Salvador and Morro de Sao Paulo

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Every Tuesday, Pilourinha has a mini-carnival, with street bars, stages, drumming troops and a seemingly unusually large collection of she-males. As it was Thursday, we decided to spend the weekend on an island utopia named Morro de Sao Paulo. I had first heard about it in Iguazu, on someone’s list of must-sees in Brazil. To get there, we took a two-hour catamaran across the stormy Atlantic, over massive swells that caused many a passenger to rediscover their lunch in the little white plastic bags thoughtfully provided. Salt runs in the blood of my family the way honesty runs in the White House, so the only way to avoid seeing my chicken and rice again was to stand at the front of the ship and hang on for my life. No life jackets, no harnesses, just exhilarating crashes into waves, drenching me in seconds. Fortunately my rugged Keen sandals were created for sailing conditions, so I hung on this raging bull as it slowly bucked and bounced its way forward (Phillipe took a great picture from inside the cabin). In my expanding list of Modern extreme sports, riding a catamaran through a storm in the Atlantic is right up there. We arrived on the island wet, exhausted, but fortunately, lunch still in our bellies.

The coconut trees and sandy beaches of Morro de Sao Paulo were like Prozac for Salvador’s neurosis. A popular holiday destination for Brazilians, the island has modern facilities, hotels, bars and restaurants. Being low season, the daily temperature averaged about 30C, far too cold to spend some quality time drinking fresh juices on the beach. Which is, of course, exactly what I did. Low season means rainy season, and every day it would pour heavily for about 45 minutes, before clearing up with blue skies and a sun determined to place a freckle on the last remaining clear spot on my shoulders. We found an air-conditioned room, with a hammock’d patio looking out onto the sea. At high tide the waves were crashing just a few feet from my bed, giving me an uneasy feeling thinking back to the tsunami destroying Thailand’s tourist coast. It cost $10 a night, and downstairs an old couple cooked us fresh fish curry for under $3. With my budget ready to call social services (it can only take so much abuse), I decided this place was perfect. As usual, it didn’t take long to meet and hang out with other travelers. Phillipe knew some Israelis from Campo Grande, and I met Kiwis John and Simon, who I had first met over two months ago riding down Bolivia’s death road. As we marveled at the modern Brazilian bikini (which violates just about every physical law known to man), I took advantage of the fruit juice stalls to drink freshly squeezed mango, papaya, passion fruit, coconut, pineapple, kiwi and orange juice, blended with rum or cane spirit to perfection. I found myself wondering what I did right to deserve all this, and when the payback would come. As it happened, it arrived the next day.

I had managed to secure a spot on a fishing boat, which would take me to some turquoise diving spots, an empty island (where couples were allowed to disappear for a while), a rustic village and a natural mud spa. The opportunity to take even more outrageous pictures to peeve off my pals was getting me excited. Suddenly, in the space of moments, a wave came, drenched me, and drenched my camera. The Pentax is dead. The sea giveth, the sea taketh away. Long may it live in its metallic afterlife. Snap. Crackle. Pop. I managed to salvage the memory card (which is where this week’s gallery comes from), but naturally, I have no proof as the day proceeded with the jaw-dropping beauty of the islands, its people, and dramatic sky. I sat at the helm of the boat, my legs dangling over the edge as dolphins swam in the distance, kicking myself for being so stupid. Why did I have the camera in my pocket? And then, through the waves, I could hear the water gushing, “Don’t sweat the small stuff!” Here I was on a boat in paradise, Bob Marley jammin’ through rusty speakers, and I was miserable? I’d find a new camera, but in the meantime, where would I find this? So the frown turned upside down, and for the first time on this trip, I sat back and watched it happen without thinking of the best possible angle.

Gonzo Gallery for Salvador and Morro de Sao Paulo

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