Underwater love
After a long time on the road and many compromises of comfort, a precious fortnight in Bermuda has been a breath of fresh air. Fresh, clean, luxurious air.
Instead of flea ridden hostels we had 300 thread count sheets, instead of egg fried rice we had medium rare NY strip steak, and instead of cramped midnight bus rides we enjoyed pleasantly tilting afternoon sailing. All together the most sophisticated way possible of easing ourselves into the upcoming end of our trip.
Sunset sailing
In the hospitable embrace of Mere's family, we caught up with the long lost humidity, sunshine and salty breeze of our former home country. After a few days of helping to clean coolers and pierce lawns with tiki torches, we attended the much anticipated wedding celebrations of Charlotte and Andrew, along with 150 other dressed up well wishers, including many from abroad.
First, two days before the actual wedding, a delightfully intoxicated rehearsal dinner. Then, in the exquisitely presented palm garden of Old Walls, between the delectable looking bridesmaids and a row of highly perspiring groomsmen, the beloved couple held a lovely ceremony.
Everything happened the way it was meant to be. The string quartet didn't miss a note. The guests laughed in all the right places. And the sun peeked through the clouds just in time for the big moment. 
Pink
The evening wore on with the customary wedding traditions - great speeches, a gut-busting roast beef buffet and, much later, a glowing bride doing the worm across the dance floor, in full wedding attire. There were tears of laughter and tears of joy.
Beautiful women accompanied handsome men, as dozens of waiters, photographers and DJ's expertly facilitated one hell of a party; one that had been no less than a decade in the making. To their many happy years ahead, congratulations to Charlotte and Andrew.
The worm
We hugged our friends and family goodbye, and headed once more to the airport, this time going home.
Next, the final leg of our journey.
Sweden, here we come.
Somerset sunset
Jun 30, 2008
Leaving Bermuda
Jun 9, 2008
Loony tunes and gooseberries
Bahian lady
Tearing ourselves away from the blissful remoteness of Itacaré, our new found surf Eden, took a whole lot of restraint.
Under the watchful eye of shaggy haired surf instructor Joel, we had for several days battled the regular swells with eager enthusiasm. In waters crowded with teenagers who carved waves like others carve Christmas turkey, Mere impressed the locals with some kick ass rides of her own, standing up for longer than most of the real pros on the beach. 
Memories of Itacaré
So leaving was tough. Like an stubborn pensioner who won't eat anything but his favourite schnitzel every day because he, well, likes it, it is tricky to deliberately seek out change when the status quo is so comfortable.
Likewise, we've found that one of the major problems with travel is that you stumble upon places you like so much you don't really want to leave. 'Why should we leave here?', 'Can't we can stay for the rest of our journey?', one of us would say. 'No can do', would be the reply. 'It's the price for discovering parts of the world you never been to before'.
Fortunately, as has almost always has been the case, we soon found something equally different and interesting. São Salvador da Baía de Todos os Santos (or just Salvador, for short) is a rustic colonial city on the Bahian coast. It's the third biggest in Brazil (and the original capital) as well as the home of Afro-Brazilian culture. 
Tubular swells
As we experienced for ourselves, this was a very special and very strange place. Under the cover of darkness, on the cobble stoned streets, several million party animals would ceaselessly keep the spirit alive. If New York never sleeps, Salvador never even frickin blinks. Because a blink would be a 1/100 of a second of precious party time lost and that, by Salvadorian measures, is utterly unacceptable.
As if it's programmed into their DNA, these guys dance, sing and drink till the last man drops. And by the next morning the city street cleaners have swept away most of the mess, ready for the party to resume once more. We were told that Brazil is the party place of the world. And that Salvador is the party place of Brazil. 
Attitude
Last night, for instance, we meandered through another pumping street party, one that has raged for several days in honour of St John. Being the only gringos around, we huddled by the nearest makeshift bar, and sought solace in the fruity alcohol on offer. Like parents at a house party, we were the gooseberries in the corner, but even so we had fun as we observed the madness from the side lines.
We watched as every able bodied man, woman and child met in the city squares next to the church, to devour char grilled kebabs, cocktails and rub butts to clashing sound systems.
Coffee cart
Later, when we tried to find a late night snack, we had very strange experience. We had wandered away from the inferno of the main party, to a quieter patch of drinking venues. There we noticed a very old bouncer standing idly by a large blue wooden door, selling tickets for 1 Reals each ($.50), to enter his special little show.
We paid the man, if mainly out of curiosity, and walked up a few dusty steps and through a brick arch. There, we entered the lion's den, the eagle's nest, the inner sanctum of the nuttiest nuts we have ever seen.
It was a single large room in a roofless building, the size of two tennis courts, with no more than a dozen patrons scattered along the periphery, all sitting uneasily in bright yellow, beer-sponsored furniture.
As if directed by David Lynch the room had a few heavily stoned characters gently swaying in the middle of the dance floor, occasionally bumping into each other since they had their eyes closed. On stage 5 drummers banged giant bongos, as if they had done nothing else for the last few days. 
Morning fishermen
Two red-eyed Brazilian Rastas stood on stage and chanted the same three lines over and over again, at an uncomfortable volume. The lead singer himself, a man who must have past 70 many years ago, wasn't even on stage, instead passed out across a speaker next to the stage. When he came to, he staggered up to join the rest of the band and continued this never ending loop.
The only bar staff was an 80 year old woman, who every ten minutes would conga her drunken way across the room to clean the same empty plastic table she had just cleaned ten minutes ago. Whoo-ow, people! What the hell is this place? You know where this is. It's Sunday night in Salvador.
We lasted only a little while. Just in time before we too would have been sucked into this black hole asylum, and been forever banished to the scary dance floor, we left back to the normalcy outside the building - coconut juggling 8-year-olds, weed dealers and tired looking prostitutes.
Next generation
Salvador is also the home of Capoeira, the unique Afro-Brazilian martial art. Once a combat technique practiced by African slaves - it was reprimanded and so the slaves ingeniously disguised it as a dance instead. As such it has survived and evolved ever since. Go to any beach in Brazil and you'll see two things.
1) an ostentatious display of fleshy bodies, some pert, some flabby, but all ungracefully stuffed into their childhood swimwear.
2) a number of highly disciplined Capoeira warrior dancers in all white; standing on their head, doing overhead flips on the spot, and dancing their impressive dance of discipline and rhythm.
As unfit foreigners, however, the closest we ever get to Capoeira is Caipirina. And, hey, that's not bad. 
Durable colours
We also had the pleasure one night of going to an intimate performance of Virginia Rodrigues, a famed Brazilian vocalist. We cramped into a tiny little theatre and watched as she delivered some powerful and classic songs.
Our only gripe was that old Virginia had in her accompanying trio of musicians a highly overzealous percussionist, who went absolutely crazy on the cowbell. Yeah, seriously, the cow bell. Had Christopher Walken appeared from a booth and demanded a little more juice, it would not have looked out of place. Oh well.
Today we wrap up our South American leg of our journey, taking a flight via Sao Paulo to Miami, where we are rendezvousing with Nonnie, to go to Bermuda. Indeed, some have it good.
Thank you Brazil, you very crazy place. We've had a blast.
Muito obrigado. 
Salvador
Jun 3, 2008
Brazil - redemption, booze and miniscule bikinis
JC
Our lack of updates from Brazil tells you everything you need to know - this is a country where lethargy, apathy and outright procrastination are taken very seriously.
As Cachaça-blurred nights wear on, and Brazilian friends congregate for another round of cocktails, the muted background bossanova gently soothes the hangovers from the previous night. The humidity forms small sweat drops on everyone's temples and the sweet breeze from the ocean never stops. This is a place for doing not much. 
Paraty pier
Regardless of age, gender, race or social standing, people here appear oblivious to any other worldly worries than what faces them at that particular moment (which most of the time seems to be - which drink shall I try next?). And what an enviable dilemma that is.
Of all the countries we've been to so far, this, by a long shot, is the most multi-racial country. Had you awoken from amnesia in the streets of an average Brazilian city, it would take you quite a while till you figured out which country you were in. There is no single common denominator for what a Brazilian looks like. Black. White. Tall. Asian. Fat. Short. Slender. They are all mixed into one. Perhaps the way they act would be the best indicator - a swagger in their step and a confident smile. Alternatively, the surface area of their bikini is another reliable indicator. They don't waste much lycra around here.
After spending a few lazy days on the decks of charter boats and in the womb-like hammocks of our Paraty posada, we continued up the coast, to take in the splendour of Rio.
Bulging
Wedged in the hills between the airport and downtown, in the cosy suburb of Santa Teresa, we hung out in accommodation favoured by a mighty strange breed of artists. Denise's Place doesn't advertise, instead relying on word-of-mouth in the international artists-in-residence circles; from what we could see - conceptualists on sabbatical.
And boy does it bring in an eccentric crew of weirdos. Over black coffee in the china white breakfast room we met Bruno-the-balding-film-maker, Yaan-the-horse-riding-photographer, Anna-the-silent-philosopher, Anja-the-installation-artist and Carlos-the-topless-drug-user, all of them very androgynous and intense. Still, they made for a pleasant change from the reserved holiday elite of our past few hotels.
Santa Teresa
For local sights, other than, of course, Praia Copacabana and Praia Ipanema, we visited the impressive 'O Cristo Redentor' (Christ the Redeemer), a statue that at 40 meters and 700 tons took nine years to complete (in 1931). It's famous for being named as one of the New Seven Wonders of the World (of which we've seen two others along our trip - The Great Wall of China and Petra, as well as three other worthy nominees - the Easter Island Moais, the Sydney Opera House and the temples of Angkor Wat).
The Christ statue is also famous for being the spot where fearless Felix Baumgartner (Austrian extreme dude and pioneer of base jumping), climbed and base jumped off in 1999. The day after our visit three other morons tried to copy Felix - one died on the scene and the other two have still not been found.
Street buddies
To see another side to Rio we went on a memorable tour of one of the many favelas, the infamous shanty towns made from garbage, plywood and bricks. With 1 in 4 people in Rio living in one, this was a rare opportunity for us to see life away from the glitz of the beaches. As it happened, it was also a rare opportunity to see organized crime, open drug dealing and smiling ten year olds carrying sub machine guns.
Favella vista
In pouring rain we hiked up narrow, irregular stairways through randomly evolved wooden shacks, up the steep mountain side, to the top of the Santa Marta favela. We met drug dealers, drug users but also a large number of decent, friendly, hard working people, who just happened to live there. Sheila, our local guide, explained the complex intricacies of this peculiar Brazilian society - a world where people live so closely together that local crime is remarkably rare. Amazingly, a feudal structure is adhered to, even in the way people steal electricity or trade their shanty 'houses'.
Favela family
The next day we had a chance encounter with Thierry, a French Antiques dealer who paid too much attention to his Cachaça and too little attention to his Antiques shop ("I have had more than 46 businesses in 10 years" he said in between shots of booze). Still, Thierry was a gem. Both funny and smart. And, as it happened, he was our gateway to meet Mohammed - a French Algerian street artist who invited Sami to help with a graffiti mural. Nice.
Mo and Sami at work
Since a few days back we're in Itacare - a tiny, hidden fishing village perched on the coast of Bahia. We're surfing beautiful beaches and kicking back over fresh fruit salads. And, of course, a few too many moreish Caipirinias.
After more than 6 months of constant lugging of luggage and fleeting visits, this is a breath of fresh air. As we write this, from a hammock on our veranda, we're faced with a panorama of the beach, with dozens of long boarders zig-zagging the tubular Atlantic waves.
Tomorrow we have another surf class. Till then our hosts are under strict instruction to top up our drinks should they run dangerously low.
In the words of our drunken friend - Salut maintenant.
Rio from above