Brazil
Day 31: Salvador
Walking the cobbled streets of the Pelourinho, named after the pillory that stood here and where slaves were traded. Newly restored, the colonial buildings glow with fresh paint, and African drums beckon the tourists.

Intoxicated by the unfamiliar feel of the city, I walk the twenty minutes or so from the Pousada Redfish down towards the Pelourinho, the centre of the Old Town. Having seen a pelourinho in Alcāntara, I know that the word means a whipping-post and marked the place where slaves were bought and sold and beaten, so I'm surprised the name should still be used in such a black city. Not only used, but used with some pride, for much money has been spent in restoring the steeply angled square and the buildings around it, and the Pelourinho is now a magnet for visitors.
This brings its disappointments. Tourist attractions are somehow predictable wherever they are in the world, and even in Brazil they can't defy the trend. So there are a lot of big smiling ladies about, made even bigger by their wide Bahian skirts. They wear brightly coloured bandanas and stand around in front of shops managing to look both maternal and seductive at the same time. The tourist cam- eras obligingly record them. But up the side streets there is still plenty of un- staged life to catch the eye. Men playing draughts with beer caps, a barber's shop with football posters from the 1950s and grass growing out of one wall, a group of very black men all dressed in white, sitting on chairs beside a grubby old wall, phone booths in the shape of two enormous ears, a white poodle with red shoes on. And there is music everywhere, one band overlapping another, sounds from the street mixing with a thudding beat from somewhere inside.
All of a sudden the street opens out into a long rectangle of cobbles with houses and grand municipal buildings on either side, and at each end mighty double- towered churches, one Franciscan, the other Jesuit, face each other. The little breath I have left to be taken away is shed inside the Church of St Francis, an overwhelmingly powerful interior with gold-encrusted walls rising all around, profusely decorated and carved in copious detail. Flowers, foliage, fruit, cherubic faces all lead the eye towards the dominant image of Christ, with St Francis clinging to him, that soars above the altar. I walk up to the Jesuit church, on a square called the Terreiro de Jesus, and am just standing there, marvelling at this amazing city, when a big black four-wheel drive draws up nearby. Four or five people get out and open the tailgate, revealing a white polystyrene icebox of beers and a honeycomb of speakers. At the flick of a switch the music crashes out, and they start to dance. Intuitively I look in their direction, registering toxic disapproval. Their reaction is to smile, wave and invite me over for a beer. My anger withers and I join them. I'm slowly learning not to worry that Brazilians don't worry about the things we worry about.
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PALIN'S GUIDES
- Series: Brazil
- Chapter: Day 31: Salvador
- Country/sea: Brazil
- Place: Salvador
- Book page no: 133
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