Gamboa
Author: Shirlz
Friday, 28 October 2011
I left Galeão at 6’ish as the tide started to fall. This time the anchor came up cleanly apart from a long branch that was drifting about and threatening another entanglement. No wind, but with the engine just ticking over and the strongly ebbing tide it wasn’t long before we were approaching Gamboa. I was in two minds as to whether I should stop there or press on a bit further to the ‘Yacht Club’ at Morro de São Paulo. I turned in to have a closer look. The guide books hadn’t been very encouraging, warning of many moored boats and depths that dropped off rapidly. Fortunately I was the only visiting boat and had no trouble finding a good spot in 4m within easy rowing distance from the shore and far enough away from the local moorings.
I had run out of bread so as soon as things were settled on board I rowed ashore in hope of finding a padaria that was open. I normally seem to get there when they’ve just sold the last Pão Française or the latest batch is still in the oven. But the beach looked enticing and I thought I’d go for a walk first. The low tide meant it was possible to get all the way to Morro. So I kept going. A pity to waste the opportunity. It turned out to be a fascinating walk. As the water was so low, many boats had dried out on the wide sandy beach and hulls were being cleaned and painted. I was intrigued at how all the boats followed a very similar design. Solid and beamy with shallow draft. Big aft-hung rudder with a curly step at the waterline. A massively extended stem going up vertically at the bow and forming a combined samson post and bow-roller. All the boats in Tinharé have this feature which is the most noticeable difference to the ones in Camamú where the bow-plank extends more horizontally as a sort of gang-plank cum bow-sprit. Most of the boats have religious names: Obrigado meu Pai, Deus e Fiel, etc. All are brightly painted in many different colours.
Past the beach-boatyard area there is a busy ferry dock and the tourist industry is in full swing with restaurants, bars and pousadas. Then wide stretches of white sandy beach furnished with umbrellas and sun beds. I kept going. Here the shore slopes steeply at the waterline plunging to the 35m depths I noticed when I first sailed in and boats were floating at anchor right up next to the sun worshipers on the sands.
Luxuriant tropical rainforest forms a lush green backdrop leading on to a high cliff face where the rock has fallen away to expose strange pink clay. It is supposed to have some beneficial quality and two bikini-clad visiting matrons were slathering their ample curves with the stuff. Their teenage guide looked on. One wonders what he might have been thinking.
The beach had narrowed now and the shallow water was littered with lethal (to boats) rocks. A complicated arrangement of traditional fish traps was being repaired. I walked on as far as the wooden jetty at the yacht club. Three yachts were there on permanent moorings. It was more exposed than my spot at Gamboa, both to the busy boat traffic and the wind and swell. The only reason I could see for moving there would be proximity to the beaches and nightlife of Morro de São Paulo. I turned back and stopped at a beach bar near the Gamboa jetty for a quick coco gelada then found a supermarket on the main sandy drag one block up from the beach. There was a really good selection of everything, even some decent Chilean wines. I happily picked up the last 4 bread rolls. My lunch would be one of them piled with the delicious avocado which has just started coming back into season.
Saturday, 29 October 2011
As soon as the tide had ebbed sufficiently to provide enough beach to walk on, I rowed ashore again, this time planning to walk all the way to Morro and spend some time there. It was a beautiful day and the beach was starting to fill up with weekenders. Pressing on past the yacht club I soon got to a steep staircase going up the hill. Little bars and pousadas perched on the hillside. Then a sandy lane down to the old ‘fonte’ – a natural spring enclosed by an enormous domed building before it streams out again into a square where people used to collect their water. Now it is closed off and you can only look at it from a footbridge. Water in plastic bottles is for sale. The village itself has grown a lot since I was last here with many more trendy shops and restaurants. Most of the sandy lanes have been paved. The place is so in it’s almost out. I walked up to the viewpoint at the lighthouse and looked down on the crowded beaches on the other side of the hill. If you feel like a thrill you can hook on to a suspension cable and have an exciting aerial swoop down to the beach. I hung around for a bit ghoulishly hoping to see it in action but there were no takers. I wasn’t too keen to try it myself.
After a quick ice-cream I headed back. By now there were too many people around. I have been rather isolated for the last few months and don’t really enjoy hot, sweaty crowds. As I passed the pink clay cliff I watched as a boatload arrived and started having fun in the pink mud. Smearing it thickly all over themselves, rolling around in it. Rather like elephants at an African mudhole. It looked quite good actually and I was almost tempted to join in but it would have put my last remaining hearing aid in serious danger so I had to give it a miss.
When I got back to my dinghy which was tied to a tree at the edge of the beach it was obvious that some kids had been playing in it and it was very sandy. I had to clean it out at the waters edge before I could get into it. At least the oars were still there so no harm done.
Back at the anchorage two Brazilian yachts had arrived. Probably up from Salvador for the weekend. One had anchored too close to a huge catamaran tourist boat and the other too close to me. I decided to move a bit further off. It put me in slightly deeper water (10m instead of 4) but I had seen the diminutive size of their anchor and lack of scope and felt that their need of the shallows was greater than mine. Nevertheless, they dragged twice during the night. Tomorrow I leave for Itaparica.
Tags: cruising, Gamboa, Morro de São Paulo