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.
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.
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 AfricaŠChile 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
June 1, 2005