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Published: November 30th 2010
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Scalloped, white-sand beaches with warm, clear water, schooners sailing to nearby islands, huge granite outcroppings and domes covered by verdant tropical jungle--what could be better? Maybe a charming, well-preserved colonial town with a pedestrian-only center, a palm-lined river walk, and nearby waterfalls. That’s Paraty!
I’d not planned to visit this small town of 32,000 because after all, I’m from a beach town, Santa Barbara. An overnight bus from Puerto Iguazu, Argentina, had taken me to Curitiba, Brazil, for a scenic train ride. However, when the train was canceled, I sought a small-town refuge to prepare myself for visiting the metropolis of Rio. Remembering the fab Paraty stories from other backpackers, I decided to wander there.
I was incredibly lucky with tight bus connections and managed to get from Iguazu to Curitiba to San Paulo to Paraty after a marathon of 24 hours and three buses--whew. Actually, with my ipod, my current addiction to Bach's Cello Suites interpreted by Yo Yo Ma (his second recording of them), and beautiful scenery, I was suspended in a sound and light show of pleasure with no responsibilities--fabulous. I arrived at night, found my hostel and was rewarded with a room by the river
and great roommates. The next morning, there was tropical fruit and cake for breakfast--I'd come home and would stay for awhile!
Paraty's picturesque, white-washed, 18th-century mansions and houses with intricate stucco work and brightly painted doors and window frames spoke of a once-prosperous town. The lack of modern buildings in the center pointed to a town that had lost its wealth and was long forgotten. I’d seen this before in medieval European towns such as Brugges and ones along the Camino de Santiago de Compostela in Spain. These are my favorite towns--once rich, then forgotten, then rediscovered by tourists and restored. It’s like walking back in time. It also helps me remember that everything goes in cycles, and what may seem like misfortune can later yield an unexpected gift.
Paraty had been wealthy in the 18th century as the terminus of gold arriving from the state of Minas Gerais (General Mines) and the port for their shipment to the royal coffers of Portugal. Then, in the 19th century, after the mines had dried up, it shipped out the coffee grown on Brazil’s quickly-disappearing Atlantic rain forest. When a railroad diverted the shipment of goods, Paraty slipped into oblivion.
It couldn’t even be reached by car until 1950, and it wasn’t until 1970, that it was restored and tourists began to arrive.
Paraty’s center is blessedly peaceful and free of cars. Horses and buggies ferry tourists around, and carts deliver goods; bicycles are popular. The streets are paved with huge, uneven, rounded boulders that reminded me of those at Pompeii, but at least the latter had the excuse of being over two thousand years old. Walking was tricky and a little painful; nonetheless, I saw Brazilian women wobble down the streets in their uniforms of crotch-hugging pants and either 4-inch spike heels or Havilera flip flops.
Rubber Havilera flip flops were supposedly developed as an affordable shoe for the poor. Certainly better than bare feet, they still offered very little skeletal support on these “cobblestones” or on the cement steps in the favelas that I’d later see in Rio.
Many of the mansions had been turned into tempting boutiques, fine restaurants and upscale pensions. I was there for an International Photography Festival and got to enjoy thought-provoking and gorgeous exhibits around town. That weekend, the cafes and restaurants gaily spilled into the streets, music filled the
bars and plaza, and buskers and mimes entertained the crowds. The streets were also filled with carts, some with delicious sweets and others with fruit and alcohol concoctions.
One night, I went out with young travelers from my hostel and had a couple of caipurinhas made from Paraty’s famous
cachaca (a distilled sugar cane brandy), sugar, crushed lime and ice. However, they were stronger than they seemed, and after being sick all night, I turned into a teetotaler for awhile.
When the festival ended, Paraty slipped back into a dreamy, little-populated off-season paradise. Friendly dogs roamed the streets and perched on thresholds elevated from the frequent street floodings. Little knots of town folk gathered for lunch, but mostly, the place was wonderfully quiet--a huge contrast to the zoo it will become in the summer. Once again, I was thankful to be an off-season traveler.
I spent a heavenly day on a schooner with a group of Brazilian tourists, a couple of whom, thankfully spoke Spanish. The boat took us out to deserted beaches for swims and out to our own private islands. There are few things I like more than sailing, feeling the wind and the waves
and freedom.
Another great day was a short bus ride to Penha where a charming white pilgrimage church was perched on a great granite boulder. Nearby a short hike through the Atlantic rain forest, led to a couple of waterfalls, swimming holes and a very fun, narrow, swinging bridge over the river. I walked back to town along the river, passing continuous waterfalls, a banana grove, giant tree ferns, and wild poinsettias. Delicious!
Another day, an hour bus ride through lush countryside and forest took me to Trindade, an even smaller town with incredible turquoise beaches. Once a fishing village and pirate hideout, it's now devoted to the tourist industry with huts selling fish and beer along the nearby beaches, and hikes to more deserted beaches.
On the way there, our smarty-pants bus driver cockily passed a pineapple-laden truck on narrow blind, uphill curve, then five minutes later had to pull over with some kind of mechanical problem. The men and boys all got out to stare at the engine, while we women just shrugged our shoulders and chatted. It was so great that no one got upset or grumbled, but just accepted it. The problem may
Paraty from the Town Fort
Looks like Santa Barbara from here have been with the brakes because when we resumed after about 20 minutes, we raced down the hill careening around bends so fast that we were all flying all over the bus. It was fun, very exciting and a little scary. But as I always say, all’s well that ends well.
I'd hoped to go nextto Ihla Grande, a hiking and swimming mecca, but rains dashed my plans. Off I was to the Marvelous City, Rio de Janeiro, where I could at least duck into museums if the rains continued. Always many possibilities.
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