You know those things you've always wanted to do…

…well these were two of mine.

THE MARACANÃ

There are many stadia of the world which ring out and grab your attention. There is the Nou Camp, MCG, Yankee Stadium and, I can't not mention it, Wembley. For football fans no other does it quite as fervently as the Maracanã.
Home of Flamengo, Fluminese and the heart of Brazilian football. A mammoth stadium that once held 200,000 people for a match, has hosted a World Cup Final and will do so again four years from now. An anti-climax of not being able to get tickets to a match (short of walking into one of the dodgiest parts of one of the dodgiest cities in the world with $500 in my pocket and lady in tow – nope), was at least partially made up for by a stadium tour.

Rising up from the urban valley floor, the scale of the place imposes itself upon you from first sight. Our nerves tingled as we entered the colossus. Excited tension rose as we made our way through the building and up the steps and then….bam…..a great theatre of the world spread before us with, as ever, Christ the Redeemer watching down from above like a Christmas tree fairy.
Then down onto the pitch, a touch of the hallowed turf, a jokey dig at the locals about the Maracanã 's most famous game (Uruguay beat Brazil one nothing in the 1950 World Cup Final – the guy showed me the spot were the goal went in) and out with a feeling of job done.

JUMP INTO THE UNKNOWN

I am a minor junky for adrenaline sports and one I have always wanted to do is hang gliding. As fortune would have it Rio is one of the best places in the world to do it. Put together good thermals, all year round weather, plenty of gliding addicts, stunning scenery, high stuff to jump off and being there and I had no excuse.
An early pick up on my penultimate day in this beautiful part of the world. Through Ipanema, past the two brothers and up into the hills. Round and round as we gain height through the trees, jump out the car and soak in the world below from 400m up. Angling slightly downhill, a few metre wooden runway breaks out of the surrounding rainforest to a sheer drop (as the guy said, you do not want to be tripping on take off…). Without wings you'd hurtle into forest far below, which sweeps down before on each side curving up to more hills and in front dropping to the odd mansion, a street of high rise, the beach and the Atlantic.

I strapped in with my Brazilian buddy, took some limited instruction and….três….dois….um…VAMOS…

I ran for all I was worth, legs still moving in the air as the runway ended, we dropped and then swooped up into the air. An exhilarating sensation.

Relaxation. At peace with the world as you circle round and round the thermals with only the birds for company. I talk to the dude about his past accidents to try and get the adrenaline pumping, but no use. Just tranquil and all the better for it.

A full 360 of a large section of Rio, round and round. A fantastic perspective of this throbbing city of forest and concrete. Pools of the rich below, yet just ahead, with the best views in the city, a sprawling favella. An odd place indeed.

We soured for goodness knows how long and I loved it. Then ready for landing, he took us in full pace to the beach and, at the last second, lifted up and with a little trot it was all over.

High fives and a Brazilian beer.

Reality...

Oh OK, how ever much I would like to leave these writings hanging as if I am still floating around somewhere exciting, the reality is I am back in blighty getting on with the daily grind. In what feels like the blink of an eye I've found myself behind a desk with only Less Than Jake's "Borders and Boundaries" to cheer me up.

Fortunately the journey between the sun-blessed beaches of Bahia and icy London contained some pretty interesting travel.... so....when I have half a moment to myself I'll fill in the gaps...

Arraial D'Ajuda, Bahia, Brazil

Somewhere on the Atlantic coast of Bahia lies the old Portuguese port of Porto Seguro. Across a tidal river, round and up a hill sits Arraial D'Ajuda (or “Ahhayal D'Ajewduh” as the locals seem to pronounce it). At its core, a couple of squares surrounded by brightly coloured buildings with terracotta tiled roofs. In land it breaks up into, scrub-land hallowed with the odd goal-post or horse shading under a lonely tree and then forest and field. Towards the sea it sweeps down a windy road lined with more recent developments – bar after, restaurant, after chic shop after bar – all surprisingly tasteful.

To see why everyone is here all you have to do is walk across the oldest square, past the quintessential Latin American whitewashed church and stop and stare. At the edge of a fast falling hill, a remarkable panoramic opens up before you. Lush greenery flows forward until it meets palm-fringed golden beaches and, of course, the bright blue of the Atlantic. Quite a place to spend a few days.

Praia after Praia
From where you wander on to the hot sand from the village, stunning oceanic beaches stretch for mile after mile after mile. We know this first hand as on one day we walked south for 15 km or so until we reached the uber-fashionable but somehow still tranquil village of Trancoso.
The beach is pretty damn nice near Arraial, but after a few kms it really comes into its own. Taipe is the crowning glory. A wide sweeping cove, deep expanses of soft sand sculpted by crashing waves and tide, and, best of all, backed by sandstone cliffs of red, yellow, white and purple. I should not forget the palm trees and at the far southern end, a mini peninsular of forest jutting out into the sea. Birds of prey skirt the cliff thermals.Peace and quiet – only one bar on the beach and I think we were the first customers of the day.
Some people die for the careful lapping waves of the Med or Caribbean, but I will always be drawn to oceanic waves. Those that don't crash into reefs off shore come rolling in one after another. There is nothing like sitting there with your chilled Brazilian beer – beer on a beach is a national obsession here – and listening to the crashing and drawing of the water.

While inevitably getting loads of things wrong, most countries get some things very right. My stay here has convinced me that Brazilians get the beach better than anyone else (at least that I've met). OK, it helps if you have thousands of kms of beautiful beaches, but credit where credits due, they make beach time an art. From the already mentioned beer, via fresh tropical juice at every shack, fried cheese on a stick with oregano, a constant string of ingenious locals carrying half a shop of bikinis or hats on their person and, of course, many a form of football or footie-volley (football volleyball).
Most importantly there is a constant undercurrent of friendly laid-back'ness. When you say no thanks to a hawker he doesn't look annoyed or pester, he shakes your hand with a smile and wanders off. People have time for a chat and chill. No hassle. Just fun, great views and slowly cooking bodies.
Christina was aghast with joy – a sea-faring ice-cream trolley...

Boa Noite
Only at night does the village of Arraial really make sense. As the heat falls and light fades, people come out from whatever shade or bit of beach they were hiding on and the place comes alive. Vibe and beats on every corner. Guitarists, drums, singers, ghetto-blasters. Hymns in the guttural Portuguese of the region pouring forth from the odd church. Stores stocking stuff I actually want to buy (havaianas and hammocks) and people watching people sipping a beer or fresh cocktail from the ladies with their portable bars. At this time of year, a census of the village would find many a laid back local, dozens of hippy-types selling hand-crafted braids and jewelery and a pretty cool crowd of sun-seekers. People congregate at the many bars and restaurants and there is an air of content.Christina and I sipped our exquisite caiparinhas, fell into the rhythms of live music and realised we had fallen for Brazil.

Salvador and Morro de Sao Paulo

Chris and I made one of those snap decisions which make traveling such a pleasure and bought a flight to Salvador, the African heart of Brazil.

From the formation of the country, Salvador has more often than not been the capital, but at some point in the early 19th century the economic centre moved south to Rio and the hinterland of Minas Gerais. Salvador has been left as merely the capital of Bahia, a state blessed with mile upon mile of stunning beaches, vibe and, recently, a bit of a boom time.
I'll throw my cards on the table and relay that Salvador is one of the most impressive cities I've wandered. As the poster-board says, it is blessed with more impressive historical buildings than any other city in the Southern Hemisphere. Such accolades do not though do it justice. It is the combination of slightly decaying historical splendour and a people full of rhythm and warmth.
We were fortunate enough to have the lovely Stefanie as a guide – a German lass I introduced to cricket in India – and we spent a day rambling up, around and across the old town. Modern Salvador hugs the opening rim of a large bay and the old town is perched atop a ridge linked to the sea and old port by a series of nearly vertical trams. Once you have got through the not very attractive hustle and bustle of the “modernised” bit, you walk through one plaza after another richly adorned with seventeenth century mansions, government buildings and churches. Each is impressive in its own right, but the combination knocks you back.
The gold dripping interior of one church gave a sobering reminder that much of Salvador's wealth was built on the slave trade. Apparently slave workers carved the immaculate interior and, if you look carefully, you can see hidden signs of rebellion in the hideous faces of many of the angelic figures and the odd bit of genitalia. Today most of Salvador's population are the descendants of the millions of slaves transported from West Africa and from the pervading musical beats to the art work Africa feels close at hand. Salvador, and indeed Brazil, is though much more than the sum of a number of people who moved or were moved to the New World. It is the melting pot of cultures that has given birth to a fresh culture so openly full of life and energy. It is addictive.

Back to our walks. From the squares, streets lined with countless more beautiful buildings drop away to more squares, streets and hills. Each corner gives a fresh view of vibrancy. The old with the new. Bright colours and crumbling facades. I just loved the place.

Barra and Praias (beaches)

We were staying in Barra, a beach suburb at the bottom of the hill from the old town, at the corner point of the bay. New high rises and the odd colonial relic lead down to golden beaches divided by whitewashed Portuguese fortifications.
These castles add a real texture to beaches full of locals with their oh-too-tight speedos, tiny-tiny bikini's, beer in hand and, more often then not, smiles. It is such a pleasant relieve to return to a place where people seem in love with life. None of this living to work, depressed, cold, wet Northern European shit. That does my head in. Why when we only have a few short years on this earth should we spent it perpetually unhappy. Each to their own I suppose...

Morro do Sao Paulo

On the theme of not leading too depressing a life, after a few days in Salvador we jumped on a few hour choppy ferry to the island of Morro do Sao Paulo. A lush tropical island complete with small colonial town, beach side bars, hammocks, many a palm tree and less and less hassle as you walk along its miles of beaches. A bit like one or other of the many Thai Islands, but without the slightly nasty Thai mafia undertones (as far as I could tell).
My stay can mostly be summed up by a hammock and the Count of Monte Cristo. A flu bug reduced me to that still pretty cool situation.
On the last couple of days I did manage a couple of long walks, some nice chow on the beach, some time staring at the embarrassingly impressive footie-volley (the video doesn't even show the start of it) and even a beer or two.

From those walks I can confirm Christina's reports of a turquoise sea and stunning beaches backed by palm forests complete with the odd miniature monkey, crawled over by crabs and passed over by many chirpy birds. Oh and laid back, friendly locals.

And even the odd very wrong Santa Claus...
We, in are own ways, had found our beach time. Chris looked browner by the day and I kicked that little bug for six while questioning the morality of revenge - nothing like a fever to intensify thoughts induced by a great book.
Back on a boat, an overnight bus and to more Bahain beaches. Fuck winter!