Week 13: Brasil, Uruguay and a major change of plans
A bountiful Brasilian breakfast awaited us in the homely little kitchen of the hostel: freshly sliced melon greeted us, as well as other fruits, indulgent dulche de leche, more spreads and, most essentially, steaming hot coffee. Well fed, we hit the road to Iguazú Falls early. Kenny and Xena were soon parked up, tickets were purchased and, after a short coach ride inside the national park, the crushing water of the mighty Iguazú Falls was within earshot.
We followed our fellow tourists along the pathway. Glimpses of white water could be caught through the trees almost immediately. A minute later and Iguazú could be seen in all its glory: it was utterly immense, truly thunderous. Such an immeasurable amount of water all converging at the same point. Apparently the recent heavy rainfall meant that the flow was even greater than usual too, yet it was clear and sunny throughout the day. Result!
In the distance on the other side, at the top of one of the numerous walls of vertical water, was a viewing platform. That was in Argentina. The Iguazú river is the border definition for the two countries; Paraguay also gets involved: a tri-frontier between the three countries exists not too far away where the Iguazú and Paraná rivers converge.
Slowly we pootled along the misty predefined path, rarely drawing our eyes away from Iguazú. Monkeys jumped between branches above. Birds too. The ferocious whiteness roaring all around was enthralling, garnering our undisputed attention. We continued oogling along the path, soon reaching the main viewing platforms.
We stayed at Iguazú for the whole day, until after the sun set. I doubt Iguazú could ever get old. The surrounding thick jungle of the Iguazú National Park is home to parrots, ocelots, caiman, toucans and even jaguars. Spiders, butterflies and stick-insects were easy spots, and then there was the mischievous quatis…! They weren’t dangerous, they’d just evolved to be permanently peckish!
As the sun fully set, we ventured down to the viewing platform again. There were ten minutes left before it closed for the night, but the guy was sound and let us out. We had the whole platform to ourselves!
Such an awe-inspiring day necessitated a beer. There was no better place than the immaculate Hotel das Cataratas, recommended by Raph’s pap. One day I’ll return and stay here hopefully! After a bliss beer, and not going for a dip in the swimming pool, we caught a lift from the minibus man to the main gates as all the other buses out of the national park had long stopped running. A quick blast on Kenny and Xena and we were back at the hostel.
Plans changed that evening. In a big way. One conversation back at the start of trip had sparked an idea. We hated the concept of selling Kenny and Xena at the end of the trip, so was there any way we could bring them home to the UK? Could we somehow persuade a captain to let us onboard a Europe-bound ship!? Probably not in the 21st century! More realistically, could we use air freight or shipping? A bit of research online when in Peru revealed that it was all going to be very pricey. However we also found out that, for a bit more money, it was possible for us to sail home as passengers on a cargo ship with the bikes! Now that had our attention. In Peru I wrote an email to quite a few shipping lines offering our video/photography ‘skills’ (to produce good content for the marketing campaigns of the cargo-cruise element of their businesses) in exchange for a free ride home. It was a long shot which unfortunately and inevitably failed, but if you don’t ask you don’t get.
One company that I was in contact with was Grimaldi Lines, an Italian shipping company. They declined the free ride but provided info and vague dates for the few ships they had servicing routes from all over South America’s Atlantic coast to Europe. One ship was leaving from Montevideo in Uruguay in exactly one week’s time, and they had space available on board. All we had to do was find £1700 each, ~£500 more than each entire motorbike cost in the first place…! I’d been mulling it over for a while: I could try and get a bank loan for both of us. What the heck? You (probably) only live once. We’d be able to ride Kenny and Xena around for years until we’re old and crippled. Perhaps even see their odometers reset back to zero? We’d also extend this trip and avoid returning home for a bit longer. I went to my online banking and, despite not having had a solid income for almost a year, the bank somehow decided that I was worthy of a £5000 loan… self-employed rather than unemployed me of course! We filled out a few forms, scanned them in using the hostel’s scanner, passed on payment details, attached scans of passports and sent them via email to Grimaldi. In the morning we received confirmation from Grimaldi. So that was that. We were going to spend about a month at sea, onboard ‘Grande America’, sailing transatlantic with Kenny and Xena!
The next day was spent in the hostel. We hung out for a bit with Pier and Camilla, an Italian and Brasilian couple who met when studying in Lisbon. They spoke a lot of languages and did so very fluently too; very smart and down-to-earth people. They were off to live in Rio for a while. Best of luck guys! In the evening we ate at a functional but decent buffet place that abutted the hostel. The hostel had a new arrival: a Dutch medic on his way to volunteer his skills at a tuberculosis centre in Paraguay. We got chatting and, of all things to do with someone who studies lungs, the three of us went to smoke shisha in the buffet place from earlier on (it doubled-up as a shisha cafe in the evening).
With the looming fact that we had to be in Uruguay within a week to catch the boat back to Europe (ideally four or five days to give us some time in Montevideo), we got back on the road. We got a few hours of riding under our belt before it started to rain. Brasilian-style rain. Relentless rain. Rain hell-bent on working its way through the numerous layers of clothing until it finds your bare skin.
Darkness seemed to come quickly in Brasil, probably due to the constant cloud cover, but mainly just because we left late. When paying for a toll-road, we took cover under the massive roof to warm up. It wasn’t exactly cold outside, but being soaked through and constantly moving meant that the wind chill factor sapped at our body heat. An Argentinian guy in a VW somehow didn’t have enough money to get through the toll booth to continue his journey, so we acted like good samaritans and real people by lending him a couple of quid to continue. Then the toll-booth people soon did the opposite, and ushered us out from under their roof and into the rain. We almost scabbed a lift from a trucker with the bikes in the back of his truck, but it unfortunately turned out he wasn’t actually going very far.
We rode on until we’d had enough of the rain and bailed out into a hotel at a wee roadside town called Cantaglo. Kenny and Xena were safe and sheltered from the rain. Fingers, toes, and soles of feet were wrinkled and yucky, the bedroom floor was instantly drenched and splattered with wet gear; but things were soon bliss after we’d had showers and copied the owner’s lazy mealtime plans by also ordering takeaway pizza.
Our pathetic attempt at drying our gear was confirmed the next morning. Gloves slumped from the oscillating bedroom fan still totally weighty and water-laden. Plastic bags lined our feet, acting as super-socks. The now-beginning-to-smell-quite-a-bit and still wet bike trousers and jacket went on, immediately sharing water with the previously warm and dry clothing beneath. It was already raining heavily outside. Today we had planned to get to Porto Alegre, which was our farthest ride in a single day at about ~650+km.
Putting on drenched clothes as you start a long day of riding is bad enough, but the worst feeling of all? That’s gotta be reserved for the first trickle of rain that makes it to your gooch between your balls and your bum. That’s the point when the weather has won and all you can do is ignore the icy puddle collecting between your legs and keep on riding.
At least the roads were generally very good. They had to be in order to deal with the copious surface water. They tended to be single carriageway, twisting and turning with gently undulating elevation changes in this part of Brasil. At night the good quality of road-markings really helped: cateyes reflected us onwards. Brasilian traffic lights were funky: they often had a countdown to green or to red marked with five or seven lights of the relevant colour.
I didn’t expect Brasil to be so developed. Everywhere we rode the road network was dense and new modern cars were always nearby. Towns never seemed far between. We’d didn’t have a single concerned thought about fuel as petrol stations were everywhere.
The petrol stations! Brasil had the best of the entire trip. Good snacks and coffee and friendly service from pump attendants each time we refueled (also reminding us how we really, really couldn’t speak Portuguese but the general gist could be understood from our blurted Spanish). One Shell garage in particular was a gathering spot: a few guys sat at a table outside having some beers, a couple of pimped out silencer-less mark one VW Golfs full of girls (Volkswagens were everywhere in Brasil) fueled up and went on their way, the attendant gave us complimentary red dust-caps for Kenny and Xena and fresh plastic bags for our feet and handlebars.
We cracked on. The surrounding vivid green rolling hills reminded me of the default Windows XP screensaver; but, frankly the best way to describe this part of Brasil is as a jungle without the trees.
The humidity had begun to take its toll, working its way into our electronics: my phone went into an endless reboot mode, my camera’s lense blurred to uselessness with moisture ingression and Raph’s iPod sadly died. And the skies cascaded open again, but with an angry vengeance this time.
Sporting black binbags by this point, which helped our rain defences massively, we proceeded into the tremendous thunder and lightning ahead. Slightly scary but it made us buzz. I distinctly remember ‘Eye of the Tiger’ playing from shuffle, pumping through my ears as we rode through the worst (best) of the main storm. Not long after my iPod sadly began to fall in and out of a coma though…
We pushed on getting colder and colder but ever closer and closer to Porto Alegre. We stopped and squelched our way inside a small toll-road service hut to warm up with free coffee and a roof overhead, before sliding back on Kenny and Xena into the surging and frighteningly audible rain outside.
In Porto Alegre, along a street of hotels that suspiciously sold rooms by the hour rather than the night, we found a respectable hotel with multi-storey parking over the road for our mechanical companions. We’d made it: 650+km in a day, on fully-laden 150cc troopers through the worst weather I’ve ever travelled in (even in a car, let alone on a bike!), along predominantly twisty single-carriageway roads. We’d done well. Montevideo was getting closer.
The room did not smell good the next day. Our clothes were still saturated and our electricals were still dead or dying despite being jammed into a heater overnight.
In March, I was lucky enough to do an internship at a design studio in Hong Kong. In a 7/11 in Lan Kwai Fong one evening I bumped into Caio and Felipe, two Brasilian dudes working their way around the world for a year or so. Porto Alegre was Caio’s hometown. So we managed to arrange it and met up for a quick bite to eat at lunchtime; nothing beats a good impromptu plan! Hopefully see you in London or Rio for carnival some time in the future Caio!
We had hoped to get to Chuy, a border town between Brasil and Uruguay but we didn’t leave until after lunch. It was definitely going to be another long and late days riding, hopefully there’d be somewhere to sleep open late in Chuy. It was another day of intense rain with sporadic thunder and lightning throughout. The weather even brought about a power cut when refuelling in Pelotas.
We continued squinting our way on until we got to an important junction at Rio Grande: either we bail out and sleep in Rio Grande a couple of hundred kilometres short of Chuy, or fight the cold and wet by powering 200km along the surprisingly low-populated stretch of land between the Lagoa Mirim and the Atlantic Ocean.
In hindsight we probably should’ve taken the easy route and stayed at Rio Grande. We headed on towards Chuy. We were muito frio. There were a few lights on the horizon to the left… they were ships! We’d made it to the Atlantic coast, but couldn’t see jack. Freshwater on our right, saltwater on our left, the lone road ahead to Uruguay or behind us back to urban Rio Grande. We persevered onwards, feebly attempting to warm our hands and feet against the exhaust and engine whilst gradually racking up dark and bland kilometres to Chuy.
This stretch of land was remarkably desolate and uninhabited, with only a handful of cars. The first 30 minutes of straight riding saw us pass only a splattering of lights. The rain had thinned but the road was now monotonous and straight. Our riding grew vacant and tired, concentration began to lapse and shivers started. A bit farther and we agreed that it was time to look for a place to stay. We searched around each of the three or four tiny villages we passed with meager hope that there’d be a bed available for these two dense bikers. Nothing.
We asked a couple of guys in a parked car if there was anywhere to stay. They said to follow them for a few minutes. After 15 minutes of riding behind their car back towards Rio Grande they pulled over to a gate. The gate automatically slid open revealing a couple of outhouses/rooms and a track off into the night. Again, in hindsight, the sensible option would be to stay here but instead we said thanks and declined, hoping for somewhere warmer. We rode south some more. Nothing.
We nosed around a smattering of houses just off of the main road about halfway to Chuy. We hassled the one person around, a young guy driving: could he suggest anywhere for us to sleep? How about at the school he suggested? Cool! The gates were open. There was a big hangar-like gymnasium around the back, perhaps we could put tents up in here? That was too much effort, so we found the most sheltered corner. Raph had the bench, I decided to set up my hammock. We caught a few hours sleep, me more so than Raph who had to endured my snoring and an uncomfortable bench. I slept in my helmet and full gear, figuring it would be warmer.
Morning light came around and we got up swiftly at 07:30am ish to be gone before anyone got to school. Of course the school bus then turned up! Kenny’s starter had been struggling the last few days but now, of all times, he wouldn’t start! More kids and teachers arrived. Nobody seemed particularly phased or concerned that we’d squatted in their school for the night. The teachers generously invited us to the staff room for bread and coffee. After thanks and a quick goodbye, I pushed Kenny through the muddy side road and onto the main road to Chuy where I was able to cling onto the back of a moving Xena to build enough speed up for a bump start.
An rain-free couple of hours later we’d made it through the Brasilian border control and into the shared border town of Chuy. We munched and scoured the shops whilst getting Kenny’s starter repaired and rear brake looked at again in a little garage nearby. Chuy has many duty-free shops that Uruguayans in particular flock to, as well as a casino that Brasilian’s use as gambling is illegal in Brasil. Uruguay is the first country in the world to fully-legalised marijuana; we definitely weren’t displeased seeing very green plants grow inside a headshop in Chuy! We returned to pick Kenny up, but when I took him for a little spin the rear wheel completely locked the moment I dabbed the brake! The mechanic was a sound guy and soon had the brake working again; it was satisfying to be able to communicate with him as he spoke Spanish now that we were in Uruguay. With the brake generally fixed we headed out of Chuy to the Uruguayan border control.
Thankfully the border was quiet and swift. Soon we had passports stamped, bike papers sorted and had been issued with permission to use the bikes in Uruguay for a whole year. We hopped back on Kenny and Xena, noting how it still hadn’t rained and was actually getting quite warm and sunny!
Montevideo grew closer. Clothes dried off. Our South American bike adventure was nearing the end. Uruguayan roads were fast and smooth, much like Brasil sans stupid amounts of water. One section of the road must’ve been an old airstrip as it (and it’s painted lines) randomly quadrupled in size. With blue skies all around and the sun blaring above we veered off into the Parque Nacional de Santa Teresa, left our details with an army guard (?!), and wound through the forest until laying eyes upon golden sands and the Atlantic.
Touching the Atlantic Ocean was fulfilling: we’d seen two different oceans on two opposite sides of a continent, knowing that only we have directed ourselves and our bikes thousands of miles across, literally laying eyes upon every inch of terrain on the way. We messed around with the bikes on the beach until continuing on to Montevideo, feeling beautifully contented and happy.
The sun set over the typically flat grassy lands, interrupted by the occasional patch of more deciduous-looking forests. We took a pit stop for fuel for the bikes, and hot drinks sat in front of a roaring fireplace for us. A heavenly change of 100% of my clothes in the toilet was a solid decision, especially considering that the rain held off until we got to Montevideo. We rode for a few more hours, stopping for a snack and coffee at a food truck that had such a well built and sealed temporary plastic enclosure attached to it, that inside you couldn’t feel the wind at all.
We arrived in Montevideo, the continent’s most southernly capital city, with two nights to spare before hoepfully boarding the cargo ship home to Europe. Each set of traffic lights called for a cheeky drag race, bringing us promptly to the city centre where we started the hotel hunt. Then we met Nico.
As we peeked at the map by the side of the road a guy wandered over chirpily and inquisitively. He spoke good English and asked us about our trip before introducing himself as Nico and then clocking that we were looking for a place to stay. “This place, it’s kind of a hostel, you can come stay here?” he said, pointing towards an unmarked tall townhouse on the other side of the road. Slightly bemused, we agreed to have a look. It just looked like someone’s own house, but there were a few others hanging around, he seemed friendly and there was a garage for Kenny and Xena underneath. It was brilliantly spontaneous, but we had a place to stay within minutes of arriving in the centre, complete with a very friendly Uruguayan welcome too…!
Nico introduced us to Hugo and we chilled and nattered with our new friends before taking our gear up to our room. The townhouse was massive, going far back from the road and three high-ceilinged stories up. Yet again we were slightly perplexed when we discovered our room was lacking beds, but Hugo and Nico acquired one from somewhere later on in the night for us.
Stories were shared and chit was chatted throughout the night. Wacky little inventions, art, and other obscurities of Nico’s design could be found dotted around the house. But Nico’s utterly unpredictable and psychotic dog wasn’t cool. The bastard bit me a couple of times, he was to be avoided!
The following day we sorted out a few things: we got new chains for the bikes fitted, bought decent oil ready to change for Europe, chose small gifts for family and friends at home (more mate gourds in particular) and got supplies for the voyage. Uruguay recently overtook Argentina as the biggest consumer of beef per capita in the world, so we found a parrillada (type of meat grill) and devoured some damn tasty food; they definitely knew how to cook meat here.
Hugo and Nico gave us some little gifts that evening being the generous legends that they were. One being a humorous yet practical invention: a paintbrush with the head of a hammer attached to the handle on the other end – “You can paint a wall and then put up a picture with one tool”. I shared a special proverbial South African ‘cheers-saying’; they loved it, and wanting to return the gift gesture, I added it in written form to the already graffitied wall. Why not eh? Nico certainly didn’t mind!
In the courtyard the next day we ate asado, cooked on a fire fueled with wood from some unfortunate items of furniture that Nico deemed invaluable enough to burn. The asado was mouth-wateringly good though. It must’ve been the taste of bookshelf or something!
It was a shame we couldn’t stay longer at Nico’s place. If I return to Montevideo one day I’ll be certain to hunt out Nico and Hugo and see what’s been happening in their lives! Nico, I know you were avoiding the internet, but I think I gave you this blog’s web address so if you’re reading this please, please leave a comment below. Cheers guys, sincere best wishes to the both of you!
Sadly Brasil and Uruguay had been a massive rush and we didn’t get much of a chance to explore or absorb them at all, spending most of our time on the bikes in the rain or sleeping. But it was worth it ultimately as it enabled us to keep Kenny and Xena permanently! You could spend six months in Brasil alone, it’s encompasses almost half of the continent afterall!
Nico and Hugo saw us off as we headed towards the port in search of a shipping agent called José. Fingers crossed he’d be meeting us by the port entrance and getting us onboard ‘Grande America’. Then, with a bit of luck and a lot of time, we’d hopefully arrive in Hamburg in Germany accompanied by two sexy Chilean motorbikes.
Dos Gringos y Dos Motos 