On a trip to Natal, Brazil’s northeast beach capit
We meet the Rio Grande de Norte’s woman’s volleyball team at Fortaleza bus station. They are quite rude about my book and my bright yellow rucksack until they realise that I speak Portuguese. Then they are full of questions about us – where are we going, where have we been, what do we thing of Brazil. We sit under the harsh glare of the bus station lights, tired and a little drunk clutching a bag of cake. The volleyball team are all high spirits and tans after winning some tournament.
We have the back seat on the bus. It is hot and claustrophobic. The guy in front of me pushes his seat right back, pinning me in my seat – I stick my knee in his back and he begins to snore soundly. I eat some cake and try to move my legs a little whilst Saskia goes to sleep with the water bottle hidden somewhere on her person. The volleyball team are sitting at the front of the bus sipping cold cokes.
I shove my knee harder into the seat in front of me and the guy begins to snore louder. I begin to sweat, it seems that there is no air conditioning. The sweat pours off me. I take my shirt off, the material of the seat covers makes my skin itch. I feel claustrophobic.
Sometime before sunrise, when the sky is still inky black, the guy in front of me gets off the bus, I put his seat into the upright position, wiggle my legs to restore the circulation and try to get some sleep. The guy in the seat opposite me begins to eat potato chips with a loud sucking sound like a baby chewing on a teat. I find a bottle of warm water and pour some over myself, it brings no relief. We arrive at Natal. The sky is pink with the first rays of the day.
I stagger into the early morning light, muttering profanities. The volleyball team, all tanned legs and crease-free faces, are jabbering away to Saskia about hotels and restaurants. I hate them for their good looks and chirpiness – especially so early in the day. They put us on a bus going downtown. People are just going to work; slowly the town is waking up. I close my eyes and wish that I were anywhere else. Saskia somehow navigates us to our hotel, it is 7.30am on a Friday morning. The sun, when I have my eyes open, is clear and bright – I hate that too. The streets are empty and isn’t even an empty beer can to kick around. Nothing except us moves on the street; even the buses seem to creep by.
The owner of our hotel is all smiles and pleasantries. I dig deep inside myself and rummage around my subconscious for some Portuguese, surprisingly it comes. Saskia looks at me astonished. The owner, who is all pre-Raphaelite curls and smiles, tells us that, smile smile, our room, smile smile, is not ready yet, but, smile smile, if we are tired we can crash in another room for a few hours, smile smile. I want to kiss her but she insists we have breakfast first.
Strong coffee, fruit juice, cake and some sweaty cheese on freshly baked bread – I begin to feel a little human again. I crawl to our room, and pour myself into the shower, which is a simple tap with some frightening looking wiring attached. I try to ignore the fact I am probably about to be electrocuted and scrub the dirt from my skin. I fall, quite literally, into bed. Two kids outside are singing loudly, it’s a horrible racket – far too animated for 8am on a Friday morning.
By noon we are awake and heading back to the streets. I still have a stale taste in my mouth and a headache. The owner of the hotel, smile smile, gives us a new room, smile smile, and a list of things to do in Natal. She tells us that Praia de Forte is dangerous and we should avoid it. We thank her and head to Lojas Americans to buy some film for the camera. It is several years out of date. It is the most modern thing in the shop. We take a bus and after a few minutes find ourselves at Praia de Forte. This always happens to us.
The favellas slope down to the sea. Nothing moves except us. The wind blows the sand into drifts on the pavement, the bus driver stands next to his bus perspiring heavily. Even the sea seems sedated as it makes a half-hearted attempt at some white horses. We walk with our faces in the sun, deserted beach to our left, favellas to our right. We walk. We stop to take some pictures, an old man sits in a tiled beach front bar nursing a beer. The bar is all cracked white tiles and greasy angular surfaces – it looks like it belongs in a Victorian hospital. The old man’s eyes follow us as we stride along the beach front, not a soul apart from us is moving.
After 4kms we are at Praia das Artistas. The guidebook describes it as an interesting place. There is nothing there, everything is boarded up and faded. It’s like a Bank Holiday in the UK. A mournful waiter tries to tempt us to some over priced lobster, he doesn’t sound very convincing and knows it. Once we stride past he turns his stare to the sea which seems faultlessly welded to the sky.
We walk more in the blazing sun. There is nothing moving on the coast road except us. The endless white sand, deserted beaches begin to burn my eyes whilst the sun burns my face. We walk another 5 kms, my thighs chap. They begin to bleed. The sky is liquid mercury and the black-top of the highway stretches beyond the horizon. We could be on a road to anywhere. Tranquillity lays like a blanket over us.
Read all four parts!
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four