Paraty, Brasil
We’ve slid around the hump of Brasil (Brazil to the outside world) and cling to the coast where it runs more westerly. It seemed strange to have the sun rise off our stern but it will seem even stranger when we say the skies were gray all day. One would then wonder how we knew the sun appeared at all. But it did. It slipped between the tears in the smoky coverlet magically illuminating all its fingers touched.
The sea was obsidian, undulating in long rolling swells that were chipped and scalloped on the top. A flock of egrets, wings rhythmically stretching forward and down, upward and back, glowed white against the charcoal sky. Moving into the shelter of Baia da Ihla Grande the sea took on a sheen that reflected the sky with ovoids elongating, merging and separating, an ever-changing show with a dash of red from the pilot boat to finesse the abstract scene.
On the banks of the Rio Perequê-Açú, two centuries ago, the town of Paraty grew. A World Heritage Site, its character remains little changed. No cars zip down the cobbled streets but the clip-clop of horse’s hooves are heard. White is the basic color of the town but color abounds. Mustard yellow, greens and blues or red and turquoise frame windows and decorate the doors. Commercial structures have only doors, not windows facing the street. Tall and elegant they were thrown open to display their wares. Glimpses inside revealed fine art and pottery or often shawls and wraps that matched the building’s trim. Above the town an historic fort stands silent and still, its cannons no longer prepared to defend. Schooners rigged like ships of yesteryear no longer ferry gold across the sea but transport visitors from dock to beach and back again.
Rounded islets dot the bay, hosts to birds and humans too while the indented coastline hides sandy coves edged by forest vegetation. The clouds held their moisture tight and cooled the afternoon. We scattered round the bay. Shoppers returned to town. Swimmers fled to the beach and kayaks quietly explored.
We’ve slid around the hump of Brasil (Brazil to the outside world) and cling to the coast where it runs more westerly. It seemed strange to have the sun rise off our stern but it will seem even stranger when we say the skies were gray all day. One would then wonder how we knew the sun appeared at all. But it did. It slipped between the tears in the smoky coverlet magically illuminating all its fingers touched.
The sea was obsidian, undulating in long rolling swells that were chipped and scalloped on the top. A flock of egrets, wings rhythmically stretching forward and down, upward and back, glowed white against the charcoal sky. Moving into the shelter of Baia da Ihla Grande the sea took on a sheen that reflected the sky with ovoids elongating, merging and separating, an ever-changing show with a dash of red from the pilot boat to finesse the abstract scene.
On the banks of the Rio Perequê-Açú, two centuries ago, the town of Paraty grew. A World Heritage Site, its character remains little changed. No cars zip down the cobbled streets but the clip-clop of horse’s hooves are heard. White is the basic color of the town but color abounds. Mustard yellow, greens and blues or red and turquoise frame windows and decorate the doors. Commercial structures have only doors, not windows facing the street. Tall and elegant they were thrown open to display their wares. Glimpses inside revealed fine art and pottery or often shawls and wraps that matched the building’s trim. Above the town an historic fort stands silent and still, its cannons no longer prepared to defend. Schooners rigged like ships of yesteryear no longer ferry gold across the sea but transport visitors from dock to beach and back again.
Rounded islets dot the bay, hosts to birds and humans too while the indented coastline hides sandy coves edged by forest vegetation. The clouds held their moisture tight and cooled the afternoon. We scattered round the bay. Shoppers returned to town. Swimmers fled to the beach and kayaks quietly explored.
