11th March 2013

By 6:30 a.m., the ship had already docked in Salvador, the old capital of Brazil. We rose early, demolished breakfast by 7:30 am, and were ashore by 9 am, ready to explore.

At the foot of the gangplank, chaos reigned. A Brazilian film crew was busily shooting what appeared to be an episode featuring last night’s dancers. Passengers were herded out of the shot like stray sheep, while I did my level best to loiter in view for my big break. Sadly, the crew were one step ahead and shooed me off like an unwanted extra.

As we wandered down the street, a young Brazilian woman tugged my arm. For a fleeting moment, I thought the romance novel of my life had finally begun, until Sue appeared, two paces behind. Alas, the lady’s interest was purely professional. She pointed sternly at my camera and indicated that I should put it away. Sensible advice, considering we’d been warned on board about opportunistic robberies. It seemed the locals were just as keen as the cruise company that we tourists didn’t end up divested of our valuables and, more importantly, our spending money.

We soon found an open-air market and browsed stalls of trinkets, souvenirs, and assorted tat. Salvador is perched dramatically on a high escarpment, and I was relieved to spot a lift built into the cliff face. Fifteen cents later, we ascended, sweat-free, to the summit. At the top, a magnificent square was ringed with historic buildings. We ducked gratefully into a museum, air-conditioned bliss!, which focused on the history of slavery. For once, the guilt was firmly laid at the feet of the Spanish and Portuguese, rather than the usual British suspects. We emerged feeling both cooler and faintly virtuous.

The streets bristled with military police, one at every corner and others patrolling in pairs, rifles slung casually like handbags. Comforting, if a little disconcerting.

Our next stop was the Cathedral Basilica, vast and impressive. In one chamber, the ceiling was painted with portraits of past priests. One unfortunate clergyman was depicted with a sword through his neck; personally, I’d have requested a little retouching.

 

As the heat intensified, we ambled the cobbled streets, snapping photos of colourful buildings and cheerful locals. The cobbles reflected the sun like a furnace. Despite firm resolutions, we somehow bought two paintings we had absolutely not intended to purchase. With temperatures rising, we made the sensible decision to head back. This entailed marching purposefully through a rather run-down neighbourhood, clutching our belongings like contestants in It’s a Knockout. Before long, we were safely back in the shadow of the Favalosa and breathing easier.

Once aboard, we treated ourselves to heroic quantities of fruit juice, followed by several bowls of vanilla and strawberry ice cream, strictly for rehydration purposes, you understand. Sue then vanished to a quiet spot with her book, while I surrendered to a well-earned rest.

Dinner with our usual companions was a cheerful affair, punctuated by an impromptu performance from five waiters who launched into a perfectly timed Kung Fu-style dance routine. It was hilarious, skilful, and, judging by their slightly frazzled expressions afterwards, utterly exhausting. I’ve no idea how they managed to return to carrying trays without collapsing. As ever, we were the last table standing.

The evening’s theatre show was a whirlwind of South American dances: Argentine caballeros with their boleros, Cuban tangos, and a flurry of Brazilian routines straight out of the Olympic closing ceremony. Colourful? Yes. Understandable? Not remotely. Give me a Morris dance any day. At least I know what’s going on.