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| Jungle on Sea |
160 million Brazilians and I am the only person driving at the speed limit.
Just returned from four lovely days at the coast. Left Sao Paulo on Sunday, slightly later than planned (i.e. on Brazilian time) after doing an oil, water, tyre and petrol check. Fortunately we had professionals on hand to do this so we did not end up with water in the oil reservoir or petrol in the spare tyre. Not mentioning any names...
The drive to the coast is only about 80 kms, but we were going to Litoral Norte (Literally literally north) which was another 100 kilometres following the coast line north towards Rio. It poured the entire way with windscreen wipers on full, and that was before we hit the mist and fog on the Imigrantes Rodovia (Literally: I would rather emigrate than have to drive this highway again).
The speed limit varied from 60 – 110 but I was doing about 50 just so I could see what was going on ahead in the mist. Meanwhile, the lemming-like Brazilians were doing a brazilian miles an hour overtaking me and disappearing into the mist ahead, possibly to make it safely to their destinations, or possibly to plummet over the edge; who could tell in that weather. To give you some indication of the highway, I have included a few pictures of the massive bridges that spanned the valleys and an entrance to one of about 8 tunnels that drop down through the mountains so quickly and steeply that your ears pop.
(Typically, the pictures have not come out. As they are Brazilian pictures, maybe they will arrive later? Feel free to Google if you are bored.)
There are two main highways, Imigrantes to get to the coast, and Rio Santos which follows the coast all the way from the first main coastal city from Sao Paulo, Santos, all the way north to Rio. On this 150 or so kilometres, there are about 180 speed cameras and, probably in a first for motorway technology anywhere in the world, speed bumps! A typical 500 meter stretch of road would have a speed limit sign saying 80, then as you approached the gentlest of bends 50 meters further on, a sign saying 60, then 80 as you exit the bend until just 20 meters further on, a sign saying speed camera ahead and then a 40 km/h sign followed by two speed bumps and a camera. Interspersed would be an assortment of signs warning children to be fastened to the back seats, not to drive on the hard shoulder and to have your teeth checked regularly, courtesy of the Sao Paulo Dental Council. Brazilian cars do not have cruise control as you can never travel more than about 100 meters before the speed limit changes and both the software and the car would crash within minutes of activation.
Between Imigrantes and Rio Santos lies the town of Cubatao (Literally: Breathe in and you will die). This is apparently the most polluted place in Brazil and a centre of heavy industry. It looks like the English Midlands Black Country at the turn of the century during the height of the industrial revolution, but without the charm, vibrant colours and fresh air. Imagine Epping but 10 000 times bigger and dirtier. We were fortunate that we were making the journey on a Sunday as there were not many trucks and all the traffic was heading in the opposite direction as the Paulistas made their suicidal drive back to the city for work on Monday. Meanwhile, the rain continued.
(Aside: The time now is 11h45; I asked TLS what time her cousin was coming to visit and she said “11h00”. This while she was in a towel and brushing her teeth and at least 20 minutes away from being ready. In a monument to redundant questions, I asked if her cousin was Brazilian.)
After leaving Cubatao, we joined Rio Santos, or BR 101 or SP-55 or Rodivio Dr Manoel Hyppolito Reggo. Apparently, in Brazil, when people can’t agree on road names they agree to disagree and use everyone’s suggestions. Nice and friendly but it can crash your satnav! Assuming of course you can afford one; they tend to cost more than cars.
It is absolutely amazing to see the small villages and towns surrounded by the tropical forests that creep right up to their borders. It is so dense that it is impossible even to walk through; at one point we were walking in the rain but the trees at the guesthouse were so dense we did not get wet.
The highway runs alongside a number of beaches, mainly occupied by holiday homes and locals who look after the holiday homes and an entire industry that survives on the few weeks during the year when one quarter of Brazil’s wealth is concentrated on this stretch of coastline. Usually during carnival and school holidays when everyone makes the trek to the coast, much like the Vaalies going to Durbsbythesea and the matrics going to Hermanus in December. Just more people and more money.
The first beach we came to was Juquehy (Literally: Don’t even think about coming here unless your net worth is £5 million.) How else can you justify your little restaurant on the beach charging £7 for a beer or £20 for a starter portion of calamari, or Lula as it is known locally? TLS’s friend L and her husband Gyro (the guy who doesn’t fall over?) have a family holiday place in a condo opposite the beach and have invited us to stay when we are next in SP. I shall start saving now. L is pregnant and to give you some idea of ridiculous Brazilian prices, it is cheaper for her and her husband to fly to New York and pay for accommodation and buy all the children’s clothing, buggies (boogies if you are Brazilian) and accoutrements than it is to buy in Brazil. The beach is 3 kilometres long, white sand and reminded me of Gillian when she was a teenager – crabby. You have to watch where you leave your toes. We spent a little time sitting on deck chairs and reading in the sun. My Kindle does not reflect. Nice.
Our guest house was located in Camburizinho or Little Camburi (Literally: Of course we lied when we said it was walking distance to the beach you Gringo tourista)
Turning off Rio Santos (and all the other names), left inland instead of right toward the sea, we drove the kilometre or so over a waterlogged, muddy, rutted dirt track to our Pousada (Literally: Please don’t put toilet paper in the toilet, use the bin; we still use an old septic tank and yes, we do know it is disgusting). Portuguese is a amazing in that whole sentences can be translated into a single word. The place we stayed was called Pousada de Coucou, named after the septic tank and coconut trees that grow in abundance in the area. Or perhaps Coucou the black Labrador? Coucou had an unnatural attraction for tennis balls and even with one in her mouth would try and get grab the others. She had a white Labrador daughter called Crystal who also lived there, although Crystal spent most of her time lying across the reception entrance with her legs in the air. Slut!
Our chalet was very nicely kitted out with a downstairs lounge with TV, toilet and small kitchen and a private army of mosquitoes; out the back door was a veranda with braai area. Upstairs was the bedroom (air conditioned) and a small, elite Special Forces mosquito brigade and a large balcony with a hammock or “rede” pronounced “hedge-ee”. This should not be confused with “rede” pronounced “hedge-ee” which is a wireless network for your computer. The last thing you want is to come home and find your computer strung up across your balcony.
They had two swimming pools, one heated and one normal but 25 m long so great for training. I watched a lot of other people training. Before you could swim, you had to shower in the outdoor shower or “duca” to wash off any sun cream or “autobronzant”. These were absolutely freezing. On my way to the shower, I passed two penguins walking in the opposite direction and the one was saying to the other: “forget it buddy, I would rather not swim than stand under that bloody shower!”
Breakfast was included, as was a constantly stocked fridge with beer, mineral water and Guarana, the local drink, not to be confused with Guano, which is an entirely different predilection and one which we shall not discuss on the Sabbath.
They had a nice little breakfast room, and on entering, I could see why Brazilians consider this particular guest house to be more of a health farm; the doce de leite came in a small jar instead of the usual 5 liter tub.
Day two was spent wondering if the rain would ever stop and a brief visit down another dirt track to a pizzeria. Once two American tourists and their guides left, we were the only people in the restaurant. Still, a pleasant evening with nice friendly staff, and probably the only place along the entire 180 km highway where it was not necessary to put your house up as security for your food bill.
Tuesday brought enough sun to go back to the beach so we did Camburi which is beautiful with white sand and looks like somewhere in Thailand with the tropical forest coming right up to the sand and lovely green islands just off shore. TLS says there are no sharks on this coast, just plenty of crabs.
(Further aside: I fear we may have rhinoceros in our gene pool. Perhaps a great, great grandfather? I mention this as I have a single but substantial rogue eyebrow hair that periodically appears in the centre of my forehead that feels like steel when I try and pluck it. I am worried that if I leave it to grow, it will leave me at the mercy of poachers.)
Days three and four were much of the same; lazy breakfast, count mosquito bites, apply a repellent called "Off" which seems to be like perfume for them (I think they missed out the first word on the label), nap, go to beach, come home, shower, nap, find somewhere for dinner. All very pleasant and relaxing. In Portuguese, relax is pronounced “he-la-shee”. God only knows how it is spelled; probably “Pfghjkgfsdg”. Despite being in the forest area, there was not a lot of wildlife to see and no capivarras. They used to have woodpeckers in Brazil, but they all left because they got tired of saying hatch-a-chach-chach instead of rat-a-tat-tat.
The time passed far too quickly and on Thursday it was time to come home. This was also the first day that the sun shone unashamedly and by 10h00 it felt like 40 degrees. I wore my black t-shirt. We agreed to leave at 13h00 to get home in time to shower, unpack and make it back to Tanya for her birthday supper. So we got in the car at half past two.
We reversed our journey over the perilous “perigosa” (Literally: Your perineum will shrivel in fear) roads except this time we shared them with the trucks plying the trade route from Cubatao and Cubatuba, Ubertuba (German?), Tubatuba (So good they named it twice) and Innertuba (I made that one up; maybe more than one). There are signs on the motorway that say “Trucks and buses – obligatory to stay in right hand lane”. These are viewed with the same level of enthusiasm as the speed limit signs so the slowest truck would be in the right lane, the second slowest would take eleven miles to overtake it in the second lane, the third slowest truck would overtake the second slowest in the third lane which would also take 11 miles to accomplish and all the cars would be forced into the far left (fast/suicide) lane and try and squeeze between the last truck and the barrier – hard shoulders on Brazilian motorways are used only by pedestrians and cyclists. And the occasional horse.
Just as we got to the Sao Paulo city limits and passed the overturned security car in the latest downpour, TLS realized that Thursday is Rodizio day. In order to cut congestion in Sao Paulo, you are not allowed to drive your car on certain days of the week, the day depending on your registration number. As our registration ended with an 8, Thursday was our day for not driving. We decided to go straight to T in the hope that we had avoided the cameras rather than go all the way through the city to change. We were late anyway.
We abandoned the car at T’s flat and got a lift to pick up P at his school. There is a coned off lane for parents to use. Lots of security and when you are identified, a woman with a microphone calls the relevant child to leave the departures hall; they even have people to open and close doors and make sure you get away safely. And this is just a middle class public school. Apparently at private schools, the security is much tighter as the threat of kidnap increases.
Took P to his guitar class where we listened to Sweet Child of Mine by Guns and Roses for a solid hour and a half before going back to T for a supper of cheese, cold meat and assorted pies and quiches. Portuguese is confusing as Turkey is Turkey and Peru is Peru, but turkey is peru. P tried to teach TLS to play Sweet Child of Mine.
We eventually left there at about midnight and traffic was still heavy enough to block the four lane wide main avenue through central Sao Paulo. Finally got into bed at about 2 am, completely knackered.
Today we went to the doctor and had the car washed after the 440 km epic journey. I now feel qualified to race Formula 1 after negotiating Sao Paulo traffic and Brazilian motorways. I drove as TLS discovered that her Brazilian license had expired some months ago. I fail to see why this should be an issue as, in my experience, most Brazilian drivers have never had lessons or obtained licenses to start with.
And that brings us back to the Sabbath. P is here with his guitar – fortunately no amp – and appears to be practicing Sweet Child of Mine. I am hoping he will learn something new tonight.
Saturday we were invited to Henneh (Mrs Smith?) and family for "a light lunch". We arrived at their beautiful house early so decided to sit in the car until we were late. I feared the very fabric of Brazilian society would collapse if we rang their bell ahead of schedule. We sat at the pool with our light lunch of bread, cheese, olives, nuts, cookies, beers (perhaps an aperitif, sir; Whisky? Vodka? - Brazilians are very hospitable, wherever you go). It turned out (after mild gorging) that this was not lunch. We retired to the dining area for a massive salad (oddly with no sugar) which I assumed was lunch.
Then lunch arrived; a huge dish of filet mignon, roast potatoes and urinally unusually, asparagus. An unusual choice of vegetable.
Dessert was cake, a second cake, a third cake with chocolate mousse covered in chocolate and fresh fruit. I watched the cake while eating my fresh fruit. Damn you, sugar levels! Then coffee. I asked Mrs Wise Mountain what she considered a large lunch if this was light. She shrugged and said "Nu? meat and potato. How big is this?"
And that pretty much brings me back to today; the day of our departure. Phoebe is wandering around looking slightly lost as she contemplates a sudden reduction in the number of live-in victims and P has arrived but without his guitar. Strangely, I am already missing Sweet Child of Mine.
Fat Al
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