3 Steps to Heaven

Norman Miller shows the way to Paradise in North-East Brazil

The mosquito net fluttered gently in the breeze from the ceiling fan above, blessed relief after another scorching tramp up and down the steep cobbled streets that weave between the pastel coloured houses of Salvador’s old colonial centre, Pelourinho. No wonder Jorge Amado, the local lad who became Brazil’s leading modern novelist, gave the novel he wrote about his student days here the simple title Suor -Sweat.

Perhaps it was time to go to Morro. Five hours south of Salvador, Morro de São Paulo (to give it its full name) looked tiny on the map but seemed to loom large in the local psyche. From Regina, my neighbour on the plane from Lisbon, repeating its name like some mantra to sustain her through the flight, to various locals I’d mentioned it to, Morro had become synonymous with paradise.

A day later, to the accompaniment of a reggae version of Paul Anka's Diana blaring from a VW Kombi, I was on a ferry heading out across the Bay of All Saints on the first of three steps to heaven: the hour-long crossing from Salvador to the bus station on Itaparica.

We sped southwards along the island (step 2), with much horn tooting by our driver whenever we encountered another bus, it became clear this was a bit of Bahia undergoing rapid colonisation by wealthy Salvadoreans, for whom having probably the best city beaches in Brazil was simply not enough.

Itaparaica brings together two sides of Brazil. Every few miles a piece of the tourist fantasy appears: a newly built cluster of beautiful cool houses with red tiled roofs and whitewash still drying, each little colony named from a list which didn’t seem to extend much beyond combinations of beach, sun or paradise. Interspersed with these the dusty, dilapidated little townships with names like Barra Grande (Big Town) completed a roadside necklace made up of shiny pearls mixed with rough diamonds.

Arriving in Valença in a cloud of dust, the town seemed light years rather than a couple of hours from Salvador, the latter's mix of colonial splendour and beachside glamour replaced with a grimy air of hard work and tough living. I hadn't time to linger even if I'd been tempted, scanning the bustling dockside for step 3: a boat that looked like it was about to go somewhere - since the only somewhere round here was Morro.

I was soon engulfed in a gentle waft of oil and petrol as a throbbing engine pushed us down the River Una towards the open sea. We passed the boatyards, probably Valença’s sole claim to fame, although it was hard to tell derelict wrecks from new vessels beached on the dirty strip of mud between mangroves and river. An hour and a half later, we were mooring at the far tip of the Island of Tinharé, where a 17th century Dutch fort guarded the steep climb past an old church to the town of Morro.

There’s laidback and there’s horizontal. Morro is so chilled its beaches aren’t even named, just numbered, from First to Fourth. Hot and dusty, I trudged wearily along the sandy ‘streets’ of the township, then down to First Beach in search of a bed. Twenty minutes later, I finally threw myself into the Atlantic off Second Beach, with an almost audible hiss of steam as I hit the water.

Cooled and relaxed, I walked around the beaches, the setting sun catching me halfway up the huge length of Fourth Beach. Heading back, I suddenly became aware of two things: one, I hadn't eaten since breakfast; and two, I wanted just one thing - fried shrimp, rice and beans, last eaten 20-odd years before as a child on the beaches of Guarujá, far to the south. At the Kiosk Santa Luzia on Third Beach, I asked if they could satisfy my crustacean fixation. "Of course!" said Damião, the owner, waving me to a chair on the empty deck.

Only after sitting down and taking my first few sips of ice-filled caipirinha (a blend of the cane spirit cachaça, lime juice and brown sugar) did I check my pockets and realise I didn't have enough money. Damião shrugged aside my embarrassment and said he’d take what I had for the food and that the drinks were on the house!

Joined by José the barman we talked about our respective countries, football, food and music. Their curiosity made me feel I was perhaps the first Inglés to visit Morro since Lord Cochrane moored here in 1822, when he lead Brazil's Navy to victory against the Portuguese.

Having looked up Regina, we hit the Barraca do Zé, a laidback Second Beach booze shack, where we drank to the sound of the sea and a lone guitarist quietly singing the melancholy historical songs known as Opera do Malandro.

His name, he told us later over a beer, was Toninho, and he was en route from Amazonas to Salvador in search of a break. It’s a well-worn trail. Salvador has given birth or a home to many of Brazil’s musical greats: local brother and sister stars Caetano Veloso and Maria Bethânia, Astrud Gilberto (who may have sung about Rio's Ipanema but gave her own heart to Salvador), Gilberto Gil (who combined music with the job of Salvador’s Secretary of Culture) and ‘Tom’ Jobim, who invented Brazil's coolest musical export, bossa nova, in one of its hottest cities.

A slight figure with small round glasses, I asked Toninho if his songs were political? "They are history" - he said after a moment, "and everything in history is a little political", he concluded, before turning back to his guitar to send another song out over the ocean.

As dawn broke the inrushing tide sent waves crashing against me. I made slow progress along the wooden stakes, which held back the ground for beach house gardens. Heading back towards my pousada, I was struck full on by a particularly vicious wave. Stumbling, I emerged from the surf spitting sand and with both my sandals dragged off, as the sea seethed back from the beach. My room may have been dingy but I collapsed into it as if it were The Ritz.

A few hours later I emerged to a merciless sun bouncing off Morro’s countless white walls, my raging hangover under attack from every angle. The hotel breakfast had long finished, my feet were bare and the sand too hot. With the tide now far out, exposing jagged rocks where once the cool ocean had been, Paradise had turned into Hell, and Salvador had become a better, if distant, place.