We touch down like a dropped pancake into Porto Seguro, hop in a taxi & head to a cheeky little pousada (guesthouse) hidden away in a shopping centre. So begins our first taste of economy class, at least comparative to the aircon bday minibar fun of Rio. A suspect ceiling fan with built-in harsh white bulb wobbles in it's hinges. Thin sandpaper bog roll & a shower with all sorts of colourful bare wires hanging loose above it. But it's a clean triple room with a locking door in a little palm tree oasis, surrounded by hammocks. Joanna, our ace but very-non-english-speaking host leaves our key (look out for the photo of it...) & leaves us to it. It's late. We're tired. We crank up the fan & set down our bags & heads.
Then the car alarm begins. Then the car alarm continues... for several long hours. Some faceless voice tries to shout it down in angry Portuguese. Occasionally it sounds like the car battery begins to fail, & give up, only to fire up afresh with renewed verve. Finally I drift off in spite of the noise making a note to put earplugs & valium on the shopping list. Meanwhile, in the wings, an army of mosquitoes with their knifes & forks select their targets...
The next morning we awake refreshed & fortunately it seems either I have generally unappetizing blood or James & Zesh have tastier blood. Either way, I'm clean and they have been made into a feast. Unlucky boys. Perhaps my A Rhesus Positive isn't to the Brazilian Mosquito's taste. Not that I'm offended.
We shower up (with no electoshock casualties) & decide to have a butchers up the coast. After about 2 miles stroll through the gentle surf, past and awful lot of nothing and a full-size beached colonial galleon, we duck into a beach bar & put away a few beers. 600ml Skols, in at 70p a pop - happy days. They play mediocre salsa covers of Beatles songs that sound a bit like the tune you get when you hit demo on a casio keyboard.
A few dips in the sea later we stroll on, to the new soundtrack of waves & air cooled beach buggies screaming down the coastal road. It seems we're drifting into travel time. A lot of conversations seem to go 'What's the date today?' '...the 12th I think'. 'I thought it was the 13th'. 'Does that make it Monday?' 'Yeah'. 'Cool'.
Another mile down the beach we look back at Porto Seguro & note that the sky has turned a teal blue-grey colour. In front of our eyes the sky overhead darkens and all of a sudden it looks like dusk. Out to sea the sky churns and the rain on the horizon billows like a net curtain in a breeze. The rain begins spitting on us and Zesh ducks for cover in the nearest restaurant. Jim & I stand arms outstretched as the witness to the growing onslaught. It's only warm rain. The raindrops grow until they set the sand into a dance. The view turns to mist and the temperature noticeably drops. We do a little rain dance ourselves as a thank you for the show & dash for cover. Locals and gringos laughingly huddle together under a dripping roof, watching the lightening & hearing the thunder direct overhead while some Latin rhythms unfold from a wet speaker. An old couple slow-dance tenderly under cover and warm my heart.
That night the power to the town kept sporadically going out. The first time it went down Jimbo and I were in an arcade in the middle of doing wicked on 'House of the dead 1'. Later it seemed the whole town went down, and shopkeepers stood in their doorways with candles chattering and generally keeping the light fingered criminal collective out. We ate in mall running on a dodgy generator and I ordered an excitingly named dish which turned out to be three leathery steaks and chips. Every time the generator cut out and we were plunged into darkness I gave Jims baldy heed a slap.
Over the next few days, when it wasn't raining, we explored this charming coastal town with its colourful shops, and the 15th century Portuguese colonial old town up on the hill, where we watched a geezer make chocolate from coco beans. He made me try a raw bean (grim) and the pounded, sieved, sugared end product (yum). When it was raining, we'd lounge in giant hammocks, play endless games of shithead with flimsy cards and catch cockroaches under glasses. James staged some unimpressive gladiatorial bouts such as 'REASONABLY BIG COCKROACH vs WINGED ANT'. While the ant held its own, they we're really game. Zesh'd also play how many mozzies he can squash in one handclap. So far the record is two, but I'll keep you in the loop.
We also met our first bunch of travelers, an Aussie couple (Stafford & Lydia) & two sound Spanish speaking brit ladies (welsh Sian & Kiara from Jersey). We laugh the evening away trying to teach them the basic rules of shithead over two bottles of bacardi black, coke & a nuffty fresh limes. Stafford creates a new nickname for Mr Willcocks... 'cocksmoker', which I hope will stick. Around midnight and on the girls recommendation we sack in cards & skip down to the Passarela do Alcool (Alcohol walkway) for blended cocktails at Wilma’s Capeta shack. I order something with lots of x's in it's name which excellent & sherberty. Z gets some suspect strong chocolate drink & Jim orders a capeta, which contains guarana, coco powder, cinnamon condensed milk & booze. All in all, tasty stuff, and a bargain for a quid. Pokey too. After sinking these we drop by a tequila bar for caipirovskas & the girls spend the rest of the night driving the toilets. We head back, tuck the casualties into bed & get the cards out for several more games of shithead... this time with Leeds rules.
Barns
Current state of beard: still patchy
Mental jukebox: The Boys are Back in Town
To see all my photos so far: http://www.flickr.com/photos/barnabyaldrick
5 day forcast: 33, 32, 33, 36, 33 celsius
No comments:
Post a Comment