirts, shorts, caps, gis, stickers, patches, etc. His English is some of the best I´ve heard from a native Brazillian, a quality he attributes to having hippy parents who traveled all over. Anyway, we´re rolling and he turtles. I go to place a hook on his left side and his arm reaches back suddenly to hug my neck. Instead, I catch his elbow right on the nose... you know: the "sweet-spot," when it comes from underneath? Blood everywhere. I go to the wash room to bleed into the sink, try to clean myself-up with some toilet paper and assess the damage. Luckily, it wasn´t broken.

A few days later, we were drilling this sweep from spider-guard and I´m paired-up with this big fella from England named, Paul, I think. I´m doing the sweep on him and at some point his body begins to tip southward, whereas I want to take him east so I tried to regain the leverage and prevent him from falling into some folks. The trouble is that all of his weight was solely supported by my left leg which was fully extended with the foot planted in his biceps. While trying to bring his weight back to me, I felt a jolt in my left leg, right below the butt-cheek... which is apparently what it feels like when you pull a hamstring. Lovely, I tell you. So I´m going to lay-up for a few days and allow myself to mend a little before I manage to really mess myself up.

My place is a one bedroom flat within a large house that is home to two other housholds, including that of my new landlord, Zeka, who seems to be a very friendly and easy-going fellow. I have a large bathroom with a shower,a very sizeable bedroom and a small kitchen and living-space; fully furnished for the most part with a full-size bed, shelving, dresser and the like! There is also a courtyard where a large turtle has free-reign of the grounds along with Zeka´s dog who is very affectionate and friendly.

Judging from the "coziness" of Dennis´place, I wasn´t sure what to expect, but Dennis really came through in finding me a good place to hang my hat. The walls here are very thin and one can tell if anyone is in the house, where they are and what they are doing soley from the noises coming through walls. So the night I moved in, I listened to my neighbors screw their brains out while I sorted all my crap. They went at it for some time. I was actually quite proud of them, in a way. Plus, it has been raining heavily for few days now so the air is cold, heavy and damp and everything is peppered with the constant round of applause from raindrops hitting the roof and windows.

I was not prepared for this sort of weather and failed to pack a proper rain coat. Portions of the walkways on the island do not allow for adequate drainage, so long stretches are flooded past an ankle´s deapth. The streets on the mainland are even worse. The pavement is ubiquitously uneven and deep puddles form everywhere only to have cars, vans, buses, trucks and motorcycles carouse through them at high speeds, giving anyone walking within a ten foot radius a thorough dowsing. This happens every 15 feet or so.

Traffic down here is quite different than back in the states. The rules and regs of the road seem to impliment themselves completely at the leisure and discretion of the motorist, especially at night. No one shows any preference for lane selection. No one signals to indicate their intentions to others. Red lights are a joke. A friend, native to Rio, remarked that he likes driving in Rio... that it was like, "...being a little kid." As it turns out, he couldn´t be more right, but not in the manner I think he had intentioned. Brazilians drive like native-born Chinese on methamphetamine.

[Apologies to any native-born Chinese who might take offense to that last remark, but you try and drive down lower Clement in San Francisco and tell me I´m wrong.] This goes doubly so for the buses. I´ve seen buses literally screetch to a halt while picking up and unloading passengers. It´s scary. They aren´t fucking around.

Around the bus stops here in Barra, it is not uncommon to see a variety of concession stands. Those stands that require special equipment like popcorn and pastries look way more legit than the guy selling beer and liquor or even grilling beef over an open flame right out of a metal grocery cart with a hand written, cardboard sign taped to the side. Some travel guides encourage you to imbibe the street quisine of Rio and that it is nothing from which to shy away. However, given such conditions, I am inclined to regard such advise dubiously. The guy selling popcorn has a uniform. He has that silly, paper hat. Someone, somewhere MAKES him dress this way. That same someone is the peson to whom the vendor must answer, should he happen to poison me. This puts me at ease. I am definitely more comfortable with this arrangement. After all, who´s going to reprimand the guy with no shirt on, offering me meat on a stick that he´s been handling with his bare hands and no sink in sight? Who does he answer to? Think about it.

I went to the On the Mat house with Dennis´ roomate, a Carlos Machado brown belt, Travis Took. Travis is 23 years old and is from Houston. He´s been living here for the last 6 months and seems to have things fairly wired. He is also, by far, the funniest guy I´ve encountered in quite some time.

The OTM house is a freakin´PALACE. It´s also "gringo-central" what with the Worlds happening. There I met Rafael Lovato, Jr., whom I had seen fight at the last Pan Americans. Apprently he was feeling a bit under the weather and was undecided as to whether or not he would be competing in the tournament. I also made the acquaintance of Ryan and Frank who both attend college in Santa Cruz and train under Claudio Franca. I also saw Troy who is an old friend with whom I trained at John Machado´s academy on Wilshire Blvd. when I lived in L.A. I did not know he was staying there, so seeing him was quite a pleasant surprise and it was nice to catch-up with him. He has been down here for a few weeks now, but has sutained a back injury that has prohibited him from doing any training during his time here, which has to be a real drag.

The Worlds kicks-off tomorrow, but I´ll only be attending the brown and black belt divisions for fear of prematurely burning-out on Jiu-Jitsu before the event climaxes. The black belt absolute division looks particularly dicey this year. You have Xande Riberio, Terere, Roger Gracie, Saulo Riberio and Jacare... any one of which could take it.

As it turns out, Dennis lives on a small island called, "Primera." It´s not an island in the sense that it resembles anything you´ll see in a television advert for Mexican beer, but is is an island, nonetheless, in that it is a chunk of land surrounded by a body of water. Every possible inch of land is occupied by mostly private residences of various sizes, accompanied by the occasional small business. There is a small bar and restaraunt located right where the ferry docks, but in reality it´s little more than some table and chairs and a counter from which you are served your food and a television fastened to the wall that is usually broadcasting either soap operas or football of the non-american variety. Here you can get a plate of rice and beans and chicken for 5 Reais.

Dennis has requisitioned for me a place on the next island over called, "Gegoia." The paths and walkways on the island are oftentimes narrow and corridored by the walls of which enclose the houses. It is not uncommon to see the taller walls of the larger houses affixed with shards of broken glass on top to discourage any attempts to intrude. Dogs also seem to be the affordable and popular alternative to an alarm system. From what I can tell, there is no police station or constible present nor does there seem to be any need for one on the islands, which suits me right down to the ground. There are also monkeys of which I had mistaken for squirrels. From what I can tell they like to run along telephone lines and leap-frog each other.

Transportation to and from the islands is handled by these tiny ferry boatsthat seat about 12 comfortably. They are little more than welded tubs of
metal, wood and fiberglass; an outboard motor, bench seats running the length of each gunwall and a simple canopy of wood with support beams and topped-off with a single coat of paint, usually white or red or yellow. Depending on where you want to go, the ride costs 40 to 70 centavos. After midnight the rates jump to either 50 centavos to 1 reais. During the day you can hop aboard one of these boats without having to wait too long and each island has several points of departure. It is not uncommon to see an oak baton, the sort you might buy in a truck stop under the auspice of "tire pressure checker", wedged somewhere within the arm´s length of the pilot. Though the boat does sport tires affixed to the aft of the boat, serving asbumpers to absorb the intial wear and tear that comes with the job, I don´t think that they require having their pressure checked often. The later the hour, the lesser the frequency these boats run to and from destinations, sosometimes after a late night out, you have to whistle and hope someone hears you and hope they feel like making the trip for your measely, little 1 reais. You always have the option of walking to another dock on the mainland
in hopes that you´ll find a boat there, but they will charge you 3 reais if you want them to take you somewhere out of their way.

Once we set foot on the mainland, I follow Dennis out of the parking lot. We steer towards the left and walk alongside the road that passes over a shortbridge. The walkway is lined with men of various ages, casting fishing nets over the side. Most of them wear large garbage bags of black plastic, acting as make-shift ponchos to prevent from getting themselves wet and dirty. Dennis explains that the water is incredibly polluted, that 30 years ago people were known to catch shrimp and crab and various other sorts of edible marine life, but that since the area has become so densely populated and urbanized, only one species of fish has proven hearty enough to survive the garbage and raw sewage pumped into the water daily. On any given day you can see that very fish leaping out of the water. The manner in which they do this is cartoonish, almost like what you would see fish doing in a drawing by a first-grader. I assume they do this to catch small insects that hover above the water´s suface, but it´s much more fun to imagine that they can´t stand the filthy water and are actually seeking brief, flashing moments of relief from it. They are even known to leap into the boats on occasion. Suicide? The smell is at a tolerable level most of the time, but there are moments on warmer, windless days when the smell lingers. If you can imagine what sardines smelled like if they were marinated in baby shit with a dash of sulpher, you would be close.

Once across the bridge one has to cross 4 lanes of highway. Most achieve this by utilizing the catwalk that provides pedestrians safe passage over the traffic below. Others (like Dennis) prefer to just dart across the highway when there is a gap in the traffic. The gap is usually narrow and the traffic here does not seem to concern itself with the safety of others.

It´s much like the classic video arcade game, "FROGGER," only 20 times more terrifying. Having survived the crossing, it´s only a 6 minute walk to Gracie Barra.

The academy is located on the top floor of Fit Express, which is a health club in central Barra, two blocks from Pepe beach. Everything you could possibly need is there: spinning room, pool, steam room, weight room, nautilus machines, treadmills, snack bar, yoga classes, aerobics... the works. My sign-up fee is $135 reais. This is considerably inexpensive considering you are enrolling in what is probably the most reknowned Jiu-jitsu academy on the planet. Every black belt I ever trained under recieved his black belt from this academy. I take a moment to speculate this fact as a sort of rejoiner with my teachers. The academy, itself, looks just like it does in all the photos: the green and yellow puzzle mats, the Tazmanian Devil logo on the wall... just like in the magazines. Right now classes are really thick due to so many gringos and other foreigners who are in town for the Mundials, which are to be held next week. I do spot a couple of familiar faces: Scotty, from Onthemat.com is present as is Braulio Estima... Pe de Pano pokes his head in briefly before going back down stairs to complete his workout. Marcio Feitosa is overseeing the class while Carlinhos sits in a small chair and evaluates attentively.

It´s a little bit odd to be watcing all this and trying to take it in since I had built it up so much in my own mind. For everybody else here, it´s just another day at the office. So tomorrow I move into my place and can finally unpack all of my crap and start training. I know I have no reason to be nervous, but I am anyway. I chalk it up to "First-Day-At-School" syndrome.

It just seems like I spent so much time and energy and worry in getting here, that I´m a little dumb-founded to finally just BE here.

L.A. was alright. I was able to see a few friends and say my goodbyes before taking off. I did manage to lose my phone, so I wasn´t able to get in touch with more than just a few folks, which sucked. I don´t miss living in L.A. one bit, but I do miss the friendships I made while I was here. Lord knows when I´ll be around these parts again. I dropped by John´s academy on Wilshire to see everyone, and I got to train at Eddie Bravo´s academy on Santa Monica Blvd. His class is exceptional, especially if you like training without the gi. I finally got to meet and train with Chivon. Saw Ray Cappo there, as well. Apparently he´s married and is teaching a yoga class in addition to all his other stuff. It was good to see him. Eddie is quite a character. He didn´t even charge me for my second day of training.

Getting underway was an ordeal. I loaded my bags on to a cart and waited in line for my turn at check-in. I get to the counter and the clerk is already giving me static before I have the first item of luggage off the cart.

"I hope that thing weighs less than 100 pounds." she says indicating the large bag on the bottom. (Well, goodness me, darlin´! You mean THAT´S what the scales are for?) I can see that she´s chomping at the bit so I put the largest one on first, just to get it out of the way. It clocks-in at 110 pounds.

"Sorry. We can´t accept any luggage over 100 pounds."

"America West didn´t seem to have any problem flying it here from Denver."

"We will not accept any luggage over 100 pounds." she reiterates, as though I didn´t hear her the first time. I ask her what she suggests I do to remedy the situation.

"You can ship it air-freight."

I ask her where I do that.

"Well, once you exit the airport, make a right on Sepulveda and go down 5 blocks to this street where you´ll make a left..."

Basically, what she´s telling me is that I have to leave the airport altogether to do this and hope that I can make it back in time to catch my flight which departs in two and one half hours. Right. I inquire whether or not it might be possible to transfer the excess of one item of luggage to another.

"I suppose you could do that if you´d like to try." (Great! Thanks for letting me know that before I decided to go several miles out of my way.)

So I drag my bags off to the side and start digging through to find which items will go most easily from one bag and into another. Everyone in line is looking at the poor bastard who is trying desperately to appease this fucking lady behind the counter. And yet they are trying to appear as though they are totally unaware of the situation in the slightest, as though ACTING like the situation does not affect them somehow might insure that it WON´T... which, of course, makes TOTAL SENSE!

After 10 minutes we give it another go. The big bag clocks-in at 95 pounds.

But I´m not out of the weeds, yet. Regulations for this flight-service to Houston allow for only two bags to be checked-in and one carry on. I have four bags altogether. I ask if I might be able to take the two smallest bags on the plane with me.

"No. You are only allowed one carry-on to take with you on board."

Right. So basically I have to fork-over some extra cash for not only the extra
bag, but also the extra poundage for anything that weighed-in over 80 pounds, which comes out to the nice, round figure of $200.00. Awesome.

Trying to leave L.A. is like strying to scrape something off the sole of your shoe that won´t come off.

Houston

What was scheduled to be a 4 hour layover has turned into 8 hours, which means the flight will be departing around 1:30 in the AM, which has me arriving at GIG somewhere in the late afternoon the following day.

I change-out some american money for Brazilian currency at an exchange desk at the terminal. I immediately go to the bathroom to change into more comfortable clothing for the long flight. I count the money before stashingit in my bag and realized that I shorted the guy $100.00. I decide that I´ll walk right past the desk and make sure to make eye contact with attendant, but only stop if he indicates me to do so, which I do. He, however, does not.

The clerks at the check-in desk are nice enough, handing out food vouchers and bringing out a cart stocked with sodas and pretzels incase anyne wants them. The only othe English speakers I notice waiting to board this flight are
a large group of teen-agers and their chaperones. As it turns out they are from Missouri, on some sort of missionary youth-outing organized by their church. Their accents and their deliberate avoidance in the usage of actual curse words gives it away. The kids blow all their vouchers on candy. One of
the chaperones organizes a card game with some of them... baseball cap, wire
rimmed glasses and all the "can-do" attitude he can muster. He´s "the fun guy" who isn´t afraid to crack the whip if need be... the kind of personality you could find in the dark, regardless of whether you were looking for it, or not.

We land in Sao Paulo first for a quick drop-off and gas-up before an hour hop to Rio. The weather is cloudy and damp. I was aware that the seasons occur inversely between the Southern and Northern hemispheres, but I still wasn´t sure what to expect. I remember burning up during the day and nearly freezing at night whilst on safari in Kenya with my family during the country´s colder months.

The moment I am waved through the customs gate, I am barraged by men offering, "TAXI?" "TAXI?" I quietly decline and wave them off with as little hostility as possible. I try dialing Dennis on my cell phone. It doesn´t go through. I find a payphone, but apparently it does not take coinage. At this point I am at somewhat of an impasse. I am tired, throttled and exhausted...
more than happy to simply sit and wait for Dennis to arrive and hope that he has the energy to find me if I am not within his direct line of vision. A couple hours go by like this and I can see that it´s starting to get dark. I try to weigh my options should the state of things continue in this manner and they are, for lack of a better word, nil.

I finally resort to ask one of the taxi guys to have pity on my poor soul and lend me aid. I don´t know about you, but when I travel abroad and find that my language skills are inadequate, I speak English with a foreign accent in hopes that it may help others understand me better. Just so you know: It doesn´t. This random stranger seems accomidating enough, so I go with it and just hope that I don´t wind-up dead and naked in a ditch along some remote, coastal road with my spine partly exposed, an ear and a few fingers unaccounted for and a potato-sack tied over my head. We walk over to a payphone and I hand him my cell with Dennis´number on the screen. The guy produces a card and slides it into a slot in the payphone, dials and then begins ranting in Portuguese, after which he hands the phone to me. It´s Dennis on the other end. He´s at the airport, looking for me.

Not soon after we are outside, awaiting a friend of Dennis´who drives a taxi. I haven´t seen Dennis in over a year, but I´m still wearly from the stress and distance of travel to have it fully register. Before I know what´s going on, we are in the taxi and on the road. It´s dark by now and difficult to orient yourself as far as direction goes. I sit and watch buildings go by, staring at phone-lines, billboards, and graffiti on the cement walls.

It´s obvious to me that I am in a foriegn country, but I find myself trying to pick out distinct "features" of this place... things that distinguish "here" from anywhere else.

After maybe 20 minutes the taxi pulls into a parking lot. It´s been raining and there is so much moisture in the air. We haul the bags out of the taxi and I give Dennis some money to pay the fare.

We drag the bags a short distance onto a small dock and onto a boat taxi. The boat bobs noticebly with the weight of the luggage on board as the boatman revs the outboard to someplace across the water of which I am unaware. The boat saunters towards a light with a canopy. Dennis indicates that this is where we get off. Again, he pays the man and we muster the weight of the luggage with mincing steps down a narrow alley way. Dennis opens a gate in the wall on the left and we are there. I shove my bags in the corner least-likely to be in anyone´s way. Dennis shows me the bathroom and my bunk. We bid each other a good night and I am out like a light.

Back in 2000 I was living in San Francisco and working as a doorman at various bars and nightclubs in the city. Being somewhat small in stature and possessing a decidedly UNintimidating appearance, I felt as though I should know "a little something" should my "defusing" tactics fail. I was already training Wing Chun under an incredible teacher, but I felt that it didn´t take into account any middle-ground or any margin by which one may adjust the magnitude of the technique. It didn´t make much sense to me to straight-blast a guy in the throat just because he had one too many and momentarily forgot his manners. And I really hate to disappoint anyone, but anybody worth their salt who has worked nightclub security will tell you: You ARE NOT paid to get in fights. You ARE paid to protect your boss´interests, which loosely translates to mean insuring the safety of his property, other employees who also work for him and the patrons who give you their busniness. Given that, this was what was expected of me. I felt I needed skills that allowed me to control an advesary without necessarily having to harm him in the process, yet could effectively subdue an opponent should they endeavor to press the matter.

I already knew about Gracie Jiu-Jitsu. I remember in 9th grade, flipping through a dog-eared issue of "Playboy" magazine, reading about a man from Brazil named Rorion Gracie who came from a family of undefeatable fighters who had modified traditional, Japanese Jiu-Jitsu. Then, years later right after I had graduated from college, the first UFC´s were being made available on video. I rented a couple from a local video store and rushed home, anxious to finally see what this Gracie Jiu-jitsu was all about. Watching Royce fight and defeat Dan Severn left me speechless and certainly put any questions to rest as to the effectiveness of his family´s art. Though Royce´s fights in the early UFC´s were the initial spark in what would result in an international explosion, Gracie Jiu-Jitsu was still in obscurity at that time, with limited representation in the states unless you were lucky enough to live within driving distance of Torrance, CA.

Some years passed and I really never thought too much about Jiu-Jitsu until I heard that Ralph Gracie had opened an academy in San Francisco. At the time, in addition to my doorman gigs, I was also working as an ad-rep for the "SF WEEKLY." (It was my job to convince businesses to advertize in the paper.) Ralph did not advertize his academy in the paper, so it seemed the perfect excuse to visit the academy. It was there where I met Kurt Osiander, who was then a brown belt and presided over the everyday management of the academy. He was very gruff in appearance, but quite pleasant and friendly.

He anxiously answered any questions I had and before I knew what was happening, I was in a gi, rolling on the mat and getting my ass handed to me.

Ralph´s academy is VERY physical. Everybody there is in remakable shape and they train hard with each other. It was certainly a "sink-or-swim" situation for such a little guy to have placed himself into. I was getting injured nearly every other class. I´d be lying if I were to say that I hadn´t thought about quitting more than once. Now, I think the one thing that kept me in the game was that others thought that I would quit, that I couldn´t hack it and would eventually give-up and leave like so many before me. Those that thought so might have been right were it not for an incident that occured nearly 6 months after I began training.

Shortly after moving to San Francisco, I had become associated with a local wrestling promotion called, "Incredibly Strange Wrestling". It was a show that spliced live, masked, Mexican wrestling [Lucha Libre] with punk rock and the show was notorious for selling-out such venues as the legendary Fillmore Auditorium. I was approached by a friend who had asked if my wrestling alter-ego would be "Master of Ceremonies" at an event that her friend was putting on. The event was at a nightclub I knew and consisted of fire-dancers, poetry, live bands, the works. All that was expected of me was to introduce each act. The catch was that I would be there "in character" in my wrestling persona. I agreed to do it. It sounded like a good time and it was a great way to promote the next wrestling show. As luck would have it, one of the acts failed to show-up. So we had some dead space to fill on the bill. The promoter suddenly suggested to the audience that someone volunteer to wrestle the M.C. I wasn´t feeling all that scrappy, so I started pointing out pretty girls with whom I wouldn´t have minded rolling around on the floor. It was then that I heard a hearty, "I´ll wrestle him!" from the back of the room. As the crowd parted to let the guy through, his actual size became apparent with each step of his imminent approach. I gauged him at about maybe 6´4", 250 at his lightest, not very lean but massive nonetheless, beard, raggedy clothes... he looked as though he had walked down from some remote mountain top just to give me a sound trouncing! Lucky me! The situation was less than ideal. I was about to tussle with a man who outweighed me by 100 lbs on a non-padded floor with about 200 people watching. Plus, I was "in character" which meant I was representing the wrestling show, which meant that not only could I NOT back out, but I had to BEAT this guy, even if it meant clobbering him with a chair. They faced us off and indicated us to commence. I immediately plopped on my ass with my legs in front of me. This confused the guy and he looked around as though someone might tell him what to do from here. I capitalized on his inattentiveness and grabbed the back of his left ankle with my right hand.

He pratically walked into the set-up for the sickle-sweep and I easily put him on his ass. The stage errupted when he landed. Shaking the look of surprise off his face, he turned onto his hands and knees to pick himself up off the floor. I couldn´t believe he was actuall doing this: giving me his back as though it were Christmas! I leapt onto his back, placing both hooks and then securing a text book "mata leao". He tried to stand in a panic, but I squeezed. He fell back, perhaps in hopes that his body weight on top of me would be enough to shake me off. It wasn´t and I continued to squeeze. I whispered in his ear politely that he should tap my arm if he wanted me to release him, that I didn´t mean him any harm, but that I would not let him go unless he tapped. He struggled a bit and I could hear that he was having trouble breathing. I urged him again to please tap, to which he complied. I released him and helped him off the floor. The crowd went wild, but I could hardly hear them. I couldn´t believe that I had actually taken on this gigantic being and prevailed. I asked my friend, who had been timing it, how long the ordeal had lasted. She said that it took no more than 28 seconds.

It was this incident that solidified my Jiu-Jitsu obssession. I continued to train at Ralph´s academy for a year before moving to Los Angeles, where I trained under John and Jean-Jacques Machado. It was during this time I had made the acquaintance of Rudy Fishman and Dennis Asche. Though I could not have known it at the time, my friendship with them would have a profound effect on my training and my life.

After living in Los Angeles for 14 months, I had decided to move. My Father had recently suffered a stroke and I was in between jobs and relationships.

I decided to take some time out to spend with my family which involved moving to Aspen, Colorado. The closest academy was in Boulder, which was a four hour drive from me. After I had landed a job working in the local bookstore, I had requested that they allow me my two days off back-to-back so that I may drive to Boulder and train. In Boulder I trained under Amal Easton who is a black belt and student of Renzo´s. I felt incredibly fortunate to have found such great instruction so far inland. Amal´s academy was first-rate and proved well worth the 8 hours of driving time to and from the academy. Though being within driving distance of an excellent teacher, I was still only able to train 2 days out of the week, which did have an adverse effect on my game. Over a period of time, I spoke with Amal about starting a Jiu-Jitsu club in Aspen and teaching his cirriculum. This endeavor required a lot of hustle on my part. I had to visit different facilities and pitch to their administartive staff what it was I had to offer, which was not always enthusiastically recieved. Apsen is, for the most part, a very small and exceptionally wealthy, ski-resort town. The city´s police cruisers are Saabs and most of the gym´s clientelle consisted of trophy wives who were only interested in Yoga and Pilates in hopes of making their butts smaller. Luckily enough, and through some fairly persistent badgering on my part, I caught the interest of the local recreational center which provided me a venue in which to have classes and the insurance under which I was able to operate with minimal liability and the only asked for 25% of the bag. Over time, I was teaching a handful of very dedicated beginners with whom I could devote a lot of time and attention.

Since the move to Colorado I had kept in sporadic contact with Dennis. He
had won his division in the Gracie Challenge put on by Rorion where the prize was a free trip to Brazil to train with Master Helio. Apparently, Dennis liked it there so much that he decided to settle there. When I did hear from him, he would always pester me about when I was coming down to Brazil. "Soon." I would tell him. It wasn´t until last January that Dennis once again posed me with his favorite question. I had been in Colorado for a year and though I had met some really good people, I was finding that life in a remote vacation town for the ultra-wealthy wasn´t really to my liking.

Though I felt lucky to be able to train at all, 2 days out of the week was falling short of what I wanted for myself. I had developed an affectionate bond with the students in my class, but they also had plans, schedules and lives of their own to which they needed to attend as I did mine. "I´ll be down come Summer." I answered.

Naturally, I had doubts. But I was more afraid of what would happen had I chosen NOT to go. And truthfully, the opportunity was too good to pass up. I had a friend who was already established in Brazil and willing to make all the arrangements and provisions necessary so that I could come down and train. Chances such as these do not fall from trees and can ill-afford to be ignored. (Wow, that rhymes!)

What follows is a first-hand account of what it´s like for me, being a stranger in a foreign land, to have come all the way down here to take-in a whole other culture and gain a better understanding of Jiu-Jitsu.

Click here contact Link in Brazil