Sun Of A Beach

Is really incredibly hot. Since I've been over here in Salvador the temperature has Salva-soared (do you see?) and I've spent most of my time boozing it on the sand and occasionally dipping into the sea for a quick slash. Where's the hardship and difficulty? I actually trained hard before coming out here (you may not believe it, but that's a fact) however I've spent the last week spread eagle on the beach attempting not to blind the locals with my gringo palour. I'm not a beach person, as you may have already guessed, and sitting on the coastline has been more of an exercise in escape from the sun than to it. In fact, whilst floating in the water today and taking a little pee, I glanced down at my legs as the sun bounced off them just below the surface and they instantly brought to mind the bit in a horror film where some dead human part suddenly appears from nowhere. For the geeks out there, I'm thinking Ben Harper in Jaws. If you thought his dead mutated face was scary, you should see my feet. And I always thought I was only dead on the inside.

So most of my days so far have consisted of gleaming tusk-like beneath the extortionately priced umbrella of a beach vendor, but the nights have taken the daytime drinking to a whole new level. At the risk of sounding Brent-like and harping on about boozing, these last few days have been some of the most saturated experiences of my - slightly impaired - memory. The main reason for this is a local tipple called caipiarha. This is about the strongest drink I've ever come across and is best described as an undiluted, incredibly alcoholic lemon squash with sugar lumps at the bottom of it. Trying this for the first time caused severe puckering of both the anus and mouth, but with a little patience and time it began to contribute integrally to the excess of charm and charisma that goes hand-in-hand with extreme levels of inhibriation. Such a moment was providentially experienced by my two female dorm-mates recently when - after a long caipiarha-based evening session - I awoke in the morning to find myself completely naked on the floor with an unmistakable stench of wee-wee all around and an undeniable memory of taking said wee-wee on the dorm floor. Even if your memory is corrupted by the drink, you immediately know if something really bad has happened cos of that sensation as soon you wake up that you've been bad. You can't quite put your finger on it, but you always know. This was one of those times and I'm pretty sure I used one of the girls' towels to mop it up as well. You may think that's unspeakably crass, but I actually find it difficult to look beyond the fact that, as drunk as I was, I still managed to be considerate enough to clean it all up. I blame the capihara. The girls, however, blame my dinkle.

Wow, did I get burnt yesterday. My skin now resembles a medium rare steak (on the inside, of course) or McDonalds strawberry milkshake and I hurt everywhere. I have now resigned myself to a life devoid of any kind of beach activity in the future. Important lessons have been learnt now and possibly even new cancers grown, but most irritating of all is the fact that, even though you're (literally) painfully aware, others always seem to feel the need to tell you that you're burnt. Believe it or not, as I stand there literally quaking from the sunstroke, this is a fact I know and require no assistance in recognising.

So Salvador is now at an end and after a couple of days in Rio, so will be my time in the first country of my South American travels. Speaking to others I've met, Brazil is apparently one of the more difficult countries to make your way around over here, but although it certainly has a bad reputation which should not be taken lightly and is more expensive than the next stops on my trip, I've definitely had fun here. The locals love their country - from the food to the music and the skimpy outfits (which I'm also partial to) they really seem to enjoy life here and the cities are charged with that over-awing positivity. Yellow and green flags can be seen flying everywhere, but instead of carrying the banjo-plucking conotations of the Stars and Stripes or the ball-scratching thuggery of the Union Jack, it seems to signify a unified vibrancy which permeates throughout the country. You see, line dancing is shit - no-one will tell you any different if you ask them, but at an African drumming practice for the Carnival I went to on Saturday night, it not only looked great, it was also enticing enough for me to get on in there (as much as I loved it, there's video evidence which must be destroyed) But that's Brazil all over. Everything here is infectionally sexy and cool. Except me - I'm burnt and flakey. See you in Peru.

Thanks to anonymous for his/her comment last week - why not leave your name next time, then you can have it immoralised. That'd be nice, wouldn't it? And of course dear Glenda - keep it up, mate, I think you hold the record so far.