Standing in the shower of Hostel BH, I have an overwhelming urge that we are getting the hell out of dodge before things take a turn for the worst.
Unlikely, I know, and the feeling passes, but the sensation that we have spent enough time here lingers, and munching on watermelon and cake for breakfast doesn't alleviate the gnawing. First time I have felt this. Belo Horizonte may be a fine place to live - I've certainly seen no reason to suspect otherwise, in fact it has felt safer and more 'normal' than anywhere else we have been so far - but it's not any sort of a tourist haven, despite its wealth of architecture, footballing heritage and sheer sprawl around the valley. Our next destination, Diamantina, feels a safer bet, another colonial town in the middle of nowhere, still pulling precious gems from the earth, and with waterfalls and rocks and churches and the ilk. Familiar territory for us.
Mount the bus. Have I mentioned the ridiculous number system Belo buses use? Its a four digit code... except for the 64 and 67. Our most useful bus is 3503A, which takes us from near the rodoviaria to the bottom of our Rua. Except so does the 3301. Or 3302. Or 2402. Or 64 or 67. None of which leave the town centre from the same location, and unlike Rio you cannot just flag a bus down. Belo Horizonte is a city with RULES, goddamnit. We live on Car Mechanic Street. When we leave the city, it is via Office Furniture Street. No one in the city has an excuse to fail their MOT, even when their office is comfy.
The bus station offers us our first decent coffee in 3 days. 25p espressos taste good. A pity when I get on the bus I realise I have left my water filter bottle in the cafe. The bus driver laughs at me when I run back, drenched in sweat. Brazilians have a rather good sense of humour. They seem to acknowledge the stupidity of their situation with a finely distinguished sense of perspective. It is easy to empathise we a people who remind me of Ulstermen, minus the need to complain incessantly and the Western complacence and hatred for our countrymen.
Brazil is an easy country for an Irishman (or either direction) to feel homely in. The gently rolling hills, albeit in a grander scale, are lush and of a familiar green. When they drop away to deep valley, you are quickly reminded of the Mournes, or more obscure roads throughout the Antrim Coastline.
Unlikely, I know, and the feeling passes, but the sensation that we have spent enough time here lingers, and munching on watermelon and cake for breakfast doesn't alleviate the gnawing. First time I have felt this. Belo Horizonte may be a fine place to live - I've certainly seen no reason to suspect otherwise, in fact it has felt safer and more 'normal' than anywhere else we have been so far - but it's not any sort of a tourist haven, despite its wealth of architecture, footballing heritage and sheer sprawl around the valley. Our next destination, Diamantina, feels a safer bet, another colonial town in the middle of nowhere, still pulling precious gems from the earth, and with waterfalls and rocks and churches and the ilk. Familiar territory for us.
Mount the bus. Have I mentioned the ridiculous number system Belo buses use? Its a four digit code... except for the 64 and 67. Our most useful bus is 3503A, which takes us from near the rodoviaria to the bottom of our Rua. Except so does the 3301. Or 3302. Or 2402. Or 64 or 67. None of which leave the town centre from the same location, and unlike Rio you cannot just flag a bus down. Belo Horizonte is a city with RULES, goddamnit. We live on Car Mechanic Street. When we leave the city, it is via Office Furniture Street. No one in the city has an excuse to fail their MOT, even when their office is comfy.
The bus station offers us our first decent coffee in 3 days. 25p espressos taste good. A pity when I get on the bus I realise I have left my water filter bottle in the cafe. The bus driver laughs at me when I run back, drenched in sweat. Brazilians have a rather good sense of humour. They seem to acknowledge the stupidity of their situation with a finely distinguished sense of perspective. It is easy to empathise we a people who remind me of Ulstermen, minus the need to complain incessantly and the Western complacence and hatred for our countrymen.
Brazil is an easy country for an Irishman (or either direction) to feel homely in. The gently rolling hills, albeit in a grander scale, are lush and of a familiar green. When they drop away to deep valley, you are quickly reminded of the Mournes, or more obscure roads throughout the Antrim Coastline.
The landscape changes as we get further from BH and closer to Diamantina. Sarah announces "This looks awfully like the Glenshane Pass" and it does. Diamond Country is also predictably familiar, and we don't mind.
Eventually pull into the main square an hour late thanks to some undetermined hold-up on the road in - nothing to do with the rain as far as we can tell. Brazil's fields are complemented all over with a glowing orange mud that I've never seen anywhere else. Once again our Western fear intervenes when a friendly local offers to get us a map. "How much will this cost?" we fret? Nothing, as per usual, merely how people should treat each other. I feel a little embarrassed and humbled.
Walk a mile in the right direction, walk another mile with Danielle, ex-New Jersey, speaking Portuguese with a Sopranos twist, before we arrive at Pousada Presidente. A long day of travelling takes it toll and I walk, Daniel-speed, back into the town centre to acquire pizza and beer. It was worth it.
The new day dawns to more tropic rain. Whilst it is easy to adjust to most aspects of Latin American life - sometimes less exotic than you might like - the 'wet' and 'dry' seasons prove the most unfamiliar. It rains a little less than we sometimes think in Norn Iron, but our nature demands we feel aggrieved by the mizzling rain and three days of sunshine we get every year. The tropics, however, experience what we know of as 'proper weather'. For six months of the year you can expect the sea to fall from the sky at least once a day. The torrents will wash away your house if you aren't careful, although the natives seem more resigned to the implications and walk around in light t-shirts and flip flops. Why wear more? It will only get wet and need dried.
We put off leaving for several hours but eventually the temptation to explore proves too much, and we duck out in between showers. A twenty minute walk takes us as far as the town centre, where we manage to walk round the main square before the rain returns, this time with a vengeance. A holiday bar shelters us for a few hours, but hunger begins to creep in, and we have no choice but to make a run for it.
We were due another disaster. Barely turned a corner whilst jumping from shelter to shelter when Sarah collapses in slow motion. The poor dear slipped and banged her knee. We make it to a little cafe to eat and recover, but we fear the worst.
Not much to do but run for it. Full of little deep-fried snacks for dinner, not to mention a glass of beer or two, we endeavour to get home without any more mishaps. Twenty minutes later, soaked, we are back, grateful in the knowledge we have hot water in our shower. No more adventures today methinks.
I see what you mean re the scenery similarity - isn't that Slemish in the last pic?? Rainfall in NI is actually well below the world average - not a lot of people know that.
ReplyDeleteHope Sarah's knee is on the mend.