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.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
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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