Letter from... Brazil
We are sitting in a stationary coach 10km out of Salvador on our way down the coast to Rio. We've been waiting for 3 hours now, but I'm not that bothered, as 3 hours on a Brazilian bus means 3 hours with Brazilians.
The old woman I'm sitting next to is called Teresa. She is going to visit her sister, Maria, who lives in Ilheus. Their mother died when she was 15, she's just bought her first TV, and she has a cold lasagne in her bag because they heat up well and her nephew (a security guard) loves her cooking. At least I didn't get stuck next to John the American, or Juan as he likes to be known (to make it easier for the natives).
Sitting in front of me is Esteban, an excitable English teacher with two teenage sons. Having found out I'm English, he's begun to eye me up calculatingly, as though measuring me for the family wedding dress.
Next to Esteban is Alfonso, who is liberally spreading halitosis and testosterone. He's become fixated with a beautiful 19 year- old near the front and has taken to performing capoeira down the centre aisle in an attempt to woo her. She's having none of it, nor is Teresa, whose lasagne he's just trodden on. Oh, and the reason the motorway is jammed is because the police have intercepted 12 tons of cannabis but can't find anywhere to put it. I love this country.
23rd Oct 2003