Beaches from Brazil to Buenos Aires & Beyond

- Day 15 -

Those we had met in Punta del Diablo had warned us off Punta del Este; “it’s overly developed, expensive and far too commercial”. Cass and I have always enjoyed contrast though, mixing London’s city refinements with weekend country simplicities; both offering their attractions and giving balance.

Our 5:30am taxi from the hostel to the bus shack to make our early departure, however, didn’t seem particular balanced. We were rewarded though with a full day to enjoy Punta del Este’s charms, soaking up the scorching sunshine on Playa Brava and Ollo beaches, before cooling off surfing in the noticeably colder water that crashed onshore. We had dumped our bags at the very well appointed Tas d’Vieja hostel, located just two blocks from the sea and one from the main strip of bars and restaurants. The hostel itself and double room were lovely, even if the seemingly bored and irritated receptionist wasn’t entirely welcoming. Cass however soon got over this with her introduction to Dulce de Leche at breakfast. The caramelised condensed milk spread, that I have previously tried on a trip to Argentina, was like Nectar to Cass and made any dry roast into a veritable feast.

“Punta” as it colloquially known, is joked (though not by the Uruguayans) to be a ” barrio” or suburb of Buenos Aires because of the Porteños (BA residents) who come over to weekend or holiday. With them they bring their habit of eating late and partying until even later. Cass and I followed the crowd hitting La Marena for some delicious seafood and our first glass of Uruguayan white wine before work our way down the strip of bars. The crowd was a young and good looking, but not as glitzy as we had imagined, however Cass and I were glad we’d scrubbed up after the very relaxed vibe in Punta del Diablo. Sipping a few Fernet y Cocas, it’s bitter sweet taste charging the party atmosphere, we hardly noticed it had reached 5am - just the time for a final nightcap ice cream before hitting the hay.

- By Ian

- Day 13 -

After criss-crossing the avenue that marks the border of Chui/Chuy between Brazil and Uruguay in order to withdraw Reals and then exchange them for Pesoes, we jumped out of one frying pan into another’s eponymous fire – Punta Del Diablo. The sleepy Uruguayan fishing town had been recommended for it’s surf, and so after another hour bus ride through completely flat grass land, tended by mounted Gauchos herding their cattle, we arrived to its outskirt bus “station” – read converted cow shed. By now the sun was high in a cloudless blue sky and the dirt road towards the main town and sea 2 Km away shimmered in the heat. The friendly shuttle bus woman was therefore a welcome sight, until Cass, who had mistaken her for a taxi, and I were dropped at the end of another dusky road and pointed in the direction of our accommodation, the Hostel de los Hadas.

As an aside here, it seems Punta del Diablo is undergoing a bit of a property boom, with an array of “interesting” architectural styles being employed by the local developers who don’t seem to be encumbered with such trifles as town planning. Condos in Art Deco, Modernist, Greek Villa and even faux Ocean Liner designs have popped amongst the dunes, out numbering the inhabitants, but apparently catering for the swell of Montivideans and Porteaños from down the coast. Thankfully we were pleased to see our hostel had therefore been constructed in a fairly rustic style in keeping with the area, featuring thatched rooftops but with giant modern glass windows to take in the coastal panorama.

After a quick breakfast and play with the owner’s very cute baby twins, we headed out to the beach. Now it’s fare to say that in Brazil we had been spoiled with the tropical beauty of azure skies, emerald waters and talc white sand. The mid morning cloud cover therefore did not make the grey/brown turbulent ocean particularly inviting, although the surfers ripping up the point break didn’t seem to mind. However, in a scene reminiscent of a Martin Parr photograph of a British seaside, when it started to rain, we took shelter under our parasol, taking comfort that it was still a balmy 25 degrees.

With our rustic hostel and undeveloped first beach, Cass began to wonder, is this it? Thankfully after a shirt walk round the point though, we found the main “town”; an eclectic mix of cafés, book and surf shops and restaurants leading down to the fishing port and populated by an equally mixed bunch of surfers, hippies, backpackers and families. An English girl on the beach, who “chills here 6 months of the year” had recommended the fish and cheese empanadas just inside the market, and so on this advice overcoming Cass’ street food phobia, we enjoyed the delicious paper-thin deep friend pastry washed down with an icy cold Patricia cerveza. Casting our eye over the families playing in the swell, it was then we noticed the giant dead turtle washed up on the beach; the children seemed unperturbed by its empty socketed head and even gave it an investigative jab with their toes, wobbling it’s gelatinous body.

I had by now begun to feel a little stiff and lethargic after hours on a bus and minimal exercise. Not feeling quite up to tackling the waves for a surf, we ventured out to the monument to find a crazy bunch of lads diving off the rocks into crashing sea pools. On their provocation and Cass’ egging on, I leapt feet first into the deep, before a surge pushed me round and I was heaved out by one of the lads, avoiding the sharp mussel beds encrusted to the rocks. Nothing like a bit of coastering to liven you up and wake the senses!

Although the evening’s seafood paella disappointed, the quartet of Neapolitan jacketed gents who invaded the restaurant and busked kept things lively. However, I think Cass’ real highlight was the discovery of the Heladeria – creamy rich gelato style ice cream in pistachio, chocolate and almond and dulce de leche flavours – more than a little devilish!

- By Ian

-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