Rio-Paraty

In the morning it was so misty that I could barely see from one end of Copacabana to the other. That's it then, time to go, no Corcovado. I ate a leisurely breakfast and then asked the doorman to hail me a taxi. He asked me if I would be interested in his mate's car, but I said no I want a real taxi. He misheard that as yellow taxi, but it had the same result as that's the colour of Rio taxis. At the bus station it took me a while to locate the right company, so numerous were the destinations. There were metal detectors at departure gates. Made me wonder why they had instituted that check.

I tried to get a glimpse of Cristo Redentor on the way out, but it was not visible. So I left Rio unredeemed. This was the first time I was seeing rural Brazil in daylight, I realised. The lush tropical vegetation reminded me of Malaysia. Highway 101 was lined with billboard advertising. Roadside vendors sold biscuits, canned drinks, fresh coconuts and oranges (R3 a sack). We passed housing estates which looked basic but serviceable. But what great access to the beach and what views! Nowhere in Brazil is there such intimacy between land and sea, wrote Rubem Braga of the Costa Verde (Green Coast), the littoral I was travelling through.

At Paraty, the Pouso Familiar Helicônia was very close to the bus station. But Paraty (sometimes spelled Parati) is small enough that everywhere is walking distance anyway. I got a warm welcome and directions to a nearby por quilo restaurant. The old town has some of the best preserved colonial architecture in Brazil, including concave cobblestone streets. In the picture you see the boundary of the old town at the end of the street.

Paraty's heyday was when it was one end of the gold trail from Minas Gerais (General Mines). Eventually the route switched to Rio to avoid raids from pirates who infested the islands and coves of the bay of Angra dos Reis. So in fact the lovely convoluted coastline was a factor in Paraty's decline. Eventually the gold ran out and that sealed Paraty's fate as a backwater.

This is the Capella de Santa Rita. The crowd by the side are spectators of a telenovela or film shoot. The wealth of old buildings in Paraty makes it a favoured spot for filming period dramas.


I looked around another pousada and bar halfway up a hill, one that was out of my price range, but that I had read a web review of, with pictures. One of the earliest travel blogs on the net if you like. It was just as pretty as the photos. I gave a printout of the review to the owner, in case he hadn't seen it online.

Back at the hostel I noticed mosquitoes in the room. As expected of the tropics and as expected the owner gave me a mosquito coil. The shower was the instantaneous type with wires running to the heater inside the shower head. It looked lethal. I was to see this type of water heater often in South America.

In the evening I went to the Arpoador Restaurant in the historical centre. There I had lula baiana (squid Bahian style), probably a moqueca. It was fantastic. There was an unexpected extra cover charge for a jazz pianist who came on later, but he was worth it too. He wasn't your usual cocktail jazz pianist. He set up an infectious rhythm with the left hand to accompany.


It was dark and drizzling when I left. Night falls rapidly in the tropics. An island of light at a local joint betrayed where a group of townsfolk were watching football on a big TV. It is their national obsession.