February 2010

[Sweder]

Tempus fugit yet again; I must be (mercifully) brief.

Following the delights of Cabo de Gata and the warm conviviality of El Qinto Torro with Antonio and his merry band of school-teaching disciples we set sail for home, leaving the Tryp Indalo in what seemed like the middle of the night for our airline rendezvous. 24 hours later I was back at Gatwick airport, bags swapped, headed for Salvador da Bahia. Duty called, There's no rest for the wicked you know Satan has me on speed-dial. I was convinced I'd meet myself in the queue at Costa Coffee.

Arriving at my hotel in the dead of night I crawled into bed, awoken after what seemed like an indecently short nap by the heartless screech of my alarm. A day of brutal meetings including a mind-numbingly dull tour of all six levels of the crumbling Centres des Convencoes lay ahead, followed by an evening of culture (drinking Caipirinhas and gyrating inadequately at a Samba party), allegedly starting at 10pm. With a full day mulling over customs clearance procedures followed by a night-flight home on my immediate horizon that particular horror was too much to bear; I bailed. By happy coincidence as soon as I did so my customs agent called to say our meeting would start at noon (translate to sometime after 1pm), giving me an unexpected window in which to run.

I'd packed my runners, once more in hope rather than expectation. By the time I'd hauled myself from the warm embrace of a deep sleep and pulled them on (along with my RC vest and purple shorts) the sun was already planted high in a cloudless sky. The temperature was well over 80 degrees Fahrenheit as I lumbered down the Avenida Simon Bolivar towards the ocean. Within minutes my forehead was beaded in sweat. I clutched the bottle of chilled agua purloined from my mini-bar (rusty old fridge), grateful for a moment of bleary-eyed foresight. I took my life in my hands to cross the multiple streams of homicidal traffic between me and the seafront. Life is cheap on the fringe of the Barrios amigo; best be on your mettle of you’re going to run the rush-hour gauntlet. Once across, heart pounding wild and high in my chest, I turned right (south) along the Av. Otavio Magabeira, running along the green-painted concrete trail. I was not alone; hundreds of joggers, runners, walkers and tripped-out beach-bums of all shapes, sizes colours and creeds ran, jogged, lumbered, power-walked, strolled and shuffled along this ‘fitness trail’. I staggered on, legs stiff and sore from their Spanish pavement pounding, sweat flowing freely down my rapidly-heating face. If there was a breeze it was at my back, helping with forward motion perhaps but useless for cooling. I managed just over four kilometres before some sensible part of me suggested it might be a good idea to turn around.

Sure enough facing north I found the breeze, and welcome it was too. Slightly recovered I marvelled at the myriad of female forms in this part of the world. Brazilian ladies, in Salvador at least, are blessed with bouncing bodacious curves and warm broad smiles, a winning combination when you're a lecherous flagging Gringo desperate for inspiration on the long road home.

By the time I pulled up outside the Holiday Inn I was all but done in. My legs hummed, chest heaving alarmingly under my sodden vest. Despite the lack of air and the rapidly increasing temperature I felt pretty good, chuffed to have got a run in at all. By the time my agent rocked up (just shy of 2pm) my face had completely lost its purple hue and my heart rate was well under 200.

I’ve posted a few snaps from the run and my pre-flight wander around Old Town Salvador.