The Big Island

Having done my two weeks in Rio, I arose early to start my journey south and east, over to Ilha Grande. But another case of mis-information saw me wake up at 4am, only to miss what had universally been called the first bus to make the connection between Mangartiba and Ilha Grande, the 530am service. (It is, in fact, at 5am).

Not wanting to spend five hours waiting for the next one, I made a compromise and headed for the second terminal, Angra dos Reis, which although a further hour away, had a bus leaving almost immediately. I arrived there just on 8am, and it is a similar story with the ferry. I had just missed the morning service, but with the heat making a towel of my tshirt, I decided it would be worth the extra cash to take a private ride and get to a beach.

Along the way, I befriended an English-accented French guy Louis who has made a similar choice/mistake and we walked to the pier together. Suddenly the weight of my bag seemed a little absurd – how did 16kgs get so heavy? – and I started dreaming of things I could discard. Fortunately we found a boat that was due to leave in an hour or so, and so we jumped aboard and got acquainted. But as the hours start to pass, and my quick photography lesson turned into a comprehensive guide, I realised that the hour in Brazilian time is about as reliable as the timetable for the bus.

Somewhere just after lunch, we arrived on the other side, and I felt truly blessed when a baggage cartereiro awaited me. “Phillippe” was only too happy to lug my overstuffed luggage across the sand to my hostel, and eagerly made another appointment to take them back again in a few days. Booked through same chain that I stayed in at Copacabana, I am again blessed with a great location. The ground floor terraced bar opens onto the water and reminded me instantly why I was here. Sadly, what I had forfeited in its place was air conditioning, an internet connection (hence why this has been done in bulk) sheets without holes in them, and enough space to pull out my things from the locker beneath my bed once they are in. Luckily though, I was not part of the large bunch of backpackers who were clearly not impressed that almost every booking made here was either lost or wrong or non-existent.

Louis and I took advantage of the last part of the afternoon, ignoring the questioning glances of the hostel staff who considered it a little absurd, and headed for an hour trek (there and back) to Palmas Beach. It was uphill almost all the way, and I was grateful to have left my tshirt behind when soon every inch of my body was wet and my lungs were heaving. I started to think that perhaps the staff were right as we passed by a Shrek-green tree snake, various spiders, and a squirrel who was not afraid to come closer to check us out.

But finally we made it down to the secluded beach and welcomed its chilled atmosphere. A couple milled about, tending to their camping site, guests, bar and small jewellery hut, almost completely unaware of us. Aware of the fading sun, we decided it best to head back quickly, and it was not long before the sun disappeared and the howling monkeys were out. I blindly stubbed my toe again, just when I thought it had healed, and thanked God that it was only another 45 minutes downhill.

The night ended with us sitting out on the terrace exchanging stories, with a group of mostly English, and eating fresh baked fish, salad and potato. Not so bad to be stuck on a big island.