Ponta Grassa, Brasil

For the first time some trees popped up that reminded me that I wasn’t biking on the Massif Central in France or the high country of the American west.  A smattering of oddly branched trees that looked like they could be related to the baobab momentarily transplanted me back to Madagascar, that phantasmagoric island country well off the coast of Africa where countless unique varieties of plant and animal life have evolved.

These trees of Brasil would fit right in to the otherwordliness of Madagascar.  There were just a handful of them spread over a fifty mile stretch, adding to their mystery.  They weren’t as big-trunked as the baobabs, but perhaps they provided a valuable hard wood and had been largely harvested.  Logging is still going strong in this region, indicated by trunks over a meter thick piled high on trucks.  

I’ve been seeing an increasing number of logging trucks after I came to a fork in the road Sunday afternoon and turned off the highway headed to São Paulo, still over three hundred miles away on to a smaller road. Traffic instantly diminished, and, for the first time, I was riding on a road without a shoulder.  I didn’t know whether to be alarmed or cheered by the possibility that there was so little traffic a shoulder wasn’t needed.  

I soon realized I could cheer, as the roar of trucks and traffic disappeared, with passing vehicles reduced to just one or two a minute, sometimes with lulls of a couple of minutes with none at all.  I at last had found a peaceable route and could actually feel as if I were out in nature.  The scenery continued to be a lush green and dotted with smaller farms. 

There was still an occasional truck, as often as not hauling logs, but there was so little traffic that trucks could pass me wide, or even let up a bit, not in a frenzy to get to São Paulo. The only downside to this tranquility was that the hills were much steeper.  On the main road they were no worse than an amenable five or six per cent grade.  Off on this more rural route they could be eight per cent or worse, truly sapping the legs, especially when they came quickly back-to-back with no time for recovery.

The gas stations weren’t the vast emporiums as they had been on the busy highway, but this route took me through small towns rather than bypassing them, allowing me to drop in on mom-and-pop grocery stores for my provisions.  The prices were surprisingly no more expensive than the large urban supermarkets, with some items even cheaper.  Evidently the proprietors didn’t need to mark up items having a much lower overhead, their shops often attached to their home.  

I have been happy to discover liter bags of yogurt at even the one-room stores and still priced at seventy-five cents.  They make my day.  They’re refreshingly cold and tasty.  They fill me up and give me plenty of pep.  I’ll drink half and pour the rest into my Tupperware bowl filled with Cheerios for later.  If I could, I’d have one in the morning and then another in the afternoon, though I’m not sure if that would be too much dairy.



I had been hoping there’d be a diminished number of trucks on the road Sunday, but they were as thick as ever. The only time there is a lull is during the noon hour when they all stop for the huge buffets.  Most restaurants along the highway are lunch only, closing down by two.   When I delay my lunch until after one or later, before I’m done eating all the chairs are up on the tables and the waitresses are busy mopping the floor.  I’m usually allowed to linger, but have also been asked to leave.



Some buffets are a set price and others charge by weight.  I’ve learned to look for a scale and then am a little more selective about what I pile on my plate.  There is always a lot of rice and beans left in the bins of those that charge by weight.



I haven’t had any more ant invasions of my tent, though a small battalion infiltrated my pannier of cold weather gear I left on my bike rather than bringing it into the tent.  I discovered them when I stopped to put on my rain jacket and a hive of ants came sprinkling out.  There was no food in that pannier, other than a couple packets of ramen.  It’s possible they could have attracted the ants, as Janina’s daughter’s cats attacked some ramen I had packed away when we visited her in Beirut several years ago.  At least these ants hadn’t eaten through the packaging.  



I’ve had mosquitoes several nights, but only a few have managed to join me in the tent.  By the time I’ve swatted them they are more often than not blood-filled, though I have yet to be left itching by a bite.  They will no doubt be more of an issue in the Amazon where malaria and yellow fever will be a concern.  



The terrain has somewhat moderated allowing me for the first time in Brasil back-to-back days of double-digit average speed for the day and my first 70-mile day in Brasil.  My legs were very grateful for some flat stretches of fifteen or twenty minutes of strain-free pedaling before the next rise. If this continues I could be in Brasilia in ten or eleven days, just under 800 miles away.  



I’m hoping I’ll find a supermarket catering to the international crowd that will have peanut butter.  I’ve just about finished the two jars I brought and have yet to find a supermarket selling them.  If I have no luck I’ll drop in on the US embassy and ask if they know of any sources.  At least I’m not an Aussie in desperate need of vegemite. It would be a much taller order trying to find that.