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“Pegue o cimento nesse saco.” I racked my brain, trying desperately to dredge up what little Portuguese I knew. But hopelessly, I’d never got beyond the first couple of lessons on Duolingo. Abacaxi, menino. Pineapple and boy. I didn’t think either of those words would do me much good now. I smiled, nodded. Sign language would have to do. Lifted up the metal implements the man had just bestowed upon me, gesturing to the big bucket of cement he’d dragged into the middle of the room. Two strange looking icing tubes were laid out on the floor. He mimed filling them up. When I had planned my trip to Brazil those months ago, nowhere had I pencilled in the itinerary learning to tile a bathroom. Wanting to make it easier, I’d arranged to live with an English-speaking family, using my lack of proficiency at languages as an excuse not to bother trying to learn. But last minute, the family had cancelled my stay. So here I was, dumped unceremoniously in the middle of nowhere with their family friends who spoke not a word of English. We got to work, Brazilian radio music playing in the background, the methodical process of tiling broken up only by a nod, a smile as we worked. I was filling in cement between the tiles. Line up the icing tube and squeeze. Then out came the metal spatula which I dragged down, smoothing over my messy work. Occasionally Clovis would say something in Portuguese and laugh and I would laugh, and sometimes I would say something in English and nod as he pretended he had understood. The views through the still empty window frames really were stunning. From the scaffolding of the half-built house, we could see right across an unbroken blanket of rainforest. I tried to ask if there were tigers and jaguars out there, mining roaring. Clovis just laughed in response. The tops of the trees were soft and fuzzy, like green dyed clouds, the sky so bright it could have been pieced together with electric blue fish scales. Part of me felt sad about the new houses and the disruption they were causing to this place of natural beauty. But I knew this family’s livelihood depended on it. After an hour Clovis gestured that we should stop. I followed him down the wobbling wooden ladder and back into the main house, finding to my delight that a sumptuous array of food had been laid out for us on the table. The days passed in a blur. Breakfast of home-made cake and bread, fresh milk and cheese. Then to the house to begin our tiling. Lunch, second lunch, a pre-dinner snack. Constantly in a sleepy state of permanent fullness. On evenings we’d sit around the wood-burning stove, watching bread rising in the oven. The simplest questions became elaborate charades as I tried, with varying success, to communicate. I was taught to milk cows, to make cups out of leaves. I learnt words in Portuguese with a thick farmer’s accent. The rest of life felt very far away. Later in bed, I would teach myself more of the language, forcing myself to practice, fail, try again. Unlike at home when I couldn’t see what I was learning it for, being here had filled me with a burning desire to be able to communicate. On my final day, we brought supper up to the rooftop of the scaffolding. Legs dangling over the edge, we watched the sunset splash over the rainforest like a cracked egg, leaking vivid orange yolk across the horizon. I stared, wide-eyed, hoping I could brand the image in my mind forever. The next morning, the whole family lined up in the doorway when I left, waving me goodbye. I was touched when they presented me with a jar of homemade jam, along with a big hug which I didn’t need to speak Portuguese to understand. I looked at the label neatly handwritten onto the front of the jar. Abacaxi. A pineapple chutney. At last, thank you DuoLingo.