Paraty – Portuguese colonial beauty at its very, very finest.
Paraty (pa-ra-tee) is a wee, twee town by the sea. It sits at the very bottom of the state of Rio de Janeiro, barricading the entrance, shaped like a jagged-edged hook, but containing all the menace of a bowl of Açaí. Life here, for the most part, is chill. The intermittent clouds dance around the sun as it dots the foreheads of the tourists, street sellers and beach-dwellers, as they all go about their business with a sense of absolute contentment.
The hangover of Rio shrinks into the picture-perfect sunset with ease in Paraty. It is almost as if the concrete effigy of Christ himself points to this calming escape, only a few hours away from his samba-soaked home. Jesus was a dancer, not a carpenter. The days drift by at about the same pace as the stoners do that check you in to the motiffed hostels in Paraty. The days provide the time to amble effortlessly around the small harbours and quaint craft shops that occupy almost each and every crack in the colourfully painted walls. The evenings, sultry and mischievous, provide the smells of barbecued steak and matted dreadlocks, fidgeting for olfactory recognition between each puff of the devils lettuce. Life is sweet. Paraty is a humid reminder of the good in this hectic country.
This bountiful Brazilian bend in the sand-lined coast comes quite close to being aptly labelled a South American paradise. Beers on the beach to wash down whatever shit was left over from dinner the night before. Ice Creams on a wobbly table down a cobbled street, watching people haggle for tut in the neighbouring shops. Listening to guided meditation videos and pretending you can’t see the Scandinavian couple in the bunk opposite going at it like absolute rabbits… This is a place of simple pleasures. A place that teeters on the edge of gentle tourism and Manson Family-esk self-sufficiency. It’s true, the relaxing and revitalising qualities Paraty holds are truly special.
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