Roads of Death

Alex, however, wanted just a little more time with his family. He was enjoying visiting them so much, and surely his mother didn't mind seeing her little boy for another day. We pulled out the maps and picked a spot where Alex could meet David and Gary the following night. It would mean a one-day 600 mile drive for Alex, but considering his super-human 900 mile drive to Sao Paulo, we knew he could do it.

David and Gary were also enjoying being with Alex's family and dragged their feet a bit getting out. One more trip down Avenida Paulista out into the suburbs past Prodigo Films and the duo were on the road out of town. Even being one of the world's biggest cities, Sao Paulo quickly ceded to lightly populated farmland and forests.

Brasilians have dubbed the highway south to Curitiba the Road of Death, and it quickly became apparent why. The high volume of traffic Brasilian-style, fast and passing as frequently as possible along the winding, hilly road, made a strong recipe for disaster. It didn't make things any easier that half the vehicles were semi-trucks. The past 11,000 miles, however, have been good practice, and David and Gary moved without incident through the traffic.

The weather was extremely hot and humid and the driving required a high degree of attention and concentration, forcing David and Gary to stop often along the road for a brief respite and rehydration. The drink of choice for the day was orange juice, freshly squeezed and served in a tall cold glass, but they could easily have chosen from about 20 other fruits if they had known what they were. The names were just as exotic as the fruits, and partially out of fear of mispronouncing them, they decided to just stick with good old "suco de laranja."

During these stops, it finally occurred to Gary why Brasilians always ask first where we are going instead of where we are from; since the day we'd gotten into Brasil it had been this way, a 180 degree shift from the entire trip so far. To begin with, in Brasil, with its wide variety of racial groups, unlike everywhere else, we didn't immediately appear as foreigners. Also, we had seen a number of long distance bikers on the road, mostly Brasilian judging from their license plates, and to the general public of Brasil, we could just as easily be one of them. Only after we stared blankly when confronted with Portuguese did people realize we weren't Brasilian. Then upon asking us where we were from, the usual shock appeared in their eyes.

The miles rolled away relatively easily for David and Gary, and the beautiful countryside was ample compensation for the difficult conditions. Groves of purple flowered trees dotted the green forests along the road. The sun went down just a short while before their goal for the day, and since the main road bypassed Curitiba, they didn't feel like detouring into town to find a cheap hotel. Instead, they found a traveler's motel attached to a gas station with - big surprise - bare rooms with a couple beds in them, bathroom across the hall, pillows made of shredded scrap foam chunks - and all this for only $22.

Before going to bed, David and Gary called Alex back in Sao Paulo to let him know they were on schedule, and they warned him about the drive he had ahead of him - beautiful but dangerous. David figured he and Gary had passed maybe 150 trucks. Alex promised he'd drive carefully and that we'd see him soon.

Miles - 270

Day 93 - Sunday, February 2nd
Curitiba to Torres


The Jugo Man

David and Gary made Florianopolis for lunch. The city is accessed by a long bridge across a channel to an island, the downtown area clustered on the western shore against the channel. The well-known sandy beaches are all outside the city on the far side of the island. Despite being a Sunday in the summer, the town seemed deserted; and the weather was warm but overcast, so it was doubtful everyone was at the beaches. So where was everyone?

I'll take your picture if you'll take mine

All the shops and restaurants were closed up, so David and Gary just cruised the streets until they found Mr. Pizza, a friendly fast-food type joint looking out across the water back to the mainland. After lunch, they snapped a few photos up on the waterfront walk then stopped in at the bus terminal to look at a Jornal do Brasil, just in case the article on us was in it, but it wasn't.

Other than near Florianopolis, the coastal road is not very coastal. It was rare to catch a glimpse of the water, not far away but hidden behind a range of low hills. Not since Belize had we seen this ocean, and that was really the Caribbean Sea anyway. When it was in view, the idea that we'd crossed the South American continent from west to east at practically it's widest point filled our hearts with pride. But overall, there were far too few water views for our tastes.

David and Gary pulled into Torres, a small city on the coast where Alex knew to meet up with the others. They drove through the main drag and out to the beach. The sand was jam-packed with people, towels and umbrellas dotted the entire beach, many people were swimming in the surf or playing volleyball. The whole scene was so inviting, the bikers dropped a little more cash than usual in order to get a hotel close to the water, unpacked, and got out to the beach as quickly as possible. There was still a few hours left of sunlight to relax and enjoy the sweet Brasilian life.

As David and Gary walked along the water, a familiar whistling sound wafted through the air from the nearby street, the sound of a KLR cruising along slowly in low gear. David and Gary took off running barefoot out to the street and could see Alex's taillight down the block and getting farther away. Whether the traffic slowed him down or he was gawking at the bathers on the crowded beach, David and Gary caught him after a few hundred yards. He was just as surprised to see them as they had been to hear his bike, still hours before the pre-arranged meeting time of 8:00 pm.

Alex took his stuff over to the hotel and told his story of the day. The extra time with his family had been very special, spent just hanging out and enjoying being together. He'd gotten up early to begin the long drive to Torres. The truck traffic and heat were just as the others had said, but he'd fallen into an auto-pilot state and just cruised through the miles. Still, the 600 miles had taken him nearly 12 hours. All he wanted to do after such a drive was strip down to something more comfortable than his riding clothes and boots and get out to the beach.

A perfect day on the beach

Until the sun set a few hours later, we all strolled up and down the beach and enjoyed the warm sunshine. David tried to get in on a game of volleyball, but the wait list was longer than our patience. In the ending light of day, when the crowds on the beach thinned out considerably, we went back to the hotel under a flamigo pink sky to fetch the bikes and do a bit of beach riding.

It was a bit squirrelly until we reached the water's edge, then the harder sand provided a stable surface for the bikes. We drove slowly about a half-mile down the beach, laughing like little boys as an occasional rush of water came up high enough to surround our tires. When we began to see more from our headlights than from the light in the sky, we turned around and rode off the beach, smiling from our little joyride. We never could have known how this was only a hint of what was to come soon.

We dined sumptiously on hot dogs piled high with all manner of condiments and other things - corn, peas, shredded carrots. Some young Brasilians taking their vacation in Torres tipped us off on where to go at night - the Bulldog Bar on the beach. Sure enough, the crowd was exceptionally attractive (and young) and we passed the night chatting with each other and the owner, who had come over to meet us and learn about the trip.

Miles - 372