“Araújo Pinho, João das Botas… no, no—we’re way too far! According to Google Maps, it was the first street on the right. We passed it.”

It was our first night in Canela, home of our second Salvador Airbnb. I knew the neighbourhood around Campo Grande and Sete de Setembro, but not the smaller residential streets.

We were hauling back enough groceries to fill the fridge, but it was dark and we were tired after the hellish Morro de São Paulo boat ride. I was just following the map. Technically, we were right behind the Museu de Arte. It was a 12-minute walk from the very familiar RedeMix on the very familiar Sete de Setembro to our street.

Straight. Turn. Turn.

The only “street” on the right after the first turn was a big, empty avenue leading onto a bridge. Surely that couldn’t be it?

“Fuck it. Araújo Pinho it is. It’s a detour, but we took it this morning—at least I know the way.”

We found our building and, of course, we had also forgotten a few essentials, so I decided to walk back to the supermarket and take the shortcut Google Maps had suggested.

“Ah—ha!”

There was a narrow alley at the end of our street. It must lead to the mysterious “first right” we had missed fifteen minutes earlier.

I took the alley. It looked… well, like an alley—but the safe-ish kind.

Two minutes later, I reached the avenue. But it wasn’t empty: encampments on my left, people sleeping under the bridge in front of me, another group busy taking a car apart on my right.

Fuck.

I paused for a split second. I shouldn’t be here.

I spotted the supermarket’s bright red neon sign across the avenue—the parking lot entrance. I ran. Damn, even the parking lot, five storeys below, felt dodgy. I found the elevator, pressed the button repeatedly as if that would make it come faster, and finally stepped out into a bright, normal, friendly place.

Some shortcuts, streets, or neighbourhoods are best avoided.

This was probably the hardest concept to explain to my mum. Of course, she’s not stupid; like millions of women around the world, she avoids dodgy places—drunk people, trouble, empty shady streets.

The difference is that in Brazil, “better not go” areas are much harder to define.

I had the same issue with Mark a few years ago in Rio.

“Let’s go, Mark—it’s a bit dangerous over there,” I said when he wanted to linger around the Arcos de Lapa.

He paused, eyes wide. “Like… how?”

He was deep into his zombies-and-vampires phase, fueled by countless horror movies my in-laws happily let him watch.

I’m not sure I ever answered his question—because I didn’t really know myself.

You’ve probably heard that Brazil is a dangerous country full of dangerous cities. That’s an oversimplification. Brazilians are lovely—patient, friendly, easygoing, and social. I’m rarely scared in crowds—people know how to make it work.

But it’s also a huge country, with millions without stable housing and millions living in poverty.

It’s complicated.

First, there are the favelas—informal cities within cities, without real regulatory oversight. Many people you interact with every day live in favelas, from supermarket cashiers to bus drivers. It’s not advisable to wander into one as an outsider. Poverty isn’t inherently dangerous, but favelas operate under their own rules—at best you’ll be stared at, at worst you’ll become a target.

Then, outside the favelas, there are crumbling, abandoned buildings, often in the downtown core. They’re not empty. The people inside are often so far removed from your reality that any interaction is likely to be unpredictable.

“No wonder they need to believe in God,” my mum sighed when she first saw Salvador’s Lower Town and its sprawling favelas.

I spend a lot of time exploring Brazilian cities, testing where it’s safe to go beyond the obvious, well-patrolled tourist areas.

It helps to speak Portuguese and ask around. Brazilians will tell you—they’re navigating the same uncertainties.

And honestly, it’s worth it. Brazil is an incredibly rewarding country to explore.

Feira São Joaquim, where Salvador feeds itself… and deities

This week, I took my mum to Feira São Joaquim, Salvador’s biggest market, supplying everyone from small eateries to five-star restaurants. It’s chaotic, sprawling, and utterly fascinating. It’s also where locals buy candomblé essentials—everything from clay pots to goats, peacocks, pigeons, chickens, cigars, and offerings for the orixás.

Comércio and the Lower Town, navigating the “no-go”

We also found a safe-ish route to walk to the lovely Museu de Arte Moderno and explored parts of the “no-go” Lower Town—it’s fine, really… during the day.

From Bonfim to Humaitá, Salvador’s unfinished postcard

We ended the week in the most unlikely place. Salvador’s anniversary was being celebrated, with events all over the city. I figured it would be like Carnival—safe enough to explore unfamiliar neighbourhoods, even at night, thanks to crowds and police presence. That’s how we found ourselves at Duquesa’s free concert on Saturday.

On Sunday, I decided to check out the “Vamos ver o pôr do sol” event at Ponta da Humaitá. “The postcard of Salvador,” the prefeitura claimed.

An Uber dropped us at the Basílica do Senhor do Bonfim, home of the city’s famous colourful ribbons. We started walking toward Ponta da Humaitá, but halfway through I made the call to get another Uber—the empty-street problem again.

Ponta da Humaitá sits next to Monte Serrat Fort on the Itapagipe Peninsula. The views are stunning, but it still takes some imagination to see it as a “postcard of Salvador”—think abandoned buildings and empty piers.

Except on Sunday, it wasn’t empty. There was a stage, music, crowds.

So we watched the sunset to the music of Banda Jammil.

I’m telling you—Salvador, and Brazil in general, are worth exploring. Just take it step by step—and learn to read the streets.