You wouldn’t think so but riding into huge sprawling cities with insane traffic is perfect training for the adventure motorcyclist. We’d been getting a bit of practice since our first exposure in Buenos Aires and the entry into Brazil. Extreme slow speed riding with intricate clutch, throttle and brake control – Patagonian gravel, a piece of cake. With little bikes weaving between the clogged cars; we just sit and try to stop cars, buses, and trucks entering our surrounding force field, using our tractor beams to clear a path and recover any of the fleet who become separated. We’d bypassed Sao Paulo via Paraty, now it was Day 37 and the unmissable Rio de Janeiro was the destination. Unremembered, it was April 1st and Allana took the opportunity to announce that according to their website there was no Wifi in our Rio hotel, waiting until the hysterics, wailing, and beseeching of various deities was at a fever pitch before mentioning it was April Fool’s Day. Well played.
Brazil doesn’t do siesta like Argentina so the ride was going to get us in about lunchtime, a mere 250km. Started out OK through the picturesque coastal winding road into the pre-city re-group, then very slow moving clogged traffic which went for a couple of kilometres. Just before we got to the breakdown/crash causing the cloggage, a scooter rider appeared from nowhere and started discussions up the front with Ride Leader Supremo JC. Next thing we knew we were following the scooter rider. Wild intercom speculation between Cindy and I; did the scooter rider just cruise the clogged freeways looking for foreign riders in groups to lead for a small fee? Had he smiled winningly at JC and applied the Peter Allan curse – When a scooter rider smiles at me I go to Rio, de Janeiro, me-oh-my-oh we’re in trouble-o. Onto the more pleasant unfreeways and heading to the coast, the scooter rider took us through a toll booth and the winding streets, and then peeled off when we eventually got to the famously distracting Copacabana beach along the South Atlantic. We arrived Triumphantly (especially those of us riding Triumphs) into the Hotel Regina in Flamengo, and after a few dramas trying to get the bikes up the brutally steep ramp, ensconced ourselves. Was the mysterious scooter rider paid to divert people to the heady sights of Copacabana we asked JC? No, it was an off-duty policeman who had seen that we were heading in via a road lined with homeless, and there was a serious risk that we’d be attacked for our possessions while clogged in traffic. He’d even paid our tolls for us, a truly saintly man who JC said just disappeared when we reached the relative safety of Copacabana, as long as we kept our eyes shut.
The hotel was in a top place, laundry and supermarket and drinking and dining options are all that are required to satisfy the motored cyclist. And cats apparently, with word quickly reaching Cindy’s ears that a community volunteer run “Cat City” was located in a nearby park. Bad luck, it was too late and we’d have to wait for Day 38 afternoon to experience that highlight. Day 38 morning was the Rio de Janeiro tour, sans Cat City, our guide a very knowledgeable native whose grandparents had left Poland for the New World in the early 20th century. Firstly the cable car up the Sugarloaf rock with its spectacular views, early enough to beat the crowds.
The hills around Rio city aren’t soft and friendly, no firing up the D9 for a new housing development here. In the olden times journeys between suburbs that now take minutes could take days, unless it is peak hour in which case it still takes days. The suburbs reaching onto the steep slopes are an engineering wonder.
Down from the Sugarloaf, it was into the bus and up another even more popular bit of rock to see Christ the Redeemer. There was a Palm Sunday service going on in front which left less room for the scantily dressed Padre-distracting selfie flock than normal, but in Brazil nothing will put them off.
Impressive concrete Jesus’ out of the way, it was onto more important sight-seeing – Cat City. This is the stuff of nightmares for most human beings, cat-crazy middle-aged ladies the obvious exception. The City is set up like Rio and the outside areas with up-market condos on a verandah out of the weather, a slummy under-verandah world, and villages and estancias out in the rural areas where yeoman cats were seen building simple yet comfortable lives on small acreage plots. Probably not quite as focussed on hard work and helping other community members as the Pennsylvania Amish but they seemed to be getting along okay.
Day 39 was leaving Rio, concerns that the traffic would be dangerous and scary didn’t match with reality – it didn’t take long at all and was done at high speed. The objective once again was simply to avoid Sao Paulo while retreating from the furthest east we would get on the continent. A very nice hotel in Campinas was the target, again a big day of over 500km eventually into endless corn and sugar cane fields. This day was probably as close to riding in Australia as any of our previous days – more traffic and better roads aside and the occasional weird thing like the Statue of Liberty, it was servo lunching just like at home. On the subject of food – Brazil is the buffet capital of South American and did we enjoy some beauties, the best on days when we would arrive early into a town and hit the buffet then back to the hotel room groaning under the weight of superb meats of every variety (skewered chicken hearts were one selection) not to mention the desserts (postres), a favourite of Cindy’s.
Day 40 was a continuation, another big day of just over 600km. These days seem long but average speeds are whatever you want them to be – no highway police yet discovered anywhere so far on the trip. Toll booths every 50km or so and police checkpoints cause some slowing, and in Brazil we actually had to pay tolls rather than scoot through a free moto lane or around the end of a boom gate. Speed cameras were common, and a rumour started that each hefty indiscretion was recorded against our number plate which we of course had given to customs when we entered Brazil. That rumour moderated behaviour somewhat, Brazil posted speeds drop dramatically for a variety of mysterious reasons and one can find oneself drifting along at 140kmh through an unpopulated 60kmh zone. Maybe I will just be arrested rather than fined?
We ended up in a motel on the highway in the outskirts of Presidente Venceslau, bikes parked right outside the room, even more like Australia. Over to the truck stop and loaded with snacks and drinks, there was only one place where a gathering could occur – up on the hotel second floor relaxing while watching the trucks trundle past.
On the subject of snacks, the morning tea stop was still working its way methodically through the endless selection of chocolate treats available, with each country adding more of a range to challenge Cindy.
All that commuting had a well deserved end-point on Day 41 – Bonito. Another very large nearly 600km for a grand total of 1,700km in 3 days, and no brown grass sighted, a very lush agricultural world. Rain started during the final run in, and the red soil started to take on the appearance of clay, so some careful riding was undertaken when crossing spots where trucks had dragged wet mud onto the road.
Bonito, which means beautiful in Portuguese, is actually a town of varied appearance. The main street has had a make-over with high end shops, but the backstreets look a bit too eu natural for posting on Instagram. A bit more foundation is required for the pot-holes, but we made it to the resort without getting lost. Minor drama awaited at the resort with my 1 litre water bottle discovered to contain 1 millilitre while the remainder was sloshing around in my top-box, luckily nothing electrical had been marinated. Considerately festooning everything outside the room to create a slum atmosphere, it was to the bar for the welcome drinks; we were in town for 3 nights. Tragically the resort didn’t provide meals other than breakfast, so off into town to find the supermarket with Gabi and Roisin – typical of the Brazilian facilities it was huge and contained everything except cold white wine. A glitch with the eftpos system left 1 hand-held machine to deal with 10 registers and about 100 customers on Good Friday eve, but an older gentleman who was clearly legally blind motioned all 4 of us into his very short queue as we were deserving of priority.
Typical of priority queues, by the time some aged idosos had paid for the weekly shop with their wheelbarrow full of low denomination coins, we saw people who hadn’t even entered the supermarket when we swapped queues out loading their cars. Never mind, we were on holidays. Day 42 Good Friday was an excursion out to Rio Mimosa estancia, we were told we were doing walks with intermittent bathing. That’s pretty much what happened, we donned bathers and suitable footwear, and got into a bus which took us to the Rio. After a steep descent, the day consisted of short walks between about 5 waterfalls which are growing due to the high calcium and magnesium content of the water. Thoroughly waterlogged and smiling, it was back to the estancia for lunch, and listening to the large red-legged seriema birds making a hell of a racket.
As if simply to demonstrate that Rio Mimosa wasn’t a fluke, Day 43 was a trip out to another river, this one sourced from freshwater springs bubbling up through sand and therefore ridiculously clear. Snorkels and wetsuits were provided and came with a snorkel fitting and use instruction session in a pool. Once satisfied that we could use the snorkels and hopefully be trusted not to clean them by spitting in them like someone with 50 years experience of doing that did, it was a long march to the river. The fish were large and numerous, and it was a pleasant float downstream before a long march in squelching wetsuit boots on slippery boards to get back for a late lunch.
A big Easter Saturday dinner was held at a local restaurant, unlike Australia nothing closes over Easter and in fact it is a time for getting out on the town, there were people everywhere. Usual huge meal with beers and wines and then back in a taxi whose driver thought we’d said our hotel was in the Amazon, even we knew he was going wrong once he’d left the lights of Bonito far behind. With the fare at stake, he turned around once we’d clearly enunciated the resort name, and the wild fantasies of being held hostage in the Brazilian outback were soon quashed.
Day 44 was again a necessary big day back through the endless rich agricultural plains to Navirai, a city literally laid out like a spider’s web. We were like those annoying flies that bumped around the outer edge of the web without getting stuck, we never got near the centre. No restaurant in the hotel, no wine, and only American beer, so off to the Supermercado. It was bloody enormous and we thought we were in some sort of Brazilian Costco, everything was in bulk. So beer and wine and cheese and bikkies and salami in bulk later, we reached a language stand-off at the check-out. We initially guessed correctly that we didn’t have a membership rewards card, the checkout lady didn’t need a Rhodes Scholarship to figure that one out, but the next series of questions involving getting the supervisor whose English was worse than our Spanish and seemingly focussed on my beer bottles had us all just looking at each other. They eventually just gave up and let us pay.
Day 45 was the last day of Brazil. We had to push south quickly to get into Foz, many including Cindy and I had a tyre change planned and Cindy had a service besides. We were into Pico Motos at 3pm, and within 2½ hours it was all done, just amazing for 7 bikes. The price of the tyres blew the hair back though; Brazil imports them so charges huge duty, over $1000 per bike for a set that would cost $600 in Australia so hopefully they’ll last a while.
Out of Brazil border crossing on Day 46, back to Argentina. Through the Brazilian side formalities, it was over the river to the Argentinian side, then back again to the Brazilian side as I’d left my gloves on my top-box and someone said they’d seen gloves on the bridge but only picked one up. Fortunately recovered both but now at the back of the queue, it was nevertheless quick getting back into Argentina for the umpteenth time. Clutching the pieces of crucial paper without which leaving Argentina with the motorcycle is awkward, we headed to a servo to get fuel. Arriving with about ½ of Brazil because they all cross over to get very much cheaper fuel, we had to push on past several with enormous queues until we were on fumes and there was no choice.
Lunch was at the San Ignacio Mini ruins. Not really mini, it was very large with impressive stone buildings, and had been set up by the Jesuits in the late 17th century on the Parana River in Spanish territory which was within the Paraguay region at the time.
Continuing on down the river, we got past the last big dam and into our stop for the night at Ituzaingo, a resort town on one of the small arms of the river as it splits, this arm a mere 1km across and with nice golden sandy beaches. Armed with a ridiculously large 972ml beer bottle, we strolled the beach until it was time to go and lie down while doing so was still voluntary. Back down to the beach for a glorious sunset, it was into the casino next to the hotel to exchange USD for Pesos as we were back in the land of cash only. We were also back in the land of siesta, with nothing open until after 6pm and severe difficulty getting a meal before 8pm.
Day 47 was a ride across the Chaco plain, only 450km though so we could reach our destination of the Las Curiosas Resort just south of Avia Terai for a late lunch. Initially curious as to where the bloody entrance was because the GPS tried to take us into a camping ground, once found it was very spread out with about 100m spacing between all the buildings. Checking in was a bit of a challenge, no-one on reception could speak English so communication was via arm waving, pidgin Spanglish, and Google translate. I said Bennett, mi esposa (wife) would be entering the building directly. The young lady asked was I in a man – man marriage via Google translate. No, married to a mujer, but Peter and Mick who were sharing a room would be along shortly I replied via arm waving and louder Spanglish. Fortunately mi mujer came in the door at that moment, allowing me to demonstrate credentials. A picnic lunch and then heavy application of air conditioning as the Chaco is notoriously hot and humid, then a light dinner with choice Argentinian wines and more showing off to the staff how close me and the mujer were saw out the day.
We were just about to leave on Day 48 when what sounded like a male koala trying to intimidate a rival was going off just behind our room. A quick check up in the trees showed it was a howler monkey family, not something you want if trying to have a sleep-in. Another +600km ride for the day, but at least we’d reach the destination of Salta and the road for the first 450km was nearly dead straight, no holds on the average speed. I think the highest recorded speed on the GPS was reached on this day; 182kmh and could have been more but there was very slow traffic moseying along at 120kmh who blocked me.
Climbing up into the hills was a relief, the humidity and temperature dropped off a bit although the internal temperature went through the roof when our GPSes decided to give us a choice. Inevitably we made the wrong choice and ended up riding though 7,000 intersections, our riding companions had been in the Wilson Hotel for days by the time we arrived. That evening we had a dinner and gaucho (Argentinian stockman) show, which started late as per Argentinian tradition and was a bit like church without an order of service. After the gaucho dancing a popular local band came on and played for a while, apparently finishing with a huge encore number to huge applause, then the lead singer would make a long and involved speech about something, ask where everyone was from, and then start again. Eventually we realised it could go forever, so bolted at midnight during another long and involved speech.
Day 49 was a free day in Salta, so we wandered about, found the museum with the child mummies who had been sacrificed on a nearby 5700m mountain, and went for empanadas at the encouraging sounding Patio del la Empanada. Then it was off to find a money exchange chap and like all other originally Spanish towns, the exchange action was in the main Plaza. Exchange chaps are easily recognisable by being the dodgiest looking characters, with a big bag full of Argentinian pesos that he changes for one US$100 note. We then decided that as the bikes had hit every insect living and working on the Chaco plain, we’d use our new stock of pesos to give them a wash. Off to an Auto Lavandera down the road, we swung the bikes onto the empty wash pad, and out came the attendant. This was probably the only time on the trip we’ve had a total communication vacuum; he was there, the high pressure cleaner merely needed turning on, the bikes were ready, we had money, why wasn’t he saying or doing anything? Whenever he threw in the odd short sentence it didn’t help. After 5 minutes of pointing at all the available building blocks of a successful Auto Lavandera business just sitting there waiting, we gave up and left. Speculation settled on it being his siesta, and the few cars parked around being before us in the queue, as we think he might have said mañana at one point. Luckily, we managed to find another willing to make a return on investment just around the corner.
Day Halfway (50) was a very short 150km. For the first time in a while the road leaving Salta was relentlessly winding and climbing and narrow, unluckily for the newly washed bikes and the rider enjoyment it was raining heavily and very misty so being able to see anything was a real challenge. A servo stop to dry out and have a coffee, then it was via some quickly drying and very picturesque country complete with cacti onto the destination – Purmamarca, or Permanent Marker for those of us who struggled with Spanish town names.
A picnic lunch out of the truck at one of the tour’s best hotels so far, Los Colorados Cabañas Boutique, and JC asked if we’d like to take a ride up toward the Chilean border to get some nice views. A warning was given – the top was at 4200m so well into thin air, but this didn’t put many off. When I later said that this was one of the best rides of my life I wasn’t joking, it had the trifecta of incredible scenery, a first class and amazing winding road, and perfect weather.
Back down to collectively rave about the afternoon, a wander into town to get the essentials of beer, wine, and giant empanadas to take uninvited onto Rex and Sally’s huge balcony saw out the day. Several trips back to the room to pile on more clothing gave us a taste of the sudden climate change we’d experienced in 150km, and the gasping for air climbing back to the hotel from the town gave us a taste of what we could expect in the coming weeks in the high country. But we were heading into a region that hosts some of the most spectacular sights and the days of long straight roads was mainly complete.
The next day, the first of the second half of the trip, 51 in case that wasn’t clear, we left the Argentinian comfort zone and crossed into a new one for us – Bolivia. But you’ll have to wait to hear about that.
travellingbennetts 