BRAZIL 2024

Captain Fiendish & The Whirlwind Of Rio: The First 48

In my mind’s eye there is a British Airways employee, let’s call him Captain Fiendish, whose job it is to sneak behind a curtain just after all the passengers are settled in, and twist the AC control until it reaches the setting with an igloo logo as a temperature guide. As a result of his actions, the cabin quickly descends to unbelievably freezing and has every last passenger reaching for a combination of sweatshirt, hoodie and BA standard issue blanket, or, in some cases, all three. We understand the need for the comfort of AC but why oh why is it necessary to make it this bloody cold?

Captain Fiendish is on form from the off – and although we don’t know it yet, he is to have another trick up his dastardly sleeve later into the night. As the cold descends, screens flicker all around us and I settle into my world of music on the headphones. Diagonally to my right across the aisle, a ginger haired lad is playing Monopoly on his screen – as a non-player of games, I assume his opponent is the machine itself, but Michaela informs me that he may be playing against another passenger on the plane. I didn’t know such things were possible.

Food service is painfully slow. The veggies and the vegans get served early, of course they bloody do, but the rest of us – those of us vulgar enough to choose a chicken dinner – are still waiting after more than two hours of the flight as the crew slowly work their way down the rows. Predictably, she serves those immediately in front of us and immediately to our right, then disappears down the aisle, trolley and all, to goodness knows where. Ginge, eating left handed and playing Monopoly right handed, has probably passed “Go” and collected £200 three times, AND bought a hotel on Mayfair, before she eventually returns with our meal, full of apology but without explanation as to why we’re now eating dinner at not far off 2am. 

Finally food is done and, as we settle down, Captain Fiendish plays his ace card and finds another setting on the AC, one with a permafrost logo. It’s ridiculously, unbelievably cold. Why do they do this??

Morning comes and we’re tempted to use the bread roll as a tool to knock the icicles off our noses. But we land ahead of schedule and, despite a gigantic queue for the airport exit which snakes all the way back to the baggage hall, we’re at our hotel shortly after 8.30am. For a fee (of course) they grant us early check in, very welcome, and throw in breakfast for good measure, equally welcome.

Sometimes the feeling of being in a magical city hits you in that very first moment, on the taxi ride in from the airport – and so it is with Rio de Janeiro as evocative names decorate traffic signs and towering mountains look past high rise buildings and out across the sparkling sea. Sugarloaf Mountain points its perfect morro rock shape skywards and rush hour traffic wrestles its way towards the hubs. Everything simultaneously glints in bright sun and drips in humidity, even at this hour.

Ten days in one place is a long stay for us: ten days in a hotel is even more unusual, but with the carnival season to add to Rio’s many other attractions, it’s not going to be difficult to fill our time. Our balcony looks across the strip out on to the golden sands of Copacabana beach which stretches a huge distance in each direction, multiple volleyball courts and football pitches along its course. Taking our first stroll along the strip is a major pinch-yourself moment, just soaking it in and thinking exactly where in the world we are: Copacabana Beach, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. A true travel dream becoming reality as we walk.

Bronzed bodies either laze in the sun or energetically occupy the volleyball courts, huge numbers of beach vendors hawk their wares, selling anything from caipirinha to espetinhos, bikinis to sunglasses, calling out their sales pitch in rhythmic chants. An occasional ghetto blaster throbs a beat across the sand; gentler acoustic music drifts over from the beach bars at roadside. There’s no way you can describe Copacabana as restful, this place is simply ALIVE. And it’s fabulous – and everything about it is just as we imagined it to be before we set foot on its powdery sand.

Tiny daytime food stalls form a long trailing mobile kitchen along the beach, each one then dismantled and moved to street side as darkness falls and the foot traffic migrates from sand to sidewalk. At the same time, the permanent beachside bars, each and every one of them the epitome of the perfect beach bar, fill with drinkers and diners, twinkling lights draw in customers and the sound of acoustic guitars and soulful singers fills the air. Caipirinha is everywhere, including in Michaela’s glass, while I imbibe my first tastes of Brahma beer. And boy that caipirinha packs a punch. These cocktails are not for learner drinkers.

Copacabana beach curves 2.5 miles around the seafront, a wide roadway providing space between the high rises and the sand; Atlantic rollers crash over the steep sandy shelf as the occasional giant container ship emerges from behind the headland and sets off towards unknown destinations. As we reach the “Morro Leme” end of the beach, we turn to soak up the stirring view of Copacabana’s sweeping bay and glinting buildings – and at that moment we catch our first glimpse of Christ The Redeemer, first peering through mountaintop clouds and then standing in true majesty against the clear sky beyond.

Such an iconic, mesmerising panorama: this sweeping seafront with its seemingly endless sands, its hundreds of beach bars, its gleaming high rise buildings, all watched over by the morro rocks and mountains, crowned ultimately by Cristo Redentor, Christ The Redeemer. If you’re not energised by this amazing view, then your batteries are well and truly dead.

From the moment you take to its manically busy streets, you cannot miss the fact that Rio is a city of verve and vitality, of life and action, a city of extremes.  Music, chatter, vibrant colours, traffic jams, football, volleyball, coconuts and cocktails. Beneath it all the boom and swish of the Atlantic provides bass line and percussion. The dawning of carnival season is inescapably evident too: “it’s carnival time” says the guy on the bus, “time to drink and sleep, and if you can’t sleep, then you must drink some more”.

We are hugely, hugely indebted to Gilda at Traveller Interrupted for her faultless guidance on how to get the best from the coming weekend. On her advice, we have long since booked our seats in the Sambadrome for Sunday, joining one of the competing samba schools, Camarote Mar, for the celebration. Collecting our wristbands, goodie bag and team T-shirts goes like clockwork, following precisely the detail which Gilda had kindly and accurately provided; and, if the level of glitz at Camarote Mar HQ is anything to go by, Sunday is going to be seriously special.

And then there’s football. Of course, everybody knows that Brazil’s overriding passion is football (soccer), a passion which I, as you probably know, share wholeheartedly, and so I arrived in Rio really hoping for an opportunity to at least take a tour of that iconic mecca of world stadia, the Estadio Maracana. It’s with unbridled delight then that, shortly after arriving here, I spot a poster telling me that on just our second night here, two of Rio’s biggest clubs – Flamengo and Botafogo – are locking horns in that very stadium. Within minutes I’ve snared a couple of tickets and carry a smile almost as wide as the beach.

In our first 48 hours here, we have already been captivated by the verve of Copacabana; already been rapt by the pulsating heartbeat of the vibrant city of Rio de Janeiro, even before we really do justice to any of its major sites. And now, on top of all that, we’re off to see a football match in one of the absolute homes of world soccer. Maracana here we come. The Maracana. Just say it out loud and the skin tingles.

Now, if only I could get that damned Barry Manilow song out of my head….

Rio Carnival: Pageants, Parties….And Pickpockets

I am so angry with myself for letting it happen. We came to Rio knowing everything about its high rate of petty crime, knowing it’s a centre of the theft universe, came here knowing we had to take extra precautions, be doubly careful, and yet we only reach Day 4 and it’s happened to us. As you will see.

But first, the Maracana…..

There’s still around 90 minutes till kick-off as we enter the stadium, plenty of time to watch both sets of supporters fill their respective ends and make a start on creating an electric atmosphere. They do just that, and they do it in style – the whole evening is a magnificently passionate pageant of orchestrated song and movement: these guys are loud, fervent and partisan. Technically, Botafogo are the visitors, although the Maracana is the home stadium for both clubs, and it’s not long before the Flamengo hordes drown out the away end with a non-stop delivery of hardcore support, roaring encouragement and staying in key surprisingly well.

It’s a fantastic atmosphere from start to finish, every bit as committed as you would expect Latin American football fans to be, the only pause for breath in the club songs all night coming during the half time interval. Surprisingly, the quality of the football doesn’t quite match the fervour in the seats, both teams giving a rather punchless display which has 0-0 written all over it until some very late drama when Flamengo grab a winner in the third minute of added time. Cue wild celebrations around three sides of the wonderful stadium; stunned sulky silence on the fourth. 

It takes a long time to get pretty much anywhere in Rio. Traffic jams commonly approach gridlock status and a red traffic light soon creates a huge tailback of snarling motors and chugging buses – yet there’s no impatience or intolerance, these drivers are well used to the way of things and nobody expects to get anywhere quickly.

And so it is that the Uber driver taking us to the rack railway station at the foot of Corcovado isn’t in the slightest bit fazed at taking almost 40 minutes to earn his fee of just over £3. As the rack railway train hauls itself steeply upwards, magnificent views across the spectacular city unfold and we really get a feel for Rio’s unusual layout. The city’s different districts are quite distinct, separated by  the impenetrable giant morro rocks which give Rio its unmistakable vista – from up here at the top it’s really possible to see how the whole is made up of several separate parts.

At the summit of Corcovado, Christ The Redeemer stands erect, watching over the beautiful scenes below – those separate districts, a whole gamut of huge sandy beaches, the large lake immediately below, and the mountains or the Atlantic beyond. Tourist helicopter flights buzz around the statue like giant dragonflies. We’re lucky with the weather – Corcovado is often shrouded in cloud – and the views in the bright sunshine are fabulous. What’s not quite so fabulous is the crowds: there are huge numbers of people shuffling around Christ’s feet today and they’re all vying for the same photo vantage points: patience and tolerance are a must as we shoulder our way through the masses.

Beneath Rio’s manic streets, the metro system is extensive and offers an alternative which is quick, efficient and cheap, so we use it to venture from our home in Copacabana to the equally famous beach of Ipanema. Ever so slightly more sedate than its neighbour, Ipanema has no volleyball courts or football pitches, far fewer beach bars along the roadside and an atmosphere which is a little more gentle and a tad more pricey. It’s still extremely popular though, and the web of different coloured parasols, so tightly strung together along the shore, makes the beach look more like a Gaudi mosaic than a stretch of sand.

Friday evening we return to Ipanema for our first experience of the “bloco” parties which form the backbone of carnival week. These are the free-to-enter, crazily themed street parties where, according to the internet, it is de rigeur for the whole population to act silly and dress accordingly. There’s a definite air of madness in the streets. (Note: the following Bloco photos are all from the following day, not from Ipanema. You will learn why, shortly).

Glitter and tinsel dominate costumes. The street is full of bare chested males wearing sparkly tutus or the skimpiest of speedos which leave nothing to the imagination – or both. For the girls, tiny bikinis, often paired with fishnets and running shoes, are the dress of choice, and more often than not those tiny bikinis are of the thong type. Ipanema tonight has more naked buttock flesh per square mile than we’ve ever seen before. I don’t know where not to look.

Here there is a suntanned guy whose lithe body glistens with glitter as he walks by in his speedos and police cap, next a muscle bound black fella wearing tight fitting bright red hot pants, matching bow tie and a naval officer’s cap takes the hand of his girlfriend who probably has less than 2 per cent of her body concealed by clothing. Standing here is like being in the “Relax” video, or being on stage with Village People singing “YMCA”.

We gravitate to the central point where the masses are gathered, but the street party is not quite as we pictured. Strangely, there is no music and no dancing, just a street rammed with chattering, drinking bodies in a heaving mass – sardines in fancy dress. We’re just starting to wonder whether we’ve chosen the wrong party today, or whether it just hasn’t got going yet….when it happens.

Everything valuable is diligently put away, everything is in secure pockets, or so we think. With all these fabulous costumes around, I take out my phone and snap a couple of pics, then return the phone to my pocket, and fasten the pocket back up. What can only be seconds later, I decide to take more photos, reach for my pocket….only to find that the pocket is now undone, and the phone is gone.

In those very few seconds, someone has seen me put the phone away, undone the buttons, reached right down into the “secure” deep pocket and whipped out my phone, without me feeling a thing. They’ve been incredibly fast and incredibly devious: I almost admire their audacious dexterity. It’s myself I’m angry with, more than the thief. I was aware of every danger, yet still got caught. (Insert appropriate swear words here to capture my mood). 

And so it’s a dash back to the hotel as we get our heads round all that we now have to do. Download everything from the cloud, report the theft to our service provider, contact everyone, etc etc etc. And, of course, start to think of the ramifications of only having one phone for the rest of this long trip. A thorough pain in the ass.

Two side issues here. One, because I am in no way a gadget freak, I don’t have anything like Apple Pay or Amazon or anything which could impact finance, and both my phone and Bank App are fingerprint access only. For the same reason, that lack of interest in gadgetry, my phone is an iPhone 6 which is so old that it’s not even compatible with recent updates, so it’s amusing to think of the thief’s reaction when they realise that their ill gotten gains are so old and crappy as to be their worst “pick” of the night.

Second side issue is our service provider, O2, whose advertising and websites are adorned with messages such as “Stolen or lost phone? Don’t worry, we are here 24/7 to help”. It’s a downright and blatant lie. Phone the “lost phone” number and you get a recorded message telling you to call back after 8am when they reopen; use the chat line and the bot tells you to call that same number. Outrageous that they lie in such a barefaced manner!

Anyway, by morning it’s all dealt with and now it’s just the pain of having only one phone for more than three months. But hey, we’d rather be pickpocketed than mugged, and nobody got hurt – and, given the amount of independent travelling we do, we’ve been very lucky and were probably overdue an “incident”. Life goes on huh.

And if our first experience of a bloco party didn’t quite meet our expectations, the balance is set to be restored the following day. We may have lost an iPhone, but the sun is still is shining and Rio is still vibrant and alive and it isn’t long before our beaming smiles have returned. Wouldn’t you smile too if you were seeing this….

Bloco parties take place all over the city at all times of day: the first ones start at breakfast time and the last ones late into the night. You can party without sleep: no doubt some do. So our second bloco is in downtown Copacabana in the heat of Saturday afternoon, where the costumes are just as outrageous and the acres of flesh are just as exposed. But this time there IS music, and there IS dancing…both in abundance. The heaving hordes move in rhythm, sometimes swaying, mostly bouncing, and every last person seems to know every last lyric of every last song played by the joyous live band. Due to the course of events, all of the party photos in this post are from our second bloco rather than the first.

And we think: THIS IS IT, THIS is what we expected Rio carnival to be. Loud, crazy, manic, and laced with joy. 

The band bid farewell and the masses clap and cheer. As everyone disperses, the streets fill with scantily clad bodies wandering past shops and into bars, brazen and unashamed whatever shape, size or age their exposed body is.

Don’t you just love that sense of utter freedom. 

Maybe I’ll buy some speedos and a tutu. On second thoughts….bartender, gimme two caipirinhas please…..

24-Hour Party People: Up All Night In Rio

We are now just about to commence the long trip home after the news of Michaela’s father’s death. The following post was due to be next up before we received that news. There is one more Rio post to come after we arrive home…..

Well, we’ve done it. We weren’t sure how we would react to partying all night, but we arrive back at the hotel while breakfast is being served and dive straight into the caffeine rush of Brazilian coffee, grab a couple of hours’ kip and then force ourselves to wake before lunchtime to start the day and avoid any jet-lag style slump.

By the middle of the following afternoon we find ourselves in a Copacabana beach bar, sipping Brahma and caipirinha, listening to the soulful voice of the guitar-strumming singer, looking out across the beach and being served with a giant plate of the most juicy, succulent prawns you can imagine. The prawns drip garlic oil and taste divine. Reflecting on last night, eating this food, gazing across the sun drenched beach, we look at each other and wonder if life can really get much better than this. Rio de Janeiro does this kind of thing to you.

The night before this scene was truly amazing, starting with an Uber ride to Camarote Mar HQ where we join the long queue for the minibus to the Sambadrome, everyone sporting their obligatory pink team T-shirt and patiently waiting to be chauffeured off to a unique experience. Traffic to, and around, the arena is heavy, but Mar’s efficiency in emptying the buses and seeing us through the crowded streets to the allocated sector, is impressive.

Tonight is one of the biggest nights at the Sambadrome, when the different samba schools are locked in competition to be crowned annual Samba Parade Champions. The Sambadrome itself is a 700m long stretch of roadway between giant spectator stands, in shape something like an expanded version of the home straight of a Formula 1 circuit. Through this roadway come the schools, one by one, creating a colossal and unique pageant through the hours of the night.

There can’t be too many countries or cities in the world where such a huge social event, involving thousands of competitors and even more thousands of spectators, is held through the night rather than during daylight, keeping the huge crowds enthralled right through until sunrise. But then this is Brazil, this is Rio.

This whole pageant needs some context. Samba “schools” are social groups representing different districts or neighbourhoods or other social connection – there are more than 100 schools in Rio state. But among these stand an elite group, itself then further split into the Access Group and, at the very top, the Special Group. The carnival’s pinnacle parades in the Sambadrome will lead to one school being declared champion; relegation of one from Special to Access, and promotion of one in the other direction.

Competition is fierce but the sheer size of the event is what is mind blowing. Each night draws 90,000 spectators to this amazing festival; as the parade unfolds, each school takes around one hour to pass through the Sambadrome and each school presentation features many thousands of participants. 

The show commences around 10:30pm, and with an hour per school, six schools per night and pauses between each school, the pageant takes all night to complete, the final school literally ending its performance as the sun comes up over the hills. The whole night is a succession of incredible sights: thousands of dancers in unimaginably elaborate costume, huge and fabulously inventive floats with themes of indigenous peoples’ histories, Brazil’s rich flora and fauna and its other heritages.

Music, often accompanied by tribal sounding drumbeat, belts out at high volume – one song per school on a variety of repeats – to accompany the performances, all in all the most elaborate and spectacular parade of its type imaginable. Words cannot really do justice: hopefully the photographs will do so.

Our fee (not cheap) to be members of Camarote Mar includes as much food and drink – high quality food and alcohol which starts at Moët & Chandon and works down to Brahma – as we can consume, all night through till daylight. The sights and sounds mean that tiredness never comes for either of us and we’re still partying as the very last school dances its last steps into the first sunshine of the day.

It’s been an absolutely unique, enthralling experience.

Only as we disembark the bus back at HQ do the eyelids start to turn heavy; a cab ride later and we’re dragging ourselves into the hotel lobby and into the breakfast room where our friendly waiter, recognising the combination of Camarote Mar T-shirts and bleary eyes, has black coffee on our table in a jiffy.

What a night. What an experience.

Concluding Rio: Sugarloaf, Rocinha And Tijuca

Sugarloaf Mountain is, like Copacabana, Ipanema and Christ The Redeemer, an icon of this famous city. Reached by cable car from the neighbourhood of Urca, the double summit of Morro de Urca and then Sugarloaf itself provide yet more fabulous, panoramic views of the city, viewed from the opposite perspective to that of Corcovado. Thankfully a bit less crowded than the platform at Christ’s feet was, the peaks here also feature a number of paved trails through the surrounding hillside forest where vultures circle overhead, birds squawk in the trees and patterned lizards dart away from human footfall.

Just like up at The Redeemer, it’s a joy to simply linger and gaze at these views and soak up just what an incredible natural setting Rio enjoys. The whole place is a combination of geological drama and manmade eye candy. These are exceptional views from up here on Sugarloaf. It’s remarkable though how many tourists are choosing to eat in the overpriced, bog standard cafes up here – strange that people are willing pay this much for a cardboard pizza or crappy hot dog when the city down below is a haven of great food. Each to their own, we suppose. We buy nothing more than a bottle of water and look forward to a “proper” lunch in town.

Sunday announces its arrival with beautifully clear blue skies and early morning sunshine already baking the sidewalks. We can hear music down there in the streets way before we head for breakfast and the occasional tiny bikini is already being propelled through the streets by tottering heels. I blink at the iPad clock: it’s 6.45am but it seems the day has already started without us. We’re in no rush though, with the all-night celebrations at the Sambadrome ahead of us we need to conserve energy. See previous post for how that went.

Carnival time means no work or school for the locals, so huge numbers head to the beaches. As a result, Copacabana is hilariously busy: if we thought the preceding days have been mad, this is a whole different level. We are slightly mystified by the ripple of applause which sporadically passes across the beach and moves through the crowds: it turns out this is the moment that local orphans are brought down for playtime on the beach by carers, a touching moment. Now in possession of this knowledge, we join in future bursts of applause.

Our Tuesday excursion is a guided tour of a favela. There are ethical concerns over trips to Rio’s favelas and similar places around the world: at worst such ventures are referred to as “slum tourism” or voyeurism, but there is no doubt that the revenue from such tours is helping the economy of these deprived areas. The favelas of Brazil, and indeed of Rio, are amongst the world’s most over populated districts and, historically, amongst the most economically depressed. Drugs gangs for the most part still rule the favelas but thankfully murder and violence is on the decline and Government aided recovery is helping to make improvements in living conditions for the large numbers who reside here.

What remain in the favelas are the influences of heritage: these places have historically engendered a strong sense of community, culture and spirit. Our visit is to the largest favela of all, Rocinha, where even now over 100,000 people reside in a small area of mountainside. Originally started by 19th century soldiers returning penniless from war and seeking shelter in the hills, favelas were substantially expanded when rural farm workers migrated from the provinces to the city in search of wealth, then further by immigration. Some 6% of Brazil’s population still live in favelas to this day.

Our tour starts, as most of them do, riding up the steep, twisting roads on the back of moto taxis, a fun experience in itself. Our host, Jucara, grew up in Rocinha: now, at age 28, she speaks of the only recently instigated water and electricity supplies, but also of a young life witnessing shoot-outs and street killings on an almost daily basis. She takes us into dark, twisting alley ways, into a Rocinha family home, and past corners where cheap drugs are openly on sale. Now and again she issues an instruction to put away phones and cameras: the locals here will not approach visitors or attempt to pickpocket or steal, but inadvertently take a photograph of a drug dealer and you could be in deep trouble.

As we descend the hillside on foot and approach the edge of the favela and a return to “ordinary” Rio streets, the number of shops and restaurants increases and Jucara is discernibly less controlling of her flock. Visiting a favela is indeed an experience – though we can say that, in terms of deprived living conditions, we have seen worse in Asia. In terms of territory run by drugs gangs though, Rio is definitely different.

The close proximity of the favelas to some of the city’s wealthiest areas is a little startling; there are some sumptuous dwellings with private pools a stone’s throw from the theoretical boundary, hiding of course behind significant protective railings – none more so than on the approach to Tijuca where sizeable villas nestle among the trees.

Tijuca is a national park within Rio’s city confines, said by some to be the largest urban forest in the world, and is laced with streams and waterfalls throughout. Vantage points again provide magnificent views across Rio, colourful butterflies flutter amongst the dense foliage, South American coati roam searching for food undaunted by human presence and birds like woodpeckers, parrots and colourful saira make frequent appearances. Local families play in some of the waterways, presumably choosing those streams as a better option than the crowded beaches.

Our hiking guide Eduardo, an enthusiastic fan of hiking, wildlife, football and beer (you can guess that we got on well!), drops us back at Copacabana, bids us farewell and makes his way home to pick up his wife and head to the Maracana: his beloved Vasco da Gama team have a big game tonight.

It’s when we head into our hotel early afternoon that we receive news of the death of Michaela’s father just a few hours earlier. We arrange flights home, cancel bookings, make new arrangements and use a few caipirinhas to help get over the shock.

We have a day to kill now, our minds not really any longer fully focused on Rio. As if to match our changing mood, fog wraps Thursday morning in a damp blanket, dispersing only when the rain starts to fall. Rio itself is a bit low key too: carnival season is over, normal life is returning – though Rio’s “normal” is different from the “normal” of most other places – and it feels like the city has one colossal shared hangover.

Rain falls steadily until the last hour before sundown and with the weather and our mood being equally subdued we abandon our plans to explore new districts of the city. Now the twinkling lights of the beach bars are coming on and, as is always the case along the Copacabana strip, music is filtering out on to the streets: some live bands, some pre-recorded, some DJs starting their shift. Rio’s spirit is already returning and the incessantly upbeat life of the Carioca is once again taking over. 

Rio de Janeiro is an amazing, non-stop, vibrant city with a joy of life which is, in our travels so far, unrivalled. Being here is a fantastic experience; being here at carnival time has been breathless. Today would in any case have been our last day in Rio, tomorrow we would have been heading up into the mountains: instead we will be packing our backpacks for the long haul home.

The Atlantic roars its goodbyes with giant crashing waves, the breaking weather has given the waters a different mood. As darkness begins to fall people gravitate to the beach not for the usual reasons , but instead to film these giant, moody beasts as they crash their heavy surf on to the sand. It’s just one last amazing sight before we leave.

Goodbye Rio, and goodbye, for now, to Brazil. We will, we hope, be back very soon.

Hello Again Brazil: Discovering Paraty

Exotic bird calls boom or squawk through the trees, now and again the undergrowth rustles with the movement of an unseen creature. We are drenched in sweat, dripping wet from head to toe; the baking sun casts searing heat into the occasional clearing but for the most part the lofty canopy traps intense humidity in the spaces below. Official signs warn of poisonous spiders, scorpions and snakes. The heavy air is full of the scents of foliage and damp earth. This is the Atlantic Forest, its million shades of green scaling every mountainside and sweeping with sumptuous colour to the very edge of the shore. The climb has been testing, the descent tricky, but now, 90 minutes or so later, we stand in awe gazing at the incredible view which has opened up before us. We stand above Praia Sono, just the most perfect tropical beach, accessible only by boat or hiking trail, its pale sands tracing a golden thread between the lush green forest and the deep blue Atlantic. My God it’s good to be travelling again….

It’s 4:40am and still pitch dark as we touch down in São Paulo, so, with a need to kill time before we start the next leg, we ignore the scramble to retrieve hand luggage and are amongst the last to leave the aeroplane. No matter how slowly we try to move, passport control, baggage hall and customs are all ultra quick and it still hasn’t reached 6 o’clock as we munch cheese balls and sip overly sweet cappuccino at an airport cafe.

We have choices. Paraty is just over three hours by car, closer to six by bus, and check in time is not until 3pm: we really don’t want to go too soon. But despite our good intentions we run out of patience just after 8 o’clock and Michaela hits the Uber app – and, inevitably, driver Claudio is there within minutes and we are on the road much earlier than we intended to be.

Once we are off the motorways the drive is so utterly spectacular, and the road so interesting and challenging, that I frequently wish I was at the wheel instead of in the back seat, particularly as we descend the steep winding mountain road down through the lush rainforest. Eventually we cross the river and enter Paraty, and even after a photo stop at a waterfall en route it’s still only just past 11 o’clock as we arrive at our apartment, but pleasingly our beaming host Jessica has prepared things early and we have immediate access.

We are straight away enchanted by our new surroundings: our apartment, part of what appears to be a series of converted hospital buildings, is set in lush green gardens full of birdsong. Flocks of saffron finches feed on the lawns, kiskadees call from the trees and the gentle babble of a stream enhances the sense of peace. It’s absolutely lovely and we know instantly that we’ll be content here.

Our sense of enchantment continues as we explore this lovely little town. Paraty enjoyed considerable wealth in the 18th century, becoming the departure port for precious cargoes making their way to Rio and Portugal after the discovery of gold and diamonds in a neighbouring province. As roadways between São Paulo and Rio opened up after Brazilian independence in 1822, Paraty fell into decline and became something of a forgotten town – a piece of history which ironically aided its beauty as the historical buildings remained untouched for more than a century. Nowadays there is a resurgence of wealth through the tourist market – however, although Paraty is clearly a destination town and understandably popular with visitors, it is definitely not over touristed, the fact that the entire old town is a UNESCO World Heritage site ensures that any change is heavily restricted.

The oversized cobbles of the ancient streets form something which is more like boulder-strewn river beds than thoroughfares, pleasing on the eye but harsh on feet and calf muscles. Uneven and irregularly shaped, smoothed and rounded by years of footfall, and sloping downwards to the middle of the street, they make virtually every step a hazard. The river bed analogy is not altogether inaccurate: high tides regularly breach defences and send moving sea water through the streets of Paraty old town.

Attractive low rise colonial buildings line the streets where large numbers of restaurants, cafes and bars nestle behind modest windows or in hidden leafy courtyards. Even the new town, outside of the grid of cobbled lanes, is calm and appealing, palm trees decorating walkways and music filtering out from unknown sources. The Pereque River flows gently out to sea, or pushes backwards with the incoming tide, giant egrets fish patiently in its waters and a contagious tranquility follows its route.

The two bare chested guys are sitting in the shade of a coconut palm on the riverbank, chatting quietly and fiddling with iPhones. Only out of habit do they look up and ask if we want an hour’s boat trip and are visibly surprised when we say….. yes please. We quickly do a deal. Certain sounds have the ability to magnify peace, a chugging motor boat, for instance, is on a quiet day somehow even more peaceful than silence itself, and the sound of our little boat gives us a huge sense of serenity as we slowly make our way out across the water.

All around us the incredibly lush green shades kiss the sea and climb to impossibly high peaks with not the tiniest discernible break in the verdant cover. We are surely looking at the very essence of tropical scenery. Paraty – pronounced para-chee, by the way – has an unusual feature in terms of beautiful views, being a coastal town which has, improbably, 360 degree views of mountains, a legacy of its position on a complex coastline peppered with inlets, headlands and fjords. Only as we pass out beyond some of the first islands do we get an unbroken view of the ocean.

The sea water around this part of the bay, particularly at its fringes, is a murky brown as successive tides swish the mud of the mangroves in and out of twisting channels, tree roots, branches and leaves carried as unwitting passengers riding on a multiple return ticket until they eventually lodge in a final resting place.

Sunday morning comes, and after some tasty “tapiocas”, a bit like a crepe but made with, unsurprisingly, tapioca, we seek out a local office and put into place those plans for later in the week which are not of the unguided variety, and head out of town towards the Praia Sono trailhead. 

We’re on our way, starting the steep climb which will eventually lead us to a beach surely made in paradise, sweltering in the heat, clambering over tree roots and boulders, heading inexorably towards the Atlantic. A cascading stream at one point provides a welcome cold splash for our faces, yet just seconds later perspiration is once again seeping from every pore.

For a hike of only 90 minutes it’s been sapping and, just as our water supplies are running low, the magical sight of our destination creeps closer. The hint of turquoise sea behind the greenery is slowly but surely joined by the unmistakable roar of breaking waves, and we know we are close. Yet still the first sight of Praia Sono, the paradise beach, blows us away. This is wonderful.

Hello again Brazil.

Boats, Bugs, Booze And Not Doing Things By Halves: Days in Paraty

Just as we’re fearing a stifling night without AC, the lights come back on and we can hear the sound of cheering from neighbouring houses – this has been the second lengthy power outage in our first few days here, brought on this time by the afternoon thunderstorm and lasting until bedtime. It’s been handy then that the Caborê Brewery is only just down the road: brewery means generator which means cold beer and a restaurant which is open, saving us a walk through the rain to those areas unaffected by the outage.

This local beer at Caborê isn’t at all bad, either: more pricey than the ubiquitous Brahma but a real step up in flavour and quality. Also up in flavour, it seems, is our flesh. The local insect community is relishing the opportunity to feast on European meats and is busy leaving little red mountains anywhere on our bodies where they feel like doing so. Michaela is clearly more of a tasty treat than I am, suffers much more than me and spends half of every hour scratching and the other half trying not to. So much for that repellent spray we brought with us which was supposed to be a good one. It’s clearly losing its battle against the Insect Air Force.

You can never be entirely sure about organised boat trips, they can be overpriced disappointments which turn out to be a waste of a day or sometimes rowdy affairs with loud music and too many young people drinking too much booze. Or they can be like our near perfect day with Paraty Tours, on a little wooden schooner with less than twenty passengers on board, which is a delightful tour of five of the hundreds of islands which lay just off the coast here. 

Dropping anchor about a hundred yards from shore each time gives us the opportunity to swim from boat to secluded beach, rest a while, spend time inspecting exotic sea shells and wallowing in the water and then swim back to the boat – in the, wait for it, warm Atlantic. Now there’s two words you don’t find together too often. With efficient, well organised staff, clear instructions, decent companions and a perfectly acceptable moqueca freshly prepared on board, it’s a very enjoyable day all round.

It seems some of these islands are privately owned, with Paraty Tours and other operators being granted a licence to call in on excursions like ours. Each such island has an impressive house close to the shore – but we ponder on what it is actually like to spend time, even just a few days, in a place where there is just your house and literally nothing else. There’s no running to the brewery here when the storm comes, that’s for sure.

And the storms do come. Even on the clearest, bluest of mornings, heavy cloud gathers menacingly along the top of the mountains, creeping slowly towards Paraty through the day and, at the same time, darkening ominously. The downpours might start around 4pm, or on other days wait until it’s time to head out for dinner and send everyone scurrying for doorways, bars or, indeed, breweries. Or threaten but never arrive, as on our fifth day here.

Our second day out courtesy of Paraty Tours is almost as good as the first: a Jeep tour deep into the forest within the Serra da Bocaina national park for short hikes to roaring waterfalls and dips in the powerful currents of the cold mountain torrent. Plunging into the colder waters – cold but not icy – is so good in the middle of a humid day. It soothes Michaela’s insect bites too. Walking back to the Jeep through the forest, a real treat as we see our first marmoset. It’s too quick for us to get a photo, but we had been looking forward to seeing these oh so cute creatures, and here is our first, scaling a bamboo and disappearing into the canopy above.

We call in too at a small cachaça distillery, set amongst fields of the sugar cane from which the drink is distilled. Cachaça is, of course, the spirit of caipirinha, the cocktail which turns out to be just as popular here as the guidebooks would have you believe – absolutely everybody is drinking it. Personally I think cachaça is perfectly drinkable neat and unadulterated, but here at the Pedra Branca distillery there is a whole gamut of flavours to try, like vanilla, banana, coffee, chilli…as well as several versions of the original. 

The tasting is fun and of course we fall hook, line and sinker for the marketing ploy, arriving home with a tasty little collection which we absolutely didn’t intend to buy. Caipirinha cocktails here are so much stronger, wow they pack a punch. Where caipirinha back home, and in most other places we’ve tried it, is a lemon drink with a dash of cachaça and a spoonful of sugar, here the quantities are reversed – you get a huge slug of alcohol and just a hint of a lemon undertaste.

But then that’s Brazil, really. Cocktails that make your eyes water, bold food combinations, meals that are so big that you could just buy one portion, share it between two and still be satisfied, people that dance in the street and music everywhere, flamboyant soccer, heat and humidity, heavy rain and colossal paradise beaches.

They don’t do things by halves here.

High Climbs & High Tides: Last Days In Paraty

We’re not always altogether comfortable with organised group tours, and although both of the outings with Paraty Tours have been good, it’s time to go independent again after two successive days of being chaperoned by others. So Wednesday morning we head to the bus station and wait in the heat for the number 25 bus to Trindade which, by the time the driver reverses out of the stand, is ridiculously overloaded with far too many people and far too much baggage.

The little bus really struggles on the mountain climbs, with the driver opting for first gear and a raging engine uphill, then inching slowly down the other side with foot firmly on the brake pedal as if he fears a runaway all the way down to the sea. Trindade has a reputation as a hidden gem, but as the bus crosses the ford and rolls into the village, we don’t yet know that we are going to be quite so taken with it. 

Trindade itself, formerly a remote fishing village, is a gorgeously ramshackle place with a bohemian, laid back – is it still appropriate to say hippie? – vibe. Beads, beards, dreadlocks and psychedelic patterns wander by: it’s as if successive generations of gap year travellers found their way here, decided it was their paradise spot, and never moved on. And it’s easy to understand why they might do that.

As well as the village itself, Trindade boasts fabulous beaches either side of its rocky promontory – but, as is often the case, put in a little extra effort and you will be rewarded. Hike for around 20 minutes through the forested headland and you will reach Praia do Cachadaço, and if this isn’t the epitome of paradise tropical beaches then we don’t know what is. A huge golden expanse fringed by glorious greenery and the rolling blue Atlantic, beautiful clear warm water, a couple of modest wooden drink shacks nestled in the trees and, best of all, hardly anybody here. It’s just that bit too far for most people to make it. Praia Cachadaço rates as one of our all time best paradise beaches.

So after a day discovering a piece of paradise, Thursday brings our final excursion with Paraty Tours, and our biggest challenge of our seven days in the town, scaling the imposing Pico do Pão de Açucar to soak in the wonderful views of the incredible coastal tapestry which is Paraty Bay.

Journeying from Paraty to the foot of the rock with our guide Paco and four other travellers (from Belgium, Slovenia and Italy), the speedboat races through the waves past numerous attractive islands and complicated irregular coastlines, always cloaked in the fabulous multiple shades of green. This area is endlessly beautiful. We soon begin the climb, and it’s not an easy one – in fact, that’s a bit of an understatement, as the trail has an elevation gain of 425 metres in only 1.5 kilometres. The fact that Paco warns us that a hike of only 1.5km will take at least 75 minutes tells you what you need to know.

We’ve made a bit of an error too: it soon becomes clear that we should have taken on more breakfast fuel than our usual papaya and yoghurt and we quickly find ourselves short of energy – not helped by the fact that the snacks we’ve bought which are labelled “bacon flavour” actually taste more like hospital disinfectant than anything which came from a pig. Disgusting and completely inedible. It’s a testing climb which in places is more clambering and hauling up body weight than hiking, but eventually reaching the summit makes every strained muscle and every difficult step worth the pain: the views are more than spectacular.

Below us is Saco do Mamanguá, apparently the world’s only tropical fjord, a gorgeous and unique sight, then stretching for miles in each direction is the mountainous, convoluted coastline, endlessly stimulating until it disappears into the haze. The fantastically deep blues of the ocean and the verdant greens of the rainforest make for an unforgettable panorama. For a while it’s just the seven of us – Paco and his flock of six – at the summit, with time to just soak up this amazing once-in-a-lifetime scene. It is so fabulous that it leaves all of us speechless for a while.

The descent is, as you would expect, quicker than the climb but puts pressure on the knees and brings just as much in the way of perspiration, we must have shed pounds these last few hours! Back down in the fishing hamlet at the foot of the rock, the relief as we all plunge into the welcoming Atlantic waters is palpable – it’s a surprise that we don’t give off steam as we enter.

We compare notes with our companions on our next plans for our travels. Paco and Giuseppe the Italian both frown as we say we intend returning to the paradise beach at Trindade tomorrow. Surely they can’t dislike it? No, there’s another reason for their frown.

“Have you looked at the weather tomorrow?” asks Giuseppe. We haven’t.

“Ohhhh”, says Paco, “tomorrow will be like a big water balloon has burst above Paraty. Big big rain”. Ah.

It’s here before breakfast. We wake to the sound of it lashing on to the windows and look out to find palm fronds fallen from the trees and scattered across the lawns. It’s pelting down. We’re not, of course, surprised to see rain in a rainforest – the clue is in the name, after all – but maybe a second visit to Trindade is no longer our best option for our last day here. It’s a shame, but then, being grounded in Paraty for a day is hardly a bad thing.

And there’s a great bonus from mooching around Paraty on this rainy Friday: the high tide. As we mentioned in our first post from here, there are occasions when the highest tides breach the harbour walls and fill the streets of the old town with sea water for a couple of hours. It’s an unusual sight, watching the tide rise against the classy colonial buildings and swamp the cobbled streets, turning Paraty into a temporary Venice. Those buildings are given some great reflections in the rising water, too. It’s a fascinating spectacle.

The sun doesn’t make a single appearance today, not for a second. Rain is frequent, cloud is permanent, and the temperature has dropped a remarkable 10 degrees since yesterday – by evening it’s properly cool, so different from last night’s intense humidity. For the first time we don’t need either the fan or the AC to get to sleep. Paco told us that he despises winter, when the thermometer “only” reaches a maximum of 18 degrees on some days, so he’s probably wrapped up in his duvet with a hot coffee tonight.

Our time in Paraty draws to a close, with one last visit to the Caborê Brewery and one last great meal down in town, indoors tonight in order to avoid the showers. It’s been absolutely splendid here, a jewel of a town tucked between the mountains and the sea, full of life and full of exciting places to see, in the heart of totally stunning natural beauty. Paraty is a gem. We could easily linger a little longer, but it’s time to load up the backpacks and set off to see some more of this fabulous country.

Last Images Of Paraty

We have now moved on from Paraty and are now in the vicinity of one of the world’s most incredible natural sights, a true natural wonder of the world. But before we get on to that, here’s a few more images of beautiful Paraty which didn’t make it on to our earlier posts……

From The Coast To The Falls: Heading South

With the buses leaving at awkward times and featuring difficult connections, we opt instead to do a deal with a local driver in Paraty to take us all the way to our overnight stop at Guarulhos, nearly four hours’ drive away. As we leave the jewel which is Paraty behind and head up into the mountains, we ponder on whether crossing the range will take us out of the rain and back into sunshine.

In reality the exact opposite occurs – the weather deteriorates considerably and by the time we’re on the freeways our driver is battling spray, surface water and worsening visibility. Pools of rainwater dance and splash in the pouring rain in the streets of Guarulhos as we pull up outside our one night stand hotel and bid farewell to our driver who now has another four hours of those conditions ahead of him on his journey home. We wish him well.

From our twelfth floor window, Guarulhos looks to be a nondescript, industrial city, and, under the heavy skies and teeming rain, we joke that we may as well be looking out at Sheffield. Only when we see the TV newsreels in the hotel bar does the seriousness of the situation dawn on us: some parts of South East Brazil have suffered 100 millimetres of rainfall in 24 hours, causing tragic landslides and extensive damage to properties in both Rio and São Paulo, the latter just 40 minutes from where we are now.

We are in Guarulhos for a single night simply to position ourselves for a domestic flight in the morning as São Paulo airport is actually here rather than in the main city, and with the weather as a big deterrent we opt to eat at the hotel, which is pretty rare for us. Our 1 hour 40 minute flight reunites us with the sun, which beats down from clear blue skies above our next destination, the town of Foz do Iguaçu.

Or, more accurately, our hotel near but not quite in the town, much closer to our reason for being here at what is not only the southernmost point of this trip but in fact the farthest south we have ever travelled. So far, anyway. Foz do Iguaçu is the gateway town to an incredible place, one of the “new” seven wonders of the natural world – although finding a definitive list of any of the “seven wonders” of various types is not as straightforward as it should be. 

I digress. This is the home of Iguazu Falls, or at least the Brazilian side of them, one of the most spectacular, incredible natural sights anywhere in the world. First, here’s a few mind blowing statistics:-

There are almost 300 separate cascades in the whole falls system.

At its height in rainy season, over 1.7 million gallons of water PER SECOND tumble over the clifftop.

From end to end, the falls are 2.7 kilometres long.

Iguazu is therefore by some measures the largest waterfall system in the world.

The River Iguazu is over a kilometre wide as it approaches the cataract.

Statistics is one thing, being here to see this incredible sight is another thing altogether. OK let’s start with the tourism aspect: according to virtually any book or website you care to read, Iguazu is one of the most visited tourist sites in the world, and, there’s no hiding from it, it is extremely busy. The trail walkways are by necessity rather narrow, too – so visiting Iguazu means wrestling with big crowds and patiently waiting your turn at the viewpoints.

But sometimes you just have to cope with these things if you want to see a major sight. The approach reminds us of visiting the Grand Canyon in some respects: it’s a long way inside the national park, there is a large visitor centre at the beginning and there are networks of internal transport to get to the major points. However, unlike Grand Canyon, apart from a handful of short jungle trails, visitors are restricted to prescribed walkways.

Eighty per cent of the falls lie on the Argentinian side – the river is the border between Brazil and Argentina – so consequently the most expansive views are from this, the Brazilian side. This also explains the two spellings – Iguaçu is Portuguese and Iguazu is Spanish, each derived from words in an indigenous tribal language which translate as “big water”. 

It’s quite hard to describe in words what an amazing sight these falls are, such is the huge vista of multiple falls varying in size and volume of water, the clouds and rainbows which form and then disappear in the spray, the shapes and whirlpools which evolve in the waters below, the sheer expanse of what we are looking at. Truly, it’s spellbinding.

Following the walkways takes us past the deepest part of the canyon, and thus some of the highest drops – the biggest falls drop more than 80 metres – until eventually we reach the most spectacular section, known as Garganta del Diablo, or The Devil’s Throat, where numerous colossal falls force huge quantities of raging water through a narrow gorge. Roughly half of those 1.7 million gallons per second rage through this chasm which is less than 90 metres wide.

Standing on the walkway above the water, close to the Devil’s Throat, the roar of the water is thunderous, the spray sometimes as heavy as rainfall, but above all the sheer raw power of what we’re witnessing is what leaves the most lasting impression. “Awesome” is not one of my words….but this place is bloody awesome! So awesome that we visit the falls on two consecutive days and still don’t tire of the incredible sensation of just being here and feeling that raw power.

And then there’s the crazy boat ride, on board a sturdy inflatable speedboat with around thirty passengers, racing through the raging rapids and then the daftest, most fun part of the hour, when the “skipper” takes the boat right under one of the falls, giving all passengers a thorough dousing and pounding at the hands of the falling water. It’s a bit of touristy fun but it is exactly that: fun.

On each of our two days of exploring the National Park and the amazing falls, it’s too tempting to just relax in the evening after walking all day, use the hotel bar and restaurant, and not venture into the town of Foz do Iguaçu at all – but then, the town is described everywhere as “modern” and “uninteresting” and is 12 kilometres away. We don’t feel that we’ve missed out.

In our plans for future trips we harbour ambitions of a much longer trip through South America, including exploring Argentina, so now, next up from Foz de Iguaçu, is a trip across the border, just to get our first feel for that country.

A few days in Argentina is next….and this time, in the town….

In the meantime, witness that raw power in this short video clip…..

Iguazu Wildlife

Our week or so on the Brazil-Argentina border may not have been our most spectacular ever in terms of spotting wildlife, but it had its moments – moments dominated by butterflies. Here’s some nature shots to wind up that part of this trip….

Shock News: Brazil Is Really Big

Saturday night in Puerto Iguazu is properly rocking, busier than every previous evening with queues outside several restaurants and music from numerous bars clashing mid street in a melee of bass lines and choruses which succeed only in drowning each other out. Bon Jovi, Men At Work and Gnarls Barkley merge into a disturbing melange which threatens to confuse and confound the ears. Whether it’s like this every Saturday, or whether it’s especially busy because it’s Easter, we’ll never know. 

Our last night in Argentina

And so after our brief 5-day glimpse of Argentina, we head back across the bridge and cast one last look at the pale blue skies and fluffy white clouds that precisely mirror the colours of the nation’s flag uncannily often. It seems a little strange to then catch a local service bus from a small bus station for a fare of £1.74 and go on to finish the journey in a completely different country. But that’s how it rolls around here.

We purposefully stay on the bus until its destination in downtown Foz do Iguaçu for a spot of lunch, and decide fairly quickly that those on line descriptions of “modern” and “uninteresting” may be fairly accurate. It’s also pretty much closed, what with it being Easter Sunday, but a combo shawarma in Cafe Beirut (I kid you not) comes to our aid. 

Brazil is big. It covers a greater area than all of the contiguous states of the USA put together, and, what’s more, the entire European Union would comfortably fit into Brazil…..twice. So planning a Brazil trip presents dilemmas, which for us have been exacerbated by our unscheduled month-long interruption. Our shortened trip means lengthy cross country bus journeys are just too time consuming and difficult, and so, to enable us to still visit those major destinations which we really don’t want to miss, domestic flights are a better option. Trouble is, flying everywhere means we’re running the risk of feeling that we’re leapfrogging the country rather travelling it, but it’s the price we’re having to pay for making it to our prioritised sights. Maybe one state at a time, like in America or India, might be a better idea. Still, we’re in it now and it is what it is.

So it’s nearly five hours in the air to get from Iguaçu to Recife via São Paulo and then a taxi ride around the bay to our next destination, Olinda, where our host Leo is waiting outside our airbnb house, keys in hand and welcoming smile on his face. This man radiates warmth as he proudly shows us around our new home, a traditional old dwelling right in the heart of the old town, recently renovated inside. Our introductory conversation, in a mix of Portuguenglish, Google translate and hand gestures, ends up with Leo driving us to an authentic “neighbourhood” restaurant, picking us up afterwards and then giving us a brief driving tour of the old town. What a welcome! 

That drive is of course long after dark, so our first full day is all about exploring this quiet and quaint old town. Our home really is in the midst of it – a centuries old traditional house tucked in amongst the cobbled streets and brightly painted low rise houses. The bars and cafes we saw on our tour with Leo last night are now anonymous behind closed wooden shutters and locked doors, indistinguishable from the private homes next door, apart perhaps from a modest beer logo painted on the wall.

It’s quiet. The streets are so steep and the cobbles so uneven that what few cars there are move slowly between the picturesque houses, clusters of people sit in shady corners to escape the raging sun, giving the whole district an air of unshakable stillness. Even the street dogs lay silent in doorways or under trees. 

As well as the quaint houses, Olinda old town is bursting with grand buildings, featuring no less than sixteen churches, four museums and three markets in what is only a compact area. From the top of the town the views across the ocean, sweeping towards Recife, Olinda’s big sister, are as rewarding as they are diverse: the quaint charm of Olinda facing the gleaming new city blocks of the bigger neighbour. 

There’s an amusing place to seek refuge from the heat and humidity (website says “actual 33, feels like 39”) in Casa dos Bonecos Gigantes. Across so much of the Hispanic world, gigantes costumes form an integral part of major fiestas, and here is where in Olinda the costumes are stored in the weeks between those celebrations – open for a small fee to enable us to go face to face with the oversized mannequin reproductions of the town’s historical and contemporary characters. Each one carries a photograph of the character on which they are based, which really shows how cleverly lifelike these pastiches are, despite their obvious exaggeration.

In a more reverent vein, the interior of the Convento de São Francisco is cool and peaceful, walls adorned throughout with beautifully decorated Portuguese rococo tiling which has stood the test of time and is terrifically well preserved. The convent, for a long period the only dedicated Franciscan complex in Brazil, was originally established in 1565, destroyed by the rampaging Dutch in 1631, then rebuilt via numerous restoration projects over the ensuing three centuries and more. It remains a grand and peaceful place today, its elevated position above the ocean still giving it an impressive and commanding presence.

Occasionally in the old town an official guide will approach us and offer services, but to a man they withdraw when we say we speak English. They can offer Spanish, Italian and French as alternatives to Portuguese, but none of them speak English – surely a twist on the worldwide norm. In truth, they look almost relieved that they have a reason to go back and sit in the shade once more rather than stand talking beneath the harsh rays.

Just when we think we’ve seen the best of the old town, we stumble upon Rua do Amparo, probably the highest scorer on the colour-o-meter so far – an amazing collection of wonderfully decorated houses, some adorned with terrific large scale murals and none matching the colour of its neighbour. The effect of the different tones of the walls married to the artistic murals and cascading bougainvillea and jasmine is nothing short of exquisite.

Local artist Sergio Vilanova calls us into his studio to show off his extensive collection of his own works: there must be at least 200 colourful paintings in here, most of which are somewhere between a child’s imagination and the randomness of Picasso. The most amusing moment comes when Sergio proudly shows us not one of his own works but a photograph on his iPhone – it’s the gigantes puppet in his own image. It seems we’ve met one of those revered local celebrities.

The new town end of Olinda, with its sleek high rise blocks beautifully tiled from ground to sky and its half attractive promenade along the seafront, is pleasant enough, but has nothing on the character and multi coloured appeal of the old town. We’re so pleased that we opted to stay here, especially in one of these old traditional houses, where we can walk to neighbourhood bars in which we’re the only tourists and nobody has a word of English, and yet by only our second visit they remember our choice of drinks and greet us with beaming smiles.

We may be leapfrogging Brazil, but this particular hop has landed well. 

There’s Something In The Kitchen 

There’s flies in the kitchen

I can hear them buzzin’

And I ain’t done nothin’

Since I woke up today

Lyrics from “Angel From Montgomery” by John Prine

It arrives precisely on time. All the weather apps had said that the tropical storm would hit around 9am and, sure enough, rain starts to clatter the roof at 8:55 and five minutes later thunder is crashing and we have to raise our voices to be heard above the sound of the rain. Three hours later it’s still hammering down and we are mopping sections of the floor at various points: this is when you discover that these quaint old houses aren’t watertight.

Between the living room and the kitchen there is a small internal garden open to the elements – the walkway through it has a Perspex roof but the rest is open. In some parts of the house, we look directly up at the underside of the exterior roof tiles, and floor levels in the kitchen are lower than the courtyard behind the house with steps down into the house through a doorway of mesh. All of these create indoor pools as the storm crashes through and the house reveals numerous leak points crying out for the mop which is conveniently stored near the fridge. Outside the front door, the steep cobbled street has become a river fit for white water rafting.

Our Thursday plan is by necessity shelved as it involves exploration of an open air gallery and we remain trapped indoors until hunger takes over and we trot up the hill to Bar Do Ró, another great little neighbourhood establishment where the quality of the food far exceeds its modest price. But it’s not long before the rain returns and the whole day is a washout, through till an hour after sundown. Good time to catch up on some admin and start planning the USA part of this trip. Instead of doin’ nothin’ like Mr Prine.

Bar do Ró

Seemingly, the deluge is to wildlife as petrol is to fire. When we first arrived and saw the open plan design of the house with the open garden in the middle of the property and only a grille for a rear wall, we couldn’t understand why the place wasn’t overrun with bugs. Admittedly, on day one, an errant hummingbird had flown into the kitchen – I cupped the tiny thing in my hands gently enough to avoid disturbing its plumage and set it free outside, only for it to fly straight back in and repeat the process – but apart from that the house remained remarkably critter free. Until the rain.

A tiny frog in the kitchen. A larger frog with the freaky ability to hop vertically up walls without losing its grip, making its way towards the living room ceiling. A centipede long enough to pass itself off as a small snake. Several billion vermicelli-like flying things with a predilection for white linen – in other words they’re all over the bed and the towels. Suddenly they’re all here, all uninvited, all apparently given fervour by the rain. Our walk to our evening meal, after the deluge has abated, is accompanied by a ridiculous frog chorus where the calls are anything from squealing schoolgirls to an Aussie wobble board with some porcine grunts in between. We try hard not to mention Paul McCartney.

Of course, it’s all gone by Friday, as you would expect. The streets are dry, the sun is shining and the humidity is ramping back up after yesterday’s cooler interlude. Those flying vermicellis are still very much in evidence, but now lay dead where they fell and wait only to be swept up and thrown into the garbage en masse. If these things are like Mayflies and have a lifespan of just one day, but only come alive when it’s pissing down with rain, then their lot is not, we conclude, a happy one. 

With the drama over and the blistering sun once more directly overhead, we take the 90-minute journey down the coast to the resort town of Porto de Galinhas where half the world has come to sit beneath parasols on the narrow strip of sand. Our first sight of the beach is actually quite hilarious, as the tide is at its highest point, restricting the huge body of people (and some people with huge bodies) to cram themselves into the tiny available area of beach which remains – some groups sit on tables and chairs the wrong side of the strand line, feet in the water and minds perpetually on guard lest their picnic gets a soaking.

The tide recedes, the beach expands. The Atlantic is a gorgeous blue and has a real warmth as it wraps itself around our thighs. The fresh fish at the beach bar, breaded and served with a mango and cheese salad, is delicious. Porto de Galinhas itself, unashamedly and proudly a beach resort town, shows off its pedestrianised streets of tat shops, boutiques, eateries and bars with a brashness that only a fiercely popular resort town could muster. We find ourselves smiling. It’s good here. We like it.

There’s absolutely no doubt you wouldn’t want to get stuck in Porto de Galinhas for too long, but it’s an engagingly stereotypical tropical beach town and we can’t help but be whipped up in its vacation vibe before the sand is even sifting through our toes. In fact we would happily call time on Olinda, lovely as it is, right now, and spend a weekend here in this beach town before we move on: that’s how much it’s made us smile. 

The ten foot tall guy renting out beach chairs says we can have ours free if we buy two caipirinhas. That’s about £6 for two cocktails with two chairs and a table thrown in for the next few hours. It would be rude not to.

We could have had a fun weekend in Porto de Galinhas, that’s for sure. But for now it’s back through the ridiculous traffic congestion to our little house in Olinda, frogs back in hiding and bugs mostly gone. 

Tomorrow we’ll go see Recife.

The Crazy World Of Francisco Brennand

Picture an artist and sculptor being given a gigantic space in which to let his imagination run riot. Imagine if that space was a disused factory set in substantial grounds with endless opportunities for indoor and outdoor exhibition, and if that sculptor was given enough time to create over 2,000 items in an isolated world of fantasy. And finally, imagine if that guy had a mind full of wild ideas way beyond the norm.

Welcome to Oficina Brennand and the life’s work of one Francisco Brennand. First, some context and history.  The factory in question, with its many brick built industrial buildings and wide open grassy spaces in between, was originally a thriving tile and brick factory run by Francisco’s father, Ricardo. Ricardo himself was of Irish descent, from an emigre family who had found wealth by marrying into the family of owners of the local sugar cane plantation. Ricardo added brick and tile to the family empire in 1917.

Recognising talent in the teenage Francisco, Ricardo sent him to Paris to study ceramic skills, an environment which encouraged the younger man’s flair and lead him to admire the works of avant garde artists such as Picasso and Miro. By 1971, the big factory had fallen into disuse and Francisco, now 44 and enjoying a burgeoning reputation in the artistic world, saw an opportunity to unleash his atypical skills on the biggest of blank canvasses. 

Inside the factory

Our first glimpse of Brennand’s work was at the quayside in Recife, at the Parque das Esculturas (Sculpture Park) on an offshore reef in Recife’s port district, but it’s at the old factory, the Oficina, where Brennand really plays tricks with your mind.

The 2,000+ sculptures are as random as they are weird. Several themes persist: faces turned upward towards the sky, animals, eggs, fruit and marine life, but it is distortions of the human form which are consistently surprising. Is that the neck of a pitcher, or an upturned leg complete with stilettos? Is that a pair of crossed legs, or a winding serpent attacking its prey?

Yet as we wander through this strange insight into one man’s wild and crazy imagination, there is one overbearing, unmissable theme: phallic and ribald symbolism. Many, many sculptures, even many of the upturned heads, take on the shape and form of a penis, female statues sport exaggerated breasts with oversized nipples. Brennand doesn’t shy from the boldest of provocative statements either, with pubic triangles and graphic representations of female genitalia regular features on the misshapen, distorted human forms.

Are some of these a little too graphic?

And then, suddenly, as if intending to shake us from fantasy back to reality, Brennand presents some beautifully ornate tile work and a stunning floor mosaic. Then wander outside to find yourself amidst Egyptian influenced concepts with sphinxes and goddesses, then walk down Romanesque colonnades with a re-imagined Neptune or a malformed Venus. The sheer size of the place is amazing, the content, and the amount of content, takes the visitor on a surreal trip around the corners of Brennand’s mind. You don’t forget your visit to Oficina Brennand in a hurry.

More of the sculptures

One final twist at the end of our amble around this remarkable place: an acoustically perfect warehouse where guest artist Ernesto Neto has, among other things, hung drums with drumsticks from the high ceiling on lengthy ropes. One is invited to indulge. I don’t know whether the surreal Brennand experience triggers a need to release energy, but I find myself bashing out the drum line from Cozy Powell’s “Dance With The Devil” with manic vigour and energy, creating ear bashing echoes off the sturdy walls and filling the building with sound. It is ridiculously and deliciously satisfying.

As we stand in the hot sun waiting for the Uber back to the city, we feel like we’ve just left Planet Earth for a couple of hours.

The Many Faces Of Recife

Brazil must surely be one of the best countries in the world for using the Uber taxi service, certainly the best we’ve encountered anywhere so far. Easy, reliable and cheap. We originally intended to hire a car to explore the Olinda/Recife area, but once you realise that a half hour Uber ride can cost as little as £2.60 there’s just no point taking on the driving yourself.

But you know, once you get the hang of Brazil, it’s not altogether odd that Uber works well: this is a surprisingly well developed country in a technological sense. For a start, this is virtually a cashless society, everywhere expects payment by card, and even if you offer cash for a bottle of water costing 48p, you may well be asked for to present a card instead. Only the street vendors deal in cash, nobody else. In addition to that, every single bar, cafe and restaurant, no matter how ramshackle, will have free wifi, usually of a decent standard.

You could be forgiven for getting an incorrect impression of Recife just by entering at a certain point, such is the diversity of its various districts. Head straight to the beach end and you’re in something which resembles Rio de Janeiro, dozens of soaring high rise blocks lining the long, long seafront strip. Arrive in the old town and you’re cast into a world of colonial architecture so grand that you could be exploring a European city. Start at the renovated dockyards and you’ll be surrounded by revitalised wharf buildings bursting with cafe culture. 

Yet take a stroll away from the old town and cross the bridge towards Santo Antonio and you’re forced to walk in the road to circumnavigate the hundreds – literally, hundreds – of homeless people living on the streets. Individuals, groups of males and entire families with children sleeping on cardboard. This is possibly the densest concentration of homelessness we have seen anywhere outside of India.

Our first exploration begins at Marco Zero close to the seafront, an attractive modern plaza from where distances to and from Recife are calculated, close to the classical old town where many impressive colonial buildings are located. The grand street of Rua do Bom Jesus, nowadays mostly pedestrianised, leads away from Plaça Arsenal to trace a route between those bold, imposing buildings which once reflected the wealth of a thriving port city.

Recife was in fact the site of South America’s first ever river bridge, built at the behest of Mauricio de Nassau, Governor of Dutch Brazil, in 1643. Standing at the confluence and joint mouths of two mighty rivers, the Beberibe and Capibaribe, the oldest part of town proudly sits on an island linked to the rest of the city by a series of bridges. Brazil’s fourth largest city with its 1.6 million+ inhabitants is the capital of the state of Pernambuco, and has a long and proud history.

Established by the Portuguese in the early days of colonisation, in 1537, taken briefly by the Dutch before recapture by Portugal, Recife’s considerable wealth grew from the milling of sugar cane from the numerous surrounding plantations, plus the characteristics of its shoreline providing a protected area for development of the port. That protection is provided by a number of offshore natural, but non-coral, reefs which run parallel to the shore: the very name “Recife” is derived from the Portuguese word for reef.

On one such reef, now enhanced and expanded by human input, is the Parque das Esculturas, the Sculpture Park, home to some of the work of one of Recife’s favourite sons, Francisco Brennand – the guy featured in our last post – which we reach via chugging motor boat from the harbour wall. It’s an intriguing first glimpse of his unusual work.

Tucked in amongst those grand colonial buildings along Bom Jesus is America’s oldest synagogue, former embassy buildings and once great mansions. The views of these are remarkable for the differing fortunes of the buildings: some retain an air of grand maturity, others stand in decay: roofless, crumbling and strewn with graffiti, while some, like the wharf buildings at the port, bear the hallmarks of modernisation and adaptation to 21st century life.

And those clashes of cultures, those diverse areas, continue to confound. To reach the gleaming gold interior of the church of Capella Dourada, we have to manoeuvre through hordes of homeless, some begging, most sporting forlorn expressions, and shady looking characters who make us closely guard the contents of our pockets. A burly security guard stands at the church door, a watchful eye on our progress towards the interior.

Capella Dourada

A short distance from the church, hiding behind fences laced with ivy, convolvulus and other climbers, is an arts and crafts market in a most unusual setting. The Casa da Cultura is housed in a former prison where surprisingly little has been done to hide its former incarnation: as we wander through inspecting everything from wood carvings to clothing to bottles of flavoured cachaça, we are left in no doubt as to the building’s original raison d’etre.

Elsewhere in the city there must be current day gaols of much greater proportions, for Recife has a reputation as one of Brazil’s most violent cities with over one thousand shootings per year. However, this misleading statistic should be set against the fact that education here is of a high standard, average earnings are significantly above the national average, and medical and technological studies and services are considerably advanced. 

Our final port of call in Recife is to walk along the beachfront at Boa Viagem – on a Sunday, the favourite day locally for beach time. Once again, the scenes are comical, the concentration of parasols so dense that the entire beach may as well have a roof. Another form of shade comes to the beach early, too – the density and daunting height of the huge high rise blocks means that it’s only half way through the afternoon when the sun’s rays become blocked by the concrete jungle and giant shadows creep across the sand.

Our single day exploring some of this sprawling city has been remarkably varied, such is its rambling diversity and disparate characteristics. Modern, ancient, gleaming, scruffy, clean, filthy, pristine and defaced, one can only hold opinions of districts rather than of Recife as a whole. Turning one small corner can take you from one aura to another. 

And so we move on again, now even closer to the equator, towards the waters of the mighty Amazon and the intensity of the rainforest and jungle…

Spiders, Snakes & Pink Dolphins: Four Days In The Amazon Jungle

Jim is telling us to be minimalistic in terms of what we take with us tonight, yet at the same time he’s giving us our strict instructions on the essentials which must form part of the minimalist pack: waterproof jacket, mosquito repellent, long trousers, decent walking shoes, sun lotion, waterproof cases for cameras and phones, and drinking water. And then there’s mosquito repellent and, if we still have room, some more mosquito repellent. This promises to be an interesting night.

Once we’d made the decision to spend time in the Amazon jungle – which, to be honest, was one of our red lines when we had to redesign this Brazil trip – we knew we wanted it to be a full on, rustic style adventure rather than a half measure with a luxury cruise or glamping or similar. So here we are at Anaconda Lodge or, to be specific, just leaving Anaconda Lodge for a night in the wild. We have opted for a 4-day/3-night stay, with two nights at the Lodge and one, just for the hell of it, camping in the jungle.

Anaconda Lodge is not exactly the height of luxury, being a small set of simple buildings on a tiny island which disappears completely when the river is at its highest at the back end of the rainy season. The only other two guests at the Lodge are leaving on the boat we have just arrived on – we’re the only two here now, and even we are not going to be here tonight. Two is also the total number of staff at the Lodge: the whole Lodge team is just two local guys who share all the duties between them. A pair of large lethargic dogs complete the scene.

A heavy storm briefly threatens tonight’s jungle experience but clears in time for us to head off on the motor boat with Jim, from British Guyana and our guide for the four days, and Matheus from a local village, who hails from an indigenous tribe and is well skilled in jungle survival. From leaving the small boat and hiding the can of spare gasoline where thieving pirate hands won’t find it, we trudge for nearly an hour through dense jungle to our designated sleeping place.

Matheus, or Speedy as Jim insists on calling him, draws a tarpaulin sheet over the wooden poles, strings up four hammocks with attendant mosquito nets, and sets about making the fire for cooking. The last of these is not a straightforward task – dry wood is not an easy find in a rainforest and for a while he struggles to achieve sufficient heat to cook the chicken and rice, but of course in the end he succeeds, and we enjoy our campfire meal in the cloying darkness which has in the meantime descended. 

Speedy has not a word of English and converses with Jim in what the older man describes as tribal dialect Portuguese. Jim tells us that Speedy is only sixteen years old and, as well as being capable enough to teach jungle survival, already has two children, the older of which is three. This is clearly a different world in more ways than one.

With our head torches the only pinpricks of light in the pitch dark, there is nothing to do now other than climb into our hammocks before 8pm and listen to the sounds of the jungle. Mosquitoes whine but can’t penetrate the tight mesh of the protective nets; cicadas grate their rasping calls, birds cry odd sounds which echo through the trees – and occasionally the crack of a twig hints at the footfall of an unknown and unseen mammal passing by somewhere out there in the darkness.

Michaela, Jim and Speedy are all soon asleep. My ears tune in to the multiple unfamiliar sounds around me, stimulated by mystery, excited by new experience. I can’t sleep yet.

The calls of the birds steadily wind down as night envelopes the jungle, and even the cicadas eventually go quiet. A deep cushioned thud breaks the silence somewhere just before midnight, maybe a fruit has fallen from a tree, and the strange multi-tone croaking of hundreds of frogs creates a haunting, discordant chorus. While the other three draw the heavy breaths of sleep, I do not get on well with the hammock and still struggle to join them in their slumbers.

Morning is a long time coming when sleep is elusive and the pitch darkness lasts a full twelve hours: for most of the night I long for a sustained spell of sleep, but it never does come. At one point I have a real desire to leave the camp and wander into the darkness, but there are dangerous things out there and my warnings from Jim have been stark. Eventually first light penetrates the trees shortly before 6am and the others start to stir – Speedy again wins his battle with damp timber and prepares a breakfast of boiled eggs and coffee, though the bread rolls which have hung in a carrier bag from a branch all night now taste of the damp, humid air of the forest. It tastes how I imagine moss would taste.

We have survived our night in the jungle. Michaela has slept soundly, I seriously haven’t. It’s been brilliant being surrounded by the sounds of the night jungle, a truly stimulating adventure, but personally I won’t be in a hurry to sleep in a hammock again. Not all night, anyway. Having opted to stay in the Amazon rainforest when the rainy season is three months in can only have one consequence – we know that it’s a matter of how often and how badly we’ll get soaked, not a matter of whether we will, but the night has, remarkably, stayed dry, and we return to the Lodge still waiting for our first soaking.

Will and Anthony arrive at lunchtime on Day 2: the four of us are to be the only guests at Anaconda Lodge for the rest of our time here, four English wanderers deep in the Amazon jungle. The modest, rudimentary Lodge sits on an island in the Rio Negro, the deep black waters which give the river its name owing their colour to the different kinds of underwater vegetation which can thrive in fresh water of a higher temperature. And believe us, this river is warm.

The Rio Negro is itself a mighty waterway in its own right yet is overshadowed on the statistical front by its even more mighty neighbour, the Amazon. At its widest point the Negro is an incredible 30 kilometres wide, yet even this amazing fact doesn’t compare with the Amazon which weighs in at an astonishing FIFTY kilometres. That’s a 31 mile wide river – mind bending! More about this stuff in our next post. 

Over the next few days out here we are to see some remarkable sights. The Amazon basin is one of only two homes to a species of pink dolphin – the other is the Orinoco. These strange looking creatures with pink bodies and orange/pink fins, sport pig-like snouts and faces which are odd enough to detract somewhat from their cute colouring. We do more than see these strange creatures in action; we are able to join them in the water.

Like other dolphins they are inquisitive things, and quickly move towards us as soon as we enter the river. It’s a strange sensation as they move beneath us, barging into our bodies and suddenly thrusting their heads above the surface, expelling through the blow holes and occasionally making eye contact for a brief moment. Swimming alongside these pink beasts is a thoroughly enjoyable, if slightly offbeat, experience.

Separated by 24 hours we make two attempts to fish for piranha, summarily failing to catch a single fish between all four of us on each occasion. Piranhas 4 England 0. Overnight in between, the rain is intense to the point of violent, thrashing on to the roofs of the huts and flowing down the banks to the river. By morning the level of the river has risen visibly, the inexorable progress of the rainy season is unfolding before our eyes.

Friday morning and the rain goes on: we take a boat trip to the nearest village, Cachoeira do Castanho, where houses on stilts sit both up on the banks and beyond the edge above the lapping water. Soon, every house in the village will be surrounded by the water which will swirl below and flood their lands for the next three months or so. We can only ponder what will happen to the chickens, dogs and pigs. The rain turns from heavy to ridiculous and at last we get our first proper drenching – we expected it much more often, and earlier, than this. We’ve got lucky.

Fruit is so plentiful here. Jim explains that many of the villagers are completely self sufficient on the food front: as indigenous people they retain the right to harvest in the forest, fish in the rivers and hunt non-protected species, as well as growing their own fruit and veg and rearing chickens. Like Speedy’s ability to survive in the wild, customs and skills have been handed down through generations.

A tarantula walks into a bar and says…… no, this isn’t the first line of a joke, it’s what happens at Anaconda Lodge one evening as Michaela and I sit ensconced in travel research, iPads in front of us, cupuaçu juice on the go and brains in gear. A shout goes up from one of the guys and they call us over, to see the giant, furry monster perched on a pillar, eyeing up its next kill. Just stay out of our hut, please, that’s all we ask.

The deep blackness of the waters of the Rio Negro makes for wonderful reflections of the beautiful surrounding scenery. This is a slow moving river, meaning that its surface is often amazingly flat, the perfect canvas for painting those fabulous scenes – until, that is, the next storm begins to threaten and the precursor winds turn that crystal clear mirror into a turbulent, fragmented mass. We don’t know it yet, but that silky smooth surface will later on provide something spectacular.

As darkness falls on Friday evening, we set out with the intention of spotting an alligator or two, which turns out to be a lot easier than catching piranhas. Our boatman – Speedy’s brother, as it happens – shows just how adept these local Amazon people are, and catches a young alligator by hand simply by leaning over the boat and taking the thing by surprise. We all take a turn in cradling the creature, but in truth it never looks settled and retains a malevolent look in its eye. “One false move, sucker”, it seems to be saying.

But the alligator trip brings another, different, absolute joy – as marvellous for its surprise as it is for its stunning beauty. The evening sky, full of character and style, is impeccably reflected in the flat calm river, creating quite possibly the most exquisite reflections in water we’ve ever seen. Truly, truly beautiful. Romantic, too.

And so to our last morning here and, after an hour’s hike through deep jungle where Jim and Speedy’s brother teach us which plants would help us survive in the wild, we return to the Lodge to find the two staff guys excitedly waving, calling us to hurry up the sloping path. There has been a discovery. Anaconda Lodge has lived up to its name, and the guys have found, in the kitchen storage cupboard, a young snake sleeping in a dark corner.

The specimen, we are told, is around two years old and not yet anywhere near its eventual length, but, as we touch it and feel its body draped around our neck, the power of its flexing muscles is palpable. The last act of our time in the jungle is both fitting and ironic: fitting that we’ve added an anaconda to our spotting list, ironic because after all our expeditions in the wild, the iconic anaconda has turned up on our doorstep.

Our four days are done, and the journey back to Manaus begins. We say our farewells to the two Lodge guys and head off across choppy waters. The rain, which has been so kind to us given where we have been, drops from the heavy sky in bucketfuls as if to remind us of our luck but also to let us know who is really in charge here.

Swimming with dolphins, fabulous reflections, alligators, tarantulas and an anaconda; watching just how amazingly knowledgeable and capable a 16-year-old brought up in the jungle can be; catching a glimpse of the oh so different world occupied by these inhabitants of a place which is flooded for nearly half the year. And a night deep in the jungle. It’s certainly been an experience.

It’s mid afternoon as we check in to the hotel back in Manaus, pull our damp, humidity-sodden clothes from our backpacks, and dive gleefully into a hot shower. It feels like heaven.

Manaus: Industry, Elegant Buildings & The Meeting Of The Waters

“A couple of Englishmen strolling through Brazil, end-to-end, wonderful, friendly, even without speaking Portuguese always sought to enjoy everything in the city”.

These words are, unaltered, the review of us placed on airbnb by one of our hosts in Brazil. It pleased us so much that we just wanted to reproduce it here.

As if this whole thing didn’t feel strange enough already, we’re finally getting undressed and into bed when the cockerels start crowing to remind us that daylight is only a couple of hours away. Half past ten in the evening seems an odd time for a domestic flight to take to the air, particularly a 4-hour flight which crosses a time line and means it’s 1:30am local time as we touch down at Manaus. Thankfully the arrivals system is quick, taxis are plentiful and we’re checking in at the hotel just 50 minutes later. And then it’s cockerel time.

Manaus is at first impression a downtrodden town, unpleasant smells at almost every turn amid a network of scruffy shopping streets, but this is a notion which we soon dispel as we start to uncover the city’s appeal. Before we do that, we watch the infamous Amazon ferries leaving port, belching black diesel fumes into the air, hulls rusting and in some cases listing to one side. They look both unsafe and overcrowded (hello Maggie & Richard, we remember your awful journey very clearly!).

Away from the scruffy downtown district, Manaus is home to an impressive collection of elegant buildings, several atmospheric plazas and a music scene which is as lively and eclectic as Copacabana. Yet that’s not all that we will come to like about this city. In the 24 hours we have here before we head out into the jungle (see our last post) our affection for the place grows considerably and we look forward to our return.

When we do return after our four days in the jungle, the notorious rains of Manaus have been banished by glorious hot sunshine and deep azure skies and even the humidity factor seems to have been usurped by dry, bone warming heat, feeling more Mediterranean than tropical. 

Pride of place in the elegant buildings of Manaus surely goes to the Teatro Amazonas, a wonderfully opulent creation which dominates its own square, the Largo São Sebastian. The theatre is the grandest of places which oozes old world class and charm from its every stone and every curving balustrade. Airing its first opera in January 1897, this magnificent building incorporates marble from Italy, furnishings from France and even steelwork from Glasgow. The interior, which unfortunately we don’t get to see, boasts no less than 198 chandeliers made exclusively from Murano glass. 

The huge dome atop the theatre comprises 36,000 tiles in the colours of the Brazilian flag, capping the pink wedding cake which is the grand theatre itself. Like much of Manaus’s elegance, it owes its opulence to the riches of the rubber export trade – a little more of that later. That square, the Largo São Sebastian, is a delightful place flanked by an assortment of bars and restaurants, its centre of decorative tiles frequented nightly by families and young lovers enjoying the cooler evening air in a joyful yet relaxing atmosphere.

But it’s not just the elegant quarters of Manaus which have won us over: this is a fascinatingly industrial and industrious city in which the manic activity of its citizens is as enthralling as any of its splendour. Down by the waterfront is the Fiera da Banana, a thriving, bustling fruit market full of sound and colour and the sweet fragrances of ripe fruit – but this is more than just a market, this is also a distribution centre where road turns to river and produce travels out to the world.

Behind the market is another section of the port where a large fleet of oddly shaped boats are loaded with fruit, flour, tapioca, plastic piping, metal sheets and bags of cement and almost anything else you can think of, including passengers on hammocks slung on deck in amongst the cargo. Men rush in every direction with bags on shoulders, sackbarrows filled with produce, crates of beer loaded on weighed-down trolleys, building materials on creaking pallets. Busy cities like Manaus, where industrious life goes on at a relentless pace, have a gritty appeal all of their own, and this is all so engaging to witness.

Before we leave Manaus we must mention the Palacio da Rio Negro, another opulent building owing its existence to the golden age of rubber exports, and in particular to one Karl Waldemar Scholz, a man who enjoyed and endured both good and bad fortune in life, and that’s putting it mildly. A German citizen initially employed in the Austrian consulate, Scholz amassed huge wealth through export of rubber and became a leading light in Manaus society, philanthropically donating funds to local causes and building for him and his wife the magnificent palace which was to be their home.

Scholz, a lover of both birds and horses, commenced a collection of both at his fabulous home, only for an adopted heron to peck out his eye. He was then thrown from one of his horses and in the process sustained life changing injuries calling for a lengthy spell of hospitalisation. The path towards the first World War coincided with the decline of the rubber trade, and so Scholz’s finances became more and more stretched until he was forced to mortgage the palace and return home to Germany in 1913. Unable to keep up repayments, he surrendered ownership of the palace and was soon declared bankrupt in his home country. As if this lot wasn’t enough for one man, Scholz then developed, and died from, throat cancer. Talk about life unravelling!

There is one excursion left before we leave Manaus and indeed move on from Brazil, to see yet another amazing natural phenomenon. We have seen many fabulous sights on our travels but the “encontro das Aguas”, the meeting of the waters, is surely right up there.

It is just outside Manaus that the two mighty rivers of Rio Negro and the Amazon converge – but this is no ordinary confluence and is an incredible thing to see. Here, the Amazon has travelled nearly 4,000 miles from its source, the Negro some 1,400, between them shifting more than 3 billion gallons of water per minute ever seaward through the Amazona region. The waters of the Negro are black, those of the Amazon a tea-coloured brown; the Negro waters are significantly warmer – by 10 degrees F – than those of the Amazon, and the Amazon flows at a much faster speed (6km per hour versus 2km per hour).

The result is that, amazingly, the mighty rivers join but cannot immediately combine, and flow side by side with a definite demarcation between the two, for a considerable distance. It takes a full 6 kilometres for the speed and temperatures to merge, and for that full length the rivers flow stubbornly side by side, brown on black, warm on cold. We have never seen anything remotely like this anywhere on Earth. Amazing.

It’s our last day in Manaus, the last day of our Brazil adventure. The Mediterranean heat of yesterday has subsided and the humidity has raced back up the scale: dark clouds gather and the threat of one last giant thunderstorm looms over the bustling city as we prepare for the long journey ahead.

Brazil has given us some wonderful experiences all the way from the madness of Rio to the extremes of the Amazon via the peace of Paraty and the drama of Iguazu. It’s been so exciting and stimulating that a return to South America is already on the drawing board. We will be back.

For now, with those skies darkening and one last meal in Largo São Sebastian on the horizon, we are packing our bags for Louisiana.

A long journey of twenty-one hours and three flights lies ahead. Next stop New Orleans.