Ilha Grande, Days 5 - 7

If Rio is a beach lover's paradise, then Ilha Grande is a paradise lover's paradise.  With beaches.  Ilha Grande (Big Island) is about two hours south of Rio down the Atlantic coast, and is reachable via a 40 minute ferry or boat ride from either Mangaratiba or Angra dos Reis.  We left from Angra.  The journey down from Rio along the coast was stunning.  Cerulean waters meet golden beaches on one side, whilst the verdent jade of the Atlantic forest cover the rolling foothills to the north.  I could have stayed on our bus all day, but of course the purpose of the journey was to find Ilha Grande!

There are no vehicles or banks on the island, and even electricity is sporadic heightening the welcome sense of separation from modernity.  Ilha Grande has an interesting history, hosting a prison as recently as the early 1990's before being closed down and the island turning to eco-tourism.  During the age of discovery and colonisation, immigrants from the old world to Brazil were quarantined on the island to protect against the raging cholera endemic at the time.

We stayed at the Green Studio Beach Hostel, just off the main beach and full of interesting characters - both tourists and locals.  One chap that  would pop in from time to time was probably about 70 years old, looked the height of health, spoke no English but constantly urged us to drink caipirhinas.  That's what I understood from his gap-toothed mutterings anyway.  Breakfast consisted of what I now consider the typical Brasilien morning fare of cake, super-strength coffee and fruit.

We managed to trek up into the jungle on our penultimate day to discover the fabled Cachoceira da Feiticeira waterfall and ruined aquaduct.  The intense humidity whilst under the trees is exactly how I imagine the Amazon.

Here is a shot of my attempts to refresh myself under the waterfall:

Estoy Hecha Mierda
A couple of days after 'catching a few too many rays', my shoulders were toast.  It was at this nadir of my physical condition that we ambled past a room of Chileans.  I am not sure of the Collective Noun for a group of Chileans, so I shall use poetic license and call them a 'mine'.  We ambled past a mine of Chileans in the midst of energetic partying.  A friendlier bunch I have rarely met.  Of course they called us in and dosed us up with Caipirinha and Pisco, whilst making music with no more than a saucepan and table (there was aso a guitar).  Although they could speak perfect English, they were too drunk to recall my pained protestations each time they slapped me on the shoulders and back.  Hilarious at the time but agony for the next few days...