The perfect antidote to a week in Basel has been almost 2 weeks on Boipeba Island in the Bahia region of Brazil.  It was trading Swiss obsessive efficiency for something different altogether.  You know there is going to be a more relaxed attitude to customer service when the two shirtless young dudes, who meet you from the speed boat that delivers you through the mangroves via “Hell river” (real name), transfer your luggage from boat to a wheelbarrow and follow you on the 1KM hike to your villa.

But believe me, it was worth it.  Miles of deserted beaches, caipirinhas with every meal, coconut water for those on the AA program, healthy food, and a lot of thongs.  Now, the thongs are a double edged sword.  Never can an item of clothing look so sexy and equally so wrong.  I’ll sing you my “wrong thong song” a bit later.

Overall, a holiday on an island anywhere near Brazil is a treat.  With one exception - the music.  “Gosh, horror,” I can hear you gasp, “but these people have got rhythm like no others on earth!”  Well, that is true.  All it takes is a frog to croak or a vulture to squark and before you know it, young and old, the hips start gyrating.  But it’s not the rhythm in question here.  I mean, I speak as a man who only knows two dances: big fish, little fish, cardboard box… and Riverdance.  No, this is about the lack of vision on the playlist front.  I love Bob Marley.  As a punk growing up in London in the 70s you had to love BM.  It was written into the constitution by none other than The Clash.  But hey, that was 35 years ago and the beat is supposed to move on, even if just a little.  We all know you shot the sheriff but somehow managed to miss the deputy too (Bob was probably so stoned, he had trouble working out which deputy was the real one).  But not every day - sorry - every half hour!  As if the repetition of that was not bad enough, the airwaves in between were filled with a sort of stadium/carnival/we’re so happy/spinal tap sound so bad that I’m having trouble communicating the naffness.  Oh God, I sound so spoilt but I speak the truth.  If you don’t believe me ask my wife and daughter.  Nothing can spoil an idyllic sun downer in a bar on a beach of white sand like the opening lines of Trench Town Rock for the umpteenth time since sunrise.

Back to the thong song, I will make this brief (boom boom).  There is a confidence that has to be admired in a woman or a man who are way old enough to know better but can still parade along a Brazilian beach wearing nothing but dental floss.  I say dental floss but one’s sense of proportion becomes so disorientated that the item of clothing in question could easily be the size of a hammock, still flirting and mincing in a way that would have made Sophia Lauren blush in 1968.  I take my hat off to the couple who through a series of unfortunate events ended up on a boat with us.  But next time, please, bring a couple of sarongs for when we are eating.

Back home now listening to some original King Tubby Studio 1 recordings of early King Bob. 

SW