To anyone seeing this page for the first time- the following paragraphs represent the last five months of my life travelling through South America, primarily Brazil. I wrote posts as I went, and the layout of this site is such that posts stack top to bottom, most recent first. Therefore, If you want follow my journey chronologically, and actually make sense of what I am talking about, you are best to start at the bottom and work your way up. Enjoy, and if you have questions, comments, or travel plans of your own, please let me know. Yours, Mike.
Also, photos can be found here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/65236019@N00/
Friday, July 6, 2007
Buenos Aires
Buenos Aires. I never intended to come here- but like I said before, every other traveler I met had just come from Buenos Aires and was raving about it, so I figured what the heck, it was on the way right? A week or so before I was to travel I decided to look up the weather in Buenos Aires, since people had mentioned it would be cooler. Cooler?! It was frikkin cold over there. In Rio I was complaining about lows of 70 degrees. In Buenos Aires they were showing 50 degrees in the middle of the day. Oops. I guess I better buy a long sleeve shirt or two? I did buy one long sleeve shirt, but I figured I'd buy a jacket there if I needed, the exchange rate was great (3 to 1): after the economic meltdown everything was supposed to be quite cheap over there.
As soon as the plane landed I could tell by the way the lights were shining that it was cold outside. There was something about their chrystalline sparkle. I hadn't seen air like that since I left the States in January. Those that know me know one my favorite things to do is invent scientific theories and pass them off as fact, a habit I acquired from my Dad. He was extremely convincing. In fact when I was younger I was pretty sure he knew Everything with a capital E. So I am going to say that cold air holds less water vapor and therefore is clearer, thus objects in the distance and particularly shining lights have a crispness and clarity that you won't see in warmer climes, or in a country like Brazil for example. That's my theory and I'm stickin to it.
Anyways, I would soon learn the Buenos Aires differed in many ways from Rio. For one thing, cars yield for pedestrians (kind of), even taxis. For another thing, everyone was wearing a lot of clothes. I know that shouldn't seem so weird, after all it was cold like I said, but I just have been hanging out in beach clothes for five months in a country that just doesn't get cold, so it was weird, thats all. Then there were the mullets. If you don't know, the mullet is a hairstyle openly ridiculed throughout the US and many other nations, involving short hair on the front, top, and sides, and long hair in the back. Mexicans tend to sport mullets here and there, but Argentina has got to be the mullet capital of the world, they even have girl mullets. Actually most of the mullets are on girls, some kind of spiky Pat Benetar retro 80s kind of thing.
Another thing, Buenos Aires is just huge. I got an idea when I looked up a satellite image on google, but as we drove towards downtown and especially in the downtown area (which goes on forever in all directions), the scale was simply enormous. The buildings were huge, the streets were huge, and everything went on forever. The main thoroughfare is sixteen lanes wide, with a huge swath of grass, trees, sidewalks, and monuments in the middle. It is the biggest in SA, if not the world. Oh and monuments. OMG. I have seen more monuments and giant, White-House scale, colonial marble buildings in the last week than I have in my whole life, and I have visited at least fifteen world capitals.
I'm not sure how the population figures break down for Buenos AIres vs other areas I have visited, such as Rio or LA, but BA takes the prize for imparting the sense of being part of a vast sea of seething humanity. I think part of it is the geography. Rio is so full of mountains and hills and lakes and beaches connected by tunnels and bridges that it gets all chopped up, and you always sense more that you are in a neighborhood (like Ipanema or Copa) instead of in the city as a whole. BA is built on completely featureless terrain. It does back up to water on one side, an oceanic bay of sorts, but other than that is just flat and vast. For an architecture fan (like me) BA is heaven. In terms of sheer quantity, it must have more grandiose marble buildings from the classical period than any other city in the Americas. I spent a week walking around town, covering a lot of ground and trying to never hit a street twice if there was something new to see. Through most of these areas every other building is a marble and granite behemoth with detailed columns, balconies, dormers, cupolas, statuary, buttresses, etc. It was fantastic. In addition there were endless parks splitting up the crush of the highrises, always with fantastic (and large) monuments to this or that battle, or dictator, or war, or poet or whatever. In the middle of things rose a giant spire called the Obelisko, something like the Washington monument but probably bigger. This was the most modern and boring monument I could find, but probably the biggest as well.
So I had a great time walking the streets and admiring architecture and sculpture, but the other great thing about Argentina is the food. First let's talk beef. Everyone knows Argentina is the beef capital of the world. Every time I talk to someone who has visited they give me this"mmmmmmmm" as they talk about it. I've always kind of thought "yeah whatever, beef is beef". OK I was wrong. Picture if you can a steak that melts in your mouth, a steak you hardly have to chew, lean and flavorful, tender- mmmmmmmmmmmm. It's true. I even had this experience with a regular hamburger if you can believe it. Next up they make great bread. Everywhere I went as soon as I ordered my meal a basket of fresh baked bread would appear on my table, full of the several varieties of delicious and fresh baked rolls. I'm not a big wine guy but it seemed to go with things and Argentinian wineries are on the map. So you've got all this, and the exchange rate is three to one, and things are just cheap anyways, and my days often seemed spent in biding time between meals. Plus there are restaurants everywhere, all with great service, great food, great coffee, and super cheap prices. I read somewhere in a travel article that before you go to BA you should diet or try to lose a few pounds so that you can eat your way through town when you come. Good advice and I certainly took it to heart.
Buenos Aires seemed very peaceful and safe, and somehow felt more familiar in 2 hours than Brazil has gotten after 3 visits over the last five years. I could have been in Chicago, except everyone was speaking spanish. Despite this, I did have to remind myself that it was little over twenty years ago, in the eighties, when I was living in Peru and Colombia, that Argentina was ruled by a vicious and brutal dictator. Freedom of press, assembly, even thought, was utterly revoked, and anyone dissenting or even assumed to be dissenting would silently "disappear" presumably captured, tortured, and executed with no public record or due process. And everyone I was seeing on the streets had been living during this period, and touched be these horrible memories. Nowadays there is a bit more freedom and the attending anarchy.
Walking downtown one evening I noticed the military police had closed some of the major streets, which were littered with propaganda fliers, some burning in small piles, and student types hanging about in small groups. I guess I was catching the end of a "protesta", students exercising their economic rights. Then later my cab rounded a corner to find a burning car in the middle of the street. Some cops were milling about, and as we moved on a fire engine rounded the corner and its hose and wheel blocks flew out of a side compartment. It pulled to a stop and the Bombeiros scrambled out to get their equipment, like the keystone cops. Then a bus drove by filled with screaming people, hanging out the window and pounding the steel shell of the bus, one guy completely outside the bus standing on the window sill as the bus careened down the street. I guess Argentina had just beat Brasil in soccer. So, peaceful, but not entirely tame. On my final taxi ride to the airport we spent the whole ride listening to a radio commentator reporting on a riot that had developed after a soccer game that night, leading to widespread violence and vandalism, with at least one fatality. I asked the cab driver if people always got killed at soccer matches in Argentina. He said yes matter-of-factly. "Whether we win or lose, someone has to die. " Yikes. One morning in my hostel I awoke to gunshots nearby. I freaked out a little bit, in my mind, "so here's the Argentine violence, under cover of night, gunshots with unknown victims?" My mental dramatizing ended up being overblown as it turned out to be someone doing some tile work in my hostels entry (construction seems to follow me wherever I have gone).
Another great, great reason to visit Argentina is for the antiques. For all the classic and ornate building and monuments in the city, for the same period of time, glassworkers, silversmiths, jewelers, millworkers, and furniture builders have been crafting exquisite ornaments and furniture for their interiors, and now that the peso is devalued relative to other currencies, it is a paradise for antique hunters. Some neighborhoods (quaint San Telmo for example) contain block after block of antique stores, where you can spend days checking out lost treasures. On the weekends, roads are closed and vendors spread their wares on the sidewalks and squares in the antique district. Everyone comes out and its a great Sunday stroll.
Well jeez, so there's lots of great stuff in Buenos Aires, but you're not going to believe this next one. One of my favorite afternoons in BA I spent in the Recoleta Cemetary! As old as the city itself, and right in the middle of downtown in the Recoleta District, is a huge and ancient cemetary housing block after block of ornate mausoleums and crypts. Each one is a miniatre version of some of the beautiful mansions and public buildings in town, with columns, towers, statuary and intricate stone carved embellishment. The angel of death is a common theme, cowled maidens, skeletons, military figures, bugling angels, cherubs, unicorns. When I visited it was a cool, overcast, gray day, perfect for strolling the labyrinth of crypts; the dark statues casting gloomy shadows over the lane. Very gothic and trippy, alsmost too perfectly haunting to be real, as if you were on a movie set or walking through a painting. Outside of the cemetary are the usual high rises and city parks. The draw of the cemetary as a tourist attraction has vitalized the area and now there are many great restaurants and drinking spots, shopping and even movie theaters; it's a nice area to walk.
Last but not least we'll mention the night life. Buenos Aires is internationally acclaimed for the diversity and quality of dancing, drinking and entertainment options. With only six days to take it all in, and knowing the early parts of the weeks are often slow, I did my best to see it all, some nights hitting three spots in a row. At first blush the atmosphere of Buenos Aires was not screaming- "party town." The people on the street and the general vibe of the city is more of the serious and hardworking, and not frivolous or fun loving. This was in contrast to Rio and Brasil in general where you definitely felt that "people here have fun". However, once you walk through the doors of the prescribed spot, the masks come off and people let their guard down. I found the music to be of consistently high quality, DJs spinning original, current and quality selections, and the clubs to be spacious, clean, nicely put together, and packed (after 2am of course, when parties start). One of my first nights out I hit three spots over the course of the night, sampling the options. First spot was an upscale sushi restaurant called Asia De Cuba, which turned to dance club at night. The interior was dark/modern, with coiling dragons in the middle of the dance floor and nicely dressed clubbers and restaurant patrons milling about. As soon as I got inside a capoeira demonstration/perfomance ensued. Six guys whirled and flipped to music in a choreographed acrobatic demonstration. Part of me scoffed at the choreographed aspect, since in Brasil you don't see that, (it would be considered fake), however it was entertaining and the performers' athleticism was excellent. After that I decided soon enough that the clientelle weren't exactly my kind of people. Figuring I'd caught the best of the night there anyway, I moved on.
Next spot was called club 69, a famous and old theater and nightlife destination. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but I was very pleasantly surprised. The architecture was your basic 100 yr old theater- balcony section, multi levelled floor area with no seating, bars along the sides, and a large elevated stage with mandatory red velvet curtain and gold trim. The place was packed with young people dancing, drinking, and enjoying the quality dj selections. The vibe was casual and more my scene. What set this place apart however was the constant dance and performance art going on the stage and floor. Wen I first walked in there were two go go platforms in the middle of the floor with girls dancing on them. Each was on wheels and would be pushed about the dance floor. Each of the dancing girls had a male partner in a bizarre costume accompaning them. The outfits were an interesting cross of wigs and victoriana with a more burning man fishnet and boot type of thing. The vibe was not sleazy at all, it was more like elizabethan theater or opera, with the performers strking poses and behaving silly. Soon enough the stage was filled with more performers alternating between dancing, posing, and goofing off in tights. Interestingly, to a large extent the performers were being ignored. Most people were just dancing or interacting with their friends, but if anyone had a bored or alone moment all they had to do was look up to find something engaging.
In my casual hobby of photography, I have decided that a great photograph has three elements. A great sunset will make a good picture, but for greatness you need more. Take your great sunset, then silhouette something of interest, a building, statue, or person. Then to really set it apart, incorporate something else, maybe a flying bird or something else spontaneous or interesting. Hard to do, but worth striving for with every shot. The reason for this tangent is that this club was kind of using the same technique. Great building, great club, great music, great vibe, packed house, and on top of everything constant all night performances that don't overwhelm the atmosphere but contribute to it. After an hour or so of the vaudeville/burlesque thing, there was a 1/2 hour top notch breakdance performance. I have seen break dancing all over the world yet these young argentinians were the best I have ever seen, and truly icing on the cake after everything else. I enjoyed this spot very much but eventually decided I had done it and decided to check out one more spot. Getting towards five am I landed at a club I've forgotten the name of. The scene there was a bit more standard; hip hop and dance tracks in a club that was nice but moving ever so slightly towards the seedy. It was packed, hot and sweaty and the floor was jumping. Much more of a hookup spot than the others I had seen that night, though by 5 am everyone was pretty much hooked up already. It was cool but not nearly as interesting as the other spots I'd seen, so I called it a night pretty soon.
Anyhow, there's a slice of what goes on in BA at night. There plenty to do and it's usually pretty above average in terms of quality and scale. I found the contrast with Brasil interesting. BA definitely has nicer clubs, better djs, classier bars, and more diversty of options. On the other side of things, brasilians are just more fun. They do a lot with a little. They may not have the wealth, the smoked glass bartops, the international DJs, the $80 VIP areas, but they can have twice as much fun drinking cheap beer and dancing to live samba at the corner supermarket. I appreciated both, but it was interesting to see how much the spirit of a people can affect the quality of a party.
After several days of walking the chilly streets by day and prowling the clubs by night, I had to give my body a break and took a night off. After watching Pirates of the Caribbean 3 in spanish at a local theater, I retired early (midnight) to my hostel, to pack and prepare for my 24 hr journey back to America. It was hard to believe that after all this time I would be back to speaking english in just one day. I was ready. I was ready to be warm. I was ready for the warm dry california summer. Ready for the Pacific Ocean and cold water surfing. Ready for old friends and familiar faces. Ready for routines and the comfort of the known. Ready to not be such a blue eyed curly haired oddity. Ready to not be a tourist. And so it was with my surfboard, backpack, and brazilian drum in tow, I watched the South American soil pull away from the plane. Homeward bound.
As soon as the plane landed I could tell by the way the lights were shining that it was cold outside. There was something about their chrystalline sparkle. I hadn't seen air like that since I left the States in January. Those that know me know one my favorite things to do is invent scientific theories and pass them off as fact, a habit I acquired from my Dad. He was extremely convincing. In fact when I was younger I was pretty sure he knew Everything with a capital E. So I am going to say that cold air holds less water vapor and therefore is clearer, thus objects in the distance and particularly shining lights have a crispness and clarity that you won't see in warmer climes, or in a country like Brazil for example. That's my theory and I'm stickin to it.
Anyways, I would soon learn the Buenos Aires differed in many ways from Rio. For one thing, cars yield for pedestrians (kind of), even taxis. For another thing, everyone was wearing a lot of clothes. I know that shouldn't seem so weird, after all it was cold like I said, but I just have been hanging out in beach clothes for five months in a country that just doesn't get cold, so it was weird, thats all. Then there were the mullets. If you don't know, the mullet is a hairstyle openly ridiculed throughout the US and many other nations, involving short hair on the front, top, and sides, and long hair in the back. Mexicans tend to sport mullets here and there, but Argentina has got to be the mullet capital of the world, they even have girl mullets. Actually most of the mullets are on girls, some kind of spiky Pat Benetar retro 80s kind of thing.
Another thing, Buenos Aires is just huge. I got an idea when I looked up a satellite image on google, but as we drove towards downtown and especially in the downtown area (which goes on forever in all directions), the scale was simply enormous. The buildings were huge, the streets were huge, and everything went on forever. The main thoroughfare is sixteen lanes wide, with a huge swath of grass, trees, sidewalks, and monuments in the middle. It is the biggest in SA, if not the world. Oh and monuments. OMG. I have seen more monuments and giant, White-House scale, colonial marble buildings in the last week than I have in my whole life, and I have visited at least fifteen world capitals.
I'm not sure how the population figures break down for Buenos AIres vs other areas I have visited, such as Rio or LA, but BA takes the prize for imparting the sense of being part of a vast sea of seething humanity. I think part of it is the geography. Rio is so full of mountains and hills and lakes and beaches connected by tunnels and bridges that it gets all chopped up, and you always sense more that you are in a neighborhood (like Ipanema or Copa) instead of in the city as a whole. BA is built on completely featureless terrain. It does back up to water on one side, an oceanic bay of sorts, but other than that is just flat and vast. For an architecture fan (like me) BA is heaven. In terms of sheer quantity, it must have more grandiose marble buildings from the classical period than any other city in the Americas. I spent a week walking around town, covering a lot of ground and trying to never hit a street twice if there was something new to see. Through most of these areas every other building is a marble and granite behemoth with detailed columns, balconies, dormers, cupolas, statuary, buttresses, etc. It was fantastic. In addition there were endless parks splitting up the crush of the highrises, always with fantastic (and large) monuments to this or that battle, or dictator, or war, or poet or whatever. In the middle of things rose a giant spire called the Obelisko, something like the Washington monument but probably bigger. This was the most modern and boring monument I could find, but probably the biggest as well.
So I had a great time walking the streets and admiring architecture and sculpture, but the other great thing about Argentina is the food. First let's talk beef. Everyone knows Argentina is the beef capital of the world. Every time I talk to someone who has visited they give me this"mmmmmmmm" as they talk about it. I've always kind of thought "yeah whatever, beef is beef". OK I was wrong. Picture if you can a steak that melts in your mouth, a steak you hardly have to chew, lean and flavorful, tender- mmmmmmmmmmmm. It's true. I even had this experience with a regular hamburger if you can believe it. Next up they make great bread. Everywhere I went as soon as I ordered my meal a basket of fresh baked bread would appear on my table, full of the several varieties of delicious and fresh baked rolls. I'm not a big wine guy but it seemed to go with things and Argentinian wineries are on the map. So you've got all this, and the exchange rate is three to one, and things are just cheap anyways, and my days often seemed spent in biding time between meals. Plus there are restaurants everywhere, all with great service, great food, great coffee, and super cheap prices. I read somewhere in a travel article that before you go to BA you should diet or try to lose a few pounds so that you can eat your way through town when you come. Good advice and I certainly took it to heart.
Buenos Aires seemed very peaceful and safe, and somehow felt more familiar in 2 hours than Brazil has gotten after 3 visits over the last five years. I could have been in Chicago, except everyone was speaking spanish. Despite this, I did have to remind myself that it was little over twenty years ago, in the eighties, when I was living in Peru and Colombia, that Argentina was ruled by a vicious and brutal dictator. Freedom of press, assembly, even thought, was utterly revoked, and anyone dissenting or even assumed to be dissenting would silently "disappear" presumably captured, tortured, and executed with no public record or due process. And everyone I was seeing on the streets had been living during this period, and touched be these horrible memories. Nowadays there is a bit more freedom and the attending anarchy.
Walking downtown one evening I noticed the military police had closed some of the major streets, which were littered with propaganda fliers, some burning in small piles, and student types hanging about in small groups. I guess I was catching the end of a "protesta", students exercising their economic rights. Then later my cab rounded a corner to find a burning car in the middle of the street. Some cops were milling about, and as we moved on a fire engine rounded the corner and its hose and wheel blocks flew out of a side compartment. It pulled to a stop and the Bombeiros scrambled out to get their equipment, like the keystone cops. Then a bus drove by filled with screaming people, hanging out the window and pounding the steel shell of the bus, one guy completely outside the bus standing on the window sill as the bus careened down the street. I guess Argentina had just beat Brasil in soccer. So, peaceful, but not entirely tame. On my final taxi ride to the airport we spent the whole ride listening to a radio commentator reporting on a riot that had developed after a soccer game that night, leading to widespread violence and vandalism, with at least one fatality. I asked the cab driver if people always got killed at soccer matches in Argentina. He said yes matter-of-factly. "Whether we win or lose, someone has to die. " Yikes. One morning in my hostel I awoke to gunshots nearby. I freaked out a little bit, in my mind, "so here's the Argentine violence, under cover of night, gunshots with unknown victims?" My mental dramatizing ended up being overblown as it turned out to be someone doing some tile work in my hostels entry (construction seems to follow me wherever I have gone).
Another great, great reason to visit Argentina is for the antiques. For all the classic and ornate building and monuments in the city, for the same period of time, glassworkers, silversmiths, jewelers, millworkers, and furniture builders have been crafting exquisite ornaments and furniture for their interiors, and now that the peso is devalued relative to other currencies, it is a paradise for antique hunters. Some neighborhoods (quaint San Telmo for example) contain block after block of antique stores, where you can spend days checking out lost treasures. On the weekends, roads are closed and vendors spread their wares on the sidewalks and squares in the antique district. Everyone comes out and its a great Sunday stroll.
Well jeez, so there's lots of great stuff in Buenos Aires, but you're not going to believe this next one. One of my favorite afternoons in BA I spent in the Recoleta Cemetary! As old as the city itself, and right in the middle of downtown in the Recoleta District, is a huge and ancient cemetary housing block after block of ornate mausoleums and crypts. Each one is a miniatre version of some of the beautiful mansions and public buildings in town, with columns, towers, statuary and intricate stone carved embellishment. The angel of death is a common theme, cowled maidens, skeletons, military figures, bugling angels, cherubs, unicorns. When I visited it was a cool, overcast, gray day, perfect for strolling the labyrinth of crypts; the dark statues casting gloomy shadows over the lane. Very gothic and trippy, alsmost too perfectly haunting to be real, as if you were on a movie set or walking through a painting. Outside of the cemetary are the usual high rises and city parks. The draw of the cemetary as a tourist attraction has vitalized the area and now there are many great restaurants and drinking spots, shopping and even movie theaters; it's a nice area to walk.
Last but not least we'll mention the night life. Buenos Aires is internationally acclaimed for the diversity and quality of dancing, drinking and entertainment options. With only six days to take it all in, and knowing the early parts of the weeks are often slow, I did my best to see it all, some nights hitting three spots in a row. At first blush the atmosphere of Buenos Aires was not screaming- "party town." The people on the street and the general vibe of the city is more of the serious and hardworking, and not frivolous or fun loving. This was in contrast to Rio and Brasil in general where you definitely felt that "people here have fun". However, once you walk through the doors of the prescribed spot, the masks come off and people let their guard down. I found the music to be of consistently high quality, DJs spinning original, current and quality selections, and the clubs to be spacious, clean, nicely put together, and packed (after 2am of course, when parties start). One of my first nights out I hit three spots over the course of the night, sampling the options. First spot was an upscale sushi restaurant called Asia De Cuba, which turned to dance club at night. The interior was dark/modern, with coiling dragons in the middle of the dance floor and nicely dressed clubbers and restaurant patrons milling about. As soon as I got inside a capoeira demonstration/perfomance ensued. Six guys whirled and flipped to music in a choreographed acrobatic demonstration. Part of me scoffed at the choreographed aspect, since in Brasil you don't see that, (it would be considered fake), however it was entertaining and the performers' athleticism was excellent. After that I decided soon enough that the clientelle weren't exactly my kind of people. Figuring I'd caught the best of the night there anyway, I moved on.
Next spot was called club 69, a famous and old theater and nightlife destination. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but I was very pleasantly surprised. The architecture was your basic 100 yr old theater- balcony section, multi levelled floor area with no seating, bars along the sides, and a large elevated stage with mandatory red velvet curtain and gold trim. The place was packed with young people dancing, drinking, and enjoying the quality dj selections. The vibe was casual and more my scene. What set this place apart however was the constant dance and performance art going on the stage and floor. Wen I first walked in there were two go go platforms in the middle of the floor with girls dancing on them. Each was on wheels and would be pushed about the dance floor. Each of the dancing girls had a male partner in a bizarre costume accompaning them. The outfits were an interesting cross of wigs and victoriana with a more burning man fishnet and boot type of thing. The vibe was not sleazy at all, it was more like elizabethan theater or opera, with the performers strking poses and behaving silly. Soon enough the stage was filled with more performers alternating between dancing, posing, and goofing off in tights. Interestingly, to a large extent the performers were being ignored. Most people were just dancing or interacting with their friends, but if anyone had a bored or alone moment all they had to do was look up to find something engaging.
In my casual hobby of photography, I have decided that a great photograph has three elements. A great sunset will make a good picture, but for greatness you need more. Take your great sunset, then silhouette something of interest, a building, statue, or person. Then to really set it apart, incorporate something else, maybe a flying bird or something else spontaneous or interesting. Hard to do, but worth striving for with every shot. The reason for this tangent is that this club was kind of using the same technique. Great building, great club, great music, great vibe, packed house, and on top of everything constant all night performances that don't overwhelm the atmosphere but contribute to it. After an hour or so of the vaudeville/burlesque thing, there was a 1/2 hour top notch breakdance performance. I have seen break dancing all over the world yet these young argentinians were the best I have ever seen, and truly icing on the cake after everything else. I enjoyed this spot very much but eventually decided I had done it and decided to check out one more spot. Getting towards five am I landed at a club I've forgotten the name of. The scene there was a bit more standard; hip hop and dance tracks in a club that was nice but moving ever so slightly towards the seedy. It was packed, hot and sweaty and the floor was jumping. Much more of a hookup spot than the others I had seen that night, though by 5 am everyone was pretty much hooked up already. It was cool but not nearly as interesting as the other spots I'd seen, so I called it a night pretty soon.
Anyhow, there's a slice of what goes on in BA at night. There plenty to do and it's usually pretty above average in terms of quality and scale. I found the contrast with Brasil interesting. BA definitely has nicer clubs, better djs, classier bars, and more diversty of options. On the other side of things, brasilians are just more fun. They do a lot with a little. They may not have the wealth, the smoked glass bartops, the international DJs, the $80 VIP areas, but they can have twice as much fun drinking cheap beer and dancing to live samba at the corner supermarket. I appreciated both, but it was interesting to see how much the spirit of a people can affect the quality of a party.
After several days of walking the chilly streets by day and prowling the clubs by night, I had to give my body a break and took a night off. After watching Pirates of the Caribbean 3 in spanish at a local theater, I retired early (midnight) to my hostel, to pack and prepare for my 24 hr journey back to America. It was hard to believe that after all this time I would be back to speaking english in just one day. I was ready. I was ready to be warm. I was ready for the warm dry california summer. Ready for the Pacific Ocean and cold water surfing. Ready for old friends and familiar faces. Ready for routines and the comfort of the known. Ready to not be such a blue eyed curly haired oddity. Ready to not be a tourist. And so it was with my surfboard, backpack, and brazilian drum in tow, I watched the South American soil pull away from the plane. Homeward bound.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Rio II
So where was I? Wing men. It´s good to have party buddies. Brett turned out to be from Berkely, living in Salt Lake City, involved in putting together and promoting musical events. He knew of my band Aphrodesia. Like minded souls we made quick friends and spent a couple weeks knocking about Rio, before he split for South Africa and Turkey. Around this time we also met Dave, a lawyer from SF invovled in prosecuting food engineering giant Monsanto. He´s lived in Rio off and on for 5 years when his case work allows and he is, as the brazilians say, "muito experto". He knows the town and what goes on when, he was great to have show us around. After a few weeks both of these guys were on their way, and I was set up in my apartmett with internet connection and a bike. I spent a bit of time with a swiss jazz guitarist I met, we caught some fantastic live jazz one night at Semente in Lapa. I usually knew people when I went out, but no party buddy, at least not for a few days, when I am walking out of my favorite restaurant and I get a-"aren´t you a drummer?"
In Rio I ran into no less than four friends and acquaintences from California- all completely randomly. Two friends of Rebeccas from back in the day- Nicole and Liana, a brazilian who lived in SC for many years, Debora, and now here is Morgan, who I haven´t seen in probably six years. Morgan and I used to play drums together, and he also knows my friend SoulSalaam who lives in Sao Paolo now. Morgan moved to Rio five years previous, and was recently separated from his brazilian wife of 3.5 years. With common history and interests, fluent portuguese, and single status, we made a good team. He knew the off the beaten track spots, which was great because after three weeks I had visited most of the usual spots.
I said before that Rio proved to be quite safe, and this was true for me, but I will have to share the story of my worst encounter in Rio- the afore mentioned goo gobbing. I was reading in my guide book about dangers and annoyances, when I came across a chapter describing an interesting scheme. Basically, a team of thieves conspires and one will splash something nasty onto the victims clothes and then split. This is usually done "accidentally" or perhaps surreptitiously. Then the other guy offers to help with the clean up, while he or yet another accomplice relieves the poor sucker of his valuables. I remember thinking "I´m glad that doesn´t happen in Brazil, how disgusting". Here people just blatantly shove their hands into your pockets in crowds and run away. So it happened a few days later I was walking through Copa and a man on a street=side barstool asked me for the time. I pulled my phone out and showed him, though strangely he seemed suddenly uninterested. I thought little of it and kept moving. After a block or two I noticed the guy was following me. He made a weak attempt at a smile as I moaned inwardly and kept moving. I didn´t know what he wanted, but I was sure it wasn´t good.
He kept with me and kept trying to get my attention, acting like he just wanted to make friends. Trapped by a red light, I had to answer the usual questions- where are you from, how long are you staying, do you like Rio, etc. He mentioned he shined shoes for a living- did I need a shoe shine? So that's what it was, he wanted to make some money shining my shoes. The guy must be an idiot though, my shoes are suede tennis shoes and they don`t like shoe polish. I said maybe tomorrow, my usual polite brush off. He was insistent however, and soon was pointing urgently at my shoes. I looked down. Groooossssssªªª There was a big smear of greasy looking brown goo on my brand new and quite expensive suede Pumas. In the middle of the smear was finger mark, the stuff was unmistakeably intentionally placed, though how or by who I had no idea. I had hardly stopped moving since I first saw him, and had kept him in my peripheral vision the whole time.
Well I was playing right into his hands, but I certainly didn÷t want to clean the stuff, or walk around town with it on my shoe, plus as oily as it looked it would probably require some special solvent, which undoubtedly this guy would have. The jerk happily got out his kit and put my foot on the stool, pulled out a rag and started smearing the goop around with it. I asked him suspiciously where he though it came from. He smiled and said sometimes stuff drips off the buildings. Yeah right. I kept an eye on him and another eye on my surroundings, wondering what form this rip off was going to take. He finished with the shoe, and though I could still see traces it was better than before, then asked for the other shoe. I told him that one was fine but the first was still dirty. He rubbed some more and then stepped back. I was pissed, but I hadnçt been robbed, and my shoe was cleaner though not perfect, so I decided it was time to go. I mostly wanted to just split but instead I handed him a one real coin ¿50 cents?. He said no it was 3 reais. I angrily told him I thought he was the one who stained my shoe and thatçs all he was getting and walked off. Lame, but it could have been worse, and as my Swiss friend later explained, I got off pretty easy.
He told me it had happened to him twice and he had seen a team get some american tourists as well. He paid 30 reais one time. The next time he saw the whole thing coming and kept the guy with the shine kit in front of him. With one eye glued to him he glanced down at his shoes every couple of seconds to be sure. Somehow the goop miraculously appeared out of nowhere and he had to pay for a cleaning again. With the Americans he saw them get gooped and went to warn them about the scam when the scammer started yelling loudly that he was going to kill them all if they didnçt pay. So I guess I did OK with 1 real. Not my best day but at least nobody shot me+
Anyhow I think I spent about six weeks in Rio all told. When I arrived I was excited to feel like I had returned to civilization, with quality food and lodging and educated people to talk to. Also I was ready for a break from the road, and the space and privacy of my own apartment was a welcome change from hostels and pousadas. Also the months of partying and hard living were taking their toll on my body, and I was hoping to have some healthy living; biking, swimming, walking, and eating better and not drinking so much. I was only partly successful with this as the night time options were so varied and attractive I still went out most nights. Despite this Rio was a nice recharge. Some time early on I realized that I would have to return home soon. Though I did a pretty good job of wrapping things up before I left on my travels, after five months enough loose ends were unraveling at home that I was going to have to come home to take care of things. The date I picked was June 25, since that would give me just a few days to register my car before the deadline. Also, since almost every traveler I met in Rio had just come from Buenos Aires and was raving about it, I realized I would have to check it out on the way home. Thusly, Monday the nineteenth found me at the Rio International Airport, with back pack, surfboard, samba drum, and laptop in hand, saying bye to Brazilians soil and trying to write down some of the memories before they faded.
In Rio I ran into no less than four friends and acquaintences from California- all completely randomly. Two friends of Rebeccas from back in the day- Nicole and Liana, a brazilian who lived in SC for many years, Debora, and now here is Morgan, who I haven´t seen in probably six years. Morgan and I used to play drums together, and he also knows my friend SoulSalaam who lives in Sao Paolo now. Morgan moved to Rio five years previous, and was recently separated from his brazilian wife of 3.5 years. With common history and interests, fluent portuguese, and single status, we made a good team. He knew the off the beaten track spots, which was great because after three weeks I had visited most of the usual spots.
I said before that Rio proved to be quite safe, and this was true for me, but I will have to share the story of my worst encounter in Rio- the afore mentioned goo gobbing. I was reading in my guide book about dangers and annoyances, when I came across a chapter describing an interesting scheme. Basically, a team of thieves conspires and one will splash something nasty onto the victims clothes and then split. This is usually done "accidentally" or perhaps surreptitiously. Then the other guy offers to help with the clean up, while he or yet another accomplice relieves the poor sucker of his valuables. I remember thinking "I´m glad that doesn´t happen in Brazil, how disgusting". Here people just blatantly shove their hands into your pockets in crowds and run away. So it happened a few days later I was walking through Copa and a man on a street=side barstool asked me for the time. I pulled my phone out and showed him, though strangely he seemed suddenly uninterested. I thought little of it and kept moving. After a block or two I noticed the guy was following me. He made a weak attempt at a smile as I moaned inwardly and kept moving. I didn´t know what he wanted, but I was sure it wasn´t good.
He kept with me and kept trying to get my attention, acting like he just wanted to make friends. Trapped by a red light, I had to answer the usual questions- where are you from, how long are you staying, do you like Rio, etc. He mentioned he shined shoes for a living- did I need a shoe shine? So that's what it was, he wanted to make some money shining my shoes. The guy must be an idiot though, my shoes are suede tennis shoes and they don`t like shoe polish. I said maybe tomorrow, my usual polite brush off. He was insistent however, and soon was pointing urgently at my shoes. I looked down. Groooossssssªªª There was a big smear of greasy looking brown goo on my brand new and quite expensive suede Pumas. In the middle of the smear was finger mark, the stuff was unmistakeably intentionally placed, though how or by who I had no idea. I had hardly stopped moving since I first saw him, and had kept him in my peripheral vision the whole time.
Well I was playing right into his hands, but I certainly didn÷t want to clean the stuff, or walk around town with it on my shoe, plus as oily as it looked it would probably require some special solvent, which undoubtedly this guy would have. The jerk happily got out his kit and put my foot on the stool, pulled out a rag and started smearing the goop around with it. I asked him suspiciously where he though it came from. He smiled and said sometimes stuff drips off the buildings. Yeah right. I kept an eye on him and another eye on my surroundings, wondering what form this rip off was going to take. He finished with the shoe, and though I could still see traces it was better than before, then asked for the other shoe. I told him that one was fine but the first was still dirty. He rubbed some more and then stepped back. I was pissed, but I hadnçt been robbed, and my shoe was cleaner though not perfect, so I decided it was time to go. I mostly wanted to just split but instead I handed him a one real coin ¿50 cents?. He said no it was 3 reais. I angrily told him I thought he was the one who stained my shoe and thatçs all he was getting and walked off. Lame, but it could have been worse, and as my Swiss friend later explained, I got off pretty easy.
He told me it had happened to him twice and he had seen a team get some american tourists as well. He paid 30 reais one time. The next time he saw the whole thing coming and kept the guy with the shine kit in front of him. With one eye glued to him he glanced down at his shoes every couple of seconds to be sure. Somehow the goop miraculously appeared out of nowhere and he had to pay for a cleaning again. With the Americans he saw them get gooped and went to warn them about the scam when the scammer started yelling loudly that he was going to kill them all if they didnçt pay. So I guess I did OK with 1 real. Not my best day but at least nobody shot me+
Anyhow I think I spent about six weeks in Rio all told. When I arrived I was excited to feel like I had returned to civilization, with quality food and lodging and educated people to talk to. Also I was ready for a break from the road, and the space and privacy of my own apartment was a welcome change from hostels and pousadas. Also the months of partying and hard living were taking their toll on my body, and I was hoping to have some healthy living; biking, swimming, walking, and eating better and not drinking so much. I was only partly successful with this as the night time options were so varied and attractive I still went out most nights. Despite this Rio was a nice recharge. Some time early on I realized that I would have to return home soon. Though I did a pretty good job of wrapping things up before I left on my travels, after five months enough loose ends were unraveling at home that I was going to have to come home to take care of things. The date I picked was June 25, since that would give me just a few days to register my car before the deadline. Also, since almost every traveler I met in Rio had just come from Buenos Aires and was raving about it, I realized I would have to check it out on the way home. Thusly, Monday the nineteenth found me at the Rio International Airport, with back pack, surfboard, samba drum, and laptop in hand, saying bye to Brazilians soil and trying to write down some of the memories before they faded.
Rio
Rio. What comes to mind? Samba dancers in feathers and heels? Samba Music? The beach scene at Copacabana and Ipanema? Nightlife, surfing? The famous Christ statue on Corcovado mountain or the gondolas carrying people up Sugarloaf? The beaches, and the city lights at night? Museums, city parks, and colonial architecture? Do you think of high rises and population density? Do you think about news headlines and violence, 8 year old stick up artists with guns? Intersections where by law you no longer have to stop at red lights at night because of car jackings? Do you think of that movie you saw City of God, and how millions of poor live on hillsides looking right into the 10th floor apartment windows of the rich? Rio has it all- everything you've heard and much more you haven't.
In truth I was feeling some trepidation as my plane began its descent into Rio. I would consider Brazil to be one of the most violent and dangerous countries I have visited, but having spent enough time here I generally know how to stay out of trouble and minimize risk, and have fun in spite of it. The stories from Rio however gave me pause. In my travels I have been robbed at gunpoint and knifepoint, pickpocketed a hundred times, woken to intruders in my hotel rooms, found myself in the middle of street fights, and shared streets with terrorists and bombings. Somehow none of that makes me nervous, but Rio did. On a beach in placid Tamandare, a local woman had been telling me how it had made the news that another American tourist had been shot on the beach for refusing to surrender his twenty dollars or something. She said it was always the Americans who get in trouble, because they fight back or refuse. I guess I was just not comfortable with the whole kids and guns thing.
Anyways, after almost six weeks in Rio I am happy to report that for me anyways, it has been one of the safest and most comfortable places to travel in all of Brasil. Especially compared to a place like Salvador, where some low level of threat seems to be almost constant, Rio has been utterly peaceful. Which is not to say shit does not go down. In my first week there I was hearing almost daily stories of robberies on the streets right by our hostel, and my friend at another hostel reported how a man with a gun chased an irish couple off the street into his hostel, and through the locked security gate. All of the residents were completely helpless until the security guard decided to stand up to him and kick him out. Anyways, I decided not to spend too much time in those types of conversations or to live in fear, while keeping my wits about me. I had not a single problem, not even a cab driver trying to take me for a ride. OK well there was that goo gobbing incident- more on that later.
So back to my arrival. Our plane coasted over Rio in the early evening darkness, offering fantastic views of Rio´s bays and beaches and mountains. As I stepped into a cab for Ipanema, it was drizzling and for the first time in five months it felt a bit chilly for board shorts. After checking into my hostel I decided to take a look around. I fell in love almost instantly. The terrain in Rio is truly fantastic. Steep peeks burst from the flat earth every which way, with perfect crescents of white sand joining cove after cove, and neighborhoods bristling with high rise hotels and apartments sprouting from every piece of flat land. In many places the steep hillsides have provided foundations for the shantytowns of the poor, often directly adjacent to the high rises of the well-to-do. For the most part these Favelas are where the service workers live, after all, all the hotels, restaurants, and apartments and shops need maids, cooks, construction workers, security guards, door men, waiters, etc, though they certainly can't afford to live in the buildings they work in.
My hostel was in Ipanema, made famous by the inescapable bossa nova song A Garota De Ipanema (The Girl From Ipanema). The bar where it was penned lay a few blocks from my hostel, and was frequented by tourists and the occasional TV star. The various neighborhoods of Rio have taken turns over the centuries as 'the' place to be, with old neigborhoods like Botafogo sporting crumbling colonial mansions as a testament to their time as the area of choice for the rich. Nowadays Ipanema and especially Leblon and Gavea hold the prize, with rents and property values correspondingly inflated. In the earlier part of the century neighboring Copacabana and Leme held the crown, though these areas are fading towards shabby and somewhat dangerous.
As I walked around my neighborhood the highrises towered above me, while the vibe at street level was surprisingly warm and comfortable. Trees line the streets, and the bottoms of all the buildings are given over to restaurants, bars, juice stands, bakeries, boutiques, clothing, jewelry, movie theaters, etc. Almost every eatery or bar was completely open to the street, usually with tables on the sidewalk, and always full of people enjoying themselves loudly, at all hours of day and night. Every once in a while a glance to the sky would yield a fantastic mountain peak between the skyscrapers. After exploring these concrete corridors for a while and a few drinks, I glanced down a side street and realized with a start- thats the beach! It's easy to forget that the entirety of the concrete jungle of Copacabana, Leme, Ipanema, Leblon, and Gavea lie within three blocks of the most famous beaches in the world. It was towards midnight as I walked towards the ocean.
To emerge from the buildings was a shock. Where before I was closed in, it was dark, the air still, suddenly there was nothing but space, fresh ocean air and breezes, an expansive vista. The ocean was pounding the shore with huge waves, I could see the breakers and spray before I could even see the sand. And there was that tiled sidewalk. It's a part of everyones subconscious data bank, whether they know it or not, the characteristic swirly patterned sidewalks along the beaches in Rio. Of course, the original swirly one is in Copa. Here in ipanema it is a different playful pattern of squarish dots and doughnuts. As I walked across the street toward the water I glanced left to see the rocky outcrop called Arpoador, dividing Copa from Ipanema, and giving rise to the best waves for surfing in the area. To my right at the other end of the beach, signifying the end of Leblon, rose the dramatic mountain called Dois Irmaos- Two Brothers. Silhouetted by the night sky, the mountain sparkled with the glittering lights of the favelinha growing up its sides. As I stepped onto that sidewalk, the massive swell beat the shore explosively. Such natural splendour, and mere footsteps from the depths of concrete urban developement.
In my barhopping that night, I met quite a few people, mostly foreign travelers, which was great. When I first came to Brasil I didn't want to hang out with gringos, I didn't even want to speak english. I just wanted to go native, get into it, improve my language skills and escape from the known. Four months later, I was ready for a good conversation with someone who I might have something in common with. If you would have told me in January that I would enjoy my first night in Rio with three frat boys from South Carolina I would have laughed in your face, but that was exactly what I was doing, shooting a game of pool on a real table at an Irish pub, trading stories and enjoying the moment. I think that night or the next I met an English bloke and his Irish friend too. The English have made the best company in general on my trip- always good for a laugh.
The next day the sun came out and I decided to start getting to know the city. I set off on foot. That day and the next (and the next and the next), on foot and by bike, I began to take in my surroundings, and marvel at them. For miles in all directions were the now becoming familiar tree and granite lined corridors of juice bars and bakeries, shuffling pedestrians, frantic buses cabs and cyclists, honking horns, exhaust fumes, the smell of baking pastry or barbecuing chicken, the squeal of worn bus brakes. And never far, natural beauty worthy of any national park. In fact, If I were to try to describe Rio to someone who hadn't seen it, it would have to go like this. Start with Yosemite National Park. Then put five more El Capitans and ten more Half-Domes in it. Throw a giant natural lagoon in the middle of it. Put it next to the ocean, and include ten or so picture postcard beaches, wide crescents of sand strung one next to the other like a shell necklace. Then dump ten million people into it, and build a highrise on every inch of available flat land. Then watch the overflowing human tide scrambling up the mountainsides, building brick shantytowns and making space where there was none. Then imagine that somehow all of this humanity continues to be dwarfed by the natural splendour it inhabits, and that somehow the roads and concrete towers find harmony with the mountains, the bays, the beaches, the lagoon, and the canals.
The diversity of neighborhoods is also impressive. From Gavea to Leme, Copa, Ipanema and Leblon in between, there is certain homogeneity, though things move upscale the further south you go, these areas were built around the same time and are basically the major tourist destinations and beach hang outs. There are other areas though. Lagoa, the area around the lagoon, which is also right next to Ipanema, has different flavor, and a whole different type of peaceful chilling and appreciation of views can happen in this area. Gavea is a bit back from the beach and starts to move up the mountain, with fewer high-rises, more windy roads and views. Urca, a tiny community right under Sugarloaf mountain was one of my favorites. Off the beaten path and small, there are no high rises, only small colonial building of stone tucked between the water of the bay and the side of the mountain. Tree-lined roads wind and the sun sets on the water, with Corcovado and Christo rising behind. No traffic, tiny little bars and restaurants water front without big crowds. Botafogo is one of the areas whose hey day came and went hundreds of years ago, but as a result there are some fantastic (though crumbling) colonial buildings in this area. Santa Theresa, on the tourist radar but not spoiled, is a hilltop neighborhood sporting winding cobblestone streets, cable cars, views of the city, and funky old buildings undergoing transformation into artist studios, cafes, book stores, and art galleries. When we visited we chanced upon a multi-tiered out door cafe with an immense tree growing through it, where some women were practicing that kind of aerial ribbon dance, like in Cirque do Soleil, where they wind themselves up in a three story cloth ribbon then fall through the air. We also caught some excellent live samba with our lunch. Centro is the historical downtown, and has the greatest and most impressive concentration of old buildings, churches, courthouses, palaces, official buildings, and then just street upon street of simple stores housed in beautiful old structures, punctuated by plazas, parks, statues and sculptures. There are endless other neighborhoods, and though many of them aren't much worth seeing I did make it out to the famous Maracana stadium for a soccer game, and to Manguiera for a party at the famous samba school.
On my first week in town I walked out onto the rocks at Arpoador to catch the sunset with 1000 or so other like minded souls. From my seat on the rocks the waves were breaking right in front of me, I could sight down the tubes as the surfers rode by. The sun was setting at the other end of the beach behind the Two Brothers. Suddenly I could hear a thunking sound coming from behind the rock. It got louder and more earth rumbling until suddenly from behind the rock a huge bright red emergency helicopter emerged. It flew over head, flying low, then over the open ocean, the waves, and the surfers, It flew so low it whipped a huge cloud of spray up in a circle around it as it rode down the beach, the spray lit orange by the setting sun. As the sun passed behind the mountains and the orange reflected off the water, the high rise windows, the rocks, the sand, and the faces of the thousands sharing the moment with me, my body let out a deep mmmmmm kind of "this is good" kind of sigh.
Brazilians like to have fun, and the Cariocas (people from Rio) are experts. Everywhere you go in Rio, and in everythig the locals do, they find a way to have a great time. Lets start in the water and move in. The waves are always full of surfers, even when there are no waves you can see people paddling about. People swim, people water surf, girls and kids splash by the shore. Then on the shore there are pairs engaged in the very brazilian 'fresco ball' I think we call it smash ball. Also the football jugglers (OK soccer ball), forming rings and juggling like we would play hacky sack. Moving into the beach we get the beach scene. All the hot bodies working on their tans and showing their stuff. The girls flip and preen on towels or beach chairs, while the guys tend to just stand around in their speedos flexing and keeping an eye on things. Every beach I have visited in Brazil has a pull up bar and parrellel bars, and sometimes other contraptions for getting your beach workout. In Rio there must be a 100 or more exercise stations on the beach, and they are usually in constant use. The muscle bound dudes who stand around flexing are called pit boys (after pit bull) I guess for their thick necks and tough, dim witted stares. Every thirty feet or so for the entire length of the beaches in Ipanema and Copa there are little tents that will rent you a chair and umbrella, provide any cold beverage you require, make you a grilled cheese sandwich and even provide a freshwater shower.
So we have those who enjoy the beach by going there to be still, but there are plenty who go to be active, thus you will see volleyball and soccer courts dotting the beach. These are between the sidewalk and the barracas and sunbathers. There is always soccer, though even more common is beach volleyball. There are competitive matches, pick up games, and teams training all the time. Even more fun to watch though is the extremely brazilian foot volei, volleyball with feet, knees, heads, shoulders, chest, but no arms or hands. Now that we've made it through the sand we are on the side walk and there are the walkers. Locals and tourist, young and old, at all times of the day and night, people are out for a stroll, taking in the views, getting some light exercise, and checking out the other walkers. Like on the beach you are never more than fifty feet from a snack or a drink, as the more permanent barracas and juice stands that dot the sidewalk are open 24/7 for your refreshment needs. Step off the black and white mosaic sidewalk and you are in the bike lane, and probably involved in a high speed accident if you didn't look first. The bike lane is narrow, room for one bike either way, and usually full of bikers moving very fast. The pace is quite different from the easy strolling going on just inches to the side. Locals and tourists a like forget to look and I have been on both the bike and pedestrian side of these close encounters, it's funny as long as no one gets hurt.
Next we have a twelve inch strip of concrete and then we are in Traffic. Yes traffic with a capital T, this is Rio traffic and it's all busses and cabs and basically you don't mess around. The cabs and buses in Brazil will not slow down or swerve to avoid you, they expect you to jump and run and generally stay well out of the way, and if you don't, they are going to teach you a lesson. You may not believe me but I have had cabs consistently speed up and aim for me if I encroach on their "turf", ie any street. Oh and if you're on a bike- make sure you've left a will, oh and don't play chicken with the cabs- you lose. I bit of a psychotic driver myself, with practice in many of the dodgier countries of the world, I've learned that in the cut throat world of driving sometimes you need to swerve a bit to make some space for yourself when the stakes are high. Well maybe so, but when you're on a bike in Rio and you go up against a cab- you get no slack. Now you know.
So I think we were talking about activity and though crossing the street isn't exactly an activity it kind of is for the afore mentioned reasons. It's almost a sport and a high stakes one at that and you do need to learn it to get around in Rio. Anyways we're across the street now and we're in town. I'm going to save nightlife and music for another chapter but suffice to say that on the topic of having fun, the corner juice stands and beer spots are never short for customers cooling off and loudly enjoying themselves. So let's keep moving away from the beach through Ipanema, pass my hostel, and lo and behold, five blocks from the beach the buildings open again and you are gazing out across the immense Lagoa de Freitas. Various mountains thrust up in the background, dwarfing the high rises in front of them, Corcovado and the Christo dominate the horizon, gazing out at everything, and the lake extends in all directions surrounded by treelined side walks and giant apartment buildings. Cranes, geese, ducks, and those awesome pterodactyl black birds ply the waters and fish, as do a few humans with nets here and there. On the lake you will see people kayaking, skulling in six person canoes, and paddling about in giant geese shaped paddleboats. Around the lake people walk, jog, and bike, or play tennis, soccer, baseball, volleyball, workout, or even practise their skulling in a couple of stationary water mounted canoes around the lake. And if chilling is your thing, there are probably a 100 or more restaurants and juice bars around the lake, with options ranging from acai and grilled cheese sandwiches to upscale sushi and candlelight.
So all the above is just your usual everyday stuff. When we get to the weekend we multiply times ten. Two whole lanes of the beach traffic are closed and everyone comes out for a stroll. Walking their dogs, roller blading, skateboarding, juggling, playing music, people watching, etc. The paddling geese on the lake multiply. The congestion on the bike and jogging paths become downright dangerous. And the corner bar beer sipping goes epidemic. The parks hold craft fairs, others sprout stages and have live music. I eventually rented an apartment, since hostel living wears thin and with a month lease I was paying about the same yet had my own space with kitchen, bath, and double bed. My apartment was right next to Praça General Osorio, where the famous "hippie fair" happens every sunday. So that's a taste of what the cariocas get up to on an average day- never a dull moment, and always looking to have fun and enjoy life. It's what has always attracted me to Brasil, the passion for living in the moment and not missing an opportunity to enjoy life, and partake of simple pleasures. I think Americans could learn a thing or two from the Brazilians, but after five months here, I see now how the Brazilians could take a few pointers from us as well.
So that somewhat covers the day times, but Rio is no less famous for the after dark goings on. The quantity of bars, restaurants, chill spots, street parties, diescoteques, live music spots, theaters, shows in the park, beach concerts, and happening places in Rio is inexhaustible, but I did my best. My first nights out I kept it local, which is fine bacause many of the great spots are right in Ipanema. One thing I noticed right away is that despite the size of the city, I kept seeing the same people, usually casual friends from the night before. This made things very comfortable and home-like, to be able to go somewhere strange and new and already know people. And then I would be out with friends and see other people I knew and they would know my friends too, it was good to feel part of something. I began to call Rio the biggest small town I'd ever lived in. My time in Rio was spent with a number of good party buddies (wing men, if you will). The first was Brett.
Oops my plane is landing in Buenos >Aires.- To Be Continued...
In truth I was feeling some trepidation as my plane began its descent into Rio. I would consider Brazil to be one of the most violent and dangerous countries I have visited, but having spent enough time here I generally know how to stay out of trouble and minimize risk, and have fun in spite of it. The stories from Rio however gave me pause. In my travels I have been robbed at gunpoint and knifepoint, pickpocketed a hundred times, woken to intruders in my hotel rooms, found myself in the middle of street fights, and shared streets with terrorists and bombings. Somehow none of that makes me nervous, but Rio did. On a beach in placid Tamandare, a local woman had been telling me how it had made the news that another American tourist had been shot on the beach for refusing to surrender his twenty dollars or something. She said it was always the Americans who get in trouble, because they fight back or refuse. I guess I was just not comfortable with the whole kids and guns thing.
Anyways, after almost six weeks in Rio I am happy to report that for me anyways, it has been one of the safest and most comfortable places to travel in all of Brasil. Especially compared to a place like Salvador, where some low level of threat seems to be almost constant, Rio has been utterly peaceful. Which is not to say shit does not go down. In my first week there I was hearing almost daily stories of robberies on the streets right by our hostel, and my friend at another hostel reported how a man with a gun chased an irish couple off the street into his hostel, and through the locked security gate. All of the residents were completely helpless until the security guard decided to stand up to him and kick him out. Anyways, I decided not to spend too much time in those types of conversations or to live in fear, while keeping my wits about me. I had not a single problem, not even a cab driver trying to take me for a ride. OK well there was that goo gobbing incident- more on that later.
So back to my arrival. Our plane coasted over Rio in the early evening darkness, offering fantastic views of Rio´s bays and beaches and mountains. As I stepped into a cab for Ipanema, it was drizzling and for the first time in five months it felt a bit chilly for board shorts. After checking into my hostel I decided to take a look around. I fell in love almost instantly. The terrain in Rio is truly fantastic. Steep peeks burst from the flat earth every which way, with perfect crescents of white sand joining cove after cove, and neighborhoods bristling with high rise hotels and apartments sprouting from every piece of flat land. In many places the steep hillsides have provided foundations for the shantytowns of the poor, often directly adjacent to the high rises of the well-to-do. For the most part these Favelas are where the service workers live, after all, all the hotels, restaurants, and apartments and shops need maids, cooks, construction workers, security guards, door men, waiters, etc, though they certainly can't afford to live in the buildings they work in.
My hostel was in Ipanema, made famous by the inescapable bossa nova song A Garota De Ipanema (The Girl From Ipanema). The bar where it was penned lay a few blocks from my hostel, and was frequented by tourists and the occasional TV star. The various neighborhoods of Rio have taken turns over the centuries as 'the' place to be, with old neigborhoods like Botafogo sporting crumbling colonial mansions as a testament to their time as the area of choice for the rich. Nowadays Ipanema and especially Leblon and Gavea hold the prize, with rents and property values correspondingly inflated. In the earlier part of the century neighboring Copacabana and Leme held the crown, though these areas are fading towards shabby and somewhat dangerous.
As I walked around my neighborhood the highrises towered above me, while the vibe at street level was surprisingly warm and comfortable. Trees line the streets, and the bottoms of all the buildings are given over to restaurants, bars, juice stands, bakeries, boutiques, clothing, jewelry, movie theaters, etc. Almost every eatery or bar was completely open to the street, usually with tables on the sidewalk, and always full of people enjoying themselves loudly, at all hours of day and night. Every once in a while a glance to the sky would yield a fantastic mountain peak between the skyscrapers. After exploring these concrete corridors for a while and a few drinks, I glanced down a side street and realized with a start- thats the beach! It's easy to forget that the entirety of the concrete jungle of Copacabana, Leme, Ipanema, Leblon, and Gavea lie within three blocks of the most famous beaches in the world. It was towards midnight as I walked towards the ocean.
To emerge from the buildings was a shock. Where before I was closed in, it was dark, the air still, suddenly there was nothing but space, fresh ocean air and breezes, an expansive vista. The ocean was pounding the shore with huge waves, I could see the breakers and spray before I could even see the sand. And there was that tiled sidewalk. It's a part of everyones subconscious data bank, whether they know it or not, the characteristic swirly patterned sidewalks along the beaches in Rio. Of course, the original swirly one is in Copa. Here in ipanema it is a different playful pattern of squarish dots and doughnuts. As I walked across the street toward the water I glanced left to see the rocky outcrop called Arpoador, dividing Copa from Ipanema, and giving rise to the best waves for surfing in the area. To my right at the other end of the beach, signifying the end of Leblon, rose the dramatic mountain called Dois Irmaos- Two Brothers. Silhouetted by the night sky, the mountain sparkled with the glittering lights of the favelinha growing up its sides. As I stepped onto that sidewalk, the massive swell beat the shore explosively. Such natural splendour, and mere footsteps from the depths of concrete urban developement.
In my barhopping that night, I met quite a few people, mostly foreign travelers, which was great. When I first came to Brasil I didn't want to hang out with gringos, I didn't even want to speak english. I just wanted to go native, get into it, improve my language skills and escape from the known. Four months later, I was ready for a good conversation with someone who I might have something in common with. If you would have told me in January that I would enjoy my first night in Rio with three frat boys from South Carolina I would have laughed in your face, but that was exactly what I was doing, shooting a game of pool on a real table at an Irish pub, trading stories and enjoying the moment. I think that night or the next I met an English bloke and his Irish friend too. The English have made the best company in general on my trip- always good for a laugh.
The next day the sun came out and I decided to start getting to know the city. I set off on foot. That day and the next (and the next and the next), on foot and by bike, I began to take in my surroundings, and marvel at them. For miles in all directions were the now becoming familiar tree and granite lined corridors of juice bars and bakeries, shuffling pedestrians, frantic buses cabs and cyclists, honking horns, exhaust fumes, the smell of baking pastry or barbecuing chicken, the squeal of worn bus brakes. And never far, natural beauty worthy of any national park. In fact, If I were to try to describe Rio to someone who hadn't seen it, it would have to go like this. Start with Yosemite National Park. Then put five more El Capitans and ten more Half-Domes in it. Throw a giant natural lagoon in the middle of it. Put it next to the ocean, and include ten or so picture postcard beaches, wide crescents of sand strung one next to the other like a shell necklace. Then dump ten million people into it, and build a highrise on every inch of available flat land. Then watch the overflowing human tide scrambling up the mountainsides, building brick shantytowns and making space where there was none. Then imagine that somehow all of this humanity continues to be dwarfed by the natural splendour it inhabits, and that somehow the roads and concrete towers find harmony with the mountains, the bays, the beaches, the lagoon, and the canals.
The diversity of neighborhoods is also impressive. From Gavea to Leme, Copa, Ipanema and Leblon in between, there is certain homogeneity, though things move upscale the further south you go, these areas were built around the same time and are basically the major tourist destinations and beach hang outs. There are other areas though. Lagoa, the area around the lagoon, which is also right next to Ipanema, has different flavor, and a whole different type of peaceful chilling and appreciation of views can happen in this area. Gavea is a bit back from the beach and starts to move up the mountain, with fewer high-rises, more windy roads and views. Urca, a tiny community right under Sugarloaf mountain was one of my favorites. Off the beaten path and small, there are no high rises, only small colonial building of stone tucked between the water of the bay and the side of the mountain. Tree-lined roads wind and the sun sets on the water, with Corcovado and Christo rising behind. No traffic, tiny little bars and restaurants water front without big crowds. Botafogo is one of the areas whose hey day came and went hundreds of years ago, but as a result there are some fantastic (though crumbling) colonial buildings in this area. Santa Theresa, on the tourist radar but not spoiled, is a hilltop neighborhood sporting winding cobblestone streets, cable cars, views of the city, and funky old buildings undergoing transformation into artist studios, cafes, book stores, and art galleries. When we visited we chanced upon a multi-tiered out door cafe with an immense tree growing through it, where some women were practicing that kind of aerial ribbon dance, like in Cirque do Soleil, where they wind themselves up in a three story cloth ribbon then fall through the air. We also caught some excellent live samba with our lunch. Centro is the historical downtown, and has the greatest and most impressive concentration of old buildings, churches, courthouses, palaces, official buildings, and then just street upon street of simple stores housed in beautiful old structures, punctuated by plazas, parks, statues and sculptures. There are endless other neighborhoods, and though many of them aren't much worth seeing I did make it out to the famous Maracana stadium for a soccer game, and to Manguiera for a party at the famous samba school.
On my first week in town I walked out onto the rocks at Arpoador to catch the sunset with 1000 or so other like minded souls. From my seat on the rocks the waves were breaking right in front of me, I could sight down the tubes as the surfers rode by. The sun was setting at the other end of the beach behind the Two Brothers. Suddenly I could hear a thunking sound coming from behind the rock. It got louder and more earth rumbling until suddenly from behind the rock a huge bright red emergency helicopter emerged. It flew over head, flying low, then over the open ocean, the waves, and the surfers, It flew so low it whipped a huge cloud of spray up in a circle around it as it rode down the beach, the spray lit orange by the setting sun. As the sun passed behind the mountains and the orange reflected off the water, the high rise windows, the rocks, the sand, and the faces of the thousands sharing the moment with me, my body let out a deep mmmmmm kind of "this is good" kind of sigh.
Brazilians like to have fun, and the Cariocas (people from Rio) are experts. Everywhere you go in Rio, and in everythig the locals do, they find a way to have a great time. Lets start in the water and move in. The waves are always full of surfers, even when there are no waves you can see people paddling about. People swim, people water surf, girls and kids splash by the shore. Then on the shore there are pairs engaged in the very brazilian 'fresco ball' I think we call it smash ball. Also the football jugglers (OK soccer ball), forming rings and juggling like we would play hacky sack. Moving into the beach we get the beach scene. All the hot bodies working on their tans and showing their stuff. The girls flip and preen on towels or beach chairs, while the guys tend to just stand around in their speedos flexing and keeping an eye on things. Every beach I have visited in Brazil has a pull up bar and parrellel bars, and sometimes other contraptions for getting your beach workout. In Rio there must be a 100 or more exercise stations on the beach, and they are usually in constant use. The muscle bound dudes who stand around flexing are called pit boys (after pit bull) I guess for their thick necks and tough, dim witted stares. Every thirty feet or so for the entire length of the beaches in Ipanema and Copa there are little tents that will rent you a chair and umbrella, provide any cold beverage you require, make you a grilled cheese sandwich and even provide a freshwater shower.
So we have those who enjoy the beach by going there to be still, but there are plenty who go to be active, thus you will see volleyball and soccer courts dotting the beach. These are between the sidewalk and the barracas and sunbathers. There is always soccer, though even more common is beach volleyball. There are competitive matches, pick up games, and teams training all the time. Even more fun to watch though is the extremely brazilian foot volei, volleyball with feet, knees, heads, shoulders, chest, but no arms or hands. Now that we've made it through the sand we are on the side walk and there are the walkers. Locals and tourist, young and old, at all times of the day and night, people are out for a stroll, taking in the views, getting some light exercise, and checking out the other walkers. Like on the beach you are never more than fifty feet from a snack or a drink, as the more permanent barracas and juice stands that dot the sidewalk are open 24/7 for your refreshment needs. Step off the black and white mosaic sidewalk and you are in the bike lane, and probably involved in a high speed accident if you didn't look first. The bike lane is narrow, room for one bike either way, and usually full of bikers moving very fast. The pace is quite different from the easy strolling going on just inches to the side. Locals and tourists a like forget to look and I have been on both the bike and pedestrian side of these close encounters, it's funny as long as no one gets hurt.
Next we have a twelve inch strip of concrete and then we are in Traffic. Yes traffic with a capital T, this is Rio traffic and it's all busses and cabs and basically you don't mess around. The cabs and buses in Brazil will not slow down or swerve to avoid you, they expect you to jump and run and generally stay well out of the way, and if you don't, they are going to teach you a lesson. You may not believe me but I have had cabs consistently speed up and aim for me if I encroach on their "turf", ie any street. Oh and if you're on a bike- make sure you've left a will, oh and don't play chicken with the cabs- you lose. I bit of a psychotic driver myself, with practice in many of the dodgier countries of the world, I've learned that in the cut throat world of driving sometimes you need to swerve a bit to make some space for yourself when the stakes are high. Well maybe so, but when you're on a bike in Rio and you go up against a cab- you get no slack. Now you know.
So I think we were talking about activity and though crossing the street isn't exactly an activity it kind of is for the afore mentioned reasons. It's almost a sport and a high stakes one at that and you do need to learn it to get around in Rio. Anyways we're across the street now and we're in town. I'm going to save nightlife and music for another chapter but suffice to say that on the topic of having fun, the corner juice stands and beer spots are never short for customers cooling off and loudly enjoying themselves. So let's keep moving away from the beach through Ipanema, pass my hostel, and lo and behold, five blocks from the beach the buildings open again and you are gazing out across the immense Lagoa de Freitas. Various mountains thrust up in the background, dwarfing the high rises in front of them, Corcovado and the Christo dominate the horizon, gazing out at everything, and the lake extends in all directions surrounded by treelined side walks and giant apartment buildings. Cranes, geese, ducks, and those awesome pterodactyl black birds ply the waters and fish, as do a few humans with nets here and there. On the lake you will see people kayaking, skulling in six person canoes, and paddling about in giant geese shaped paddleboats. Around the lake people walk, jog, and bike, or play tennis, soccer, baseball, volleyball, workout, or even practise their skulling in a couple of stationary water mounted canoes around the lake. And if chilling is your thing, there are probably a 100 or more restaurants and juice bars around the lake, with options ranging from acai and grilled cheese sandwiches to upscale sushi and candlelight.
So all the above is just your usual everyday stuff. When we get to the weekend we multiply times ten. Two whole lanes of the beach traffic are closed and everyone comes out for a stroll. Walking their dogs, roller blading, skateboarding, juggling, playing music, people watching, etc. The paddling geese on the lake multiply. The congestion on the bike and jogging paths become downright dangerous. And the corner bar beer sipping goes epidemic. The parks hold craft fairs, others sprout stages and have live music. I eventually rented an apartment, since hostel living wears thin and with a month lease I was paying about the same yet had my own space with kitchen, bath, and double bed. My apartment was right next to Praça General Osorio, where the famous "hippie fair" happens every sunday. So that's a taste of what the cariocas get up to on an average day- never a dull moment, and always looking to have fun and enjoy life. It's what has always attracted me to Brasil, the passion for living in the moment and not missing an opportunity to enjoy life, and partake of simple pleasures. I think Americans could learn a thing or two from the Brazilians, but after five months here, I see now how the Brazilians could take a few pointers from us as well.
So that somewhat covers the day times, but Rio is no less famous for the after dark goings on. The quantity of bars, restaurants, chill spots, street parties, diescoteques, live music spots, theaters, shows in the park, beach concerts, and happening places in Rio is inexhaustible, but I did my best. My first nights out I kept it local, which is fine bacause many of the great spots are right in Ipanema. One thing I noticed right away is that despite the size of the city, I kept seeing the same people, usually casual friends from the night before. This made things very comfortable and home-like, to be able to go somewhere strange and new and already know people. And then I would be out with friends and see other people I knew and they would know my friends too, it was good to feel part of something. I began to call Rio the biggest small town I'd ever lived in. My time in Rio was spent with a number of good party buddies (wing men, if you will). The first was Brett.
Oops my plane is landing in Buenos >Aires.- To Be Continued...
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Canoa Quebrada
Canoa Quebrada first became part of my vocabulary back in Itacare. I was talking with a Norwegian girl, who seemed very well travelled within Brasil (fluent portuguese), and she mentioned it when I asked where else I should go, saying I would like it if I liked Morro. Then another northern european blonde in Itacare told me her circuit would be Itacare, Pipa, Canoa Quebrada, and Jericoacoara. Finally the french couple in Pipa confirmed it was worth a visit. I didn't make it on my whirlwind tour of the northeast because I wanted to give myself enough time in Jeri, so it was time to see it now. It was a bit of a journey, bus to Recife from Porto, then plane to Fortaleza, then bus to Canoa, but I made around sunset the next day and stepped off the bus in the pouring rain. That seems to be the trend of me arriving at new places. As it turned out I was dropped on the steps of a very reasonably priced pousada so instead of trudging through the rain to find the famous Pousado Do Toby or Pousada California, I dropped my bags and got out of the rain right then and there. After settling in and then heading down town for some dinner in the rain, I got an eerie feeling that I had come to a ghost town at the edge of the continent. There was a long main drag with endless bars, restaurants and shops, but 80% were closed and the remaining were empty, with the employees motionless in the doorways, following me through the rain with their eyes. I wasn't encouraged. I had a quick eat and called it a night.
The next morning things looked better. I had a great free breakfast at my pousada, the sun was out and it was hot, and I could see the sea from my table. I set out to discover Canoa. Things weren't much changed on the main drag. Most shops closed, though not as many as the night before, and mostly locals hanging out, not many obvious tourists. From the looks of the place and the numbers of restaurants and bars, the place must absolutley explode during the high season. However being May, not much was going on. I got off the main road for some wandering and soon found the big name pousada from my guide book. I took a look around then headed down a promising alley with a view of the beach to find out what the beach scene was all about.
Good thing. That's where everybody was in the middle of the hot day- the beach! Go figure. There is an interesting vibe throughout Cearå and Rio Grande Do Sul, that I have found in Pipa, Jericoacoara, Fortaleza, Natal, and now Canoa Quebrada. There is something of the feeling that you have landed on a new planet- an outpost of human civilization in an alien landscape looking to the sky for news from home. It's almost like you are at Luke Skywalker's house and the second and third suns are going to come up any minute. There is a quietness to all these places, even the huge cities like Fortaleza, like the air sucks up the sound and it doesn't travel. And the sky over the ocean is just so big somehow. And all the land is sand, whether covered with roads or buildings or palm trees or brushy greens, oozing from every crack is white sand. And in the smaller towns of course there are no roads at all, just dunes and donkeys and buggies, beach shacks with creative signs and restaurants in town with candle lights. There is a haze, very faint, but it colors the sky a color which is... different. And the ocean even more, it is a light blue, or is it greenish, or grayish bluish? Its... different, and bigger. And then there are always cliffs at the edge of the sea. They chime in with their pinks or rusty reds. I wander these landscapes in some awe, staring at the locals as if they must be alien to live here, and they stare back at me as the alien that I truly am in these places.
I emerged from the tightly clustered buildings of downtown Canoa at the top of a sand dune, or cliff, or both. As I bounced down the soft sand, the whole of the beach came into view, curving away from me in both directions. Beach barracas made of driftwood, coco trunks, and palm fronds were serving local food and drinks and dotting the shore in both directions. Also sailboats, looking picturesque pulled up onto the sand everywere. The white dune and beach sand was punctuated regularly by rusty red cliffs, eroding their color into the white beach sand like a painting running in the rain. There were plenty of people, swimming, tanning, sipping drinks, eating, looking at the other people, working, etc. The sweep of beach swept away in either direction as far as I could see, before the haze ate it up. It was time for a walk.
I walked to the end of interesting civilization in one direction, then turned and walked to the end in the other direction, then sat down for a drink. After hydrating I took a quick swim, then decided to test a theory that I no longer sunburn. I test this theory every so often, always with the same result, such that you'd think I would scrap the theory, but I don't. I sun dried causally with no sunscreen for some time, then wandered back up into town, getting lost repeatedly as a way to get to know the area. I could see the potential, but in the end Canoa was a vacation town that nobody was vacationing in, or almost nobody. It was nice but it was dead.
Or so I thought. I had lunch, I had dinner, I chilled out and had a drink, I had a nap, and eventually I went downtown to see what saturday night looked like in Canoa Quebrada. Canoa is somewhat famed for its nightlife, but from what I'd seen I was not having high expectations. OMG. Where did these people come from? There must have been 500 people on the street, 99% local brazilian, and young, and single. There was some definite electricity in the air, as the girls and guys made the rounds, seeing and being seen. About ten bars in a row were serving drinks and pumping live music on their dance floors, everything from forro to techno to pop and back again. Things were looking up.
I went to the pool bar to have a drink or two and warm up. After watching a game I offered to play the winner and we were playing short order. My game was going pretty good and before I knew it all my balls were down except the eight, while the other guy had like six left. I felt pretty good, considering I hadn't played in months. That's when the guy took a shot on the eight. He missed but something was wrong. You only shoot the eight when you've sunk all your other balls, which in his case consisted of all the spots on the table. I asked his buddy, who was less drunk, why he did that. After some confusion we arrived at "par e ipar". Guess what that means? Odds and evens! All along, I had been playing American eight ball, where each player sinks either 1-7 or 9-15 then the eight, where he had been playing odds and evens, where (apparently) each player sinks either all the odds or all the evens. Looking at the table in this light, suddenly I wasn't dominating like I thought I was (probably because I had been sinking his balls all along with him not telling me). Oh well it's just a game, and I beat him anyways, and there's like three hundred girls on the street I have to go meet.
We shook hands, smiling at the cultural collision, then I paid my tab and ventured onto the street. I walked up and down surveying the scene, checking the dancefloor options, and eventually wandered into the forro spot. This couples dance is super popular in northern brazil with young people, and it is great to watch a skilled couple. This place was packed and there were many skilled couples. It was fun to watch for a bit but I soon decided I couldn't compete with any of that so wandered back onto the street. I lurked around on the sidelines for a while like the rest of the guys, watching people go by. Suddenly the right girl walked by and it was time to move. I'm not sure quite how I pulled it off but soon enough we are chatting, having drinks, and meeting her friends, then dancing and getting crazy. Somehow that last caipirinha had turned me into a fabulous dancer and we were ruling the dancfloor. She had this one maneuver where she would kind of lunge backwards in a backdive and my job was to make sure she didn't crack her head open by catching her waist before she hit the floor, somehow not breaking my back either. We had a few other tricks too. It was a good night.
The next day I changed pousadas. This was something of a feat considering the hangover and the out by noon rules. I pulled it off and was lounging dazedly in the courtyard of Pousada California by the pool when a white dune buggy pulled up filled with three cuties. One of them turned out to be my girl, the other her cousin, the other her friend. "Bora Miguel?" I didn't know where we were going or if my hangover plus sunburn could take much of anything but given that three cute girls in a dune buggie were kidnapping me for adventures unknown there was really only one answer- "Vamos". I grabbed a few things, then hopped in next to cousin and grabbed the roll bar on the back of the buggie. Off we roared. We made a few stops, picking up among other things a bottle of rum, one of vodka, one of coke, and one of water (that was my idea), a cooler full of ice, two brothers, and one pandeiro.
We motored crazily out of town, doubling back at least once to pick up the cousin who couldn't make up her mind about going. Eventually we sped down the beach and turned off into the dunes. We bounced through the sand, over ruts, through gullies, around grazing donkeys, through pools of fresh water, along the barbed wire fence, through the thin green foliage. We passed several large pools, but we hadn't found the "one" yet, I guess. "Tres coqueiros" was the destination. Three palms. We eventually found it and unloaded, made drinks, and flopped into the cool fresh water with the sandy bottom. One brother looked at me with great seriousness and said "muito bom pra tirar resaca" (good for getting rid of the hangover). Though I was feeling a bit crap at the beginning, soon I felt better and we had a great day. One brother could not put the pandeiro (small brazilian tambourine) down or stop singing all day long, except to hand it to me and listen to me play it for a while. After a few drinks he tried to teach me a song or two, the kind of long samba songs that have no chorus, just endless verses. He never stopped smiling, nor did I, though I made little progress with my singing career. Everyone else was equally fun, with the girls breaking into spontaneous samba performances and group song, and plenty of swimming, lounging, and drinking. We stayed til the sun went down, which I caught on camera. The way home was fairly exciting as cousin, who was hungry and didn't want to wait, had set off a half hour earlier and we caught up to her. She was pissed I guess and didn't want a ride, but her family wasn't having it and tried to kidnap her into the buggy. We were running doughnuts around her in the buggy with the whole family screaming and her crying and running away. Eventually she was tackled and pulled into the buggy. Passionate people these brazilians.
I spent a few more days in Canoa, met some more locals, and some foreign business owners, in particular the norwegian pool bar owner, but I couldn't shake the ghost town feeling. I was ready for some excitement, something new. In fact, I realized, it was time for Rio. I had wanted to check back in on Trancoso and Arrail Da Ajuda, nice spots in Bahia I had visited five years earlier and thought were worth a second look, but the heck with that, and the heck with Bahia, I was ready for something different. Time for Rio. I was a bit scared, due to the stories. In fact sitting on the beach in Tamandare, a brazilian woman told me how an american had just been knifed to death on the beach for refusing to be robbed. I got attempted robbed in Salvador probably a hundred times, but no weapons ever. Whatever, when I lived in Colombia the terrorists took over the supreme court, the army burnt it down by accident killing everyone, my dad's office building was blown up, and his pipeline was bombed forty times, and I never felt slightly threatened, so what could Rio do to me? Before you can say "Vamos gente" I was on a bus, a cab, a plane, another plane and flying over the coast of Rio De Janeiro at night, lit by city lights. Soon I would be on the ground, and those sights, those smells, those sounds, that air, those lights, and that energy, would be mine.
The next morning things looked better. I had a great free breakfast at my pousada, the sun was out and it was hot, and I could see the sea from my table. I set out to discover Canoa. Things weren't much changed on the main drag. Most shops closed, though not as many as the night before, and mostly locals hanging out, not many obvious tourists. From the looks of the place and the numbers of restaurants and bars, the place must absolutley explode during the high season. However being May, not much was going on. I got off the main road for some wandering and soon found the big name pousada from my guide book. I took a look around then headed down a promising alley with a view of the beach to find out what the beach scene was all about.
Good thing. That's where everybody was in the middle of the hot day- the beach! Go figure. There is an interesting vibe throughout Cearå and Rio Grande Do Sul, that I have found in Pipa, Jericoacoara, Fortaleza, Natal, and now Canoa Quebrada. There is something of the feeling that you have landed on a new planet- an outpost of human civilization in an alien landscape looking to the sky for news from home. It's almost like you are at Luke Skywalker's house and the second and third suns are going to come up any minute. There is a quietness to all these places, even the huge cities like Fortaleza, like the air sucks up the sound and it doesn't travel. And the sky over the ocean is just so big somehow. And all the land is sand, whether covered with roads or buildings or palm trees or brushy greens, oozing from every crack is white sand. And in the smaller towns of course there are no roads at all, just dunes and donkeys and buggies, beach shacks with creative signs and restaurants in town with candle lights. There is a haze, very faint, but it colors the sky a color which is... different. And the ocean even more, it is a light blue, or is it greenish, or grayish bluish? Its... different, and bigger. And then there are always cliffs at the edge of the sea. They chime in with their pinks or rusty reds. I wander these landscapes in some awe, staring at the locals as if they must be alien to live here, and they stare back at me as the alien that I truly am in these places.
I emerged from the tightly clustered buildings of downtown Canoa at the top of a sand dune, or cliff, or both. As I bounced down the soft sand, the whole of the beach came into view, curving away from me in both directions. Beach barracas made of driftwood, coco trunks, and palm fronds were serving local food and drinks and dotting the shore in both directions. Also sailboats, looking picturesque pulled up onto the sand everywere. The white dune and beach sand was punctuated regularly by rusty red cliffs, eroding their color into the white beach sand like a painting running in the rain. There were plenty of people, swimming, tanning, sipping drinks, eating, looking at the other people, working, etc. The sweep of beach swept away in either direction as far as I could see, before the haze ate it up. It was time for a walk.
I walked to the end of interesting civilization in one direction, then turned and walked to the end in the other direction, then sat down for a drink. After hydrating I took a quick swim, then decided to test a theory that I no longer sunburn. I test this theory every so often, always with the same result, such that you'd think I would scrap the theory, but I don't. I sun dried causally with no sunscreen for some time, then wandered back up into town, getting lost repeatedly as a way to get to know the area. I could see the potential, but in the end Canoa was a vacation town that nobody was vacationing in, or almost nobody. It was nice but it was dead.
Or so I thought. I had lunch, I had dinner, I chilled out and had a drink, I had a nap, and eventually I went downtown to see what saturday night looked like in Canoa Quebrada. Canoa is somewhat famed for its nightlife, but from what I'd seen I was not having high expectations. OMG. Where did these people come from? There must have been 500 people on the street, 99% local brazilian, and young, and single. There was some definite electricity in the air, as the girls and guys made the rounds, seeing and being seen. About ten bars in a row were serving drinks and pumping live music on their dance floors, everything from forro to techno to pop and back again. Things were looking up.
I went to the pool bar to have a drink or two and warm up. After watching a game I offered to play the winner and we were playing short order. My game was going pretty good and before I knew it all my balls were down except the eight, while the other guy had like six left. I felt pretty good, considering I hadn't played in months. That's when the guy took a shot on the eight. He missed but something was wrong. You only shoot the eight when you've sunk all your other balls, which in his case consisted of all the spots on the table. I asked his buddy, who was less drunk, why he did that. After some confusion we arrived at "par e ipar". Guess what that means? Odds and evens! All along, I had been playing American eight ball, where each player sinks either 1-7 or 9-15 then the eight, where he had been playing odds and evens, where (apparently) each player sinks either all the odds or all the evens. Looking at the table in this light, suddenly I wasn't dominating like I thought I was (probably because I had been sinking his balls all along with him not telling me). Oh well it's just a game, and I beat him anyways, and there's like three hundred girls on the street I have to go meet.
We shook hands, smiling at the cultural collision, then I paid my tab and ventured onto the street. I walked up and down surveying the scene, checking the dancefloor options, and eventually wandered into the forro spot. This couples dance is super popular in northern brazil with young people, and it is great to watch a skilled couple. This place was packed and there were many skilled couples. It was fun to watch for a bit but I soon decided I couldn't compete with any of that so wandered back onto the street. I lurked around on the sidelines for a while like the rest of the guys, watching people go by. Suddenly the right girl walked by and it was time to move. I'm not sure quite how I pulled it off but soon enough we are chatting, having drinks, and meeting her friends, then dancing and getting crazy. Somehow that last caipirinha had turned me into a fabulous dancer and we were ruling the dancfloor. She had this one maneuver where she would kind of lunge backwards in a backdive and my job was to make sure she didn't crack her head open by catching her waist before she hit the floor, somehow not breaking my back either. We had a few other tricks too. It was a good night.
The next day I changed pousadas. This was something of a feat considering the hangover and the out by noon rules. I pulled it off and was lounging dazedly in the courtyard of Pousada California by the pool when a white dune buggy pulled up filled with three cuties. One of them turned out to be my girl, the other her cousin, the other her friend. "Bora Miguel?" I didn't know where we were going or if my hangover plus sunburn could take much of anything but given that three cute girls in a dune buggie were kidnapping me for adventures unknown there was really only one answer- "Vamos". I grabbed a few things, then hopped in next to cousin and grabbed the roll bar on the back of the buggie. Off we roared. We made a few stops, picking up among other things a bottle of rum, one of vodka, one of coke, and one of water (that was my idea), a cooler full of ice, two brothers, and one pandeiro.
We motored crazily out of town, doubling back at least once to pick up the cousin who couldn't make up her mind about going. Eventually we sped down the beach and turned off into the dunes. We bounced through the sand, over ruts, through gullies, around grazing donkeys, through pools of fresh water, along the barbed wire fence, through the thin green foliage. We passed several large pools, but we hadn't found the "one" yet, I guess. "Tres coqueiros" was the destination. Three palms. We eventually found it and unloaded, made drinks, and flopped into the cool fresh water with the sandy bottom. One brother looked at me with great seriousness and said "muito bom pra tirar resaca" (good for getting rid of the hangover). Though I was feeling a bit crap at the beginning, soon I felt better and we had a great day. One brother could not put the pandeiro (small brazilian tambourine) down or stop singing all day long, except to hand it to me and listen to me play it for a while. After a few drinks he tried to teach me a song or two, the kind of long samba songs that have no chorus, just endless verses. He never stopped smiling, nor did I, though I made little progress with my singing career. Everyone else was equally fun, with the girls breaking into spontaneous samba performances and group song, and plenty of swimming, lounging, and drinking. We stayed til the sun went down, which I caught on camera. The way home was fairly exciting as cousin, who was hungry and didn't want to wait, had set off a half hour earlier and we caught up to her. She was pissed I guess and didn't want a ride, but her family wasn't having it and tried to kidnap her into the buggy. We were running doughnuts around her in the buggy with the whole family screaming and her crying and running away. Eventually she was tackled and pulled into the buggy. Passionate people these brazilians.
I spent a few more days in Canoa, met some more locals, and some foreign business owners, in particular the norwegian pool bar owner, but I couldn't shake the ghost town feeling. I was ready for some excitement, something new. In fact, I realized, it was time for Rio. I had wanted to check back in on Trancoso and Arrail Da Ajuda, nice spots in Bahia I had visited five years earlier and thought were worth a second look, but the heck with that, and the heck with Bahia, I was ready for something different. Time for Rio. I was a bit scared, due to the stories. In fact sitting on the beach in Tamandare, a brazilian woman told me how an american had just been knifed to death on the beach for refusing to be robbed. I got attempted robbed in Salvador probably a hundred times, but no weapons ever. Whatever, when I lived in Colombia the terrorists took over the supreme court, the army burnt it down by accident killing everyone, my dad's office building was blown up, and his pipeline was bombed forty times, and I never felt slightly threatened, so what could Rio do to me? Before you can say "Vamos gente" I was on a bus, a cab, a plane, another plane and flying over the coast of Rio De Janeiro at night, lit by city lights. Soon I would be on the ground, and those sights, those smells, those sounds, that air, those lights, and that energy, would be mine.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Porto De Galinhas
Porto De Galinhas.
You got to love a town where the saturday night hot spot is called the "Chicken Club". Porto De Galinhas, or "Chicken Harbor", got its name from post abolition times when the area continued receive shipments of slaves. The slaves were code named chickens to help disguise the now illegal trade and when a boat came in the word was spread- "there are chickens in the harbor." Porto is an hour and a half south of Recife, the capital of Pernambuco, and was recommended by a Brasilian friend from Pipa, along with neighboring beaches Maracaìpe and Tamandaré. On my first trip to Brasil in 2002, I spent one of our last days in the country shopping for drums in Recife, while Rebecca took the bus to Porto De Galinhas to check things out. She liked it and I've wondered since what it was like, so here I am. Actually right now I'm on a plane to Rio, so I finally have time to write something down about Porto.
I spent nearly two weeks in Porto. It was quite nice. Not fantastic, not even top five I don't think, but nice all the same. It had everything I needed, and I think I was ready to hold still for a little bit. There were a couple of surf breaks, food and bar options, parties, beach activities, and I scored a nice room with a whole third story covered patio with hammocks and couches. I surfed a lot and took long walks on the beach. The evening drink usually came from a nice sidewalk cafe next to the beach at the end of the pedestrian boulevard- called Cafe Brasil.
Porto's claim to fame are the "piscinas naturais" right off the main beach. Along much of the shore in this region a natural coral reef lies just off the beach. It becomes exposed at low tide, creating a tranquil and turquoise wading area between it and the sand, with the pounding swell trapped outside. The reef is not like most I have seen. It rises 3 to 4 feet out of the sand, then is perfectly flat on top. It covers a large area, with the occasional natural opening or pool (piscina). At low tide large numbers of fish become stranded in these pools and mill about. The way this has been developed as a tourist attraction is somewhat appalling, but fun nonetheless. Huge numbers of people come to the beaches at Porto all year round. They sit on the beach, play in the calm pools, swim out to the reef and- walk on it.
Stepping on coral of course kills it. I guess this is why almost the entire reef is dead. Only in the little cracks and crevices and pools too small for a human to get into is there any living coral. There is no sense on anyones part that there is anything wrong with this. Swarms of boat men with tiny, shallow draft boats ferry families out to the reef all day long so they can step right off the boat and onto the coral. The boat men move their boats along by pushing off the coral with their paddles. Kids jump in the pools and feed cereal to the fish, to the point where the surface of the water starts to get a bit brown and filmy. It's basically an ecological disaster in full swing every day. The only nature left to enjoy is the fish, and they are only there I believe because they are fed so well, but they are fun to watch. They swarm in schools in the pools when they are stranded, roiling in place and aggressively approaching any human or offered tidbit (finger, toe, whatever). When the tide starts to come up and they are slowly liberated, they flop out of their pools in water too shallow to swim in, twisting sideways and flapping about, chasing humans with baggies of cereal. It was definitely surreal to have these swarms of fish swimming right over my toes, as I walked across the reef in two inches of water.
I later met a local ecologist whose job is the protection of local reef habitat. His explanation was that they let the main tourist beach at Porto get trashed, in return for trying to preserve remaining areas off the beaten path.
Porto sits on a point in between two sandy coves. To the left Cupe, a beach of about 4 km and filled end to end with beach homes and hotels. There are a few surf breaks midway down the beach. In the other direction Maracaipe, a much less developed beach of 2 km or so, with a great surf break midway and small developement of pousadas and bars called Maracaipe- the surfer hang out. At the end of this beach is a river mouth and mangrove swamp area. Supposedly sea horses can be seen with their tails coiled around the roots of the mangroves. I didn't see any though.
On a walk down that way I met Renata, Carioca (Rio dweller), an oceanographer who works with the EPA on oil rigs in the Rio Area. We pal-ed about for a few days, checking out the local natural wonders and the nightlife options. All portuguese, and no problem. After a couple of days I was somewhat shocked to realize I'd been speaking nothing but portuguese for days, and not just ordering food and drinks. One night we had drinks with four other folks from Sao Paulo Renata had met on the beach. They spent their time in stitches over the things I would say. I was a little bewildered and not totally amused, though rolling with it. I kept trying to figure out what was so funny and apparently I wasn't saying things wrong, just a bit funny, or not quite the way a brasilian would, or something. I think I understand now why my buddy Ian from the UK isn't amused when I spend all night with my friends laughing at his UK accent and his manners of speech. It was all good and one of them now has the permanent nickname of "bunda pequeninha," thanks to me.
After the weekend things slowed down a bit and we talked about going south to Tamandare. Turned out that she had two friends from college who were involved in environmental work in that area and had a house in Tamandare. We took a bewildering series of small vans through even smaller towns and eventually arrived in Tamandare. May is a very low season for Brasil in general and Tamandare was very quiet. It's another series of scenic palm lined coves with offshore reefs, vacation homes, fishing boats, an older "downtown" with a couple old churches on the shore. Renata's friends Joao and (oops forgot girls name already) picked us up downtown and took us to their home.
We stayed for several days and though Tamandare was scenic the best part of that time was easing into a social group that was purely brasilian, and educated and professional at that. Since I also have degrees in Ecology and Biology, it was interesting to be part of the "work talk" discussions of the issues they were facing in that area. Everyone was really great and it was a great challenge to be so immersed. Beyond that I probably won't return to Tamandare. It was quite beautiful but I have come to the place where beautiful is not enough, at least on this trip. The living situation was a bit intense, no ac or even windows on the house, just a small floor fan and wooden shutters that did nothing to impede the swarms of mosquitos. The intense mugginess of the nighttimes left me with the option of either allowing myself to be sacrificially feasted on all night long or to cover my whole body and face with the sheet and asphixiate while I slept in my own sweat. Neither option very appealing I usually mixed the two and woke with little sleep. One day we took a hair raising ride on moto taxis to a waterfall. The only taxi options in town were motorcycles, so we each piled on one and soon were jamming down the beach. That was fun then it was off into town for cigarettes and social calls for our drivers, despite our protests and raised eyebrows. Eventually we got on the road and motored through some scenic areas, before turning down a muddy track or some off road action. Renata did ok but I ended up splattered with mud and dropping my feet to help keep us from going down every other puddle. The waterfall was pretty though cold, and was good for washing the mud off.
Another day we took a fun cruise. There was about twenty of us (all brazilian but me) on a big catamaran motorboat, full forro band playing for us, and cooler of beer. We motored around a little bay to various scenic snorkeling spots and a food break. One stop was a spit of land I'm not sure why we stopped at. Renata knew of a lookout that was worth seeing and taking a picture of, so we set off on the trail by ourselves, the boat driver giving us ten minutes. We walked a short ways, snapped a few shots, then walked back on a sandy track through palm trees and by grazing donkeys. As we neared our landing spot we heard a horn and were surprised to see our boat sailing off without us through the palms. We yelled and ran out to the beach, but they couldnt see us and by the time we were out of the woods they had turned a corner and were out of sight. We were marooned on a deserted spit of sand. I just smiled, it was definitely a first. Renata went running down the beach in an effort to catch them, I just strolled and grinned at the situation. I figured they would probably come back, plus I still owed them for a couple of beers. Sure enough they rounded the corner soon and came to pick us up, the whole somewhat drunk boat load laughing and us grinning sheepishly, I guess we'd been gone twenty minutes. The innuendo was what were we doing those twenty minutes?
After several days and as the weekend neared I felt myself itching for some music and some nightlife- back in Porto De Galinhas. Renata wanted to keep exploring the reefs and beaches to the south, so we parted ways and I went back to Porto. I stayed there for a while, reading the books my sister sent and Laecee brought for me, surfing, walking, dancing at night and meeting locals. I lost a bit of the track of time but eventually I felt ready for a change and got on the bus for Canoa Quebrada.
You got to love a town where the saturday night hot spot is called the "Chicken Club". Porto De Galinhas, or "Chicken Harbor", got its name from post abolition times when the area continued receive shipments of slaves. The slaves were code named chickens to help disguise the now illegal trade and when a boat came in the word was spread- "there are chickens in the harbor." Porto is an hour and a half south of Recife, the capital of Pernambuco, and was recommended by a Brasilian friend from Pipa, along with neighboring beaches Maracaìpe and Tamandaré. On my first trip to Brasil in 2002, I spent one of our last days in the country shopping for drums in Recife, while Rebecca took the bus to Porto De Galinhas to check things out. She liked it and I've wondered since what it was like, so here I am. Actually right now I'm on a plane to Rio, so I finally have time to write something down about Porto.
I spent nearly two weeks in Porto. It was quite nice. Not fantastic, not even top five I don't think, but nice all the same. It had everything I needed, and I think I was ready to hold still for a little bit. There were a couple of surf breaks, food and bar options, parties, beach activities, and I scored a nice room with a whole third story covered patio with hammocks and couches. I surfed a lot and took long walks on the beach. The evening drink usually came from a nice sidewalk cafe next to the beach at the end of the pedestrian boulevard- called Cafe Brasil.
Porto's claim to fame are the "piscinas naturais" right off the main beach. Along much of the shore in this region a natural coral reef lies just off the beach. It becomes exposed at low tide, creating a tranquil and turquoise wading area between it and the sand, with the pounding swell trapped outside. The reef is not like most I have seen. It rises 3 to 4 feet out of the sand, then is perfectly flat on top. It covers a large area, with the occasional natural opening or pool (piscina). At low tide large numbers of fish become stranded in these pools and mill about. The way this has been developed as a tourist attraction is somewhat appalling, but fun nonetheless. Huge numbers of people come to the beaches at Porto all year round. They sit on the beach, play in the calm pools, swim out to the reef and- walk on it.
Stepping on coral of course kills it. I guess this is why almost the entire reef is dead. Only in the little cracks and crevices and pools too small for a human to get into is there any living coral. There is no sense on anyones part that there is anything wrong with this. Swarms of boat men with tiny, shallow draft boats ferry families out to the reef all day long so they can step right off the boat and onto the coral. The boat men move their boats along by pushing off the coral with their paddles. Kids jump in the pools and feed cereal to the fish, to the point where the surface of the water starts to get a bit brown and filmy. It's basically an ecological disaster in full swing every day. The only nature left to enjoy is the fish, and they are only there I believe because they are fed so well, but they are fun to watch. They swarm in schools in the pools when they are stranded, roiling in place and aggressively approaching any human or offered tidbit (finger, toe, whatever). When the tide starts to come up and they are slowly liberated, they flop out of their pools in water too shallow to swim in, twisting sideways and flapping about, chasing humans with baggies of cereal. It was definitely surreal to have these swarms of fish swimming right over my toes, as I walked across the reef in two inches of water.
I later met a local ecologist whose job is the protection of local reef habitat. His explanation was that they let the main tourist beach at Porto get trashed, in return for trying to preserve remaining areas off the beaten path.
Porto sits on a point in between two sandy coves. To the left Cupe, a beach of about 4 km and filled end to end with beach homes and hotels. There are a few surf breaks midway down the beach. In the other direction Maracaipe, a much less developed beach of 2 km or so, with a great surf break midway and small developement of pousadas and bars called Maracaipe- the surfer hang out. At the end of this beach is a river mouth and mangrove swamp area. Supposedly sea horses can be seen with their tails coiled around the roots of the mangroves. I didn't see any though.
On a walk down that way I met Renata, Carioca (Rio dweller), an oceanographer who works with the EPA on oil rigs in the Rio Area. We pal-ed about for a few days, checking out the local natural wonders and the nightlife options. All portuguese, and no problem. After a couple of days I was somewhat shocked to realize I'd been speaking nothing but portuguese for days, and not just ordering food and drinks. One night we had drinks with four other folks from Sao Paulo Renata had met on the beach. They spent their time in stitches over the things I would say. I was a little bewildered and not totally amused, though rolling with it. I kept trying to figure out what was so funny and apparently I wasn't saying things wrong, just a bit funny, or not quite the way a brasilian would, or something. I think I understand now why my buddy Ian from the UK isn't amused when I spend all night with my friends laughing at his UK accent and his manners of speech. It was all good and one of them now has the permanent nickname of "bunda pequeninha," thanks to me.
After the weekend things slowed down a bit and we talked about going south to Tamandare. Turned out that she had two friends from college who were involved in environmental work in that area and had a house in Tamandare. We took a bewildering series of small vans through even smaller towns and eventually arrived in Tamandare. May is a very low season for Brasil in general and Tamandare was very quiet. It's another series of scenic palm lined coves with offshore reefs, vacation homes, fishing boats, an older "downtown" with a couple old churches on the shore. Renata's friends Joao and (oops forgot girls name already) picked us up downtown and took us to their home.
We stayed for several days and though Tamandare was scenic the best part of that time was easing into a social group that was purely brasilian, and educated and professional at that. Since I also have degrees in Ecology and Biology, it was interesting to be part of the "work talk" discussions of the issues they were facing in that area. Everyone was really great and it was a great challenge to be so immersed. Beyond that I probably won't return to Tamandare. It was quite beautiful but I have come to the place where beautiful is not enough, at least on this trip. The living situation was a bit intense, no ac or even windows on the house, just a small floor fan and wooden shutters that did nothing to impede the swarms of mosquitos. The intense mugginess of the nighttimes left me with the option of either allowing myself to be sacrificially feasted on all night long or to cover my whole body and face with the sheet and asphixiate while I slept in my own sweat. Neither option very appealing I usually mixed the two and woke with little sleep. One day we took a hair raising ride on moto taxis to a waterfall. The only taxi options in town were motorcycles, so we each piled on one and soon were jamming down the beach. That was fun then it was off into town for cigarettes and social calls for our drivers, despite our protests and raised eyebrows. Eventually we got on the road and motored through some scenic areas, before turning down a muddy track or some off road action. Renata did ok but I ended up splattered with mud and dropping my feet to help keep us from going down every other puddle. The waterfall was pretty though cold, and was good for washing the mud off.
Another day we took a fun cruise. There was about twenty of us (all brazilian but me) on a big catamaran motorboat, full forro band playing for us, and cooler of beer. We motored around a little bay to various scenic snorkeling spots and a food break. One stop was a spit of land I'm not sure why we stopped at. Renata knew of a lookout that was worth seeing and taking a picture of, so we set off on the trail by ourselves, the boat driver giving us ten minutes. We walked a short ways, snapped a few shots, then walked back on a sandy track through palm trees and by grazing donkeys. As we neared our landing spot we heard a horn and were surprised to see our boat sailing off without us through the palms. We yelled and ran out to the beach, but they couldnt see us and by the time we were out of the woods they had turned a corner and were out of sight. We were marooned on a deserted spit of sand. I just smiled, it was definitely a first. Renata went running down the beach in an effort to catch them, I just strolled and grinned at the situation. I figured they would probably come back, plus I still owed them for a couple of beers. Sure enough they rounded the corner soon and came to pick us up, the whole somewhat drunk boat load laughing and us grinning sheepishly, I guess we'd been gone twenty minutes. The innuendo was what were we doing those twenty minutes?
After several days and as the weekend neared I felt myself itching for some music and some nightlife- back in Porto De Galinhas. Renata wanted to keep exploring the reefs and beaches to the south, so we parted ways and I went back to Porto. I stayed there for a while, reading the books my sister sent and Laecee brought for me, surfing, walking, dancing at night and meeting locals. I lost a bit of the track of time but eventually I felt ready for a change and got on the bus for Canoa Quebrada.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
The Best Place In Brasil
I have now been to the best place in Brasil. Actually, every place I have been has been the best place in Brasil- to someone. As I travel I gather advice and ideas for places to go, and people often volunteer favorites. Manque Seco was one such favorite, though for me it was probably my least favorite of the trip. Which is why I now realize I have to get a little back story on people before I go visit their "Best Place in Brasil".
People travel for many reasons, and Brasil has many things to offer. Some come for the music. Some come for the sun. Some come for the beaches. Some come to dance. Some come for the exotic atmosphere. Some come to surf. Some come to party. Some come to hook up with locals. Some come to get away from it all. Some come to get into it all. Some to snorkel or scuba or kite sail or windsurf. Some to ride around on boats. Some like learning languages. Some like meeting new people, or getting and international perspective. Some to lounge by a pool and read a book and drink fruity drinks. Some do the resort thing. Some follow the herd. Some don't want to hear english spoken. Some to take pictures. Some looking for a new home. Etc., etc. Point being, whatever you're into, when you find it, you've found the best place in Brazil. Thing is, when you go to someone else's best place in Brazil, it may have nothing you want. OK I think I made that point.
As for Mangue Seco- let me describe it. Remote fishing village in the state of Bahia, white sandy beach and dunes, swaying palms, mangrove trees, fishing jangadas and canoes plying the waters, streets and center square of pure sand, donkeys, kids, dune buggies, river mouth, lagoons, tidal flats, kayaking, etc. I was disappointed. Maybe I need to have my head examined, or maybe I´ve been travelling too long. It does sound pretty good. Paradise is relative though (according to Einstein). Imagine being dropped in such a place. You'd be stoked right? Then imagine being told you could never leave. Changes things a bit doesn't it?
I think part of it was the hastle of getting there and how many times I got gouged by the bus driver, the taxi driver, the speedboat driver, the dune buggy driver, the pousada owner, the cook at the restaurant, etc. Really though, the problem for me is that it was deserted. Some people need to drop off the edge of civilization before they can relax. That's not me. People and "movimento" excite me. I like to see bars and restaurants full, music playing, people dancing, beaches full. Maybe if I was on a honeymoon I'd be trying to "get away". Since I'm not, I'd say I'm more trying to get into it, than get away from it, so it wasn't for me. To it's credit though, it was quite beautiful, and I took tons of great photos from that area. Maybe it's no coincidence, the recommendation to visit came from a professional photographer.
Also, I've noticed that tourist destinations in Brasil fall roughly into two categories, the ones the Brasilians vacation at, and the ones the foreigners visit. I'll take the foreign destinations. Mainly, Brasilian vacationers are couples and families who want their vacation spots to look and feel like home, but have a nice beach. They're somewhat more insular in their socializing and reluctantant to open to foreigners. The foreign destinations on the other hand are full of people who are young and single, brasilian and foreign, and everyone is there to meet new people, dance, drink, eat, swim, and have fun. There is more music, more places open, more things going on, more people on the street, etc. Purists may tell you it's not the "real" brasil. I've seen this "real" Brasil, in fact I see it almost every day, and the purists can have it. I'm on vacation.
People travel for many reasons, and Brasil has many things to offer. Some come for the music. Some come for the sun. Some come for the beaches. Some come to dance. Some come for the exotic atmosphere. Some come to surf. Some come to party. Some come to hook up with locals. Some come to get away from it all. Some come to get into it all. Some to snorkel or scuba or kite sail or windsurf. Some to ride around on boats. Some like learning languages. Some like meeting new people, or getting and international perspective. Some to lounge by a pool and read a book and drink fruity drinks. Some do the resort thing. Some follow the herd. Some don't want to hear english spoken. Some to take pictures. Some looking for a new home. Etc., etc. Point being, whatever you're into, when you find it, you've found the best place in Brazil. Thing is, when you go to someone else's best place in Brazil, it may have nothing you want. OK I think I made that point.
As for Mangue Seco- let me describe it. Remote fishing village in the state of Bahia, white sandy beach and dunes, swaying palms, mangrove trees, fishing jangadas and canoes plying the waters, streets and center square of pure sand, donkeys, kids, dune buggies, river mouth, lagoons, tidal flats, kayaking, etc. I was disappointed. Maybe I need to have my head examined, or maybe I´ve been travelling too long. It does sound pretty good. Paradise is relative though (according to Einstein). Imagine being dropped in such a place. You'd be stoked right? Then imagine being told you could never leave. Changes things a bit doesn't it?
I think part of it was the hastle of getting there and how many times I got gouged by the bus driver, the taxi driver, the speedboat driver, the dune buggy driver, the pousada owner, the cook at the restaurant, etc. Really though, the problem for me is that it was deserted. Some people need to drop off the edge of civilization before they can relax. That's not me. People and "movimento" excite me. I like to see bars and restaurants full, music playing, people dancing, beaches full. Maybe if I was on a honeymoon I'd be trying to "get away". Since I'm not, I'd say I'm more trying to get into it, than get away from it, so it wasn't for me. To it's credit though, it was quite beautiful, and I took tons of great photos from that area. Maybe it's no coincidence, the recommendation to visit came from a professional photographer.
Also, I've noticed that tourist destinations in Brasil fall roughly into two categories, the ones the Brasilians vacation at, and the ones the foreigners visit. I'll take the foreign destinations. Mainly, Brasilian vacationers are couples and families who want their vacation spots to look and feel like home, but have a nice beach. They're somewhat more insular in their socializing and reluctantant to open to foreigners. The foreign destinations on the other hand are full of people who are young and single, brasilian and foreign, and everyone is there to meet new people, dance, drink, eat, swim, and have fun. There is more music, more places open, more things going on, more people on the street, etc. Purists may tell you it's not the "real" brasil. I've seen this "real" Brasil, in fact I see it almost every day, and the purists can have it. I'm on vacation.
Next
When I left the states one the many goals of my trip was to explore the south of Brasil, since the northern states had been emphasized in previous trips. I started off in the right area, Florianopolis, but after flying to Salvador it has been all north, Bahia, Pernambuco, Cearà, Sergipe, Rio Grande do Norte. It's probably about time to go south, but since I've been so thorough in my exploration of the north, there are a few spots I missed before the girls came that I feel I better check before I leave, so I guess that's the plan. Canoa Quebrada, in Cearà, promises to hold some of the flavor of Pipa and Jeicoacoara. Porto de Galinhas and neighboring Maracaipe and Tamandare, neighbor Recife and were highly recommended by the couple in Pipa, plus they have waves. Mangue Seco, on the Bahia/ Sergipe border, may hold some of the of-the-grid Bahian charm of Arembepe. Trancoso/ Caraiva/ Arrail Dajuda/ Porto Seguro, a cluster of neigboring destinations in sourthern Bahia, I know from my first trip, but would like to see how I feel about them that my fluency and familiarity has increased. Plus I had hoped to visit Vanessa at her property there.
So, its a plan. A part of me is itching to get down to Rio and Sao Paolo states, but I'll be there soon enough. I spent a few days in Salvador, mostly in the internet cafe with my new laptop, getting everything up to par, then hopped a bus for Mangue Seco.
So, its a plan. A part of me is itching to get down to Rio and Sao Paolo states, but I'll be there soon enough. I spent a few days in Salvador, mostly in the internet cafe with my new laptop, getting everything up to par, then hopped a bus for Mangue Seco.
Morro De Sao Paulo (really)
Laecee doesn't like bugs. She doesn't like many foods. She doesn't like small animals. She doesnt like snakes, caterpillars, millipedes, frogs, cockroaches, flying buzzing things, lizards, mice, rats, scurrying sounds or darkness. She doesn't like jungles and vines and creepers. Oh and she doesn't like boats. I think she said she doesn't mind bats though? Well, Brasil's got it all. Oh wait back to boats. So we're catching a boat. Or we catch a boat, and motor off towards Morro De Sao Paolo. I love this boat ride, but I love boats. You just bob around, enjoy the view, watch the wake and the receding shore of Salvador, and then the oncoming shore of Ilheus Island, it's great.
I guess the bobbing is the trouble for some. Laecee stared at disappearing Salvador for dear life. "How long is the ride, Mike?" "45 minutes." "How much longer?" "10 minutes" "Can you see the island?" "Yup" "How much longer now?" "Um, around ten minutes" "Can you really see the island?" "Yep, now I can." "Now how much longer?" "I think it's really ten minutes now." And so on. Eventually Salvador disappeared altogether, though for a while Laecee substituted a cloud on the horizon I think. I think the ride was an hour and a half to an hour and forty five. Laecee was right on the edge the whole time. I could tell by the funny things her throat was doing. I have some theories about motion sickeness. One is the more you think about it the sicker you get. So I held her hand and said things like,"So how are the kids back home?" "How's work going" etc. Kelly wasn't with my program. "Are you feeling sick Laecee?" "She's fine" I interrupted. "I feel a little sick too." "I think that woman over there is feeling sick" "I hate being seasick" "I remember one time when I was sick..." "OK Kellie so anyways?!" Jeez.
My other theory is it's good to have an end in sight. Thus the creative construction of time on my part. Laecee later said she at first hated me for it then thanked me, so I guess that's good. Eventually we made it with no mishap. Laecee eventually turned to fixate on the approaching island. It was gorgeous. Golden cliffs, green jungle, blue water, a crumbling Portuguese fort with coconut palms growing from the cracks, canoes and fishing boats bobbing, and our dock- dry land in sight!
If you've been following, you'll know that I spent the last five weeks searching for the spot to bring the girls. It had to have everything. Beach, food, lodging, nightlife, Brazilian flavor, foreign comforts, natural beauty, easy access, entertainment options, outlying areas to explore. I had already been to Morro twice on previous trips, and I knew it was a contender, but I had to check out some new spots to be sure. After my survey, I won't say Morro is my favorite spot I have seen, but for people who have never been to Brasil and only have two weeks, and want to relax and go to the beach, it's hard to beat. So there we were. On the concrete dock. It wasn't moving but we still were a bit. There are no roads or vehicles on Morro, and all paths are beach sand. Thus transportation consists of wheel barrow (here), and there is always a mob of wheelbarrow extortionists waiting at the dock for the boatload of tourists. Only now it seems they have really incorporated, Mafia style, and have matching orange t-shirts and will not undercut each other, so you're totally at their mercy. After accepting defeat (well I got it down from 30 to 20, but it used to be 3 to 5 a bag) we loaded up a wheel barrow and began our march through the sand.
It's a great walk. You begin hiking up a hill and walk through a tremendous colonial arch. When you reach the top of the hill you are in the center of town, in a small sandy palza with paths leading out in three directions. From here you head down the sandy path, and see the whole town, all the restaurants, pousadas (lodging), bikini shops, travel agents, internet cafes, coffee shops, bars, etc. Eventually you get to the bottom and you are at first beach. Each idyllic cove leads to the next and they are conveniently named 1, 2, 3, and 4. We headed for third beach, the last beach with dense accommodation and my favorite. Since I knew our rip off taxi guys would get a commission once we chose a hotel I tried to get them to drop our bags and dismiss them by paying them, they weren't having it however. We were in front of a pousada I had always loved the look of but assumed was out of my price range. It is smallish, with several large palms in its front courtyard, two huts with palm roofs, and a hammock. The structural columns of the main building are just polished tree trunks, with hammocks slung between each and in front of every room. The doors and window are all arched and the whole place has a very nice jungly, organic feel. The owner, who turned out to be Portuguese, told me, you don't speak portuguese, you speak brasilian! We got our rooms, fully fitted with hot water, fridge, AC, and hammock, for thirty bucks each, with free breaksfast included. Woohoo. At high tide, the ocean lapped the low sea wall in front of our courtyard, so that when we looked out our second story doors in the morning all we saw was blue through coconut trees. Paradise.
The next two weeks were a bit of a blur. We slipped into an easy groove. Sleeping in, enjoying the free breakfast spread, lazing in the hammocks, strolling to the beach, bit of snorkeling or swimming. As the afternoon moved along we would start in on the caipiroskas, lounging in the sand and watching the capoieira boys do flips and tricks in the sand. We made friends with a few (easy to do when you are travelling with two pretty foreign girls). Early sunset sometimes included a capoeira roda on the beach, after which we soon discovered one of our favorite spots. A beachside bar next to a pool with comfy lounge chairs became the spot for early evening drink sipping, people watching, and smoking (none for me). Laecee and Kellie discovered that whisky may be a potential substitute for tequila while in the tropics. After a couple rounds, back to the hotel to wash up change clothes, maybe swing in the hammock, then head to town for food. Somewhere in those early days we befriended an Irish couple which kept us laughing for days. They were great fun and fun to listen to. They'd spent years working in Australia and were taking the long way home to Ireland, six months in South America.
Anyway we'd trudge up the sandy hill into town to pick a food spot. We'd made friends with a local bar owner so it was hard to get past that spot without some drinks and chat, which was all good. Eventually food, people watching, digesting, wandering, dessert, causal shopping or internet, and before long it was time for nightlife. The nightlife on Morro is extremely consistent, if a bit bland at times. One of three clubs hosts a party on second beach every night. A ring forms of fruity drink vendors in front of that club, forming a dance floor of sand in between. They crank up the tunes, and the night is on. Being low season and there being about twenty to thirty independent drink vendors, they are not shy about getting your business. Smiling and waving- "Amigo! Amigas! Caipifruta, Caipirinha, Caipiroska! Oh Amigo!" They've each got an impressive pile of fruit on their stand, a gang of booze bottles, an umbrella, a bright light bulb, a white tablecloth, and a blender. The watermelons and goiabas are cut sculpturally, beckoning with their green skins and pink flesh, while the other bright and foreign fruits beam their own seductions. As the night wears on the ring of sand fills with folks getting their groove on, usually right through to sunrise. My favorite nights were when they played brasilian music, instead of the lame techno or rock nights. On those nights more locals came out and they would really get down, forro, axé, pagode, samba, whatever.
Once in a while something different would happen. Saturdays involved a special party on another beach, that you had to catch a late night boat to. The boats started running at 11 pm and ran through sunrise. We were taken to Gamboa, a twenty minute trip on a small covered vessel with about thirty other well lubricated party goers. Dropping us into the surf(literally, we arrived to the party quite wet) we found ourselves beachside where a sound system and a few palm covered bars had been set up, a rave in full swing. Music was a bit shit as the british would say, but the scene was great, and we didn't get on the boat home til the sky was getting light. As we motored, then walked back to our hotel, we watched the sky change from one fantastic color to the next, the rising sun reflecting off of the morning clouds. I retired before it fully rose, somehow sunrises depress me, but the girls stayed up well past.
Another night the party was well into the hills at "O Teatro". That was a fun trek. We'd had our own pre party and headed out around midnight, the standard time to go to a party in Brasil. Each person we asked how to get to the teatro kind of flung their arm in the same general direction, so we went that way. We really hadn't gone far when we decided to ask if we were on the right track. We weren't, in fact almost every step we had taken was wrong. Go back to the sign that says Teatro. We acquired a tag along which I wasn't happy about at first but when we walked right by the sign that was only printed on one side, the other side, he thankfully pointed us in the right direction. We climbed straight up a jungly mountain side. The path was dark and overgrown, steep and narrow, with some crazily windy cement stairs, each step too small to really get your foot on and as high as two normal steps. This led to a sandy path through some farms and houses, an area I never knew existed. Once again we were rescued from a wrong turn by a tag along who just happened to have tickets for sale. Anyway we made it eventually and it turned out to be pretty cool. An actual outdoor theater, with a sloping seating area of cement, a stage with curtains and backstage area, a big make-shift tent of canvas and drift wood thrown over most of it, and a few bars set up. There was a band set up, and a DJ booth, and we had arrived just in time for the capoeira demonstration. Standard fare, but good entertainment, capoeira, a live reggae band, and DJ spinning carnaval hits from salvador.
Me and Kellie proved to be the snorkeling team, getting out almost every day. The quality was not high, there is a lot sediment in the water now due to rains and a lot of algae on the coral due to ecological problems, but there are fish. We in fact saw eels and jelly fish and even a sea snake. Kellie found a really cool under water cave that we took turns swimming through and tearing our flesh on. Kayaks proved to be a good time too and we all got out a couple of days on those. We kept our eyes out for the Micos- cute little shaggy monkeys that inhabit the isle that I photographed in 2002, but sadly for Kellie they never showed up for us. At one point her and I snuck off road into the forest and walked around leaving banana tidbits around and making monkey noises, to no avail. We also invented a crepe, sundried tomato, quiejo minas, basil, and shredded smoked chicken. Frikkin great.
I told the girls they haven't been to Brasil unless they experience a water shortage and a power failure. Sure enough, we had to wait an extra half hour to rinse off the salt one evening, and on another night power for the whole island went down for about four hours. That was great. Everything just got quieter, but business set out candles and kept going, it was really beautiful. We stayed at our poolside bar for a while, the one place with backup power, and watched the scene, but eventually we wandered up into town and it was great to see everything lit by candle light, and see how quiet and excited everyone gets when a whole town goes back to candles. Me and Laecee also got to participate in another unique third world tropical experience, this one not terribly desirable. I'd had this splinter in my toe that had been bothering me for a few days, and then Laecee had a similar irritation. Just a few days earlier our bartender friend had been telling us about the dreaded Bicho do Pe (Beast of the Foot). A parasite that lives in the sand and bores into the soles of feet, there to release eggs and fester miserably. Our pousada owner took one look at our toes and smiled broadly- "Yep, Bicho do Pe, we will needed the help of the natives." Yuck. He looked at mine, clapped his hands, and said "whoooah, grandao (big one)." I guess I should be glad that by the time I knew what it was it was removed within a few minutes. Laecee, growing reluctantly accustomed to the cockroaches, centipedes, flying cicadas, and noisy nighttime jungle, also took this all in stride. One of the cooks at our pousada was called in as bush doctor. She walked to a cactus growing in the courtyard and plucked a spine. I couldn't watch but Kellie was fascinated and told me what happened. With the spine she poked a series of holes in the skin around the critter, breaking the skin, then stabbed it right in the head and pulled it out. Yum.
Of course I had my usual experience of running into someone random from Santa Cruz while I was there as well. Vanessa Mellet, Santa Cruz jeweler and dancer of Peruvian descent, turned up with brother and boyfriend. She recently bought some property between Trancoso and Arrail DAjuda, a beautiful area of southern Bahia. I expected I might see her there, but here she was on Morro with us. Vanessa has the distinction of starting this whole trend with me almost ten years ago, when I ran into her on the island of Bali, my first time there with Samantha in 97 or so.
For our final days Laecee was determined to blow some cash and stay someplace really posh, so we all packed up and moved into Minha Louca Paixao, for some high living. We had wanted to move into our poolside bar, but it had become easter weekend and prices had all doubled- hitting 360/night for that place. As it was we paid somewhere over a hundred for our new rooms. Ocean view, wood paneling, landscaping, personal deck, hammock, fancy bathrooms, the works. As it turned out a sunset capoeira performance took place right off the deck of one of our rooms the night we moved in.
The weeks had gone by too fast, and it was time to leave. Of course, we weren't getting back on that boat- so time for something far more dangerous, the brazilian island hopping prop plane! The travel agent said a cabbie would pick us up at eight to take us to the airport. Sure enough, on the stroke of the hour, a little guy trundles up with a wheelbarrow painted yellow with the word "taxi" painted across it in black. Perfect. He bounced our bags down the beach and a sand path to the "airport" Our departure gate consisted of two benches under the shade of a coconut tree, the security checkpoint a barbed wire gate made of palm tree posts. There were no buildings and not much of a runway. Despite this our flight was still delayed almost an hour. We finally boarded a tiny twin engine propeller plane with eight seats, my surfboard taking up the entire aisle. The pilot was fairly old, with thick glasses and a way of mumbling to himself.
Time to go. But... one propeller isn't spinning? Time and again he cranked the ignition, like trying to get an old lawnmower to run. It did sound just like a lawn mower, sputtering, then nothing. There was a guy on the ground standing uncomfortably close to that propeller, looking like he was considering giving it a spin himself. Finally it sputtered to life, just like in that Indiana Jones movie- I could hear the music- dun dadun dun, dun dadun... We taxied to the end of the runway. The plane didn't seem to handle very well, or maybe it was the driver. We were all over the place, each correction an over correction, our nose weaving wildly. Maybe that's just how these planes are? I hope so. We turned around and faced the sea. The moment of truth. The passengers exchanged nervous smiles. The pilot gunned the engines and held the brakes, then left go and we were off. Careening down the runway and gaining speed, and headed straight for the water. If I thought he was weaving before, now it was really all he could do to stay on the runway at all. Just when we ran out of asphalt, our nose picked up and we sailed out over the water, banking sharply as we flew by 4th, 3rd, 2nd, and 1st beach, the lighthouse, the fort, and the dock.
The flight was short, the views were great, and the landing was even more exciting than the takeoff. The pilot banked hard left suddenly and bore down steeply. We rocketed earthward toward the airstrip and it was like a video game. As we came in for our landing, not only did our nose weave side to side, it weaved up and down and the wings twisted us right then left. The image of the runway through the cabin windows bobbed crazily. I watched the steering wheel thingy heave about in the pilots hands. We bounced and fishtailed down the runway, eventually coming to a stop. I glanced at Laecee to see if she thought that was any better than the boat trip. Her face was a mask of pure serenity, I don't think she had watched any of it.
I helped the girls kill a few hours in the airport, then it was time for goodbyes. It was great to have the company and see friends. It was strange too though. After months on my own, when they showed up in airport in salvador it was like they didn't fit in the picture somehow. And now, the moment they walked away through the security doors, it was almost like they had never really been there at all, it was just a dream. Any way, time to go back to Salvador and regroup.
I guess the bobbing is the trouble for some. Laecee stared at disappearing Salvador for dear life. "How long is the ride, Mike?" "45 minutes." "How much longer?" "10 minutes" "Can you see the island?" "Yup" "How much longer now?" "Um, around ten minutes" "Can you really see the island?" "Yep, now I can." "Now how much longer?" "I think it's really ten minutes now." And so on. Eventually Salvador disappeared altogether, though for a while Laecee substituted a cloud on the horizon I think. I think the ride was an hour and a half to an hour and forty five. Laecee was right on the edge the whole time. I could tell by the funny things her throat was doing. I have some theories about motion sickeness. One is the more you think about it the sicker you get. So I held her hand and said things like,"So how are the kids back home?" "How's work going" etc. Kelly wasn't with my program. "Are you feeling sick Laecee?" "She's fine" I interrupted. "I feel a little sick too." "I think that woman over there is feeling sick" "I hate being seasick" "I remember one time when I was sick..." "OK Kellie so anyways?!" Jeez.
My other theory is it's good to have an end in sight. Thus the creative construction of time on my part. Laecee later said she at first hated me for it then thanked me, so I guess that's good. Eventually we made it with no mishap. Laecee eventually turned to fixate on the approaching island. It was gorgeous. Golden cliffs, green jungle, blue water, a crumbling Portuguese fort with coconut palms growing from the cracks, canoes and fishing boats bobbing, and our dock- dry land in sight!
If you've been following, you'll know that I spent the last five weeks searching for the spot to bring the girls. It had to have everything. Beach, food, lodging, nightlife, Brazilian flavor, foreign comforts, natural beauty, easy access, entertainment options, outlying areas to explore. I had already been to Morro twice on previous trips, and I knew it was a contender, but I had to check out some new spots to be sure. After my survey, I won't say Morro is my favorite spot I have seen, but for people who have never been to Brasil and only have two weeks, and want to relax and go to the beach, it's hard to beat. So there we were. On the concrete dock. It wasn't moving but we still were a bit. There are no roads or vehicles on Morro, and all paths are beach sand. Thus transportation consists of wheel barrow (here), and there is always a mob of wheelbarrow extortionists waiting at the dock for the boatload of tourists. Only now it seems they have really incorporated, Mafia style, and have matching orange t-shirts and will not undercut each other, so you're totally at their mercy. After accepting defeat (well I got it down from 30 to 20, but it used to be 3 to 5 a bag) we loaded up a wheel barrow and began our march through the sand.
It's a great walk. You begin hiking up a hill and walk through a tremendous colonial arch. When you reach the top of the hill you are in the center of town, in a small sandy palza with paths leading out in three directions. From here you head down the sandy path, and see the whole town, all the restaurants, pousadas (lodging), bikini shops, travel agents, internet cafes, coffee shops, bars, etc. Eventually you get to the bottom and you are at first beach. Each idyllic cove leads to the next and they are conveniently named 1, 2, 3, and 4. We headed for third beach, the last beach with dense accommodation and my favorite. Since I knew our rip off taxi guys would get a commission once we chose a hotel I tried to get them to drop our bags and dismiss them by paying them, they weren't having it however. We were in front of a pousada I had always loved the look of but assumed was out of my price range. It is smallish, with several large palms in its front courtyard, two huts with palm roofs, and a hammock. The structural columns of the main building are just polished tree trunks, with hammocks slung between each and in front of every room. The doors and window are all arched and the whole place has a very nice jungly, organic feel. The owner, who turned out to be Portuguese, told me, you don't speak portuguese, you speak brasilian! We got our rooms, fully fitted with hot water, fridge, AC, and hammock, for thirty bucks each, with free breaksfast included. Woohoo. At high tide, the ocean lapped the low sea wall in front of our courtyard, so that when we looked out our second story doors in the morning all we saw was blue through coconut trees. Paradise.
The next two weeks were a bit of a blur. We slipped into an easy groove. Sleeping in, enjoying the free breakfast spread, lazing in the hammocks, strolling to the beach, bit of snorkeling or swimming. As the afternoon moved along we would start in on the caipiroskas, lounging in the sand and watching the capoieira boys do flips and tricks in the sand. We made friends with a few (easy to do when you are travelling with two pretty foreign girls). Early sunset sometimes included a capoeira roda on the beach, after which we soon discovered one of our favorite spots. A beachside bar next to a pool with comfy lounge chairs became the spot for early evening drink sipping, people watching, and smoking (none for me). Laecee and Kellie discovered that whisky may be a potential substitute for tequila while in the tropics. After a couple rounds, back to the hotel to wash up change clothes, maybe swing in the hammock, then head to town for food. Somewhere in those early days we befriended an Irish couple which kept us laughing for days. They were great fun and fun to listen to. They'd spent years working in Australia and were taking the long way home to Ireland, six months in South America.
Anyway we'd trudge up the sandy hill into town to pick a food spot. We'd made friends with a local bar owner so it was hard to get past that spot without some drinks and chat, which was all good. Eventually food, people watching, digesting, wandering, dessert, causal shopping or internet, and before long it was time for nightlife. The nightlife on Morro is extremely consistent, if a bit bland at times. One of three clubs hosts a party on second beach every night. A ring forms of fruity drink vendors in front of that club, forming a dance floor of sand in between. They crank up the tunes, and the night is on. Being low season and there being about twenty to thirty independent drink vendors, they are not shy about getting your business. Smiling and waving- "Amigo! Amigas! Caipifruta, Caipirinha, Caipiroska! Oh Amigo!" They've each got an impressive pile of fruit on their stand, a gang of booze bottles, an umbrella, a bright light bulb, a white tablecloth, and a blender. The watermelons and goiabas are cut sculpturally, beckoning with their green skins and pink flesh, while the other bright and foreign fruits beam their own seductions. As the night wears on the ring of sand fills with folks getting their groove on, usually right through to sunrise. My favorite nights were when they played brasilian music, instead of the lame techno or rock nights. On those nights more locals came out and they would really get down, forro, axé, pagode, samba, whatever.
Once in a while something different would happen. Saturdays involved a special party on another beach, that you had to catch a late night boat to. The boats started running at 11 pm and ran through sunrise. We were taken to Gamboa, a twenty minute trip on a small covered vessel with about thirty other well lubricated party goers. Dropping us into the surf(literally, we arrived to the party quite wet) we found ourselves beachside where a sound system and a few palm covered bars had been set up, a rave in full swing. Music was a bit shit as the british would say, but the scene was great, and we didn't get on the boat home til the sky was getting light. As we motored, then walked back to our hotel, we watched the sky change from one fantastic color to the next, the rising sun reflecting off of the morning clouds. I retired before it fully rose, somehow sunrises depress me, but the girls stayed up well past.
Another night the party was well into the hills at "O Teatro". That was a fun trek. We'd had our own pre party and headed out around midnight, the standard time to go to a party in Brasil. Each person we asked how to get to the teatro kind of flung their arm in the same general direction, so we went that way. We really hadn't gone far when we decided to ask if we were on the right track. We weren't, in fact almost every step we had taken was wrong. Go back to the sign that says Teatro. We acquired a tag along which I wasn't happy about at first but when we walked right by the sign that was only printed on one side, the other side, he thankfully pointed us in the right direction. We climbed straight up a jungly mountain side. The path was dark and overgrown, steep and narrow, with some crazily windy cement stairs, each step too small to really get your foot on and as high as two normal steps. This led to a sandy path through some farms and houses, an area I never knew existed. Once again we were rescued from a wrong turn by a tag along who just happened to have tickets for sale. Anyway we made it eventually and it turned out to be pretty cool. An actual outdoor theater, with a sloping seating area of cement, a stage with curtains and backstage area, a big make-shift tent of canvas and drift wood thrown over most of it, and a few bars set up. There was a band set up, and a DJ booth, and we had arrived just in time for the capoeira demonstration. Standard fare, but good entertainment, capoeira, a live reggae band, and DJ spinning carnaval hits from salvador.
Me and Kellie proved to be the snorkeling team, getting out almost every day. The quality was not high, there is a lot sediment in the water now due to rains and a lot of algae on the coral due to ecological problems, but there are fish. We in fact saw eels and jelly fish and even a sea snake. Kellie found a really cool under water cave that we took turns swimming through and tearing our flesh on. Kayaks proved to be a good time too and we all got out a couple of days on those. We kept our eyes out for the Micos- cute little shaggy monkeys that inhabit the isle that I photographed in 2002, but sadly for Kellie they never showed up for us. At one point her and I snuck off road into the forest and walked around leaving banana tidbits around and making monkey noises, to no avail. We also invented a crepe, sundried tomato, quiejo minas, basil, and shredded smoked chicken. Frikkin great.
I told the girls they haven't been to Brasil unless they experience a water shortage and a power failure. Sure enough, we had to wait an extra half hour to rinse off the salt one evening, and on another night power for the whole island went down for about four hours. That was great. Everything just got quieter, but business set out candles and kept going, it was really beautiful. We stayed at our poolside bar for a while, the one place with backup power, and watched the scene, but eventually we wandered up into town and it was great to see everything lit by candle light, and see how quiet and excited everyone gets when a whole town goes back to candles. Me and Laecee also got to participate in another unique third world tropical experience, this one not terribly desirable. I'd had this splinter in my toe that had been bothering me for a few days, and then Laecee had a similar irritation. Just a few days earlier our bartender friend had been telling us about the dreaded Bicho do Pe (Beast of the Foot). A parasite that lives in the sand and bores into the soles of feet, there to release eggs and fester miserably. Our pousada owner took one look at our toes and smiled broadly- "Yep, Bicho do Pe, we will needed the help of the natives." Yuck. He looked at mine, clapped his hands, and said "whoooah, grandao (big one)." I guess I should be glad that by the time I knew what it was it was removed within a few minutes. Laecee, growing reluctantly accustomed to the cockroaches, centipedes, flying cicadas, and noisy nighttime jungle, also took this all in stride. One of the cooks at our pousada was called in as bush doctor. She walked to a cactus growing in the courtyard and plucked a spine. I couldn't watch but Kellie was fascinated and told me what happened. With the spine she poked a series of holes in the skin around the critter, breaking the skin, then stabbed it right in the head and pulled it out. Yum.
Of course I had my usual experience of running into someone random from Santa Cruz while I was there as well. Vanessa Mellet, Santa Cruz jeweler and dancer of Peruvian descent, turned up with brother and boyfriend. She recently bought some property between Trancoso and Arrail DAjuda, a beautiful area of southern Bahia. I expected I might see her there, but here she was on Morro with us. Vanessa has the distinction of starting this whole trend with me almost ten years ago, when I ran into her on the island of Bali, my first time there with Samantha in 97 or so.
For our final days Laecee was determined to blow some cash and stay someplace really posh, so we all packed up and moved into Minha Louca Paixao, for some high living. We had wanted to move into our poolside bar, but it had become easter weekend and prices had all doubled- hitting 360/night for that place. As it was we paid somewhere over a hundred for our new rooms. Ocean view, wood paneling, landscaping, personal deck, hammock, fancy bathrooms, the works. As it turned out a sunset capoeira performance took place right off the deck of one of our rooms the night we moved in.
The weeks had gone by too fast, and it was time to leave. Of course, we weren't getting back on that boat- so time for something far more dangerous, the brazilian island hopping prop plane! The travel agent said a cabbie would pick us up at eight to take us to the airport. Sure enough, on the stroke of the hour, a little guy trundles up with a wheelbarrow painted yellow with the word "taxi" painted across it in black. Perfect. He bounced our bags down the beach and a sand path to the "airport" Our departure gate consisted of two benches under the shade of a coconut tree, the security checkpoint a barbed wire gate made of palm tree posts. There were no buildings and not much of a runway. Despite this our flight was still delayed almost an hour. We finally boarded a tiny twin engine propeller plane with eight seats, my surfboard taking up the entire aisle. The pilot was fairly old, with thick glasses and a way of mumbling to himself.
Time to go. But... one propeller isn't spinning? Time and again he cranked the ignition, like trying to get an old lawnmower to run. It did sound just like a lawn mower, sputtering, then nothing. There was a guy on the ground standing uncomfortably close to that propeller, looking like he was considering giving it a spin himself. Finally it sputtered to life, just like in that Indiana Jones movie- I could hear the music- dun dadun dun, dun dadun... We taxied to the end of the runway. The plane didn't seem to handle very well, or maybe it was the driver. We were all over the place, each correction an over correction, our nose weaving wildly. Maybe that's just how these planes are? I hope so. We turned around and faced the sea. The moment of truth. The passengers exchanged nervous smiles. The pilot gunned the engines and held the brakes, then left go and we were off. Careening down the runway and gaining speed, and headed straight for the water. If I thought he was weaving before, now it was really all he could do to stay on the runway at all. Just when we ran out of asphalt, our nose picked up and we sailed out over the water, banking sharply as we flew by 4th, 3rd, 2nd, and 1st beach, the lighthouse, the fort, and the dock.
The flight was short, the views were great, and the landing was even more exciting than the takeoff. The pilot banked hard left suddenly and bore down steeply. We rocketed earthward toward the airstrip and it was like a video game. As we came in for our landing, not only did our nose weave side to side, it weaved up and down and the wings twisted us right then left. The image of the runway through the cabin windows bobbed crazily. I watched the steering wheel thingy heave about in the pilots hands. We bounced and fishtailed down the runway, eventually coming to a stop. I glanced at Laecee to see if she thought that was any better than the boat trip. Her face was a mask of pure serenity, I don't think she had watched any of it.
I helped the girls kill a few hours in the airport, then it was time for goodbyes. It was great to have the company and see friends. It was strange too though. After months on my own, when they showed up in airport in salvador it was like they didn't fit in the picture somehow. And now, the moment they walked away through the security doors, it was almost like they had never really been there at all, it was just a dream. Any way, time to go back to Salvador and regroup.
Morro De Sao Paolo
Morro De Sao Paolo
It's been so long since I wrote I can hardly type, much less remember what I was doing a month ago. Let's see, March 27, I was in an airport I think (Fortaleza maybe?), watching the janitors roll by on their roller blades, and the bahiana in her bustles fan herself and look bored, and then my flight was delayed and then- oh then I flew to Salvador. That's right I was flying to Salvador to meet my two friends who were coming in from Santa Cruz that very day. Only thing was I was supposed to have arrived six hours before them and got us a hotel room and been waiting by the phone to tell their taxi driver where to go. As it was, with the usual delaying of the delays, I was getting in about 15 minutes before them (hopefully) and would somehow have to intercept them in the busy Salvador airport. Once I landed, after asking about ten different people, it seemed we were to share the same baggage claim, so all I had to do was wait. Cool.
I sat down on a bench and under the suspicious eyes of various airport officials sunk into my usual lazy slouch and practiced the face I was going to make when I saw my friends for the first time in two months in a busy third world airport. Mobs of people came and went and eventually one of the people I had been asking questions of indicated that this mob was the flight I was looking for. My pulse quickened and my face got more active, I hadn't settled on one yet, but I was doing a lot of smiling to myself and the airport officials were about to give up wondering what I was doing. The whole mob came and went, thinning down to a trickle. No white girls with that fresh off the boat halo around them. Hmmm. Wait, there they were, OMG, woohoo, hey over here, wait, where are they going? They turned the corner and walked away from me. Was it them? Well one had a banjo and one was carrying my mandolin, an unlikely coincidence. They walked into the ladies room and were gone.
Oh well I'd wait some more. I walked over to a pillar in front of the girls room door, struck a pose leaning against it, and practiced my face. Someone was coming, as she walked out I looked right into her eyes and made the face I'd settled on. She did a bit of double take and looked at me funny, then kept moving. Oops, wasn't my friend. This happened about ten more times. I don't know where these ladies were coming from, I didn't see any of them walk in. It was like the clowns piling out of volkswagon beetle, except the only clown was me, lurking in front of the bathroom door leering at everybody. I must have waited ten minutes. Finally Kellie walked out of the bathroom. My face was a bit tired at this point, so its hard to be sure what it did when she walked out, but it didn't matter because she recognized me instantly and came to give me a travel weary hug. We chatted for a second until it became obvious Kellie was too tired and disoriented for small talk, and we shared a bit of smily silence waiting for Laecee. And waiting. Kellie went to tell her we'd meet her at the baggage claim, and we walked over. We all got our bags in short order, and next thing I know laecee is leaping on me and hugging me and saying, "It's him! He's here! Woohoo." Happy reunion. We packed two backpacks, one suitcase, various carry-ons, a banjo, a mandolin, a surfboard, and three travelers into a cab and headed for Salvador, a 45 minute drive.
I thought a bit of driving would be a soft way to start to acclimate, as we drove through various shanty towns and crumbling urban developments, people walking hither and yon, some just staring at the passing traffic, all from the comfort of our air conditioned cab. I was wrong. I guess I'm immune at this point, after all I took drivers training and learned to drive in Bogota, Colombia, of all places, (oh and spent a month racing a motorcycle around Bali on the left side of the road, running from cops and the rest) but the race car/demo derby maneuvers of our Salvadorian cabbie were doing anything but putting the girls at ease. They were pretty good about it but after about half an hour Laecee let out a big sigh and to Kellie in a squeeky voice, "did you see that?" See what I wanted to know. "Yeah he's been doing it the whole time" was Kellie's response. Oh well, there was going to be a lot to get used to.
We got to Salvador early evening and the cabbie was great about driving us around to different hotels as we tried to find a room. We were in the historical area, which as I've mentioned before is garanteed to give you the best and worst of Salvador. The second the cab stopped moving kids were pressed against the windows asking for change and as I got out to check on a room I immediately acquired a very strung out looking and persistent "guide". No amount of no thank you's could shake him and he followed me right into each hotel, walking up to the desk before me and asking for a room for me before I could open my mouth. I had to eventually get back in the cab to shake him. We eventually got rooms, settled in, took a few breaths, and got ready to go out. They weren't the nicest rooms, but they were cheap and well located, and we would be headed to the islands the next day, so whatever. In retrospect, the girls were great sports. We were close to the action, but we were on a dingy side street with poor light (ok all the streets have poor light), bars on windows and doors, a silent doorman who kept our door locked all night and day, small bland rooms with crumbling plaster and a common bathroom with a cold (or shocking) shower, humid, lumpy mattress and pillows. I don't think we even had fans, much less AC. The girls were going with the flow.
We walked around the old district and I showed the girls the sights, including history lessons and orientation. Thankfully, the mobs of summer and carnaval were long gone, and the area was somewhat peaceful. The aggressive street kids, panhandlers, and hawkers were still there, but in smaller numbers and several notches less aggressive in their tactics. The girls just smiled at everyone, while I explained our lack of interest or whatever. We stopped for drinks at a bar I liked, where there is often live music. We sat outside to watch the scene and enjoy the breeze. Laecee and Kellie are addicted to tequila, specifically Cazadores. That's really all there is for them. I had warned them that tequila is rare in Brazil, and if you find it it is always Jose Cuervo, which as we all know is horrid. It was time for their first Caipirinha.
Pinga, or cachaça, is the state drink of Brazil. It is made of sugar cane and the readily available varieties are mostly unfiltered, very strong, and after about three are guaranteed to have you teaching samba lessons and begging for mercy the next morning. I don't drink it. A Caipirinha is a delicious way to forget you are drinking cachaça. Lime juice, cane sugar, ice, and cachaça. It goes down smooth. Once again, I don't drink them. I decided to have mercy on the girls and ordered them Caipiroskas, basically the same drink but with vodka instead. They loved them and were quickly forgetting the 36 hour journey they just came off of and were looking around and really seeing Brazil. I think we had a couple rounds, can't remmeber (I'm going to leave that typo).
We walked some more, saw more sights, then realized we were starved. We stopped for a small meal at a restaurant some may know called Cantina Da Lua, a buffet type place with typical Bahian cuisine and a view of the square. As I explained to the girls, there is not one food item in Brazil that tastes like any food item in the States, except Coke. Even when it looks familiar, it wont be. Even the pizza comes with a very thin crust, usually no tomato sauce, and mayonaisse and ketchup on the side. Laecee, a very picky eater, found something to pick at and just kept smiling.
I could see they were tired, but I knew this was their one time to see Salvador, and I was going to show them everyting. We left the restarant and after visiting the Elevador de Lacerda, and a history lesson on the Mercado Modelo and the Forte, and the night time view of the harbor from the cliff, jumped in a cab for Barra. The other tourist destination in Salvador, Barra is the beach district. We got out at Porto Da Barra, my favorite beach and the place where they sometimes have shows on the beach, and near where I lived with Theresa, Kevin and crew in 2004. My idea was we'd walk along the beach for a ways, towards Ondina, and have a seaside drink at Barra Vento. Laecee had other plans. She needed to touch that water. While these areas are fairly safe in the early evening, there are tons of folks lurking about, some of them not smiling, and its usually when you step onto the sand that they approach you, so I stay off the sand at night. Oh well whatever. Laecee slipped off her sandals and got her feet wet, making happy girly sounds and expressing amazement at the warmth. Kellie laughed at Laecee, and I smiled because I couldn't help it, but kept my eyes on the dark edges of the sand and the boardwalk above, where we had the full attention of about a hundred local Barra lurkers.
Eventually I got our train back in motion and we moved on towards Barra Vento. It had been dark for hours, but the girls were marveling at the warmth and the warm moist breeze
blowing off the ocean. We must have stopped for a drink, though I remember nothing of it. Barra Vento is the only establishment on the beach side of the beach road, and consists primarily of a couple of huge and artistic canvas coverings draped, pulled and bound over an expansive multi-level deck with about a hundred tables on it. Great spot for a sunset drink, though we missed sunset by about four hours. Barra was quiet, and I was restless, so I was voting for a cab back to the Pelou, where hopefully the night life was heating up and we could do some sweaty bar hopping before bed.
As it turned out, monday night is just not the night for music in March in Salvador. Most of my usual haunts were shut down, but the upstairs salsa bar had some forro pumping, so we went up. It was perfect. The building was old and tastefully decorated, bare brick showing on the walls, lights low and reddish. Because of the small cover there were no shady characters or agressive men around, just couples getting down on the floor and folks chatting at the bar. I ended up talking to a semi psycho drunk italian and his very down to earth friendly salvadorian friend, while the girls watched the dancing and fell in love with a gypsy looking girl who had moves. We walked up stairs and enjoyed a peaceful and expansive nighttime view of the colonial buildings of the old district, and watched the street characters move below us like ants. Somehow we made it home, for a sweaty nights sleep before catching our boat the next day.
It's been so long since I wrote I can hardly type, much less remember what I was doing a month ago. Let's see, March 27, I was in an airport I think (Fortaleza maybe?), watching the janitors roll by on their roller blades, and the bahiana in her bustles fan herself and look bored, and then my flight was delayed and then- oh then I flew to Salvador. That's right I was flying to Salvador to meet my two friends who were coming in from Santa Cruz that very day. Only thing was I was supposed to have arrived six hours before them and got us a hotel room and been waiting by the phone to tell their taxi driver where to go. As it was, with the usual delaying of the delays, I was getting in about 15 minutes before them (hopefully) and would somehow have to intercept them in the busy Salvador airport. Once I landed, after asking about ten different people, it seemed we were to share the same baggage claim, so all I had to do was wait. Cool.
I sat down on a bench and under the suspicious eyes of various airport officials sunk into my usual lazy slouch and practiced the face I was going to make when I saw my friends for the first time in two months in a busy third world airport. Mobs of people came and went and eventually one of the people I had been asking questions of indicated that this mob was the flight I was looking for. My pulse quickened and my face got more active, I hadn't settled on one yet, but I was doing a lot of smiling to myself and the airport officials were about to give up wondering what I was doing. The whole mob came and went, thinning down to a trickle. No white girls with that fresh off the boat halo around them. Hmmm. Wait, there they were, OMG, woohoo, hey over here, wait, where are they going? They turned the corner and walked away from me. Was it them? Well one had a banjo and one was carrying my mandolin, an unlikely coincidence. They walked into the ladies room and were gone.
Oh well I'd wait some more. I walked over to a pillar in front of the girls room door, struck a pose leaning against it, and practiced my face. Someone was coming, as she walked out I looked right into her eyes and made the face I'd settled on. She did a bit of double take and looked at me funny, then kept moving. Oops, wasn't my friend. This happened about ten more times. I don't know where these ladies were coming from, I didn't see any of them walk in. It was like the clowns piling out of volkswagon beetle, except the only clown was me, lurking in front of the bathroom door leering at everybody. I must have waited ten minutes. Finally Kellie walked out of the bathroom. My face was a bit tired at this point, so its hard to be sure what it did when she walked out, but it didn't matter because she recognized me instantly and came to give me a travel weary hug. We chatted for a second until it became obvious Kellie was too tired and disoriented for small talk, and we shared a bit of smily silence waiting for Laecee. And waiting. Kellie went to tell her we'd meet her at the baggage claim, and we walked over. We all got our bags in short order, and next thing I know laecee is leaping on me and hugging me and saying, "It's him! He's here! Woohoo." Happy reunion. We packed two backpacks, one suitcase, various carry-ons, a banjo, a mandolin, a surfboard, and three travelers into a cab and headed for Salvador, a 45 minute drive.
I thought a bit of driving would be a soft way to start to acclimate, as we drove through various shanty towns and crumbling urban developments, people walking hither and yon, some just staring at the passing traffic, all from the comfort of our air conditioned cab. I was wrong. I guess I'm immune at this point, after all I took drivers training and learned to drive in Bogota, Colombia, of all places, (oh and spent a month racing a motorcycle around Bali on the left side of the road, running from cops and the rest) but the race car/demo derby maneuvers of our Salvadorian cabbie were doing anything but putting the girls at ease. They were pretty good about it but after about half an hour Laecee let out a big sigh and to Kellie in a squeeky voice, "did you see that?" See what I wanted to know. "Yeah he's been doing it the whole time" was Kellie's response. Oh well, there was going to be a lot to get used to.
We got to Salvador early evening and the cabbie was great about driving us around to different hotels as we tried to find a room. We were in the historical area, which as I've mentioned before is garanteed to give you the best and worst of Salvador. The second the cab stopped moving kids were pressed against the windows asking for change and as I got out to check on a room I immediately acquired a very strung out looking and persistent "guide". No amount of no thank you's could shake him and he followed me right into each hotel, walking up to the desk before me and asking for a room for me before I could open my mouth. I had to eventually get back in the cab to shake him. We eventually got rooms, settled in, took a few breaths, and got ready to go out. They weren't the nicest rooms, but they were cheap and well located, and we would be headed to the islands the next day, so whatever. In retrospect, the girls were great sports. We were close to the action, but we were on a dingy side street with poor light (ok all the streets have poor light), bars on windows and doors, a silent doorman who kept our door locked all night and day, small bland rooms with crumbling plaster and a common bathroom with a cold (or shocking) shower, humid, lumpy mattress and pillows. I don't think we even had fans, much less AC. The girls were going with the flow.
We walked around the old district and I showed the girls the sights, including history lessons and orientation. Thankfully, the mobs of summer and carnaval were long gone, and the area was somewhat peaceful. The aggressive street kids, panhandlers, and hawkers were still there, but in smaller numbers and several notches less aggressive in their tactics. The girls just smiled at everyone, while I explained our lack of interest or whatever. We stopped for drinks at a bar I liked, where there is often live music. We sat outside to watch the scene and enjoy the breeze. Laecee and Kellie are addicted to tequila, specifically Cazadores. That's really all there is for them. I had warned them that tequila is rare in Brazil, and if you find it it is always Jose Cuervo, which as we all know is horrid. It was time for their first Caipirinha.
Pinga, or cachaça, is the state drink of Brazil. It is made of sugar cane and the readily available varieties are mostly unfiltered, very strong, and after about three are guaranteed to have you teaching samba lessons and begging for mercy the next morning. I don't drink it. A Caipirinha is a delicious way to forget you are drinking cachaça. Lime juice, cane sugar, ice, and cachaça. It goes down smooth. Once again, I don't drink them. I decided to have mercy on the girls and ordered them Caipiroskas, basically the same drink but with vodka instead. They loved them and were quickly forgetting the 36 hour journey they just came off of and were looking around and really seeing Brazil. I think we had a couple rounds, can't remmeber (I'm going to leave that typo).
We walked some more, saw more sights, then realized we were starved. We stopped for a small meal at a restaurant some may know called Cantina Da Lua, a buffet type place with typical Bahian cuisine and a view of the square. As I explained to the girls, there is not one food item in Brazil that tastes like any food item in the States, except Coke. Even when it looks familiar, it wont be. Even the pizza comes with a very thin crust, usually no tomato sauce, and mayonaisse and ketchup on the side. Laecee, a very picky eater, found something to pick at and just kept smiling.
I could see they were tired, but I knew this was their one time to see Salvador, and I was going to show them everyting. We left the restarant and after visiting the Elevador de Lacerda, and a history lesson on the Mercado Modelo and the Forte, and the night time view of the harbor from the cliff, jumped in a cab for Barra. The other tourist destination in Salvador, Barra is the beach district. We got out at Porto Da Barra, my favorite beach and the place where they sometimes have shows on the beach, and near where I lived with Theresa, Kevin and crew in 2004. My idea was we'd walk along the beach for a ways, towards Ondina, and have a seaside drink at Barra Vento. Laecee had other plans. She needed to touch that water. While these areas are fairly safe in the early evening, there are tons of folks lurking about, some of them not smiling, and its usually when you step onto the sand that they approach you, so I stay off the sand at night. Oh well whatever. Laecee slipped off her sandals and got her feet wet, making happy girly sounds and expressing amazement at the warmth. Kellie laughed at Laecee, and I smiled because I couldn't help it, but kept my eyes on the dark edges of the sand and the boardwalk above, where we had the full attention of about a hundred local Barra lurkers.
Eventually I got our train back in motion and we moved on towards Barra Vento. It had been dark for hours, but the girls were marveling at the warmth and the warm moist breeze
blowing off the ocean. We must have stopped for a drink, though I remember nothing of it. Barra Vento is the only establishment on the beach side of the beach road, and consists primarily of a couple of huge and artistic canvas coverings draped, pulled and bound over an expansive multi-level deck with about a hundred tables on it. Great spot for a sunset drink, though we missed sunset by about four hours. Barra was quiet, and I was restless, so I was voting for a cab back to the Pelou, where hopefully the night life was heating up and we could do some sweaty bar hopping before bed.
As it turned out, monday night is just not the night for music in March in Salvador. Most of my usual haunts were shut down, but the upstairs salsa bar had some forro pumping, so we went up. It was perfect. The building was old and tastefully decorated, bare brick showing on the walls, lights low and reddish. Because of the small cover there were no shady characters or agressive men around, just couples getting down on the floor and folks chatting at the bar. I ended up talking to a semi psycho drunk italian and his very down to earth friendly salvadorian friend, while the girls watched the dancing and fell in love with a gypsy looking girl who had moves. We walked up stairs and enjoyed a peaceful and expansive nighttime view of the colonial buildings of the old district, and watched the street characters move below us like ants. Somehow we made it home, for a sweaty nights sleep before catching our boat the next day.
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