I do believe we've become nocturnal. We have spent six full nights on the sauce, crawling in and waking up later each day, missing the bizarre cheese, fruit & cake breakfast by hours. Some days our bodies were running on beer and meat alone. I'm not convinced about the nutritional value of this diet, though there is plenty of vitamin C in the limes in a Caiprinia.
Several locals and guesthouse owners tried to dissuade us from visiting Salvador’s old town, Pelourinho – claiming it was dirty and dangerous. But not only has everywhere we’ve seen in Brazil fit that bill, the old LP spoke otherwise. Promises of colourful dilapidated colonial buildings and old squares hung in the air and we taxi’d over. Brazilian driving is amusing: lanes are irrelevant, fares are negotiable, safe driving is a no no and as a consequence of car jacking at traffic lights, red lights are optional.
We hop out at the bottom of the Pelourino hill and climb the steep cobbles to Placa de Pelourinho, footed by a giant colonial church and surrounded by bright, cheerfully coloured two-story buildings. They are in surprisingly good shape, and looking their best dressed in carnaval drapes. Pelourinho has been given world heritage status by Unesco, or whoever tell people their old towns are nice, and they’re given dosh to maintain and restore. Granted it is dirty and perhaps as dangerous as anywhere else, but it’s fantastic. We know instantly this is where it’s at and aimlessly saunter along pretty side streets with the milling multitude, past crumbling pillared villas, ancient lichen-spotted libraries and art nouveau fountains.
Interesting boutique shops line the streets selling brightly coloured capoeira trousers and Amazonian beaded jewellery. Drums, brass and the smells of cooking float on the breeze. Old folk sit in doorways, capoeira dancers flex for ‘donations’ and kids play chase. It feels exactly like I imagine Cuba to be, but on a hill and surrounded by favela.
James, Zesh and I settle into in a restaurant on the main square for a traditional Brazilian meal. The Carne do Sol for three, Victorian iron furniture and a bottle of Brazilian Reisling on ice make us feel awful refined. The service is comedically awful, as it's real busy and Brazilians are chillers by nature. A bad mix, but we got a great steak. In the middle of the meal, we hear drums coming up the street and following a dressed-up donkey emerge a bunch of kids and adults in carnaval costumes dancing in front of a drumming band.
As the evening settles in we reunite with our friends Sian & Chiara at their busy Pelourinho hostel. The five of us hit the streets to soak up the night time build-up. The streets heave with a mix of mild danger and happy colourful people; sweaty backpackers search for the cheapest meals, excitable children run rings round their parents, old ladies proudly don African garb and followers of Ghandi in white show off their with their towel hats. Various drumming bands & their brass sections begin their circuits, starting and stopping around the old narrow streets. We purchase capetas, evil strong fruit blended cocktails (mine a seedy passion fruit selection) that act like a ground to air missile, knocking you out of the sky before you realize what happened.
Pelourinho hides many unknown gems. Walking up streets you hear distant live music, poke your head through an innocent doorway to what appears a restaurant or residential dwelling, and you are ushered through into a tiny square packed with diners and a band thrashing out native rhythms with loads of cowbell. It’s James’ last night and we almost accidentally end up eating in the flashest restaurant in town. Ornamental lights hang from high ceilings and oils of naked ladies hang from the smoky green walls. We share good chat, tasty wine and random coconutty dishes as the drumming bands pass beneath the open shutters.
Enjoying a few beers in the yellow plastic skol chairs in the main square we are accosted by giddy kids on the next table armed with foam squirting canisters. James, with his inner child never far from the surface, rolls off and comes back with a can himself and we start a minor foam war, until parents get foamed and surrounding tables get mad so we wander off chuckling like teenagers.
Salsa drummers pass and tickle our fancy so we join the dancers behind and follow them for hours. Sydney, a black guy with funky knotted hair, leads the dancers, with entertaining choreographed moves, and in hindsight, we probably resembled the cast of the MJ’s Thriller video. We dance all the way round the circuit, stopping only for fresh chilled cevesa, and at the final square where we climb up onto the empty Military Police platform and dance with a bunch of kids. Finally, we roll back to Barra pleased with ourselves for finding this incredible place.
The next day, James jets off smoothly and Zesh and I nurse ourselves through minor hangovers. We sweat out most of the boozy toxins dancing the night before. Before long, we’re back with the girls in Pelourinho eating fine food and dancing hard again with a crowd from the girls hostel and Sydney and his mate, who appears to have modeled his hair on a birds nest. In another random square throwing a gay fiesta we ramp up the foam war with a bunch of street kids. Everyone has a can and white foamy hair, and before long our squeaky faces feel like they’ve shrunk. I fill phonebox receivers with foam. Sydney teaches us some Hippy Hop moves and an old can collector joins us and tries to get us all playing the ‘air viola’. Down the hill another massive sprawling street party knocks out rubbish Drum & Bass, so I sample the weird deep fried snacks. It seems you can make anything taste good if you deep fry it. Arriving back and the hostel as dawn rolls in, I hang my wringing wet shirt on the line & hit the air-con hay.
Over the next few nights we purchase the worlds most expensive T-shirts for the Fatboy Slim, DJ Marky & Layo & Bushwaka bloco in Barra and dance our ass off in the biggest bloco of the carnaval. Back in Pelorounho the next night, Sian, Chiara, Zesh and I visit Mr Syndeys house in the borderline favela outside Pelourinho. Before we go through the broken door complete with sleeping guard dog he informs us it’s a bit ‘hippy’. We pass darkened corridors with people slumped on chairs in corners, pass chipboard partitioned walls with double padlocked doors cut into them, climb creaky stairs up three floors and Sydney unlocks his padlocked door. Inside his box room we settle on the thin mattress and thin rotting floor, the girls translate for us and we listen to a scratchy live Bobby Marley tape. His roof is literally the tiles, and his window is a hole in the wall. Taped up magazine posters of Bob Marley and pinned up sarongs cover the grafitti’d walls. A ladies thong hangs above his bed. He plays us a bit of the ‘Hippy Hop’ he’s working on with his favela friends, which he hopes to release under ‘Musica Favela’ - a good name. As a cockroach scuttles by he informs us that up to a hundred people live in this former mansion house, generally with 3 to 5 people in each tiny room. He also tells me he wants to swap hair with me, which was nice. Apparently people of the favela want spiky blonde hair. I ask if he wants to trade his ripped 6-pack for my belly. Later he tells me my hair makes me look like a duck. Changed tune much? I don’t know. After this fantastic experience – seeing a 23 year olds room - we all push on to Pelourinho, grab a late bite and dance some more. If I’m not careful, all this exercise might make me fit.
The next day the monsoon rain as the roads turn to rivers and I grab at Taxi to the bus station, thoroughly content after an ace time in Salvador. Solo travel begins here – both an exciting & disconcerting feeling. En route to the nightbus to Lencois (in the Chapada Diamantina National park) I see two dudes storm by on a motorbike wearing tiger masks. This place rocks.
Barnaboo
Mozzy bite count: 0 [It’s disappointing to see they still don’t like my blood]
Mental Jukebox - THAT DAMN CACHASA SONG!!
Several locals and guesthouse owners tried to dissuade us from visiting Salvador’s old town, Pelourinho – claiming it was dirty and dangerous. But not only has everywhere we’ve seen in Brazil fit that bill, the old LP spoke otherwise. Promises of colourful dilapidated colonial buildings and old squares hung in the air and we taxi’d over. Brazilian driving is amusing: lanes are irrelevant, fares are negotiable, safe driving is a no no and as a consequence of car jacking at traffic lights, red lights are optional.
We hop out at the bottom of the Pelourino hill and climb the steep cobbles to Placa de Pelourinho, footed by a giant colonial church and surrounded by bright, cheerfully coloured two-story buildings. They are in surprisingly good shape, and looking their best dressed in carnaval drapes. Pelourinho has been given world heritage status by Unesco, or whoever tell people their old towns are nice, and they’re given dosh to maintain and restore. Granted it is dirty and perhaps as dangerous as anywhere else, but it’s fantastic. We know instantly this is where it’s at and aimlessly saunter along pretty side streets with the milling multitude, past crumbling pillared villas, ancient lichen-spotted libraries and art nouveau fountains.
Interesting boutique shops line the streets selling brightly coloured capoeira trousers and Amazonian beaded jewellery. Drums, brass and the smells of cooking float on the breeze. Old folk sit in doorways, capoeira dancers flex for ‘donations’ and kids play chase. It feels exactly like I imagine Cuba to be, but on a hill and surrounded by favela.
James, Zesh and I settle into in a restaurant on the main square for a traditional Brazilian meal. The Carne do Sol for three, Victorian iron furniture and a bottle of Brazilian Reisling on ice make us feel awful refined. The service is comedically awful, as it's real busy and Brazilians are chillers by nature. A bad mix, but we got a great steak. In the middle of the meal, we hear drums coming up the street and following a dressed-up donkey emerge a bunch of kids and adults in carnaval costumes dancing in front of a drumming band.
As the evening settles in we reunite with our friends Sian & Chiara at their busy Pelourinho hostel. The five of us hit the streets to soak up the night time build-up. The streets heave with a mix of mild danger and happy colourful people; sweaty backpackers search for the cheapest meals, excitable children run rings round their parents, old ladies proudly don African garb and followers of Ghandi in white show off their with their towel hats. Various drumming bands & their brass sections begin their circuits, starting and stopping around the old narrow streets. We purchase capetas, evil strong fruit blended cocktails (mine a seedy passion fruit selection) that act like a ground to air missile, knocking you out of the sky before you realize what happened.
Pelourinho hides many unknown gems. Walking up streets you hear distant live music, poke your head through an innocent doorway to what appears a restaurant or residential dwelling, and you are ushered through into a tiny square packed with diners and a band thrashing out native rhythms with loads of cowbell. It’s James’ last night and we almost accidentally end up eating in the flashest restaurant in town. Ornamental lights hang from high ceilings and oils of naked ladies hang from the smoky green walls. We share good chat, tasty wine and random coconutty dishes as the drumming bands pass beneath the open shutters.
Enjoying a few beers in the yellow plastic skol chairs in the main square we are accosted by giddy kids on the next table armed with foam squirting canisters. James, with his inner child never far from the surface, rolls off and comes back with a can himself and we start a minor foam war, until parents get foamed and surrounding tables get mad so we wander off chuckling like teenagers.
Salsa drummers pass and tickle our fancy so we join the dancers behind and follow them for hours. Sydney, a black guy with funky knotted hair, leads the dancers, with entertaining choreographed moves, and in hindsight, we probably resembled the cast of the MJ’s Thriller video. We dance all the way round the circuit, stopping only for fresh chilled cevesa, and at the final square where we climb up onto the empty Military Police platform and dance with a bunch of kids. Finally, we roll back to Barra pleased with ourselves for finding this incredible place.
The next day, James jets off smoothly and Zesh and I nurse ourselves through minor hangovers. We sweat out most of the boozy toxins dancing the night before. Before long, we’re back with the girls in Pelourinho eating fine food and dancing hard again with a crowd from the girls hostel and Sydney and his mate, who appears to have modeled his hair on a birds nest. In another random square throwing a gay fiesta we ramp up the foam war with a bunch of street kids. Everyone has a can and white foamy hair, and before long our squeaky faces feel like they’ve shrunk. I fill phonebox receivers with foam. Sydney teaches us some Hippy Hop moves and an old can collector joins us and tries to get us all playing the ‘air viola’. Down the hill another massive sprawling street party knocks out rubbish Drum & Bass, so I sample the weird deep fried snacks. It seems you can make anything taste good if you deep fry it. Arriving back and the hostel as dawn rolls in, I hang my wringing wet shirt on the line & hit the air-con hay.
Over the next few nights we purchase the worlds most expensive T-shirts for the Fatboy Slim, DJ Marky & Layo & Bushwaka bloco in Barra and dance our ass off in the biggest bloco of the carnaval. Back in Pelorounho the next night, Sian, Chiara, Zesh and I visit Mr Syndeys house in the borderline favela outside Pelourinho. Before we go through the broken door complete with sleeping guard dog he informs us it’s a bit ‘hippy’. We pass darkened corridors with people slumped on chairs in corners, pass chipboard partitioned walls with double padlocked doors cut into them, climb creaky stairs up three floors and Sydney unlocks his padlocked door. Inside his box room we settle on the thin mattress and thin rotting floor, the girls translate for us and we listen to a scratchy live Bobby Marley tape. His roof is literally the tiles, and his window is a hole in the wall. Taped up magazine posters of Bob Marley and pinned up sarongs cover the grafitti’d walls. A ladies thong hangs above his bed. He plays us a bit of the ‘Hippy Hop’ he’s working on with his favela friends, which he hopes to release under ‘Musica Favela’ - a good name. As a cockroach scuttles by he informs us that up to a hundred people live in this former mansion house, generally with 3 to 5 people in each tiny room. He also tells me he wants to swap hair with me, which was nice. Apparently people of the favela want spiky blonde hair. I ask if he wants to trade his ripped 6-pack for my belly. Later he tells me my hair makes me look like a duck. Changed tune much? I don’t know. After this fantastic experience – seeing a 23 year olds room - we all push on to Pelourinho, grab a late bite and dance some more. If I’m not careful, all this exercise might make me fit.
The next day the monsoon rain as the roads turn to rivers and I grab at Taxi to the bus station, thoroughly content after an ace time in Salvador. Solo travel begins here – both an exciting & disconcerting feeling. En route to the nightbus to Lencois (in the Chapada Diamantina National park) I see two dudes storm by on a motorbike wearing tiger masks. This place rocks.
Barnaboo
Mozzy bite count: 0 [It’s disappointing to see they still don’t like my blood]
Mental Jukebox - THAT DAMN CACHASA SONG!!
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