Brasília, Brasil

It was ten miles further than I anticipated to the far northwest corner of Brasilia to the apartment of my Warmshowers hosts, so I had my first opportunity to do some night riding in Brasil.  Even with it being 75, rather than 65 miles to their home, I would have just made it before dark if I hadn’t suffered another tiny wire fragment flat twenty miles from my destination, my second of these travels, and another near day’s end, the least propitious time for a flat.

I was still on a six-lane divided highway when night fell, but it had a generous shoulder and the traffic was relatively relaxed and truck-free it being a Sunday, so I didn’t feel duly alarmed.  I was trying not to regret that I had declined the offer of my hosts to come pick me up at an outlet mall fifty miles from their home twenty-five miles from where I set out from that morning, the first of many gestures in the three days I spent with them of the utmost hospitality.  We could have easily arranged to meet at a McDonald’s at the mall, but I wanted the satisfaction of making my introduction to Brasil’s third largest city on my bike.

I didn’t have a street address for my hosts, just the coordinates for their apartment complex (SQN 316 Bloco E, Apartment 503), such as addresses were ordained in this futuristic city when it was established as the capital of Brasil in 1960.  Once one knows the system, it makes it very easy to find places.  And it made it easy for me to show the address to pedestrians when I got near my destination to direct me.

It was one of many six-story apartment buildings with one hundred units and a large parking garage beneath amongst trees and greenery.  It was most amiable.  Greenery and open space, even along the highway coming into Brasilia,  prevailed, lending it a rare sense of serenity for such a large metropolis.

A concierge called up to Edmilson to let him know I had arrived. He came down and greeted me with a broad smile.  Up at his apartment his wife Jussara greeted me with equal warmth along with a table full of food and a welcome sign.  

They are ardent touring cyclists who had biked across the US on the Adventure Cycling route last year, one of many dream trips Edmilson was eager to undertake in his retirement, which began six years ago after thirty-two years of working for the Bank of Brasil as a computer programmer/engineer.  They raved about the kindness and generosity of Americans, with people often inviting them into their homes when they asked to camp on their property.  

His first big dream adventure was riding his motorcycle from Brasilia to Alaska, which he commenced in 2014. He rode over the Andes to Lima, continued up the coast to Colombia, flew over the Darien Gap then kept riding and riding, enjoying every moment of it.  He spread it out over two years, taking a break in the middle to return home to Jussara for a few months.  He wandered all over the US, including all the way to Key West before heading up to Proudhoe Bay.

He and Jussara have a long list of future adventures.  They’d like to bicycle Africa and India and China, so were eager to hear of my experiences in all those places.  We sat and talked until midnight, forgetting how tired I was. They are presently awaiting the delivery of an RV that they plan to live out of for the next year exploring South America, driving to a place and then going off for days on their bikes.  They are a very happy couple, greatly enjoying their retirement, fulfilling a host of dreams.  Another they recently accomplished was hiking the Camino de Compostella across Spain.  An emblem of the trail, a shell, hangs in their kitchen.  The Appalachian Trail also beckons.  It was a great joy to listen to their enthusiastic anticipation of all that awaits them.  And they were very happy to meet someone who had been fulfilling many dream trips too.

I had only planned on a day in Brasilia, but Edmilson insisted I spend at least three days to see all the city and the environs had to offer, including kayaking on its lake.  I could hardly say no.  But the first order of business was replacing my rear tire.  We walked to his bike shop, Bike World, first thing the next morning, through an arcade of fruit trees—mango, papaya, jack fruit and more.  Such trees are all over the city with fruit for all. The more I saw of this ultra-planned city, the more I appreciated it.  And the weather is perfect too up at 3,500 feet, mild all year round.

Bike Sport was a first-rate resource, well-stocked with the highest quality of parts and a mechanic I will be eternally indebted to.  I was just going to pick up a tire, but I let Edmilson sway me into leaving my bike to have it checked it over.  When we returned the next day to pick it up the young man who worked on it had replaced all the cables and brake pads and the left pedal that had been seizing up and the slightly worn sealed bearing race in my rear wheel opposite the one that I had obliterated in Iowa just a couple months ago.  

The mechanic also trued the wheel to perfection and discarded my tube with six patches, replacing it with one that had a yellow cap over the valve as if he knew the bike would be following The Tour de France come summer. The crowning touch was new handlebar tape and removing every spec of dirt on the bike, fully cleaning the freewheel and spiffing up the rims making them look shiny and new.  Never has my bike been the beneficiary of such tender-loving care.  The mechanic treated it as if it were his own that he was going to ride to his wedding. I only regret I didn’t take his photograph with the monumental transformation he made of my well-traveled bike.

After lunch we drove to a complex of grocery stores where I had a choice of peanut butter, including a two-pound jar marketed as Power Food.  I also found couscous for the first time, some imported and also a local brand that was ridiculously cheap, twenty-five cents for a pound.  It was most enlightening to walk the aisles of a giant supermarket with Edmilson and Jussara, as well as perusing the shelves of smaller, speciality stores with items imported from all over, including cheese from France.  We spent so much time shopping we missed sunset over the lake that had been on our agenda.

As we talked, the subject of cinema came up. They had just seen the “Irishman” on Netflix, but had yet to see “Joker,” another of the most talked about movies of the year.  It was playing at a nearby multiplex and Monday was half-price night. He suggested we see it.  I had missed it myself, so was delighted for this opportunity, even though it would have to be a 9:20 screening and another late night.  

I managed to get in a nap before dinner, my second of the day, I was so run down.  The mall where it was playing was anchored by the French supermarket Carrefour, which until this past year had been sponsor of the The Tour de France polka dot jersey.  The mall was packed even at that late hour and the theater was more than half full. The movie was preceded by nearly twenty minutes of promos for the “Star Wars” movie opening in three days and also ads for Disney World and its “Star Wars” tie-ins.  Every so often the McDonald’s logo flashed on the bottom of the screen.  “Joker” gave an unsettlingly harsh and bleak portrayal of New York, but we were all glad we had made the effort to see it on the Big Screen.  It was easy to see why many think Joachim Phoenix is a leading contender for the best actor Oscar.  

Before we began our exploration of the architectural wonders of Brasilia the next day we paid a visit to a nearby National Park that they frequently visit to take advantage of its natural swimming pool, constantly replenished with fresh water passing through it.  It was thronged with families with school out for the Christmas holiday.  The water was refreshingly cool.  We saw monkeys and birds as we hiked though the woods.  

After lunch I was reunited with my bike.  As we waited for it we heard several people burst into an all-out, lung-shattering scream at a nearby store.  I thought a robbery was taking place or that someone was brandishing a gun, but Edmilson knew Brasil was competing in an important soccer match and they must have just scored a goal. He has little interest in soccer, so didn’t even bother to duck out and see what had happened.

We went over a couple of blocks to pick up a bike path that took us to the National Stadium, four miles away, which began a three-mile stretch of a wide green expanse leading to the city center and all the government buildings.  Jussara led the way on the Surly that took her across the US, with Edmilson on my wheel, also riding a Surly, both of which they bought in San Francisco before commencing their ride. 

After the Stadium we passed the tomb of Juscelino Kubitschek, along with a large and towering memorial to the president who ordered the construction of Brasilia, largely designed by the extraordinary architect and artist Oscar Niemeyer, who lived to the age of 104 and has work all over the country and elsewhere, including New York City.  

Niemeyer was an ardent communist and friend of Castro.  Despite being an atheist, one of his most celebrated works in Brasilia is a cathedral in the from of a crown of thorns accompanied by the haunting Four Disciples statues carved by Ceschiatti.  

Towards the end of the three-mile swath of open space dotted with striking buildings, including museums and the National Library, are the twin towers of the parliamentary buildings beside the president’s home and the judicial building.  In front of the towers is a large bowl Niemeyer meant to symbolize an openness to all ideologies.  Beside it is a sphere representing reflection and serenity.  A large plaza behind it contained more sculptures and the highest flag pole in the country. It was all most pleasing and striking, earning Brasilia UNESCO World Heritage status.

Edmilson had one last outing for me the next morning before I continued on my way—a paddle in one of his two kayaks on the five-armed man-made lake to the east of the city.  I’ve done a bit of kayaking but not on a flat-bottomed model such as he had.  It was quite stable and could skim along without too much effort.  My upper body strength is no match for my lower body, so I could quickly feel the strain.  Edmilson wisely didn’t take us too far, just across the arm to a water purification station on an island in the lake and then back to our put-in.  We had one last lunch, their big meal of the day, of hummus and pasta, then it was time for me to end this glorious interlude.  

Edmilson was as excited about my route as if he were riding it himself and was full of suggestions of things to see and do along the way, including picking a wild fruit.  He persuaded me to take the slightly longer route to Belem, on much less traveled roads and through his favorite national park, Chapada.  It would be hillier too, but much, much better cycling.  He has cycled and hiked all over Brasil.  He and Jussara took a two-month tour around the country as a warmup for their US ride.  It was heartening to learn that he has never had an issue with ants.  He makes an effort to examine where he’s camping to try to be clear of them.  I haven’t always had that opportunity when I’ve plunged into the woods near dark, but I will now be more cognizant of where I camp.

Unfortunately Edmilson doesn’t have a blog or post on Facebook, so I’ll have to rely on personal emails to keep up with his travels.  I know he and Jussara have many noteworthy trips ahead I’d like to keep abreast of, if not join them.  Praise be to Warmshowers for bringing us together.