The Storm Before the Calm

30.11.08 - 04.12.08 Salvador
We leave our friends and the fickle weather in Rio, chasing the sun north to Salvador; The samba beating heart of Brazil´s Bahia region - where a history of slave trade has left obvious African influences...and an undeniable edge.

Our arrival coincides with a three-day music festival. Each night, an escalating party crowds the cobbled streets, with bar stalls and sound systems scattered across the Pelhourinho district.

We had hoped that a good tan and worn pair of Havianas would allow us to slip beneath the gringo radar. In truth, we stand out like two Rabbis at Ramadam...and the street vultures start circling.

This is for the hustlers
The streets are plagued with a variety of hustlers, all asking for donations to an unworthy cause. They range from children juggling coconuts to a spray-painted dread who simply stares you out until he´s paid to leave (and take the Heebie-Jeebies with him).

At first, I am constantly harrassed by dudes bumming fags (not in the Brighton sense) or claiming to be an old amigo in need of a drink. Flo finds it easy to ignore them...but I have friends in low places.

I become known as ´Billy Joel´- presumably because of the sunglasses. Or, perhaps, because I´m walking with an Uptown Girl:)

The turning point will eventually come when someone deceptively starts inking me with a henna tattoo. Which he consequently has to finish. A fucking celtic band no less! I try and wash it out immediately. It´s not soon enough to save three days of smudged embarassment:(

With that harsh lesson learned I have adopted a far more resistant approach. This includes repeatedly saying the same word (eg. No mate, Dave or Wibble) until they lose interest, which can take longer than you might imagine. I have also tried reverse psychology by attempting to negotiate an exchange deal for their shoes. And, simply pretended to recognise the older hustlers as, 'Dad!?´

A race of mistaken identity
In Argentina, they presumed I was Brazilian. Here, they assume we are Argentinian - leaving us in the unenviable position of always being confused for one´s arch enemy!

Among more eclectic origins that I have been mistaken for are Iraqi (Durkha, Durkha!) and Native American Indian (How!?).

I have also abandoned all hope of ever learning Portuguese, especially since the Brazilians can be such an unforgiving audience. Entire rooms still erupt into laughter at the slightest nuance of my mispronounciation. They will then repeat precisely the same word, except using a heavy nasal inflection, and look at me as if there is a village missing an idiot somewhere in England. Tough crowd!

Stop...get hammered time!
Like in Lapa, the frenzied street party is another intimidating experience...which insists upon alcohol. After all, if ´I am the Leathered King, I can do anything!´.

We get by with a little help from our friends and drink capirinhas across town before returning to the sanctuary of our hotel where a balcony overlooks hundreds of revellers dancing to a sound system set on a towering staircase. It feels like being onstage.

On our final night there is an all-day, and all-of-the-night, celebration where everyone drinks religiously to celebrate some saint or another. It´s the wrong evening to try and atempt a quiet meal!

Since Salvador doesn´t do easy Sunday mornings we travel south in search of tranquil beaches to put our bums in over the festive season.

05-10.12.08 A walk on the mildside
It takes six hours to reach Barra Grande - but the relaxed, isolated village is world´s apart from the relentless cities that we have arrived from. And...relax.

We spend Days Perfect enough to inspire Lou Reed songs...drink capirinha in the sun...and then go home. Take long distance walks to another of Brazil´s most renowned beaches, Taipo de Fora, where a coral reef protects a bay of pristine, palm fringed beaches. If this is the life, then we are living it.

Take the sun kissed weather with us to Porto Seguro where we stay in what, with hindsight, is a gay hotel. Either I´m oblivious to the scantly clad young men queing for the sauna or I´m so far deep in the closet I´m finding next year´s Christmas presents...in Narnia:)

By night, we are drawn to an area named Alcoholics Alley where stalls sell cocktails even sweeter than a capirinha. A ´capeta´is similar to a white russian except made with condensed milk...desert just came in a glass.

Porto Seguro is apparently where the Bazilians come to party, which conjures illusions of dusky-skinned bodies moving seductively to forbidden dances. In reality, it´s full of overweight men and overdressed women...this is not the beach we are looking for.

The saga continues...

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