Jericoacora - A Slice of Paradise

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Phillipe comes from the French colony of New Caledonia, a tropical island off the coast of Australia, with white beaches, clear blue seas, and all the trimmings needed to garnish your paradise turkey. So I have it on pretty good authority that the northern Brazilian beach village of Jericoacoara is something special. He walked around with his jaw as wide open as his eyes, amidst the tall sand dunes, crystal lagoons, warm sea breeze and coconut groves. When he met the gorgeous Camilla from Sao Paulo, in her bright blue Brazilian bikini, I had to pick his pupils off the sand, dust them off and hand them back to him. “Ah, Robin, man, this is paradise!” Coming from someone born and raised under a palm tree, that means a lot.

I first heard about Jericoacoara (pronounced Jeri-kwa-kwa-ra) in southern Argentina. It was the tongue-busting answer to my question: Where’s the best place to go in Brazil? The name came up again and again, so I knew it was something I had to do, especially with the short time I have to explore such a vast, vibrant country. Finding this remote fishing village would involve a flight from Rio, a night in the seedy town of Fortaleza, a seven-hour bus, followed by another hour on an all-terrain vehicle. Like so many magical places around the world, it seems the harder it is to get there, the better the place will be. The same could not be said for Fortaleza, even with its first-class airport where I find myself writing my second report in as many weeks. After finishing up my Rio extravaganza, I caught an expensive cab to the HIN hostel to meet Phillipe, who had journeyed to the mosquito-infested Pantanal inland to view the same animals I had seen up-close in the bird park in Foz de Iguazu. Neither of us was sure who made the right decision, but I’ll take hang-gliding over animal spotting most days of the week. Anyway, I kind of saw it in Fortaleza, when we explored the tourist strip to find dozens of teenage prostitutes surrounded by overweight European men with strands of hair slicked across their sweating skulls. The girls were tragically young, but any sympathy disappeared when they physically try to jostle and push you into the girlie-bars. Refusing such advances resulted in hostile shoves and name calling, a particular harrowing experience even if it did teach me what it’s like to be a piece of cattle. Moo.

Together with a lunatic named Adrian from Australia, we caught the first bus out in the morning, driving further north towards the equator, which lay only one hour’s flight away. The bus window was scorching, and I knew instantly that just about every item of clothing I had lugged around this crazy continent would be inappropriate to deal with this kind of heat and humidity. Transferring to the open-air all-terrain bus, we drove for an hour through lush, tropical landscapes, eventually hitting the beach that stretched on forever. By the time we arrived in Jeri, I was well ready for a glass of freshly squeezed maracuja (passion fruit) juice, perhaps with a dash of pinga (cane spirit) to acclimatize to the pace. Or lack thereof. Phillipe and I have this thing, having connected in Bolivia, Argentina, and now Brazil, to always look at a few hotels (called pousadas in this part of the world) before making a decision. So we lugged our stuff around while touts showed us their goods, patiently waiting our decision. Naturally, the last guy had the best placeäan air-conditioned bungalow right on the dune, with a hammock-view of the famous sunset. The three of us settled in, bought some supplies (beer, juice, pinga, beer) and got down to a week of chilling out the likes of which I have never quite experienced. Herewith is my daily schedule for the last seven days.

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