Beaches from Brazil to Buenos Aires & Beyond

-Day 11-

The biggest learning curve of this trip so far for me, has been adapting to playing things by ear. Or at least, attempting to do so a little more graciously.

As those of you who know me well will agree, if I had a fifth middle name, it would probably be “The Organiser”. I just can’t help myself (although I won’t take all the credit, it is a quality mirrored in Mr Kelsall which I adore!)

So… the not knowing what time we will leave here, where we will go tomorrow or how we’ll get there, and who knows what bed we’ll be sleeping in… it’s feeling very much as Ian once described this trip as ‘the great escape’. Or for me, a bit like I’ve got a spaz attack coming on at all times.

Anyway, taxi’s are extortionately priced here on Santa Catarina, and our Portuguese is so laughable, it’s occasionally the only response we get, so it’s a good thing we had Chester (the Brazillian Gok Wan, darling) on hotel reception to help us navigate bus schedules for the day. We chugged our way South with the locals to Barra Lagoa beach.

Though the crowd at this beach was a little bit ‘trashier’ than at Praia Mole, we had an unusual experience as a crowd formed just a stone’s throw away - we has a nosey to see what was happening and were lucky enough to see a turtle being released into the wild by the local turtle sanctuary!

Another long traffic fuelled bus ride to what may have been the only ATM on the island, and we found ourselves in Lagoa. A pleasant little stumble upon, as we found ourselves weaving in and out of a craft street market, live music, and had a taste of Brazil’s famous Acai - like a berry sorbet topped with granola & sliced banana. DELICIOUS!

At sunset we strolled back across the bridge and watched a man cast his net into the shallow lagoon scooping up blue ‘Siri’ (crab). What better place to stop for dinner, we thought, and walked a little further until we came across a lively waterfront bar-restaurant called ‘Peixe + Frito’. Other than the feather boa wearing cover-band, all was looking good, until they served our ‘sequencia de camarao’. This I can only describe as ‘a sequence of prawn surprises’. Though this meal ranked as the most affordable we’ve had so far in Brazil, it certainly did not place as the tastiest!

We headed to a bus stop with the niggling feeling we might suffer the ‘surprise’ portion of our meal the next day. After a while on the bus, things began to look familiar which was a good sign! Until we realised we were in fact doing a loop. It was dark. We were lost. Bus drivers were defiantly unhelpful. Cue Cass flip out + unnecessarily expensive taxi back to the hotel, cancelling out our chirpy smugness about our affordable supper!

(Only because i’m writing this with a days hindsight & no prawn surprise am I able to write this next sentence…)

This holiday is becoming a perpetual great unknown, but the unknown is becoming an aspect I’m starting to enjoy :)

- by Cass

-Day 10-

Florianopolis (or Floripa to the locals) and the attached island of Santa Catarina delivered another wealth of experiences. Famed for its stretches of untouched beaches and consistent surf breaks, Cass and I were a little surprised at how built up the island is. As we sped along the main highway in a taxi close to midnight after a killer 14 hour bus ride, we navigated the driver to our somewhat remote Pousada Oceanomare, set back in the hills on the north east coast. The manicured grounds and modern stilted glass and wooden apartamentos were a welcome sight to recover in, although the vertiginous narrow staircase to the upper deck may challenge some of Brazil’s more bootlicious - the cake breakfasts have not yet taken their tole.

With parapenters parachuting to earth at our feet and glassy green waves curling for surfers as we reached Praiha Mole, we were set for another perfect beach day. Grabbing a board and hopping over the burning white sand, I battled through the white water to reach the lineup while Cass perfected her bikini tan line. It’s been a while since I hit the waves and my fitness has fallen so a majority of the two hours was paddle practise, regaining my strength, with a few surfs in between. It’s always a pleasure though being in the channel and watching masters at work, gracefully harnessing the waves.

What we had really come to Floripa for though was the Summer Soul Festival , thanks to our amazing friend Sharon who had organised tickets for us. Unfeasibly for the apparent short distance across the island, it took us 3 buses to reach the Music Park stage, but we needn’t have worried about missing the 9pm scheduled start, as the organisers were on “island time”. On finally collecting the tickets (our Portuguese is still poor) we realised that we had golden “Camarote” VIP access, giving us free booze but more importantly arms reach distance to the stage. First up and an unexpected surprise was Rox, a Londoner with a sultry Billie Holiday look and cheeky sexy stage strut, pumping up the young 10,000 strong crowd who whooped behind us. The main act for us and a host of super fans who held up “Flawless” signs was Florence and the Machine. Her incredible voice, like a choral shockwave electrifying the crowd and luminous smile radiated down as she skipped up and down the stage barefoot in a diaphanous olive and petrol silk dress. Rounding off the set with “Never let me go” we wish she hadn’t as the distinctly average Bruno Mars followed, to which we took our leave. We managed to grab a taxi who luckily took MasterCard to bring us home, just before the start of another cloudless day…

Apparently there are 4 types of Facebookers: Braggers, Moaners. Inviters, and the Self-Righteous. After 2 weeks of of sun soaked beach updates to my wintry London brethren I should apologise, but I suspect Cass and I are going to remain firmly in category 1.

Sorry guys, the dog days are over :-)

- By Ian

-Day 9-

I spent some time absorbing and admiring sharp design and clever billboard advertising in both Rio and Sao Paulo, including a particularly good billboard on Ipanema beach that sprayed sunscreen when you walked by. It just goes to show that exceptional creative ideas really shine through when they’re able to communicate to just about anyone (though any copywriting prowess was totally lost on me!)

If anything, what I then saw only amplified the contrast in design, signage and advertising anywhere outside the cities. Ok, ten years of graphic design in one of the greatest cities in the world may have left me a little saturated, if not spoilt. However, I can now say I’ve seen crime in Brazil. Crime against my eyes.

Now I’m not saying I’ve never seen design monstrosities in London or New York,there have been plenty, but I’ve just never seen so many consistent offences in a row on one 12 hour bus journey!* And beyond the common crimes committed in Comic Sans around the world. I also have some queries over the ‘no smoking’ symbol over here. But I subsequently read a great article by a Chilean typographer called Daniel Hernández who has restored my faith, though it seems it might be some time, if not forever, before this typo love spreads to the provinces.

Anyway, our day actually started by opening our eyes to some offensive lime green curtains in our hostel. With a heavy backpack and a Brahma hangover, we trudged through the Sao Paulo drizzle to the bus terminal. It felt a bit like home. Drizzle quickly developed into a torrential downpour as we set off.

Top deck of bus, big reclining seats, free ‘goodie box’ of treats as we stepped on board - good start. But what do you do for 12 hours on a bus? As with most things, Ian and I came prepared. Eat. Read a bit of Lonely planet guide. Eat. Game of travel scrabble, Ian wins by 18 points, he is smug. Drink. Wee in gross bus toilet. Listen to travel podcast about traveling by bus in South America. Eat. Speculate about boy in front, is he albino or just ridiculously blonde? Drink. Stare out of window at bad advertising spoiling view of luscious mountains & banana plantations for 3 hours. Write blog, can’t read because it makes me feel sick. Wolf down new discovery of double chocolate wafer biscuits. Feel better. Get excited about VIP tickets to Summer Soul Festival tomorrow! Still hours to go hmmmm. And we have no idea what to do or where to go when we arrive in Florianopolis at midnight. Brilliant.

- By Cass

* Apologies for lack of photographic proof and examples - the bus was moving too fast & camera wasn’t accessible!

-Day 8-

The grey overcast morning light and torrential rain was an unwelcome eye opener in South America’s largest metropolis; at 4:30 am, few bus terminals in the world would claim to entreat you to explore their city. However, after soaking up the tropical heat and lush natural surroundings of Ilha Grande and Paraty, Sao Paulo’s urban sprawl, combined with a groggy head, felt like a Monday morning in the office following a week in the sun. As with London, there are infinite reasons why over 20 million Paulistenos call the city their home and divert their attention from the inclement weather. As Brazil’s work horse it has shopping malls to rival New York and apparently a strong art, design and cultural scene. U fortunately though, on Cass and my 1 day pitstop here enroute to Florianopolis, we had a tight schedule.

We were very thankful to escape the rain, buzz through the somewhat shady entrance gate and catch a few extra hours sleep in the excellent LuneTime hostel. Clean,modern and using its namesake as a keynote for its furnishings - though perhaps lime curtains was a mistake. After migrating from sofa to dorm room and finally private double, we hit the now drizzly lunchtime streets.

On initial inspection, Sampa (the colloquial name) feels a fairly functional city with limited charm downtown, but strolling through the Jardin district we spotted orchids growing natively on the pavement trees, softening the shuttered fortresses of the surrounding apartments. Our mission was to find the Havaianas concept store. After navigating the Rodeo Drive-esque boutiques, complete with valet parking for even coffee shops, we arrived to a spectrum of flipflops in every shade, but sadly not every size. My size 11 is popular, so instead I took advantage of the custom service and made my own in “baby blue” and “chocolate brown” - for roughly £8, our first Brazilian bargain. Cass opted for a slim strapped bronze pair, which we’re bizarrely more expensive, but as the originals are practically indestructible, I suppose they have to differentiate somehow.

Following a delicious coffee and eclair, and after making use of the excellent tube system with its wide carriages and air conditioning (TFL take note) we did a quick turnaround from the hostel and headed out to meet Cass’ ex House of Lords colleagues for dinner at Esquisito. Eliana and Alessandra had told us to catch-up with them if we hit Sampa, as well as stressed how guarded we should be against crime; although after surviving Rio unscathed we felt relatively safe. With a hearty steak and a side of Bolhino Carne Seca ( dried beef steak balls - tastier than it sounds) and washed down with the obligatory Caipaharina, Alessandra’s boyfriend whisked us on a driving tour of the city in search of a busy bar to enjoy a few late cervezas. The guys were incredibly hospitable and treated us all night, rounding up a generous introduction to a long day in Sampa.

- By Ian

-Day 7-

Through it’s cobble stones and cobalt walls, Paraty is a beautiful village to meander through - but during the soaring day time temperatures it feels like a ghost town. So luckily by morning my tummy had put itself back together enough for us to go out on a Schooner boat trip for the day to explore a few of the 55 islands and 100 beaches skirting the coastline, reachable only by boat.

A rugged defender jeep arrived to pick us up (Ian’s dream car- not mine) and we wedged ourselves into the back between several ample sized tourists. After 10 minutes Ian pointed out that it was odd that we seemed to be heading inland… could we be picking some more people up? Where were they going to sit - on our laps!? It then occurred to us that we were not stopping at all. So, we flapped and began squawking the word ‘schooner’ to everybody, to which the response was ‘nao, cascadas’- translation- ‘no, waterfalls’! We realised that we’d actually jumped into a random jeep, no one had checked us and we were too excited to bother to ask! The short but sweet driver ushered us out and asked a random bloke across the road with a minibus to run us back to where we came. They must be familiar with stupid tourists.

You know, so far in Brazil, timeliness has not been a characteristic that’s struck us as being particularly prevalent. But by the time somebody came to collect us (for the second time, oops!) we were pretty late and the last to get on the boat. As they pulled in the gangway after us, I thought we were literally going to get a standing ovation, complete with accompaniment on guitar!

Minutes later we were sailing across emerald waters with Brazil’s answer to Jack Johnson serenading away. We made several stops at deserted white sand beaches and deep water bays, and were lucky enough to see a stingray jump up out of the water and swim with shoals of fish including flute fish. Ian took the opportunity to challenge me to jump off the highest part of the boat. Despite the fact I hate it when my feet can’t touch the bottom, it was exhilarating not to mention refreshing so I did it again and again! So, the next five hours were spent jumping in, climbing out and re-applying sunscreen, and of course the obligatory ham & cheese roll at lunch.

We met two lovely couples on the boat, Canadians and Finns and decided we’d hook up in the evening for some dinner. First we went for drinks at a swanky place in the old town called Margarida Cafe. It came highly recommended by our good friends Hannah and James who’d done a similar trip just months earlier! Then we chowed down some traditional frango (chicken) rice and beans at a charming rustic place nearby and had a final few beers before Ian and I tipsily shuffled our way to the bus station to make our overnight journey to Sao Paulo.

The bus station however was a bit dodgy & on the outskirts of town, and to be honest, we didn’t have a clue what we were doing as this was to be our first ‘big bus’ trip. With difficulty, we collected our tickets and checked in our baggage. I was pleasantly surprised however when we got inside and saw the seats almost fully reclined with legrests & about double the legroom you get on a plane! It was hard to contain my excitement… until my enthusiasm had dwindled about 6 hours later when my bum was numb and the bumpy roads were keeping me wide awake! Meanwhile, after years of practice sleeping with noise on Kingsland Road & Clapham High Street, Ian slept like a baby.

- By Cass

-Day 6-

Our 3 days in the lush and relaxing paradise of Ilha Grande have flown by and it feels a real shame to leave our island home at the at the Portal dos Bolbas. We are promised great things though of Paraty, our next destination. The tramp back to the jetty loaded up like Ninja Turtles with our backpacks is eased by seeing other holidayers dragging hefty roller cases over the undulating sand - did they not realise the main road was the beach?

Aboard the schooner back to the mainland, I make a new best friend. An “adorable” Rottweiler cross - I’m sure that’s what owners usually say before their child becomes a chew toy - who nuzzles my legs for a stroke before collapsing in the heat at my feet, almost cutting the circulation off with his hulk. It seems I have a way with man’s best friend, Cass notes, as the previous day during lunch, a spaniel tried to piss on my chair while I enjoyed a cerveza.

The drive to Paraty tracks the coastline and we note the other outlying islands, no doubt concealing untouched beaches to rival Lopez Mendes. The land and vegetation maintain the vivid greenness, with Palm and Banana plantations lining the road and sweeping mountain views carving out the horizon. We are not disappointed on our arrival. Paraty (pronounced Para-chee) is a well manicured colonial town divided by a perfectly straight canal-like river which our Pousada Provence overlooks and separates us from the old town. The guest house is a little oasis, complete with dipping pool, a somewhat unnecessary sauna ( I can just stand in the sun to sweat) and backing onto the forested hills behind. Cass rests with an upset stomach and I trade Portuguese and English words with Gustav at reception. He reminds me of the guy from CSI Las Vegas and typifies Brazil’s melting pot of nationalities with emerald green eyes, European features and caramel skin.

The almost artisan cobbled streets give Paraty its character and enforce you to flaneur; attempting to walk any faster only results in stubbed toes in flip-flopped feet. The balmy evening with a soundtrack of pulsing drums from festivities in the main square and a bustle of tourists exploring the many exceptional craft and Cachaça shops, reminds me of childhood holidays with my parents; a chance to enjoy the pleasures of eating late and watch the world go by.

- By Ian

-Day 5-

After yesterdays ‘excursion’ (or exertion!) our third day on Ilha Grande felt like it ought to be a day of rest! And so we rested. We flip flopped our way to a cute little beach called Praia Preta just East of the village. As usual we were the palest people on the sand… surely my tan should be developing by day 5, but alas, my factor 50 seems to be taking care of that one! Ian on the other hand is already sporting white bits where the sun don’t shine, and is very smug about it too. Losing myself in a good book is one of holiday’s most guilty pleasures, because I often don’t have the time back home. Ian and I are both keen readers & easily polish off a novel in a week (currently I’m reading The Help, Ian: The Kite Runner). However until today, we have not seen a single soul reading a book ANYWHERE?! I’m thinking they must be concentrating on their tan instead! In the midday heat we went for a stroll in the shade to see some of the island’s history.

Though there’s little trace of it now, Ilha Grande used to be a leper colony, then a prison for Brazil’s most dangerous criminals, and at one point in time was even a quarantine stopover for diseased European immigrants. Luckily things have changed since those days! The food here is delicious, fresh fish is plentiful… but other food does seem to get a bit samey after a bit. A chicken & cheese sandwich for lunch today was a welcome treat after five days of ham & cheese baguettes ‘stealthily acquired’ from our inclusive breakfast spread ;P

This evening we watched the fish being brought in by the fishermen & then ate them fresh from a beach BBQ at ‘Cafe do Mar’. Washed down with Caipahrinias under a twinkling starry sky… this is such a magical place- I don’t want to leave tomorrow!

- By Cass

-Day 4-

“Without darkness, there is no light” read the exquisite calligraphy tattooed across the tanned chest of the Finnish guy on our boat, as we departed the island paradise of Ilha Grande. This reminded me of my own pleasure/pain theory – admittedly not an original one, but which again rang true for the highlight of the trip so far; our trek to Lopez Mendes beach.

Mark and Sebastian, Cass’ dad and brother had teased her that on our travels I’d subject us to perilous trails and enquired if she was prepared with heavy walking boots.  I had reassured her that this was a coastal discovery trip with a few vineyard excursions thrown in. On arrival in Arbraõ on Ilha Grande however, we soon learned that one of Brazil’s most celebrated beaches lay on the other side of the island. Although accessible by boat from the many operators in the tiny village, a 6Km trail was also marked through the verdant Atlantic forest that carpets the interior.

With blue plimsolls and box fresh white Converse on our feet, a supply of purloined ham and cheese rolls from the breakfast buffet and a bladder of water in Cass’ new camelback, we hit the trail.

Beads of sweat rolled down our foreheads as the shady but humid forest and steep climb pushed our rested muscles. We were treated though to captivating views of the coast as we reached the upper canopy as well as screeching cicadas, booming monkeys (we hoped…), giant fluttering sapphire butterflies and the odd flying squirrel.

Avoiding the temptation to stop at the three beautiful small hamlet beaches and entreating emerald sea along the way, we pushed on and in just under 3 hours emerged from the leafy shadows on to the blistering white sand of Lopes Mendes. With grains so fine it squeaked as we took turns running down to the refreshing gentle waves, this was our well-earned reward. Even after swimming in Rio, the unspoilt natural beauty of this lime tree fronted beach and turquoise water felt truly invigorating. Sadly there were no waves to surf, which would have made it perfect, but then that may have curtailed our mission or the trip far to early.

Deciding against trekking our return, we opted for a schooner in the previous bay to take us back to Arbraõ. Now I having nothings against a pair of speedos for swimming in, but off the beach they really don’t do any man any favours, especially the “Cuban Brothers”, or so I coined them. Sporting matching white fedoras, feminine gold neck chains, and as a slight departure from the uniform, respective red and white mini  swimming briefs. Stranger though, despite being completely waxed, one had a hairy shoulder patch reminiscent of a gun holster slung under his arm. God knows why, but his attentive girlfriend didn’t seem to mind.

After a decadent few days of evening Epicureanism, we decided to share a pizza in the main church square. Thinking the Saint Sebastian festivities were over after last night’s celebrations, we were surprised by a full Sunday service to accompany our meals, complete with a procession and communion. I guess more than most, Christian’s believe in the pleasure/pain theory.

 - By Ian

-Day 1-

Our first day began with cake. For breakfast.

There was chocolate bundt cake, coconut cake (very moist!), syrupy caramel flan, ectoplasmic custard cake… any cake you can think of, I think we’ve seen it here, and probably tasted it too (I keep trying to convince Ian it’s one of the many ways we can ‘immerse ourselves’ in the Brazillian culture, but he’s not biting.)

I’m beginning to understand the reason why Rio has some serious booty!

We had our work cut out for us as we offset the ‘o bolo’ breakfast with a long morning stroll up and down iPanema and Leblon beaches. SPF50 and fresh coconut in hand, we absorbed the most breathtaking scenery I have ever seen in my life. Through the morning mist, clusters of high rise city buildings & hillside favelas emerged, sandwiched in-between epic rainforest covered mountains in the background, & white sand beaches and shore breaking waves in the foreground.

Our lighter shade of pale forced us to take shade under an umbrella for most of the day on the beach, and I couldn’t help but notice the women (Ian enjoyed an eyeful too ;P ) Well, two things about them, the first less obvious- in Rio, they don’t seem to carry handbags? Where do they put their purse, lipgloss, keys…? I’m not sure whether this is a safety thing, but I took note and did as the locals did… and Ian had to carry all my stuff in his pockets!

Next, I have never seen so many thong bikinis in my life! Size 8 or 18, age 8 or 88, EVERYONE is in a thong! The confidence of women here is inspiring; we prudish Brits could learn a thing or two about embracing the love handles and treating them as voluptuous, after all it’s not your size, it’s about how you carry it.
My white bottom however, sticks out like a sore thumb and is definitely singing “mug me” rather than “the thong song”!

As the end of the day drew, we climbed the Arproador rocks to photograph what ended up being not-quite a sunset. As we tried to look inconspicuous with a tripod and Ian’s brand new £1500 camera kit, Ian captured the fishermen perching in perilous positions and pulling in fresh squid by the bucket load.

We braved an electrical storm and went out for supper at an upscale place in iPanema called Market. Whenever I see fillet steak cost the same as penne pasta, I’ll be having the steak. And whenever a can of beer is less than a coke, it’s pretty obvious that I’ll also be having the beer…. Looking back at the ‘photo’ I made for our leaving drinks invitation, I can’t help but wonder, am I about to fulfill my own prophecy?

But then again, it would be rude not to try the freshly baked banana cake at breakfast tomorrow…

- By Cass

We were lucky. London’s shift into winter only hit us in the final week, making an escape into Brazil’s glorious golden sunshine even sweeter. Crisp blue skies and dry frosty air saved us from the capital’s usual grey dankness, which seeps into your bones and reddens a dripping nose.

Having packed everything we own including our winter clothes - with our combined OCD exactitude - and moved them to Manchester, we were left with: assorted summer layers, a rain mac for me, a borrowed ‘Arthur Daily’ jacket for Cass, plus a pair of Uggs. I succumbed to buying a new beanie after shaving my hair in readiness for the tropics, only to feel my ears turn blue!

Leaving friends and family for me has only become easier with the years and my repeated exits from ‘normal’ life. Cass though is trusting in my belief in her; that she can succeed anywhere and spread her wings from London’s sometimes insular metropolis. Her friend’s concern and joy at our adventure is testament to her character and their close bond - I am under strict instruction not to hurt her, which I am happy to obey.

There is something particularly delicious about sitting in Terminal 5, looking out at British drizzle and knowing you are soon to soar above it and be evacuated to soul enhancing climes. BA flight 289 passed it’s 10 hours uneventfully from London to Rio over the mighty Atlantic, save Cass, who, a little smugly, pipped me at Scrabble.

Those familiar with the opening sequence of the film ‘Collateral’, where Jamie Fox drives his taxi through LA’s nighttime urban sprawl whilst Motown plays, will get a feel for our ride into Rio. Only replace the Ray Charles with Bosa Nova and make the driving slightly more erratic; the driver seeking out impossible gaps between speeding trucks accompanied by the ‘Girl from Ipanema’.

Softly lapping waves and the floodlit view of daring night surfers at the Arpoador rocks is how we were greeted on our arrival. The last hotel bar on the point between Ipanema and Copacabana beaches, with a ‘choppee’ (Brazilian beer) in hand, we toasted the start of a journey to find the most beautiful beaches from Brazil to Buenos Aires and Beyond…