Oiapoque, Brasil

Even with a cloud cover the sun is often strong enough to penetrate making shade a welcome refuge. It can be a while though on certain stretches that a spot of shade comes along.  I feared I was going to have to make do with the measly shade of my bike for my next break when at last I spotted a tree in the distance creating a patch of shade that just barely reached the shoulder of the road. 

Moments after I plopped down on the curb before I’d even had a chance to dig out my peanut butter a truck stopped and a young man hopped out holding a two-liter bottle of Coca-Cola. Was this an apparition?  I’ve had some amazing, semi-miraculous gestures of goodwill in Brasil, but this might top all of them.  It became even more incredulous when the truck took off leaving the Coca-Cola bearer behind. He might as well have been deposited by a space ship.

The young man joined me on the curb and explained this was where he’d get the bus to Macapa.  Then he reached into the bag he was carrying and pulled out two small plastic cups, filled one for him and one for me as if he had known I was awaiting him.  I drank it in small sips savoring it’s every drop.

After my first sip he dug into his bag and pulled out a bag of cookies and offered those as well. He was eager for me to drink up so he could give me a refill.  Then he pointed at my water bottle and asked to fill it.  This was almost as incredible as Rafael, my Warmshowers host in Belém, coming up alongside me in the thick of traffic leading to the city.

I had more good fortune that night when the choice I made of several pousadas (guest houses) I selected in Calcoene, the last town before the border 135 miles away, had a refrigerator full of bottles of cold water that I could help myself to.  This was my first source of unlimited cold water since crossing the Amazon.  A hotel I stayed at two nights before had no water to share, directing me to the supermarket to go buy water. I’d use my filter, which I had yet needed, before I did that. 

I reluctantly resorted to a hotel in Calcoene as the terrain had turned swampy.  The night before I ventured off into a pasture with thigh high grass not realizing it was a bog until I spread out my tent and discovered a spongy surface.  There was some slightly higher ground nearby that seemed suitable until I’d set up my tent and the mosquitoes came out. Before I’d had a chance to drape my shirt over the cluster of holes the ants had eaten in the tent, the mosquitoes were pouring in and they continued to find their way in through the holes I couldn’t cover.  I was in for a long, long night.

I doused myself with repellant, which somewhat kept them at bay, but not their incessant buzzing.  When I laid down to sleep I crawled into my silk sleeping bag liner covering most of my flesh, but I had no idea if the mosquitoes could sink their fangs through it and would feast on me all night draining me of who knows how much blood. This was far worse than any ant attack.

Though a hotel seemed welcome the next night, I didn’t really want to stay in Calcoene, as I would have preferred gaining another ten miles on the dreaded sixty plus mile stretch of dirt road that was thirty-five miles away, so I could start riding it all the sooner the next day.  I finally had it confirmed that a one hundred kilometer stretch of the road remained unpaved.  I had seen photos of other cyclists traversing it as a muddy quagmire, and with all the rain, it could a mess and might take me a couple of days to get through it.  

But it was good to stock up on food and water in Calcoene and start the day with all nine of my water bottles full, the first time I’d had that necessity in several weeks, for the 135-mile stretch until the next town at the border. Calcoene had several pousadas and one legitimate hotel to choose from.  It had once been a boom town, but was now in decline.  I was the lone guest in the pousada and the others didn’t look like they had any more clientele.   It took a while to connect to the pousada’s WiFi, as the letters in the password had to be entered in lower case even though the slip of paper I had been given with the password had them all in upper case. 

The map indicated there were some hamlets on the road ahead that might have provisions.  And there was always the possibility of a house providing food and drink.  Ten miles before the pavement ended I came upon a house offering food and drink. Along with the ubiquitous empanadas there was a bowl of eggs on the counter beside the glass case full of empanadas.  I gave one a spin, giving it the hard-boiled test, and  was thrilled that it passed.  I could ask for nothing better to supplement my provisions. I ate three on the spot and took three more for my ramen that night.

The occasional truck and car that passed me from the opposite direction were all covered with mud.  It did not portend well.  It had been raining off and on all morning, coming down so hard at one point that I took shelter under the awning to the entrance to someone’s property.  He noticed me and invited me, offering me coffee.

When the dirt began it was wet and full of puddles, but as hard-packed as pavement, though very rough and rocky.  The only mud was in water-filled potholes, which were easy enough to avoid as I pretty much had the road to myself.  The road was too rocky to ride along much faster than five miles per hour, but at least I wasn’t sinking into soft muddy dirt.

With a roller-coaster of steep hills there was little hope of averaging much better than five miles per hour, as I had to brake hard on the descents, almost going slower down than up.  Some were so steep I walked down them, not wishing to strain my cables or wear my pads.  I detached my cyclometer when walking, hoping that would make the pavement come sooner, as I might forget to calculate that distance in the distance I had to traveled and what I had left to go.

I was looking at potentially twelve hours of riding time to cover the sixty miles.  Since I didn’t reach the dirt until after two p.m., that meant two partial days and one full day on the dirt.  I had food enough, but might have to filter river water.  I was spared that as I came upon two sources of water.  The first was at a small store seven miles after the pavement ended in the first of the hamlets and then the next day at the twenty-five mile mark where a small restaurant had a water cooler, where I could fill my two empty bottles at that time.  

All the rain had made the rain a quagmire in spots.  

My bike was becoming caked in mud.  There was one short stretch where the mud adhered to my tires and made the riding very slippery.  As I slid I feared it meant I had a tire going soft, but thankfully I didn’t have to deal with that. 

The terrain had turned junglish.  Camping was going to be a challenge.  I was fortunate to find a small clearing just before dark where road crews dug dirt to put on the road.  It looked as if it would be ant and mosquito-free. 

I had made a fifteen-mile dent in the dirt. It would take a great effort to finish it off the next day.  The road leveled off some and I was able to up my average speed to over six miles per hour, but I only managed seven hours of riding time, holding me to forty-three miles for the day.  It had been a tough, demanding day on a road that few travel, no more than four or five vehicles an hour, mostly pick-up trucks with a huge load wrapped in tarps.

There had been small clearings with a house or two every so often on this stretch, which were a possibility for camping,  but I came upon another small clearing with a mound of dirt to hide behind half an hour before dark. Having completed fify-eight miles I knew the pavement was imminent.  

I had to wait ten miles before that glorious moment arrived.  When my tires graced the pavement it felt as if I were riding a magic carpet.  It was thirty-one miles to Oiapoque.  The road continued with its ups and downs, so it was still hard going, but at least I could fly down the descents.  

I kept hoping for someone selling empanadas, not that I needed food or water, as I had food aplenty and two bottles of water remaining. It would just be nice to have a place of shelter to sit and confirmation that all was still well with civilization.  I’d had no contact with the outside world for two days, no Wifi after having it every day since I left Montevideo exactly two months ago.  Trump might no longer be president or he might have started World War III. 

I stopped at the first hotel I came to, a motel with a courtyard where I could lay out my gear to dry and wash all the mud off everything.  Even though I had my sleeping pad wrapped in two plastic bags, moisture had gotten in during all the rain before the dirt. It was soaked and hadn’t had a chance to dry.  I emptied my panniers and took them into the shower with me.  The grit was in everything.  But I had survived the toughest stretch of the trip and now have a taste of Europe to look forward to tomorrow when I cross into French Guiana on a recently built bridge over the Oyapock River.