Fortaleza travelogue
JohnM
Fortaleza chapter of the Brazil 500 travelogue called
'No Faith, Law of Royalty'
complete
with pix et al below. After Rio and the Amazon, I have moved
to the Northeast where I will stay a while :-)
The web site is:
http://www.scroll.demon.co.uk/brazil/index.htm
and a passage follows - about Canoa Quebrada:
==============================================
Our modern concept of the beach holiday stems from the seventies when
the alternative lifestylers of the previous decade started seeking peace
love and understanding on this earth and this life. Beaches offer the
chance of introspection (the white noise of the waves quietly breaking
into the seashore), relaxation (ah, the eye, focusing on the vast marine
horizon) and above all hedonism: the sun's rays, the body's sexy tan,
the water's womb-like embrace. First there were the beaches close to
home: St Tropez and Ibiza, Essaouira and Mykonos, where nude swimming,
care-free living and dope smoking begat today's megaclogged
superdestinations. In the 80s it was further afield - Thailand, in
particular, comes to mind along with the Caribbean: Cancun and Pattaya
grew to examples to be avoided.
Brazil's own hippies discovered Ceará and its beaches: Morro Branco to
the east of Fortaleza where the first sign of the multicoloured falésias
captures the eye in what is commonly called 'The Twelve-Colour-Beach';
Aguas Belas - with a river forever changing course; Caponga with its
fifteen-meter-high sand-dunes, Iquape where the fishermen will sell you
a kilo of fish for five dollars; Ponta Grossa vast and deserted with its
rocks forming natural sculptures; the 'S'-shaped mouth of the Aracaú
river at Torrôes and Almofala, plus, of course the legendary
Jericoacoara, still without electricity at the turn of the 21st century.
Out of those, I experienced only one: Canoa Quebrada which has become an
archetype of beach beauty.
Instead of the coastal CE040 to Aracatí, we took the BR116 . Now, at
4489kms this is the longest motorway in Brazil. Its starts from
Fortaleza and it winds its way through the sertâo to Feira de Santana in
Bahia and through Minas Geráis to Rio, Sâo Paulo, Curitiba, Porto Alegre
up to the Uruguayan border. I slept during this momentous occasion:
Bora-Bora's non-sugary caipirinhas had knocked me out early, so I missed
out on the introductions with the other travellers. They were all
Paulistas on holiday and a wealthy, thirty-something middle-class bunch.
Rubens and Sandra were a couple who lived near Congonhas - only 100
meters away from the TAM airplane which fell only weeks before I met
them. Rubens, rarely seen without a beer bottle in his hand, was the
youngest of our lot, but he could have emerged from a painting by his
namesake who loved dimples of fat in his women and layers of lard in his
men - his was the only room in the Prado I ran out wailing from. Sandra
was pretty and petite and a fellow screamer (forgive the pun) as I
discovered during the scary buggy rides. Marcelo worked for a bank and
was like a fish out of water without his fiancée; they had not been able
to synchronize their holiday weeks. (Oh, the indignity of eating
alone). But the one I really got on with was Denise, a lawyer working
for A Very Important Computer company who had been in Europe for a long
45-day trip, spoke excellent English and was quick, quirky and quaint.
I woke up at Aracatí just as we crossed the Jaguaribe river. Everyone
knew each other well by then and they were all keen and curious to learn
about the snoring gringo. I tried hard to satisfy their curiosity with
London tales, till we arrived at the village proper where we moved on to
a buggy for the last kilometer to the coast. The village is lively - one
of those places where the denizens, mostly young dope-smoking tourists,
wake up late, move on to the nudist beach (where? where?) from midday
till sunset and then frequent the bars and restaurants - small, lively,
friendly and picturesque drinking until dawn. Make no mistake: Canoa
Quebrada has been discovered in a way which has not spoiled its
landscape - only enhanced its nightlife.
So what's the big deal ? Well, the fulvous falésias first of all: sandy
erosion cliffs coming down abruptly to the coast in a technicolour drop:
like the white cliffs of Dover on acid. There are irregular sand-dunes,
lagoons and bays which form an awesome landscape. There are barracas
with cheap seafood and fishermen's jangadas pulled from the sea and
moored on the beach in the same way since time immemorial. There are
clay mud houses with makeshift pole hedges tended by black momas having
a siesta in their rocking chairs. But what makes the area unique and
appeals to the hippie side of our inner child are the colours: there are
various shades of red, brown, yellow, ochre and black sand which
contrast with the deep blue of the ocean and the cyan of a cloudless
heaven.
We climbed down the falésia to the beach, the local Potiguar descendants
were towing a jangada to the beach (yes, I wondered about that, too:
they use rollers). We sat down by a barraca where the waiter
demonstrated the glorious three-in-one menu: pargo, lobster and king
prawns.
"You can use the guardavolumen", Denise informed me.
I walked up to the bar, asked for and obtained a key. I took my camera
out, unloosened my money-belt, gave them to him and left also having
bought a snack: a stingray-pie. When I tell people this, they all ask:
"Did it sting, then ?", but I know YOU are smarter than that.
"That was quick", Denise commented as I lay on my towel next to her.
"Almost like a Greek beach", she said.
She'd been to Corfu.
"The main difference is the heat", I said. "Mediterranean resorts have a
dry summer. Here, the summer is wet and the heatr is sultry. Dry heat is
more bearable than humid heat".
A waiter came running with my camera and money-belt. He was agitated.
"You forgot these", he said.
"I thought you locked them in ", Denise said perplexed.
I got up. All the waiters were looking at the gringo who had left his
valuables at the counter.
I see. I had to lock them in the locker myself. I am not supposed to
trust anyone. There is no such thing as coat-and bag-check here. You
hold on to your stuff and you do NOT casually hand it away. Paranoia in
Paradise - what a concept.
As I came back, I sat by an old man who was creating sand landscape
paintings by skilfully arranging with a long needle the coloured sand -
some natural, some dyed - in a clear bottle. I adored them. I bought a
small key-ring one and a larger, more elaborate one.
"Twelve reais", said the old man.
"What ?", I heard the voice of Denise behind me. "This is robbery. Five
reais the lot".
I looked up. Well, twelve reais was not much...
"For five you can have this smaller bottle", said the old man.
"I don't want this small bottle", I countered looking obliquely at
Denise.
"OK, six". "Ten". "Eight for the two". "Done".
It was all uttered in a time-honoured staccato allegro (ma non troppo)
and it was over in seconds.
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<some historical info on the Indians - there's lots of it
in my travelogues >
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Denise woke me up from my reverie, lying and lazing as I was in the sun
like the natives of Brazil taught us to.
"Are you coming to the buggy ?", she asked.
I jumped up. Hey, does a Potiguar eat shrimp ?
Normally an open-back buggy sits four plus the driver. We were five, so
my right leg had to hang out continuously and dangerously and my grip
was tenuous at best. Our bugueiro - a special breed of Homo Nordeste,
who thinks he is Ayrton Senna, acts as if he is Ayrton Senna and forgets
what happened to Ayrton Senna - started as he finished: by putting the
foot down as far as the pedal could go.
"Give it some gas. Give its some gas", Rubens kept crying from the
safety of the front seat. Marcelo, me and the girls were all holding for
dear life as we passed dune upon dune in all possible permutations:
bumping on small ones, like a catamaran in a stormy sea, sideways like
motorcycle showmen spinning around in their large well, pinned down by
centripetal forces and ready for their salto mortale. Riding a buggy is
experiencing an endless, do-it-yourself rollercoaster. After a frantic
spell of about ten-fifteen minutes, we stopped by a huge ridge with a
thirty-foot square drop. A tent housing some soft drink sellers was
providing some shade. We got off and looked down just in time to see a
kid sitting on a board, sliding down the drop into a small water-puddle
at the bottom.
"One real a go", said a woman.
Rubens decided to try. "Lean back", he was told "and keep your hands on
the ground either side of the sandboard. If you don't, you'll fall".
Rubens tried in vain to stick to the rules. Unfortunately for him he
rolled uncoolly and unmanly like a sack into the water with a big
splash. As he got up and started the long climb up the sandbank using a
chain, we all shook our heads politely and closed our ears to the sweet-
siren enticements to follow his path. I can tell undignified when I see
it.
A stop at a reggae bar by a shallow lagoon proved more popular. There
were four other buggies there with people trying to dance in the water,
looking as if they were attempting aqua aerobics of the unsynchronised
kind. I just stood under an analogue water mill-cum-ecoshower and
chilled. This, I thought, is as far fabness can extend without being
elevated into a dream.
Our buggy ride resumed, we travelled miles upon miles of coastline,
passing the fishermen's rustic houses, the 900-apartment luxury
condominium site of Porto de Canoas (a tragedy) and the nudist beach
(where? where?). When we arrived after one hour and forty reais lighter
- great value - we were so high on adrenaline, we were hardly hungry.
All except Rubens who had been exerted from his sporting experience.
Me ? As I took my first bite on my 12-inch lobster, I was smiling a
Cheshire Cat smile. I sucked dry all the crustacean parts, making
annoying whistling sounds in the process, except that foul-looking
stomach. (I can divulge that my autopsy revealed that the lobster had
eaten something green and slimy in the last 24 hours).
--
JohnM in search of a sig...dammit!
Web site http://www.scroll.demon.co.uk/spaver.htm
Brazil 500 travelogue http://www.scroll.demon.co.uk/brazil/index.htm
João Luiz
>
> Just wanted to tell you all that I have completed the
> Fortaleza chapter of the Brazil 500 travelogue called
>
> 'No Faith, Law of Royalty'
>
> complete
> with pix et al below. After Rio and the Amazon, I have moved
> to the Northeast where I will stay a while :-)
>
> The web site is:
> http://www.scroll.demon.co.uk/brazil/index.htm
I read your homepage and want to say that I do appreciate your
style, of intertwining your personal experience with a broader
research on history and costumes.
Maybe I will someday be able to write my memories as good as
you do. A recommended reading to other soon-to-be-tourists
in Brazil, who ask questions in this ng.
JL