Leaving Uruguay would be a significant event as we would be leaving the last Spanish speaking country we are to visit on this trip and venture into the unknown world of Portuguese. We would be crossing the border through a small town on the coast that actually straddles both countries (Chuy in Uruguay and Chui in Brazil). Now every time we crossed a border until this point both countries had their border control personnel either in the same building at the border on in two separate buildings on either side but both with gates that you cannot not cross without your import permit and/or visas. Seeing as how it was a major hassle for me to acquire my Brazilian visa, I was assuming that they’d be eager to inspect it at the border. In reality we drove back and forth across the border three times searching out someone who could stamp us out of Uruguay and into Brazil. We simply just kept driving past a sign welcoming us into Brazil and then welcoming us into Uruguay as we doubled back. We finally found a border control station about 7 kms into Brazil where they reviewed all our paperwork and gave us our import permit for El Diablo. Despite all the signs informing us of all the things we had to declare upon our entrance, they didn’t so much as glance at or into our car, we even had to tell them the color because they couldn’t be bothered looking. We were safely through.
As we got a late start that day we decided to drive until dark and then find a spot to sleep for the night. With brazil’s reputation preceding it as a dangerous country for gringos, we promised ourselves that we would never drive past dark. The thing is that the sun is now setting at about 6:30 leaving us with a lot of time to kill after we’re all parked up. We found a gas station with restaurant attached and figured this was as good a spot as any. We had our first Portuguese experience as we sat down in the restaurant and were handed a menu. Not a chance. You would think that after spending 3 months speaking Spanish that something would sound familiar in the neighboring country but we were totally lost. We settled on something cheap that sounded familiar and ate our deep fried steak in disgust and called it a night.
We started early the next day with our destination of a wine valley with an Italian and Swiss history. The first thing I noticed was just how difficult driving in Brazil was. In Argentina and Uruguay, towns are separated by hundreds of kms of mostly empty highway. Southern Brazil, on the other hand is densely populated and all the “highways” are one lane affairs with slow trucks and crazy drivers passing them with a death wish. As we were heading to wine valley, we obviously now had steep hills and mountains to contend with once again for the first time since Patagonia. Up and down and up and up we drove. On one particularly steep hill, El Diablo’s engine developed a ticking noise that kept getting louder and louder. As we climbed higher and higher and now down shifted into second gear we were going slower and slower. Down to first gear I shifted and realized she just didn’t have the punch to keep climbing – this wasn’t good. I pulled over into a gravel parking lot and she stalled – definitely not good.
We sat there for a good 15 minutes in disbelief, we both had the “this is as far as she goes feeling” before I even started fishing for clues as to what happened. As I was under the car admiring the black oil leaking from every orifice of the engine, oil pan and transmission, two guys wandered out of a nearby building to see what we were up to. This was our first real attempt to communicate in Portuguese and we failed miserably. I tried to explain to them in Spanish what had happened and after about 10 minutes of poking around themselves I learned that they don’t have a clue about engines either. A third guy that actually could understand some of our Spanish knew enough to call for a mechanic from Bento Goncalves, which was a mere 2 kms further uphill, before he hopped in a car and drove off.
As we got a late start that day we decided to drive until dark and then find a spot to sleep for the night. With brazil’s reputation preceding it as a dangerous country for gringos, we promised ourselves that we would never drive past dark. The thing is that the sun is now setting at about 6:30 leaving us with a lot of time to kill after we’re all parked up. We found a gas station with restaurant attached and figured this was as good a spot as any. We had our first Portuguese experience as we sat down in the restaurant and were handed a menu. Not a chance. You would think that after spending 3 months speaking Spanish that something would sound familiar in the neighboring country but we were totally lost. We settled on something cheap that sounded familiar and ate our deep fried steak in disgust and called it a night.
We started early the next day with our destination of a wine valley with an Italian and Swiss history. The first thing I noticed was just how difficult driving in Brazil was. In Argentina and Uruguay, towns are separated by hundreds of kms of mostly empty highway. Southern Brazil, on the other hand is densely populated and all the “highways” are one lane affairs with slow trucks and crazy drivers passing them with a death wish. As we were heading to wine valley, we obviously now had steep hills and mountains to contend with once again for the first time since Patagonia. Up and down and up and up we drove. On one particularly steep hill, El Diablo’s engine developed a ticking noise that kept getting louder and louder. As we climbed higher and higher and now down shifted into second gear we were going slower and slower. Down to first gear I shifted and realized she just didn’t have the punch to keep climbing – this wasn’t good. I pulled over into a gravel parking lot and she stalled – definitely not good.
We sat there for a good 15 minutes in disbelief, we both had the “this is as far as she goes feeling” before I even started fishing for clues as to what happened. As I was under the car admiring the black oil leaking from every orifice of the engine, oil pan and transmission, two guys wandered out of a nearby building to see what we were up to. This was our first real attempt to communicate in Portuguese and we failed miserably. I tried to explain to them in Spanish what had happened and after about 10 minutes of poking around themselves I learned that they don’t have a clue about engines either. A third guy that actually could understand some of our Spanish knew enough to call for a mechanic from Bento Goncalves, which was a mere 2 kms further uphill, before he hopped in a car and drove off.
An hour later, an energetic diesel mechanic rolled up on his motorcycle. The first and seemingly only thing we understood him say over and over was “ISUZU?!?!” as he seemed to be saying it a lot with either confusion or disgust. After a short once over and a listen to the engine trying to turn over, he decided that the problem was the fuel pump and that we needed to get the car towed to his garage in town. Fuel pump? That’s not so bad, we thought. So for the third time in our short ownership of El Diablo we watched as she was loaded onto yet another tow truck – poor girl.
Once back at the garage, Valter diagnosed that fuel was in fact getting to the engine which ruled out the fuel pump. As he was checking for compression in all 4 cylinders, he gave us the bad news…the 4th cylinder wasn’t firing. That coupled with the fact that water was spewing out of the exhaust only meant one thing…we blew another head gasket. The words rang in our heads like it was yesterday: Mario, the first mechanic from Mendoza saying “If you’re going to get this fixed it has to be done right or you’ll blow another head gasket.” Well, he was right. The “4x4 expert” that replaced the cylinder head back in Santiago failed to let us know that the bolts would need tightening after it reached certain temperatures. The translation for us, no matter in which language it was stated, was that we would need a new gasket. Not terrible news, we thought, as with a capable mechanic this would be a one day job. But the look on Valter’s face was signaling something much different. It became more clear why he was apprehensive about working on an ISUZU when he explained (mostly in sign language) that Isuzu cars simply don’t exist in Brazil and that finding parts for such an old one would be quite difficult. The speech went something like this: “Brazil (palms open facing down), no hay (finger waving side to side), ISUZU (pointing to El Diablo), repuestos (pointing to the engine followed by a flick of his hand under his chin) muyto tiempo (hand palm up bringing all 5 fingers together at the tips multiple times then tapping his wrist), dois o tres semanas (holding up two and then three fingers)”. We got it…we’re screwed.
With this news now weighing on our minds, and with the help of Valter’s son, we headed out in search of a place to sleep for the night. The first place he took us offered us a room with two single beds at a handsome price of roughly $160US/night…I think not. Next we tried to find one of two hotels listed in the Lonely Planet, which we found to be closed down…worst guide book ever. In search of the other hotel listed, and without the assistance of a map (again worst guide book ever), we wandered into a bakery to ask for directions. Little did we know at the time that this would be the trigger point of a story we'd probably tell our grandkids one day - "It all started when we walked into a bakery asking for directions". The woman behind the counter didn’t know where it was but asked a gentleman seated at the counter enjoying his lunch. When he didn’t know the street he took the guide book and asked the guy sitting next to him. When he didn’t know either, they thought the two guys besides them might be of some help. Within 5 minutes of entering the bakery, we now had 3 gentlemen all on their cell phones calling around town trying to find us some accommodation and a 4th that stepped out to visit a nearby B&B to see if he could secure us a room. The problem was that there was a “furniture fair” in town and all the rooms were completely booked out. When a 5th gentleman walked in dressed in a suit, he was roped into the search and was on his smartphone searching for phone numbers before we were even introduced to him. All he knew was that two Australians (now would be a good time to tell everyone that throughout South America I have been introducing us as Australian as Americans aren’t taken kindly to and Australia is seen as a land far away that no one really knows anything about…much easier) were in the need of a room and he was all in to help out.
Right around the time the 4th guy came back to let us know that the B&B only had a room that sleeps 6, the gentleman in the suit informed us that he scored us posada (basically a room in someone’s house that they rent out), or if that didn’t suit us he had a friend with a motel nearby that would only cost us about $70US. We thought we’d give the posada a try and before we knew it we were in the back of his volkswagon with gentleman #1 sitting shotgun. Day 2 in Brazil, and already in a stranger’s car. The place seemed very nice with a very pleasant host but it was about 6 kms from town and didn’t accept credit cards which would make it impossible for us to stay there. Fine, to the motel we shall go.
Now when everyone reading this blog hears “motel”, you would think the same as what we thought, drab basic accommodation without character, usually fairly clean. What we found was a horse of a completely different color. We pulled up to a garage door with no signs on the outside of the building that would distinguish it from an empty warehouse. Suit guy rings the bell and explains through the intercom that he has two Australians in the car that require accommodation for the evening. The garage door opens and we drive through and around the corner where we run into another garage door. Suit guy explains again through a different intercom about how these Australians’ car broke down and now need a place to stay. He then turned to me and said this was where I had to pay. When I asked how much, he springs on me that it costs 35 real ($20US) for the first two hours and 7 real for each hour thereafter. What kind of motel was this? A bit strange I thought, but went ahead and prepaid for the night. To pay I would put my credit card in a drawer that opened up below the intercom…again, bit odd. Once payment was accepted, another garage door (one in a row of about 10 garage doors) opened up behind us (seemed like the start of a horror movie.) This needed some explaining. Gentleman #1 escorted us into the garage and up a flight of stairs that led into our room. The room was simple but clean. He showed us where the shower and bathroom were and the remote for the TV (quite a luxury in South America). When we asked where some nearby restaurants were that we could have dinner, he quickly shook a finger at us and told us not to leave this room until morning as it was not safe. But then went on to say they have room service here. Just pick up the phone and tell reception what we wanted, very civilized. He showed us the menus, the first had pizzas, the second one with hamburgers, and the third…”well never mind that one” he said. With that he excused himself and I showed him out the garage, thanked him for all his help and closed the door behind him.
Once back at the garage, Valter diagnosed that fuel was in fact getting to the engine which ruled out the fuel pump. As he was checking for compression in all 4 cylinders, he gave us the bad news…the 4th cylinder wasn’t firing. That coupled with the fact that water was spewing out of the exhaust only meant one thing…we blew another head gasket. The words rang in our heads like it was yesterday: Mario, the first mechanic from Mendoza saying “If you’re going to get this fixed it has to be done right or you’ll blow another head gasket.” Well, he was right. The “4x4 expert” that replaced the cylinder head back in Santiago failed to let us know that the bolts would need tightening after it reached certain temperatures. The translation for us, no matter in which language it was stated, was that we would need a new gasket. Not terrible news, we thought, as with a capable mechanic this would be a one day job. But the look on Valter’s face was signaling something much different. It became more clear why he was apprehensive about working on an ISUZU when he explained (mostly in sign language) that Isuzu cars simply don’t exist in Brazil and that finding parts for such an old one would be quite difficult. The speech went something like this: “Brazil (palms open facing down), no hay (finger waving side to side), ISUZU (pointing to El Diablo), repuestos (pointing to the engine followed by a flick of his hand under his chin) muyto tiempo (hand palm up bringing all 5 fingers together at the tips multiple times then tapping his wrist), dois o tres semanas (holding up two and then three fingers)”. We got it…we’re screwed.
With this news now weighing on our minds, and with the help of Valter’s son, we headed out in search of a place to sleep for the night. The first place he took us offered us a room with two single beds at a handsome price of roughly $160US/night…I think not. Next we tried to find one of two hotels listed in the Lonely Planet, which we found to be closed down…worst guide book ever. In search of the other hotel listed, and without the assistance of a map (again worst guide book ever), we wandered into a bakery to ask for directions. Little did we know at the time that this would be the trigger point of a story we'd probably tell our grandkids one day - "It all started when we walked into a bakery asking for directions". The woman behind the counter didn’t know where it was but asked a gentleman seated at the counter enjoying his lunch. When he didn’t know the street he took the guide book and asked the guy sitting next to him. When he didn’t know either, they thought the two guys besides them might be of some help. Within 5 minutes of entering the bakery, we now had 3 gentlemen all on their cell phones calling around town trying to find us some accommodation and a 4th that stepped out to visit a nearby B&B to see if he could secure us a room. The problem was that there was a “furniture fair” in town and all the rooms were completely booked out. When a 5th gentleman walked in dressed in a suit, he was roped into the search and was on his smartphone searching for phone numbers before we were even introduced to him. All he knew was that two Australians (now would be a good time to tell everyone that throughout South America I have been introducing us as Australian as Americans aren’t taken kindly to and Australia is seen as a land far away that no one really knows anything about…much easier) were in the need of a room and he was all in to help out.
Right around the time the 4th guy came back to let us know that the B&B only had a room that sleeps 6, the gentleman in the suit informed us that he scored us posada (basically a room in someone’s house that they rent out), or if that didn’t suit us he had a friend with a motel nearby that would only cost us about $70US. We thought we’d give the posada a try and before we knew it we were in the back of his volkswagon with gentleman #1 sitting shotgun. Day 2 in Brazil, and already in a stranger’s car. The place seemed very nice with a very pleasant host but it was about 6 kms from town and didn’t accept credit cards which would make it impossible for us to stay there. Fine, to the motel we shall go.
Now when everyone reading this blog hears “motel”, you would think the same as what we thought, drab basic accommodation without character, usually fairly clean. What we found was a horse of a completely different color. We pulled up to a garage door with no signs on the outside of the building that would distinguish it from an empty warehouse. Suit guy rings the bell and explains through the intercom that he has two Australians in the car that require accommodation for the evening. The garage door opens and we drive through and around the corner where we run into another garage door. Suit guy explains again through a different intercom about how these Australians’ car broke down and now need a place to stay. He then turned to me and said this was where I had to pay. When I asked how much, he springs on me that it costs 35 real ($20US) for the first two hours and 7 real for each hour thereafter. What kind of motel was this? A bit strange I thought, but went ahead and prepaid for the night. To pay I would put my credit card in a drawer that opened up below the intercom…again, bit odd. Once payment was accepted, another garage door (one in a row of about 10 garage doors) opened up behind us (seemed like the start of a horror movie.) This needed some explaining. Gentleman #1 escorted us into the garage and up a flight of stairs that led into our room. The room was simple but clean. He showed us where the shower and bathroom were and the remote for the TV (quite a luxury in South America). When we asked where some nearby restaurants were that we could have dinner, he quickly shook a finger at us and told us not to leave this room until morning as it was not safe. But then went on to say they have room service here. Just pick up the phone and tell reception what we wanted, very civilized. He showed us the menus, the first had pizzas, the second one with hamburgers, and the third…”well never mind that one” he said. With that he excused himself and I showed him out the garage, thanked him for all his help and closed the door behind him.
When I got back up to the room, Jo confirmed what I was already suspecting, that the third menu he didn’t elaborate on contained an assortment of sex toys and dildos…that’s right, we are staying in a pay by the hour sex motel. As if we needed more confirmation, we turned on the TV to see if there was anything in English. Well there was, but it was more moaning than anything else to be honest with you. Two channels came through clearly: Playboy channel in English and then some Brazilian porn on the other channel – this would be an interesting night. Once we got settled in and had a lie down on the plastic covered mattress (makes sense), we thought we’d order some dinner. We opted for a pizza and picked up the phone to let reception know what kind. She understood my order but I definitely didn’t understand her directions of how to pay or receive our dinner. So when after 15 a buzzer went off in our room we were completely dumbfounded. I first opened the room door which I should have known wouldn’t have anyone there as it led to our garage. When I went down into the garage and tried to push the same button that closed the garage to now open it. This is the point I realized that we were actually locked into our room. Without finding a pizza delivery guy I went back up to the room clueless of what the buzzer meant. It went off again. Hmmm. Now the phone started ringing. The woman from reception was saying something about a box. Jo pointed me towards a small door about 2 ft. square located above the desk. I opened up the door and it was empty with another door on the back side of it. Is the pizza guy on the other side of the door? Do I leave my money in the box? Have dildos been passed through this passage way before?
I decided to put money in there and close my side. I opened it back up 10 seconds later to the surprise of someone on the other side who quickly slammed their side shut. This was quickly followed by another phone call from reception who I believe scolded me for prematurely opening up my side. A minute later the buzzer went again and we opened our side of the box to find our dinner waiting inside…what a debacle that was. We tried to stomach as much of the dinner as possible while being serenaded by what was either screams of a woman being murdered in the next room or just some very vocal orgasms. We couldn’t wait for the sun to rise. We counted about a dozen times that we were awoken by the sound of nearby garage doors opening and closing…business was good that tuesday night.
When I got back up to the room, Jo confirmed what I was already suspecting, that the third menu he didn’t elaborate on contained an assortment of sex toys and dildos…that’s right, we are staying in a pay by the hour sex motel. As if we needed more confirmation, we turned on the TV to see if there was anything in English. Well there was, but it was more moaning than anything else to be honest with you. Two channels came through clearly: Playboy channel in English and then some Brazilian porn on the other channel – this would be an interesting night. Once we got settled in and had a lie down on the plastic covered mattress (makes sense), we thought we’d order some dinner. We opted for a pizza and picked up the phone to let reception know what kind. She understood my order but I definitely didn’t understand her directions of how to pay or receive our dinner. So when after 15 a buzzer went off in our room we were completely dumbfounded. I first opened the room door which I should have known wouldn’t have anyone there as it led to our garage. When I went down into the garage and tried to push the same button that closed the garage to now open it. This is the point I realized that we were actually locked into our room. Without finding a pizza delivery guy I went back up to the room clueless of what the buzzer meant. It went off again. Hmmm. Now the phone started ringing. The woman from reception was saying something about a box. Jo pointed me towards a small door about 2 ft. square located above the desk. I opened up the door and it was empty with another door on the back side of it. Is the pizza guy on the other side of the door? Do I leave my money in the box? Have dildos been passed through this passage way before?
I decided to put money in there and close my side. I opened it back up 10 seconds later to the surprise of someone on the other side who quickly slammed their side shut. This was quickly followed by another phone call from reception who I believe scolded me for prematurely opening up my side. A minute later the buzzer went again and we opened our side of the box to find our dinner waiting inside…what a debacle that was. We tried to stomach as much of the dinner as possible while being serenaded by what was either screams of a woman being murdered in the next room or just some very vocal orgasms. We couldn’t wait for the sun to rise. We counted about a dozen times that we were awoken by the sound of nearby garage doors opening and closing…business was good that tuesday night.
When morning finally broke we realized that we would have to leave this discreet place where no one sees the others’ faces by means of a taxi – one who would definitely get a good look at the couple he is picking up from the sex motel. I’m sure the town of Bento Goncalves is still talking about the Aussie couple that stayed at their finest sex motel that night. We had the taxi take us straight to an internet café where we could plot our next move. We concocted a “just in case” plan, one that would have us staying someplace where they charge by the night rather than by the hour, that would have us at the beach by the next day should Valter have bad news for us. And of course, once we returned to his garage, Valter clued us into what he had learned – that not a single one of his suppliers could get him the requisite gasket in less than 2-3 weeks time.
I decided to put money in there and close my side. I opened it back up 10 seconds later to the surprise of someone on the other side who quickly slammed their side shut. This was quickly followed by another phone call from reception who I believe scolded me for prematurely opening up my side. A minute later the buzzer went again and we opened our side of the box to find our dinner waiting inside…what a debacle that was. We tried to stomach as much of the dinner as possible while being serenaded by what was either screams of a woman being murdered in the next room or just some very vocal orgasms. We couldn’t wait for the sun to rise. We counted about a dozen times that we were awoken by the sound of nearby garage doors opening and closing…business was good that tuesday night.
When I got back up to the room, Jo confirmed what I was already suspecting, that the third menu he didn’t elaborate on contained an assortment of sex toys and dildos…that’s right, we are staying in a pay by the hour sex motel. As if we needed more confirmation, we turned on the TV to see if there was anything in English. Well there was, but it was more moaning than anything else to be honest with you. Two channels came through clearly: Playboy channel in English and then some Brazilian porn on the other channel – this would be an interesting night. Once we got settled in and had a lie down on the plastic covered mattress (makes sense), we thought we’d order some dinner. We opted for a pizza and picked up the phone to let reception know what kind. She understood my order but I definitely didn’t understand her directions of how to pay or receive our dinner. So when after 15 a buzzer went off in our room we were completely dumbfounded. I first opened the room door which I should have known wouldn’t have anyone there as it led to our garage. When I went down into the garage and tried to push the same button that closed the garage to now open it. This is the point I realized that we were actually locked into our room. Without finding a pizza delivery guy I went back up to the room clueless of what the buzzer meant. It went off again. Hmmm. Now the phone started ringing. The woman from reception was saying something about a box. Jo pointed me towards a small door about 2 ft. square located above the desk. I opened up the door and it was empty with another door on the back side of it. Is the pizza guy on the other side of the door? Do I leave my money in the box? Have dildos been passed through this passage way before?
I decided to put money in there and close my side. I opened it back up 10 seconds later to the surprise of someone on the other side who quickly slammed their side shut. This was quickly followed by another phone call from reception who I believe scolded me for prematurely opening up my side. A minute later the buzzer went again and we opened our side of the box to find our dinner waiting inside…what a debacle that was. We tried to stomach as much of the dinner as possible while being serenaded by what was either screams of a woman being murdered in the next room or just some very vocal orgasms. We couldn’t wait for the sun to rise. We counted about a dozen times that we were awoken by the sound of nearby garage doors opening and closing…business was good that tuesday night.
When morning finally broke we realized that we would have to leave this discreet place where no one sees the others’ faces by means of a taxi – one who would definitely get a good look at the couple he is picking up from the sex motel. I’m sure the town of Bento Goncalves is still talking about the Aussie couple that stayed at their finest sex motel that night. We had the taxi take us straight to an internet café where we could plot our next move. We concocted a “just in case” plan, one that would have us staying someplace where they charge by the night rather than by the hour, that would have us at the beach by the next day should Valter have bad news for us. And of course, once we returned to his garage, Valter clued us into what he had learned – that not a single one of his suppliers could get him the requisite gasket in less than 2-3 weeks time.
What I haven’t touched on much prior to this is that with our flight our of South America booked departing from Sao Paulo, Brazil, we had already resigned to the fact that we could not legally sell our car back in Chile and at this point were willing to take what we could get for the car when the time came. We didn’t realize the time would come this quickly however. With only 5 weeks left in our trip, waiting 3 weeks wasn’t really an option considering the staggering size of the country we were so desperate to explore. We looked at each other and were both in agreement that this would be as far as El Diablo would take us. It would have to be a quick farewell as we had 3 hours to pack up the entire contents of the car and get to the bus station for an overnight bus to Florianopolis. Valter must have made some calls because we must’ve had a few dozen people that stopped by to see what all the hub-bub was about. Valter had agreed to “buy” the car from us (for what amounted to be what we would get for scrap metal) even though he would not be able to legally register it in Brazil – he said he had plans to take her on fishing trips and one day push it in the river. He promised to send photos when he did.
It was bittersweet packing up the car for the last time. She became our home for our time in South America, a bit of a safe haven from the chaos at time. Comfy and clean. On the other hand, she was the one causing most of the chaos. At one point an elderly man who lived nearby came down while we were filming the packing up and signaled a shooting gun. Unsure what to make of this I quickly shut the camera off and threw it in the car. He carried on with his trigger finger and pointing to the car and our bags – was he trying to rob us? Was he asking if we had a gun? Was he trying to sell us a gun? Something definitely wasn’t translating. He wandered off back to his house and returned 5 minutes later with a present – a gas station keychain from the town, “something to remember us by” is what I imagine that he said as he handed it over. In return I gave him a bottle of mint liqueur we had purchased in Chile, he was ecstatic. Strange moment, but we were thankful it didn’t end in a shoot out.
After Valter handed over his hard earned pay for our heap of shit, he drove us to the bus station and helped us buy our tickets onward. One thing we can say is that with all the times El Diablo has broken down, it has definitely led us to some good honest mechanics (outside of Chile that is). We can’t say enough about how helpful complete strangers have been to us in our numerous times of need. We were definitely ready to begin the next chapter of our trip though, one that was a bit more predictable. That night we got an introduction into exploring Brazil by bus – not terrible but just not what we had envisioned when we planned this trip.
We arrived in Florianopolis at 6 am, before the car rental desks had opened. Florianopolis is a Europeanesque city that is the gateway to an island of the same name containing 43 pristine beaches scattered throughout its coastline. We would definitely need a car to explore. We got a good deal for a tiny hatchback for a week once the rental places opened two hours later and headed out on our way. Our first stop was the beach town of Barra do Lagoa. About 5 minutes after we checked into our pousada, we were passed out in our bed. The thing about overnight busses in Brazil is that they stop very frequently to let people on and off at bus stations, gas stations, bakeries, etc. and there is always the fear of someone grabbing one of your bags from under you. Needless to say we did not sleep very well that night and needed rest, and lots of it. When we finally ventured out and wandered to the beach, we found what had been missing from our trip – fun in the sun. We could get used to this! It wouldn’t be long before we stopped at one of the drink carts passing by and ordered two of their finest Caiprinhas (for those who don’t know, this is Brazil’s signature drink comprising of a crushed lime, two tablespoons of sugar and 5-6 shots of Cachaca – a sort of sugarcane rum that sells for less than bottled water). We were in heaven. Our troubles seemed to just melt away into the crashing waves as we were completely relaxed for literally the first time in months. Suddenly it was que sera sera, whatever will be will be.
It was bittersweet packing up the car for the last time. She became our home for our time in South America, a bit of a safe haven from the chaos at time. Comfy and clean. On the other hand, she was the one causing most of the chaos. At one point an elderly man who lived nearby came down while we were filming the packing up and signaled a shooting gun. Unsure what to make of this I quickly shut the camera off and threw it in the car. He carried on with his trigger finger and pointing to the car and our bags – was he trying to rob us? Was he asking if we had a gun? Was he trying to sell us a gun? Something definitely wasn’t translating. He wandered off back to his house and returned 5 minutes later with a present – a gas station keychain from the town, “something to remember us by” is what I imagine that he said as he handed it over. In return I gave him a bottle of mint liqueur we had purchased in Chile, he was ecstatic. Strange moment, but we were thankful it didn’t end in a shoot out.
After Valter handed over his hard earned pay for our heap of shit, he drove us to the bus station and helped us buy our tickets onward. One thing we can say is that with all the times El Diablo has broken down, it has definitely led us to some good honest mechanics (outside of Chile that is). We can’t say enough about how helpful complete strangers have been to us in our numerous times of need. We were definitely ready to begin the next chapter of our trip though, one that was a bit more predictable. That night we got an introduction into exploring Brazil by bus – not terrible but just not what we had envisioned when we planned this trip.
We arrived in Florianopolis at 6 am, before the car rental desks had opened. Florianopolis is a Europeanesque city that is the gateway to an island of the same name containing 43 pristine beaches scattered throughout its coastline. We would definitely need a car to explore. We got a good deal for a tiny hatchback for a week once the rental places opened two hours later and headed out on our way. Our first stop was the beach town of Barra do Lagoa. About 5 minutes after we checked into our pousada, we were passed out in our bed. The thing about overnight busses in Brazil is that they stop very frequently to let people on and off at bus stations, gas stations, bakeries, etc. and there is always the fear of someone grabbing one of your bags from under you. Needless to say we did not sleep very well that night and needed rest, and lots of it. When we finally ventured out and wandered to the beach, we found what had been missing from our trip – fun in the sun. We could get used to this! It wouldn’t be long before we stopped at one of the drink carts passing by and ordered two of their finest Caiprinhas (for those who don’t know, this is Brazil’s signature drink comprising of a crushed lime, two tablespoons of sugar and 5-6 shots of Cachaca – a sort of sugarcane rum that sells for less than bottled water). We were in heaven. Our troubles seemed to just melt away into the crashing waves as we were completely relaxed for literally the first time in months. Suddenly it was que sera sera, whatever will be will be.
We were able to fall into a bit of a rhythm in Florianopolis: wake up around 9, have a delicious breakfast, go for a run on the beach, quick shower, work on our tans while trying to decide which cart we’d buy our next caiprinha from, then have a quiet dinner. Life was good. We moved to a town further south called Campeche which was the launching point to a tiny island off the coast that we were told that we could not miss by our Buenos Aires hairdresser’s boyfriend. A daytrip out to the island was not cheap as a few speedboats had the transportation market cornered but it was well worth the cost. We were limited to 4 hours on the island as it is a national park and they limit the number of daily visitors but as the beach was protected from the open sea, the crystal clear calm waters were as close to the Caribbean as you would find in Southern Brazil. It was bliss.
Our final stop on Floripa was the biggest town called Lagoa located on inland lagoon. The main reason for staying there was to spend a few nights at the lively hostel Tucano House which has consistently been rated as one of the best in South America. It lived up the reviews as we found a great bunch of likeminded backpackers and better yet, two sibling owners that were passionate about their visitors having a good time. The highlight of our stay there was a hike the hostel organized to a deserted beach. Twenty of us set out for a “short” hike they said would be about 45 minutes. Well this trail was barely wide enough for one and snaked through thick jungle up and over a steep mountain. What made it more difficult for some were the surf boards they were lugging along. An hour and a half later we scrambled down the final few boulders and we rewarded with a breathtaking beach all to ourselves. We all quickly jumped into the sea as we were all covered in sweat from the trek in 95 degree heat. Now I said deserted but that’s not completely true. There are two full time residents on the beach that have “gotten lost” here and live in huts they constructed in the jungle between dunes just behind the beach…sounded like a good life to us and we briefly contemplated never leaving that spot. The owner and bartender (who made the trek with us) started a fire and prepared us chorizo bbq right there on the beach. The food coupled with a few rum and sprites that an Aussie couple brought along made for a perfect afternoon – life just doesn’t get much better than that.
Our week in Florianopolis went by way too quickly but with our daily worries about El Diablo a distant memory by this point and our skin atleast 4 shades darker, a week at the beach is just what the doctor ordered. Our next destination was one of the 7 natural wonders of the world: Iguazu Falls. Foz do Iguacu, the Brazilian town that is the gateway to the falls, was a brief 19 hr. bus ride away. Knowing this, we searched for and found a dirt cheap flight there on a budget airline, the thing is we first had to take a 5 hr bus to the airport – still better than 19. The tradeoff was well worth it and we arrived in the Foz do Iguacu airport with a reservation at a hostel and no idea how to get there. This is one of the joys of backpacking. Our Lonely Planet guidebook always had nice maps of the downtown areas of cities and towns but terrible instructions of how to get there from the airports or bus terminals. Approximate taxi ride fares aren’t always given and its hard not to get ripped off by greedy taxi drivers. We opted to get on the public bus that stopped at the airport that would take us down town. This was a much cheaper option as we paid $2 for the bus vs. the $45 we were quoted by a taxi, but we quickly wished we had just hopped a cab. The bus was jam packed and with all our possessions on our back (and fronts) at the time, the hour bus ride just wasn’t we needed at the time. Elbows in our backs and sides, smelly armpits all around us – the joys of backpacking. We got off at the end of the line but we still didn’t know how to get to our hostel from there. We broke down and took a $10 taxi ride from there as we were just exhausted.
Our final stop on Floripa was the biggest town called Lagoa located on inland lagoon. The main reason for staying there was to spend a few nights at the lively hostel Tucano House which has consistently been rated as one of the best in South America. It lived up the reviews as we found a great bunch of likeminded backpackers and better yet, two sibling owners that were passionate about their visitors having a good time. The highlight of our stay there was a hike the hostel organized to a deserted beach. Twenty of us set out for a “short” hike they said would be about 45 minutes. Well this trail was barely wide enough for one and snaked through thick jungle up and over a steep mountain. What made it more difficult for some were the surf boards they were lugging along. An hour and a half later we scrambled down the final few boulders and we rewarded with a breathtaking beach all to ourselves. We all quickly jumped into the sea as we were all covered in sweat from the trek in 95 degree heat. Now I said deserted but that’s not completely true. There are two full time residents on the beach that have “gotten lost” here and live in huts they constructed in the jungle between dunes just behind the beach…sounded like a good life to us and we briefly contemplated never leaving that spot. The owner and bartender (who made the trek with us) started a fire and prepared us chorizo bbq right there on the beach. The food coupled with a few rum and sprites that an Aussie couple brought along made for a perfect afternoon – life just doesn’t get much better than that.
Our week in Florianopolis went by way too quickly but with our daily worries about El Diablo a distant memory by this point and our skin atleast 4 shades darker, a week at the beach is just what the doctor ordered. Our next destination was one of the 7 natural wonders of the world: Iguazu Falls. Foz do Iguacu, the Brazilian town that is the gateway to the falls, was a brief 19 hr. bus ride away. Knowing this, we searched for and found a dirt cheap flight there on a budget airline, the thing is we first had to take a 5 hr bus to the airport – still better than 19. The tradeoff was well worth it and we arrived in the Foz do Iguacu airport with a reservation at a hostel and no idea how to get there. This is one of the joys of backpacking. Our Lonely Planet guidebook always had nice maps of the downtown areas of cities and towns but terrible instructions of how to get there from the airports or bus terminals. Approximate taxi ride fares aren’t always given and its hard not to get ripped off by greedy taxi drivers. We opted to get on the public bus that stopped at the airport that would take us down town. This was a much cheaper option as we paid $2 for the bus vs. the $45 we were quoted by a taxi, but we quickly wished we had just hopped a cab. The bus was jam packed and with all our possessions on our back (and fronts) at the time, the hour bus ride just wasn’t we needed at the time. Elbows in our backs and sides, smelly armpits all around us – the joys of backpacking. We got off at the end of the line but we still didn’t know how to get to our hostel from there. We broke down and took a $10 taxi ride from there as we were just exhausted.
We were greated by Joe and Giselli, the friendly owners of the Hostel Manga Rosa. It turns out that we arrived on Giselli’s birthday and when night fell, the hostel was packed with all their closest family and friends and we found ourselves reaping the benefits. Joe’s mom made quite the spread of local fish and salads followed by a half dozen cakes and pies. We felt like we were just staying at a local families’ house and joining in on the festivities.
Now as we saw it, we had two outings planned for the area: visit the falls from the Brazilian side and visit the falls from the Argentinian side. We would do the Brazilian side first as it seemed easier and we really didn’t feel like another public transport nightmare that day. Two public buses and about an hour later we arrived at the entrance to the falls. Being the day before Easter, this place was jam packed with Brazilians and Argentinians alike. The way to view the falls is by a single 3 km long walkway that starts at the top of the canyon and slowly works its way down to a mid tier of the falls. The walkway awards rather frequent vistas of portions of the 275 cumulative waterfalls that make up Iguazu. At the end, the walkway extends into the water and finishes above one of the waterfalls. From this vantage point, you are surrounded (260 degrees) by an unbelievable panorama of the entire spectacle. On this crowded day however, it took Jo and I a good 40 minutes of pushing and shoving and elbowing and squeezing until we finally made it out this prime viewing spot. I can honestly say that it was well worth the claustrophobia we endured to be able to take in that view, it is something that will always stay with me.
From there we took an elevator back up to the top of the canyon where we enjoyed a well overpriced average buffet overlooking the views before heading back to the hostel. That night we made friends with a kiwi couple which cooking our omelet dinner (it was delicious if you were wondering) and decided to head to the Argentinian side together with them in the morning. We pretty much had the route worked out: take public bus #50 from the corner to the central terminal, then change to the “bus to Argentina” somewhere just outside the terminal which would take us across both borders to a central terminal in Puerto Iguassu in Argentina where atleast we could communicate in Spanish to figure out which bus to take from there. Pretty sound plan we thought. Well being Easter Sunday, we waited at the corner for the first bus for about an hour before we decided that it wasn’t coming. Dejected, we contemplating a plan B. Joe the hostel owner strolled to the bus stop with a new guest that wanted to tag along with us and when we said the bus never came he didn’t hesitate to offer us a ride to the bus station. 5 of us plus Joe crammed into his little VW Gol and we were off. As we neared the bus station, he said he could might as well take us as far as the border. When we arrived there, he said he might as well just drive us all the way there. WOW, now that’s a hostelier that goes the extra mile (or 20 miles in this case).
The Argentinian side of the falls offered many more miles of trails and boardwalks as well as a quaint if not terribly slow train that took you to the trailheads. Our first stop would be a walkway to the mouth of Devil’s Throat, the iconic U-shaped waterfall. With all the upward mist created, it meant that raincoats were donned and that photos were difficult to take. Jo being Jo was able to snap a few keepers with minimal waterdrops on the lens – that’s my girl! The remainder of the day was spent taking hundreds of more photos and video clips of the immense falls as well as a few other permanent spectators: capuchin monkeys and lots of tropical birds. As impressive as they were, there’s only so many different angles you can view a waterfall from. At about 4 o’clock we were ready to head back…this time without a chauffeur. It started out easy enough, a 20 minute bus to the Argentina side central terminal, followed by a 5 minute wait and a bus change. Everything going swimmingly. The bus stopped at the Argentina border where everyone got off, went through all the border formalities and got back on the bus. 3 kms later at the Brazilian border only 7 of us got off as the rest of the passengers were Brazilian. The bus driver gave us a coupon and told us we’d be picked up by the next bus 30 minutes later. It took us a whole 3 minutes to get through the Brazilian border and we wondered why he couldn’t just wait for us. When the next bus pulled up, two Germans were at the front. When they started boarding they went to hand the coupons to the driver and he gave them a wave of the finger and a shake of his head. They got off and the bus went off. What was that all about? Another hour went by before we saw another bus heading in the right direction. This time I was first on. The same thing happened, the bus driver shook his finger no. Upon asking why he informed me that our coupons were for a different company and we had to wait for the next bus. I don’t think so. I simply told him that we were more than willing to pay the additional $1.50 each to get us on the bus and we were on our way. Stupid Germans – cost us an hour of sitting around. One more bus change and another hour of sitting on the bus as it snaked around shady backstreets and we were finally back at the hostel. 4 ½ hrs in total or the 20 mile trip – ridiculous.
We had planned to leave the following day but much to our chagrin, the bus we had hoped to take was all booked up which meant we would stay another night. This wasn’t necessarily bad news as we were the only guests remaining at the hostel and we really did feel like we were just in town visiting our new Brazilian friends. When Joe returned home from his day job he had the idea of cooking up some fish cakes. I went with him to the nearby fishing village where he introduced me to Popeye, the old man who ran a quaint little restaurant on a hillside overlooking the river separating Brazil from Paraguay. While his wife prepared fish cakes from fresh seafood caught that morning, Popeye showed me around his little piece of paradise that I imagine he wouldn’t give up for anything in the world. Jo and I cooked up steaks with gorgonzola sauce as Giselli fried up the fish cakes and we sat around for hours accompanied by more than a few bottles of Skol beer helping them with their English and them telling us jokes in Portuguese. It was our experience at the hostel that we will remember more so than the tremendous site of the falls themselves. We talk frequently of how different our experiences of South America would be if we were to just fly in, spend a few nights at 5 star hotels (which there are a few overlooking the falls) and fly out without ever having so much as a conversation with the people the live there day in and day out. It’s never the easiest way to see things the way we are (usually the cheapest way possible in hostels and with public transportation) but often times we find that it is the most rewarding and we wouldn’t want to see them any other way.
Next we are off to the hard to get to and seldom visited town of Bonito and then to the wild Pantanal…
Now as we saw it, we had two outings planned for the area: visit the falls from the Brazilian side and visit the falls from the Argentinian side. We would do the Brazilian side first as it seemed easier and we really didn’t feel like another public transport nightmare that day. Two public buses and about an hour later we arrived at the entrance to the falls. Being the day before Easter, this place was jam packed with Brazilians and Argentinians alike. The way to view the falls is by a single 3 km long walkway that starts at the top of the canyon and slowly works its way down to a mid tier of the falls. The walkway awards rather frequent vistas of portions of the 275 cumulative waterfalls that make up Iguazu. At the end, the walkway extends into the water and finishes above one of the waterfalls. From this vantage point, you are surrounded (260 degrees) by an unbelievable panorama of the entire spectacle. On this crowded day however, it took Jo and I a good 40 minutes of pushing and shoving and elbowing and squeezing until we finally made it out this prime viewing spot. I can honestly say that it was well worth the claustrophobia we endured to be able to take in that view, it is something that will always stay with me.
From there we took an elevator back up to the top of the canyon where we enjoyed a well overpriced average buffet overlooking the views before heading back to the hostel. That night we made friends with a kiwi couple which cooking our omelet dinner (it was delicious if you were wondering) and decided to head to the Argentinian side together with them in the morning. We pretty much had the route worked out: take public bus #50 from the corner to the central terminal, then change to the “bus to Argentina” somewhere just outside the terminal which would take us across both borders to a central terminal in Puerto Iguassu in Argentina where atleast we could communicate in Spanish to figure out which bus to take from there. Pretty sound plan we thought. Well being Easter Sunday, we waited at the corner for the first bus for about an hour before we decided that it wasn’t coming. Dejected, we contemplating a plan B. Joe the hostel owner strolled to the bus stop with a new guest that wanted to tag along with us and when we said the bus never came he didn’t hesitate to offer us a ride to the bus station. 5 of us plus Joe crammed into his little VW Gol and we were off. As we neared the bus station, he said he could might as well take us as far as the border. When we arrived there, he said he might as well just drive us all the way there. WOW, now that’s a hostelier that goes the extra mile (or 20 miles in this case).
The Argentinian side of the falls offered many more miles of trails and boardwalks as well as a quaint if not terribly slow train that took you to the trailheads. Our first stop would be a walkway to the mouth of Devil’s Throat, the iconic U-shaped waterfall. With all the upward mist created, it meant that raincoats were donned and that photos were difficult to take. Jo being Jo was able to snap a few keepers with minimal waterdrops on the lens – that’s my girl! The remainder of the day was spent taking hundreds of more photos and video clips of the immense falls as well as a few other permanent spectators: capuchin monkeys and lots of tropical birds. As impressive as they were, there’s only so many different angles you can view a waterfall from. At about 4 o’clock we were ready to head back…this time without a chauffeur. It started out easy enough, a 20 minute bus to the Argentina side central terminal, followed by a 5 minute wait and a bus change. Everything going swimmingly. The bus stopped at the Argentina border where everyone got off, went through all the border formalities and got back on the bus. 3 kms later at the Brazilian border only 7 of us got off as the rest of the passengers were Brazilian. The bus driver gave us a coupon and told us we’d be picked up by the next bus 30 minutes later. It took us a whole 3 minutes to get through the Brazilian border and we wondered why he couldn’t just wait for us. When the next bus pulled up, two Germans were at the front. When they started boarding they went to hand the coupons to the driver and he gave them a wave of the finger and a shake of his head. They got off and the bus went off. What was that all about? Another hour went by before we saw another bus heading in the right direction. This time I was first on. The same thing happened, the bus driver shook his finger no. Upon asking why he informed me that our coupons were for a different company and we had to wait for the next bus. I don’t think so. I simply told him that we were more than willing to pay the additional $1.50 each to get us on the bus and we were on our way. Stupid Germans – cost us an hour of sitting around. One more bus change and another hour of sitting on the bus as it snaked around shady backstreets and we were finally back at the hostel. 4 ½ hrs in total or the 20 mile trip – ridiculous.
We had planned to leave the following day but much to our chagrin, the bus we had hoped to take was all booked up which meant we would stay another night. This wasn’t necessarily bad news as we were the only guests remaining at the hostel and we really did feel like we were just in town visiting our new Brazilian friends. When Joe returned home from his day job he had the idea of cooking up some fish cakes. I went with him to the nearby fishing village where he introduced me to Popeye, the old man who ran a quaint little restaurant on a hillside overlooking the river separating Brazil from Paraguay. While his wife prepared fish cakes from fresh seafood caught that morning, Popeye showed me around his little piece of paradise that I imagine he wouldn’t give up for anything in the world. Jo and I cooked up steaks with gorgonzola sauce as Giselli fried up the fish cakes and we sat around for hours accompanied by more than a few bottles of Skol beer helping them with their English and them telling us jokes in Portuguese. It was our experience at the hostel that we will remember more so than the tremendous site of the falls themselves. We talk frequently of how different our experiences of South America would be if we were to just fly in, spend a few nights at 5 star hotels (which there are a few overlooking the falls) and fly out without ever having so much as a conversation with the people the live there day in and day out. It’s never the easiest way to see things the way we are (usually the cheapest way possible in hostels and with public transportation) but often times we find that it is the most rewarding and we wouldn’t want to see them any other way.
Next we are off to the hard to get to and seldom visited town of Bonito and then to the wild Pantanal…
Click below to see the gallery
