We continued along the beach road, which was curvy as hell at times, with natural rock ledges looming over the car as we zoomed past. Marcelo pointed out Adam and Eve, two secluded beaches that got their names from the isolation of the place, and the nudity that usually takes place when people get together there.

The captain on our bay cruise had pointed out this very place and told Patricia about it, who told us. And Marcelo’s story matched exactly! They must have meetings to get it all together.

We were in the territory now that from the water looked just like Jurassic Park: lush tropical foliage covering a mountainous area behind a beach, with palm trees sticking out everywhere to drive the image home.

Pretty, huh? It was kinda cloudyish, still, so it seemed like a good thing that we had come here first. Before long, the road was bisected with a barbed wire gate, behind which was a small guard house. Marcelo pulled up gingerly and pulled his wallet and “papers” out for the soldier that zoomed out to check it.

All was in order, thumbs were exchanged, while we all tried to look benign in the car. Marcelo pulled through to a larger area, where another soldier pointed us in to the parking lot. We all hopped out, me pulling the camera out instantly to do some shooting while they figured out the admission.

The way the wall is so sheer to the bay is very cool. On the tour, we learned of a guy who made a rope out of hair or something like that, and climbed out of one of the tiny prison windows to freedom.

This big gun also afforded a bunch of cool shots.

Marcelo had gone over to confer with the people in charge, taking our money payers with him. I think he knew some of the fort folks, because they looked like they were all having a good old time yakking away in Portuguese. When our group returned from the ticket shack, Marcelo stayed behind and said he’d meet us when we were through.

It was hot as hell already, and with the newly discovered sun, I had a healthy, shiny glow in seconds. We all assembled at the outside of the fort, and were informed that a tour was just fixing to start. There were a couple of other groups, one headed by an obnoxious woman who kept talking on her cell phone. I was thinking maybe they should have thrown her ass in the brig.

Our guide was a young solder in his 20s, who was proud of his country, his army and his fort. He seemed to be an excellent leader, though I had no idea since he never spoke a word of English. He would rattle off about five minutes worth of material, we’d turn to Patricia and ask “What’d he say?” and she would give us the translation in 10 words or less.

We had grouped beside a small chapel just inside the walls for the guide to give his introductory instructions: no photos of the right side of the fort, no photos of anyone with a gun, no photos of guns except the cannons, and a couple more that Patricia didn’t bother to tell us about. I hoped there was nothing in there about sweating on the artifacts.

To my surprise, when I got Jean’s box camera pictures developed, this one turned up, taken on the RIGHT SIDE, because there were no soldiers on the left. She should work for the National Enquirer.

The chapel was beautiful, simple and elegant. Once I saw it inside, I deemed it one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever seen, including the big boys. Our guide explained that when they had mass, everybody in the fort attended. The priest would keep his eye cast to his left, through a door and window in the wall that overlooked the bay. Any oncoming threats would be seen by him first.

The statuary and relics were fantastic. There were about 16 small pews and a little balcony highlighted by a small stained glass window. The walls were white, trimmed simply in gold paint.

We headed outside to the main promenade to look at the little cupolas and big guns. . .and Sugarloaf looking like a gol-durned CHOAD sitting there. “Choad?” you may ask. It’s a term I learned from my son Frank several years ago. It refers to a dick that is as wide as it is long. Har! Is the description apt? How choadlike could one famous mountain be?

The views from the promenade were incredible, and I got another great album cover shot to boot. Those walls are pure Brazilian granite, like half the stuff in the fort.

We found this attribution on one of the guns interesting. Who is this Armstrong character? “Sir” indicates English?

Meanwhile, our guide was telling us all kinds of stuff. The cell phone lady kept up her bad behavior, and I began to drift in and out, deciding to look at the bay and wait for the highlights from Patricia. Here’s our guide. He seemed to be kind of interested in Patricia, and was giving the most comprehensive tour of his career.

Before we left the chapel, Jean, Pettus and Patricia had attacked the guy to tell him how much they loved the pin on his hat–some high honor, Patricia said. He gladly gave us a closeup of it. Pretty, eh? It seems that it’s much more aesthetically pleasing than an American equivalent would be.

These arches were too fantastic looking to ignore. The various compositions were insanely cool. And the thought of them peopled with 19th century Brazilians made it more intriguing. They handled all kinds of neer-do-wells here: traitors, pirates, brigands, and other enemies. This was a hot property of protection, and still housed real soldiers in other parts of the compound. (That’s who we weren’t supposed to photograph.)

We went down below to where there were cannons pointed out the wall under each arch. The guide went into an endless spiel about all of this, and I gleaned from Patricia: everything is made of local granite, and there was a guy who would come around and tell them when to fire, so they would all cover their ears at the same time. Something like that. Maybe Patricia can clarify.

Meanwhile, the cell phone lady had started acting all interested, and sucking up to the guide, asking him all kind of questions. Hmmph.

Very cool. Very geometric. What’s next?

A big hall of some kind, built by some bigwig in the late 1800s, that could now be rented out as a wedding hall or any other type of event. Uh. Pretty neat, but not many windows, and a hell of a lot of dampish bricks. Also this little gag set up in the first room, designed to delight the tourist with a souvenir photo of him/herself with a damn good Johnny Depp pirate ripoff. Of course I had to have one. Jean first. She was thrilled to have it done! You can tell how her enthusiasm is about to explode. Then she took a picture of me doing a terrible Jon Voight with poor head-to-cutout placement. Her picture was less blurry than the one I took, too. Some souvenir.

The next stop on the tour was at the lifers’ cell. It would be a dungeon if it were underground, but it was just sitting there, an opening in the corridor wall. It was totally dark in there, but I snapped this shot with a flash while the guide spun a story that made us all shudder.

If you ended up in this place, you were chained facing the wall, and stayed that way for the entire length of your sentence. If you died, well, OOPS, but you’re not through with your stretch, so STAY THERE UNTIL IT’S OVER. That floor still looks like it’s covered with mildew and mold, which was usually what got you. No ventilation, by the way, just the door, and they probably boarded it up to keep the disgusting interior out of sight.

Here’s the courtyard adjacent to these fine digs.

Oh, and WAIT! Another dungeon! This one was about two feet tall. There were others next to it that were progressively taller. The worse your sentence, the shorter your ceiling. Clever. Insidious. Shitty. Even Herve Villechaize would be uncomfortable.

Especially since each of these cells looked out on the cistern that was brimming with rainwater. I can’t remember the story about it, but here’s the inscription. Neat.

Jean took this picture of us with her disposable camera on the way out. By this time, I was about to die of thirst, and having the cistern as the finale of the tour, it made my poor tongue, mouth, head, gullet and body scream with displeasure. And the two half bottles of water in Marcelo’s car would be HOT and UNSUITABLE. The choad of Sugarloaf was NO HELP.

Marcelo was ready for us when we got out. My water was, indeed hot, and I immediately began to whine to him to get me some agua com gaís. He promised to stop somewhere in Jurujuba. Which he did.

The first place was a small lean-to on the beach side of the road with a wizened but cheery Jurujuban woman selling all kinds of stuff. But no agua com gaís. Or regular water. I obrigadoed her and hopped back in the car.

The next place was a bar/sandwich place that had already received its first customer for the morning: a laid back guy swilling Sköl beer and chatting animatedly with the proprietor. I came up and gave him my best medium smile and serviceable Portuguese to garner me three waters at the bargain price of 2 Reais each. I could live until we reached our next destination.

Sylvia had called and told us that the hang gliding was still off for the day because the clouds hadn’t broken enough, so we decided to go see Jesus.