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| Curitiba's Botanical Gardens |
But before reaching Floripa, as it is more conversationally
known, I had planned a brief stop off in Curitiba. The bus timetable forced my
hand somewhat, but I was very happy to visit another of Brazil’s twelve World
Cup cities. Also, had I managed to secure a job with HSBC, which was on the
cards at one stage, Curitiba would have been my home. And what a lovely home it
would have been: a bustling metropolis with pleasing parks, minimal congestion
and none of the foul smells that hang in Rio’s air. But the best thing of all
was the buses. Unlike Rio’s four-wheeled death traps, Curitiba’s main form of
public transport unlocks all areas of the city with graceful serenity, waltzing
around with admirable nonchalance. But it was the bus stops that really took
the biscuit. Circular pods, elevated a few metres off the ground, allowing for
the speedy exchange of passengers. Different, thrilling, futuristic: it was a
bus journey like no other.
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| A bus stop. That's right, it's a bus stop. |
My next bus journey, alas, would not be quite so thrilling.
The plan was simple: leave bags in the bus station, drink until 5am, board a
bus and sleep. The first half of the plan couldn’t have gone more swimmingly. I
arrived at the station, tipsy and tired, ready to sink into a rapid slumber.
But the bus was late. By four hours. The four hours of darkness that I had so
carefully allotted to sleep; the four hours in which I would pass from drunk to
hungover. Fighting with fatigue and the need to stay awake for when the bus
arrived, it was an uncomfortable wait. Despite large seats with a first-rate
recline, traffic shattered any hopes of arriving in daylight. An entire day to
enjoy Floripa’s coastline had been wrenched from my grasp. So much for ‘good’
Friday.
Florianópolis would turn out to be worth the wait. The city
sits just off the mainland, on Ilha de Santa Catarina, boasting a phenomenal 42
beaches. Along with some Bristol-Portuguese blokes, João, Luisão and Samuél, I
set off to Floripa’s main seaside attraction: Lagoinha do Leste. Situated in
the less touristy southern part of the island, the beach was secluded, an
hour-long trek required to reach its white sands. Had premature clouds not
obscured the sun’s rays, the view would have been nothing short of exceptional.
Indeed, the Lonely Planet guidebook has it listed as one of the 20 ‘must-see’
things in Brazil. As it was, we occupied ourselves with various beach sports,
ranging from football to golf, which would have my muscles screaming in agony
for days to come. So committed were we to the sport, that many of us drew
blood. This was not a relaxing afternoon on the beach; it was a physical
battering.
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| Lagoinha do Leste beach. Rather lovely. |
Getting back to the hostel was a challenge. Floripa’s bus
system is appalling. Buses run from terminal to terminal and never seem to go
exactly where you want them to. The other problem was, as per usual, traffic. A
torrent of rain probably didn’t help, but the fact of the matter is that there
are not enough roads on the island to accommodate all the cars that want to use
them. My advice is to leave yourself lots of time, or rent a motorbike I
suppose. My confusion was aroused later that day for a second time by the music
in a nightclub. Dull, repetitive hip hop was inspiring no one. All of a sudden,
Lou Bega’s Mambo No. 5 dragged the punters from the depths of extreme boredom,
only for the monotonous drone to resume immediately. It was most bizarre. At
least I got three and a half minutes of fun…
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| Praia de Mole (Mole Beach - haven't figured out why it's called that...) |
Easter Sunday always features a beach. Every year Kent’s
finest getaway, Dymchurch, hosts the Marrow family. My only Easter absence was
in 2011, but I still managed to wake up at Uruguay’s ‘Punta del Diablo’. Many
readers will pleased to know that Florianópolis’ weather on the big day was
rather poor. And judging by photos, England’s south coast really was the place
to be. A pint of Old Speckled Hen in Floripa’s very well run English pub
offered some solace.
Fortunately, Easter Monday dawned bright and clear. Rather
than leave our fate in the hands of public transport, my travel companion (Georgie
– a fellow travel enthusiast) and I embarked upon a 30 minute trek across sand
dunes. Our reward was the Joaquina sandboarding centre. The premise is simple:
snowboarding on sand. It did feel very similar to snowboarding, but my
rustiness was blindingly obvious. Choosing to wear nothing but my speedos was
also a bold call, and one that would leave me bearing strong resemblance to a
yeti, such was the amount of sand clinging to all areas of my body.
Nevertheless, it was another physical workout and well worth my time.
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| Sandboarding debut |
All too soon, the time had come to return home. Getting out
of Rio had been necessary, but returning to the ‘Cidade Maravilhosa’ is hardly
chore. Floripa had provided the perfect getaway: a break from work, reunions,
secluded beaches, burning and lots more. It was a little too touristy for my
liking, but on the other hand, the city centre had an enormous tree, which
required several stands to keep it up. You win some, you lose some.
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| that's one big tree |
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