Salvador and Morro de Sao Paulo

« Return to Brazil

On Monday, we returned by catamaran to Salvador through an even worse storm. I felt like being on that boat in the movie, The Perfect Storm. At any moment, the swell looked like it would swallow us. Rain pelted down, and people were throwing up all over the place. It was too dangerous to stand in the front, so we stood in the back, holding onto the rails so tightly my wrist still hurts a few days later. The cat aimed to stay at the top of the waves, but occasionally it would go over, getting air and landing with a nerve-snapping crash. Phillipe reckoned we could swim to the mainland if the ship went down, provided the tiger sharks didn’t eat us first. I could hear the cello. Daaaa-da. Daa-da. Da-da da-da da-da. We made it safely back to port in Salvador, sinking into the dorm beds at Nega Maluca, nerves tattered and utterly exhausted.

The majority of Brazil lives in poverty, and the majority of those in poverty live in the north, around Salvador. You cannot walk a few steps without someone wanting you to give them something, or to sell you marijuana, or wanting to tie a thread on your arm “free”, for money. If you give 50c, they want a dollar. If you give a dollar, they want two - it is never enough. There is begging, and there is harassment, and in Salvador, regrettably, it is the latter. Inside the hotels and tourist attractions are signs encouraging tourists not to give to beggars, but to donate to any number of local charities. Fuelling the street system just perpetuates the cycle, bringing more people onto the streets, many of whom resort to violence. Although there was a strong police presence, there was also a constant feeling of being watched and sized up. On Tuesday night, we hit the carnival atmosphere of the main square, following amazing drumming circles as they moved the rhythm into the arteries of the streets. Here I found the pulse of Salvador, the exotic attraction that makes people rave about the city. So much life, so much buzz, so much local dedication to drink away the pain with extra-strength caprinhas. I thought I was in AfricaäChile could be on another continent. As whores did their best penetrate our friendly hostel posse, we wandered about the streets, which quickly took on the fragrance of a sewer. As the police looked on, guns menacingly prominent on their belts, men were peeing not in doorways, but on doors themselves. Crowds became impenetrable, and the guys asking you for money and you said “no” to a dozen times were getting more and more aggressive. Shouts of “Amigo!” would only bring on yet more hassle if you turned to respond. “No, nau, no obrigado, please, no, no, na-ah, nope, no!” A kid came out of nowhere and stole Simon’s beer off the table, disappearing into the crowd. One guy had his disposable camera stolen. Everyone with white skin seemed to be surrounded by touts and beggars and whores and desperation. Finally we ducked into a salsa club, where a small cover at least kept the crowds at bay. A 9-piece band jammed as couples danced with such flair all I could do was stare with wonder. Someone took the lead and the floor filled of a Fame-like dance routine, which I joined as a matter of principle. I have promised myself to learn how to salsa. It eats the tango for breakfast.

At 2am, we were walking back to the hostel to get our bags and catch the red-eye flight to Rio. Out of nowhere, the street punk who threatened me a few days before was in my face. Before he could do anything, I gave him a stern Gonzo lecture. “Don’t you see! People like me write about places like this, and then more people will come here, and the more people who come here, the better things will get. If you hurt tourists, you are just hurting yourself!” I also added, for emphasis, “you asshole!” He stammered, at loss for words, and then told me, weakly, that he would kill me yet. At that he disappeared never to be seen of again. I’d like to think my words neutered him, but in reality, walking behind me was my new friend Moses from Israel, who happens to be 6ft 6 ex-paratrooper with arms like canoes. “What was that all about?” he asked me. I craned my neck up for the reply. “Well Moses, I just told the guy, ‘thou shalt not kill’.”

Mellow Yellow Hostel
Rio de Janeiro

Gonzo Gallery for Salvador and Morro de Sao Paulo

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