Brazil and the high seas

 Brazil and the high seas

A Brazilian taxi driver drove through a tunnel for the last time and our memorable holiday was over. Sadly and reluctantly we bid farewell to one of the most beautiful countries on the planet. We were passing through the busy, bustling streets and roads of Rio on the last leg of our dream cruise which culminated in a visit to Rio De Janeiro. My lovely wife Bev and I were overwhelmed with gratitude. It had been the most joyous voyage of discovery.

As we emerged from the said tunnel we witnessed the truly remarkable sight of street hawkers selling their wares in the middle of a typical rush hour, dodging the kind of heavy traffic that you'd  normally see in any city as dusk and darkness falls on a happy go lucky capital city. We thought it had been a dream come true and indeed it was. But now it was time to leave Rio, departing quite the friendliest and most extraordinary country in the world. South America had done its best to be as enchanting as it possibly could and it ticked all the right boxes. 

We had now left behind us special memories, vividly stunning images, a thousand mountain ranges of classical beauty and the locals were pretty cool as well. We saw, admired, sighed with disbelief and wonder, pondered on a compilation of sights and sounds and concluded that it could hardly have gone any better. Brazil had been magnificent, fabulous and breathtaking. You found yourself struggling with innumerable superlatives because maybe you'd run out of using any more. Recommendations have to be made since Brazil so richly deserves them.

But then this hadn't been all about Brazil exclusively. Over 18 days ago, we had set out on our first port of call from a Lisbon airport that had been wrapped up in chaotic red tape. We had now seen a shameful display of ridiculous incompetence on the part of stern looking officials who seemed to be wandering around a hall populated largely by yet more security staff who were just as bemused as we were. So we held our breath and just got on with yet another endless round of queuing seemingly indefinitely and going nowhere fast. We asked questions, tore our hair out with increasing irritation and then grudgingly smiled since that was all we could do.

Eventually bureaucratic form filling over roughly three hours later, we boarded the Norwegian Star boat, ship or, as a captain on one of our previous cruise captains had insisted, should be called a vessel. The vessel sat sail to our first port of call in Cadiz, our first connection with Spain. A lovely afternoon spent in a local market square was spent drinking a coffee and munching a chocolate doughnut. In the distance, a languid looking guitarist plucked his strings with a series of splendidly relaxing old standards deservedly rewarded with ripples of applause from alfresco diners outside a cafe. 

Visits to Lanzarote, Tenerife and the Canary Islands were familiar sights to us on other cruises. To say that we had now become blase, seasoned travellers and globetrotters may be regarded as just gross exaggeration but then we all have this innate desire to see as many countries in the world as we possibly can. To some this could be seen as perhaps physically impossible but when you do get the chance grab it with open arms.

So we took in the terracotta tiled rooftops of countless restuarants, houses, cafes and restaurants that the whole of the Canaries seemed to consist of, gazed longingly at the sun kissed landscapes and then just drooled with admiration. Our visit to all three of the aforesaid felt very much like the same set of volcanic islands  as we'd seen before in recent years. Still, there was a fundamentally spiritual feel to both Lanzarote, Tenerife and the Canary Islands.

After several days out at sea we walked the richly carpeted floors which led us into jazz infused cocktail bars, one of which was called Gatsby's, an obvious reference to the F. Scott Fitzgerald masterpiece the Great Gatsby. We then made the acquaintance of a delightful group of devout church goers from Bournemouth who just wanted to have fun, play cards and then just share cheerful badinage and laughter. Every so often we would accidentally bump into them and they were still finishing off a card game of Kalooki or just giggling with some merriment.

And then there were balmy, blissful hours spent sun bathing on the main deck of the Norwegian Star boat, thrusting our faces towards the cobalt blue skies and slapping on another jar of brown varnish on hitherto lily white cheeks and foreheads that had now been left behind in Britain. It now occurred to yours truly that the football World Cup in Qatar had also been left behind. For a moment a slightly unnerving sense of regret and desertion would now be coursing through your veins. It passed.

Before leaving Blighty we had seen Gareth Southgate's battle hardened England struggling desperately yet again to beat a USA team who had now become a thorn in their side. The 2010 World Cup in South Africa had also seen England held to a wonderfully respectable 1-1 draw. Once again Qatar would see yet another frustrating draw between England and the States.

Half way into our cruise, you resigned yourself to the fact that both the venue and location of this year's World Cup had proved truly decisive factors in any kind of interest in the World Cup. Besides, you simply wanted to abandon yourself to the incessant heat, the constant warmth, quotidian sunshine, on the hour, by the hour, every single day, week after week, non stop. We were simply spoilt.

So you made your decision and just topped up those vital vitamins of sunshine, chatting to passengers from Canada, the United States and Israel. There were of course the stupendously colourful yellow and green shirts of Brazilian families cruising back home to Rio. The memory of a huddle of Brazilians yelling with jubilation and then crying out their grief when the vital penalty was missed against Croatia would linger warmly in your mind. You felt horribly sorry for Brazil since they were the international team who had introduced you to the Beautiful Game when you were a knee high to a grasshopper kid.

But back you returned to the considerable quantities of Pina Colada and something called a Mango Meltdown. Now there was a proper name for a cocktail, arguably as good as a Pina Colada. In between there was the Rum and Coke with a tantalising tinkle of ice, an IPA pale ale, a Brazilian beer just for good measure and then gallons of Capuccinos, yet more coffee and alcohol quite literally on tap.

And finally there was Brazil four days in all in a country you'd heard about in every World Cup and TV coffee advert back in England. It was the land of samba and sensuality, easy living, seductive and suggestive music and dance that simply didn't stop. It was the land of carnival, the Copacabana beach, flags that stretched for miles on a beach that seem to go on forever, beach volleyball nets liberally scattered across well heated sands and a sprinkling of small goal posts and cross bars. Usually those posts and bars would have been heaving with outrageous displays of keepie uppies, trapping the ball on both shoulders for hours on end before doing convincing impersonations of performing seals.

Now the peacock feathers would have to be permanently hidden and football in Brazil would just have get on with the business of watching their fellow South American neighbours Argentina squaring up to current World champions France in this year's World Cup Final on Sunday. You knew where their allegiances would lie. 

Personally you would reflect on your pilgrimage to the Maracana stadium, Brazil's national stadium, a ground that in another incarnation many moons ago once held over 200,000. The gladiatorial amphitheatre that had once witnessed the magisterial genius of Pele, Garrincha, Va Va, Di Di, Socrates, Gerson, Tostao and Jairzinho to name but a few would now acclaim Neymar Junior in a new Maracana. Neymar will have to wait for his World Cup Final stage but time is quite definitely on his side. Our guide for the Maracana must have done a course on charm and courtesy because he simply breathed enthusiasm. 

As we left Brazil equipped with our grandson's new present, the customary souvenirs and an art gallery of emotions, murals of the football greats could be seen gracefully adorning the walls of Rio. Then there was Sugar Loaf Mountain, and the wondrous Christ the Redeemer, who even for the least religious, must have touched a chord. It towered over Rio in much the way that Lord Nelson does over Trafalgar Square in London. It seems a weak comparison but then again historical figures always seem to hold a spell over you. Thank you, Brazil, Cadiz, Lanzarote, Tenerife and Brazil again. We'll never ever forget you.