Travelling tittle-tattle, tall tales and shameless name-dropping by Jon ‘Don’t Call Me’ Norman

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London, United Kingdom

Saturday 21 June 2014

Salvador

One of the many advantages a job like mine provides is the opportunity to visit places you wouldn't pay your own money to see.  My four week sojourn around Brazil takes in several exotic sounding destinations.  Fortaleza, Brasilia and Belo Horizonte could well be the Birmingham, Sheffield and Hull of South America for all I know.  However at the moment they seem as magical and far flung as a ride on Aladdin's magic carpet.

My first trip away has been to visit Salvador.  One hundred and five minutes flying time up the coast.  The name initially conjured up an image of a country that may or may not be in Central America.  Now, having been, I know it's actually a Brazilian state and it will forever be associated with the land of the strange.

The rulebook was quietly discarded as soon as I landed.  Our cab hadn't turned up at the airport leading to confused conversations in pigeon Portuguese and a long wait at a taxi rank.  I don't speak a word of the native language and so have become quite the expert in mime.  Since arriving I have successfully ordered chicken, bought stamps and even a pair of tweezers thanks to my Theatre Studies A-Level. 

The journey to the hotel would take some explaining in any language.  In short it was 45 minutes of madness. Our cabby drove in gloves with the steely stare of someone who knows the dice will one day fall the way of another motorist.  I now understand why Brazil has provided so many world class racing drivers.

The road from the airport consisted of two lanes of traffic heading in the same direction separated by a grass verge.  While cars rattled along at frightening pace on our lane the other was completely blocked.  Drivers and passengers had long since given up and had left their cars parked, doors open, idling away their time by chatting to fellow passengers.

We however careered along from one near miss to another our driver instinctively knowing which lane was clear.  We couldn't work out what the hold up was on the other side but would soon come across the answer. 

The flashing lights at first made us think there had been an accident.  The emergency services were certainly at the heart of the hold up.  However when we zoomed past (on two wheels) we realised there had been no collision.  Instead twenty to thirty moped drivers sat idle with vehicles parked behind them.  The reason?  A lone policeman standing in the middle of the road facing the traffic.  A look of intense fury etched onto his face he stood shoulders pushed forward with his hand hovering over a pistol. It was a pose Clint Eastwood would be proud of.  It was quite clear.  He wanted to shoot someone.  No driver moved an inch.

I thought I was seeing things but exactly the same incident occurred ten minutes later.  We had weaved our way onto the other lane by this point and once again avoided a hold up of mammoth proportions.  Sure enough the same scene played its way out.  The only difference being that this policeman had smoke coming out of his nostrils.

After all that excitement I opted for a relaxing evening in and so watched the opening game of the World Cup much like everyone else back home.  On TV with a few beers.  In Stuart Pearce's bedroom.  With fire crackers going off every time Brazil scored.  And ten thousand people outside the window.

The following morning we opted for a stroll around Salvador.  The game we were in town to see was the small matter of Spain v Holland.  A re-run of the last World Cup game I had seen.  The 2010 final in Johannesburg.  A personal career highlight.  And a pleasant scene awaited us as long as we looked in this direction.

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And not this.

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And here lies one of the problems with Salvador.  Like most of the cities hosting football in this country it's about six months away from completion.  Which is a shame because the World Cup started last Thursday.

But back to the beach which itself contained much of what I have seen already in Rio and some which I had not.  Blokes in tight pants playing football.  Four nuns strolling around the headlands, three of the smelliest loos outside of Glastonbury and a woman Oscar Wilde would struggle to describe.  All of seventy (all of those years spent in the sun), fag in mouth, wearing the smallest bikini on the beach, she lay on a mound of sand which pushed her crinkly ass in the air for all to see.  *shudder*

And as for the weather.  I've never experienced anything like it.  As we flew into land I had been looking out my window and seen nothing but bright sunshine, billowing white clouds and blue sea.  The spontaneous applause from the back of the plane upon touch down seemed totally at odds with a routine flight.  However they must have been locals who knew something I did not.  Within seconds the plane was lashed by rain and the skies became murderously grey.  Visibility became so poor I wondered whether we would have been able to have land in it.

Getting ready for the game back at the hotel there was a knock at the door. I opened and had these thrust into my hands.  A woman said something to me in Portuguese and walked off.   

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I figured they were being given to all the guests but after speaking to the others it became apparent I was the only beneficiary of the phantom flip-flop giver.

And as for the game.  Well, where to begin.  One of the most incredible matches I will ever see.  The disbelief on fans and pundits alike as the goals rained in said it all. We were watching history unfold.  Not only was it an end of an era for the Spanish and world football it was a match Dutch fans will be speaking about for thirty years.  I doubt I'll see a more momentous match for the rest of the tournament.

And to think it had all started so well for the Spanish.

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The evening was spent sheltering from monsoon conditions at a local restaurant.  Chile v Australia on the TV.  The locals supporting the Aussies.  The Dutch fans with a look of golden bewilderment on their faces.  Almost in a daze at what they had witnessed.  The Spaniards were left alone.  We stayed later than intended.  We thought we'd wait for the rain to cease but it beat us in the end.  We ran out of the restaurant past a group of five Americans smoking under a giant table umbrella. 

The next morning as I waited to fly back to Rio the weather continued to mystify.  Incessant rain one minute bright skies the next.  Then out of my window I got one final strange sight to remember Salvador by.  In hindsight, I would have paid money for this last 48 hours.

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