A typical vista, coming over a hill along the coast of Brazil between Sao Paulo and Rio

Cresting another hill along Brazil’s Atlantic coastline between São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, I feel a sense of expectant awe grow in me. It’s neither the first nor the last of such ascents we’ve taken along this trip, and the views are barely dissimilar from one another. But looking out over a vista of hills turned beaches that steadily melt into an ocean dotted with a near endless supply of small islands manages to stay fresh and exciting the same way similar works by a favorite artist might. My friend Jaimee from the States put the rental car on her card — it’s way beyond my meager budget at this point in my frugal travels — stretching the seven hour drive out to over two days to fully take in one of the most beautiful coastlines in the world.

“This is even better than the drive from San Francisco to Big Sur,” I say.

“No, it’s not better. It’s just a different kind of good,” she corrects me. She’s one of my favorite road trip partners despite how easily we fall into mutually heated arguments over things almost entirely subjective.

Our destination is Rio de Janeiro, and more specifically what Carnival transforms the city into. But moreso than usual, the “getting there” is the best part. This ride was easily my favorite experience in Brazil.

Jaimee enjoys a fresh beverage...

...and so do I

Transvestite Motocade Assualt

“Did you just see that guy on a motorcycle wearing a bra,” Jaimee asks.

“I thought it was an ugly woman.”

There had been a cluster of teenaged girls huddled around the young, lanky biker in cheap lingerie who had sneered at us in makeup as we drove past. A green neon line superimposed on the GPS over a map that looked nothing like the twisty, narrow street our rented Fiat careened through assured us we were on the right path, but more and more evidence was adding up to the contrary. It’s not the first time technology had led us astray on this trip — the GPS initially being set to “Avoid Highways” had gotten us into one of the less savory neighborhoods of São Paulo just minutes after leaving the car rental agency — but we’d unfairly assumed it to be firmly entrenched on our side by now after two hours of fairly accurate advice.

A tunnel through a small mountain had led us into this town, and we had only planned to stay long enough for lunch at McDonald’s (a Brazilian Big Mac is identical in flavor and name to its American counterpart in every way. It is not even “La Big Mac.”) Unfortunately, the small mountain that hosted a high-speed tunnel into town, also hosted a series of poor neighborhoods directly above it. To a GPS, there is apparently little differentiation between these two vertically parallel roadways. To someone going the wrong way up twisty, barely paved, one-way shantytown street, there is a tremendous difference. This difference is compounded by the presence of angry, transvestite bikers barrelling down from above.

They dot down the road at first in small numbers, then more densely as the cluster thickens, one or two to each bike. Whether this is a daily function or some bizarre local holiday isn’t immediately clear, but they all crane their heads by us, glaring, laughing, shouting ominous Portuguese declarations as they pass. The road’s too narrow for me to maneuver and I ride up against the edge of a wall to give as much berth as possible. We’re foreignors, lost and obvious, blocking something strange and celebratory, and it’s not appreciated.  Some angrily pound the sides of the fiat as we pass.

“Oh my God. I feel so unsafe right now. This is terrible.” Jaimee says it all calmly without emotion, almost as though sarcastic.  She is not in any way being sarcastic.

Twenty. Thirty. Maybe forty or more bikes zip down around us before the stream dies off to a dribble. I spin the car around on the narrow hillside, praying no more bikes shoot out unexpectedly from above while doing so, and proceed to dart back toward town. On the GPS, the overlay of a map generally seems accurate, only to confuse itself by mixing in the alternate path, rendering it effectively useless. I’m driving now is a sense of urgency that’s wasted by my lack of knowledge as to where I’m physically located, yet every bra-wearing biker — we’re seeing them everywhere now — fuels this necessity to find our way from these backstreets and once more on a highway — any highway — again.

It's almost worth clicking on the picture to enlarge and look closer at the two nearest our car. The tranny on the back of the bike might be giving the most vacuous stare ever.

Eventually we manage to find our way. Like most other experiences down here, the scariest, the most pointless and the most surreal are the ones that stay with us best, long after having ended.

Everything else passes by us along the way, immediately put away in the mind like half-memories, collections of strange images and fragments of anecdotes. An abandoned amusement park with sinister trashcans and ticket booths. Small coastal highways that dwindle down to single lane bridges that look neither supportive nor inviting. Long, unmarked dirt roads that GPS assures us are correct, ending in tiny buildings huddled together to make a town where everyone sits together around a single television to watch a futbol game. None are noteworthy on their own, but it’d hardly capture the spirit of the trip to leave them omitted.

I found the ticket booths the creepiest, but Jaimee was most freaked out by the trash cans.

A narrow one-lane bridge. We almost weren´t certain from the posts at either side if it was even legal to cross.

I don´t really care for soccer in any way, but I´m not above pretending to for a good photo-op.

It’s a Paraty

Towns along the coast are as nice or nicer than any beachfront vacation spots in the States that I’ve been to. Each has its own charm and character, its own size and substance. Posh, larger resort areas are followed by more quaint towns with barely more than a gas station and a place to buy some cheap pasteis. The fried dumplings are similar in size and idea to your typical empanada, though fried and fully saturated by oil; it makes no sense to me how so many Brazilians I see are so incredibly fit with this being the one reliable snack food available in any town.

I´ll put out another food entry soon with more on All Things Empanada.

At times we make stops in larger towns with names like “Ubatuba,” paying to park while navigating through large beachside concession stands, safely enshrouded from the sun by umbrellas. Other times, a side quest leads us down unmarked sandy roads in search of a beach only hinted at by signs, maps and our general understanding of the local geography. The Fiat reliably tearing through the open coastline, we stop and claim complete ownership of these beaches, barren but for stray dogs and the occasional empty cabana unmanned during this apparent low season. It’s a seven hour trip that takes us close to three days.

A random beach we found our way onto.

Paraty (pronounced Para-Chee) is one of the more famous and idyllic stops along this route, just past the midway point between São Paulo and Rio. A white church from colonial times sits starkly along the edge of the waterside, creating a photo op fully taken advantage of by post card vendors throughout the region. A small “old town” with cobblestone streets bustles with touristy — though fantastic — restaurants and gift shops with all the standard local kitsch. Roads are closed to all but horse-drawn local carriages, and various actors role-play classic historical sterotypes that may or may not have graced Paraty’s streets in the past.

The old church at Paraty

The Pirate, for instance, sauntering through town while sneering abrasively, comes off a little too much like a Jack Sparrow knock-off. And really, who the hell dresses up like a pirate for a living anyway? The African Slave, on the other hand was genuinely fearsome. Turning down a side street, I came across him for the first time with no knowledge of Paraty’s paid local characters, only to bump into over six and a half feet of mountainous muscle encased in massive, broken chains. Well over three hundred pounds of muscle, his clothes are old and tattered, and slightly rust-stained from supporting the chains for so long. His eyes bulged as he stared down at me, before moving his intense, zombie-like gaze forward into space over the road behind me, his quivering glance somewhere between confused and enraged.

The Misty Chill

“Dude. You’re AWESOME!“

A slight ringing still comes from the heavy chains as they swing about his motionless form. He does not acknowledge my observation of his awesomeness, and eventually I leave him to his silent rage. Looking back, a block later, he remains in the same hulking stance on the corner, unmoving other than deep, heaving breaths.

I’m pretty sure he was one of the city’s paid characters, at least.

This isn’t my first time in Paraty. Plans with Jaimee were ephemeral at best before her arrival and could’ve taken us anywhere from Florianopolis (a mistake to have missed, I’ve been told) to Iguazu Falls (I’d get there eventually and unexpectedly). I had days to kill before her arrival, and had been told by many that there are few places just hours away from São Paulo that are as perfect for wasting away

The view out the front door of the Misty Chill. I never quite understand how some cheap hostels manage to have far better views than some of the more expensive hotels in town.

a few days as Paraty. Two days at the Misty Chill hostel was ample time for rides to local beaches by bus, boat or even my own poor swimming abilities at times. Misty Chill came recommended as a “party hostel,” likely for having happy hour drink specials on caipirinhas (my least favorite drink in Ecuador, they’re made perfectly in Brazil, which makes sense given they are the national drink) and a general good vibe from the unanimously attractive people working there.

One of them, a Canadian (I think — they don’t really have discernable accents when they don’t say “eh,” and the “aboot” thing seems to be localized to the Toronto region) woman slightly younger than me, turned out to be running the place. She’d worked for IBM and got burnt out on technology and the system, coming to South America looking for something else. I listened to her carefully. For nearly a day, I make my way around town with three marginally lapsed Hassidic Jews. Lapsed enough to wear relatively normal looking clothes (scandalous for hassids) but not so lapsed that, while drunk, the male tried to talk me into leaving the bar and returning to the hotel to put on tefillin. I have no doubts within me that this was his sole intention, by the way.

“They just make me feel so good when they’re on, you know? They’re like powerful. Man, I really want to put some tefillin on you. I think that’d be awesome.”

It’s the most bizarre proposition that’s ever come my way, but I politely don’t dismiss the idea, allowing time, drunkenness and short attention spans to keep me from being wrapped in the sacred leather straps. For several hours, I feel that I am flirting with one of the girls, before she tells me she has never kissed a man before and would only do so with one she was fairly certain she would marry. I couldn’t tell if this was a warning or an offer. We watched a cluster of local drummers together, carefully being orchestrated for the upcoming Carnival celebration then went our separate ways.

The Hasidic girl and the drum orchestra. She confessed that she'd only begun exposing her shoulders in the past week or two. When in (or around) Rio...

Narrow, old streets piled together from uneven rocks that make walking awkward and uncomfortable suffer from poor drainage, giving them at times canal-like properties, even if their accumulated water is less than a foot or more deep. Stretching out to sea is a single enormous dock, extra wide to handle boat crews in matching shirts seated under umbrellas before their respective schooners and partyboats, all calling out for riders. The landscape of local beachs, mountains dying off into the ocean in grand natural piers and endless islands creates a glut of natural aquatic attractions vast enough to easily fill the thirty or more large boats here willing to take people on three hour tours.

Paraty´s uneven stone streets are more fun to look at than they are to walk on.

Forty bucks gets you about five hours on one of the ships, each with distinct personalities ranging from mellow, to family-oriented to Girls Gone Wild. The latter I was not aware of until our trip had ended. Bumming around scenic island beaches through clear cerulean blue water isn’t a bad way to spend five hours.

Pictures from the Boat

Our home for five sunny hours

Small, beachy islands dot the waters here, always with mainland Brazil´s mountains in the background. This is someone´s private island. I am fairly certain I hate whoever lives here.

A public beach. Small boats take riders to shore, though most of us just swam.

There were usually one or two of the other boats at each of our stops.

More boats, more islands, etc, etc

Relaxing to some live music. The guy mostly knew only Jack Johnson and Bob Marley songs, which meant his playlist completely matched those of every hostel or DJ in town.

Jaimee and me

Diving from the sides of the boat

Rio de Janeiro

Our proximity to the famous city is given away at first more by the increase in fast, reckless driving than by any increase in urban landscape. Until now, drivers have seemed mostly calm and patient, adhering to basic traffic laws and propriety. That sort of gets tossed upon crossing Rio’s borders. It’s night, and too difficult to gauge the beauty and vastness of the city, as I’ve heard too many horror stories about finding one’s self in the wrong part (or any part) of Rio’s favelas.

The GPS takes us almost directly to the Fiat’s pre-appointed drop-off point. For everything else, it is forgiven.