Frontiers

I am at the border of Brasil, Paraguay, and Argentina. It’s been over a month in Brasil now, and my take is that I could live here the rest of my years. The people are great, the land us beautiful, the towns are cheap and relaxed, and it’s foreign here, very different, not Western, and the women are sweet and easy on the eyes.

Yet I am worried about my living my life to relax. Moraline says that Patagonia is one of the wonders of the world, plus will be challenge that will cleanse the mind. I need such a challenge. I say I know something about riding bikes around the world? Man I sure need to do better than hotels and highways. Colorado was terrific. High altitude mountains and fucking raw beauty. Colorado is uninhabited. Super fucking small towns and great folks. Yet Patagonia, in its beauty, will punish me. I punished myself in the wrong way by joining corporate America when I failed at trading. I needed to send myself to Patagonia. Yet I was married and I brought the girl to the US and dragged her through the hell that was my mind until I destroyed her and myself. God should have killed me and made me suffer for eternity. Now he is asking me to torture myself on the honor system. I have wasted my life and nearly destroyed the life of another. For this I should ride on terrible roads, in terrible wind, in solitude. A few years back Chrome and Morraline asked that I tell the truth on my blog. Now it should be easy. I have no things but this bike and these bags. I will have no friends in Patagonia. I don’t care if I die there.

                                                           

 A road sign.

 The bottom floor and entertainment center. I have this to myself currently.

 I am camping at the hostel for $R17 per night. This includes breakfast, lockers, and hot showers.

There is a small gym at the hostel. This, plus the jungle-like subdued neighborhood, makes it hard for me to leave to kill myself in Patagonia. Yet I will get on ruta 40 soon.

Heat

The rain fled and and a heavy heat landed and then suffocated like 4000 bees killing an ox. How hilarious that my hubs or bottom bracket might be damaged from rain when now the sun heats the air as a hot pizza. With luck I had purchased a small packet of juice drink and as the heat began to suffocate me mid-day I put the drink packet in the water bottle and nursed the sugar and flavor throughout the day. There were some flat, fast stretches, but also some rolling hills. The sweat mixed with bugs and the face and torso began to agitate. After two hours of Portuguese lessons on the MP3 player, I skipped forward for music. I have about 10 hours of Tim Maia on my MP3,  the Into the Wild soundtrack, and John Coltrane’s Giant Steps.  Into the Wild carried me through the steeper climbs and Giant Steps the construction zones. The heat grew more intense as I approached, 35 Celsius. I found a small grocery store and then a cheap hotel near the town center. I chose a more expensive room with a private bathroom because I had some washing to do, but the price for a basic room was $R27 and for a room with air conditioning and a bathroom $R45. I am only 60km away from Foz de Iguacu. Will I ride the Patagonia as Moraline suggests? OR do I head north and continue to explore Brasil? Not bad questions to ask—as Chrome would say, not a bad problem to have. 

 This sign did not help me today.

 This part of the road was good.

 I am tired and covered in salt and washed lots of bugs that got in the jersey. I can take a nice bath with half a water bottle but I used a shower with unlimited water.

 The bags are on the floor. I took them off to get the bike up one flight of stairs. I had to cut off duct tape off one section of the rear rack because the rain had swelled the duct tape and had contributed to the latches tearing off from pannier.

Glorious Rain

Another day in the rain, this time half the day in a cloud that clung close to the flat farmland and then a steady rain that began 20 kilometers outside of Cascavel.  Rain affects the psyche, and too much of it can give a man the wrong idea about a country or a city or a day. For example, I will create a list of cities in Brasil that I want to live in—I will rank each city according to my impression. Cities where I encountered rain or cold or clouds? They may never make it. I may favor rainy cities which experienced sunny days and may outcast dry and sunny cities which had rainy days. Christ. 

I wish I could be eating healthier, but the buffets (which have unpreserved meat and good food) are for lunch and are closed for dinner. For dinner I eat pizzas and sandwiches and much bread and cheese. It does not do me well.

Right now I am not thinking very much. I am riding on highways and experience traffic and trucks and cars. Lots of solitude and open space today, but towards the towns much traffic. As I approached Cascavel I had one of the more miserable approaches. Heavy rain and the upheaval of brown splashing water sprayed by huge trucks, in my face and whipping me to the side of the road, as I approached. It was heavy traffic and rain and brown water from the clay-based mud. I made it to the center of town and explored a few neighborhoods before getting a good feeling about one hotel. The cheapest room was $R69, but I didn’t care. It’s a well-to-do city, mostly European. I put my bike in the hotel and wanted a steak. I wandered around for 40 minutes before settling for a burger ($R5) and a beer (R$2.5) and a bakery. I ate with high school folks who just got out of class. They all wore blue track pants, a uniform of sorts. They listened to Brazilian rap. I didn't pronounce the "X" in front of the Calabrese and he gal behind the counter was confused. But for my drink I went to their refrigerator and got it myself. I've gone from nervous foreigner to hollow-eyed man who rides all day in the rain. I've seen too much of this country to call myself a foreigner now. How many Brazilians have covered as much land as I have with their own feet? Yes, I know there is suffering here but I don't know if it. As Moraline has pointed out, I use money to separate myself.    

I then went to the grocery, a large grocery that is set up the same in each city. I got fried cheese and bread balls, chicken legs, and some pizza like pastries and then the same items I get every day: milk, granola, papaya, beer, and cachaca. 

I then ate and still I feel terrible. The rain and the darkness and the traffic takes it out of me. It would be better to rent a place in Florianopolis and run each day and swim on the beach and read and write and practice Portuguese and meet some Brazilian women. 

Fog and clouds.

 Heavy fog.

Fog.

 Rain.

Indians

When I awoke this morning there was a heavy thunderstorm outside. What were the chances of so much rain? I watched the thunderstorm and didn't think it was wise to put the bike through some much water once again. I could wait another day, but the hotel was a dump and my window faced an alley and the city wasn't beautiful.

By 11:30 the rain had stopped. I applied a heavy coating of Phil's Tenacious Oil. The hotel manager said his goodbyes to me. On many occassions these were sad goodbyes. The owners would become paternal and wonder about my safety. They would think for a whole day about my journey and realize it was hard. They might feel guilt about their initially mistreating me upon my arrival. I had spoken to the owner at breakfast about my journey and Argentina. When I departed he asked me why I didn't have a bicycle computer to gauge distance.

It did not rain that day. While the roads were wet in places, the sun came out and the temperature rose from 17 degrees to 32 degrees. I road through rolling, steel hills the entire way. I passed 20 kilometers of Indian preserves and their native women, men, and children walking along the roadside and the women would sell baskets and weave them on the roadsides. The European Brazilians all told me to be careful here because there was high crime. Although I experienced no high crime while riding in this area, it was tough to get responses when I would shout out hellos. A handful of women and men replied to my good afternoons but the kids didn't say anything to my oam-pahs and good afternoons. I wasn't offended and understood some of the bad blood, especially after hearing Moraline's lectures on the matters.

I continued to ride and my mood brightened. Why leave Brasil? Maybe it would get better. Maybe I would see open space. But I still wanted to camp. I was sick of hotels. Maybe the North of Brasil would be very different.

I reached town and there was an incredibly steep climb to get to the center, a great welcome. I would a reasonable hotel with a very cheerful owner and a helpful son. It was $R for a great room and I am just about to eat breakfast in the hotel now and then do pullups, dips, knee raises, and tricep extensions in the park.

I am hesitant about Patagonia. While I know I must ride, am I prepared mentally, physically, and is my gear up to snuff? I had not planned on going to Patagonia. Moraline has written to me extensively that it will destroy a man and is impossible. Should I listen to him and no go? Or is it a challenge. Perhaps the man wants me to die there as a revenge of his having to suffer in the suburb I was raised.

This sign says I'm entering Indian territory. I didn't take any photos of the local Indians here because they really wanted me to, in general, fuck off. Since I was tresspassing on their land to pass through, I decided to ride and make attempts to be polite. Some older men and women returned my hellos, but I didn't expect any warm greetings. It's terrible what Europe did to these people. I am personally sorry for what my ancestors did to these people.

If you zoom in here, this is a place where they make smoked meats. Pile of wood to the left to smoke the meats.

This was a great hotel with a great owner. He was happy and fast and didn't give me shit. He drank erva mate when I saw him at night and when I saw him in the morning. I think his folks speak Spanish as their native language.

My beard is growing back since I had to shave it because of the boils. No more boils. The boils on the hands went away but the skin still sheds.