27 May 2007

Salvador: 20-21 May

So, it finally happened to me.

I arrived in Salvador at 6.30am. Having dumped my bags in the hostel, and being an arty-fart, I thought it would be nice to go for a wander around the Pelourinho to get some shots of the beautiful buildings whilst the light was golden and the skies crisp. I merrily wandered for about an hour, thinking how lucky I was to have all the cobbled streets, colourful colonial buildings, and grand Spanish plazas to myself.

As I navigated my way back towards the hostel, I found myself in a side street behind the main square. Suddenly, two young guys appeared behind me. One grabbed me and threw is arm around my neck, pulling me into a headlock. The other circled from the front and snatched at my bag. The grip around my neck tightened and I was pushed to the ground. Fingers slid under my watch strap and quickly prised it off my wrist. I let go of my bag and struggled to free myself. And then they were gone. By the time I'd rescued my glasses from the edge of the drain, I only caught their red t-shirts disappearing up the alleyway.


They didn't get much: my old manual camera (plus all the nice photos I'd just taken!), my watch (not worth more than £15 but full of sentimental value), my mobile (old and instantly cancelled) a few pens, a credit card, and my bag. But I was a bit rattled. I spent the rest of the day looking over my shoulder. Back in the hostel I heard many worse stories - two Spaniards mugged at gun point in Rio, an America who had a knife thrust into his face as two guys emptied his pockets - and felt somewhat relieved that I'd gotten away lightly.

Despite all of that, Salvador is a beautiful place. The colonial architecture exudes an attractive faded glory. The bright colours of the Portuguese facades complement the austere Jesuit churches. For many years it was Brazil's main gateway for the slave trade with Africa. And whilst it has cast off that particular colonial yoke, it has retained the strong Afro-Latin culture - there are bands on every corner and interesting tribal arts. Empty pocketed I ambled around, soaking up the history, listened to the music, and trying not to be paranoid that the person who crossed the street was going to rob me!

Arraial d'Ajuda and Itacare: 17-19 May

Lazy days. Not much to think about, not much to do.

My days went like this: wake up (what time is it? does it matter?), eat breakfast (fruit, juice, bread, strong coffee), laze in hammock, head to beach, enjoy white sands, settle under palm tree, watch the scene (bikinis and surf shorts), swim (heavy surf, good fun), relax, read (My Name is Red by Orhan Palmuk), eat lunch (crab, chips, cold beer), relax, people watch (Brazilians are white, brown, black, yellow, everything mixed together), swim, watch sunset (time for capirinhia?), wander back to pousada, shower and change (mmm, nice hot water), chat to some randoms, drink a few beers, eat (beans, rice, salad, local grilled fish), chat some more, find hammock (doze), brush teeth, bed (sleep).

Tomorrow: repeat.

Beach life is wonderfully simply. The repetition is not boring but a comforting patter which can be followed and enjoyed for its predictability. My only challenge was learning how to surf. Actually, my main challenge was trying not to drown. They say that only surfers know the feeling....I wish I could say that from the 10 seconds on my feet before being tossed into the frothing wave I too knew what they meant, but I don't. That will have to wait for a proper surf holiday.

On the road to Porto Seguro: 16 May

For the last 14 hours I'd been bumping my way north. I travelled over 1000km on a godforsaken "road" from Rio to Porto Seguro. I'd heard someone say that this was a highway, but to me this dishevelled route was a pathetic excuse for a mule track. We were dodging sand filled pot holes that looked more like meteorite craters. Periodically, we were flying over the curb to avoid head on collisions. And my body aching from the perpetual shaking and juddering as we bounced along.

The contrast to the super-smart-smooth-highways-to-nowhere found across China was striking. I suppose Brazil's budget is constrained by a range of social programmes meaning there is little room for massive capital investments. Indeed, Lula was elected by the poor precisely because he pledged to reinforce social spending. But it is easy to see how the sugar cane, mangoes, pine trees, and other crops me would face higher costs and delays in getting to market. Was poor infrastructure the break on growth in Brazil?

17 May 2007

Rio de Janiero: 12-15 May

I was warned that Rio was the "marvelous city" and I was not disappointed. I am on Paixa de Ipanema. To my left I can hear a gentle thwack and thud as a group of guys played futvol - a seemingly impossible game where a football is juggled over a volleyball net. A few joggers drift into view and then disappear off-stage. But it's the sensational view to my right that has captured me, and I can't look away.


Postage stamp bikini tops and dental-floss bottoms? I hear you ask...not on this occasion. The sun has drifted off somewhere behind the clouds, but its glow turns them a fluffy pink and makes the spray coming off the heavy surf sparkle. The "twins" - two huge conical towers sprouting improbably out of the ground - are now looming black. Their silhouettes lock me into the scene, making it feel close, claustrophobic almost, dramatic. The beach stretches away from me in a graceful convex arch until it touches the twin's toes. And this is what frames the beach front cityscape.


I'd like to say that I was seduced by Rio's colonial architecture, its faded glory, or its sultry samba clubs (though that almost happened!), but I can't. For me, it is the city's extraordinary geography which unfolded and surprised me everywhere I went - up on Cocovado under Christ's huge outspread wings I was ambushed by a virtual map of the city, down in Centro I kept on glimpsing the Sugar Loaf, and strolling along Copacobana I saw the how the waves had carved it into a gentle arc. Someone said to me that if you were going to choose to create a city anywhere in the world with extraordinary geography, then Rio would be it. I couldn't agree more.


People are from Earth, Matthew is obviously from Mars
The hostel was comfortable enough, despite the 4 bunk beds crammed into a tiny room (it's only R$40 (£10) a night, cheap for downtown Ipanema). Tucked away in a backpacker's alley I thought the potential to meet other interesting travellers was pretty good. I was wrong.

There was Matt, the overly friendly American from Arizona. He sported a shaved head, a goatee, a leather wristband-watch combo, and a tattooed musical score of an Alice and Chains tune twisting around his bicep. Our conversation went like this:

Him: "Matt! What's happening man?"
Me: "I'm fine thanks. What have you been doing today?"
Him: "Not much dude. Just kinda hanging out, watching the surfers. Cool waves here man."
Me: "What do you think of Rio?"
Him: "Cool man."
He then swivels back to watch the TV. End of conversation.

Jeff is an early 30s Swedish physicist who now earns his living making risk models for London banks. He was on three months gardening leave having just been been poached by a rival firm. He was smart and interested in my story, but I think he found me a little bit odd: was it that he didn't really believe I'd worked for the UK Government? Or did he think DFID was just my cover story because I'm really a spy? Was I spying on him? Or maybe he thought I was just a little bit sinister because I knew a few Swedes and had an opinion about Swedish politics? I was making his eyes dart around the place when I spoke. What was that a sign of? My paranoia snowballed: was he asking me questions to trip you up? How did he managed to mingle an air of diffidence with curiosity? Maybe he was a Swedish spy? The conversation fizzled out.

Then there was the dopey girl from Guernsey who in our first conversation claimed that she didn't believe the big-bang theory. Why I asked? Well....she actually didn't know why. She just thought it "sounded odd". I thought it probably would sound odd if you were hanging around at the time of the big bang. We didn't hit it off.

Where was the motley crew of latter day hippies, eccentric travellers in Panama hats, or Japanese manga writers seeking inspiration from Rio's scenes? Surely I'd fit in with that bunch! I'd obviously strayed deep into the mainstream gringo trail. But then, was I really any different?

15 May 2007

Sao Paulo: 9-11 May

A mega-cosm of rich and poor
Sao Paulo is a mega-city. Like Mumbai or Shanghai it's an industrial and financial centre and the continent's main engines of economic growth. It produces nearly 17% of Brazil's GDP, is home to some 350+ multinational companies, and is the gateway for roughly half of Brazil's imports and exports. And the city's financial muscle is on display; chic boutiques and expensive restaurants line Jardins' boulevards, one of the glitziest neighbourhoods. The streets are devoid of tourists and full of suits. Its dynamism bowls you over; it might not be beautiful, but it's certainly happening.

But also like other mega-cities in the developing world, it is a magnet for poor people who migrate here looking for work. According to the US State Department, Sao Paulo has nearly 18 million people, of which roughly 10% live in sprawling "favelas". These urban slums have sprung up all over the city, but predominately along the main access roads. Arriving by bus I passed miles of cardboard and tin huts, open sewers dribbling sludge down hillsides, and electric wires connected illegally and precariously to the mains.

In every city there is an apparent gap between the rich and poor - it's hardly ununsual these days. But nowhere I've been to is the divide as stark as in Sao Paulo. Traffic and crime are so bad that the rich no longer drive; the helicopter is now their taxi of choice. Indeed, Sao Paulo has the world's second largest fleet of private helicopters after New York and they buzz incessantly overhead. In areas like Jardins residents live in gated communities with 24 hour security. Just down the road in the favelas mothers cook on open fires and when it rains the streets turn to mud.

In Sao Paulo, rich Brazilians are fabulously wealthy, the middle class remains small, and the urban poor are not much better off than their brethren in India.

Green spaces, modernist architecture
Despite the gaping divide between Paulistas, I found the city surprisingly attractive. Of course, it helped that I was staying with Ory in total luxury in the heart of Jardins. And it is probably no coincidence that my favourable impression was formed as I strolled along leafy streets after my first hot shower in 10 days. Objectively, however, who can fail to appreciate the sloping grid of streets full of charming cafes and interesting shops set amidst lush green foliage of palms, strangler figs, and evergreens? How can you not be excited to slurp fresh mango juice from a street vendor?

But even if you left Jardins for the gritty confines of Centro you'd be impressed to stumble upon thoroughly attractive modernist blocks designed by the likes of Oscar Niemeyer. The Edificio Italia is a soaring tower that cleverly uses its concrete struts to create a mesmerising pattern. Sao Paulo is a jumble of Le Corbusier inspired edifices and 18th-century colonial stuccoes. It it's no mish-mash, it's manages to combine the old and the new in an attractive way that Buenos Aires simply fails to.

Bento and the Pentecostalists
My stay in Sao Paulo happened to coincide with Benedict XVI's first trip to South America as pontiff of the Catholic Church. The nation was gripped with "Bento-fever". TV channels showed 24hr blanket coverage of his trip beaming banal details of the pontiff's tour into our sitting rooms alongside the impressive stage-managed mega events (like the Sunday mass for 1m people in Sao Paulo suburb).

The Pope's trip is hugely important for the Catholic Church. Brazil is the biggest catholic nation in the world with an estimated 138m observant Roman Catholics. But across Brazil and Latin America, the Catholic church is quietly hemorrhaging believers to the evangelical churches, especially to the Pentecostal movement (see The Economist's interesting piece on the Pentecostals in Latin America). The Catholic Church is fighting back by emphasising charismatic renewal and allowing priests to borrowing liberally from the more enterprising evangelical churches. According to Cardinal Cláudio Hummes, former Archbishop of Sao Paulo, the Pope came to Brazil because "Latin America cannot be lost".

Arriving in the old historic quarter of the city, I found a tangle of barriers, chaotic streets, giant traffic jams, and hundreds of soldiers. I navigated the temporary blocades winding my way through back streets in search of the old churches, colonial buildings and other snippets of the city's history.

At the Saint Benedict monastery I ran into an thick, expectant crowd. I waded my way forwards towards the speakers and heavies congregating around the front portico. Then I spotted an odd-looking glass box perched precariously on the 18th century balcony. A man was fiddling with wires, hooking up the microphone to the speakers: "um, dois, test" went the technician, "um, dois, bento!" replied the crowd amidst laughter.

A light went on in the box and he appeared: the Pope behind a sheet of bullet proof glass, arms spread wide practically touching each side of the box, palms facing towards the sky. The crowd let out an almighty cheer -- "BENTO!!" The pontiff smiled happily and greeted the crowd in crisp Italian. With a magisterial wave of his arms, he imparted his blessing, said thanks for coming, did what seemed like a half bow, and, with a neat twist, he disappeared. The box went dark.

The crowd hovered. Was he coming back? Was it him or an apparition? Why did he only stay for 15 seconds? Someone in the crowd booed. But most people just grumbled, feeling somewhat cheated by the brief encounter. And then we left.

I couldn't help but feel that Bento didn't get off to a good start. The Vatican's attempts at pop-popery fell well short of the infectious preaching of most Pentecostalists. How was Bento going to connect with Latin America - Catholicism's last bastion and great hope - if he couldn't mutter more than a few words of hello?

10 May 2007

Pantanal: 4-8 May

An overnight bus ride from Foz de Iguazu put me in Campo Grande, slap bang in the middle of Matto Grosso do Sul province. As we pulled into the station, I saw yet another grey concrete town, drab and charmless like hundreds of others in emerging countries like China, Turkey, or Indonesia.

As I shouldered my pack a throng of tour guides and travel agents surrounded me, each hawking an "exclusive and authentic" Pantanal experience. Tired and crotchety, I made a beeline for the loo to collect myself and consult the trusty Lonely Planet. I scanned the page and decided to seek out Gil's Pantanal Discovery. It sounded like the real deal: deep in the bush, basic but close to nature, and, most importantly, he'd been operating for 15 years and had glowing reviews. But I didn't have to look far; Gil accosted me outside the gents and soon I was on a bus to Agua do Piranhia.

The Pantanal is an enormous seasonal wetland roughly the size of Holland and Belgium. In the rainy season (October - March) the Rio Paraguay gradually swells until it finally breaks its banks and inundates the Pantanal. The vast flood waters attract thousands of birds and waterfowl. It also creates small sandy islands of forest and bush where animals hide from the water and forage for food. And thus the Pantanal has become an ecotourism hot spot.

Fazenda Natureza became my home for the next few days. I quickly adapted to the down-tempo pace of life on the farm. We rose early for day break at 5.30am and set off exploring the forests and swamps with Marcel, our bird-fanatic-cum-guide. He led us through the undergrowth past palms and thickets, through knee deep waters and giant reeds, in search of the best animals. Later, around 8.30, we'd arrive back in the camp for a breakfast of fresh papaya and pineapple, strong black coffee, and slightly stale bread rolls. Afternoons drifted by in hammocks with a good book or chatting as we escaped the fierce equatorial sun. And just before the sun went down we'd saddle up for a wander through the swamp to watch the birds swoop and cry as the dying sun turned the water a crimson orange.

The wildlife was astounding. Our treks on foot took us to a very small area of the vast wetland, but still we saw a huge variety of birds and animals. Of course, some of this came down to having an expert eye - Marcel spotted a bare-faced ibis where I saw bark - but often time you just stumbled upon them. There were giant caiman (a relative of the alligator) lazing down by the water's edge, wild boars sniffing the ground for grubs, howler monkeys barking in the tree tops, and hyacinth macaws squawking from the tree tops. I found the size and grace of the Jabiru storks mesmerising. I watched the red crested woodpecker for hours as he tapped the tree trunks to call his mates closer. I gawped at the toucans, perched high in the trees, their orange and red beaks like flashes of fire. I found it completely entrancing to see nature so close, to stumbled upon the animals in their own environment, to relate to it on its own terms.

It turned out that Natureza was the real McCoy - it was a hour by dusty truck from the main road, and then another hour through the swamp by tractor. Natureza was certainly rustic - a dribbling pipe from the ceiling was our shower, electricity came just a few hours a day from a spluttering generator, the food was hearty but basic, and the mosquitoes amongst the most vicious I've ever experienced. But the place had its own, almost romantic, charm.

I enjoyed watching the grandfather-son-grandson team deploy their entrepreneurial spirit to keep the place running. One morning after breakfast, I found Hugo (pronounced Ugo) elbow-deep in grease by the generator. "The seal is broken," he explained, "so it's all full of water it stopped working. But I can fix it," he grinned. He then proceeded to pull the thing apart, extract the worn gasket and replace it, give it a general polish, dump loads more grease on it, and then swiftly put it back together. To my surprise after a few cranks of the starter wheel and amidst a could of smoke, the old machine spluttered to life. Marcel and I quickly nicknamed Hugo "MacGyver" because he was forever finding ingenious ways of keeping the sky blue 1976 Toyota jeep running, or the 1950s tractor purring.

After three days, I had adjusted to the pace of life and my immediate surroundings. I was happy to be without mobile phone and internet access. Life was simple. I just got up and saw what the day brought. The mosquito bites, the pervasive dust and dirt, the boring food - it all seemed unimportant. I wasn't going to accomplish much, and that was okay. In the Pantanal I experienced extraordinary wildlife and nature. But I also found an experience which contrasted starkly with my "normal" life, forcing me to appreciate the dizzying speed at which I choose to live every day.

09 May 2007

Iguazu Falls: 2-3 May

I shuffled towards the edge, one small tentative step forwards at a time. The thunder of water filled my ears, drowning out all other sounds. Jets of spray shot up from below drenching my sholder and then my leg. I gripped the railing and peered over the side at the mighty torrent of treacle-brown water. This was it - the Devil's Throat (Garganta del Diablo), the biggest and most powerful of cascades in the Iguazu falls.

I'd arrived overnight on an 18-hour bus ride from Buenos Aires. As I trundled northwards, I left behind the guachos and their cattle grazing in the long green grasses of the pampas. By morning, the muted greens of the south had been replaced by the deep red earth and verdant forests of the tropics.

The Iguazu falls are a freak of nature, a geological oddity. The Rio Iguazu is a broad but unremarkable brown river that meanders for several hundred miles from north to south forming a natural border between Brazil and Praguay. Then suddenly, just before it joins the much mightier Rio Parana, it passes over the edge of a basalt plateau and plunges some 80 metres over a series of natural cliffs. The result is truly breathtaking - millions of cubic metres of water flow into vacant space creating some magnificant cataracts.

To appreciate the sheer scale and magnificance of the falls you have to visit them from both banks of the river. I began in Argentina taking the "up close and personal" tour. I wandered along footpaths precariously suspended amongst the falls: one moment I was perched above the lip of a thundering cascade, the next minute I was getting soaked in the spray at the foot of a huge deluge of water.

The atmosphere was close and humid, near perfect conditions for butterflies. I marvelled at the diversity of species: iredescent blue divas, some with fire-red wing tips, small fluttering yellow emperors, magic looking silver streaked ones. But my favourite species I named "target 88"; its wings had concentric black and white circles with a perfect 88 in the middle framed in bright red.

Day two took me to the Brazilian side of the falls - a 30 minute hop across the frontier passed languid border guards and uninterested immigration officials - for the "panoramic" view of the falls. Set back across the river you can absorb Iguazu's full drama, the pouring water, frothing rock pools, spray making the verdant jungle sparkle amidst rainbows.

Seeing such an awesome display of nature, like a volcanic erruption or a tsunami, reminds you of how small an insignificant we are, how quickly we can be wiped out, and how, ultimately, planet earth will always outlive us. I left Iguazu in awe for another bit of South American wilderness that had also received rave reviews: the Pantanal.