Prohibition Town Blues (4 of 4)

The waitress rushes over and whips my beer from the table. She is all blushes and apologies. She tells us that tomorrow the state elections will take place and that Brazil, from 6pm onwards, must be dry. She looks at her watch, it is 6.01pm. She is sorry but there is nothing she can do and so instead she serves us with a prince amongst pizzas. As we wander back to the hotel we see the bars full of men looking wistfully at coconuts and bottles of coke. They seem strangely lost without beer. We walked home whistling the prohibition town blues.

The next day we walk to the Dutch fort. Saskia is insistent that no matter where we are in the world we track down her heritage. Even for a Sunday the beaches are deserted and hardly anyone moves. The walk to the fort takes us through deserted streets devoid of all signs of life. We are getting used to the isolation now.

The fort, which juts impressively into the bay, is closed. I amuse myself climbing the walls whilst Saskia sits in the sun and looks on impassively. We decide to take a bus to the far end of the coast – just to see what’s there. We take a bus to the edge of town and sit down by the side of the road to wait for the coastal bus. There is a small bar there which is not serving beer. The owner watches the Olympics on a flickering TV and looks lost.

We wait under a sky that is the colour of cobalt. An old man, with rheumy eyes joins us. He sits calmly under the baking sky. Time passes. I swap places with Saskia to tan my other leg. The old man sighs. Nothing moves on the road. The bar owner makes himself a sandwich and squeezes thick yellow mustard over it. He returns to the shade to watch the sport. Time passes. The old man closes his eyes, I wonder in all honesty if he has come here to die. The sun has moved a few more degrees across the sky. My feet are beginning to look tanned. Time passes.

The old man speaks to us in a slow resigned voice. He seems to have no destination and is in no hurry to get there. Like us he is content to sit under a scorching sky and chew the fat. We talk politics, sport and religion and still nothing moves on the road.

The northeast beach capital is shyer then I imagined. Saskia scans the heat haze for any signs of sleaze occurring on this blistering election day. After we have been under the cruel sun for three hours we resign ourselves to the fact that the bus is never going to arrive and head off in search of a restaurant.

At the beach all the restaurants are closed and at the only one open we wait a lifetime for some mineral water. It tastes like vintage champagne when it arrives. The pizza is also stunning.

Back at the hotel, which is now closed and boarded up, we wake the owner up to claim our bags. She insists on us having a shower and unlocks one of the many empty rooms. Time seems to have stopped for her and the courtyard is littered with breakfast trays, newspapers and children’s toys. When we come to leave she seems sad and presses presents into out hands. “Come back one day,” she tells us, “come back when there are more people here and the place is more alive.” As we walk out onto the street we think perhaps we will, but realistically we know that there are many more places we want to see more.

A bus trails us along the dark empty streets. The driver offers us a free ride to the bus station and puts us down outside the concrete terminal. It is this last unsolicited act of kindness that may one day bring me back to Natal, the northeast’s beach capital.

Read all four parts!
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four

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