PORTO SEGURO SOUTHWARDS

From Porto Seguro we decided to leave the beaten track and follow the coastline down as far as we could for the next section. Accordingly we crossed the ferry for the last time and took the bus for the village of Trancoso, a few miles south of Arraial.

Like Arraial, it has jumped in the last twenty-five years from being a fishing village with virtually no communication with the outside world to become a ‘hip’ tourist destination. However it is quieter and more Brazilian than Arraial. The focus of the old village is the grassy strip, lined with rows of well-preserved but unpretentious little houses, which leads up to the white C18th church on the cliff edge.




From there the next leg of the bus route looped inland again through huge plantations of mamao (paw-paw) to Itaporanga, where we stopped under a mango tree outside a little shop for a five-minute break to allow the driver (among others) to have a cigarette. The neighbouring hamlet is the indian village of Imbiriba, the name of a tree used by the Potaxó indians to make hunting bows, and later by slaves for the bow-like instrument used in capoeira named ‘berimbau’ after the tree.

Here the asphalt ran out and the dirt road wound up and down through farmland – mainly cattle. We saw a few water-buffalo, but the majority were white brahmins with their prominent humps and lyre-shaped horns.

Suddenly we were in dense tropical forest – there are several pockets (mainly secondary growth) of the ‘mata Atlantica’ which once covered a huge area of the Atlantic coast of Brazil.

Then the farmlamd resumed, with a few white felled trunks lying among the grass. When a large plantation of eucalyptus appeared, the similarity to parts of southern Chile was striking.

Dusk started to fall and we continued, now mainly through sandy scrub and coconut palms. Suddenly we sighted the rounded hump of Monte Pascoal (536m) the first land sighted by Cabral in April 1500 on his voyage of ‘discovery’. Unable to approach the coast, he turned north and landed at Coroa Vermelho.

It was almost dark by the time we bumped into Nova Caraiva, descended a short, sharp slope and stopped at the embarkation point for the little boats which ferry passengers across the river (less than 100m) to Caraiva proper. On the way across, we asked a fellow passenger if he could recommend somewhere to stay and he sent us to ‘Corina’s house’.

This was a three-minute walk down the river bank on a sandy track. There are no cars in Caraiva, only a couple of mule carts, and a few buggies to rent out to tourists.

The light was on, but no answer... We decided to find an alternative. Caraiva has had electricity since June but the populus decided aginst the installation of street-lighting. After twenty minutes blundering about in the dark, finding only one pousada open, where we were offered a room at twice the going rate, we returned and caught Corina just going out (again)!


Before going to bed we went for a walk along the beach with the surf crashing at our feet and a million stars shining above our heads – very corny perhaps, but marvelous every time.

We spent the next morning walking along the beach, where we had a swim in a natural pool created by the reef. Then we idled around the village, visiting the tiny and very simple church, and buying coconut oil in a little shop from an old lady who has been producing it for decades… Magda now anoints herself every morning and we travel in an aura of toasted coconut.
Lunch was fried fish, rice and beans beside the river and most of the afternoon was devoted to a siesta in the hammock.


Next morning we rose early for an 8.30 start on the next leg. We stepped aboard Senhor Bené’s aluminium boat with its powerful outboard and buzzed up-river between the mangroves and the scrubby vegetation on shore.

There were jacanas walking on the water lilies and a colony of black and dark red weaver birds flying round their hanging nests, as well as a selection of egrets, hawks and other birds (must get a bird book!)

Half an hour brought us to a little landing point with women washing clothes and saucepans, while naked children splashed around them. We stepped ashore and walked up the hill to the “Fazenda” where Jeni was waiting with horses for the ride to Corumbau.

The briefing was minimal, and we set off. However Jeni soon got the measure of our incompetence when our horses refused to go faster than a walk, and for the rest of the trip he trotted behind us, tickling our nags up frequently to keep them moving. We dropped down onto the level ground and struck off through the scrub, then crossed a river, wide and reedy, and only a couple of feet deep.
After an hour we came out onto the beach. We paused for a drink of water then trotted on beside the surf in the dazzling sunshine to the Corumbau River, where we said goodbye (with some relief on my part) to the horses and Jeni.

The crossing of this river was effected in a dugout canoe piloted by two small boys who tried to charge us double on the grounds that we would not be coming back – luckily we had checked the price first so stood firm, and a short walk brought us into the tiny village of Corumbau. Although only a slightly smartened up fishing village, with a couple of high class resorts, the cost of property here is tremendously high – far above Caraiva. They are taking great care to keep things that way.




We had been told there was a bus service from Corumbau, and so there is – every morning at 6 a.m. Given the choice of waiting till next day and paying the exorbitant cost of a pousada, we opted for a taxi (not cheap, it is a long way!) to the next town, Prado. We lunched on fried fish, rice and beans while we waited for our driver to arrive.
He was a real character, who gloried in the name of Fifi and conversed knowledgeably on an extraordinary range of topics for the whole journey.
Prado is not a particularly exciting place so after an hour in an internet café we headed on for the beach town of Alcobaça (we visited the mediaeval town of Alcobaça in Portugal in 1997). It is not devoid of charm, but out of season it is not precisely exciting… a walk round and a generous supper (…) was the extent of our entertainment! The most interesting feature of the church were the stations of the cross, painted in the 1950s - very bleak with thin, stylized, sinewy, grim-faced figures.

The last stop on this section was Caravelas, a fairly decrepit village which boasted a lively street market and a lot of vultures.

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Partiendo de Porto Seguro, decidimos seguir la costa en lo posible por la siguiente sección. Cruzamos el ferry por última vez y tomamos el bus para Trancoso, al sur de Arraial.

Igual a Arraial, Trancoso ha cambiado en los últimos 25 anos de un pueblo pesquero a un destino turístico de moda, sin embargo es más trnquilo y ‘Brazilero’ que Arraial. El foco del pueblo es la ‘plaza’ – puro pasto, con lineas de casitas antiguas, y una iglesia al borde del farellón.

El camino siguió por plantaciones grandes de papaya hasta Itaporanga, donde el bus paró por 5 minutos para que los fumantes (incluyendo el chófer) pudieron fumar. El pueblito indio vecino se llama Imbiriba, el arból ocupado por los Potaxó para hacer arcos para cazar, y posteriormente por los esclavos para hacer el instrumento de capoeira, el ‘berimbau’.

De aquí el camino era de tierra, pasando por campos, principalmente con ganado. De repente pasamos por un bosque denso de la ‘mata Atlantica’ – de las pocas áreas que quedan. Después seguía el campo, con troncos blancos caídos, igual al sur de Chile. La similitud se hizo completa cuando apareció un bosque de eucalipto!

Seguimos por el atardecer a traves de arena, arbustos y cocos. De repente vimos la forma redonda del Monte Pascoal (536m), la primera tierra vista por Cabral en April del 1500. No pudiendo llegar a tierra en esta zona, siguió hacia el norte y llegó a Coroa Vermelho.

Cuando el bus llego a Nova Caraiva, ya de noche, bajamos al punto de embarque para los pequenos botes que sirven de ferry a Caraiva propriamente tal. Nos recomendaron una posada – la Casa de Corina.

Esta estaba a 3 minutos del ferry por un camino de arena. No hay autos en Caraiva, solo un par de carretas con mula, y unos buggies que se arriendan a los turistas. Había luz en la casa, pero la Corina no contestaba... Decidimos buscar otra alternativa. Caraiva tiene energía eléctrica desde junio, pero no quisieron instalar luz en las calles. Después de vagar perdidos por 20 minutos, encontrando sólo una posada (muy cara), volvimos, y nos encontramos con la Corina, quien salía de nuevo!

La manana siguiente caminamos por la playa, nos banamos en una piscina natural creada por el recife. Luego conocimos el pueblito con su iglesia mínima y sencilla, y compramos aceite de coco a una viejita… Ahora la Magda se untúa todas las mananas, y viajamos en una aura de coco tostado. Almorzamos pescado frito con frijoles y arroz, y dormimos siesta en la hamaca.

Al otro día partimos a las 8.30 en la embarcación del Sr. Bené, y subimos el río entre mangles y bosque. Vimos jacanas (un tipo de tagua) que caminan sobre las plantas acuáticas, y una colonia (‘condominio’) de pájaros tejedores en sus nidos colgantes.

Después de media hora llegamos a un pueblito – las mujeres en el agua lavando sus ropas y ollas, acompanadas por sus críos desnudos. Subimos a “la Fazenda” donde nos esperaba Jeni con los caballos para el viaje a Corumbau. Jeni entendió dentro de poco que no eramos muy expertos, cuando nuestros caballos se negaron a ir más rápido que el andar! Por el resto del camino vino atrás, pegando nuestros caballos de vez en cuando para que no pararan... Bajamos a un llano y cruzamos un río, ancho, lleno de plantas y poco profundo. Después de una hora llegamos a la playa, y seguimos hasta el río Corumbau, donde nos despedimos de Jeni y de los caballos – yo por lo menos con alivio!

Cruzamos este río en un tronco, navegado por dos ninos pequenos quienes trataban de cobrarnos el doble, con la disculpa que no ibamos a volver. A los tres minutos de caminar, llegamos al pueblito de Corumbau. Este es un pueblo pesquero un poco acomodado, con un par de ‘resorts’ de alto nivel, y el costo de la propriedad es altísmo, para que no se eche a perder.

Nos habían dicho que existe un servicio de bus que sale de Corumbau, y efectivamente lo hay – cada día a las 6 de la manana. Tuvimos que escoger entre esperar hasta el otro día, pagando una posada carísima; o tomar un taxi – no muy barato, ya que las distancias son grandes – a la próxima ciudad, Prado. Tomamos el taxi. El chofer, quien se llamaba Fifi(¡!), era un carácter, y conversó de asuntos varios casi sin parar durante todo el viaje.
Prado no ofrece mucho, así que seguimos a Alcobaça, en la playa (conocimos la ciudad medieval de Alcobaça en Portugal en 1997). Tiene su encanto, pero fuera de temporada no es muy emocionante … Lo más interesante de la iglesia eran las pinturas de la pasión, pintadas en la década de los 1950 – muy austeras con personajes flacos, nervudos, muy estilizados, de cara triste.
La última parada de esta sección era Caravelas, un pueblo medio decaído con un mercado en la calle y hartos buitres...