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!
27 May 2007
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.
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?
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?
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?
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?
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