Part Three…..the Bus to Lencois
At Brasilia’s interstate rodoviaria (why so many syllables – it’s only a bus station!) I’m bewildered by the vast concourse with its multitude of ticket desks, each one for a different coach operator. It takes me a few abortive attempts using a combination of pigeon Portuguese and charades to establish where to go to pick up my ticket to Lencois. Eventually, I find a jolly man in a Hi de Hi blazer who directs me to a self-service machine where I tap in my reference number and print the ticket. Bingo!
I’m feeling peckish so I cross the concourse to a Lanchette (that’s a caff) where there’s the familiar ‘brown buffet’, a long counter populated by cheese balls and a mass of insipid looking pies and pasties. As my body is now a meat-free temple, I go through the usual rigmarole of trying to negotiate something ‘sim carne’ but despite smiles and nods from the dollies behind the counter, I end up with a mouth full of ‘con carne’. I wince and swallow like a good girl.
I spend the next 22 hours on my arse on a coach heading north to the state of Bahia, home to the Chapada Diamantina National Park. The highway runs through a flat, sandy landscape; there are scrubby hills in the distance and scary looking roadside cacti. Huge birds of prey hover ominously and every so often there’s a dead dog to swerve around. Onboard, we’re kept entertained by a middle-aged mama who lolls across two seats while shouting into her phone and then playing us tinny renditions of her fave samba ditties. She sings along, loudly and badly, waving her phone in the air. Thankfully, as night draws in and we close the curtains, she runs out of steam, wraps herself in a blanket, and the coach heaves a collective sigh of relief. The next morning, bright and early, we roll into Lencois, an old colonial diamond mining town.
I get off the bus and, whether my legs have gone a bit waggy from all the sitting around or I’m delirious from lack of proper sleep (thanks loud bus lady), I somehow manage to immediately fall flat on my face in front of a man selling coconuts. He helps me up and while I dab my bleeding knees he directs me to the centre of town. Lencois is a pretty town of shady squares and brightly coloured houses. I hobble up the cobbles in search of a hostel before alighting on Paula’s Pousada, a somewhat down-at-heel terraced house with multi bunk rooms and a small, windowless dining area. Paula is a chirpy young woman who dresses like a rapper and has a dicky eye. We converse via Google Translate and she shows me my room – clean but basic. Within a few minutes, following a major evacuation, I’ve broken the toilet flush but on the plus side, Paula has made me scrambled eggs for breakfast. Never mind her brioche is stale – I’m eating my first eggs since leaving the UK. Bloody marvellous! I spend the day booking a trek and trying to get cash out of the town’s solitary bank; the ATM says NO and the trekking company doesn’t take plastic but I’m informed by the French dude in charge that there is one bank in another town that has cash on a Monday! And since this bank is en route to the park and tomorrow is Monday, I should be able to draw some money out so I can pay the trek guide. Allebloodyluia! My evening is spent celebrating in a pavement cafe singing along to Bob Marley’s greatest hits while nursing a pint of caipirinha. I scan the menu – it’s very meaty but I’m heartened to see that the cheese is ‘artisanal’. I do love a bit of culinary bullshit. That night as I lie on Paula’s rock-hard bed looking forward to another egg dominated breakfast, I wonder: Will the bank really have cash tomorrow? And do I come clean with Paula about my toilet incident? And if I do, will I mime it?