São Paulo…
…is gritty.
Like, very gritty.
Certain areas are especially equipped with grit.
Sé, for example. Sé is a central borough of muted colours and grubby ground; it's precisely the sort of area you stumble into unawares and immediately question. The sort of area that takes you by surprise and gets you scanning your shoulder rapidly. Some of the homeless — zonked out on some vital vice — mumble and gesture at you as you walk by. Most just sit or lay slack-jawed, scanning you slowly with their eyes as they smoke cigarettes.
São Paulo is a tough place to walk around at times, but it’s also an incredibly lively, exciting, and vibey city, with a seriously special culinary scene and an admirable, artsy undercurrent.
Such is the nature of inequality, and in Brazil it is as stark as anywhere I’ve ever been.
There’s a market on Sundays there is. Between Vila Madalena and Pinheiros. Kinda near where we’re staying. A good market n all — handcrafted funky shirts, wood-carved jewellery, steaming food trucks. Of course there are other trades, such as shades, spades and the everglades, but I can’t list them out, try as I may. All of this stuff is winding every which way in the vicinity around Batman Alley.
Now, why is Batman Alley a thing? Haven’t looked into that. Won't now, let's be fair. But the artwork on that snaking street is emblematic of the colourful, cool sorts you see all over the city. Murals and artistic urban flourishes are rife — from giant features on the side of high-rise apartments to smaller, poignant pieces dotted on seemingly every corner.
Creative expression is very much the flavour of the place.
Take this poster for example.
Up a large hill and round some winding roads, towards our little abode, is a small, busy roundabout. These are fastened there. Don't they just make you feel warm and fuzzy on the inside?
After the market we head to a proper local spot — a quintessential Brazilian diner serving specialist sandwiches. Bar e Lanches Estadão it’s called. Here, we eat delicious roasted pork with veggies, pineapple and chilli sauce. The whole thing just works, and continues working, but our greasy mitts and mouths are met by entirely inadequate napkins.
Then to Little Tokyo, which is a hub of goodness thanks to the influx of Japanese migrants in the first half of the 20th century. Quite nutty really; Brazil has the highest population of Japanese outside of Japan, and over 20% of São Paulo’s populace is of Japanese heritage.
There’s a market here too, which we peruse amidst the masses, gawping at the shimmering foodstuffs and trying to make sense of countless quirky stores. Then the sandwich hits us. It hits us hard. So we have to stop for a beer. What a burden. We’ll just sip this and yawn at each other for half-hour whilst watching people exist — si? Si!
For some reason we decide to then eat a massive gyoza, which tastes great but really mingles with the sandwich grease already down there and represents a proverbial nail in the coffin of our stomachs.
There is still time, however, and as I’ve noted, to walk the way of the Catedral da Sé de São Paulo, where we stand in awe of its gothic columns and stunning stained-glass windows. It is after this stop that we wander into the murky square of Sé, and the accumulating dusk could very well have seen our lives end. Down into the Metro it is, ta.
The streets surrounding São Paulo’s Municipal Market represent the truest form of pandemonium. I mean that. Whilst it’s not the only place in the world where you can easily purchase sunglasses, spices, scalextric, a seven-foot Santa, a new grandmother, plastic guns, real guns, tacky tinsel, coconut milk, and a new liver on a single street, it is definitely the only place in the world where you can purchase all those things whilst not being able to hear yourself think. An entirely manic conglomeration of bodies, sales, shouts and sorrys.
The Municipal Market itself is a bit less intimidating, but what the fruit tellers do — you see — is give you a bunch of ‘free’ samples (obviously you have to buy something) and then call a banana like £4 (which really makes you not want to buy something). We tasted some delicious, juicy fruits from across Brazil but we certainly got fleeced as a result. No tropical taste is going to shift the sourness of £9 for like four pieces of fruit.
Other than that you’ve got wine shops, nuts, dried veggies, wet veggies, butchers, fishmongers and many more familiars. We opt for lashings of mortadella and some yummy short rib croquettes before heading back out to the chaos.
A big park seemingly has cross-continental allure, because we always end up interested. This one — Ibirapuera Park — somehow requires us to walk like forty minutes from a Metro station down the flank of a big, trafficy motorway. Then, when this stunning, scenting stint is over, we have to cross a dual carriageway with haste to look upon an underwhelming monument and wonder how to actually enter the park.
Luckily, several things salvaged the excursion. One being this image of Mona Lisa twerking. Another being Georgie not looking where she’s going and walking her delightful forehead slap bang onto the centre of a lamppost. The final one being the park itself — full of life and cyclists and joggers and sports and doggos. Some gnarly swans as well if I recall.
That evening we head to a super groovy bar called São Cristovão, adorned with thousands of bits of football history and memorabilia, ranging from jerseys and flags to signed snaps of famous folk enjoying a chopp (draft beer) with the owners. The food is seriously delicious too. Felt like a good date night spot actually. Were we on a date? Is it still considered a date if you’ve had 150+ consecutive date nights? Is a date marked by going out for food, or by its inherent distinctiveness from days/evenings that came before? Does anyone know or care? Where is Susie Dent at?
Now I’ve always firmly argued that Tuesday is the worst day of the week. Typically this argument doesn’t hold up on the road, because a) every day is wonderful in some way, and b) days of the week are mostly arbitrary markers. However, you’re certainly reminded of it on Tuesday 12th December, because this shit is shit and stinky. We head too far across the city via Metro and foot to see…
……
……
….a custard-coloured building.
A sort of sub-par Versailles.
Museu do Ipiranga. Apparently. Some greenery and fountainry in front of the thing barely redeems its mediocrity.
(I’ve just looked at it on the internet and my evaluation seems harsh. It’s a holistic take. It’s justified. Perhaps if it’d been backed by bright blue sky I’d be recalling it as a highlight? The pointless conjecture of hindsight.)
Continuing away from it through Parque de Indepencia, the wide path slopes down to the Monument of the Fatherland — an impressive series of granite and bronze sculptures on the exact spot where Brazil announced liberation from the Portuguese in 1822. There’s a guy zipping down towards it on an electric skateboard. It’s wild speedy and he tumbles off it time and again. There’s probably some metaphor in that.
Honestly what a shit Tuesday.
Here’s why.
Here’s the clincher.
Here’s what makes it all make sense.
The taxi we order gets lost in a loop for about 15 minutes before even turning up. Fortunately we’ve left ourselves plenty of time. Once we’re in the cab she’s kind enough to ignore the directional instructions on her mounted phone and instead head directly towards a big, dirty traffic jam. You know when you peer at the screen and the estimated arrival time is just ticking up and up. So the jam lasts for two hours. Mint.
As this period progresses, I’m having a meltdown in the back of the cab and Georgie tells me shut up there’s nothing we can do about it and so on and so forth, which is completely valid but also really infuriating — just match my energy here my love, be annoyed with me. She says no please honestly Sam you’re making this worse just shut up for 5 minutes. So I count to 5 minutes without making a peep but the pressure is just too high I’ve got to moan some more so I do and she tells me to shut up again. And of course, by the end of it, we miss the city walking tour we’ve both been very excited for.
That’s all I want to say about it because it still annoys me now.
Classic Tuesday.
In lieu of the tour here are some select, cool facts about São Paulo:
It’s the biggest city in Latin America.
For the most part, we really enjoyed it.
That’s quite enough.
Paraty & Ilha Grande
Wednesday took longer than we’d envisaged ‘n all, but we made it to Paraty — an absolute paradise with a side of crispy skin. Our boat ride around a few of the several-hundred islands beyond the bay is something else entirely. Proper ‘pinch yourself’ stuff.
This old Colonial town became key for the export of gold back to Europe, but transit bandits and pirates had their merry way with the shiny stuff so the Portuguese found a more direct route from the Minas Gerais mines to Rio. As a result, the town went neglected. Until sugar. And slavery. And coffee. And Cachaça. And now tourism. It’s got a prickly history but a pleasant present feel, complete with well-lit cobblestone streets for a few golden hour beers and local bites.
We really really loved our couple of nights there; it helped that our guesthouse was quaint and quiet, with heaps of cute cats and good coffee.
From there we headed toward Angra dos Reis. Tropical forest dominates the coastline, and out the bus window I spot groups of construction workers taking lunch beneath gazebos at 11:30am. Stifling. We get on a jumpy, jam-packed taxi boat to Abraão — the main port and visitor hub of Ilha Grande, which is another slice of silly paradise. Who the hell do we think we are? How are we going to go back from here?
Mostly it’s a case of sunbathing and swimming and reading and basking and strolling around different eateries. Horrorshow really. Its energy reminds me of some smaller Thai islands or Koh Rong in Cambodia — gorgeous, golden beaches with dense jungle looming over the whole affair. One of the days we went to Praia de Lopes Mendes, requiring a boat and short hike over a headland.
Ilha Grande has stunning bays dotted about its every turn, from long, rangey numbers down to secluded gems. You could easily spend a week or more there and explore something new every day, but it’s also perfectly catered to a slower pace of life.
And so…
Rio de Janeiro
This is our final big city. World-renowned, really, isn’t it — a picture of Brazilian culture. From the tanned bodies on its sweeping beaches to its notorious, dangerous underbelly, and from live music and dancing all days of the week through to its sublime, hearty cuisine, it’s safe to say Rio’s energy is unrivalled. It is called the Marvellous City for a reason. Our five days there are flat out with to-ing and fro-ing, a tiring odyssey of touristic staples and immersive alternatives.
I’m not going to write an A to B account or a trip pamphlet, I’m just going to note a few highlights and takes — my brand of travel writing, really.
The beauty of Jardim Botânico lies somewhat in its dankness and darkness, but also in its avenue of giant palms and quaint, rounded rose garden. Here we learn the sheer scale of Brazil’s Atlantic Forest, and take a second out to watch monkeys and snakes go about their days. There are also some early glimpses of our eternal lord and saviour, distant but nicely punctuated by the rich greenery.
We dance by a bar on the cusp of Copacabana. It’s Sunday and the wonderful, wavey sidewalk is absolutely abuzz. There are people busting shapes and shaking their hips in incredibly infectious ways; beyond, under the floodlights on the sand, others practise their footvolley or spikes late into the night.
Sunset at Sugarloaf Mountain is so beautiful as to be a slight emotional prod to the ribs. It’s an extended moment of ‘ah yeah, hang on, we’re coming to an end here, what an absolute ride this has been’. A beam of perfect orange light breaks through the accumulating clouds on the other side of the city, casting these bays and buzzy communities in a dusk of honey. Jesus sees it all, sees us, blinking as little as possible and sipping our strong caipirinhas.
Now I know that might look like a heap of the same photo there or thereabouts, and you’d be right, but humour me — revisit the series just now. Inspect a little closer. Yes, that’s right, the sun is moving ever-so-slowly towards the horizon in each photograph. What you’ve basically got in front of you is a terrific little timelapse. You must feed like you were there! Extraordinary!
Rio is more spectacular than it is shifty, but you can’t discard the latter. Touristy areas are increasingly targeted by petty criminals and violent gangs, meaning there’s a marked presence of vigilante groups on street corners at night. Cars don’t stop at red lights too often. Every time we get in an Uber the driver immediately locks the door. Once, the soundsystem plays a song titled ‘Dangerous Vibes’. More than once a military vehicle drives up alongside and past us, with the nose of an automatic weapon poking out this or that window. Like we’re in a scene from Sicario, honestly.
It’s a shame you can’t amble around too loosely. If you wander into a favela you’re probably in a spot of bother. These swooping, unstructured settlements climb hillsides the city-wide. What of the odd allure? What of the semi-macabre curiosity? We opt against a tour because it’s not right really, but one time we sat for a couple of beers at Largo de São Francisco da Prainha, which felt to be on the cusp of some such spaces.
Danger is a strange thing. So much of it is ‘wrong place, wrong time, or even ‘right place, really wrong time’. We walk around — albeit with our heads on swivels — every night in Rio. Sometimes it feels a little silly but mostly it is fine, and so we roam, from amidst Ipanema’s streetside bars to the lively nightlife of Lapa, where we drink Cachaça and boogie to Brazilian funk. (Lapa is fascinating insofar as it’s far safer during darkness than in daylight, on account of increased police presence).
What else?
You’ll be pleased to learn that we made it to our walking tour this time. Might have even been on a Tuesday? The sheer audacity. Long story short: some extraordinary changes have unfolded in this place between 1600 and today. Here are some dangling things we learned:
The Portuguese royal family moved to and fell in love with the city; colonial opulence proliferated and a sign of this was having horses; the smellier the house the richer the owners; the old colonial areas have tall doors for such steeds.
Sadly, the government doesn’t protect the city’s heritage homes anymore.
At one point, city planners knocked down hills so wind couldn’t circulate disease, but this left the coasts super susceptible to attack.
The Paraguayan war in the mid-1800s wiped out 90% of that country’s male population, which is genuinely mad isn’t it.
Colonial and trade ships bred lice in a big way, so when the Europeans arrived with shaved heads, native Brazilians thought it was fashion and followed suit.
So much more besides, including stops at congress, stories of liberation, and the backstory of the Brazilian flag.
Another day we culture ourselves up some more with a visit to the Museum of Tomorrow. It’s both remarkable and bleak, with state-of-the-art exhibitions covering humanity in all its staggering nuance, from ancestry to sensations and from power to agriculture. But the overarching story was one of troublesome population growth, inequality, and human avarice. I couldn’t help but offset galleries of ‘human innovation and technology’ against the sheer poverty of Rio’s streets, a whole 200 metres from the museum’s entrance.
WHAT ELSE? EH? WHAT BLOODY ELSE?
Well obviously we pay a visit to big stone Jesus, but he’s more a cloudy Christ and so the whole shabang feels somewhat underwhelming. Where’s that in all the travel blogs? ‘Not as amazing as you want it to be’. In the lower percentile of enjoyable things we did in Rio, honestly. But you have to.
Santa Teresa (a compact, colourful, bohemian neighbourhood) and the famous Escadaria Selarón steps — adorned with a host of funky tiles — are more our cup of tea.
As is this little hole-in-the-wall bar called Bip Bip, which has a heap of musicians around a big wooden table, playing their instruments unplugged and leading singalongs of choro & samba classics from the bustling crowd. A help-yourself scenario at the beer fridge too. When they finish with each tune, everyone clicks rather than claps, lest the neighbours get annoyed. Simply spectacular energy.
We end our stint in the city with a trip to the aptly named Big Lovely Theatre With Lots of Old Ornate Touches And A Big Christmas Tree That Warms Your Cockles (known locally as Theatro Municipal). Went there to watch the ballet, which is genuinely mint, isn’t it? A form that doesn’t require language, right, thus doesn’t alienate us ignorant English, and instead tells its tale through staggering athleticism, rousing tunes, and utter elegance. Count me in.
To top the whole lot off, we face an absolute gem of a final dorm experience. It’s a truly odd tickbox exercise by this one particular person. Accusations of a stolen phone? Yep. Frequent, ripsnorting farts? Sure. Pants in the sink? Uhuh. And a full wig of hair, dismantled, seemingly strung across every square inch of the bathroom floor? Yes please yes please. It’s fair to say we connect with our roommate. A woman, we think, but we’re like ships in the night for a while, until the farts erupt and then we’re proper suspect. So now we’re fairly sure it’s a trans woman, right, and this is seemingly confirmed when she raucously sings Lady Gaga in a rather gruff voice from 7am in the morning, as though to intentionally piss us off. Let’s hear it for dorms. And thanks to Rio. A huge highlight in a now-ending stream of highlights.
Also, big shoutout to these flavoursome little savoury nuggets. I wish we hadn’t discovered them so late in the day.
Cabo Frio
The final hurrah, by all accounts. We spend a couple days in the Cabo Frio / Arraial do Cabo area. We don’t know why we’re here or what to do really, but we enjoy it nonetheless. Outside of its quaint, compact old town — which is resplendent with cobbles, eateries, ice cream parlours and acoustic singers — Cabo Frio’s a fascinating, grizzly town. Our hotbox room is an annex to the home of grumbly old barber Victor, and round the streets near his it’s pure local energy, with drinkers at local haunts flicking their next bottlecap onto the grubby tarmac. I remember heading out to grab something from a shop and thinking ‘this — this right here — is precisely the appeal of getting away. The unassuming oddity of a new environment while doing a completely normal thing like walking down the road’. The beaches in Cabo were extraordinarily busy, what with it being the run-up to Christmas. We enjoy the sunshine and the warm, transparent sea.
Búzios
Our very last stop!
The tantalising topic of time.
Don’t get me going.
It's a mere twenty minutes up the road but this spot we’ve got is a far cry from Cabo. Secluded and utterly stunning, the coastal house has a sweeping view of the horizon, and is complete with a semi-private beach and big veranda. We see our travels out in style, enjoying surf ‘n turf on Christmas Day, swimming regularly, and soothing our hot skin in the cool torrent of the outside shower. Whatever we want, whenever we want, really, but not for long, so bask in it. It’s a mellow frenzy of mimosas, Christmas songs, love, and gratitude.
During our final swim — as if doffing its cap up or waving us off — the continent or the current or some other glorious force sees us a mere metre away from a big, beautiful sea turtle. This wonderful, elegant creature pokes its head up, spots us, and swims slowly away.
So it goes.
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