This is something that I wrote after our honeymoon trip to Rio De Janeiro.
Allegedly it was for the National Post, but don’t think it ever saw print. Anyhow, it’s the grip of winter here now in Toronto, so I wanted to think about something sunnier for a while. More on books soon.
Caught in the magic of Rio de Janeiro, I wondered, where do Brazilians go on vacation? My wife and I were there on honeymoon, meeting up old friends and their Brazilian pals for New Year’s Eve. One of them, a young doctor and Carioca shouted over the fireworks that if there’s one place in Brazil he could go to it would be Morro de Sao Paolo.
Before coming here for my honeymoon, my knowledge of Brazil was limited to soccer and Seu Jorge. It was Jorge’s songs from The Life Aquatic that really got me hooked. His gentle acoustic covers of David Bowie’s “Life on Mars” and “Queen Bitch” sung softly in Portuguese evoked a life of leisure that I wanted part of.
A week later and we were on a speedboat packed with Brazilians from Salvador, in Brazil’s north-east, en route to Morro de Sao Paolo (pronounced Mo-Ho) the northern tip of a tiny green archipelago Isla de Tinhara. After a two-hour ride our destination was in sight—a palm-tree gripped tropical paradise, and soon we coasted alongside cliffs, topped with the ruins of an 18th century fortress.
The entrance to paradise was a long sloped ramp and a towering stone gateway, another remnant of the island’s colonial legacy. Beyond the gate was a town square; a ramshackle collection of shops and restaurants with hand-painted signs. There are no roads on the island, just smooth paths made of soft white sand. The only transportation– young men with wheelbarrows who ferry luggage, beer, or children, as the situation requires.
We first set out for our lodgings, a pousada, the Brazilian equivalent of a bed and breakfast. The Pousada Volta Grande, a two-level white villa turned out to be at the top of a vertigo-inducing series of stone-steps. This actually turned out in our favor, as it put us above the noise of the street level assemblage of bars and shops, which by night bloomed into a full-blown party.
Our next goal was the beach, which we padded down to past bikini stores, juice bars, and travel agencies which arranged scuba diving cruises and flights around the island. Once at the sand we discovered that it was divided into many beaches each with a distinct character. We were determined to try them all.
The Primeira Prainha, or First Beach is a family-friendly curve of sand with a crashing surf just hard enough for younger kids to practice their body-surfing. High above the waves a zipwire was strung up, running from the lighthouse-topped mountain peak to the end of the beach. We were the only Gringos; our whiter-than-white skin causing many stares from the bronze and beautiful. But after coating up in SPF 50 we hit the waves.
Taking a moment for breath, we headed down to the Segunda Praia, the Second Beach, a wider expanse of sand dotted with palm trees, blanketed with bronze bodies and ringed by beachfront bars blasting a mix of samba and North-American classic rock. The ocean here was shallow, just a foot or two deep and warm like a bath, allowing you to float in perfect bliss. And bikinis were in full effect wore bikinis, Brazilians of all ages shamelessly flaunting their goods. It was like we had slipped into a forgotten Eden or an episode of Star Trek where the crew stumbles onto a planet of untamed sensuality.
Here the young and the affluent frolicked at ease. Couples with wooden racquets knocked a hard rubberball back and forth on the edge of the tide. Further down Capoeira dancers banged out rhythms, popping and body-locking their fists and feet, each swing as close as could come to a near miss.
After reapplying sunblock we moved to the Terceria Praia, the third beach, a secluded and narrower strip. This was not a place for play but to hide-out under your own rented umbrella lounger. After parking ourselves we ordered up Caipirinhas and Cuba Libras and basked. For more seclusion we could have pushed on to the fourth beach, but even with multiple applications we had just about reached our peak of sun.
We returned to the Volta Grande for a hammock siesta. When we woke, despite being late in the day there was still plenty of sunshine so we decided to continue our beach tour. Our hosts, a young couple named Juan and Fabian, told us about the other side of the island, and a place called Gamboa Beach a getaway enjoyed by locals for its excellent swimming.
Once we got there we found the West side of the island free of the tourist trappings we had encountered thus far. In fact, there wasn’t much of anything besides the occasional jutting pier. But the view was spectacular as the sunset cast everything in an amber glow. As we strolled along the sand we passed driftwood and tidal pools in which tiny crustaceans scuttled away at the approach of our shadows. Eventually we reached a series of gigantic cliffs, soft pink mud carved with the names of passersbys.
And that’s when we noticed we were running out of shore. The tide was coming in. We carried on, certain we would find a path up from the beach when we got past the cliffs. No luck. The only one we found took us into a local’s backyard who shooed us away in Portuguese. And there was still no sign of Gamboa beach. With every step the tide lapped closer to our heels. The shore now started disappearing entirely between the cliffs and the sea. And in not much longer we would be trapped, with nowhere to go at all. So we scooped off our sandals and splashed through the surf and sand. Finally we emerged to a widening beach, laughing with relief.
This proved to be premature. What at first we took to be a lively bar and beachfront campground, was actually empty, despite strings of Christmas lights. The next lot was the same. There was not a single person around, and the glow of sunset now crept into twilight. All we had to guide us was a gaudy cartoon tourist map of the island. At the first trace of a road in the tropical forest we cut inland, certain that it would lead back to town, or at least somewhere on our map.
The path was rough, overgrown with tufts of wild grass. A skinny horse stood in our way for a moment before continuing on its way. Houses we passed were half-built, and in increasingly shanty-town-like conditions, lit only by the glow of television sets. The few locals we saw merely glanced over with disinterested eyes. It was about the time that the sunlight was gone that we started to panic.
Luckily, at the next lot there was a family outside. They spoke no English, and we no Portuguese, but after minutes of frantic gesturing and mangled por favors, the man laughed, and beckoned for us to follow. He led us back to the beach and beyond for a good twenty minutes, until we reached a tiny town. Gamboa, naturally. From there, a small port with a waiting water taxi. Saved! We were flush with gratitude, which he humbly waved away. Strangest of all, our hero looked exactly like Eddie Murphy.
The water taxi dropped us at the gate to Morro de Sao Paolo. Thirsty and starved we stumbled into town, into the first restaurant we found and ordered up huge jugs of mango juice. No one here knew the comic catastrophe that had befallen us. In the back of the restaurant, a young man with long dark dreads strummed sweet tropicalia-licks while singing softly in Portuguese. It was some time before I recognized the melody—Pink Floyd, the song Wish You Were Here.
weekend. Quick bring-up to speed, the League is Alan Moore’s literary mash-up series, in which characters from Victorian literature like the Invisible Man, Mina Murray from Dracula, Captain Nemo and Allan Quartermain are recruited by the government to defend the British Empire. It’s fantastic. The new book, The Black Dossier, is both an update and a history, less a story then a compendium. The story, such as it is, follows a curiously youthful Mina and Allan now in the late 1950s, in the shadow of a recently toppled Big-Brother government, as they try to get away with the stolen Dossier of the title, a compilation of the adventures of various incarnations of the League throughout the ages of English lit. Along the way they are pursued by the new incarnation of British heroes, a trio of spies, most notably Jimmy Bond, who gets a merciless treatment by Moore. “God is this is what it comes to? The British adventure hero? Pathetic.” Yeah it’s pretty funny, and it leads up to a commentary on the lack of popular British heroes in the modern age– or at least how after the war they all turned into spies of one sort or another.
mega-mega Marvel-crossover World War Hulk. Definitely this was a trip for me. Mike Leone gave me a huge green double-bag stretched to the breaking point with about, what 50 individual comics at least. It was great to completely dive into it though, having been away from the series for so long. Basic premise, Hulk’s superhero buddies get tired of him smashing everything in sight, so they trick him into a rocketship and shoot him into space, on course for an uninhabited world. Yeah, you know that goes wrong. Instead, Hulk gets worm-holed onto this bad-ass alien-Roman-esque planet where he must fight for his freedom and generally gladiate his way to freedom. Why the fuck not?