Pre-Carnaval in the North East

Once settled into our pousada in Olinda's old town, far away (enough) from the Skol-fuelled chav-fest that was the pre-Carnaval 'parade' in the new town, we got a chance to experience Olinda proper. There's no disputing that Olinda is gorgeous. It's now a World Heritage Site and has lots of money pouring in for restoration of colonial churches, colourful houses and cobbled streets, so I was surprised at how commercially un-exploited it was. There are no ATMs or supermarkets. What there are loads of, however, are galleries and workshops - which appear to be people's houses - crammed with paintings, wooden carvings and bonecos (puppets for Carnaval). Arts´n´crafts are big in Olinda.

Another thing that struck us was that seemingly every person and property is licensed to sell alcohol (which usually involves a can of Skol being passed through someone's front window). This comes in handy when there are street processions and moving 100 yards to the nearest bar becomes tricky. Mauro was particularly taken by a local brew called Pau do Indio - a heady mixture of aguardiente, honey and 32 herbs (I thought it was undrinkable). It's surprising how good-natured the atmosphere was with all this alcohol doing the rounds.

The Pre-Carnaval street parades themselves were slightly unreal. We discovered one by following the sound of drumming and turning a corner to see 50 women in huge dresses, advancing slowly towards us by means of a brilliantly unsexy dance.

So by the time we came to leave Olinda, we felt we'd already had a taste of Brazilian Carnival. We headed off for some tranquilidade at the beach, two hours north in Joâo Pessoa, the capital of Paraiba (and the eastern-most point of the Americas). The last thing we expected was, 24 hours later, to be in the throng of yet another pre-Carnaval parade in the city centre with some people we'd met in the hostel. This one had a less medieval feel - local popstars atop enormous trucks, blaring out some hectic frevo.

Not to be defeated in our search of some actual tranquilidade, Mauro became fixated with discovering some renowned beaches about 40km away from town, despite there being no public transport and only a dirt road for the last 10km. After a 90-minute ordeal... I mean bus-trip, we managed to find them - with the help of a Peruvian naturist called Jorge. An hour of sunshine later, the heavens opened and we found ourselves stranded in muddy paradise. Eventually Jorge managed to talk his (and our) way into the back of someone's jeep, and we ended up at his house in the middle of the countryside to dry off. Finally, with Mauro wearing Jorge's T-shirt, we weren't distraught to be on the bus out of Joâo Pessoa (which means 'John Person') heading north again towards Natal (which means 'Christmas). And after all that pre-Carnaval activity, I think we've finally found somewhere where we can chill out on the beach and watch the actual Carnaval on telly!