Travel Anxiety In Brazil

The white skyscrapers shine brightly in the late afternoon sky high above Recife. Between them lies the dark dirt on the ground: barbed-wire-secured semi-favelas on the edge of hope. I walk a few kilometres to the largest shopping centre. Robocops on Segways patrol inside. I am surprised to realise that you only laugh when you feel safe.

Brazil is the only country in the world where you have to put your credit card in the ATM twice to withdraw money once. This region-specific feature gives the Darth Vaders positioned in front more time to empty their pump guns completely into potential card thieves after the third incorrect entry. A welcome side effect is likely to be a significant improvement in the Brazilian genome in the direction of memory worldweisters.

My hostel is located on a security-protected street. Nevertheless, the wall around the property is topped with an electric fence. I somehow feel like a piece of cattle on pasture. I smell slaughterhouse and chew my cud while I tearfully ask reception to set the gate opening mechanism in motion so that I can buy my concentrated feed in the nearby supermarket.

I have been to many poor countries. I love contrasts and colourfulness. Maybe it was a little bit stupid to quickly play through Max Payne II before leaving, a game that professionals only put in the console with an absorbent cloth because of the massive amounts of Brazilian blood leaking out. Perhaps it was also stupid to pick up the Lonely Planet. And maybe it was even stupid to listen to any horror story, no matter how much you love stories.

The fact is: today, for the first time on all my trips, I ran against my fear. Fear is the shittiest travelling partner imaginable. It’s not even good for armchair farting. It blinds you, it paralyses you and it pushes you out of the now. But travelling is neither possible in the future nor in the past. Travelling can only be now.

Olinda is the historical sister of the metropolis of Recife. On a hill by the sea, baroque churches line up at almost the same frequency as the football stadiums in the plain below. It is strangely quiet. Every pusher who wants something from you can be immediately dissuaded from his goal with a single word. I’ve never experienced it like that in any other country. It’s uncanny. After a good meal according to our weight, we take the bus back to Recife. It takes us three quarters of an hour to cover the 12 kilometres. In the evening, hydraulic pile drivers hammer piles for the new city motorway into the swamp behind the hostel. I count the blows to fall asleep.