12th March 2013

We had a painfully early start this morning, making it to breakfast by 6:30 am. The ship was due to dock in Recife by 8 am, and we had booked an excursion that inconveniently departed at the same time. Recife must be enormous, like Birmingham on steroids, because we sailed along its coastline for what felt like forever, skyscraper after skyscraper poking skywards in a show of concrete solidarity.

Once docked, we dutifully trooped off to our meeting point where our coach awaited us, idling impatiently on the quay.

 

 

 

 

 

Our first stop was Igarassu, one of Brazil’s earliest settlements, where we admired the São Cosme e Damião Church, ancient, small, and held together by centuries of prayers. After a wander and the obligatory camera snaps, we clambered back onto the bus and headed to the Ibama Centre for the Protection of the West Indian Manatee.

Manatees are curious creatures. About the size of a chunky dolphin, they paddle about with the urgency of a hangover. Their round, squishy faces make them look permanently confused, and the males and females were kept apart, no doubt to give the chaps a bit of peace and quiet. The juveniles destined for release were in separate tanks, which we were not allowed to approach, lest our mere presence spoil their return to nature. They looked wonderfully prehistoric, and apparently taste rather good too, which neatly explains why they’re on the endangered list.

From there, it was back on the bus and a quick hop to catch a boat that ferried us across to a tiny palm-fringed island with white coral sand. It was picture-postcard stuff, rather Maldives-esque, except this island sat in the middle of a lagoon with one side spilling into the most dazzling blue sea.

We circumnavigated the island like a pair of latter-day explorers, pausing every few steps for photographs. At one point, I waded out to a local woman who was gathering shellfish with her son. Despite my fractured Portuguese, we managed a laugh together, and her lad even insisted on a selfie with me. No doubt he’ll be showing that around school with a caption along the lines of “Random British Tourist with Sunburn”.

Back aboard the good ship Favalosa, we discovered we’d been delayed by Recife’s charming traffic chaos and only just made it back in time. The captain, mercifully, had waited for us. I headed for a light lunch (Sue is still fattening her pet tape-worm) while she went for something altogether more hearty. Later, Sue worked off her calories by reading on deck, while I heroically sacrificed myself to an afternoon nap.

In the late afternoon, I had coffee and sandwiches while Sue sipped tea and picked at fruit. The captain himself popped over for a chat. A short man, but amiable enough. We discussed navigational matters, and I mischievously asked whether, in the event of abandoning ship, he preferred to command from the bridge or the vantage point of a lifeboat 200 metres away. He smiled but firmly declined to be drawn into comparisons with the Costa Concordia.

Sunset was spectacular. From Deck 12, armed with binoculars, we watched the sun plunge towards the horizon. You could almost feel the planet spinning as it disappeared, silhouetting Recife’s skyline in a glorious orange glow. The Italians, bless them, burst into spontaneous applause as the final sliver vanished, so much more soulful than we buttoned-up Brits.

Dinner, alas, was less celestial. Last night, I sat next to a fellow from Manchester and nearly passed out from the fumes of what could only have been an entire bottle of Old Spice. I assumed it was a one-off. How wrong I was. Tonight, fate placed me between him and his wife. He’d bathed in cologne again, and she had followed suit with a liberal application of Lily of the Valley. The combined aroma was akin to being locked in Boots’ fragrance aisle after someone had whipped the lids off all the testers. By the second course, I could no longer taste my food; opening my mouth only made the stench worse. To add insult to injury, Jonathan (the Dorset chap) sat opposite me with a smug grin, confessing he’d endured the same ordeal for three nights running, hence his absence last night. My clothes still reek as I write this. Tomorrow, I’ll be the first to the dining table and firmly ensconced at the far end.

As for tonight’s entertainment, we gave it a try. A very large Brazilian lady attempted a medley of jazz and blues. When she reached the line “It was too good to be true, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you”, the tune bore no resemblance to any version of the song I’ve ever encountered. We joined the steady stream of escapees heading for the exit. A few hardy jazz enthusiasts seemed to find some rhythm in the chaos, but for us it was a lost cause. After a quiet circuit of the deck, we gave up on the ship’s other musical offerings and retired early, our noses still tingling with eau de Old Spice.