Ah my final post. You may feel its a bit late, and you may be right, but who can know in this crazy world of ours. As I am probably just be writing to one person, and currently watching TV, this post will be a stream of conciousness regarding my hazy memories of the final days of my trip in a style many will compare to Joyce.
I believe I left you somewhere on the Ilha Grande, wondering what Zouk was, and who Guillermo might be? Well lets get to that. I decided to leave the hostel to visit Ilha Grande, which had been recommended from a number of quarters. Guillermo from Cordoba in Argentina was also heading down, so I took another luxurious bus journey with him. My head was a bit woozy, and the Spanglo-Portuguese conversation with my companion was proving tricky, so I drifted off and missed the purportedly scenic views. Oh well. We had decided that we were a cut above the usual tourists and could organise our own way to the island, rather than the package bus/boat combo, which meant we were walking through the port looking lost when we happened upon Sebastian.
To be honest I can't remember his actual name, but after asking him where we could get the local ferry to the island, Guillermo managed to discern that he was from Cordoba too. Sebastian was one of those hippy vendors of cheap tat like bracelets and necklaces that annoy you on beaches and block your sun. I'm still wearing one of his pieces. Sebastian was a godsend to a man like myself on a limited end-of-trip budget. He directed us to the cheapest hostel on the island, (where more of these layabouts were situated, including a Togolese girl who claimed she had meditated herself to the island), and cooked delicious meals for us every night for next to nothing. That gave us a free license to get a good feel for the place.
No roads make boating the best way to get to the world famous beaches on the island, but with the awful weather I decided I'd be more adventurous and go on some of the long walks up and over the thickly forested hills. Waterfalls, beaches, ruins, the island had it all, but I was somewhat thwarted by the weather. The island was also hosting a Zouk dancing festival, which is a dance so sexy that it makes the lambada look like it came from a Nunnery. I obviously got pissed drunk at the bar and tapped my feet for a bit, before heading home, like any self-respecting Irish person with two left feet. The weather did encourage me to get to Trindade though, and what a place I found.
I can't remember whom had recommended it to me, but this little village was perfection. I briefly remonstrated with a fellow backpacker about whether it was nicer than Pipa, before I realised I might be in the wrong. It was so relaxed and pretty. Just look at the pictures. Rockpools, waterfalls, beaches and a table-tennis table at the hostel, it had everything. I had some funny stories at this place, like trying to find the medical history of a dog that had bitten a friend, but maybe this is a story of sadness, considering the inevitable commercialisation of a village that had no road to it 10 years ago. I suppose I was/am part of this ongoing process that might take away something incredible about Brazil, but perhaps not.
I left Trindade with a heavy heart, and spent the next two nights in Paraty. Only so-so to be honest. Pretty buildings, but not much else. I had one last night in Rio and used it to great effect. A full night's beach partying on Ipanema was a great blowout, and as dawn neared, I climbed up the empty lifeguard's tower to watch the sun rise in his elevated throne. With sleep taking hold of me, I could feel the sea and Ireland beckoning me home, drawing ever me ever closer... in fact really close. Looking down the 4 lads had grabbed the bottom of the tower and were looking to dump me unceremoniously in the crashing waves. I chucked my phone down on the sand, stared into the middle distance, and gave a scream for Erin go Brath!! I was going home, but with perhaps a different view on what that meant.
Life is a one big adventure.......which is why there's no time to proofread this blog.
Be good to eachother.
I believe I left you somewhere on the Ilha Grande, wondering what Zouk was, and who Guillermo might be? Well lets get to that. I decided to leave the hostel to visit Ilha Grande, which had been recommended from a number of quarters. Guillermo from Cordoba in Argentina was also heading down, so I took another luxurious bus journey with him. My head was a bit woozy, and the Spanglo-Portuguese conversation with my companion was proving tricky, so I drifted off and missed the purportedly scenic views. Oh well. We had decided that we were a cut above the usual tourists and could organise our own way to the island, rather than the package bus/boat combo, which meant we were walking through the port looking lost when we happened upon Sebastian.
To be honest I can't remember his actual name, but after asking him where we could get the local ferry to the island, Guillermo managed to discern that he was from Cordoba too. Sebastian was one of those hippy vendors of cheap tat like bracelets and necklaces that annoy you on beaches and block your sun. I'm still wearing one of his pieces. Sebastian was a godsend to a man like myself on a limited end-of-trip budget. He directed us to the cheapest hostel on the island, (where more of these layabouts were situated, including a Togolese girl who claimed she had meditated herself to the island), and cooked delicious meals for us every night for next to nothing. That gave us a free license to get a good feel for the place.
No roads make boating the best way to get to the world famous beaches on the island, but with the awful weather I decided I'd be more adventurous and go on some of the long walks up and over the thickly forested hills. Waterfalls, beaches, ruins, the island had it all, but I was somewhat thwarted by the weather. The island was also hosting a Zouk dancing festival, which is a dance so sexy that it makes the lambada look like it came from a Nunnery. I obviously got pissed drunk at the bar and tapped my feet for a bit, before heading home, like any self-respecting Irish person with two left feet. The weather did encourage me to get to Trindade though, and what a place I found.
I can't remember whom had recommended it to me, but this little village was perfection. I briefly remonstrated with a fellow backpacker about whether it was nicer than Pipa, before I realised I might be in the wrong. It was so relaxed and pretty. Just look at the pictures. Rockpools, waterfalls, beaches and a table-tennis table at the hostel, it had everything. I had some funny stories at this place, like trying to find the medical history of a dog that had bitten a friend, but maybe this is a story of sadness, considering the inevitable commercialisation of a village that had no road to it 10 years ago. I suppose I was/am part of this ongoing process that might take away something incredible about Brazil, but perhaps not.
I left Trindade with a heavy heart, and spent the next two nights in Paraty. Only so-so to be honest. Pretty buildings, but not much else. I had one last night in Rio and used it to great effect. A full night's beach partying on Ipanema was a great blowout, and as dawn neared, I climbed up the empty lifeguard's tower to watch the sun rise in his elevated throne. With sleep taking hold of me, I could feel the sea and Ireland beckoning me home, drawing ever me ever closer... in fact really close. Looking down the 4 lads had grabbed the bottom of the tower and were looking to dump me unceremoniously in the crashing waves. I chucked my phone down on the sand, stared into the middle distance, and gave a scream for Erin go Brath!! I was going home, but with perhaps a different view on what that meant.
Life is a one big adventure.......which is why there's no time to proofread this blog.
Be good to eachother.
