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Today’s Featured Post is by
, author of Pells Post, and was selected by SmallStack volunteer . Erin writes:I chose this post because it was delightfully free of “top five” listicles, instead choosing to tell informative, offbeat and humorous stories about her travels around the incredibly vast and diverse South America. The author’s writing makes you feel as if you’re traveling right alongside her.
A SmallStack Featured Post
The squid games of Ilha Grande
By
I’ve just agreed to buy some squid from a strange man on the beach who may or may not be the same squid dealer Dave’s already agreed to buy some squid from. This guy ambushed me with a fist bump and his toothless mumblings as I was opening the gate to our house, and I was vulnerable without my phone to hand (although I'm not sure Google Translate would have helped on this occasion).
Dave’s existing deal was arranged via our very enthusiastic and overly concerned Airbnb host, who has links to someone called Gabriela. Gabriela may or may not be linked to a toothless man, but we know they deal in squid sales and boat rides to neighbouring beaches for a very fair price. Either toothless squid man is Dave’s squid dealer, and he knew where to find us because we are the only gringos here in Provetá, or he’s some chancer who saw us on the beach and seized his moment for a sale.
It’s a stressful predicament, because the village we’re staying in only has about 30 people in it, most of whom we met on the boat over here, and my panic-induced dealings could probably start a turf war between squid fishing families. Gabriela sounds like a big fish in Provetá with their multiple boat-related businesses and solid connections to the bringer of gringos, so I certainly wouldn’t want to upset them. Either way, we’ll find out tomorrow morning when about two kilogrammes of seafood gets delivered to our door.
As I write this newsletter from Provetá beach on Ilha Grande, just south of Rio de Janeiro, it’s exactly six months since we left the UK – and the time really has flown by. I feel as if we’re only just getting started with this trip, although my sad wardrobe of faded t-shirts tells me otherwise. Each bus ride takes us further north towards the equator mark, bringing with it more heat and humidity and intensity.
My hair is unfathomably large and my freckles are out in force: our Brazilian tour continues and the holiday feeling has definitely arrived. From my chair on the sundeck of our Airbnb (very charming, right on the actual beach) I can see another island on the horizon and fishing boats bobbing around in our secluded little bay before it. Nearer still, I can see groups of children running around flying kites all day like it’s 1964, and Dave and Anthony passed out on sunbeds, cans of beer in hand. It’s true we are something of a novelty here and I suspect the whole village knows exactly what we are up to at every moment, but we are surrounded by thick jungle and can hear the waves crashing from our beds at night – it’s pretty perfect.
This leg of the journey began in São Paulo, where Anthony flew in to meet us last weekend. We gave him about five minutes to acclimatise before trekking down to the centre (largely empty, very strong smell of piss) to see the main sights (cathedral, national theatre, tall buildings).
Navigating the city as tourists was a little hit and miss, because none of the people I’ve met who have been to São Paulo have much to say about it, and the most recent guidebook we have (Rough Guides) was written pre-pandemic and so is still pretty out of date. One of the suggested activities I’d read about, for example, was to go up a particular skyscraper (I think the Edifício Itália?) which allegedly had a free viewing platform. Except when we got there people were queueing for some event and we were told we’d need tickets to see any views at any rate.
Once Anthony reminded us that a £6 entry fee was actually not very much money at all in the real world, Dave and I got a grip and the three of us decided to go up the neighbouring Farol skyscraper, which promised 360-degree views for less than the price of a London pint. The Farol is a fairly unremarkable building with absolutely baffling “cultural” displays (some video game fan art; a room of portraits of men) and an even stranger rooftop bar with frosted windows that obscure the view (why?!). But the viewpoint was worth it just about to get a bit of a handle on this enormous city.
At 1,521 km², São Paulo covers a similar size area to London, but almost every building is a tower block and the city is home to 22.43 million people – apparently the most populous city outside of Asia. Considering how many people live there, it’s not choc-a-bloc with sights; two full days was about the right amount of time to see it in. But we did have more excellent Japanese food, this time at Hirá in the Pinheiros district, after soaking up some good vibes at Boteco do Urso bar, among others.
From the city, the three of us took a six-hour bus to Paraty, a UNESCO World Heritage Site on the coast with impractically big stone cobbled streets and the warmest water any of us had ever swum in. I’ve just looked it up: apparently the average sea temperature in Paraty in April is 27.9°C, but the bay itself is shallow – enough to walk across – and so the effect is more like being gently boiled alive like an unfortunate crab.
What’s worse than being violently sick while travelling? Answer: being violently sick while sharing a one-bed apartment with two boys. The day before Anthony’s arrival, Dave hadn’t been feeling well – some travellers’ bug – and spent a day mostly in bed before really rallying hard for drinking in São Paulo. We’d all but forgotten about it, until we arrived in Paraty to find the “four-person” accommodation we’d booked was actually more of a one-bed studio with ensuite bathroom (awkward). As if on queue, my stomach started feeling strange… no need for further details.
I think I handled the whole thing very bravely, if I say so myself. Wednesday afternoon was a write-off – I swallowed nothing but half a coconut water all day and took a feverish nap for a couple of hours, leaving Anthony and Dave to cruise the old town’s bars without me. But by Thursday morning I was alive enough to commit to the mission of the day: swimming from Paraty beach to the nearest island, Ilha dos Pássaros – slowly, with the acceptance that I might be sick on route but that that’s ok because in my experience tropical fish are attracted to the bits. Anthony and Dave could thank me later.
As an aside, I’ve become low-level obsessed with tourist Google reviews of Brazil. The Ilha dos Pássaros remains a bit of a mystery, because we realised it was someone’s home and didn’t want to trespass. We did swim around it, said hi to some very friendly dogs, and made it there and back unscathed. Diego Weissel (eight Google reviews, 1 star) had a lot more to say about the place: “You can’t visit her. I was attacked in 2014 by dogs that jumped into the water from the island to attack me…I chased them and grabbed them by the paws and sank.”
From Paraty we took a very local bus up the coast (about £3 for two hours’ journey, zero suspension) followed by an even more local boat from Angra dos Reis (£7.80, “about half an hour,” Dave reckoned; actually two hours sandwiched between food delivery bags and sweaty families). We were personally introduced to both the boats’ captains, and were met on the other side by the rest of the island’s inhabitants armed with wheelbarrows offering to carry our things.
Dinner last night was in the only place which sold it, Cristiano’s (4.1 stars on Google; “It doesn't exist, I couldn't get there,” – Patricia Zanotti, 50 reviews). It looked unlikely, just four men gathered around a TV, and we felt bad for tearing the chef away from the football. But the food when it came was the best yet: three freshly caught and battered dorado fillets with rice and beans and all the rest. I’m already sad at the thought of leaving this paradise.
Travel bits and tips from this week
We stayed in this Airbnb in São Paulo, which was very comfortable for three people and perfectly walkable to some decent cafés and supermarkets.
To get to Paraty, we took a bus from Terminal Tietê and then a taxi on to our accommodation on the other side of town (Jabaquara). It was easy enough to hail one, though our driver was a bit of a dick and couldn’t be bothered to take us all the way to our door despite overcharging us.
I wouldn’t hugely recommend staying where we stayed in Paraty, unless you’re on a very tight budget (although the location on the quieter side of town was nice). I definitely wouldn’t recommend it if there are more than two of you, especially if one of you is projectile vomiting all night.
Anthony and Dave very much enjoyed drinks and food at Avenida Grill in Paraty town centre.
I joined them for a meal at the Pizza Bar at Hostel Sereia do Mar once recovered. The pizza was pretty bad if we’re being honest, but the live music (this guy) was fantastic.
Another night, we ate at Boteco Damião, which was in a lovely setting, but unfortunately had actively rude staff and terrible service.
The best meal we had in Paraty by far was on the beach at Restaurante La Luna Bistrô de Praia.
From Paraty we took an inter-city bus from the main bus station to Angra dos Reis for about 18 Reals (£3).
The bus dropped us off right by the port, which was handy. From there, we took a boat for around 50 Reals (£8) directly to Provetá beach on Ilha Grande.
Our Airbnb in Provetá was dreamy – lovely hosts and right on the beach (literally on the sand).
We ate at Cristiano’s, also on the beach, because it was the only place open – but it also happened to be great.
Unlike the busier towns of Praia de Araçatiba and Abraão, Provetá is pretty secluded so I’d recommend stocking up at the big supermarket by the port in Angra dos Reis before making the crossing – we were glad we did.
There is, however, a small grocery store selling limited fruit and veg by the church in Provetá, and plenty of local squid dealers to flog you their fresh catch.
(Our squid was delicious, by the way, though I still don’t know if it was Gabriela’s or not.)
About the author
is a freelance journalist and author. In normal life she lives in the UK (based in London and Margate) and writes mostly about science and research for publications such as Nature, Wired magazine and a range of British newspapers. However, in October 2023 she abandoned this enjoyable and relatively comfortable existence to travel around South America, where she writes about her experiences as she goes (and occasionally squeezes in some real work, too). You can still find her wasting time on the usual social media platforms @rachaelpells.Rachael is the author of Pells Post on Substack. Pells Post is an entirely self-conscious newsletter about travel, misadventure and the politics of freelancing alongside it all. Usually written from the back of a bumpy bus as Rachael makes her way around Latin America.
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That Google review is really something.
I was violently sick constantly during my travel to Brazil. I ended up surviving with papaya and - when in São Paulo - sushi on the Paulista. Strength!!!