Welcome to
Salvador, Bahia
Brazil's first capital, a city of art, culture, and beachesSunday August 16, 1998
I am here! I’m waiting for the tour executivo bus to Praca da Se. I look up and see a brush covered sand dune – an unlikely sight as I don’t feel like I’m right next to a beach. There’s a refreshing coolish wind. The sweltering California heat did me well to acclimate. I feel little humidity so far. The airport was calm and organized. I changed money, got stamps, maps, and found out the Cachoeira festival is next weekend, not this, and got a phone card. I’m delighted no one has stopped me to sell me their services.
We drive by more tall dunes, black boys hiking over the top, but it looked like tropical scrub as far as I could tell. The pool/industrial area looks very Mexican only with more “ao’s” on the signs. My first sight of the crashing waves! I’ll be excited to see how much comes flowing back from Portuguese class. I saw we were driving down Manoel Dias and I immediately thought “he wrote a poem about a bird.” The bus is cushy with air conditioning.
The beaches and sidewalks teem with people wearing no tops or bikinis and maybe shorts. I wasn’t phased by the nearly all black population
until I pictured myself strolling down the beach and how I’d stick out like a sore thumb. This also reminded me of how some black people I know felt when they went to Japan. I’m glad to see people of all shapes and sizes. Lots of soccer games going on. As we neared the historic center and the bus’ termination, I was a little disappointed, or expected to be, at how the low intensity/low key atmosphere, not as colonial as some Mexican places. But as luck would have it, I ended up with a taxi driver who didn’t know where to go, so we meandered a little, and I had time to see the multi-pastel colored places and cute shops. Beyond cobblestone, the streets were almost impossible for him to drive over. The fare came to $3.90. I gave him $5 and said “ta bom.” He lit up like a candle then waited till I got inside.
The “no flush toilet paper” policy in Brazil through me for a loop, something that might take Americans a while to get used to. At my Pousada das Flores, a beautiful tiled patio has several colonial style
breakfast tables with blue and white provencal tableclothes. The owner, Eric, is French and his wife Brazilian. While warming up my rusted portuguese I took advantage and spoke “Frortuguese,” smattering in French words as needed: “Vou disser a minha irma que peut parles Francais quando chama.” (I’ll tell my sister she can speak French when she calls.)