10th August. After more than 8 hours of bus ride between the sertao and the coast, we arrive in Trairi, a little town some 30 km of our destination, knackered and stinky, as the sun is about to set. The moto-taxi boys (some of them in their 50s) surround us as we get off the bus: “Going to Mundau? 2 motos, 12 reais each”. We each carry a backpack of about 8 kg and these motos look quite narrow. The Pill sends me the ‘detached-skeptical' look but before she can say anything I agree loudly with the 2 ‘boys’. We climb behind them, and the motos are indeed rather thin and a tad too short for my thick calves. I’m slightly out of balance, the backpack pulls me backwards. And it’s my very first time riding a moto. Yes, we are the other facet of the “rebel rock’n roll gods” social group, the one that uses public transport. Pretty avant-garde, I know. So anywayz, the distribution of weight on and around my body seems to suggest that the safest way to keep my arse from walking the plank backwards is too lean forward and lock my arms around the thick, soft midriff of my 50-something motoboy. That’s how they do it in the films too, right? when the rebel leather boy gives the prudish girl in a tulle headscarf her first moto ride? All the locals gathered in the small plaza watch us with mildly intrigued, slightly amused faces. A guy in a shop encourages me to hold the motoboy tight and, as a joke, i tighten my grip getting the air out of the poor man’s lungs. a bit. we depart, the sudden acceleration almost throwing me to the ground, and i’m holding very tight indeed! By now our public is cheering loudly and i hear their laughter and ‘woooo-hooo’ cries thin out as we move towards the main road. It’s a thrill, to say the least... the moto threatens to throw me off at each bump, so i keep my strong hold on the motoboy, until he tells me, in a slightly offended voice, that i should hold on to the handle at the back of my seat. I get off one arm, prudently, at first, and as he keeps on staring at my other arm still clutching his belly, i let go of this one as well. It’s pretty precarious, my balance. Soon we stop for the motoboy to put 3 reais worth of petrol in his moto and the Pill throwns me a slightly glacial smile of “it’s fun, if we survive it” from the other moto. It’s heaven and hell on wheels from here: i’ve got my shades on against suicidal flies, my cap is stuck down to my ears and i’m holding that slippery chrome backrail behind my back, riding at what i find to be supersonic speed (50 km/h?) on a road that nudges its way between sand dunes and the sea, the sun setting in front of us in an orgy of 80s-cocktail-bar-sign colours, coral and pinks and mauves, the clouds like discarded erotic garments, diaphanously lined in matching tones (see photo, above). Breathtaking, in more ways than one. At every bump or turn in the road, when gravity and centripetal forces whiten my knuckles, i think “not a bad way to go, actually”.
The motoboys have the smoothness of experts though, and we arrive in Mundau 40 minutes later, a bit shaky and a bit hysterically excited. We exchange money and goodbyes on the sandy road going to our pousada and i think i sense a little nostalgic tenderness in my motoboy’s look. Or was it the sad look that the Christian gives the sinner? Of course the Pill, cool as a sea cucumber, tells me she has attentively studied the locals beforehand and absolutely ALL of them are ALWAYS holding on to the back-rail, NEVER to the driver. Oh well, i sure worked hard for those cheers and that look. Plus, the Pill is not unscathed herself, since she has a nice, round, purple branding mark from where the hot exhaust pipe burned her naked leg. We go for a refreshing night swim in the ocean and a swing in the hammock before collapsing on the bed. Another legendary battle in the 100-year war against mosquitoes is about to begin...
Tchuss-tchuss, la mordue.
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