Oba, Brasil! ... and a Flat Tire!

Good to the last drop

We totally misjudged the amount of gas to leave in the tanks in order to get to the airport; both Gary and Alex ran out on the way. The Meier plastic containers we keep attached to our handlebars came to the rescue as Gary used his for a quick shot of petrol. We pulled up a little late to the cargo office of AeroSur but convinced the personnel to take the bikes anyway. Having approval from the president of the airline helped a bit. We drained the remaining gas in front of them to prove there was none in the bikes. They wanted us to drain the oil, but fortunately Marcelo knew this was unnecessary.

The cargo people brought over a rolling platform towed by a tractor for us to put the bikes on, but we only got as far as Gary's bike before abandoning that idea; without tie-downs or rope of any kind, the bikes, supported only by their sidestands, would never make it upright on this rickety platform. Instead, we pushed the bikes almost half a mile (since we had no gas) as far as the runway, where the airline's personnel had to take over for security reasons; they pushed the bikes all the way to the plane, another half mile. Although the effort left us tired and sweaty (it was early, but already hot), we got a good laugh out of the whole thing. After all the delays and problems, how appropriate to have to push our bikes out of Bolivia.

As we checked in at the ticket counter, we ganged up on a newspaper vendor and bought him out of the El Deber and El Mundo papers; an article on us was in both of them. [Check these articles out, if you can read Spanish, from these hot links or from the index.] A small contingent of AeroSur employees ushered us quickly out onto the tarmac and to the awaiting plane. The bikes had yet to be loaded, and as we snapped a couple quick photos, it became painfully obvious that the plane's cargo hold and especially its door were too small to fit the bikes.

Square Peg - Round Hole

The plane was already late, thanks in large part to the persistent but futile efforts of the ground crew to get the bikes in, so we finally had to admit defeat and let the plane go without us, though it did take our checked luggage. The next flight wasn't until 3:00 pm. From the looks of it, if we removed our Pelican cases and dropped the front forks, maybe, just maybe, the bikes would fit. In a shaded area behind the terminal, we made the adjustments to the bikes.

We had a few hours to kill, but had no way to go anywhere with the bikes in shipping condition. Wanting to be as helpful as possible, an AeroSur van drove us back into the city. Pia, a super-friendly airline employee, accompanied us and even knew where the Salvatierra's lived since she was a friend of the family (who wasn't in this town?). No one was home except the housekeeping staff; their surprise at our return was not at all unexpected.

In the lap of luxury
After a short nap poolside, Juan Carlos sent a cab for us so we could join him and Cynthia for lunch one last time at his parent's house. Again, everyone was surprised but delighted to see us, and we met even more of the Salvatierra clan. A VISAL employee drove us back out to the airport at 1:00 pm; we wanted to be on hand to supervise the loading of the bikes.

The afternoon flight was on an even smaller plane, and immediately we thought we'd never get out of Bolivia. Once again, a bike was sent up the luggage conveyer belt to the cargo door and once again, it wouldn't fit. Let's try to bring it in at a diagonal, someone suggested. Good idea, tough to execute, didn't work. Why don't we just load it sideways? Bad idea, really tough to execute, but lo and behold, the bike went in, dragged into the bowels of the plane on its side and left in that position while the other two bikes were dragged in after it and more or less plopped on top of each other. The bikes had been on their sides before, but only unintentionally and just long enough to snap a photo before hauling it back upright. It would be a miracle if they made it that way without ill effects. But we had no choice, and the bikes were already loaded.

The flight was short and sweet. The plane flew low over the eastern jungles of Bolivia, allowing us to see the thick lush vegetation. If there was a road through this mass of green, we couldn't see a trace of it and were thankful to be over it instead of in it. At one point, we noticed a man in the next row reading one of the newspaper articles on us, a very bizarre experience that left us feeling a little big-headed.

Big Head!

All three of us were excited to be finally moving on to another country. We jabbered on and on like little children the whole flight, laughing and playing silly little games with the flight attendants. We also tried not to think about our bikes lying prone directly under us.

The plane landed in Corumba, which is in Brasil, even though officially the flight is to Puerto Suarez in Bolivia. But since there is no airport there, everyone just deplanes in Brasil and takes a cab 10 kms back across the border. We had received an exit stamp in our passports at the airport in Santa Cruz and didn't know why. Now we knew. But this also meant the bikes were already in Brasil without going through customs. We were curious how this was going to work, but first we had to get the bikes out of the plane.

Obviously someone had called ahead to Corumba and told them to take good care of us. A small army of young, strong lads quickly and carefully pulled the bikes out while an older official-looking chap supervised. The bikes looked okay, no precious fluids leaking out anywhere, and they rolled okay, no bent tires or rims. We took them off to the side to put them back together under the curious eyes of passengers coming and going on different flights.

If it was hot in Santa Cruz, it was boiling in Corumba, and humid. Without a shaded area to work, we were soon pouring with sweat. The work proceeded quickly, and a cab was arranged to go out and get enough gas for us to ride out of the airport. We tested the rideability of the bikes with a couple of laps around the runway. We were hoping for an airplane to race, but didn't get the chance. Still, it's not every day that we get an open runway all to ourselves to kick up a little speed.

We drove out of the airport into the city of Corumba and the great country of Brasil, free and unfettered and totally undocumented. We had neither a passport stamp, a tourist card, nor customs paperwork. We were told to go to the border with Bolivia outside of town to take care of business.

Driving through town, reading all the store fronts and billboards and traffic signs in Portuguese, we thrilled for the eleventh time at being in a new country, a tremendous feeling of excitement and expectation that was no less than when we first crossed into Mexico - on the contrary, and especially with Brasil, a major destination on the Riding to the Moon itinerary and a true emotional milestone.

It was already early in the evening and the border was closed when we got there. A lone Brazilian border guard informed us that customs is done in town anyway, but that it would have to wait until morning when they open. We wondered if we should cross back into Bolivia, where we were legal, or turn around and go back to Corumba. We opted for Corumba, half expecting the border guard to shoot at us for entering his country illegally. His gun remained in his holster, however, and we drove back into Corumba, as confused as ever.

We exchanged some money at a nice hotel that was way out of our price range and went to enjoy our first mouthfuls of Brazilian food - rice and beans, yucca and farofa, and the delicious soda beverage Guarana - at a cheap buffet style restaurant. This place was to become the equivalent of "24" in Panama; we would eat there several more times before leaving Corumba.

After dinner we found lodging at a cheaper hotel around the corner. The Hotel Santa Maria was one of those "four walls with three beds and we lucked out with a bathroom" kind, but they had a large secure parking lot in the back. Sleeping was none too easy due to the heat and the mosquitos, but we managed all right after such a long and busy day.

Miles - 26

Our first stop on the merry-go-round of Brasilian bureaucracy was the customs office. The pleasant man behind the counter looked at our motorcycle documents and told us we first needed a tourist card and passport stamp from the police. At the police station, they looked at the Bolivian exit stamp we'd gotten at the Santa Cruz airport and said that it was insufficient. We needed one from the land border at Puerto Suarez. Thoroughly confused as to why but not wanting to argue, as some young Israelis were doing next to us, we hopped on the bikes and went off again to the border.

We didn't want to deal with exit paperwork for the bikes since they were already in Brasil, so we parked the bikes on the Brasil side and walked back into Bolivia. The man doling out the exit stamps had read the article on us in the newspaper, and recognizing us from the photo, asked where the bikes were. Obviously he was just as uneager to do more paperwork and stamped our passports with a knowing wink. Buen Viaje, he called after us as we walked hurriedly back to Brasil.

Adios, Bolivia... Finally!

The Brasilian police stamped our passports and issued our tourist cards quickly. One cop, Rogerio, spoke good English and was leaving soon to train with the FBI in the United States. We chatted with him for a few minutes about the trip and about Brasil. It was nice to make a friend in a position of authority so soon. We rushed back to the customs office, but they only had enough time to welcome us back before they closed up for lunch.

We went for the second time to Galpao, our favorite restaurant. The friendly waiter was glad to see us again. He even invited us to a party that night (which we never made it to). Our Brasilian money ran out after paying, so we went in search of more dineiro. None of the ATMs in town accepted our cards, and all the banks told us to go to Banco do Brasil for cash advances on our credit cards. David's went through fine, but Gary's request was denied by the VISA computers. A quick call to his bank in the U.S. told him he had asked for over his daily limit. The woman at Banco do Brasil was unwilling to try again, but Gary insisted that it would go through this time for less money. He was right.

Would you happen to have a No. 2 pencil?

The customs office opened its doors right on time at 1:00 pm and began working on our forms straight away. At one point in the process, a customs official put a piece of paper against the embossed vehicle number on the steering column of each bike and made a pencil rubbing of the number. Needless to say, this was a first, but certainly a good way to get the number right. While they finished up our papers, the three of us chatted with a very friendly woman in the office. Actually, Alex did most of the chatting since he speaks a fair amount of Portuguese. Gary tried to hang in there, catching the jist of the conversation but missing most of the words. David interjected with some Spanish every once in a while, which actually works in Corumba; because it is on the border, many people in Corumba speak or at least understand Spanish.

Finally, everything was finished; we had exit stamps, entry stamps, visas, tourist cards, temporary vehicle importation forms - you name it, we had it. We were now free to go anywhere in Brasil, the sixth largest country in the world. Alex knew where he was going and as soon as possible - to Sao Paulo to see his mother and brother. He'd called the night before and they were eagerly awaiting him. David and Gary gave him some essential supplies for being on his own - tire tools, Camelback, extra money - and as he drove away, they waved goodbye like proud parents sending their kid off to summer camp.

Sao Paulo or Bust

David and Gary were actually not going anywhere for a few days. Corumba is at the doorstep of the Pantanal and a good place to find a tour into this watery world of wildlife. After a couple calls to tour guides listed in the guidebook, none of whom seemed too enthusiastic about taking only 2 people into the jungle, we spoke to Gil of Gil's Eco Tours. He spoke excellent English and couldn't have been more enthusiastic.

We went to his office to discuss the details. Greeting us at the door was a fit young man with a goatee and a long blonde ponytail, casually dressed in an old t-shirt, shorts, and sandals (the typical uniform of Corumba). Advising us to watch out for the blades of an unguarded fan placed in the corner of his small office, we sat down in front of a huge desk which took up at least a third of the room. All around him, on the walls, on the desk, piled up on filing cabinets, were newspaper articles, advertisements and photographs of his tours, items which he referred to constantly to prove the quality of his tours. In many of these pictures, young tourists were happily swimming in the river at the campsite while only a few feet away, large alligators swam or lazily lay on the small beach.

The tour begins with a four hour truck ride into the Panatanal, deeper than any other tour goes. A permanent camp is set up on a tributary of the Rio Negro with tents and hammocks and a cook. From there, guides would take us on walks into the jungle to see the flora and fauna. The price was right, $25 per person per day, and we could leave in the morning. The only drawback, he unabashadly explained, was the large number of young Israelis currently at the campsite. No problem, we assured him, being members of the tribe ourselves, we can handle a few Israelis.

The deal was done, we paid our money for a three day tour, and Gil told us to be in front of his office at 8:00 am to get on the truck. He also set us up right next door at the Hotel Brasil, a basic but cheap hotel where many of the people that go on his tours stay.

With a little time left before sunset, we went for a cruise through the streets of Corumba. Many of the residents were also out, enjoying the warm air, light breeze, and beautiful early evening light. As we drove, we marvelled at the racial diversity of Brasil. Blacks, whites, Europeans, Africans, Asians, and every imaginable mix intermingled easily without a hint of prejudism or separation. Not since Panama had we seen such a thing, and except for the indigenous people in Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia, we'd hardly seen any "minorities" or people of African or Asian descent.

On the way back from our little self-tour, the completely unbelievable happened. Gary got a flat tire. Without warning, there was a popping sound followed by a loud hiss. In less than a block, the front tire was completely flat. At the hotel, Gil responded to the incredulous look on Gary's face by telling him flats happen all the time in Corumba. But he didn't understand the significance of the event. After thousands of miles on bad to horrible roads and at least a 1000 miles on dirt and rocks, finally a flat tire.

We'd given our axel wrench to Alex, so we couldn't get the tire off to fix it ourselves (oops), and the local tire shop was closed. Since we wouldn't be riding for a few days anyway, we drove the bikes to a safe parking place, the Hotel Santa Maria from the night before, and arranged to leave them there.

One of the tour guides took us and some other guests of the Hotel Brasil to a churrascaria, a type of restaurant where waiters walk around with all kinds of meat on skewers and offer pieces or slices to you. Saying no or turning down a particular offer because it just looks too scary is like a slap in the face to the waiter. But eventually they'll find something you will eat and they load you up. Churrascaria unofficially means "meat-fest" but fortunately they also have a buffet with lots of vegetables.

At dinner we got our first taste of why Gil was warning us about the Israelis. The other dinner guests were all Israeli and they were all going on the tour, or had just been on. A friendly and energetic group, they just wouldn't stop talking loudly and seemingly arguing about something or another all during the meal. They all spoke English, as most Israelis do, so we had some conversations with them, but when they went off into Hebrew, we just sat there eating our chunks of meat. We guessed that the Pantanal would be the same, and the campsite wouldn't be the quietest place we'd ever been.

Miles - 26