Sally McKinney

PUBLISHED IN: Arizona Daily Star; Arizona Republic; The Australian; Boston Globe; Boston Herald; Business Traveller (Hong Kong); Cleveland Plain Dealer; Daily Herald; Doctor's Review (Canada); Denver Post; Explorations Ashore; Mexico Travel and Life; Far East Traveler (Japan); The Globe and Mail (Canada); Grand Rapids Press; Hoosier Times; Houston Chronicle; Indianapolis Star; London Free Press (Canada); Los Angeles Times; New Orleans Times-Picayune: New Zealand Herald; Pacific Way; Portland Oregonian; San Diego Tribune; San Jose Mercury News; Silkwind (Singapore); South Bend Tribune; South China Morning Post (Hong Kong); St. Louis Post-Dispatch; Straits Times (Singapore); Vancouver Sun (Canada).

SPECIALTIES: Nature-oriented cruises; ecotours; sustainable tourism; food and wine.

BOOKS: Country Roads of Indiana; Fairs and Festivals: Illinois, Indiana, & Ohio; Hiking Indiana; Adventures in Nature: New Zealand: Great Indiana Weekend Adventures; The Indiana University Experience.

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Grappling with Brazil

by Sally McKinney, Publication

When Italian adventurer Amerigo Vespucci sailed southwest of Guanabara Bay in the 16th century, he described the lush, green Costa Verde as close to paradise. Like Vespucci, I’m also sailing off this 280-kilometer coast, across the Bahia Angra dos Reis. From the deck of a traditional schooner, I study flecks of sunlight on smoky teal and a band of emerald water along the packed-sand beach. The Porto do Frade marina, cafes and shops, and the low, 134-room Hotel Frade resort stand on shore. Beyond them rise the humped, green coastal mountains, draped with green forests and nourished by waterfalls.

There are 360 islands off the Costa Verde. Ilha Grande, the largest, once harbored pirates who staged raids on shipments of gold from Parati. After the schooner docks at Ilha Itahanga, the Island of the Echoing Rock, I climb up a hill for a stunning view.

But by seeing one region, I pass up another, for Brazil sprawls across half the South American continent. The entire country covers 3,285,000 square miles. Grappling with the country is like stalking a tropical bird with a camera. Just as the colorful shape and rich textures come into focus, it flies out of range.

Yet, despite the frustration of missing much, Brazilian pleasures seem to follow wherever I go. Back on the schooner, a crewman brings a caipirinha, a drink made of an entire, fresh lime (quartered and crushed), chachaca (the potent, Brazilian white rum), sugar and cracked ice. Sipping it slowly, I’m aware that if Vespucci had tasted a caipirinha, he might well have stayed!

On this hurry-up-and-wait group tour, I’ll move on to Rio de Janeiro, Brasilia/the Central Highlands and the Costa Dourado, the Gold Coast between Maceio and Recife. Ten years before, I’d flown into Rio de Janeiro, the city of 7 million that stretches for 13 miles (20 kilometers) between the mountains and the sea. My earlier mission was to travel around on an air pass, updating information for a hotel directory.

As I typed reports in a Copacabana apartment, I could see from a window the wide expanse of beach beyond Avenida Atlantica. Sailboats ruffled the cobalt water near the entrance to Guanabara Bay, where Vespucci, navigator for Commander Gonzalo Coelho, sailed under the Portuguese flag.

This first tour of Brazil was a working whirlwind fueled by tiny, sweet cups of coffee called cafezinhos. In two weeks’ time I made frantic circuits of Rio, Salvador, Joao Pessoa, Natal, Fortaleza, Belem and Manaus. Knowing little Portuguese, I depended on a wrinkled list of Portuguese words: por favor, paixe, galinho, vinho, obrigado. . .at least I could order food.

Salvador en Bahia’s cobblestone streets and ancient churches echoed more than four centuries of history. Vespucci and his comrades had been here, too, naming the Bahia Todos os Santos on All Saints Day. Now a major city northeast of Rio, Salvador was Brazil’s first capitol. Massive numbers of slaves were brought into port. Bahia’s African heritage suffuses much of its culture. In a restaurant near Pelhorinho Square, I tasted wonderful fish in a creole sauce, and moqueca, a seafood stew spiked with coriander and lime.

On the earlier trip, I’d flown north to other coastal cities, then inland to Manaus, the northwestern trading center in a watershed covering 45 percent of the country. The Amazon Basin has 1,500 species of fish, 1,800 kinds of birds, 400 types of hardwoods, more than 5,000 different orchids. Early explorers, who coped with jaguars, snakes, leeches and piranha, called this steamy wilderness Green Hell.

During a half-day excursion in an open boat I crossed inky-brown and opaque-tan waterways and flooded woodlands, saw toucans perched on a branch, passed floating, thatched-roof homes and warily watched an animal show. While children held a parrot and a monkey, a strong man 6 feet tall strained against a writing anaconda, 10 feet long, 4 inches at the widest part, the skin patterned in jungle camouflage.

On the current journey, we fly above the central Highlands, a mosaic of red-corduroy farmland an splotches of green forest. Caldes Nova, with its airstrip, is the trading town for a region with 30 thermal springs. Classic, red-roofed buildings, with dozens of hotels and shops, line a grid of streets that stretch to the hills. Café do Ponto serves a tasty cappuccino and stocks caju (cashew), goiaba (guava) and other fruit juices from Amazon rain-forest plants.

The area’s top resort, the Pousada do Rio Quente, Inn of the Warm River, is 14 miles from town. The complex overlooks a verdant valley where mineral springs bubble through swimming pools. Some Brazilians come for the health benefits of the water, others thrive on the social scene. The traditional Brazilian Saturday luncheon includes bubbling pots of fejoada (braised meat in a spicy gravy) amid a vast buffet.

Brasilia is one of the country’s air hubs. The planned city has been the nation’s capitol since 1960. Bold architecture has made this a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but the high-rise apartment buildings look like concrete patio blocks standing on end. Author Christopher Pickard claims if this “really is an architect’s view of the future then God help us all.” Yet, the metropolitan cathedral is lovely--forming a crown with radiant, mosaic windows in blue, green and taupe. Motor vehicles hurtle along the main, paved thoroughfares, and horse carts clop along red, dirt streets on the city’s perimeter.

More than 90 percent of Brazilians live near the ocean, near a coast 4,600 miles (7,400 kilometers) long. From Brasilia’s airport we fly through darkness to Maceio, a city about 1,150 miles northeast of Rio. Hotel Jatiuca, a Brazilian four-star, hugs a lagoon north of Jatiuca Beach; we awake to sunlight and chirping birds. Maceio boasts more than 390 days of sunshine a year and the beaches are much like Rio’s--half a century ago. Breakfast at the breezy, beach-side café makes up for sleep loss: cheddar omelets, papaya with lime, wheat roll and honey, pineapple juice, aromatic Brazilian coffee.

Maceio offers cruises on a jangada, the traditional sailing raft, and a city tour, visits to a soccer museum, the central market and a pretty, small cathedral. Yet, Maceio can best be brought into focus with the view from a beach chair. Along Praia Jatiuca, moored wooden fishing boats rock gently at low tide. Children play on the beach in tidal pools, or practice soccer kicks. More than half of Brazil’s population is under age 20. Lovers sprawl on low-slung beach chairs, their arms and legs tangled like rain-forest vines.

Along the coast road north to Maragogi, the windows frame deserted beaches, sugar-cane fields and groaning trucks piled high with cane. The Club Hotel Salinas do Maragogi, a Brazilian five-star, is a sprawling complex in colonial design. There are restaurants, gift shops, swimming pools and bars. Beyond, the area can be toured on horseback. Two miles north is Maragogi, a tiny fishing village. People stand around a weedy square; a farmer unloads produce form a donkey. A great way to return to the resort is a ride south along the beach.

Grappling with Brazil has always been a challenge. Appealing and elusive, I realize on this last, moonlit evening that the country has taken hold of me. The sound of a samba wafts from the beach club, and I remember Vespucci. If he had landed on this beach, he’d be trailing us onto the dance floor, entranced by the rhythms of Brazil.