Abadiânia, Brasil

I can be in a celebratory mood, just 65 miles from Brasilia, on the verge of reaching the halfway point of this trip after having come 1,700 miles.  It’s been a tough slog with the unrelenting hills.  I end my days depleted rather than energized.  On most tours I don’t want the days to end and want to keep riding.  Here I’m not adverse to quitting early.

Its been a rare tour where food is the highlight of my day rather than sites I’ve seen or encounters I’ve had, but those noon buffets that are so gargantuan that they turn into my dinner as well, leave the strongest impression of the day.  They are a nice communal affair with truckers scattered at tables wolfing down piles of food.  The proprietor often comes around with a tray offering even more food, usually meat or fried eggs.

The camping has become even more problematic.  In addition to the ants there is always a chance of a downpour as the rainy season kicks in.  I had my second deluge in the middle of the night that pelted rain for twenty minutes and then turned to a drizzle all the way to daylight and beyond.  I was very fortunate that the brushy terrain I had camped in absorbed all the water. I sat up nervously awaiting my tent to start filling with water.

Before the rain hit at three a.m. I had been woken two hours early by another ant incursion.  My legs were covered with barely discernible micro-ants.  They weren’t biting, just slithering or perhaps nesting.  I left the tent and brushed them off and then proceeded to crush all those remaining.  When word spreads that they are under attack, they leave and generally don’t come back.  To be safe I dabbed on some mosquito repellant and then stuck my legs in my sleeping bag liner.  I had been laying on top of it in the warmth.  And that was it for the ants.

I hadn’t meant to camp that night.  I was on the outskirts of Aprecida de Goiânia, a large city with many hotels to choose from.  I kept hoping to see one along the road advertising the 40 real rate, but none appeared.  I was going to have to turn off the highway and go into the city.  Before the turnoff I was faced with another steep mile-long climb, not what I wanted after pushing hard to ride 80 miles for a hotel, my most miles in two weeks.

Just as I began the climb I came upon a rough dirt road that led to some bushy, secluded terrain, ideal camping...maybe.  I couldn’t resist it, as the words of Steve McQueen, the actor, echoed in my ears—“I’d rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than any city.”  I was happy not to have to go through the rigamarole of finding a hotel and then registering and all that, though I had been overly exerting myself to reach this city before dark.  

I relented the next night and forsook the tent for a motel and was rewarded with a supermarket next door where I was able to get an end-of-the-day liter bag of yogurt.  It was my first supermarket in two days.

The Amazon grows closer and closer, though the actual river is still 1,200 miles away in Belem.  I feel as if I’ve been crossing the Plains, though the terrain has been anything but flat and bland, with the anticipation of the Rockies and then the Pacific.  This ride from the bottom to the top of Brasil is the equivalent of riding coast-to-coast of the US.  And it ought to be equally rewarding.