Trip Report Twelve: Brazil May 26 - June 8, 2001 May 26 - I get up early, throw my bicycle on a ferry boat, and make the kilometer crossing on the Mamore River over to Brazil. When I arrive at the Brazilian shore, the immigration officers donīt let me enter their country because I donīt have a Brazilian visa. A group of four officers are trying to explain to me (in Portugese) that their hands are tied and I must go back to Bolivia and get a visa before entering their country. It takes me a while to figure this out because Portugese sounds only a little like Spanish. Because it is saturday morning, I have to wait until monday to apply for the visa. This means I am stuck in Guayamerin, Bolivia for the weekend. Guayamerin is a friendly medium-sized Bolivian town where the main source of entertainment (for the locals) is to īdar vueltasī (make circles) counterclockwise around the plaza de armas. The goal is to see and be seen. I sit on a corner of the plaza de armas for many hours sipping beers and trying to read a book while watching the hundreds of motorcycles and mopeds endlessly circling, circling, circling. I marvel that four people can ride on a single motorcycle. The other source of entertainment available to me today is to witness minor cocaine transactions. Guayamerin is a major transit point for Bolivian cocaine en route to the Brazilian coast. I watch a Brazilian dude with a big gold chain accept a package and cooly tuck it into his shirtsleeve in exchange for a wad of bills. He is seated two tables down from me at the cafe. Later in the afternoon I meet Carlos. He is a 30-year-old Bolivian businessman from La Paz who enjoys traveling around his country, hiking, and visiting new places. He has been in Guayamerin for two weeks on a business / pleasure trip and fills me in on some of the town gossip. He tells me that before the DEA's meddling, Guayamerin was one of the most affluent communities in Bolivia. Processed cocaine was not hidden and could be readily found in the market. He tells me that the girl who works as a receptionist in the phone office celebrated her 'cince anos' (fifteenth birthdaz party) to the tune of two hundred thousand dollars. Now her narco dad is out of business and she has to work a part-time job. May 27 - Carlos wakes me up at nine because he has found a bicycle and wants to go for a ride. He says that he knows of some virgin forest not too far from town with some entertaining single-track. I am following closely behind him when I observe that he rides over the middle of a two-meter-long stick. I follow him over the stick and am distraught to observe that it writhes vigorously beneath my wheels. It is an unpleasant undrenaline rush and I remember being told that it is unwise to ride over snakes because they may attach themselves to the wheel and circle round and round, leaving the ferris wheel right at crotch height. Fortunately the snake is too shocked to grab hold of the wheel and I don't need to ask Carlos to suck the venom out of my inner thigh. May 28 - I apply for the visa and pay the Brazilian Consulate 45 dollars. It will be ready in the afternoon. Only one more day in Guayamerin before I move on to Brazil! After a short bike ride I return to my observation point near the plaza at the sidewalk cafe. A curious twelve-year-old girl and her friends approach me on their motorcycles and ask why I have a bicycle. They are convinced that I only have a bicycle because I don't know how to ride a real motorcycle. I am embarassed to admit that don't know how to ride a motorcycle. After making fun of me for a while, they teach me how to ride their motorized bike. May 29 - Carlos sees me off at the ferry crossing in the morning. He doesnīt look good at all. He tells me that he met a woman the night before who fed him a couple of drinks, including several mixed beverage. He believes that he was drugged because he woke up in the morning unable to find his wallet and not remembering how he returned to his room. I cross into Brazil without problems today and bike the five kilometers to the bus station to catch a ride to Porto Velho. The bus ride is about 340 kilometers of paved road through hot cattle country. I feel guilty for not biking it, but I am short on time and there are more interesting roads to bike. As soon as I get to the river port in Porto Velho, I learn that there is a ferry scheduled for an immediate departure to Manaus. I jump aboard the boat and it leaves a mere eight hours later. I splurge and buy a cabin on board because the hammock lounge is jam-packed with people - approximately 90 hammocks in an area 6 meters by 12 meters. Also, I donīt have a hammock. Anyway I rationalize my extravagance because the three night float down to Manaus (including meals) is only 140 reals (60 dollars). My cabin has a fan, a bunk bed, and a nice lock which gives me peace of mind for my cycling gear -- thievery aboard these river boats can be pretty bad when docked in the river ports. May 30 - I spend the entire day up on the top deck reading while sipping a beer. It is sunny and very pleasant. The muddy brown Madeira River is about a kilometer wide here so it is easy to observe both the forest and river traffic. Unfortunately wildlife viewing is minimal with the exception of many birds and pink river dolphins. I pass most of the afternoon fending off questions from friendly but unintelligible Brazilians who seem to understand Spanish, but don't understand the concept of speaking slowly. I am relieved to meet two English-speaking travelers, a girl from Hong Kong and another from Denmark. They use me as a buffer against the Brazilian men who are endlessly flirting with them. May 31 - The boat continues down the Rio Madeira to its confluence with the Amazon about 1000 kilometers from Porto Velho. We stop in at the small port towns of Humaita, Manicore, Novo Aripuana, Borba, and Nova Olinda do Norte where empty beverage bottles and bananas are added to the already overloaded boat. I think that I am glad I know how to swim. In the evening I meet a trio of Brazilians who are drinking on the top deck. They have me sit down with them and we are able to converse pretty well in Portu-Spanish. They tell me that they are going to Manaus for a singing/dancing gig. The lead singer's name is Polyanna and she tells me that they have already produced 4 CD's. Afterwards they are distracted by a television which is brought out on deck. Polyanna invites me to watch the movie with them but it is a Disney film about identical twins who hate their stepmother and it is dubbed in Portugese. (Note... I don't see Polyanna and her friends again for about a week until I arrive in a Boa Vista hotel lobby, 850 kilometers to the north of Manaus. Polyanna is the centerpiece of the music video being shown on the television. She is singing and writhing about in skimpy clothing --- a Brazilian Britney Spears). June 1 - We steam upstream on the Amazon River, clinging close to the shore to avoid the significant current. Just shy of Manaus, we cross the 'Encontro das Aguas' where the dirty Solimoes meets with the dark Rio Negro to form the Amazonas. We pull onto the Manaus floating pier just after midday -- the pier is floating because the river level rises and falls by 14 meters over the course of each year. Because it is too late to bike today, I resign myself to an afternoon of ice cream. In the evening, I head out with my two English-speaking traveling friends to experience at least a little bit of Brazilian city nightlife. We choose to go to Talisma, a forro hall because Shirley (the Chinese woman) tells me that forro is a typical Brazilian music and dance. The forro hall is enormous (500 plus people) and a live group is performing the music. After passing through the metal detectors and adjusting our eyes to the dark, we observe hundreds of sweaty couples dancing (read dry-humping). Though my Puritan upbringing may be to blame I am nevertheless a little surprised to observe a women sitting on a man's head gyrating her hips to the throb of the music. The man is also dancing albeit while lying on his back on the ground. Other couples appear to be mimicking doggie style and various other sexual positions. The obscenity is so intense that the three of us only stay for about three hours. The thing is... these Brazilians really know how to dance well! We pass the time in the corner sipping beers and watching the scene, designing excuses why we can't and won't dance. I am only hit on by a single, well-dressed, middle-aged man so it turns out I needn't have worried about thinking up excuses. He didn't want to dance. June 2 - I wake up about 4 hours later, somewhat hung-over, but raring to ride. Though its never much fun to bike through a city of a million inhabitants, I am psyched to start pedaling again. I escape the city of Manaus after an unserious collision with a slow-turning vehicle -- a fun introduction to my first day cycling in Brazil. Fortunately, in a little more than an hour I am in the country on the BR174, pedaling north towards Venezuela. And it actually turns out that Brazilian drivers are really pretty conscientious with respect to cyclists. Unlike the Bolivians, Brazilians often provide me with a moderately ample berth when passing. A road sign not far from Manaus tells me that Caracas (my final desination) is a mere 2200 kilometers away. The border with Venezuela is about 1050 paved kilometers from Manaus - more than a thousand kilometers of heat, humidity, flatness, and monotony. It doesn't take me long into my first day before I wish that my walkman isn't broken, that my bicycle odomoter isn't lost, or that I had a friend to converse with. In no time at all I have forgotten the wind of Patagonia and horrific roads of Bolivia and think to myself that I might welcome these challenges instead of the boredom of the BR174. It is really hard to remain penitent and not board that bus that could whisk me to the border in 15 short hours. Like banging my head with a hammer I imagine how good it will be to stop biking through this big, hot jungle. Today during my first day on the BR174 I cycle to the town of Presidente Figueiredo where I find an air-conditioned room. Total distance biked 128 kilometers. June 3 - I get up early so that I can do at least 50 kilometers before the heat gets too bad. Ironically, it is pouring at five in the morning and I am actually a little cold setting out. After a moderate day of biking I make my camp at the service station which is just shy of the Uamiri Atroari Indian Reserve. Total distance biked 107 kilometers. June 4 - The park rangers at the Atroari Indian Reserve regard me and my bicycle suspiciously when I arrive at the south entrance of the reserve. For 125 kilometers the BR174 bisects the autonomous territory where some 780 Uaimiri Atroari Indians still live. The reserve is about the size of Massachusetts and is completely virgin rainforest. During the road construction in the 70's, hundreds of workers were killed by poison arrows and thousands of Indians were killed in retaliation, before the territory was finally given a protected status. Nowadays private vehicles are only allowed during daylight hours and no-one is allowed to stop under any conditions. The rangers discuss amongst themselves whether or not they should let me pass on bicycle. I recognize the word 'jaguar' several times. Finally they turn to me smiling, wish me luck, and tell me to watch out for the big cats. Though I don't necessarily believe them, they tell me that I am the first person to ever bike through the reserve. Maybe I am the guinea pig. The forest in the reserve is beautiful and the ride is big fun. The bird life is phenomenal --- dozens of screeching macaws, a ton of vultures, and many other big, pretty birds whose names I would like to know. There are also many monkeys, making plenty of noise, but hard to see. And along the entire stretch of road lizards (and perhaps snakes) scurry into the underbrush at the side of the road. They always make a surprising amount of noise and it worries me a little when I can't identify the noisemaker. I wonder if an ocelot has ever taken down a biker. At the north end of the reserve, the road breaks out suddenly into ravaged cattle grazing land. It is very easy to observe the destruction of the Brazilian rainforest here. At the exit of the reserve, I pass through a military checkpoint with scowling officials who have little sympathy for my sweaty, tired state. They delight in making me empty ALL of my bags for their inspection. I spend the night in a dingey though air-conditioned room in Vila Juni, a kilometer beyond the checkpoint. I share my room with many, many big bugs. Total distance biked 125 kilometers. June 5 - I get up pre-dawn to try to avoid the heat because the temperature reached 34 degrees Celsius (95 farenheit) the day before. My Brazil riding has now become routine. Bread, yogurt, bananas, and two liters of water for breakfast. Six to ten liters of water throughout the day, and three or four packages of cookies. Finally at each service station (every 50 to 150 kilometers) I pound a liter of guarana-flavored sodas and some deep-fried hot dogs and deep-fried cheese. For dinner I partake in the all-you-can-eat buffets that are common at these service station restaurants. Usually I am drenched in sweat and stinky, and eat too much food from the buffets, but the proprieters always make me feel welcome. Today I bike from Vila Junin, passing a monument which marks the equator, and continuing all the way to the service station at kilometer 500. Total distance biked 173 kilometers. Total volume of beverages consumed 16 liters. June 6 - I am starting to tire of the flatness and the heat and decide to get to Boa Vista today regardless. Boa Vista is the good-sized capital city of Roraima Province, 262 kilometers distant and 230 kilometers shy of the border. When I reach the day's halfway point (the brand spanking new bridge over the Rio Branco) it is already one in the afternoon and realize that I won't make Boa Vista without pedaling into the night. I continue on to the town of Maracajai where I allow myself to hop aboard a bus for the final 52 kilometers to Boa Vista. I rationalize the short bus ride because I don't want to ride in Brazil at night and I must obtain a Venezuelan visa in Boa Vista before the weekend begins. I am justifiably worried about visa delays and think I should begin the application process on thursday morning. Total distance biked 209 kilometers. June 7 -It takes me 20 minutes to get the free visa for Venezuela. It is a pleaure to speak Spanish with the staff at the consulate even though they are not really too friendly. I guess I am just kind of lonely surrounded by all these Portugese speakers. Though it is still early morning, I am too beat to consider beginning the ride towards the border. I take advantage of the rest day to have my clothing professionally cleaned. The cotton pad in my bike shorts has become a sweaty tapestry of red road dust and chocolate brown fudge of an unknown origin. I fear a tropical rash that could end my cycling days for good. In fact, I already have a little rash on my ankles where my rotting socks (unchanged since Manaus) have been chafing. I splurge and by some new socks in the Boa Vista market and toss the old ones. June 8 - My desire to reach Venezuela is strong enough that I depart Boa Vista at three in the morning anticipating a very long day. For the first 140 kilometers the route is flat and savanna-like with only the occasional flattened snake and kilometer-posts to mark my progress. About 80 kilometers out of Manaus I pass an apparation on mountain bike with what appears to be overloaded touring panniers. Rick is an Irish bloke several weeks into his bike trip heading southwards from Caracas. He is only the third long-distance cyclist that I have encountered since southern Chile. We lament the fact that we are traveling in opposite directions and part after about an hour of chitchat. Several kilometers after my encounter, I break another rear-wheel, cog-set-side spoke. This time I have a cog-set key, but no wrench big enough to accomadate the nut. I flag down a petroleum truck (traffic is pretty heavy - 6 vehicles an hour) and persuade the driver to lend me a wrench. After replacing the spoke I am on my way again. About 40 kilometers from the border, the road becomes hilly. As I climb through the hot rolling hills towards the border the savanna changes back to jungle. An 800-meter vertical climb finally brings me to the Venezuelan border at about five in the afternoon. On the Venezuelan side, the scenery changes again and for the last 15 kilometers to the town of Santa Elena, Venezuela I am biking through the Gran Sabana, an elevated plateau with relatively few trees. A flat tire 10 kilometers from the border means that I arrive in Santa Elena in the pitch dark. Electricity is out in town and it is fairly difficult to find a hotel. Total distance biked 245 kilometers. Total distance biked over the previous six cycling days (between Manaus and Santa Elena) is about 1000 kilometers. << Previous