A cidade no fim do mundo

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Every friend I spoke to about visiting Brazil told me I would fall in love with Itacaré, so I tried my hardest not to hype the place up in my mind. It was described to me as a hippie, Rasta surf village with gorgeous weather and beautiful landscapes. Although I thoroughly enjoyed every place I visited in this amazing country, the heavenly sounding surf town was always in the forefront of my mind; I could not wait to get there and see what everyone was talking about. We arrived after a long hot and sleepless bus ride from Chapada Diamantina only to find our reserved hostel overbooked. Exhausted and desperate to get to the beach we settled on a dark mosquito laden room across the street, dropped our bags and ran for the water. Despite my best efforts to have no expectations, this place was not proving itself to be the paradise I imagined it to be. The beach we first landed on had no break, and the village seemed like a tourist ghost town.

After the sun set, most businesses began to open their doors. We found a quaint little surf shop and rented a board for the following morning.  After a lovely ferry ride across the river mouth we found ourselves on a beautiful beach with not a soul in sight. We had been told this was a popular surf spot, yet no one was here, and the swell left something to be desired. We had a lovely day on this deserted coastline, playing around in the white water and laughing at ourselves. Something was definitely missing and we knew what it was. This town would remain a mystery until we would have the pleasure of interacting with the locals who seemed to be more elusive than ever.

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