Almanac (Travel) Life: This ilha is grand

 

 

 

 

 

The little outboard motor hums and the boat jumps across the roll in the water like a mountain goat leaping from ledge to ledge as we zip around a small rocky headland and turn right into the tiny bay that houses O’Sitio. The lush greenness of the tropical forest frames the beach. Houses timidly poke their faces through the canopy at various places indicating civilization. The boat’s engine cuts and we glide up the sand to a halt. A calmness descends as if we’ve stepped into a cocoon. Peace. Tranquility. And the insect inspired sounds of warmth.

 

The winter sun in Brazil is like a gentle hug. The temperature is 30 degrees but the rays are kinder and more considerate than the Australian version which has an aggressive sting to it. Here it’s as if the surrounding jungle tames the beast somewhat. We step out of the boat and young grinning blokes from our accommodation throw our bags across their shoulders and indicate we should follow them.

 

“Por favor. Por favor”

 

We disappear into the shade and follow a winding stone path up towards the main house. It’s cool under here. Cool and welcoming. We pass giant stands of bamboo that reach 20 or more metres into the sky and have a circumference at the base of about the same. The bamboo canes, hundreds of them clumped together, lean over the path, click and clack as the breeze flutters through them. It’s like Puffing Billy without the steam and the engine noise.

 

We are greeted by the manager who seems to just materialize from amongst the foliage. She is a local. Born and raised here like most of her family. Her grandfather built this place. The gardens surrounding the villas are easy and soft and inviting. The multitude of different greens in all the shrubs and trees is a visual feast as if pulled together like a giant natural quilt. Little paths lead off in different directions pleading to be followed. They meander up into the hill behind the accommodation in search of the pixies.

 

“Welcome” says the manager. “I’m Mariana. Welcome to our paradise.”

 

She is smiling serenely and holding an arm out indicating the direction of the villa we will be staying in.

 

“Just up the path.” She says. “Settle in and then come and see me at the main house to check in. No rush”.

 

I’m sure nothing is rushed here. She pads off to the main house and her bare feet make a slight slapping sound against the stone path. No shoes. No shoes usually means no worries too. We go to our room where the bags await, close the door, and say, almost in unison,

 

“How good is this?”.

 

The accommodation is comfortable and unpretentious like an old Queenslander. A ceiling fan turns the air. The villa is perched up high to capture any breeze that wanders past. The windows are large and open inviting the lushness and sounds of the jungle inside.

 

 

 

 

What follows is four days of frantic relaxation.

 

The sand on the water’s edge is coarser than expected but becomes finer and whiter the further up the beach you walk. Eventually it gives way to overhanging saplings with large green tropical leaves that droop over and give the swimmers a breezy shade. The beach at O’Sitio isn’t large but isn’t populated much either. People dreamily wander up and down or simply spread out on towels and slumber. The petite waves rhythmically roll onto the beach sounding more like an old Hardie Pope sprinkler spraying the hydrangeas at home than the result of gravitational forces exerted on the earth by the moon. A few bars are hidden in the backdrop selling their agua, cervezas, Coca Cola and various other treats. They don’t impose. They’re just there. The beer is icy cold.

 

People stand at the water’s edge. They’ve probably just found themselves there. Delightfully aimless taking in breaths of perfection. Strangely the men are attired in board shorts. I can’t recall seeing a set of budgies. I’m surprised by this, but I guess we’re not on Copacabana. The women wear the one-sided bikini. The front covers all the necessary bits albeit without an excess of material. Then a small strap at the rear, that could pass as a piece of dental floss, disappears into nature before reappearing around the sacroiliac miraculously holding everything together. Dimpled bare butt cheeks wobble and wrinkle like two slightly underinflated soccer balls on sticks. Those under about 25 carry this look off well. There are others who probably need a gentle tap on the shoulder. But there is no such thing as body shaming in Brazil.

 

By the time we’ve grazed over breakfast and donned the togs its usually about 11am. First plunge into the placid waters is about 11.07am. I float on my back and let the sun peck at my cheeks. The sky is a retirement blue. The sort of blue that has me thinking.

 

Note – O’Sitio is on the island of Ilha Grande which is about three hours south west of Rio by car.

 

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