(George)

Arriving at Salvador airport, already nursing a severe case of the post-carnival blues, we sought refuge away from the bright lights of a bustling city and immediately took to the Internet to search for a tranquil hostel outside of the city limits. After a quick scroll through hostelworld, we quickly found the perfect match in a hostel 5km away. Jumping in the taxi, we were pleasantly surprised to see the beach was a mere 50m away from the incredibly spacious hostel. We quickly set up shop and plugged in for the evening and settled in to a Game of Thrones episode or two. Spending the next day recuperating on the beach and cooking Tamara's speciality of tuna pasta, we determined that the next day would be the time to make our move towards the city of Salvador. Whilst the hostel was in the perfect for two bruised and battered 'carnavalers' it was far from perfect in terms of accessibility to the city. Knowing that a taxi could cost us upward of £30 into the centre, we instead queried the hostel owner on alternative means of transport. He advised us the best way was via local bus services of which we would have to utilise two. Realising that we would only be spending a poxy £4 each with this method, we decided to make use of the services and see just where we ended up. Armed with vague locations written in illegible handwriting, we were escorted to our first of the two buses. The journey took somewhere in the region of 2 hours on an incredibly cramped and hot bus, the temperature outside read a whopping 38°C as sweaty armpits secreted their putrid smelling fluids. We worried the turmoil would never end but arriving in Praça da Sé we were warmly welcomed to the beautiful old town of Salvador. Our sweaty ordeal had paid off as we realised our hostel was only a stones throw from the main plaza.

Having picked our hostel based on price, £6 a night compared to the £10/11 competition, we were somewhat dubious as to whether we had made the right choice. The hostel, as advertised on its profile, doubled as an art gallery that ‘regularly hosted events’. This made for an interesting combination as we entered the lofty warehouse construction, the feel was that of an old tobacco factory with soaring ceilings and sturdy metal pillars spaced at regular intervals. With the gallery space being dominated by 5 double beds all pushed together and laden with pillows, the vibe was certainly bohemian and you got the feeling the people here wouldn’t lift a finger if it wasn’t required… perfect. To top the image off, a seemingly crazy artist with an eye patch was busy, aggressively adding frenzied brush strokes to his current project. Looking around, the hostel was laden with a collection of his work, most pictures offered a similar scene of Brazilian women dressed in African influenced Bahian clothing, dancing in a moonlit sky of vivid colours. We were shown to our room and were surprised to see the first triple bunk beds of our trip, the hostel had capitalised on its high ceilings as turrets of beds rose above the ground, providing the occupant of the top bunk a panoramic view of all travellers and activities within the dorm. With only 2 nights stay booked in Salvador before we were due to leave for the island of Boipeba, we hurried out into the streets to see what was on offer. With food always on the agenda, we began our search of the Bahian speciality of ‘moqueca’ which is a salt water fish stew containing coconut milk, tomatoes, palm oil and other spices. The traditional manner to serve the meal is to bring the oven heated dish to the table as hot as possible, this can often result in a few painful splashes of palm oil as the stew spits and snarls, in protest of its consumption. We fortunately found a beautiful restaurant to try our first moqueca. Situated on a cobbled side street of the old town district with two live musicians, we were able to grab a seat al fresco in view of the two guitarists. The mood was romantic as we shared our moqueca, listening to the soft and engaging Brazilian lyrics, when without warning the local bricks began sawing concrete in the building opposite the restaurant. With bellies full, we decided to make a quick getaway from the now ‘noisy neighbourhood’.

We spent the day wiling away our time in the old district as Tam decided to revisit her childhood years and get her hair braided, looking rather dashing and nothing like a year 6 girl just back from a holiday in Spain. Our time flew by, looking at old colonial churches and seeing a street performance of capoeira, a martial art derived from the slaves held captive in Salvador in years past. That evening we had agreed to meet up with Jess, whom you may remember from previous blogs such as Ilha Grande and Rio de Janeiro. Having agreed to meet at 9pm outside the San Francisco Church, we arrived promptly (having quickly nipped to another cobble stoned street for a portion of chips) and began our vigil on the monument outside the church. With time ticking by, we gradually began to feel like we’d been ditched. With neither of us carrying a watch, we were forced to ask some nearby Canadians what time it was. Learning it was half past 9, we decided to abandon our post outside the church and head to the closest bar to keep watch whilst keeping ourselves refreshed. What a mistake, we were now locked in a mind numbing conversation with the most arrogant Canadian I’ve met about how to look and not look like a tourist. His obsession with who looked like a gringo or not was becoming intolerable when just at that moment Jess and her boyfriend popped their heads round the corner of the church. With haste to escape the stale conversation, I rushed over to greet them as I left Tam to pick up a gem of a backhanded compliment, ‘You could pass as Brazilian if you glammed up a bit.’ As we all know Tamara, I was worried if the Canadian was still alive after such a comment but I soon noticed a small female figure walking towards us, fists clenched and muttering under her breath. The night continued as they normally do when in good company, caipirinhas followed by chips followed by a caipirinha when all of sudden Jess hit us with a game-changer. She had intended to be in Salvador with two other friends but for deposit reasons they had had to continue traveling to their next destination in order to maintain their booking. This meant that their room in a lavish 'Posada - Guest House' was available and free for the night. Having already been paid for, Jess didn’t hesitate to offer us the room over our hostel and before we knew it we were off to spend a night in a deluxe penthouse suite, overlooking the harbour, on our own…for free! What’s more the room came with a breakfast spread that had unimaginable variety! We parted ways after our bellies had been optimally filled and realised that it may have been the last time we would see Jess, with a bittersweet taste in our mouths we headed back to the hostel for a little rest before continuing with the rest of our day.

Rising at around 1pm, we did what anyone would do if they were hungover and by the sea. Asking where the beach was, we found that it was only a £3 taxi journey away and quickly grabbed our trunks and towels. Keeping in mind that Salvador is almost surrounded by the sea, the only beach that was on offer in the city centre had a somewhat lackluster appearance with a small promenade and a beach so overcrowded you couldn’t see the sand through the parasols. Stopping for a bite to eat, we walked round the corner to find another spit of sand. Whilst it wasn’t idillic, there were considerably less people - the reason for which I am still not sure. We past the time lounging in the sun, jumping through waves in the midst of jagged rocks (this could be the reason) and bought ourselves a Bahia beach throw which now offers multiple useful functions, such a blanket/towel/dirty laundry cover. Having rinsed the beach of all its fun, we headed back for one of the highlights of our time in Salvador. Having seen amateur demonstrations of capoeira throughout the streets in the old town, my attention had instantly been captivated and it was with a spot of luck that we noticed one the capoeira schools offered a public demonstration in its training quarters every Tuesday and Friday. With time to kill before the 7pm show, we sat down on the cobbles of the San Francisco church and listened to a live band under the orange warmth of the antique streetlights. As 7pm struck we headed to the school and took our front row seats in front of the martial artists. The beauty of capoeira is that with its origins lying amongst the black slaves of Salvador, the martial art was disguised as a dance so that the slave owners would not notice the slaves practicing and preparing to fight for their freedom. Due to these origins, modern day capoeira is always set to the beat of various drums and a strange looking instrument that holds a striking resemblance to a fishing rod. The evening began at a slow tempo as we were shown the formal side of the art as opponents would take it turns to cartwheel into the 'Roda - Capoeira Circle' and began a slow series of fluid motions including kicks of which the aim was to avoid in a stylistic fashion including handstands, forward rolls and other evasion tactics. After this the tempo livened up and the moves became more flamboyant. The ritual of the dance was not lost however and moves were still to be avoided, however somersaults, flying roundhouse kicks and other acrobatics were soon brought the equation. With the athletic young men beginning to feel the fury a stray kick went too far and caught a young foreign capoeirista on the side of the head, the perpetrating Brazilian showed no remorse for his outlandish actions and the demonstration was quickly brought to a halt by the manager of the school. The audience and fighters shifted uneasily as she released a torrent of verbal warnings, reminding the performers that this was not what capoeira was about. The evening continued forthwith but it was obvious to see the fighters aired on the side of caution after their stern disciplining. As the night rolled on, the audience were invited up to join in with a samba routine and become part of an interactive demonstration that left everyone with a smile on their face. The evening had been exceptional and we enjoyed every second of the dazzling display. Salvador, we will meet again!

(Tamara)

Overwhelmed by the Brazilian rhythm of samba and drums, it was time to take a break and ascend up one of the most spectacular coastlines of the world. The infamous north east of Brazil is home to blissful beaches and secluded havens but the trick is to pick a handful of unique destinations whilst avoiding millionaire pricetags. Our first stop was Boipeba - perfectly voted the best island in Brazil. The real reason for our decision was a recommendation from a friend and the fact his Facebook profile picture drew us in to booking immediately; the tantalising image of him sipping a cold beer off a tray in the middle of the ocean, what more would anyone want? What our friend had forgotten to mention was how difficult Boipeba was to get to. In one respect this was a blessing, as popular beach destinations pinpointed along the way attract throngs of less adventurous travellers, leaving our island serene and untouched. However after boarding a handful of transportations: 'taxi - ferry - bus - taxi - bus - boat' we were dead on our knees when we finally arrived.

As we meandered through the little island of Boipeba, we adjusted ourselves to the sandy walkways, with vehicles prohibited it instantly felt similar to Ilha Grande. However this island didn't uniquely accommodate travellers as the laid back lifestyle of the locals continued to roll on as if we weren't even a part of it. Arriving at our hostel we met the owners Peter and Ducky, whom we knew from our friend were a fantasticly accommodating couple. Peter helped us with our bags whilst Ducky smiled and said "it isn't easy reaching paradise - but now it's yours to enjoy!" - we were going to like this place! We were told that unfortunately all the dorm beds had been taken and would we mind having our own room for no extra cost? After weeks of sharing our space with endless faces, we jumped at the opportunity and were taken to a beautiful quaint room with a view over the garden. Having a taste of privacy, we decided we would extend our stay to three extra nights and hastily snatched up the room for the duration. That evening we opted to dine in the restaurant attached to the hostel and enjoyed some homemade spag Bol and a cocktail. After a long day, we called it a night and hoping for a baby's night sleep were disappointed when the pillows, or lack of, meant our necks suffered terribly and once again we realised no bed would ever be like home (until we were home).

The next morning, the glorious sunshine filled our bedroom and we headed down to breakfast to be greeted with a wonderful plate of homemade cake, honey roasted bananas and fresh eggs with the owner's smiles setting us up for the day. Being handed a map, we followed the coastal path looking out for differently marked spots such as natural pools and snorkelling hotspots. For our first days adventure, we opted for the owner's favourite beach and as we walked through paradise were happy the hectic carnival was a distant drum beat away as we wriggled our toes in the sand and relaxed.

Spending the day jumping through the waves, all of a sudden, I felt a piercing Man of War sting on my right ankle and yelped out to George. I have always loved the sea but after watching too many David Attenborough programmes have developed a crippling fear at what lies beneath. As I hobbled out of the water, George looked at me and asked me the romantic question "shall I wee on it?" As appealing as that sounded I marched off in disgust and sat for the next hour with intense pain; perhaps his suggestion wasn't so bad after all. As I closed my eyes, I was soon disturbed by George running towards me also moaning in pain. It seemed the sea monster had nipped at him too and he sat down next to me agonised and embarrassed. Now, we certainly weren't both going to relieve each other's pain in broad daylight the way that myths tell you to (who knows what would happen to the British reputation), so we hobbled back for a tasty lunch.

The following day was Valentine's Day so after another wholesome breakfast we had planned a romantic day visiting the natural pools which one article had described as paradise where you 'can walk on water'. We arrived at 8.30am, which meant the tide was beginning to recede and as you looked out to see you could see the most piercing blue water with curvaceous segments of coral green. We started to walk and amazingly had reached roughly 300 metres from the sand with the water only passing our torsos. Zigzagging the coral we reached the end of the pools, it was akin to Nemo reaching the drop off point. We cast our gaze forward and saw the thundering waves crashing close to the offshore sand beds. Unanimously, we waded back through the complete stillness, the only ripples formulating from our gentle movements. As we day dreamily reached the shore, George suddenly burst the illusion of perfection when his worried voice whispered "I've lost the room key".

Glancing in fear towards the water I attempted to keep positive about the situation and grabbed George's hand to beckon him back to the water. Commencing our search we both realised this wasn't going to be as easy as we hoped and George hastily sprinted back to our hostel so he could borrow Peter's snorkels. Luckily by the time George had returned, panting and sunburnt the tide had retired back out to sea and within moments I saw the key gleaming at me on the seabed. Relieved, we hurried back to the hostel and innocently thanking Peter for his snorkel and the fantastic fish sightings, we quickly headed upstairs. For the evening ahead, we made an effort to put on our best outfits (which by now were unfortunately traveller rags) and enjoyed a meal on the beach front, afterwards buying two bottles of beer and heading for a stroll along the sand. As we crept into the darkness we raised our heads and were in awe as the sky was alive with stars, twinkling brightly and illuminating the water before us. We pulled up two reclining chairs and George spent the evening educating me about the galaxy and the history of the universe. With the vast sky intimidatingly towering above us, I realised despite the true insignificance of our existence, it truly was a significantly special evening.

On the final day, we set off on the large walk to the furthest beach from the island. This was the unique beach on which we were promised the boat-bar experience. As we started our walk we soon realised the serenity and bliss had been affected by high tides and an explosion of sediment debris polluting the previously immaculate shore. Despite this the final beach was worth the walk but as we saw the boat bars dotted in the distance, rocking unsteadily, we accepted that today we wouldn't get a drink mid ocean off the bar, but even worse we accepted we wouldn't be able to recreate that Facebook profile photo.

Despite extending our stay by three extra nights we still didn't feel ready to leave our utopian Boipeba, but we both knew if we didn't leave soon then we never would. The journey ahead was to be a long one and we took a deep breath and set off on our way. Luckily the first section of the day ran like clockwork with us arriving at one destination and the next mode of transport departing within the next five minutes. Usually with travelling, the travelling itself is the most interesting part and there were definitely some amusing points along the way. As we arrived at the ferry port, George's stomach was calling for some food and he couldn't resist grabbing a greasy Bob's Burger meal deal. Having felt a little unwell that day I declined and somehow managed to go without food for nearly 12 hours. As we were hurried on as the last passengers, I turned to see George recreating a bambi on ice moment. Losing his grip in the wet puddles, his huge backpack began to tip him over to the floor. Somehow, whilst closely avoiding breaking his teeth, he managed to stay upright with half a burger in tow. With mud splattered up his legs and flip flops half twisted in a state, he held up his burger like a football trophy and grinned as in one, he polished off the remainders - nothing comes between George and his burgers! We picked our seats and awaited what we expected to be a morose journey back to Salvador, but with morose not featuring in the Brazilian dictionary, we were soon introduced to the entertainment clown. The clown's first half was the usual animal shaped balloons and useless tricks, but with only five children in the audience, both them and the adults looked deeply fed up. The clown realising his show was an utter disaster soon threw down his balloons and picked up his drum. He knew his country and he knew his people, no one could resist a drum. As he began to bang a rhythm and shake his tail feather, it was if we had stepped into a flashmob as every Brazilian joined in the chorus shaking their hips and raising their hands. As George and I couldn't help but compare this situation to the depressing crowd we would find on the London Underground, we had to give it to them, Brazilians could party.

Arriving in Salvador with a spring in our step, we had a last quick lunch in the beautiful square in order to waste some time before we made our way to the airport. It was imperative we did a little detective work in order to avoid a ridiculous £40 taxi bill and with use of a little Spanglish in the tourist office, we managed to secure two 50p seats on a local bus. Feeling extremely smug we arrived at the airport in true Woodall style (6 hours early), but as we entered an airport which doubled as a fantastic shopping centre, equipped with a spa, George immediately grabbed my purse from my possession, ensuring I didn't then waste away the money we had just saved. Huddling in a corner facing the wall to avoid temptation, we waited patiently until it was time to fly to our second beach destination of Macieó.

Arriving in our guesthouse late that night, we awoke the next day feeling extremely rested and ready to take on the day ahead. Our guesthouse was positioned a stones throw from the beach and we spent the next few days relaxing and strolling around the perimeter in time for a beautiful sunset. With the beach installed for the world volleyball championships the Wozzles became dwarves as the rest of the population morphed into muscly, beautiful 6.5foot giants. Unfortunately, we never managed to watch a match as the ludicrous heat of 30+ degrees from sunrise to sunset meant any time longer than 20 minutes outside ran you the risk of heat stroke, as some of the professional players experienced whilst being taken off in a medical van. Extremely relaxed, time began to slip through our fingers as our last day rapidly approached us. We had found an opportunity to finally buy some beers off boats in the natural pools and we weren't going to miss out on this chance again.

We headed to the beach front where rows of Jangadas - the typical fishing boats of the north east were awaiting to take passengers 400metres from the shore to the natural pools. With our Lonely Planet tricking us into thinking the cost was 30dollars, we happily accepted a friendly chaps offer of roughly £5. Hopping on board, we assembled our life jackets and like ships off to battle, Jangada after Jangada sliced through the waves with sails ferociously whipping through the wind. As we reached the natural pools, we were alarmed to see huddles of half naked bodies laughing aimlessly and sipping those cold beers we had set our early alarm clocks for. Attempting to ignore the crowds, we grabbed a snorkel and some fish food and swam to an isolated section before we decided we deserved a drink. Humouring the efforts of the South American salesmen we politely declined an offering of a full lobster or prawn wreath presented on a floatable polystyrene tray. Our stomachs didn't feel ready for fish at 9am (beer yes, fish no) but at least being submerged in sea water meant there was no denying they would have tasted fresh. After a drink and a few tourist photos, our man beckoned for us to head back as the waves were quickly coming close and the natural pools were soon nowhere to be seen. We had finally captured our photos and finally experienced the uniqueness of drinking a beer off a boat in the middle of the ocean. All I can say is it's the simple things in life that are worth living for!