Three nights and
two days in Curitiba.
I was finally able to muster a workout of the arms yesterday, doing knee raises
for the abdominals, dips for the triceps and pectorals, and pullups for the
biceps. I was very exhausted yesterday, my body still fighting off the facial
boils and my hands still recovering from the palm boils. I wandered around the
city on foot to mail a birthday present to my sister, then rode around town on
my bike. It’s a pleasant city but not very pretty, with most of the buildings
built in the last 30 or so years. It’s sunny, however, and could make a cheap
base. Too large (1m inhabitants), however.
Had a flat today
after I rode through some tar and asphalt from road construction. Large piece
of metal tore through the ultra-tough tire, but can’t fault the tire, as the
metal was almost made to fell a car tire. Spare tube was also flat, so patched
tire—patched in two places, as one spot looked weak. Took time to get all the
bags off the bike and find everything but was able to use Moraline’s suggested technique
of pushing instead of pulling to get the on the difficult tire.
The ride was
what I had been craving: open space and rural areas without traffic. This area
grows huge amounts of soy, corn, wheat, and other grains and the space and the
beauty is endless and the sun is intense the heat was 34 degrees when I
arrived. Flavio suggested I make it to Irati today, 155km from Curitiba, but there was much climbing today
and with the flat I was 3 hours short—I could have made it had I left at 7 and
had no flat but leaving at 9, it was impossible.
I was uncertain
about my ability to find a place to sleep in Palmeira, doubting it had a hotel.
When I pulled off the highway, well dressed and good looking high school
students poured out the local school and the young men taunted me but in return
I gave the ‘hang loose’ sign popular on the coast and shouted an ‘ohmpa,’
which, being the cool greeting of surfers, stopped the taunting young men in
their tracks. The young women were of astounding beauty and the group together
resembled an Ambercrombie and Fitch catalog. I continued through the old town,
its named apparently from many palm trees—imagine palm trees in the midst of
vast soy and corn fields!—and began to confirm my doubts about shelter. Still,
I continued on. As I was just about to take another route to another city 40km
away (I still had sunlight, as it was only 4), I asked a man if there was a
place in town to sleep for the night. He said there were two, across the street
from each other, and that one on the right was more reasonable. It would be the
best value I would encounter in my irst 23 days in Brasil--$R30 for a very nice
and clean room with a shared bath (banho colectivo). Teresa, the older, elderly
woman, and her 30-something daughter, Fernanda, were very pleasant.
I showered and
wandered the cobbled sidewalks until I found a standing selling fried meat and
cheese pastries for $R.75 each, and ate two for less than a dollar. I then
found a large open aired joint and got the “everything” sandwich with hamburger,
egg, ham, vegetables, and sauces, for $R7.5 and a large bottle of beer for
$R5.60 which nearly did me in. I went to two local markets—skipping the large
chains and bought papaya, milk, peanut candy, and two 1.5 liter bottles of
water. Teresa told me that had a French cyclist pass through, who, drinking the
tap water earlier in Brasil, arrived sick and was in the hospital here for 4
days. He later continued cycling on.
The town is
sunny and old and tranquil and the women are beautiful. There are rolling hills
surrounding the town and the cycling conditions are perfect. One could train
here—run and cycle and lift weights. One could find a woman and have a family
and be happy here. What would I do here? Teach English? Import bicycles? No,
no, no, all of this is old. Much of the old model is derived from the old want
for the sitting lifestyle of philosophy: a hut, solitude, jazz records, a typewriter.
If a man now wants to win the approval of the gods by exploring in such a way
that his spirit and body are transformed back to a primitive state, that
capabilities of his mind—unused for 1000s of years—are suddenly retapped, the
beautiful village isn’t the place anymore. Damn it, no more comfort.
The setting
reminds me of town I lived in and the great escape I had felt I had made when I
met Ralitza. But this is an even happier
and sunnier town. Yet the whole model of settling down-even in a beautiful
place, even with a beautiful women, even with a friendly and happy
village—doesn’t win me over now. I read Moraline’s latest ideas on challenge
and survival, and I understand. Brasil is beautiful—I am finally seeing the
rural beauty I imagined—but perhaps I am not seeking such peace. Indeed, the
north may be the place that challenges me. And I must not forget Africa, India, and the
stan-countries.
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