I was trying to remember the last time I had seen the sun. The Pantanal seemed like a distant memory, shorts and t-shirts were unused, and I was keeping fit by shivering. Everything was saturated, the usually baked soil and fine sand was now a sticky glue that rubbed unkindly against your skin and the usually occupied beaches were utterly deserted. We had come in search of paradise, but paradise, it appeared, had itself upped-sticks and left. We were left to soak in the incessant rain. But then, we had been warned…
Standing on the dockside, the sun was just about peeking about between the clouds. Although the wooden walkway was full, it was quiet. We had been collected at a very early hour that morning, along with several other tourists who I’m fairly sure hadn’t bothered to go to bed the night before, and so the mood was sombre. Loud frigate birds called over head, a warning perhaps? The sky looked ominous: clouds were moving in at an alarming rate, and despite the early morning sun, the horrendous weather reports looked like they were going to be accurate. It predicted heavy rain all week, but part of me doubted it: surely the sun-kissed Brazilian coast wouldn’t have a week of cold, wet rain?
We were staring out into the Atlantic Ocean. In the distance, our destination, a pristine, green bulge sticking out of the ocean blue, was slowly being concealed by the incoming mist. By the time our boat arrived, you wouldn’t even have known the island existed, but rather it looked like we were slowly drifting into nothingness, an empty oblivion of white, as if somebody had forgotten to design and create this little section of the earth. It felt almost ethereal, mystical. Actually, mistycal.
Our arrival painted the island in a ghostly light. Huge swathes of mist blanketed the forested peaks, giving it an eery appearance, the island equivalent of Dickens’ Miss Havisham. The street of Abraão should have been filled with relaxed, sun-kissed people, strolling the beaches, carefree, cocktail in hand, wearing as little as possible. Instead, we arrived in a stormy darkness. Under the cover of huge coats, people would shuffle from cover to cover, desperate to find warmth. The brave, or perhaps just the unprepared, could be seen forlornly wading through the puddles, shivering in their soaked t-shirts which cleaved inelegantly to their skin. Small torrents of water cut grooves down the sandy streets and the wheels of our baggage became as clogged as an old man’s ears every few steps.
Nevermind, there was always tomorrow.
Or so we thought. It turned out that each day would be slightly wetter than the next. Fortunately, I am British and with a stiff upper-lip and a stubborn commitment to never admitting making a bad decision, I can have fun in all weather.
Episode 1: Charon's crossing
In fact, the next morning was bright and crisp. The island felt very fresh and lush, the green accentuated by the moist conditions and the inviting smell of earth. We had decided to hike across the tip of the island to an abandoned hospital and beach that Ethan had visited on his previous trip, named Angra Dos Rois. The journey was pleasant, and despite the clouds, there was a humidity in the air. I’m going to be honest, it wasn’t a typical Brazilian beach day but more of a last minute trip to Bognor Regis on spare Saturday in October kind of day. It had been perfectly pleasant and dry for the most part, but it definitely hadn’t been hot. However, glass-half-full kind of guy that I am, it had been a nice day and the beach was a beautiful one. A little cove nestled between two leafy green peaks, we had spent a relaxed afternoon lounging on the sand and exploring the little pools that gathered at the ends of two mountain streams that met the sea at each end of the beach.
Having walked a hilly three hours to get here, getting back was not really on our agenda but it should have been. As it got to three o’clock, it begun to dawn on us that we would risk walking the steep rainforest paths in the dark if we left it much later, something that neither of us were particularly keen for. This left us vulnerable. And tourists exude a smell when they are vulnerable, an odour that clamours for exploitation.
A man sauntered up to us. We had earlier greeted him as he was sitting beneath a palm tree, and now he wandered over purposefully. He said something in Portuguese and we did that thing that British people have become accustomed to do in this situation: stared at each other expecting the other to have understood what was said, before gabbling some nonsense until one of us conjures up the courage to ask: “English?”
“You need a ride? I have a boat.”
This was good news. Apart from I couldn’t see a boat anywhere.
“Can you take us to Abraão?” Ethan asked, hopefully.
The man laughed.
“No, not Abraão. I take you to beach nearby. Lopes Mendes.”
I did recognise this name, Praia de Lopes Mendes was one of the most famed beaches on the island.
“Oh, we are staying in Abraão. Can we walk back from there?” I piped up, feeling left out of the conversation.
“Of course!” He replied, as if that was the most stupid question he had ever heard. I decided that I preferred not being in the conversation.
“What do you think?” Ethan looked at me.
If I was sitting on a perch I would have fallen off it. Ethan doesn’t usually trust my opinion. Thankfully I was sitting on the floor so I just appeared to roll over.
“Im keen,” I said, “But it depends how much.”
“How much?” Ethan mimed money, quite unnecessarily. “Cost? Real? (The Brazilian Currency is the Real, pronounced ray-al).
“100 real.” The man said bluntly.
That seemed reasonable.
“Each.”
That seemed less reasonable. But as time was escaping us we decided that exploitation was better than potential death in the rainforest. So we agreed. Little did we know that we had paid the equivalent of fifty pounds to almost die at sea instead.
It turned out that we weren’t the only stupid tourists to have fallen for the man’s offer. As we arrived at the meeting point at the agreed time, we met a dutch couple awkwardly standing next to a tiny dinghy. Now I’m not being unkind, but the man looked big enough to sink the dinghy by himself, let alone if he was joined by his wife, Ethan and I and the driver. But sure enough, this was our vessel, the boat which we had paid fifty pounds to travel in.
Now you may say fifty pounds is not that much money in the grand scheme of things. True. However, our accommodation in Ilha Grande, a basic but pleasant hostel, was approximately 100 pounds between us for five nights. Ethan and I have flown to Paris to watch the French Open Tennis tournament for less money than this journey. And looking at the dinghy, I wasn’t totally sure it wasn’t just a novelty flowerpot.
I needn’t have feared: the man was a man with a plan. So that we were not front heavy, the dutch couple sat at the back. Just in front of them sat Ethan, and I sat in front of him. Our driver would attempt to push us in to the water and then jump aboard. He gave us an almighty push. Nothing happened. We all turned around at stared at him as he struggled away. Thankfully for him, a large wave engulfed the boat, lifting us enough for him to push us into the depths. However, as he struggled to get the motor going, we began to drift towards where the waves were breaking.
“It’s ok,” I thought to myself naively. “I’m sure he’s done this many times before.”
The first wave engulfed the boat, crashing me backwards and leaving me spluttering with the shock. There was a collective groan as we realised the extent of our condition. Behind me I could hear Ethan maniacally cackling as he cradled his ridiculously expensive camera, enjoying this sadistic experience of self sacrifice.
Our driver paused his struggle with the motor for a second and opened a cupboard in the back of the boat. Thrusting plastic Tupperware in Ethan and our dutch companion’s hands, he motioned at them with his hands.
“You scoop water!” He said. It encouraged me that he had come prepared.
A second wave hit the front of the boat, but I was braced for it this time, thankful that the bag which held my phone and passport was waterproof. I was beginning to wonder how far I would put up with this before giving up and trying to swim back to sure. I’m not even joking. I reckoned I could probably swim back to shore from here, any further and I’d be negotiating rocks that could shred me, breakers that could literally break me, and who knows what may have lived in the deep green water below.
I was genuinely scared at this point. Fear gripped my stomach as every second passed, and the sound of the engine spluttering into life did little to assuage that fear. I was committed then. Here we go.
I wonder if you can imagine a boat going up hill. Yeah, doesn’t really make sense in your mind does it, but this was our captain’s plan. As the propeller coughed it’s way into action we sped off, crashing through the first breaking wave, rendering all of Ethan’s admirable scooping work obsolete. I heard him laughing. I felt like crying. But having passed the first wave of breakers (or the first breaking waves) we now had to mount the swell. A large fishing vessel would have barely noticed, but we had to physically climb it to the extent that I could feel gravity pushing me back into my seat. I couldn’t see over the tip of the water which was a genuinely terrifying thought. There were rocks all around and I could hear myself praying constantly. How could I have entrusted my life to the maniac behind me? And how had I paid 100 real for the pleasure?
We meandered through the small islands and rock formations and found ourselves in the Atlantic Ocean. I was grateful that the sea was calmer than the day before, but the swell was still violent. Every now and then my heart would sink as the engine momentarily cut out before sparking back into life, causing my heart to convulse in a panicked paroxysm. Sometimes the wave would appear to fall away beneath us and we’d find ourselves bouncing across the surface like a skimming stone, crushing the lower vertebrae of my spine into a fine powder. I tried to appreciate the beauty of the open sea, keeping my eyes out for dolphins in the waves. But truth be told, the thing I was most desperate to see was land.
Quite miraculously, and I’m certain guided by providence, we beached gracefully at Lopes Mendes beach about twenty minutes later. I dragged myself, aching and sore overboard, appreciating the feel of sand beneath my feet.
The convention in Brazil is to tip people about 10%. I decided against it. I wasn’t entirely sure where I’d try and stick it.
Episode 2: Escaping the wet with more wet
Ilha Grande had so far been a complete washout. It was so washed that I was beginning to worry it might wash away entirely. There had been sunny moments, but the vast majority of it had been wet and cold. The cold was the worst bit. It wasn’t the sort of tropical rain that feels like you’re in the shower, but the cold sort of sheet rain that we assume only falls in London. All of our clothes were wet and damp, and I was sore and achy from spending the days trekking in the rainforest rather than lying on the beach reading and soaking up the sun. But I’d had a brain wave. The perfect antidote to rain was scuba diving. I mean, if I’m going to get wet, I may as well go the whole hog, wear a wetsuit and look at something interesting.
And so, early one morning, Ethan and I found ourselves back on a boat (an actual boat with an actual driver this time), speeding out to sea. Ironically, the sun was out, and though it wasn’t hot, it was a pleasant day. And for the first time in days we could see the island properly. The peaks were temporarily free of cloud and the sun glowed upon the beaches. Frigate birds, distinctive with their long beaks and forked tails, seemed to perpetually circle the island, looking for signs of fish shoals out at sea. Occasionally an Amazon (a type of Parrot) could be seen flapping manically through the tree line, and I was surprised to see vultures too. It was hard not to feel slightly disappointed that weather had dealt us such a rough hand, because in the sunlight, the island was pristine.
We arrived at a little lagoon, at the most northerly tip of the island. Known as Lagoa Azul, the blue lagoon. Tt was easy to see why. The water here was tranquil, and in the sun, was a beautiful lazy aquamarine.
Now I have always wanted to Scuba Dive. I had been tempted to visit Sipadan Island during my trip to Borneo, although this was thwarted by my wallet, however, I had done some of my Scuba qualification at University. Unfortunately, on my second dive (thankfully in a pool), I was handed an oxygen tank that had enough air for about two minutes, and finding myself completely unable to breath at the bottom of the pool, panicked and had to speed to the surface. Not trusting the students who were running the sessions, I never went back and though I regret not completing the qualification, I was not prepared to put my life into the hands of the careless.
As neither Ethan or myself have a qualification, we were on a guided dive. In other words, a qualified professional would be in control of all of our equipment, leaving us to simply enjoy the view. I was geared up and ready to go, and rolled backwards off the edge of the boat. The water was cool, but not unpleasant, and I could already feel the fish against my legs. I looked up at the boat, waiting to see Ethan rolling in himself. But he wasn’t there. In fact, it sort of looked as if somebody had replaced him with a madame Tussaud’s waxwork, as he stood rigidly rooted to the spot.
“You coming?” I called cheerily.
“I’m not sure..” He was completely frozen. “I’m not actually sure that I can.”
This makes me sound like a horrible person but inside I felt quite smug, probably because I am, in fact, a horrible person.
He stood there holding his regulator, trying to calm himself. This could take a while.
“Come on, if you don’t you’ll kick yourself!” I called to my new statuesque friend.
To his credit, though thoroughly undignified in his roll, he did get out of the boat.
The water was murkier than I had expected, however, murky water is often the sign that the water is full of life. British seas are renowned for having poor visibility for divers, but that is actually because British waters are quite healthy. As we descended in the water, I could feel the pressure in my head increase. I wriggled my face around and tried to unblock my ears by blowing. Success was momentary and they would congest as quickly as they emptied. Having not dived for a while, and never out at sea, I had forgotten what a strange sensation diving brought. Firstly, though you can hear something, you are not quite sure what it is. Everything echoes here, and almost sounds slurred, blurring into one continuous sound of churning. If you make any vocal sound at all, perhaps musing at something you’ve seen, or even just clearing your throat, it sounds like an explosion has gone off and you jump out of your skin at yourself. The second strange sensation is that everything feels slower. What would normally be a simple action, for example, brushing your hair out of your face, feels like it takes ages, as if the entire ocean is resisting your attempts. Combined with an awkward oxygen tank on your back, and clumsy flippers on your feet, every movement feels uncontrolled. Finally, it takes an awful lot of self control to breathe. Everything in your body screams at you to hold your breath because every other sense is very aware that you are completely submerged. I didn’t even realise I was doing it, until I was forced to gasp for air. And the air that you do receive is very cold, very dry, and not quite enough to fill your lungs, leaving me one tickle away from a life-shortening coughing fit. I looked across at Ethan. His hand was still clutching his regulator and his eyes were wide and crazed.
So basically we were loving our Scuba diving experience! Haha, I jest of course, we were semi hating it. There were two things that our guide wanted to find for us: turtles and seahorses. Now I have seen turtles many times before and I could never get bored of them, but I have never seen a wild seahorse before. There was a multitude of fish all around us. Huge shoals swam in synchrony, as if one giant organism, intricately organised, able to turn together as if they were being directed. Large angel fish would gracefully wander between the passages between the jagged, polyp covered rocks. These polyps were not colourful, but would change colour as you swam over them, sensing our presence they would close in unison, setting off a chain reaction across the rock.
Star fish of all different shapes and sizes would be sprawled across the rocks, some a bright orange, some looking like a batch of purple Frankfurters. I remembered the sorry tale of my pet starfish who had been devoured very quickly by the cleaner shrimps that turned out to be overlords of the oceanic underworld. Barely had it been in the tank before it was flipped over and disemboweled alive. I didn’t get another one.
Our guide pointed out the shells of spider crabs scattered in a heap and then directed us to the lair of their nemesis: an octopus curled up in a gap so small that I couldn’t even fit my friend Isaac’s brain through it. That small! I’ve always wondered what superpower I would choose if I was offered one. The classic invisibility wouldn’t really be a superpower as everybody seems to choose it, plus, I’m not sure I would want to do any of the things people want to be invisible for. I think I’d just sit there quietly, maybe making polite conversation every once in a while. I also wouldn’t pick flying, as I feel that would be very cold and a lot of effort. I already don’t do enough exercise, flying would just be another form of keep-fit that I would flout. So as I saw this octopus, contorted into a hole barely bigger than a KitKat bar, I decided that this would be my superpower. To be able to contort this much, safely and comfortably would be incredible! Imagine playing hide and seek, you would win every time. Think about the comfort of a flight in economy class if you could actually fit into the seat. Think about how unfatal being hit by a forklift truck would be if you could just take on the shape of the truck. I like octopi and I have heard that they have the intelligence of a seven year old child. I spend a large proportion of my life attempting to teach seven year old children and I can tell you that this really isn’t that impressive, but at least the octopus is flexible!
A puffer fish glided past us, frantically paddling it’s tiny flippers, watching us with one of it’s gigantic eyes. It resembled a prickly underwater blimp and I followed it for a while, hoping that it would puff up. My attention was arrested however by a fish that seemed to be walking across the sand. It’s two ventral fins would dig into the sand and propel it along. All of a sudden, it fanned these fins out, and appeared to glide through the water, the fins dazzling a metallic purple in the light. It was a glorious sight, one which my Gopro only partially captured.
But as the dive progressed, and as we began to delve deeper into the ocean, the pressure in my head was getting difficult to ignore. Though at first, the wildlife had distracted me from it, the longer we went, the more woozy I began to feel. I had to really concentrate to focus my eyes and I felt slightly seasick just bobbing in the current. As for my sinuses, it felt as if somebody had stuffed a sock up there and there was nothing that I could do to dislodge it. It was at this moment that our guide decided to take my GoPro from me and take a few photos. I’m not sure he’s ever had to take photographs of people looking this ill since he stopped working for the Ilha Grande Coroner.
Travel blogs can sometimes be filled with lies. Obviously, they are not going to cover every aspect of every day, but they tend to focus on the good things, or make out that everything that the writer did was the best thing ever. I try not to do that, partly because I’m a cynical git and partly because it’s not helpful, nor is it true. It’s impossible for one, but also, it is important to accept that not everything in life is a fairy tale and not every experience life changing. It didn’t help that there were as many turtles and seahorses in the lagoon as their were freight trains, but even so I think, upon reflection, that I can honestly say that while I enjoyed seeing the underwater world in this way, I did not particularly enjoy the diving.
In fact, I could probably say the same thing about Ilha Grande. And you know what, that is ok.
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