The alternating red and blue brings Nick’s features into relief and I see my tepid fear in his eyes

Our young driver had pulled a shirt over his head and scrambled out of the car to the rear where three or four armed Sao Paulo Patrol Troopers were waiting. I hear yelled questions only slightly muffled by the insulation of the car.

Nick looks around.

“Do you think we should get out too-Oh shit, Jared, the stuff in my pack!”

I stare wildly back at him remembering the less-than-legal substance, and the anxiety I feel grows into something more threatening. A tapping sound erupts from the window, making us jump as the officer slams the butt of his pistol against it. He points the gun at us and motions for us to get out

“Let’s go” I say, with less confidence than I feel

I think I’m in bare feet as I clamber out, my heart hammering now I know what’s at stake. I see our two Brazilian drivers bent over the boot of the car with their hands on the cab. Nick and I are forced to do the same and they frisk us roughly

‘Fantastic’, I think. ‘We’ve caught a ride with criminals’

They interrogate the driver for a while until I hear ‘Nova Zelanda’ and the cop swings around to face Nick and I. Weighing us up for a moment, he grabs and pulls us over to a wire fence where he lines us up against it, rattling off a question in aggressive Portuguese. The other officers look on silently, rifles slung across their chests. Gaping, I look at our driver and back to the cop.

“No vico Portuguese, perdon Señor”

He demands something else of me just as quickly. I stare at our driver in desperation. He helpfully explains what the cop is getting at

In Portuguese.

---

Just over 24 hours earlier, we’d been sitting in brilliant sunshine on an outcrop of rocks near the colonial town of Paraty. There were turtles playing in the waves and Nick had lit up a doobie (these were unrelated). Between Rio de Janeiro and Santos there is an exquisite stretch of coastline that consists of turquoise pools, golden sand, and then the denseness of the rainforest that stretches back inland as far as you can see.

There wasn’t a lot we felt that could go wrong.

As we threw on some Kora tunes and talked of home, I was utterly content. It had been a much needed dose of my life back home to be on the road with Nick, whom I’ve known since I was 10. After travelling and working in Asia for a year, there was definitely a sense of being afloat and it was grounding to have a close mate to talk to about normal things like jobs and girlfriends. In Nick, too, was someone I didn’t have to worry about all the usual polite backpacker tiptoeing with. We could just give each other shit and not have to think about it. A severely hungover series of conversations comes to mind from being on the beach one hot morning in Rio:

“Why are you moving dickhead?”

“I’m burning up”

“Oooh yeah you are”

“Well can you move?”

“Nuh”.

“Well, shit!”

---

“Can I have some water bro?”

“Yeah go nuts”

-5 mins later-

“My Kindle’s covered in sand you egg!”.

(Mouth full of Acai smoothie) “Oh actually sorry bro”

“My bags open too. Where d’you think we are? Takapuna Beach?”

“I said I’m sorry!!!” *sprays smoothie

---

*mimicking the cry of the Acai smoothie vendors

“Acaaiiiieeeheeee”

“Ah-ah-ah caieeheeee”

(Vendor approaches)

“No thanks” (in unison)

---

Vendor: “Nuts sir. Three cones for 30 Real”

“No gracìas”

“Let me pour you one”

“OK”

(Nick shakes his head as he reads)

‘Why’d you buy that. Bro you got ripped”

“Get wrecked, I’m hungover…You want some?”

“Yep”.

---

We’d made a plan to rent a car with two friends to get to Iguazu Falls on the Argentine border. So the next morning in Paraty we donned our backpacks and walked around in the 30 degrees of heat looking for a Hertz Agency. At the first place we found, a lady informed us we would need international licenses. We were sitting outside in the sun when Nick pulled the plug.

“Fuck it, should we hitch?”

“Yeah man”

And with the scribbling of a simple sign, we managed to neglect all the advice that our Brazilian friends, news articles and mountains of online warnings had given us about hitching near to the Sao Paulo area.

We shifted our packs to the entrance of a gas station which was on the main drag out of Paraty. No sooner had I raised the sign than a car pulled into a pump.

A middle aged guy with a sun-weathered face jumped out and asked “Santos?”

Nick and I looked at each other in bewilderment, then grinning, headed toward the car where he helped us with our packs. His younger, grinning mate was in the driver’s seat, and we gave him a quick “Oye” as we got in, before the older bloke returned with a big bottle of coke, whisky and some paper cups.

And the hitching party commenced.

We quickly discovered that our new friends’ English was as bad as our Portuguese (i.e. awful) but the first few hours winding through the jungle were marvelous. Singing along at the top of our lungs to Samba we didn’t know and checking girls out as we cruised through beach side towns provided some non-verbal comradery that set the tone for the journey nicely.

The Samba CD, however, wasn’t quite what it once was on the 5th repeat and a silence fell a few hours in to the trip. We’d half-attempted to communicate our plans to our friends when we arrived at various junctions in the road, but to be honest, I think we were still buzzing with how easily we’d found another adventure and how much cash we’d saved on the 6 or 7 hour bus ride.

As the sun set, Nick expressed that we should probably get out at the next town. I tried in my best Spanish to discuss it which probably wouldn’t have been good enough in Spain, let alone Portuguese-colonized Brazil.

And it wasn’t.

We settled back into our seats and tried not to worry about it as we passed the turnoff to Santos and wound up the hills from the coast toward Brazil’s giant metropolitan heart, Sao Paulo.

I guess we figured that there would be transport from Sao Paulo to anywhere in Brazil, so we thought it better not to spoil a good thing.

But it was spoiled shortly after, anyway.

After night had fallen, we were well into the outer reaches of the city and were cruising past truck stops and patches of poorer neighborhoods, just visible beyond the lights of the highway. My concern about getting dropped where there would be no hostel this late at night was mounting and no amount of map-comparing and energetic conversations in Spanglish had resulted in a solution.

I was staring at a map on Nicks phone when all of a sudden a police jeep swung into the lane behind us and blared its sirens at us.

We pulled into the shoulder.

I was confused – why would they be pulling us up? We’d been going the speed limit; doing everything right.

Unless of course it had nothing to do with the driving.

The alternating blue and red lit up Nicks shadowed features and I saw my tepid fear in his eyes.

Our driver had pulled a shirt over his head and scrambled around to the rear where three or four armed Patrol Officers were waiting and we heard yelled questions muffled by the insulation of the car.

Nick looked around.

“Do you think we should get out too-Oh shit, Jared, the stuff in my pack!”

I stared wildly back at him remembering the less-than-legal substance, and the anxiety I felt grew into something more threatening. A tapping sound erupted from the window, making us jump as the officer slammed the butt of his pistol against it. He pointed the gun at us and motioned for us to get out.

“Let’s go” I said, with less confidence than I felt.

I think I was in bare feet as I clambered out, my heart hammering now that I knew what was at stake. I saw our two Brazilian drivers bent over the boot of the car with their hands on the cab. Nick and I were forced to do the same.

They frisked us roughly.

‘Fantastic’, I thought. ‘We’ve caught a ride with criminals’.

They interrogated the driver for a while until I heard ‘Nova Zelanda’ and the cop swung around to face to Nick and I. Weighing us up for a moment, he grabbed and pulled us over to a wire fence where he lined us up against it, rattling off a question in aggressive Portuguese. The other cops looked on silently, their rifles slung across their chests. Gaping, I glanced at our driver and back to the cop.

“No vico Portugees, perdon Señor”.

He demanded something else of me just as rapidly. I stared at our driver in desperation. He helpfully explained what the cop was getting at.

In Portuguese.

I shook my head, repeating my excuse. Head Honcho exhaled, turned to his partners and reluctantly inquired if any of them spoke English. They solemnly shook their heads. He swore loudly, pacing, then shooed us toward the car with a parting outburst.

It looked like he was letting us go!

I wondered at how easily such an ominous situation had been resolved and my puzzlement deepened as our Brazilian friends ushered us back to the car. I picked up on their non verbals and did my best impression of contrition. I didn’t dare look at Nick in case the cops thought we were discussing something illicit. I felt their gaze on us even as we clambered in. I remembered the drugs wrapped up in Nick’s day pack.

Holy shit we need to drive away right now.

As we slowly pulled out into the traffic, the gravity of what we’d just gotten out of grew in my stomach and settled in a knot.

The whole bonanza had apparently spooked our Brazilian pals too. They pulled off the highway at the next available truck stop and flashed us warm goodbye smiles.

We looked around.

With the exception of the gas station, there were very few lights in the neighborhood. Assuming the best, I tried my bastard Portuguese to ask if we could go a little further to a hostel. Our drivers politely heard us out (6 times or so) and then spoke with a worker at a nearby pump. My gaze followed her pointing finger toward a sultry red neon sign atop a building a few kilometers over the other side of the motorway.

“Looks like a Love Motel”

Nicks tired eyes meet mine, a wearisome grin on his face. “Yeah, it is”.

Our driver returned with a flourish and again pointed at the Motel, explaining our good fortune.

Nick saw it was no good.

“Alright obrigado amigos!”

We began to pull our packs out of the boot. The lads look relieved. By the way they explained it, it sounded as if it was in our better interests to camp out here, despite their continuing in the direction we needed. But there was no use talking about it all night. Looking back on it, it was pretty clear they had been shell shocked by the police pulling us over and the way it had escalated. Before we left, I got them to explain that it was because the car had an out-of-state license plate on it which Sao Paulo police were apparently liable to check without suspicion of guilt. With the cargo Nick was carrying from backpacking shenanigans in Rio, we all could’ve gone to jail so fair play to them. When I offered the older bloke 50 Brazilian Real, he made a sign of the cross instead and pointed at the sky, smiling at me.

This is the only part I’m telling mum

We had a burger while we oohed and ahhed about ringing a taxi to drop us to the door of the Motel. If you know South America, you’ll know Sao Paulo is far from airtight in terms of safety, but particularly at night. We decided we’d risk the walk through the unlit industrial area which I didn’t feel superb about. We’d told ourselves that if we felt sketchy at any stage we’d turn back. I just felt like a safe retreat wouldn’t be quite as easy when Nick was carrying 18 kg of camera gear on his front. We got over the bridge okay but, sure enough, just as we left the lights of the motorway, we spotted 3 figures strolling towards us. I held my eye line straight ahead and we passed them in a bit of an uneasy silence, my pace definitely influenced by my heartbeat.

After what felt like an eternity we made it to the safety of the Love Motel and a neon selection of raunchy room types greeted us.

There was the Texas saloon complete with gallows and shackles, one with a spinning bed, and a myriad of others with varying levels of creativity. To our delight we found we could get a plain old white bread and mayo room for half of what a hotel would’ve been. The bemused receptionist patiently communicated the conditions of stay to us as we leaned against the glass, backpacks on and faces alight with the ridiculousness of the previous 12 hours. There was more than ample time for some snapchat footage of the different romping rooms before we set off up the stairs to find ours.

An orchestra of moaning and the odd shriek greeted us as we made our way to the end of the hall on the 3^rd floor. The cleaning lady passed us and her ‘oye’ greeting suggested she was a little amused with our existence there. Trying my best to look authentic I put an arm around Nick’s shoulders but he threw it off as he opened the door. We walked into a double room with a TV, bedside control panel, and wall-sized mirror opposite the bed.

I hit the power button on a remote.

Hardcore porn erupted onto the TV screen at about 100 decibels and we cracked up, the reality of where we were finally sinking in

‘I kinda wanna shower but maybe AIDS is airborne in there’ Nick mentioned to me.

‘Could be right’ I said, tenderly prying apart the not-quite-new Menu on the table. I perused the food we could order on the opening two pages but from there on it was a variety of sex toys a mile wide that could be deposited privately through a drawer in the wall

That’s what she said

We managed to ask for the wifi password off the cleaning lady. She went one step further and bought us an extra mattress, which we appreciated immensely.

Nick didn’t hesitate to offer to take the mattress which I thought mighty chivalrous until he mentioned it was because he reckoned there would be less dried fluids on it than the main bed.

Charitable lad.

I sighed my agreement and pulled out my sleeping bag liner. The maid wished us goodnight.

But as she left I could have sworn she switched to English to mutter:

These Gringos are so far from home

All decent photography by Nick Simpkin: https://www.instagram.com/nick.simpkin/

From Top Left, Clockwise: 1. Vanilla Snoop on Celadon Steps, 2. Catedral Metropolitana de Sao Paulo, 3. Sao Paulo Street Art, 4. Beach near Paraty, 5. Capoeira Show, 6. Morretes Sunset, 7. Ipanema Beach, 8. The ‘We Made it To Santos Alive’ pose, 9. Rio, 10. Rocinha Favela in Rio