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Published: April 1st 2007
Florianopolis (2); Atlantic 1 Matt 0.
The lovely river in Barra that connects the ocean with the Lagoon. Friday 23rd March to Monday 2nd April 2007
On Saturday morning we packed up our belongings, said goodbye to Maria and the two Chris´s and headed out on foot for the ten minute hike across town to our new home. We´d met, or rather she´d met us by asking for use of our bat and ball set, a bubbly Swiss girl called Marion, a 24 year old multi lingiust who had told us she was living in an apartment aside the lovely river that connects the ocean with the lagoon and that a vacancy had arisen in the flat above hers. At just 200 Reals (50 quid) for the week as opposed to the 525 we were paying at the Poussada it was too good an offer to turn down.
The river is a delight, banked on one side by pastel coloured houses climbing steeply up the green hillside and lined on the other by brightly painted fishing boats in various stages of construction, repair and rest. This was our side, just a narrow dirt track separating us from the waters edge where as darkness fell the the seaworthy boats would return with their hauls which were duly
Florianopolis (2); Atlantic 1 Matt 0.
With Big Chris and little Chris at The Poussada. transported in next to no time to the waiting villagers dinner tables.
The apartment was not, unfortunately in quite the same league as that spectacle. It consisted of an ill equipped kitchen which would at least give Jonas a chance to excercise his passion for cooking and which was populated by an army of ants that would devour anything left unattended for more than a couple of minutes, a bathroom and a narrow rectangular room that contained a small fan, a double bed, a rickety old wardrobe and a short and thin single bed with what felt like an unstuffed mattress, a kiddies sheet and a pillow that smellt as though it had been sleeping rough for years. We´d agreed to hold a mini olympics for the right to claim the double and having gone one down in a narrow defeat at beach tennis any chances of a comeback were scuppered when Marion leant our ball to an Argentinian beach bum. The single bed was mine.
For the second week running Sunday brought a welcome day of grey skies and rain and on Monday morning we were picked up by Stella who, being a relative newcomer to the
Florianopolis (2); Atlantic 1 Matt 0.
How could we change this for a dingy little flat ? island, had kindly offered her day off to help us explore the island. We headed for the secluded beach of Lagoinha Do Leste, a thirty minute drive to the south east tip of the island and after an awkward fifty minute hike through thick forest up and over the large hill that seperated the beach from civillisation we finally emerged onto the white sands. Other than recognising the true beauty of some of the world´s best beaches I cannot really be described as a beachy person, to me a beach is a beach but one look at this one made the sweat pumping out of me feel worthwhile. The thirty metre wide band of white stretched for about half a mile with large white waves breaking on the shore and when we arrived there were just two other people in the very distance. It was deserted.
Mid way through the afternoon I wandered into the waves for a routine cool down. The strange thing about the beach here was the presence of shelf like drops in level caused by the currents and I was about twenty metres from the shore when, having being lifted by an incoming wave, I
Florianopolis (2); Atlantic 1 Matt 0.
Stella, Gabriela and maid Jessica enjoy their ´nuts on a cloudy Sunday afternoon. found myself unable to ground my toes. My initial attempt to breast stroke the next wave to feel terra firma under my feet again proved futile as the force of the shore bound wave was more than negated by the outgoing swell.
The previous evening we had met Face, a mellow 38 year old 'free spirit´ who travels the world with his surf board, who wears his blonde dreadlocks down to his backside and who had changed his name by deed poll for whatever reason simply to Face Esq. He had moved into the apartment next to ours and during the course of our conversation had told us how when faced with sheer adversity at the hands of the ocean, as he had been on many occasions, that the most important thing to increase the odds of survival was simply not to panic.
I remembered his words for about a minute but simply could not see how treading water and ´acting cool´ was going to get me out of this rapidly increasing predicament. In the first seconds of losing my ground a guy with long hair and a bronzed lifegaurd torso had stood to his waist in water
Florianopolis (2); Atlantic 1 Matt 0.
Resting on Lagoinha after my wrestle with the sea, a mixture of relief and exhaustion. just ten metres to my side and for a brief second I considered calling for help but now he had drifted out of earshot and I was alone. And starting to get worried.
After a couple of minutes I noticed Jonas, who had observed from the beach that I was not just enjoying a little paddle, gesticulating with his outstretched arms to me to swim sideways but my by now confused state of mind meant that I could not for the life of me understand why. Illogically I told myself that as straight ahead was the shortest route to safety that that was the way to go. Stella had by now joined Jonas on the shoreline in an obvious state of worry which only exaggerated my growing fears, if they were looking worried maybe I really was in the shite. It was totally surreal, just the three of us on this deserted paradise and the two of them completely helpless to my predicament.
I was tiring quickly as each breaking wave forced me to take a little more water on board and suddenly all confusion, worry and other other thoughts left me as it dawned on me that
if I didn´t do something soon I was going to die. I looked over my shoulder and saw an approaching wave so turned and started to swim. It felt as though I was riding it just like the expert surfers I´d watched at Barra for days on end and that it must surely deliver me to safety but when the last of it had washed over me I lowered my legs and felt nothing. The next wave came and out of sheer desperation I adopted exactly the same tactic, arms whirring and splashing and succeeding in doing nothing than making me look just like a drowning man. When it passed I extended my legs with a silent prayer and closed my eyes when I felt sand between my toes. I stood, bizarelly found myself just up to my belly button in swell and staggered my way to shore to my concerned yet relieved friends. The whole episode had lasted no more than five minutes yet I was an exhausted and very, very lucky boy.
The climb back was hard not due to my WWF bout with the ocean but to the fact that the strap on my flip flop
had worn loose and that the wet sand collected from various stream crossings made friction between the shoe and the sole of my foot virtually non existant. The simple solution would have been to remove the sandals and walk barefoot but the comfortable larger stones en route were strategically placed between razor sharp smaller ones and I made the decision that the chances of receiving a broken spleen wearing them was much less than the chances of foot amputation without.
After forty five minutes I could hear radios from the houses as we entered the final stretch when I suddenly remembered the opening moments of our morning walk. Mosquitoes. Stella was well ahead of me due to my foot problems and all I could hear were constant yelps, curses and slapping sounds. They were literally hundreds of them circling and striking at will but I had to put them out of my mind and concentrate all my energy on simply staying upright and when we finally emerged from the forest Stella, still slapping herself engaged in Portugese conversation with a guy whose home fronted the woods. ¨What ? You didn´t wear insect repellent ?¨ was his incredulous translated reply.
By this time we were starving so we drove the half mile or so to the beach at Pantano Do Sol. As beaches go it was unspectacular to say the least. A long, wide arch of dirty yellow sand that was compacted to such an extent that it was populated not just by random walkers and stray dogs but by the odd redundant fishing boat and motor car. Lining the back of the sands were five or six wooden restaurant buildings, two of which were closed for the season and none of which looked particularily welcoming. We were just about to get back in the car and look elsewhere when we thought sod it and entered the nearest one to where we were parked. Inside it was a combination of one long wide room with several attached cave like nooks and crannies and every wall, ceiling and window frame was covered in tiny slips of paper. We discovered there were over 70,000 of them left over the years from visitors from all over the globe and that we had stumbled completely by accident across Arantes Bar, Floripa´s most renowned fish restaurant. It looked nothing like the sort of place
that you´d expect to win the number of culinary awards that were proudly hanging behind the bar, just bare wooden tables and benches but we ordered the combo on the recommendation of the friendly waitress and emerged four hours later having left our own notes full to capacity with beautiful fresh seafoods.
We weren´t only eating out well. The kitchen had given the Swedish Chef, who relished the abundance of fresh fish in such close proximity, and the Face, who spends his UK summers touring the festival circuit with his vegetarian Indian foodstall, the opportunity to practice their favourite past time and between them they produced some wonderful grub. All I had to do was sit and wait and then wash up.
By the end of my second week on the island everyday life was roughly following the same basic routine; beach, dinner and relaxation but a rude awakening, for Jonas in particular, came on Saturday night. We spent a boiling hot afternoon on Mole Beach or Praia Mollay as the locals know it which I think sounds so much nicer. Mole is Floripa´s equivalent of San Tropez where all the beautiful people supposedly congregate and they did
in numbers although rest assured we were tucked away out of the spotlight at the back where the sand met the bushes. After dinner we visited a bar in Lagoa then the Face and Jonas went on to a nightclub whilst I retired to my pit. When I woke on Sunday morning I shouted across to Jonas to ask how it had gone. Initially there was no answer then he rose from his slumber sporting a lip that resembled a duck billed platypuss. Although he is one of the most agreeable and mild mannered men imaginable one of the local ´Pit Bulls´, Stella´s words not mine for the islands many testosterone filled young men, had seen him as a threat and informally introduced him to his forehead. Poor Jonas was mortified but I still couldn´t resist taking every opportunity available to make him laugh and watch as he struggled to hold his lip from vibrating.
Jonas had booked his flight to Rio, accompanied by Marion for Tuesday morning so on Monday we went out for our final supper. I was still unsure of my immediate future, the good thing about sharing with someone else is that costs are inevitably
halved but alone I reckoned that I had about enough money left for a week maximum on the island before I would have to consider heading back to Rio. Over dinner Stella kindly invited me to stay at her lovely home as her guest and I accepted immediately. We had become very close over the previous two and a half weeks and to spend what remained of my journey in her company would be my pleasure.
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Donna
non-member comment
Hey fella, glad you made it out of that sea in one piece. See you at a gig very soon xxx