Pipa to Jericoacoara

Pipa, Brazil. 24 December 2013
Back in Pipa for Christmas eve and who better to spend it with than another of my Brazil-dwelling expat friends, part of my adopted family of global misfits. He's a wonderful chap from Spain, and I meet him and his friend at Pousada da Praia - we have a beautiful room with views across the beach and it would be extremely romantic were we not three straight blokes. I try to spice things up by picking up 3 argie and italian girls on the beach earlier, but I lose them to a dope-smoking surfer. The same one who got high the week before and forgot to drive my Russian friends back from the beach after a surf lesson. At least he forgot to charge as well.

 
Room with a view

Christmas eve in Pipa, we eat some of the best fresh tuna I have ever tasted. Later we celebrate at the only bar which is open, which belongs to a local friend so I feel a little more at home. There's no scenery, so being with Spaniards I get pretty drunk, and lose at table football. An uncountable number of caipirinhas later the Spaniards pretend we’re doing a runner without paying. I’m gullible and wonder if that’s true, but it’s not anyway I didn’t stop to say goodbye and merry xmas to my bar-owning friend so I feel guilty. But drunken guilty isn’t half as bad.

Christmas day
Hangover and several hours driving to be done, which we share. First hour over countless speed bumps that threaten to bring back the capirinhas and more, but we make it safely to the main highway, now smooth and pleasant - a great job by the Brazilian military who don't have anyone to fight so they build instead.

Stop-over in Canoa Quebrada before heading on up to Jericoacoara the next day, passing Fortaleza to pick up some hammocks at the central market.

 

  
What's your view?

Jericoacoara (Jeri)
This is my first time north of Natal - my Spanish friend invited me to join him and his friend to travel up to Jericoacoara where he used to live for a few years. I had no expectations but imagined it must have something special for him to want to live there. I was not disappointed, but my first impression was of the hotel owner whom I thought must be a robot from the awful film "AI". Any moment I expected his face to open up and a memory card would pop out labelled "pro kite-surfer v1.450".

Jeri (see above for full unpronounceable name) used to be just a fishing village now a mecca for tourists, but it retains it's charm because you can only get there by 4x4 and only registered vehicles can drive within the village itself. It has loads of touristy shops and restaurants, but the quality all-round is excellent. As usual in Brazil, and probably anywhere, the food is pretty repetitive unless you come to a very small but popular village, or a very large and cosmopolitan city.

Beach party
The next 8 days is a bit of a blur. I slept at night for a total of about 2 hours, and probably longer on sand dunes or beach. One night I woke up in the middle of a beach party, so I just stood up and carried on. Amazingly I never got a hangover. The capeta (alcaline) + capirinha (acid) + mid-fiesta siesta (base) combo seemed to work a treat.

New Year seemed to blur itself with all the other days, as anyway there wasn't much sense of time in this village. There were plenty of girls though - they came in clusters of 6 to 8 whereas blokes came in 3 or 4 packs at most, so overall the situation was what is described only in Brazil as "mulherada"

Rocking the boat
So the scene was ripe for breaking my longest period of abstinence since losing my virginity. It wasn't a great moment, but at least a beached fishing boat provided a novelty. Apart from the incoming tide, the scene was dampened by the Brazilian 2-day rule (planning ahead is not a turn-on for me, but necessary for many Brazilians to prove that they're not prostitutes)

Birthday treat
New Year's day things were to quieten down, but on the way back from the beach, I stopped for some bbq prawns next to a couple of lovely ladies, and suddenly remembered it's my birthday. This combination triggered some kind of automatic switch to flick in my unconscious, because as if by auto-pilot I found myself playing the game until the inevitable disappointing end. Technically successful (not Brazilian therefore no 2-day rule), but the effort involved left me short-changed and empty of course. I clawed some of that back the next day when she was a like a delightfully sweet strawberry I could have nibbled on her forever, but damned time got in the way, 3rd January arrived, and she was leaving. And no longer was it my birthday.


Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me... :-)

Fortaleza, 4 January 2013
Still, I had to chase the illusion, so I followed her to Fortaleza and saw her off at the airport a couple days later. There she mentioned how she'd never done such a thing before (a one-night stand), while I feigned a look of never having heard such a story before. What an arse I am. Never mind.

Test-drive Retirement

Travel is the ultimate way to procrastinate. I’ve told people I’ve gone on holiday, but how long can you go on holiday for? A month, two, three? By the time I come back to the UK it’ll probably be four months at least, and then only for spring and summer before I head back on holiday again.

I’m a lucky bastard. I don’t need to work, I’ve made it out of the rat-race, and I’m not a drug addict. But I do need fulfilment as much as anyone. But I'm not going to get this by reading how to get this on Facebook.

No, I’m going to become an inventor. But first I’m going to procrastinate a little more and have a bit of fun on the way. I’m going to write my travel blog and post some pretty pictures.

So here goes….

Sometime in mid December 2012
I’ve just finished off and rented two new apartments, two more to finish but that’s enough I’m off -  the rest can wait till Spring.

I fly to Brazil, via Amsterdam and Dusseldorf.  In Germany I stay at a friends place. He’s a pianist with problems, who hasn’t? But we exchange troubles and somehow life seems that much warmer. Why don’t I visit my friends more often? I’m an anti-social bastard really, but I need my friends as much as anyone.

I land in Natal, north eastern Brazil, and grab a cab to Pipa an hour away where I bought an apartment on a whim 3 years ago. It’s a beautiful resort, in a Truman-show type of way. It’s bounded by an electric fence that’s broken so a stray wire short-circuits in the wind going tick-tick-tick like the crickets outside, were it England. Other than that it’s perfect. Perfect pool. Perfect bar. Perfect spa. Perfect hammock. Perfect flowers. And with the aircon on and the mosquitoes out, perfect bedroom with the most delicious mattress I’ve ever rested on in Brazil. And I’m not talking metaphorically.

I spend a few days alone catching up on admin and generally lazing by the pool, strolling along the beach, eating acai with banana, feeding the monkeys, nothing too strenuous. Need a rest after the building work in the UK which as usual did my head in, and my credit cards, but was worth it.



 

Before the weekend I rent a car from a nice lady at the condo reception who has a friend who will do me a deal. There’s no paperwork and she just gives me the keys in exchange for about 20 quid a day which is pretty good in Brazil. I drive to Natal and pick-up some friends from the airport, one who lives in Salvador and two who have come from London. We hit the Ponta Negra nightlife jogging. It’s a relatively tame weekend, but we do find an excellent Lebanese restaurant, and a gap in the market for dried mango.

Monday we all head back to my place in Pipa. A friend also has a place in the same condo which he kindly lets me use, so we can spread out comfortably. God this is dull isn’t it? Where is the sex and drugs? I’m trying to keep it family friendly. Actually it was family friendly, but very nearly not. A brazilian ex of my friend who also has an apartment here had dabbled in some identity fraud, created a fake email address under his name, and was renting out his apartment authorising the activity as if she were the owner. Well my turning up uncovered her scam, and I was expecting a novela, but nothing came of it. Yet, anyway.

The following weekend we all head to Joao Pessoa a couple of hours further south. I have some mail to collect, as you do, and my friends are due to fly out from there. It’s also a nice little unassuming city with a lovely beach and some nice restaurants. And some great forró parties. At one of these my friend falls for a girl from Acre. Acre? Where’s that? I thought it was a kind of vegetable or something, but turns out it’s yet another massive state in Brazil, somewhere west.

   Turns out Acre is 38 million acres, bigger than England though I suppose that's not saying much.

So she’s here with some friends, including a beautiful young lady. And a well-built member of the Policia militar. Maybe he’s here to protect the posse. We all sit together at dinner and my brain is frazzled. On my left is the grace of this beautiful girl whose subtle gestures in her face, were I to pay attention to them for more than two seconds, would probably send me down the rabbit hole. In a hypothetical scenario where I could pay by-the-second for guilt-free gazing, I would buy a minute and ride through that rabbit hole. Because I’d know the minute would be up and I’d be back. But life isn’t like that - there’s no turning back at any moment. Anyway this rabbit hole isn’t for me. No pun intended, honestly.

Meanwhile on the right is the obligatory Brazilian TV, with Will Smith crashing through buildings then just getting up and dusting himself off. Perhaps there’s a connection.

My friend from Salvador is one for crashing through stuff and just getting up. He has balls where I don’t, or just doesn’t give a shit. Saturday night he wants to hit downtown, it’s the “alternative” scene, but everyone including the taxi driver we instruct to take us there insists that it’s not safe. “Every tourist who goes there at night gets mugged” He loses out on a sizable taxi fare to take us somewhere tame and nearby instead.

By Monday my friends have all left, we have separate plans, and I’m off back to Pipa to spend Christmas with some crazy but lovable Spanish friends...

Cali... caliente

Late August 2010

It's been nearly two weeks in Colombia, filled with innocent sightseeing and healthy trekking excursions. We're in the coffee-break between the action. But now we're heading down south to Cali, the Colombian party capital of Salsa, things could change.

Just getting on the bus there are signs of trouble. Mark sleeps while I find myself flirting with a girl sitting nearby. She turns out to be a bit young for me, though she tries to convince me this is not the case in Colombia, and does a pretty good job of it.

 

Not that the temptations stop there, when we get into town an impromptu lingerie fashion show teases shoppers.

Meanwhile downstairs the army entice would-be soldiers by letting them play with large guns. Happy couples and children pose for some interesting photos.

Salsa
Later we head into town, a free salsa performance is showing in the local theatre, as a prelude to the next salsa festival. It's quite spectacular. The salsa style in Cali is very showy, quite different to other parts of Colombia or Latin America.

Apart from Salsa parties, there's not much to do in Cali. The zoo is pretty fun though.

   

New Arrival
In the evening we go to the airport to meet our Aussie mate, also called Mark. So now we are 3 - myself, Aussie Mark, and English Mark, who I'll call Markus or MC (Marcus Claudius). I met Mark, the aussie, probably 15 years ago in a London hostel (where else). I was a bum back then too (as well as now, not as well as him), soon after leaving university. Mark was doing the aussie travel thing. Together we hatched a plan to seduce posh women by posing as window-cleaners, and the three-musketeers window cleaning service was born (English Mark being included without warning). The service didn't live long though - some of the customers had the right idea but the wrong gender.

  
Mark's main duties on the tour (apart from charming the ladies of course) were head chef and comic. Never a dull or hungry moment.

Popayan
Mid-week again not much happening in Cali so we pop down further south to Popayan just three hours away. Mark was a little nervous at first, having read up on all the dangers of Colombia. But the bus ride was pretty harmless, though later I heard that the same route had been held up by FARC (a left-wing military group more prevalent in the south). Everyone was taken off the bus and forcibly held... to listen to a PR speech. They just wanted to explain they meant no trouble, they just had some disagreements with the government. Comforting words no doubt, though the semi-automatics may not have had the same effect.

That said, if someone held a gun to my head and said you have five seconds to choose a country in which to live for the rest of your life, there's a fair chance I'd blurt out "Colombia". It's a wonderful country, and this shows in the warm and friendly smiles of the people. 

 
   

Popayan is a picturesque colonial town with some damned good food, and holds an annual gastronomic festival. It's almost wasted on me since as usual I've got my eye on other tasty delights. e.g. we're walking down the street when a car passes and stops momentarily ahead of us, out pops a bubbly blond, bouncing across the pavement to a cash-machine. Moments later she's back in the car and off it rolls...very slowly, slowly enough for me to flag it down. A couple of girls seem chirpy and chatty, and I'm invited for a ride.... honey-trap thinks my aussie mate, but going by intuition, or something, I disappear into the car with the girls. 


I live to tell the tale, but sadly there's not much to tell. Having thrown some suggestions in the air,  we settle for coffee then a private party, dance, order pizza, and well that's about it. Doh, maybe I forgot the alcohol, or there were higher forces at work.

  

We leave (why?), heading back up to Cali. I feel we only scratched the surface here, it's the kind of place you need to spend time to discover, and best seen with some locals. We saw plenty of bars, but the club-scene is tucked away in Menga or Juanchito sectors. One night as-good-as-married-Markus turned in early so I dragged my aussie mate all the way over there.. only to be turned away... left on the street like a couple of kids locked out of a candy store. It was a bring-your-own-candy party.

Medellin
Continuing up north we stop at Medellin, home of the infamous Pablo Escobar before he was finally hunted down and shot by the government. Like many parts of Colombia, Medellin is a place of stark contrasts. The metro service is state-of-the-art, including cable-cars that offer impressive views of the city, as well as glimpses of the poverty below.

   
 

An escopetarra, a former rifle turned into a guitar, symbol of peace.

Medellin is known for it's rampant night-life - we get a hint of it as we head out a couple of nights but it's mid-week again so we turn in early. It's also highly touristed, especially by americans, so we don't have a huge urge to stay long. The weekend awaits us in Cartagena...

Colombia, an extended coffee break

August 2010

Flying into Bogota from Lima, I meet up with my friend Mark who has come over for a month's holiday. I've known Mark since I was 8, both of us from military families, with English fathers who married tough foreign women. That, and being introverts, maybe all we have in common, but back in the days of boarding-school friendships were how you survived, and maybe this alone was enough to make us brothers. So every now and then we meet up in random places.

We stay in Candelaria, a dodgy district towards the south of Bogota, but it's pretty enough and convenient for the main tourist attractions. The hotel is basic, a bit like boarding school, but without the early morning bell or sadistic housemaster, though sometimes with occasional armed raids (ok only one in 50 years)

Fernando Botero
I'm pleased that after solo travelling a while I can sit back and not think for a while. Mark has planned out the first day of sightseeing - the excellent Botero gallery and the Gold museum being the main highlights. Fernando Botero has made a successful but unusual career by painting a world in which everyone and everything is fat.

Some pictures I nicked off the internet. Lovely floor.

Next day we aim for a hill that borders Bogota on the east, in search of a good view of the city. On the way I'm distracted by another good view - an impromptu fashion show, and force Mark into staying for this cheap display.

I try to get some after-party tickets but no luck. We move on, taking a cable-car up the hill for some impressive, though less exciting, views of the city.

In the evening after dinner, against the advice of guidebooks, we hail a cab to get home. Well the cabbie appears a little off his head, and slightly lost in finding his way to our destination. He appears to be going in circles, so I decide to give him directions. A right-turn instruction the cabbie takes quite literally, not bothering to give way, and we come to an abrupt stop against another car. It's only a slight crash, but it means our cabbie isn't going anywhere in a hurry. Luckily the street seems to be full of cabs, so while ours is arguing with the other victim, we get out without paying, jump straight into another, and tell new cabbie to drive off quickly. This seems to work, we make a swift get-away, and our new driver proves to be a much better navigator.

At night I dream I went with Mark to visit an old boarding house we used to live at, called Orchard house. We go to see Mr Footner, the housemaster, but he is no longer living there. We argue about how the playing fields have changed since we were there. Nothing interesting happens.

Salt cathedral

More sightseeing. Today the famous Salt mine cathedral - a salt mine still in production, but one where they have cunningly turned some of the disused caverns into a cathedral. It's pretty impressive, complete with 3D movie explaining the salt mining process.

Afterwards, we stop for tea like a couple of retired old men, it's a challenge to find a decent cup of tea in this coffee country, Mark is not amused.

Zona Cafetera (Coffee zone)

If you can't beat them, join them, and the next day we head west directly into the coffee-growing district of Colombia - Zona Cafetera. We catch the bus to Manizales, which takes ages - the roads are narrow and winding (the Andes passes through Colombia as well), and there is a major accident on the way delaying us further by hours. Eventually we pass by the still-smoking remnants of an over-turned and burnt-out lorry. I don't think the poor driver made it. RIP.

Manizales

A well-kept town surrounded by stunning country-side. The hostel is quiet, and the smart and tidy neighbourhood strangely reminded me of Germany.

We book a tour to climb a volcano the next day, sounds sort of exciting, going up 5000 metres into the snowy heights.

Nevado del Ruiz
Up early for the tour, I'm a little bored by the prospect of the drive, some 3 hours just to get there. When we eventually arrive the hike is just 1 hour! Ok it's high up, the altitude makes it tough, you have to take tiny baby-sized steps very slowly to avoid fainting, but still... well I suppose I was spoilt from hiking in Chile and Argentina. But the pics look good...

Before heading back the driver starts the engine early to warm up the van, something to do with the altitude. Someone complains we're wasting fuel. I wonder what then is choosing to fly halfway round the world and purchasing a tour to the middle of no-where? However just to put things into some sort of context, on a daily basis the earth receives more than ten thousand times more energy from the sun than is burnt in fossil fuels. This is not to say that burning fossil fuels willy nilly is fine, but it gives a pretty good clue as to the potential of solar energy - just 2% of an area the size of the Sahara dessert covered in solar panels with just 20% efficiency would generate the same amount of energy as is burnt globally in fossil fuels on a daily basis.

On the way back we stop at a thermal spa pool, no argument here - the heat is volcanic.

More pics

Pereira

We pass through this allegedly horny little town, meet up with Mark's friend Richie who lives nearby, have a few beers, and listen to some great tales of freelance swiss hitmen. You'd have to hear it from Richie else it's not funny, sorry.

It's mid-week and quiet in town so we move on next day.

Salento

This is a gorgeous little town near a lush valley called Valle de Cocora, great place for a spot of horse-riding too.

Horses are handy for crossing rivers without getting your feet wet...

The evenings are pretty quiet, but as in any Colombian town there's a pool bar to while away some time.

btw, I recommend the hostel we stayed at.

More pics

Ok that's enough U-rated material.. next stop... Cali.. muy caliente!