The time spent between our departure from Jeri and our arrival in Sao Paulo was to become known as "the time with the Italians". We tr avelled for a week with a party of 20 Italians between Jericoacoara and Sao Luis do Maranhao, from where we had a flight to Sao Paulo. How on earth did this happen? Well, I hinted in the previous blogspot that Jeri is hard to get to, and even harder to get out of. Other than figuratively, this was also meant to be taken literally. Sao Luis is 450 km west of Jeri, and there are no roads until Barreirinhas, gateway for the magnificent Lencois Maranhenses national park. In total, the plan was to travel for about 300 km on sandy tracks. The most straightforward option would have been to cover the distance with public transport, involving a combination of trucks over 2 days. Unfortunately the last stretch was closed to public buses on account of the heavy rains fallen during the previous rainy season. Chartering a 4x4 for only two of us was also out of the question; too expensive. The last option was going back to Fortaleza, but we didn't want to miss Lencois Maranhenses, which was supposed to be particularly lush after the heavy rains.
So one day, while I was standing at Joao's juice bar sipping my passionfruit juice, I heard two men conversing in Italian about chartering a jeep to Barreirinhas. I approached them and asked if Nick and I could join them. We agreed to meet the night before the planned departure to settle on details and prices. And the night before we had an unexpected surprise... we were a group of 20. And nothing was yet arranged. We agreed with the drivers to undertake the trip over two days to leave us the opportunity to visit the Parnaiba river delta on the way. At 5 am we were ready to leave, but we took off after about 2 and a half hours. I have already pointed out that north-eastern Brazilian are a rather relaxed bunch; this, alongside Italians' notorious clockwork organisation can result in only one thing: delays.
I can honestly said that few times in my life have I met a group of people as interesting and entertaining as these Italians. Most of them dentists, they had gathered in Jeri to attend a wedding, then decided to travel with the bride and groom for a few days. It was like being in a comedy, as each and every one of them were remarkable characters. There was a family with two teenage children, the fancypants right-wing couple, the bossy-submissive couple, two twin sisters and a few thirtysomething singletons. Plus my personal favourite; Moaning Myrtle. We travelled over beautiful beaches and rivers, visited Sao Luis and flew over the rainwater pools of Lencois Maranhenses. Myrtle didn't really like anything very much, instead she preferred to complain about the heat, the sand, the jeeps, her digestion...
Although the Italians were great company, I felt a great feeling of displacement in their company. See, I am Italian too. I have left the country 5 years ago, at the age of 21. I will return there at 27, married, after having spent 5 years in London and one year travelling the world. Many of the Italians simply didn't get why I decided to travel. Instead they kept asking how was I able to afford it, how could we travel on a budget for so long, if we didn't miss the food and comforts of home and so on. Also, they wouldn't get the fact that I didn't have a plan for when I get back. I felt proud of myself for refusing to tread the path that was laid out for me.
I believe not all those who travel can call themselves travellers. Scores of teenagers and twentysomethings roam the planet, interested in 'ticking off boxes' and perhaps securing a good party and a good lay in each country they visit. Others travel just to complain about how better it is back home. In my opinion, a traveller embraces the lack of comfort as an integral part of the experience, takes interest in local culture, getting to know local people. A traveller loves to try local foods; for a traveller how to get there is as important as tthe destination. This what I would like this blogg to be about. Mark Twain said there is nothing as boring as traveller's tales. This is exactly what Carlos, a man we met on Rio Preguica, said. A lone traveller, he was genuinely enthusiastic about everything our planet has to offer us. We talked for a couple of hours, his eyes lit up every time he spoke about one of his favourite places; the Amazon, Nepal, Patagonia, India... then he looked and me and said "you understand me, you are like me, they don't understand us...." I didn't quite get if 'they' was referred to the people on the boat or to those who didn't like to listen to his tales.
The time spent travelling with the Italians was unforgettable, not only for the company but also for the scenery. We left Jeri and travelled along the beaches for hours, crossing creek estuaries on rafts. Around lunchtime we arrived in Parnaiba, where we had an afternoon cruise on the delta, and returned to port sailing under the full moon. The second day we continued towards Cabure, which is to this day one of the most magic places I have been to. We stayed in a shack on the beach, which essentially was a spit of land between sea and river. There was no electricity, and the moon and starlight were almost blinding, the silence deafening. We continued upriver on the Rio Preguica to Barreirinhas, where we flew over Lencois Maranhenses' almost endless expanse of desert and rainwater pools. We finished in the crumbling city of Sao Luis, where we spent a day cruising the colonial district and marvelling at its faded elegance. It was a time of long lunches in the tropical heat, endless conversations waiting for the notoriously slow Brazilian service. On the last night we waited 2 and a half hours for a plate of fish in passionfruit sauce. Listening to a forro group murdering Garota da Ipanema by the riverside of Barreirinhas and chatting to my newfound friends, I thought maybe I shouldn't leave the Northeast so soon.
The time spent travelling with the Italians was unforgettable, not only for the company but also for the scenery. We left Jeri and travelled along the beaches for hours, crossing creek estuaries on rafts. Around lunchtime we arrived in Parnaiba, where we had an afternoon cruise on the delta, and returned to port sailing under the full moon. The second day we continued towards Cabure, which is to this day one of the most magic places I have been to. We stayed in a shack on the beach, which essentially was a spit of land between sea and river. There was no electricity, and the moon and starlight were almost blinding, the silence deafening. We continued upriver on the Rio Preguica to Barreirinhas, where we flew over Lencois Maranhenses' almost endless expanse of desert and rainwater pools. We finished in the crumbling city of Sao Luis, where we spent a day cruising the colonial district and marvelling at its faded elegance. It was a time of long lunches in the tropical heat, endless conversations waiting for the notoriously slow Brazilian service. On the last night we waited 2 and a half hours for a plate of fish in passionfruit sauce. Listening to a forro group murdering Garota da Ipanema by the riverside of Barreirinhas and chatting to my newfound friends, I thought maybe I shouldn't leave the Northeast so soon.
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