castro, paraná: humidity, skateboards, and spray paint dreams

okay, so i landed in castro, paraná with a backpack full of caps and a head full of noise. the plan was vague: find walls, meet locals, maybe not get arrested. first thing i noticed? the air-it’s like breathing soup. i just checked my phone and it’s 23.6°c with humidity that clings to your skin like a second layer. not exactly dry, but hey, that’s part of the charm, right?

i dragged my suitcase (wheels squealing on the cobblestones) towards the centre, past a ridiculous amount of pastel-coloured houses that seemed to lean on each other for support. the streets are narrow, the kind where you have to step aside when a moto zips through. i passed a white car parked in front of a mural that looked like a chicken crossed with a galaxy. i had to stop and snap a pic:

. the driver was a kid with headphones, probably thinking the same thing: that wall needs paint. i waved, he gave a thumbs up. decent start.

found a cheap hostel that smelled like incense and old socks. the guy at reception-leonardo-has a tattoo of a compass on his forearm and immediately asked if i was ‘here for the art’. i said yeah. he slid a napkin across the counter with a scrawled map: ‘these are the legal walls, but the best ones are off limits.’ i love a challenge. i asked about the weather; he laughed and said, ‘it’s always like this, sticky, like the city’s sweating. if you can’t handle it, you’ll melt.’ i’m not melting yet, just dripping a little.

later i wandered to the main square, which is basically a giant church, a few benches, and a lot of pigeons that act like they own the place. i sat on a bench, opened my sketchbook, and started doodling the scene: a woman selling pastéis, a kid chasing a balloon, a stray dog with one ear flopped over. a man sitting next to me, maybe 60, wearing a hat that’s seen better days, started talking in that slow, gravelly voice. he said, ‘you’re not from around here. you’re an artist?’. i nodded. he leaned in, ‘someone told me that the old textile factory on the edge of town has insane spaces, but the guard has a shotgun and an attitude. also, i heard the locals think the murals there are cursed.’ i thanked him for the gossip and slipped him a sticker. he grinned like he’d just won the lottery.

the next morning i took a bus out to the industrial zone. the bus was a 1970s relic with a squeaky hinge and a driver who played sertanejo at full blast. i sat near the back, next to a girl with a skateboard. she told me she goes to the abandoned warehouse every weekend to skate and practice tricks. the place is huge, with broken windows and dust that dances in the shafts of light. as we drove, i saw a speed limit sign with a rainbow flag glued next to it:

. i made a mental note: that’s a sign of the times. the bus dropped me at a corner near the river. i hiked a bit and found the factory. it was uglier than i imagined-corroded metal, graffiti already covering the lower walls, some of it actually decent. i set up my backpack, took out a few cans. as i started to spray, a voice behind me: ‘hey, you got a permit?’ i turned. a woman in her forties, hair in a bun, wearing boots that looked like they’d survived wars. i said no, just passing through. she said, ‘i’m the manager of this ruin. you can paint if you do a piece about the river. we need that story told.’ i agreed, of course. we talked about the pollution, the fish dying, the community meetings. she gave me her contact. that’s the kind of collaboration i live for.

by midday the humidity was a physical weight. i was sweating through my shirt, paint dripping faster than i could control. i took a break under a broken skylight, sipped water, and checked my phone: pressure 1015 hpa, humidity 74%. feels like 23.97°c, according to the app. i just checked and it’s...there right now, hope you like that kind of thing. i laughed because it’s exactly the kind of useless stat that makes me feel like a meteorologist in a bad sitcom.

i ate lunch at a corner lanchonete that a local recommended on a forum. the place was tiny, with a counter and three stools. the owner, a woman named ana, makes the best coxinha i’ve ever tasted-crispy outside, creamy chicken inside, and a secret kick of catupiry cheese. i ate three. while i ate, ana talked about how tourism has changed castro: ‘more backpackers, more tags, but also more police patrols. if you get bored, the coastal towns like antonina and morretes are just a short drive away. they have beaches and waterfalls. the road is a mess though, full of potholes that eat tires for breakfast.’ that sounded like a plan for tomorrow.

after lunch i walked around the historic centre. the architecture is a mix of portuguese colonial and brutalist 70s blocks. i passed a small art gallery that had a poster for an upcoming street art festival. i ripped the poster (sorry) and noted the dates. that’s going on my calendar.

as evening fell, i met up with a group of local graffitists in a bar called ponto de encontro. it’s a dimly lit place with cheap cerveja and a jukebox that plays rock from the 80s. the crew called themselves selva urbana. they showed me photos of their work: epic murals of indigenous leaders, giant jaguars, and abstract swirls that seem to move. i told them about my factory project. one of them, a tall guy with dreadlocks named rafael, said, ‘i heard that the city council wants to legalize more walls but they keep dragging their feet because of budget shit. also, i heard the mayor’s brother owns the building that’s always empty-maybe we can paint that.’ we laughed, clinked bottles.

later that night i couldn’t sleep. the humidity made the mattress feel like a sponge. i went for a walk. the streets were almost empty, except for a cat and a stray dog that followed me for three blocks. i ended up at the river, which glistened under the streetlights. i sat on a bench and thought about how places like this are magnets for artists because they’re raw, unfiltered. no postcard perfection, just life happening in the cracks.

the next day i took the bus to antonina. the road was indeed a crater fest. i held onto my seat as the bus bounced. the town is cute, with colourful houses and a pier. i spent the day sketching the bay, eating fresh fish, and avoiding the tourist traps. i saw a group of hipsters taking photos of everything. i judged a little, then realized i’m one of them.

back in castro, i finished my mural at the factory. the manager, clara, loved it. we had a small unveiling with locals who brought food and played music. an old woman cried when she saw the river scene-she said it reminded her of her childhood before the pollution. that’s why i do this. art that matters, even if it’s just for a few people.

i’m leaving tomorrow, heading to são paulo for a gallery gig. i’ll miss the weird humidity, the unexpected collaborations, and the feeling that anything can happen on a wall. if you ever find yourself in southern brazil, give castro a chance. it’s not the most polished place, but it’s honest. and if you get bored, the surrounding towns are just a short drive away.

oh, and before i forget, here’s that map i was talking about:. and that night bus photo i took:

. good vibes only.

p.s. check out these links if you want deeper info: TripAdvisor castro things to do but the reviews are full of old couples complaining about the humidity. Yelp castro dining for the coxinha. and there’s a local facebook group called castro street art collective where we post upcoming walls and events. also, i read a cool article on Atlas Obscura about the hidden tunnels under the old prison. worth a peek. and if you’re into that kind of thing, the city’s official tourism site (which is kinda basic) is castro.travel. anyway, i gotta pack. catch you on the flip side.

castro, paraná: humidity, skateboards, and spray paint dreams

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About the author: Zara Walsh

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