It’s not the giant ant going back and forth on one of the tens of thousands of cables connecting things to… power? Internet? It’s not the air-con dripping water onto the mess of tangled wires—as far as I know, we still have power and the Wi-Fi is surprisingly great. It’s not the giant trees either, or the neighbours hanging laundry at 1 a.m. (hell, who’s judging—I just started a load myself).

It’s the single Havaianas sandal on the roof across the street.

If you squint, you might be able to see it. It’s your basic Havaianas model, white with the Brazilian flag on the strap.

No?

Never mind—or just focus on the midnight construction project between neighbours instead. They’ve been busy shoveling a huge pile of sand, packing it down, and hauling it up the street to who knows where.

What’s the story behind the abandoned Havaianas sandal? I wonder about it every night—so many characters, so many ways this could have happened. Kids messing around. A dog stealing it and “hiding” it somewhere safe. It falling from a higher floor next door. Someone forgetting it while building the roof.

I’ll never know, and I like it that way.

I enjoy the wondering.

And I do a lot of that in Morro de São Paulo.

“No, no, no! Food goes either in the fridge or in a tightly wrapped plastic bag. Everything,” I remind my mum, who has just taken a piece of pão de milho.

“It’s just bread!”

“Brasil, país tropical,” I sing-song. “That’s basically an open invitation to ants, lizards—and worse. Shall I remind you we have windows without glass and everything is open 24/7?”

Morro de São Paulo, this tiny village on Tinharé island, two hours from Salvador, is picture-perfect. It could be in a travel brochure—if such things still exist. Hell, it probably is, because it’s surprisingly international for such a small place, from Argentinians to Israelis.

But it’s not a resort, or one of those manicured Caribbean islands.

It’s Brazil in all its messy, fascinating complexity.

And even for Brazil, it still feels a little out there.

There are two ways to get to Morro de São Paulo from Salvador.

You can take the longer semi-terrestre route—ferry from Salvador to Itaparica Island, cross the island overland, take a bridge back to the mainland to reach Valença, then a short boat ride to Morro. It’s the most popular option.

Or you can take the direct catamarã from Salvador—faster, but notoriously rough in open water.

There’s also an “airport,” a landing strip five meters from the beach. I have yet to see a plane land.

And there are two ways to experience Morro.

You can stay in one of the many pousadas or fancy hotels at Segunda Praia, order camarão no abacaxi—shrimp served in a carved pineapple—and drinks no cacau, booze poured into a hollow cacao pod. Walk twenty meters to the beach, then fifty meters to the club at night, and repeat.

Nothing wrong with that, if you want a stress-free holiday. Segunda Praia has the best atmosphere and calm waters, Terceira Praia at low tide reveals tidal pools (and a boat bar), and Quarta Praia is perfect for long, empty beach walks.

For sunset, climb to the lighthouse. It’s tough, but worth it.

But there’s another version of Morro de São Paulo I find more interesting—and it includes all the beaches too, as long as you’re willing to walk to them.

Book an Airbnb on a hill. Learn how to shop on an island where selection is limited. Spend your days going up and down steep streets and endless stairs. Explore the communities that actually run the place.

And move aside—wheelbarrow coming.

Yes, wheelbarrows.

The first thing you’ll see when the boat docks are rows of them, neatly parked, and many more in the hands of guys who definitely don’t need to work out at the end of the day. Morro de São Paulo is a car-free village, so the local Uber rides are wheelbarrows—for luggage, goods brought in from the mainland, kids, and lazy tourists.

That alone might be unique.

The tiny ambulance buggy and garbage collectors in Havaianas probably are too.

I spent my evenings exploring the communities around us—the village is very safe. You can wander through dark alleys and places you’d probably avoid in bigger cities. It’s not worth staying indoors—life is lived outside, almost 24/7. Ditch most of your clothes and shoes; bare feet and a swimsuit with a sarong are perfectly acceptable here.

The streets are full of kids playing and running around, full of energy until it’s time to climb the stairs home.

“Carry me!” they beg. “I’m tired!”

Hungry? Desperate for coffee? Just look around for vendors and their carts full of homemade bolo, coffee—com o sem leite—and salgados, plus Argentinians selling medialunas if you’re craving something “foreign.”

Buy what you want when you see it, because the words you’ll hear most often in “supermarkets” are “vai chegar”—it will come. Not in the sense that the tomatoes are just on their way back from the beach, but that eventually, a boat might bring some… or not. Produce is often in bad shape and expensive. The best ingredients go straight to pousadas and restaurants. The rest of us make do.

My mum and I made it work, and I had a memorable birthday.

We both loved it—for about a week.

But I’m not moving to Morro de São Paulo. Great beaches, but the logistics of island life are exhausting.

We’re packing for Salvador again.

I’m weirdly excited to take elevators instead of climbing 95 steps to get home.