Sold in Salvador

At first she's a prom girl, but then slurred speech and a vacant look that reads only money, speak of something else entirely. Shake and sigh and So Wrong- in this oldest city- and seem to pray that maybe she gets it together enough that baby daughter wont realise until she can... Handle it? Run her own game? Get the hell out of here? And to where? This is The Where.

You have to pay me.

I don't think anyone cries for them. Desired and reviled for the same thing by the same people. Such a shame at such a price. Lie down with heady everything and stand with condemnation- they are nothing- and you are still clean.. if you forget.

You have to pay me.

And so what? Run drugs or scam gringoes or make something beautiful that no-one ever sees and it's tomorrow again and you're still hungry, and so the fuck what? Stop the screams and the pain and maybe it's a forgotten day or two ahead or maybe just the streets again.

We all sell. But people cry for your pain.

High and Dry

Somehow goes with the above. High and Dry, by Radiohead.

The Outsider In

I arrive onto Morro do Sao Paulo at 7 am, after a gorgeous two hour boat trip from Valencia and a horrible 9 hours on the bus from Porto Seguro. Tired I stumble around pousadas trying to find something cheap and beachish. Ah, the Black & White pousada on Praia Tres, clean, friendly, cheap. I crash into emergency sleep and stumble to a late breakfast. And here's the kicker given my comments about the huge teams of Israelis in Arrial D'Ajuda. Something is up in this hostel. Every single other person is Israeli. And then I notice the pousada sign properly. It's not the Black & White pousada, it's the Black (Star of David) White pousada. Better yet, I'm rocking my Kufiyya, the black and white arab headscarf I use as a beach towel. Awkward! Awesome. So I'm the only גוי (gentile) dude living with around 30 Israelis.

It's been fun and I think I can understand why they appear as a closed and perhaps cold groups to outsiders. The basic plan is that they do their military service for 1-3 years, work to earn cash for a year and then feck off to latin america for 6-18 months to get out of the head trip built up from the army and living in Israel all their life. Here they meet old school and army buddies and connect with people who speak their language in what, for many, is their first real foreign experience. On the outside these groups often seem insular, uninterested in local culture or adapting from their cultural norms, but inside they show a very different dynamic. Sitting around in groups playing Hebrew (and radiohead) songs on guitar, singing, laughing and sharing a communal connection fostered by the above factors, perhaps combined with some kibbutz heritage. A really lovely communal warmth that reminded me of my time with groups of Koreans and Egyptians.

I'm not fond of this type of travel as it massively limits the diversity of experience, but I think I can understand it a bit better now. And definitely Israelis aren't the only ones- Argentines here often seem similar- and British weekenders in Amsterdam or Aussies in London- can be pretty insenitive and insular to put it mildly. Of course I don't mean generalize, indeed I'm referring to a subgroup. I've meet some awesome Israeli solo traveller who avoid the common haunts and are as open and adaptive as any people I've meet upon the way. Enough hedging- to the beach I go!

Darkness in Bahia

Fade from black.

A vague awareness of sweat soaked fabric wrapping my body drifts into view. It must be sometime in the afternoon by now. I'm in Trancoso- no.. now it's Arrial D'Ajuda. My body craves water. It must be three already. What time did we finish? Flashes of the hour long morning walk back along the beaches roll past, we arrived just in time for breakfast. Ah breakfast, hence the corn flakes I feel among the bedsheets. A momentary reflection upon my terribleness and then.. it was a wonderful party. A hundred people along the beach, with a huge moon filling the sky and the sea, the air thick with music, laughter and a sub-tropical humidity. I might just be able to open my eyes. Then shower. It would bring sweet relief from all this sweaty fabric. And thank God for this ceiling fan. The symphony of it's ticking and whiring emerges, rhythms ever changing. Kept the mosquitos away too. Mosquitos! Tens of bites, old and new, compete for my attention. Itch. Itch. I roll onto my side, forget again and find relief. To do? What to do? To stay again or continue the northward journey? Days are slipping so quickly, they feel almost stolen. It's already the full moon. Ah, the full moon. Maybe I should go back to Trancoso, for a celebration? Who told me? Which of these casual acquaintances upon the road was it? Too many voices, but I'm fairly sure. Hmm Trancoso again. Different to this place. Arrial is such a tourist village- even one day here is enough to read that. Big with the Israelis, menu's in Hebrew! A smile. Then memories of a less than pleasant run in with some impolite Israelis guys flashes into view. Probably just out the freaking army. Poor bastards... The quiet of Trancoso takes over again, the sound of a silient summer night, high above the beach. An hour away and who knows if anyone is still there? A million other doubts arise. Then a stronger voice, Eleven Days Arthur. Eleven. I should go.

Five hours later. Half watching my reflection, half gazing into the night landscape of Bahia I stare into the window as this empty bus winds towards Trancoso. The shadows of palm trees on the open sky rush by. Suddenly I realise where I am on this planet. Somewhere in north-eastern Brazil an Australian man is bridging the darkness between two towns, no bags, nothing except a little cash, water, sunscreen and insect repellent. Solution to most problems here. Again the realisation of where I am, and deeper. And what for? Decisions I suppose- the only way is to keep making the narrative as I go. Wake up one morning or another with a gut feeling that it's time to move, a hunger for another place that you never knew and another chapter is added to this story and strangely enough the themes seem to play out just right. So now Trancoso and now Brazil. And this time to think. The days become full of sun and music and food and people and reading and trying a little more language here and there, yet it seems like there's no time, no really good time, to think. But here in the buses, in the darkness, it's just me and the rushing of Bahia, and it all comes so easy. So free.

Algumas palavras de Trancoso

Boa noite.

Quantos cocos você bebeu hoje? Realmente? Eu bebi cinco. Não estou brincando. Tudo que eu comi foi água de coco. É trabahlo difícil, mas alguém precisa curtir esse mar azul turquesa e beber essas coisas. Se não for eu, então quem? Se não agora, então quando? E se somente para mim, então quem sou eu? Eu bebo esses cocos para as crianças que não têm ninguém para beber por elas.

paz amigos,

PS- ok brasileiros- eu tive um pouco ajuda do peixes de babel, mas eu estou tentando. Por que você tem tal gramática difícil? Lute o tempo passado!

PPS- Não fala português? I'm just ranting about how many cocunuts I drank today. The answer may astound you. The answer is five.

A few words from Brazil

Ahah, the internet, how I remember thee- what with your 30 second guffahs and bountiful information on Slovak legislature. Here in Brazil the Internet, or internet em portugues, rarely enters my world- for it bodes poorly on the perfect sandy beaches of an ecological isle, or stradling precariously upon the edge of a crystal clear waterfall. Nor could this electronic siren withstand the firey samba of a Rio bloco, or the predawn ravings of the twin titans Sao Paulo and Buenos Aires. Yet here in the unlikely lands of Belo Horizonte, after some six weeks upon the trail, I find myself with time, access and some consideration that sooner than later I shall once again number with those unfortunates who know not the gentle touch of mother Brazil.

The journey has gone something like this. Amsterdam (to be my home for yet another year)->Buenos Aires (where one dines at midnight and mocks the dawn)->Florianopolis (an island of beautiful people)->Ilha do Mel (an ecological island of sunset rainbows and deserted beaches)->Sao Paulo (a city that eats other cities and in which one eats fantastically)->Rio de Janeiro (the city of samba, of carnaval, of legends playing out a million tales)->Ouro Preto (a baroque village sculpted out of the mountains). In an hour I will board a bus to the north-eastern state of Bahia, where I shall spend my final few weeks slowly making my way up the coast- crawling from fishing village to resplendent isle- until I reach the great afro-brazilian city of Salvador and this happy trail ends.

I should like to write of my experiences here, of The World in Brazil, perhaps a few words in portuguese, a photo or two when technology permits and a flickering vision of life away from this continent. But it will be slow because the beach beckons, a metaphysics of quality is demanding my consideration and Brazil is still roaring just metres away. Suffice to say for now that all is well and life is being lived and loved in this corner of the world.

peace