Salvador and Morro de Sao Paulo

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The French have an old ditty: “It is not the man who takes the sea, but the sea who takes the man.” Certainly, the sea took hundreds of thousands of black slaves from Africa and dropped them off in northeast Brazil, where they survived on average for just 13 years before succumbing to the harsh reality of plantations, mines and abject poverty. The sea also took this man, species Gonzo Moderndethal, across 20 foot swells to a postcard tropical island off the coast of Salvador. And just for fun, the sea took my trusty digital camera too.

Brazil imported more slaves than any other nation, and the cultural legacy of Africa is everywhere in Salvador, the port capital of the Bahai state. It is so unlike the south of the country you could forgive yourself for wondering if the night bus dropped you off in Ghana. Granted, the modern city is like any other modern Brazilian city: the urban malls reassuringly familiar, the favelas lingering within city limits like a stray dog begging for scraps. That’s why I went to the old town of Pilourinho, charcoaled with history’s dirty secrets, yet full of life and colour. My first impression, through my sleep-crusted eyes at the bus terminal, was the half naked man with blood-red eyes, pushing his scabbed face against the taxi glass. He looked like a zombie, the disturbing 28 Days Later kind. The cab driver took off with the guy’s slobber still dripping down the window. The air in Salvador felt like a bowel of hot and sour soup, and although the cabbie got lost (and kept the clock running), I was relieved to finally arrive at a funky hostel named Nega Maluca. I wrote my report, got some sleep, and dusted the cold night bus out my memories.

Salvador is not the kind of place you want to explore alone at night, so that’s exactly what I did. Fifteen minutes later, some street punk was threatening to stab me and “give me his AIDS” if I didn’t buy him some milk. After traveling some 7000 miles through six countries, this was the first time someone had the nerve to threaten my person. I gave him a quick diatribe on what he could do with certain parts of his anatomy, and walked off - I know bravura when I see it, and besides, real men don’t ask for milk. A milkshake, maybe, but milk? This little incident boiled my blood somewhat, and I was relieved when Phillipe arrived the following day. We had a race on the beach in Jericoacoara, and I pipped him good and proper. As we say in South Africa, “I don’t need to run faster than the lion, I just need to run faster than you.” If we did encounter any further trouble from angry local lions, they could chew on his French ass.

Gonzo Gallery for Salvador and Morro de Sao Paulo

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