ESCAPE

POINT OF NO

RETURN PART 1

They’re paving paradise, and putting up a highway directly to Itacaré, a heretofore remote surf destination. If you want to beat the crowds, now is the time to go.

New streets had been opened, automobiles brought in, mansions built, roads constructed, newspapers published, clubs organized…But the ways men think and feel evolve more slowly. Thus it has always been, in every society.
Jorge Amado, Foreword, Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon

Big tropical raindrops blur the waves on my first morning in Itacaré. So instead of an early morning surf lesson, I roll back into bed with my interpreter and traveling companion. One of the most important lessons of life in Brazil, especially in the northeastern state of Bahia: Deixa-le rolar. Let it roll.

So, I turn to my bedfellow—the novel Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon, by Jorge Amado, the beloved chronicler of Bahian characters, culture, landscape and love affairs. The only part of paradise he missed was the surfing, which for some, is Itacaré’s main attraction.

Although Itacaré’s surf breaks are impressive enough to bring the Billabong Women’s World Tour, the waves remain un-crowded, as does the cobblestone road running through the village. Pastel-painted colonial cafes, bars and shops line the street, along with pousadas, bed-and-breakfasts. The food from Jorge Amado’s “land of pepper and sea breeze, of shellfish and coconut water” seems designed for hungry surfers, and they don’t have to pay much for a heaping plate.

Not today, anyway. But a new road is about to shorten the drive from the nearest international airport from six hours to two, and construction of a 40-pavilion luxury resort looms on one of the jungle bluffs overlooking the waves. However, it’s not happening overnight—this is Brazil, after all. There’s still time for travelers to pick up a copy of Gabriela and book a beachfront room at Pousada Macaia, where the manager Magna looks after her guests with a laid-back, maternal warmth.

When I finally roll out of bed, she is setting a table on the deck with granola and grated coconut, passion fruit yogurt, fried bananas, slices of ham and French bread.

“How do you want your eggs?” She asks, as I plop onto a cushion at the low-lying table.

“No eggs,” I say, stirring granola into the creamy yellow yogurt as Magna pours hot milk into my coffee. “This is perfect.”

She raises her eyebrows, telling me I will need energy to surf.

“I’ll call Marcelo?” She asks. “The sun’s about to come out.”

Magna dials the phone, assuring me that Marcelo Roveran, who runs a surf school and board shop in town, will take me to all the best breaks.

“Só preciso de marolinhas,” I whisper, meekly reminding Magna that I only need little waves. She gives me the thumbs up, leaving with the phone to negotiate my day’s details.

An hour later, the equatorial sun has blasted between the clouds, making dappled shadows on the jungle trail that wraps around the side of a steep mountain. Birds battle to be heard over the sea, which roars below at Engenhoca, a point break known to be beginner-friendly.

I keep an eye on the root-ridden path as a troop of ants carrying tiny green leaves marches across it, like a miniature version of our surfboard-bearing crew, single-file behind Marcelo. There is Paula, a nervous novice from the landlocked state of Minas Gerais, stepping carefully behind him, then Teresa, a sure-footed local who hitched a ride from the village, then me.

I had heard about Itacaré’s well-formed waves, but I was not prepared for the lush Mata Atlantica (Atlantic Rainforest). The tropical jungle holds the world’s greatest diversity of trees and in places like Engenhoca they practically spill over cliffs and straight into the Atlantic.

After 25 minutes the trail disappears at a crescent-shaped beach about the length of a football field, with an emerald-green arm reaching into the sea at either edge.

The treacherous path to Engenhoca keeps crowd to a mere a handful of surfers. But construction of Warapuru, a multimillion-dollar hotel and spa, hides just beyond the bluff above the beach. It’s not finished, but once it is, Engenhoca will be the resort’s main playground and surfers will have to share.

Marcelo crouches on the sand to wax the yellow longboard he’s brought for Paula, who admits she’s hung-over. She stayed out all night dancing to forro, the jaunty folk music of Northeast Brazil. It’s tough for Americans to imagine spring break set to accordions, but forro parties are a big draw for Brazilians who vacation in Bahia.

The day after is no party for Paula, however, shivering in her rash guard despite tropical temperatures. She wades gingerly into the water, and lies on the yellow board, gripping its sides as Marcelo pushes her into the little white waves that wash into the cove. Meanwhile Teresa is already up, a tiny silhouette where the jungle tapers into the sea and the real waves rise and curl. I paddle for a position in between, where small waves steamroll over the sandy bottom with the perfect amount of push.

Suddenly the sky darkens, reminding us we are in a rainforest. We catch waves back to shore, and just as we make our way up the path with our surfboards on our heads, giant drops began to fall.

Deixa-le rolar. It was happy hour back in town anyway.

Continue Reading the Rest of the Story Tomorrow. Tune back in for Part II

-Jenni Avins