Low life | 25 October 2012

Brazil! What fantasies, mainly erotic, are conjured up by that word! At Salvador airport, as promised, leaning over the rail bearing a sign with my name on it, was a man sent to drive me to the hotel. I gave him a nod (I was too tired to smile) and without further ado he led the way outside to his car, a taxi, baking in the 30-degree heat of a Brazilian afternoon.

It was a very small taxi. The knuckles of his right hand shoved my knee aside as he pushed the gearstick into third. Hanging from the rear-view mirror was a crucifix with a tiny Christ figure realistically convulsed in its death agony. Once he’d turned on to the expressway into town, the taxi man turned to me and began to shout at me in Portuguese. The voice was deep and gruff, but the face was kind. I shrugged at him.