Salvador

33 degrees and the heat feels oppressive, filling my every pore, I feel heated from within and without, my skin is just a meeting point, another 4 degrees and inside and outside will be the same, and my skin just a veil between two same ambient temperatures. It's my third night in port and I sit at the little fold down table in the cabin, the boat gently swaying and rocking in the quiet marina, the hiss of tidal water moving on the hull. When I cast my eye I see a kind of chaos surrounding me, everything is everywhere, batteries charging, foul weather gear, navigation charts, cooking stuff, books, two tins of fruit salad on the floor looking strangely out of place. Mosquito screens are in, the noise of the city filters in, no mesh will stop the hum of traffic and music. I've not explored the city yet, just a few local forays for fruit and veggies, enough to tell me that there is a vibrancy and pulse beating, running through the veins of the narrow streets and avenues that I have seen. My view from the boat is of a wall of 1970s tower blocks intermingled with dilapidated ornate buildings of an earlier past prosperity. They rise up, precariously cut into the side of the incline, with a long straight road cutting up diagonally from bottom to top. An artery for buses that make their way up and down. There's a curious feature which I learn to be an elevator. A modern simply styled affair, that transports its passengers directly up, with a long gantry spanning horizontally to the next level, the top of the hill. By day it's a cream colour, by night it's lit up bright red and catches the eye. Half a mile along, an expression of a more recent prosperity. Tall and proud modern tower blocks arise from the headland where the bay meets the Atlantic. As night falls their lighted Windows chase away the darkness and look out to sea. I wonder if they also shine upon the slums of The city, the same the world over where rich meets poor and the space between, impassive and un offended encompasses all, and we try not to dwell. On the previous night to my arrival, sailing south, I happened to provide passage for several seabirds, a 40 mile trip for them, perched skilfully on the pushpit and the guard rails. Dawn bought the light that enabled me to see their shoe leather brown colour with a texture that looked as soft as velveteen. Placid but studious eyes looking out past two inch long beaks, beholders of all that they saw, like flowers of the ocean, truly rooted and connected. Standing, balancing, preening, cleaning, ready for the new day. Heads bent back at impossible angles to pick clean their feathers of salt, sometimes standing one legged with little webbed feet and tails oscillating madly to keep the balance. 

When I was near enough to the land on my approach, my phone signal kicked in. Suddenly, the world cascaded into my tiny space, my small boat became filled with something that had been missing. My enforced isolation abruptly came to an end. And I thought of that previous morning, when so gently my world was as small and as simple as the rolling swell and the three birds sitting on the rail. What a contrast, what a shock! I reeled a little under the weight and then regained my balance as I focussed on piloting my way in to the port by night. The sense of the surreal, seeing a long lit road with tiny cars snaking along, the Reds and greens of traffic lights, the buildings growing in height like the lines on a graph. Heading past the light house, past the modern tower blocks, narrowly avoiding a collision with an unlit red pilot can as big as an ice cream van that loomed up uncomfortably close, making my way up on the motor with a little help from the genoa, against quite a tidy flow of tide. Arriving to a marina at night is always a chore and for me is bedfellow to low lying stress and anxiety. In the dark, un familiar, switching my gaze between the landscape and the chart and the depth log, coming in slow, always feeling too fast. At last I spot a guy, he turns up to help me in. Within minutes I'm alongside, tide securely to a squeaking belching floating pontoon that threatens to chafe one of my lines where it runs over a join between the unsteady platforms. At 23.00 i clear a space in the mess below decks and try to sleep. At 3am I am awake, at 5am I am up, Salvador de Bahia, I have arrived! The next morning, walking down a busy wide street, racing with traffic. The pavement smells of piss and it starts to rain. It gets heavier and I try to shelter, at least it's not cold. I'm looking for the police station to get my entry stamp. After much walking and visiting about 5 different offices I eventually find the one I need, and it's well hidden away in the port, in a restricted area above a medical post that I had already walked past twice, fruitlessly searching and becoming slightly more tired at every dead end. A plastic Santa stuck on the office door reminds me that it's nearly Christmas. I talk to the guy through the glass at the desk. When I tell him I came from Africa, on my own, he seems curious and I sense he doesn't quite believe me, a feeling like, why or how would anyone do that? I re iterate the facts of my passage. I wait a while longer staring at the bland walls and appreciating the rest. We are done. 90 days stay. On to the Customs. In the Customs the greatest ally between me and the pretty young girl who is processing my case is the computer and google translate. I ask her if she speaks English, she smiles and nods affirmative, but it's soon obvious that she speaks no English whatsoever. She does has a lovely smile connected to a fast reaction switch, the button presses and she beams at me instantly when I say something. The computer crashes and she disappears for a while and then we start again. It's a lengthy form to fill out electronically but the result is that I can bring my yacht, valued at $14,723 to Brasil and leave with it without having to pay any taxes. The final stop, the Port Captains office for another form and another stamp. The office is inside a military naval base, everyone is dressed in uniform with little white caps, blue shirts and standard issue blue denim jeans, but not 501s! No English spoken whatsoever but we muddle through. I wait in a dingy room with a water dispenser, watching people come and go. I get bitten three times by mosquitos so I decide to wait outside instead. In this establishment Christmas takes shape in the form of four sailors twining a line of fairy lights around a small tree by a side entrance, it's obviously an important job, and luckily it's happening in peace time. Half an hour later and it's all done. I have officially entered Brasil! I chuckle to myself when I remember my African experience of entering Gambia, no hours of waiting and no bribes to pay, things seem improved here. After all that walking around yesterday, after three weeks of ambulatory confinement, this morning I felt tired and my feet were aching. Today was spent washing salt from Aisling, doing laundry and pottering. I was going to go out this evening but I'll leave it until tomorrow, I'm still tired and need down time to arrive. I booked a flight to Buenos Aires to stay with a good friend for a couple of weeks. I can't think of a better tonic and treat to spend time in good company and re visit a city that I lived in for a year and a half 5 years ago. Aisling will stay here in the dock, no doubt building on her collection of hull attached organisms, a job to be done on my return I suspect, some underwater hull cleaning, can't wait!