The Personal Paradise Paradox

The red-brick clay was finally coming to an end, albeit in a slippery, downhill finish. Where the clay ended signaled the end of my hike through the formidable Atlantic foliage of Ilhabela. The sun hung low, almost blocked by the sharp incline of the jungle behind me. Ahead, a half-kilometer stretch of sand ran up to the opposite cove wall. I had arrived at Praia Bonete.

After a month of traveling northbound on the Brazilian coast, I had grown tired of bouncing from one backpacker haunt to the next. Since recommendations are often exchanged between fellow travelers by word-of-mouth in the backpacking circuit, it can be difficult to find a place with opportunities to interact with the local folk. I found that I had been solely relying on these recommendations for too long. If I wanted an untouched beach paradise, I’d have to “discover” it through more local sources. I decided to take a boat from the São Paulo coast to the island of Ilhabela in search of my treasure.

That evening, in an unassuming lanchonete, I struck up a conversation with a moto-taxi driver and described my quest for a remote beach. He offered a solution: hidden on the island’s south side, Praia Bonete was only reachable by way of a hike. I didn’t need much convincing. I set out the next day.

In just four hours, I had cut through 15 kilometers of coastal jungle to arrive at Praia Bonete before sundown. The path took me over mosquito-rich pools of stagnant waterfall run-off, under vines with monkeys swinging between, and through tight undergrowth fit for sneak attacks from the worst kinds of jungle inhabitants.

Although the canopy of trees provided a natural umbrella from the heavy midday raindrops, the leafy cocoon acted as a furnace for most of the hike. Breaking out into the gentle evening light a few hours later, I stood high above the northern boundary of a picturesque cove. My descent continued down the muddy slope back and forth across wide, red crevices resembling a colossal ant colony towards the white sands of Bonete.

Once on the sands of Praia Bonete, I walked the length of the cove down past humble beach huts and homes in search of the lodging I had booked for a single night. Exhausted upon arrival, I knocked on the door with the name of my pousada hanging above and stood there in silence. No one was home.

Initial impressions of the pace of the town suggested I may be waiting a while, so I continued into town to see if anyone knew my host. The path continued ahead from the beach through a colorful array of clay homes and a blue church, hosting four ladies in choir practice. Other than those four, the town was uncomfortably quiet. A lone, dark green morro (hill) rose behind it towards the once again overcast sky.

A few hundred meters past the church came the first signs of life at a snack stand selling meat pastries. Behind the counter, an older woman was making the dough for another batch. Maybe she knew my host. As I approached, she continued kneading the dough without interruption.

“Desculpe, I’m looking for the owner of the pousada called ‘Casa Celina’. I stay there this night. Do you know how to find her?”

The older lady looked up from her work with a warm smile.

“Of course. I’m the mother-in-law of Dona Celina,” the old lady responded as another younger woman rounded the corner of the snack shack with a batch of fresh pastries. “And this is the sister of her.”

The sister nodded timidly at me in mute acknowledgment and disappeared back around the corner. The old lady continued.

“To find Dona Celina, return to the blue church that you passed a moment ago and remain in front of there. Then, clap three times. Each time you clap, yell ‘Dona Celina’. She’ll find you.” The old lady looked back down and silently continued her pastry craft.

Despite my new instructions more closely resembling those to summon Beetlejuice rather than a beach villager, I thanked the old lady and bought a meat pastry in good faith.

Back in front of the church, choir practice had picked up some steam as now 20 or so townsfolk had gathered to recite the hymns of the evening. I figured Dona Celina was part of the practice and loudly clapped three times while calling for Dona Celina. The shouts did little more than elicit a few irritated side-eyes from select members of the congregation.

A sharp whistle came from over my right shoulder. I spun around, and sure enough, standing there in the middle of the sand path was who I assumed had to be short, rosy Dona Celina. If I didn’t know better, the puff of smoke she must’ve appeared in was still dissipating above her head. I shuddered and explained why I was looking for her.

Dona Celina introduced herself and apologized for the absence from the property; she hadn’t heard from me all day. “Tudo bem,” I assured her, and we returned down the path toward the pousada.

The next morning, I woke up in a pool of sweat. The armies of mosquitoes moved in overnight, so I slept with all the windows and doors shut. No mosquitoes, yes, but no air either. I needed a breeze. I needed sunlight. More importantly, I needed coffee.

Dona Celina had invited me the evening before to have breakfast at her beachside quiosque restaurant in the morning. I left my shirt and shoes at the pousada and walked out to the beach. Any gringo worth their salt knows shirts are only reserved for formal events and shoes for the occasional samba night when on a Brazilian beach.

On the patio, I filled my plate with a slice of watermelon, granola, and a buttered roll, and sat down in front of a steaming coffee. As I ate and watched the waves, a strange burning grew on my bare feet, like microscopic knives pricking my skin. I stuck my head under the table only to find both of my feet streaming blood about 20 pinholes on the top and sides. I checked my back. My hand returned with some blood and another passenger: a black, gnat-sized fly.

“So you’ve met the borrachudos,” Dona Celina said, nonchalantly from behind the kitchen counter. She sensed my confused alarm. “They’re those little black flies.”

I swatted another off my neck. “But flies don’t bite? These aren’t mosquito bites?” I asked, hopeful.

“The borrachudos bite as well,” Dona Celina chuckled, unfazed by the flies. “And they hurt too. I prefer mosquitoes. At least they just needle you to get to your blood. The borrachudos bite the skin, rip a piece off, and then drink the blood.”

Scarfing down the rest of breakfast, I went back to the pousada to put some repellent on my legs, chest, and back for protection against the legion of Bonete bloodsuckers. Back on the beach, kids took turns surfing the barrels that crashed on the jagged rocks. Out on the horizon, seagulls floated in the breeze before torpedoing straight down into the sea to spear an unsuspecting fish for breakfast. Fishing boats bobbed in the turquoise water. Was this finally the remote beach I had been searching for?

Serenity was short-lived. Laying back with my book on my gringo Brazilian flag beach toIl, it became apparent that my problems weren’t solely relegated to Dona Celina’s quiosque. Simultaneously, I felt a familiar prick on my cheek as a couple of black flies floated into my vision between my sunglasses and book. More borrachudos.

Putting my book down, I started walking along the shore. Motion seemed to be my best defense against the flies. The sun was well high in the sky by now and heated the sand to a point an egg would fry. I retreated to the grove of trees forming the border between town and the beach. It was there I noticed a small lady sitting with a wheeled cooler next to a recycled piece of wooden fencing. Painted on it was the word “COCO” in hurried white letters.

Upon request, I was informed that I couldn’t buy a coconut on account of two things. One, my bill was too big of a denomination for her to break and give change. Two, she was still waiting on her morning supply of coconuts. The latter of the two hurdles would be resolved in no more than half an hour. As for the bill, I’d need to break that elsewhere. Coco Lady directed me to the utility provider, Bruna, further in town. Following my new directions into town, I approached what appeared to be just another home.

From behind the fence, I could see a girl of no more than fourteen years sitting over a desk looking out at the front porch. Hearing her name, Bruna popped up from behind the desk to hear my case. Perhaps out of pity (as I was, after all, going to great lengths to purchase a coconut), she called me to the window. I could now see that she had been at the desk counting close to $1,000,000 Brazilian reais; the town “utility provider” was just Bruna’s family’s house.

Back at the COCO stand with my new, smaller bills, I arrived at the same moment as a man pulling a fishing net of six coconuts across the sand. He introduced himself as Coco Lady’s husband and explained that I was getting the freshest coconuts of the day—he had just picked them from the trees in their yard. Coco Lady began to prepare me one.

“You are from where?” she asked drily, probably to kill the silence as she slowly hand-drilled into the green flesh of the coconut.

“The United States.”

“Your first time to Bonete?”

“Sim.”

“And you stay where?” continued Coco Lady, now pulling the guts out of the hole she had drilled.

“In a pousada down the beach there. Dona Celina is the owner. Do you know her?”

“Know her, yes,” she responded, handing me the coconut with a bendy straw sticking out of the top. “Dona Celina is my sister.”

Taking the coconut, I did a double-take to make sure this wasn’t the same lady as the one at the snack stand the day before. Nope. It was beginning to seem that Dona Celina & Co. had an iron grasp on the Bonete beachfront industry. A truly tropical monopoly.

Back out on the silent beach, I sat down on my Brazil flag again with my coconut and marveled at the novelty of being in a place this remote with a community this intimate.

Watching the ocean, I noticed a few single-engine dinghies bobbing out in the cove. They moved heavier, had little fishing gear, and were almost full of other people. The boats coasted in. Off them stepped hordes of tourists for their afternoon jaunt, as happens every day on this beach I later figured out.

I laughed. This was no different than the beach towns. As it turned out, the hike was not the only way to get to Praia Bonete. One could just as easily pay for a dinghy from the island’s main port and arrive in a half hour. The only thing different here in Bonete was that I’d dropped the jaded beliefs that had kept me from treating my other stops as holding potential for uncertainty and adventure.

I took another sip from my coconut, resolving to be less snooty about the space I occupied in the travel sphere. It didn’t take a four-hour hike to a remote beach to have interesting interactions—just a shift in attitude. Despite the now-crowded beach, I was content with what I had found here at Praia Bonete. Besides, more bodies meant more options for the borrachudos.