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Stories about SEX in BRAZIL with HOOKERS

"Salvador Nights "

Salvador is a long way south of Recife. On my first trip to Brazil (1986) and whilst waiting for Peter to arrive from Europe I did a side trip to Salvador City. It turned out to be intriguing but not sexy.

I stayed in the budget hotel area which is the old cobbled street part of town. Slave Market, Slave Church and ancient ‘Western style’ Churches surrounded me. The Ancient Church right next to me was supposed to have a genuine gold plated altar. I did enter the church to check this out. Can’t imagine the gold still there after hundreds of years and the current poverty of the area. Reckon what I saw , wasn’t the real thing. If it was, I might have tried to sample some of it , as the place was deserted and unguarded : )

My el cheepo hotel, called Sao Francisco, doubled as a short time brothel, as is the case in so many whoring countries. Makes for interesting observations , the comings and goings. Possibly more cummings than goings.

A couple of German lads had a dark maiden in their room next to me. Don’t know what they were doing with her, but it sure sounded good. When I heard her leave , I went out my window and kept an eye on those exiting, to spot her below me in the cobbled street, to see what she was like , but never saw her, only a mixed race beauty enter.

How did I know she was dark ? Ha, ha , 99% per cent of the ones I came across in Salvador were dark , plus what I heard through the walls confirmed it.

The mixed raced beauty who entered the Hotel around this time was possibly, the best looking chick I saw in my two stays in Salvador. Don’t know what a classy looking girl like that was doing in a run down brothel of a hotel like mine. She seemed to be out of place. Suppose the price must have been right and maybe she was meeting an important wealthy married man who reckoned he’d never be caught by his wife in that area and that brothel. ?

Looking out my window, which faced onto the main cobbled street and observing the goings on below was always fascinating.

One thing that amused me was 'poor peoples Friday' (or words to that affect) , when the ones with money attended the ancient church to the left of my hotel (whoring in my hotel, praying in the church next door , both paying for services rendered : ) donated bread to the poor, congregated outside the church. There was one particular ‘poor person’ who had an entrepreneurial flair. He would stretch out his hand and receive a loaf of bread from the ‘followers’ as they departed or arrived for Church, and as soon as the giver had taken a couple of paces, turn around and give it to a young kid around the corner who’d take a few steps down the side alley and drop the loaf in a potato sack. Thus leaving the entrepreneurial ‘poor person’ empty handed once again.

Hundreds came every p.p. Friday (PPF) and hundreds of loaves were collected by this one man. When the first bag was full the kid would run off to presumably a nearby slum/ flavela, where it would be deposited , returning immediately with the bag emptied and fill it up again. All day this would go on. Not a bad business. I called him the ‘bread winner’. Sometimes it takes small things to amuse me.
Another amusing spot was the place where I ate. Found it listed in my budget travel book. It was at the end to the courtyard of an upmarket hotel called Hotel Pelourinho. Upmarket meaning around U$25/35 per day for a room. From memory my ‘Brothel Hotel’ was only costing U$5 per day. Lots of ‘African’ looking people in my budget area , and so too the waitresses working in the Restaurant that I dined in daily. This Restaurant was perched on unstable stilts on the side of a hill , overlooking the city below and the bay beyond. Immediately under this balcony style restaurant were slum/flavela dwellers and it was interesting observing them and they observing me on the balcony.

An attractive young dark waitress dressed in traditional african style clothes served me every day. She had a great smile. This was around the time when I knew little or no Portuguese, but I recall that the menu was written in both Portuguese and English. Anyway I liked a dish of theirs which was principally, potatoe chips, fried eggs and lots of sliced tomatoes with a dab of lettuce. Something like a breakfast dish. To make sure I was understood by the waitress, I would try and pronounce ‘patatas fritas’ (fried potato’s) correctly and must have been over zealous cause the young waitress would come out with a big smile and almost laugh when I said it - pa’taa-taash freetaash (sh)
.
So, because she was amused with my pronunciation I laid the pronunciation on even thicker until I was almost salivating at the mouth. When my travel companion, Peter, finally arrived from Europe , and we travelled to Salvador, I took him to this same Restaurant and he liked the ambience, view, waitress and the amusing way I pronounced patatas fritas. Peter was a natural born linguist and didn’t have any problems learning languages or pronouncing them correctly. A traveller who can not pick up languages or resists trying to learn, is at a severe disadvantage in non English speaking countries like Brazil.

Thought one day I would be able to make a date with that waitress, but anytime I got cheeky, she just smiled. Think she would have lost her job if she’d started to fraternise with the customers. Maybe her hubby was out in the kitchen ? : )Not far from the Restaurant was an old Slave Market. Huge Doors , say three metres tall, about six of them across the front. Large cobble stoned square in front of the ‘market’. It wasn’t hard to imagine hundreds of years ago, when slaves were brought out through the doors , stood on the elevated platform with wealthy sugar plantation owners, below them ,yelling out their bids for the slaves. To the right of the Slave Market was an ancient Church , specifically built by and for fellow slaves. I made the mistake of entering the premises and trying to gain entry to the Church itself. I was waved out of the place by some of the church faithful ,and found out later, whites are not allowed in that particular church. It was the only church black slaves could go to in days of old. Hence its precious. Brought back sad memories to the descendants of those slaves and so whites were not welcomed. Understandable. At the time , I felt embarrassed about my ignorance.
It was in this cobbled square which had the Slave Market and the Slave Church that the local African descendants held a celebration. One evening they placed a big banner up (written in Portuguese) and it seemed to be about celebrating ‘independence’ of some sort. Possibly independence from slavery or what I don’t know. They had at least twenty or more drums of varing sizes , some huge ; guitars, microphones, singers, dancers, you name it ,on a very large stage erected right up against the entrance and right across the face of the now museum piece and tourist attraction - Slave Market.

From my hotel, about 300 mtrs away I could hear the pulsating beat and rhythms of those twenty odd drums. It certainly did sound exciting and so around 10pm I made my way to the music, like the Pied Piper and the mice. I was a mouse being drawn by the music of the ‘African Pipers’.

I found a huge crowd of dark looking brazilians, mostly men , unshirted, dancing, calling out ,drinking beer and getting excited. The music stirred me from within. It wasnt hard to think of Africa and the jungles. Lots of alcohol was being consumed, bottles were being smashed on the cobble stones, accidentally I presumed. Couldn’t see through the sea of people what was actually going on. Didn’t know where they were getting their grog from , and so I asked a white portuguese looking elderly man who was standing nervously outside his small jewellery shop in this same square, ‘cerveja , onde, por favor ’, meaning, Beer where, please. And so because of my poor Portuguese he knew I was a tourist (and I knew - I was a whorist : ) .

In part English and part Portuguese, he told me that it was dangerous for me, a white man to be in this big drunken crowd, that things were going to get worse and I would be in danger. He said it was best for me to go home now cause that night was going to be rough. I took his advice, as he had a genuine concern on his face and he seemed a sincere person. I weaved my way through the crowd, making sure I didn’t bump into anyone giving them an excuse for an altercation, sneaking back home to my hotel where I drank beer and listened to those ‘haunting drums’ all night long. They didn’t stop till sun up. That night , I felt I was sleeping in the midst of an African jungle.

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There were plenty of opportunities for me to run into grief in Salavador. Another time, when Peter had arrived , we paid a visit to the upstairs - Cantinho da Lua, c/r Rua Alfredo de Brito and Rua Francisco, overlooking the praca/square. In this tiny upstairs ‘pub’ we were surrounded by ‘african brazilians’. No white skins to be seen, and that’s good, cause why do we travel, to do the same things we do back home ? Not me. The blacks were all smiles, pleased and honoured that a couple of whites from afar would sit and drink in their watering hole/pub. There was a live three piece outfit and the music was tops. Very different to what we would normally hear. Most enjoyable. Somehow we ended up sitting at a table with two black sisters. They were cute, full of personality and charm. We bought them drinks and Peter did most of the talking. They did not appear to be ‘on the make’, so I never steered the conversation in that direction (via Peter, my official interpreter).
I must confess that I cannot hold a lot of liquor, and so around 12 midnight I’d had more than my share and as usual, decided to leave Peter with the chicks, chattering away in a mix of Portuguese and Spanish. Didn’t like the idea of trying to walk out of that place with the two prettiest girls in front of our friendly hosts. Thought it would be abusing their hospitality. Talk to their girls yes, screw them - another matter. Pete wanted to linger, so I walked home about two hundred metres away by myself. I later found out, that was something that I should never have done ,as the area was considered dangerous ,even for blacks. But walk home by myself partially drunk I did, and nothing happened along the way. Peter reported the next morning that he took a big fat mumma back home with him. Smart boy, if he had taken the two young cuties, he might not have returned home : )

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It was a few years later in my Store (Trade Store/Mini Supermarket) up in the Mountains of Papua New Guinea that I was to learn how lucky I was , to escape Salavador and my ‘outings’ without harm.

It happened like this : A white guy walked into my Store out of the blue. To my knowledge ,I was the only white guy in the area, but this whitey had just started work on a nearby plantation and had come to my store for supplies. It transpires that he spent many years in brazil ,including owning girlie bars. He was an oil rig lad and must have been employed offshore Brazil. He married a brazilian chick , who ran the girlie bar, and so he knew the brazilian scene backwards. I told him about Salavador and Cantinho da Lua. He was amazed that I had drunk there and survived without incident. Dangerous place, he said, including the whole of Salvador.

Ignorance can be bliss, sometimes.

What’s the point of staying home, where its nice and safe, vegetating away ?

We’ve only got one ride on this Merry Go Round , gotta make sure it is a swingin' ride : )