Pains in Paraty

Leaving the stormy shores of Ilha Grande (yes, there is a day missing here, one which I would rather not remember after a nasty collision with a speedboat and my kayak), I join up with some English friends to take the 2 hour bus from the ferry to Paraty. Known by locals as a pleasant town of quaint multi-coloured doorways, it is really only just an easy way to cut up the journey further south. Located also on the beach, it is well known for its historical township, fuelled by gold discoveries many moons ago, and is visited mostly by Brazilian tourists on the weekends who indulge in expensive Italian-esque bars and restaurants.

Still affected by the drugs I was given to ease my back pain, it is now that I come face to face with the nasty buses I have heard about. With no allocated seats and no air conditioning, we are left to clamour into the already full city bus, with barely enough room to fit our feet, let alone our mountainous load of bags. Sadly too, we are faced with the same speedy experience as downtown Rio, made worse by an impending bout of gastro in at least half our group. At least it only costs about AUD$6.

We arrive late in the afternoon and, after settling in, my first night is spent doing a quick stroll around the old end of town, with its dangerously-paved streets that are surprisingly therapeutic on your feet, albeit not on your knees. Unfortunately the next day I awake severely dehydrated after alternating bouts of fevered sweats and trips to the toilet bowl, and decide it is probably best to stay indoors and catch up on some tv and dodgy films.

Reinvigorated from the pause, and from a hearty feast the night before of penne bolognese, I head out the next day for a quick visit around the town before we leave again at lunchtime. Aware of the many old churches that live amongst the newer restaurants, I stumble across the Ingreja de Santa Rita which is in pieces following various sacrilegious incarnations – including a restaurant from 1967 to 1976 – despite its amazing heritage. In its place, a curious collection of objects in various states of disrepair awaits.

Included in this is the most brutal full-scale model of Jesus crucifixion, from the 18th century, with its twisted, bloodied body that has surely seen better days. Crudely placed rusted nails hold together Jesus’ shoulders and hips, and his head looks like it has been sawed open at some stage.

Next to this is a guarded room of silver vessels, sealed off by a heavy chain, but not protected from Mother Nature herself, who has spread mould along each of the adjoining walls. The token humidifier in the corner is almost as funny as the chicken wheel that has somehow found itself in the courtyard outside, beside the original pulpit. My museum curator mother would certainly have a fit.

Moving back onto the street and I stumble across another horse and cart, and I start to understand the basic historical equation here in Brazil: history = lots of horseshit. Also standing in the square by the bay is a ‘black slave’ giving his own historical account for those who speak Portuguese, and photos for those who want to waste R2,00. From what I can discern, his gestures are not pointing at the many shops of brightly coloured hammocks, art, design, jewellery, and souvenirs, but to some greater truth hidden in the 3 X 6 block of streets. Once again, I wish there was some sort of translation available, or at least a government that recognised tourism should mean a little more than whitewashed buildings with pretty doorframes, and Visa access.