Paradise on a Shoestring

Selling the kids in Brazil, nearly

Jason and I caught wind of an idyllic fishing village called Caraiva, which was allegedly hidden somewhere on the Atlantic coast of Brazil. Based on reports, we reckoned that this remote end-of-the-road village must be located somewhere between heaven and paradise, and we knew we had to see it before we left the country. We planned to leave first thing the next morning. We also planned to hit an ATM before our bus was scheduled to depart. But we’re finding that in Brazil, the best-laid plans go awry more often than not.

At sunrise, Jason and I—both aching to get out of our rented home in Arraial d’Ajuda for a few days—prodded the three kids, Grandpa, and Grandma out the front door. We headed toward the bus station, walking by way of bank row since we’d been warned that there would be no cash machines, no banks, and no credit cards accepted in Caraiva.

The electricity was down at the bank. Make that in the entire town of Arraial. And for who knows how long this time. Our bus, which happened to be the only bus to Caraiva, was departing in twenty minutes, and we were seriously low on funds.

As far as we could tell, we had three choices:

Option 1—scrap the expedition altogether

Option 2—sell the kids, and live high on the hog in Caraiva

Option 3—keep the kids, go to Caraiva with the little cash we had, and hope for the best

None of us wanted to cancel the trip entirely, so Option 1 was out. Grandpa, Grandma, Jason, and I pooled together all of our cash and determined that, between the four of us, we had just enough money for seven round-trip bus tickets and two cabins on the beach. Bella threw in the allowance money she had been saving for dog food, which meant that we couldn’t in good conscience go with Option 2. Hence, we agreed on Option 3. But, we were a few hundred dollars short even for a bare-bones version of the trip, so rather than living high on the hog we would have to live—er—low on the piglet.

There would be no money left for food. But on a brighter note, we did have a daypack full of passion fruit and cashew nuts, which we had packed for the bus ride. We just might be able to stretch the provisions an extra day. And if this place was as close to heaven as it had been made out to be, there might well be manna trees we could eat from. Certainly mango trees at the very least, and maybe even caipirinha shrubs, if we were lucky. The mere mention of caipirinhas prompted Grandpa to jump on the bus, and the rest of us followed.

What lay before us was a sweaty, three-hour bus ride down a treacherous stretch of dirt road, which back home the government folk would have labeled impassable. Our driver, however, had no such misgivings. Instead, he made for Caraiva like he was late for his mother’s funeral, flying inland through villages, making it his personal mission to reduce the population of unwanted mutts on roadways, and sailing gaily over potholes the size of manatees.

The kids stared, wide-eyed and speechless, at the road ahead. I chose to believe they were in awe of the tropical utopia that was unfolding before us.

I, on the other hand, was having flashbacks from Nightmare on Elm Street, and suddenly it was Freddy Krueger who was maniacally driving our bus. Freddy steered us away from the beach—inland through miles of coconut trees interspersed with tiny villages where locals gathered at plastic tables to sip coconut water in the shade. Through papaya orchards where laundry billowed on lines strung between tree trunks. Hours later, just as the afternoon sun began to wane, Freddy finally navigated the bus back toward the shore. There, laid out before our eyes, was our utopic Shangri-La: Caraiva.

The road, along with the electricity, ends before you reach Caraiva, which is set apart from the mainland by the Caraiva River. Freddy skidded to a stop at the edge of the river and merrily bid us farewell, seemingly unaware of the fact that he had irreparably scarred my children. We grabbed our bags, descended from the bus, and dropped to our knees to kiss precious dirt and thank the gods for delivering us from certain death.

From here, a boatman (who unlike Freddy was in no apparent hurry) carried us across the lazy river. He piled all seven of us into his flat-bottom metal rowboat and paddled lethargically toward the far bank as locals whizzed by in sturdier skiffs, hauling mattresses and groceries into the village.

There are no vehicles in Caraiva, nor are there any roads. In fact, reports of electricity coming to the village a few years ago may have been exaggerated. They say that when it rains, the river washes away contact with the outside world. The promise of such isolation was exactly what had brought us to this stunning, remote stretch of coast, and we were not disappointed.

There are only a handful of pousadas in the town. As we had calculated, we did have just enough cash left to rent two small cabanas on the beach. They were tiny, rustic, and absolutely incredible. Each was furnished with no more than two beds, two mosquito nets, and two wooden-shuttered windows thrown open to the waves, which lapped serenely just a few yards away. The view and the sound of the pounding surf were breathtaking.

The kids (Jason and Grandpa) headed immediately to the beach to resume the ongoing sand castle competition that has been raging for the past month. Thus far, the leading entries are Jason and Cyrus’s recent recreation of the Hagia Sophia and Grandpa and Cruz’s Aztec temple. Bella, who seems to be the only one around here who realizes that it’s February, is specializing in sandmen shaped just like the snowmen of which she must have faint memories from winters past.

Meanwhile, Grandma and I set off in search of a cash machine—just in case reports had been wrong. We returned an hour later empty-handed, but did discover that there is precisely one restaurant in Caraiva that accepts credit cards. Amen and praise be to Iemanja—the Candomblé goddess of the sea and of ground hogs—we were not going to starve!

Just as bellies were beginning to rumble, we dusted off sand and marched the troops straight to our new favorite restaurant. Perhaps even tastier than manna in the desert, they were serving moqueca on the beach. And caipirinhas, of course. What could be more divine? We ate and drank our fill, then sauntered back to our bungalows for the most peaceful slumber in recent history.

The next day we traveled six kilometers upriver to a tribal ceremony that the owner of our bungalow had told us about. The ceremony took place on the Caramuru-Paraguaçu Reserve, which our boatman and 54,000 other indigenous Brazilians call home. The native Pataxó Hãhãhãe—one of seven tribes in Bahía—still live in the area untroubled, except for maybe by all the sloths lounging lazily in the canopy above their reserve.

After a quick journey, the boatman landed on the starboard bank and anchored his trusty, rusty skiff (which had been fitted with a fancy new motor). He led us up a path, which we never would have found on our own, to the tribe’s central pagoda. Here, we were invited to observe a traditional ritual of dancing, song, and incense.

We witnessed the ceremony in silence, attempting to show our gratitude with smiles, though more likely revealing the awkward uncertainty we were all feeling—unsure of whether we were intruding on a sacred rite and should quietly back down the trail the way we had come in; or whether we should try to join in the singing; or whether maybe this stage had been set just for us and the dancers were merely awaiting our departure so they could lose their feather get-ups and go out for burgers and cokes.

After enduring the ceremony, the dancers fed us fried manioc root and fish from their hands, and we all reclined in hammocks to enjoy the sounds of the forest. As soon as seemed appropriate, we said our goodbyes and retraced our steps to the river.

Back in Caraiva that evening, we bellied up to the beach at our new favorite credit-friendly restaurant where tonight they were serving the fresh fish of the day, fried whole. Each plate was accompanied by pastais, which are savory deep-fried pastries similar to the empanadas found throughout Central America. Pastais have become the kids’ new favorite snack, and really, what’s not to like? The crust is light and bubbly, and they can be stuffed with anything from creamy cheeses and shrimp to tomatoes, queijo (cheese), and basil. No matter how you stuff them, they are delicious.

After tucking the kids in each evening under their mosquito nets, where they were immediately lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the waves, Jason and I passed moonlight hours frolicking in the surf outside our bungalow. (On our first night I lost my glasses to a monster wave, which ruined what may have otherwise been a romantic moment in paradise.) Or taking long walks along the beach. (When I say long, of course, I mean in total mileage covered—not in actual displacement—since we merely paced back and forth along the stretch of beach that was within earshot of our little ones.) Or playing cards by headlamp with Grandpa and Grandma.

For the first time in months, we found ourselves truly able to unwind and forget about whatever it was we always seemed to be fretting over back in the real world. Between sandcastle competitions, we slathered on more sunblock and found ourselves trying to devise a way to stay in Caraiva for the remainder of our time in Brazil. But alas, when our long weekend in paradise drew to a close, and our cash funds to depletion, we had no choice but to board the bus and head back to reality.