Travel blog: The paradise of Lopes Mendes beach

In an attempt to avoid the credit crunch, the bleak prospect of winter and another final of X Factor, Greg Ash has gone to South America for 6 months. In his blog 'Searching for Waves and Other Friendly Hand Gestures', Greg travels through this vast continent, starting in Argentina and tracing the coastline as far round as his budget will let him.

Along the way, he describes the strange sights, wonderful peoples and the inevitable sunburn of a pale Brit passing himself off as a beach boy. This is his eleventh blog:

The guy on the reception at our hotel in Rio called me dude. I liked him. As I was checking out, I decided to ask him about my next destination, the island, Ihla Grande. He looked around secretly, making sure that no on else was near by, and then started to draw a rustic map.

"Ok, everyone arrives into here, Abraoo, which is where all your hostels are, internet cafes etc. But this, this is where you really want to go...," he said, marking a spot on the other side of the island. "It's called Lopes Mendez beach. It's like Paradise."

I take the rustic map and looked into his eyes. He didn't need to say anything. His look said it all, 'Don't show this to anyone'. I nod solemnly, understanding, pick up my bags and leave for the station.

Now, on board a boat to the island, I look at the other gringos and try to decide who to show the map to. I mean I've seen The Beach. I have to tell someone. What's the point of paradise if you only have yourself for company? What if I fall and cut my leg on a crab's outstretched claw? And what about the photos of me in paradise that I am already planning to post of Facebook? Who's going to take them? I study the travelers around me, blissfully unaware of how close they are to paradise. My fingers grip the map in my pocket.

The power is mine.

Getting close to paradise is surprisingly easy. Ihla Grande is Brazil's 3rd largest island, and it's only a couple of hours from Rio. There are daily ferries from Angra on the mainland, local fishermen will also take you across once they have enough passengers. Our boat is full, but, there really doesn't seem to be any obvious candidates to tell about the beach. No beautiful French girl. No irate French guy. There's a man in a cravat, but I really don't want to invite him anywhere, let alone a place where no one can hear you scream.

So instead, I settle for two young Swedish guys, Martin and Jonne, landscape gardeners from Gothenburg. They seem friendly and their professions could come in useful if we decide to stay in paradise. I imagine a nice shale path leading across the sand, perhaps a small coconut-themed water feature.

We set off the next morning, leaving behind the buzzing hub of Abraoo, and following the curve of the coast away from the internet cafes and diving schools. After we pass the last hostel, we come to a path that forks up into the jungle and a faded sign that suggests this is the way.

The trail is tough yet satisfying. Although we are shaded beneath a canopy of green, it is incredibly humid. I am still feeling fit after my Chile trek and smugly set the pace out in front. The sounds of the shore fade and for the first time in my trip it feels like I am in the jungle. Birds call from the trees, processions of ants weave up fallen logs, and up ahead I see a huge Molitor Lizard scuttle off into the undergrowth.

The heat is stifling but I imagine the paradise that awaits me. White sands, turquoise waters, a tanned model eating a Bounty. I think of my jealous friends back in London logging on to Facebook and reading my status, 'Greg Ash is in paradise'.

A couple of hours and a few litres of water later, the path opens out to a beach, beautiful and peaceful. With our t-shirts sodden with sweat, we can't resist stripping down and jumping into the cool blue water. A group of French girls are bathing to our left, and wave at us. We wave back. It is tempting to stay here with these sirens. Martin has a playful look in his eye. But the path continues the other side of the sand, and with our energy sapping, we push on.

Huge colourful butterflies drift effortlessly in front of us as we pick our way up what must be the final incline. Sure enough, we can hear the sound of waves as we reach the brow and the path starts to dip down.

Finally, after two and a half hours, a sign that announces we have made it. Lopes Mendes. We round a bend and run out onto the beach. White sands, crystal blues water, and crashing surf, but something is wrong... The beach is full of people. Sunbathers, surfers, there's even a few stalls selling beer. I can't believe it. Paradise lost! Who's let the secret out? I notice an English girl from our hostel lying on the sand, and she calls over to me.

"How did you get here?" I ask.

"Oh we got a boat from Abraoo. They're every hour or something." She looks at my sweaty t-shirt. "Why? How did you get here?"

"We walked."

I look despairingly at Martin and Jonne, who don't seem to mind that much. They shrug, smile, and lay down their towels. That's what I like about the Swedes. Easy going. I turn to admire the stunning curve of sand that encircles us, surrounded the dark green forest. I look up at the sun, and at the people relaxing under its warm glow. Then I my gaze the stalls selling beer, and I realise that, after a journey like that, how could I possibly prefer an empty beach?

I walk over and buy a beer from the smiling Brazilian stall holder. It's ice cold and tastes incredible. I look back at the Swedes, and see Martin waving at the French girls, who are just laying down their towels. I laugh at myself.

Paradise is never what we think it will be. That's the point. And it's always about the journey anyway... Still, you can be damned sure we're taking a boat back later!

Greg Ash