Take the Beach

Day 94 - Monday, February 3rd
Torres to San Jose du Norte

It's very hard to get on the bikes and leave someplace as enjoyable as a beachside resort town. Furthermore, our hotel room was a lot more comfortable than the bare four walls and tiny beds we'd grown accustomed to. Still, we were on a tight schedule to get to Buenos Aires and then Ushuaia, so begrudgingly we loaded up and drove out of the hotel.

Must you eat and run, Gary?

Since it was almost noon (yikes), we had a quick bite to eat at a cheap buffet restaurant on the edge of town. David was particularly happy to be in a smoke-free environment for once. Indoor smoking laws were slow arriving in Latin America, and most places we'd been, particularly nightspots, left him reeling from the smoky air. And in staunch support of the American Cancer Society, David was never hesitant reminding people who sparked up in front of him that smoking causes cancer. It is the Surgeon General's warning , don't ya know!

An alternate road out of town called the Estrada do Mar sounded like it would give us more glances of the sea than the main road south, but in reality, the same range of hills blocked our view most of the way. The traffic, however, was extremely light and we covered a lot of miles rather quickly. A short stretch of dirt road was our first clue that things were about to get interesting.

From the map, we could tell that at a certain point the pavement was more than likely going to end and it would be a while till it began again. At a fuel stop in a small beachside community, we inquired as to the condition of the road ahead, and sure enough, we were told that it was all sand. The suggestion was to not take the road at all, but instead to take the beach. Well, that was a new one on us, and we expressed some doubt. The locals insisted it was better and that almost everyone does it. Okay, if you say so.

The road out to the beach was all sand as well, mostly hard-packed, but a couple soft spots had our back ends doing the shimmy. Would it be better on the beach? A couple dozen bathers watched in amusement as we cautiously moved our bikes onto the beach. Wheel tracks about 50 yards from the water headed off south parallel to the surf. We assumed this was the unofficial "road" and followed the tracks.

Blinding sun? No, blinding skin!

Over all, it wasn't too bad. All the previous vehicles had packed the sand pretty well, and the Trailmax tires, intended for a moderate amount of off-road use, gripped well on the sand. In no time, the sheer enjoyment of riding on the beach surpassed our trepidation, and our speed increased as our confidence grew. We even passed some slower moving cars and trucks.

We were soon putting the notion of "give it gas" to the ultimate test. At times, the hard sand loosened up into the typical soft dry stuff, and if you didn't keep your speed or even pour on the throttle, either the front end would plow or the back would swing too far out to the side; wiping out was the end result of both. Gary learned this the hard way, and only once, but as Jay had said so long ago, you can't hurt the bike or yourself in the sand.

After about 20 miles, the road became increasingly softer or even faded away altogether. The high beach just wasn't too much fun anymore, and with little choice, we moved closer to the water. Good decision. Just as the day before in Torres, the sand was much firmer close to the water, and we were soon zooming along the surf with utter joy. The occasional stream of water that lead to beach pools provided a little excitement to the ride, the eroded troughs pushing our suspension to the max and providing us with the opportunity to catch a little air. 600 pounds catching air. Like elephants in ballerina tights!

For the next 80 miles, we had the time of our lives. The sky was cloudless, the temperature warm, and the beach was straight as an arrow. We wouldn't have traded those 80 miles for anything in the world. Towns were easily over 20 miles apart, and for long periods of time, we were the only visible life forms on the beach, except for the occasional bird and two rotting boats that had been beached who knows how long ago.

Boys, it just don't get better than this

San Jose do Norte marked the end of the beach ride. The proprietor of a small beachside restaurant and some townies having a drink inside watched us ride up from the water's edge, glowing with happiness and a bit wet from the seaspray. We munched on delicious fried tortas de camarao (shrimp empanadas), drank Guarana, and chatted with everyone about travelling. David had the chance to feed his growing maté habit that he'd started in Bolivia and progressed rapidly on in Sao Paulo.

All day long, we'd wanted to find a nice secluded spot on the beach, park, and just spread our sleeping bags out on the sand. We had spent so much time in the restaurant, it was now pitch dark outside, so we decided to just walk a few hundred yards up the beach and flop down somewhere in the dunes. The owner of the restaurant let us put our bikes up on the patio and our gear inside the restaurant, locked up safe for the night.

Only one problem - David's bike wouldn't start. It would backfire, getting Alex all flustered, but no vroom, vroom. We lifted it up onto the patio into the light to take a look at it. David guessed correctly that it was the sparkplug, fouled from all the sand and saltwater. We removed the tank and pulled the offending piece. Gary had a spare, and the bike fired up right away. A couple young boys helped us hose down the bikes; saltwater and sand are not too good for the bike's more delicate metals and can quickly cause corrosion.

We tromped out to the edge of town along the beach until we found a dark spot between some dunes out of the wind. Laying out our bags, we barely had time to mumble agreement on what a spectacular day it had been before our heavy eyelids closed on their own accord, and the only sound was the sand softly shifting in the light breeze and peppering our Northface bags.

Miles - 291

As we washed the sand from between our toes, we took some time to drink a shot or two of cafezinho offered to us by the friendly women up early to open the restaurant, but time was of the essence to make the 9:00 a.m. ferry. Our beach ride had taken us to the end of a thin peninsula, and the only way back to the mainland was a ferry over to Rio Grande. If we missed it, we'd have to wait two hours for the next one. The ferry was back in town six kilometers down a sandy road, so confident from our sharpened sand skills, we fired up the bikes at 8:30 in order to have plenty of time to find the ferry.

Two out of three bikes started; Gary's engine just coughed and backfired, exactly like David's had the night before. In a flash, we dug for our tools, yanked off the tank, and replaced Gary's sparkplug with our last spare. As expected, the bike started up just fine.

Oy vey, you rode from where?

With ten minutes till 9, we sped off up the dirt road. Once in town, we went from corner to corner, asking anyone and everyone where the ferry was. We didn't even really listen to the directions, just looked for a pointing finger or anything indicating the direction to go in, then asked again at the next intersection so as not to make any mistakes. As we drove off we could hear them yelling something that we interpreted as, "but you had better hurry or you are gonna be late...and take a bath, would ya!" These tactics worked, and with seconds to spare, we drove our bikes up the rusted metal ramp and parked them amongst the big trucks loaded with onions.

The ferry, our third boat so far on the trip, took about 40 minutes to cross the wide mouth of the bay to Rio Grande do Sul. We drove off the boat and smack into the waiting microphone of Radio Cassino. What was so special about the boat to warrant the presence of the local radio station, we didn't know. It certainly wasn't us, but the reporter saw our stickered bikes pull off the boat and smelled a newsworthy story.

Little did he expect us to be so prepared and practiced. We even had our new fact sheet in Portuguese to show him. This he read into the microphone, presumably live on the air, and then he asked us questions, Alex answering as best as possible in Portuguese.

Hola, I mean, buon giorno, I mean hello... Bom Dia!

The whole impromptu interview took about 5 minutes, then a friendly spectator led us up the street on his bicycle to a shop to make copies of the fact sheet. The owner of the shop was so happy to meet us, he gave us a promotional bottle of wine to drink when we reached Ushuaia.

After a quick lunch in town, our new friend on his bicycle, Victor, led us out of town to the main road south. Of all the escorts we've had, this was the first by bicycle. He pedaled as fast as he could, but we never got out of first gear, and the next two miles were the slowest we'd ever driven. Nevertheless, we thanked him graciously for showing us the way, then we picked up the pace considerably and were gone.

We reached the border with Uruguay without incident a few hours later. We crossed out of Brasil very easily, surrendering our vehicle papers and getting yet another cherished stamp in our passports. With two more borders to cross, there wasn't much room left in these essential little books. Good thing we had enough room to start with, though supposedly any American embassy or consulate can add pages if necessary.

We set a personal record at the border with Uruguay. Because of the open border with Brasil, we almost passed through without even getting off the bikes until the guard realized we weren't Brasilian. As it was, it only took about 20 minutes to complete the necessary forms and receive our transit papers.

Nothing was too different in Uruguay, except a comfortable return for all of us to Spanish and the increase in wind. We'd already heard from Jim via e-mail and read about his windy ride through the pampas of Argentina. Although that was still a country away and many days south, it seems that Uruguay had enough of the same weather patterns to create quite a gale. The temperature began to drop rapidly, and the combination of wind and cold made us stop on the side of the road to put some more clothes on under our riding suits.

A steady rain fell about 30 miles outside of Punta del Este. We'd been looking forward to this famous resort town and another opportunity to relax on the beach, maybe even sleep out in the open again. Those dreams vanished along with the blue sky.

The approach to Punta del Este put us back on a road with the ocean on one side and beautiful, very expensive houses on the other. This was obviously a town with some serious cash. The string of high-fashion shops was further proof. The houses gave way to high-rise apartment buildings as we entered the center of Punta del Este, a busy, very fashionable modern city built up on a small jutting peninsula.

Sure enough, the normally crowded beaches were void of vacationers due to the bad weather, and with no other option, we forewent the beach ourselves and parked the bikes outside a café. Our dirty, loaded bikes raised a few eyebrows, but the airs of these people were a bit in the stratosphere, and no one stopped to ask us who we were, where we were from, or where we were going.

We paid a small fortune for simple sandwiches, fries and drink, and wondered how much of a loan we would need to afford a room for the night. The waiter suggested a cheap hotel around the corner. The hotel manager welcomed us warmly and showed us to a comfortable room with three beds, a bathroom and a bonus room with a sink that he said we could wash vegetables or fruits in if we wished. Why we would want to do that, we didn't ask.

As we pondered that suggestion he told us the room would cost 20. 20 what? David and Alex immediately felt relieved, thinking it would be about only $6 a person, but Gary withheld his judgement. They soon learned the manager meant $20 American EACH. Oh well, it was still getting away cheap for such a town and we consented.

The rain had abated, and the evening was cool and inviting. The streets were crowded with people strolling along the sidewalks, shopping at the expensive stores and munching on ice cream, seemingly a national pasttime. We cruised by a small arts fair and perused the tables loaded with locally made jewelry, clothing, and small objects of little to no practical purpose.

David made his first purchase towards a complete maté set; the small beautifully adorned bombilla, the metal straw used when drinking the popular beverage, caught his eye and he was so eager to buy it he didn't even try to bargain the price down. The perfect maté cup still eluded him, but he knew he'd find it before leaving South America. At least he had his straw.

The flashing lights of the cinema attracted our attention. The ticket seller assured us the movie was in English, so we paid the New York City prices and sat down to watch "_______." None of us were particularly impressed with the movie (obviously if we can't even remember the name), but the locals seemed to enjoy it. Guess there's no accounting for taste.

While the others went back to crash, David went for a stroll down the busy and highly cultured internationally flavored streets. He found a nice pastry shop and sat, drinking tea quietly, alone with his journal, going over the last 3 months trying to understand what life could be like back in the good ol' US of A. Squeezing an extra lemon slice into the cup, he came up with many more questions than answers to the needling feelings in his heart, but it was becoming clearer to him what changes were needed in his life. He realized then that he missed his family on the East coast dearly, that he wanted a child and to be married someday. None of these desires did his beloved Yolanda share with him. Ouch.

Not maté, just a cup of Earl Grey

Miles - 300