Return of the Gringo Loco

Post date: Feb 22, 2011 2:42:56 PM

Return of the Gringo Loco

Monday, February 21^st

Curitiba, Brazil

What title is this? A movie? Is the “Gringo Loco” a sandwich? Sounds like a plague to me. Or the sunbeaten and sweaty deranged outlaw who occasionally rides into town in the old west. But, I’ve been called “Gringo Loco” enough times at this point that it might as well be my cowboy name.

After a good cry, Rod and Carol said goodbye and booted me out the door.

Ok, try again. Less dramatic this time, please, and by “less dramatic” I mean less B.S.

But what’s life without a little pooh talk? I’ve been writing too long to just start listing my activities and impressions of this world, and a strict diet of strictness is bad for one’s health. Upon reaching a certain threshold of seriousness, my mood inevitably plummets like a shot duck. Yet, without the occasional philosophical deconstruction of time’s metaphysical anatomy (or lack thereof), for example, my song is missing that boom boom boom that bumps a dance into my stride. Every successful recipe is such as a result of the balance of its ingredients. Some people like a little more sugar and spice in theirs.

Enough of the metaphors.

Actually, come to think of it, I don’t recall being invited back to Rod and Carol’s, yet I told them I would visit them if I returned to their area someday. I laugh now. They probably weren’t laughing. They need space for their more cuddly rehabilitation projects. Sarcasm. Geez, sarcasm and metaphors and B.S. I must be tired. But hey, I drove awhile today, and I think I’m still catching up on the sleep I missed this weekend.

The bike felt good, as did the road beneath it, when I left Frade. The reconstruction of the plastics was sound. The boxes held tight. The fork oil change I intend to do in the next week may correct the bumpiness I’ve been feeling for weeks. It was partially repaired by the diaphragm change I did in Rio, but it really feels like a suspension issue at this point, and the way the fork sticks when springing back from a squeeze, coupled with the fact that the oil in it has not ever been changed (3x overdue), has me thinking that could be the cause of the draggy bumpiness I feel.

It took a few minutes for my nerves to settle a bit once I was back in motion. The fear had returned. Not silly fear, but the fear that keeps you alive. I kept my distance between me and hard objects. I reminded myself of Rod’s advice, “Always expect the other driver to do something stupid because he probably will.” I sneered at every driver as I drove, ingraining their stupidity into my brain. I shouted at the semis in front of me, commanding them to stay straight, even though they were perfectly centered and smooth in their lanes. It was comforting, despite the heat, to be back in gold and black- fully protected from head to fingertip to toe. I was mocking the asphalt.

Finally, I made Paraty. 8 days late. But hey, I made it.

I slept. 2-22-10 8am

Paraty was no longer a destination. By referral from a friendly Sao Paulo couchsurfer, I was bound for Maresias. It’s a 3 street wide strip along the coast that you can zip through, end to end, in under 5 minutes. It’s quiet, cute, and 90% occupied by tourists and tourism employees. Not sure why they need so many corner pharmacies, but that was convenient to me considering that I was transitioning to full self-service wound cleaning and bandage changing. The beach front prices double those a mile in, I found. At least I had finished my Tylenol and ibuprofen. The stiffness throughout my body, the result of being flung to the ground at 50mph with a motorcycle rolling over and grinding into you for 50 meters tends to put a kink in a guy’s back. But, I’m recovering like a champ. In my 3 days there, I even swam in the ocean and walked bandage free an hour or two before my hygienic ritual.

I did go, on my first night out from Frade, to a health clinic for the ritual. They seemed hesitant to take me for some reason, but I found that the more words I produced (badly), the more the receptionist worked with me. In a few minutes I was in the back. The cleaning was fine- except the nurse thought my wound was infected and had to get a second opinion. They had difficulty believing me when I said that I had just finished my antibiotics, and they questioned whether I was taking the correct ones. I figured that they didn’t even know what infection looks like. I explained that the cream I was applying to my wounds turned greenish each time and that I was healing very quickly. I also said that the nurse in Frade’s Posto Saude was happy with my rate of improvement. They did not understand what cream I was referring to; they use ordinary antibiotic ointment, a sign of their outdated methods. Plus, the nurse used masking tape to secure my bandages. Masking tape. And she didn’t seem concerned when it immediately detached once she put it on. I’m all gung ho for the care free spirit, but not when it comes to medical treatment. Even the doctor, who was also undecided about the condition of my wounds, essentially said, “Ah, whatever, just tape him up,” and he walked out the door. As I left the building I found him standing around and smoking outside. Not that smokers are bad people… (but yes they are). I had a renewed love for my Frade nurse, Leticia, even if she teased me about my pain tolerance. Well, if they’d removed my back and butt hair BEFORE putting the tape on, I wouldn’t have fussed. But geez, pulling hairs one by one from an already sensitive area exponentially more sensitive due to stitched gouges, missing skin, and exposed nerve endings is not high on my list of pain conditioning. Pluck the hairs from my knuckles, and I won’t blink. The last time I’d felt such pain as the tape pulling and alcohol scrubbing of my scrapes was when the dentist was grinding away at my cracked tooth two years ago. Before that… heck, I’ll take a broken bone or a spin kick to the jaw anyday.

HI Maresias is a well-established hostel. But, the best thing was definitely the breakfast. Bread, cheese, ham, fruit, three types of sweet cakes, crackers, coffee, hot chocolate- all included in the price. I made my morning meal last me until dinner. As with most any hostel you go to, it was too hot and too mosquito infested. The mosquitoes here don’t just suck. They leave bumps that seep the next day and itch like made. Sinister beasts. That, in addition to the fan that rattled obnoxiously each time it reached its left pivot made sleeping difficult. Even with the obligatory ear plugs. The fun kept me up also.

I met some personalities I here describe.

Meet Alejandro, the Santiago, Chile native vacationing in Brazil for a couple months. At home he sells real estate, and he amused me when he said that he got such a good deal on sunglasses in Sao Paulo that he bought a dozen and has been selling them on the beach there in Maresias. We shared stories about love and women. Thank God for guy talk.

I met my first Russians. They were a group of three gals with surprising senses of humor (minus the one girl who never spoke a word). Most of the people said they were cold, but they seemed congenial enough to me. Maybe Russia isn’t too bad.

From North Carolina I met this guy just married to a Brazileira and his sister. They are typical Americans, I suppose, which wasn’t that rewarding. I could see in their eyes the layers of thoughts and emotions. I could see them sorting through their minds and speaking only partial truths. Americans tend to be complex, polite to the point of two-facedness, and a tad cynical. What you see is rarely the full self or the true self because they do not commit themselves 100% to what they say. Not like Brazilians or Colombians. It is as if they have been too hurt. They are too distrustful. They recognize the convolutedness of the world around them, and so they are deeply confused. They are so fat and entertained that they feel, “What’s the point?” I will examine this further. Perhaps the American psychology will be an interesting course of study afterall, once I return to that land.

What you won’t find in the States is something like this Sao Paulo group of coworkers from Natura, a cosmetic company whose primary competitor is Avon. They’re big, they’re green, and they treat their employees like gold. Over 20 of these coworkers, all interns celebrating their one year anniversary together with the company, stayed at the hostel over the weekend. They adopted me into their group via the friendship I made with their economist, Evelyn, a glittery eyed gal who confessed that speaking to me was like being in a therapist’s office. Ha! That’s how I prefer to operate, though. In the bar, I’m not one to be hopping from stupid “conversation” to stupid “conversation” with random folk. I pick one group or one person and immerse myself in them, and before long I am into their hearts and dark corners, discovering their losses, their morals, their loves. Otherwise, I feel as though we never truly met. Otherwise, I’d rather be watching a Jet Li or Tony Ja film.

I spent one night conversing under the stars, lying in the sand on an empty beach.

The following night was Charades with my Sao Paulo friends on the same beach. It was hopeless though without Portuguese.

After the beach games I was lured to Sirena, another recommendation from the girl who recommended Maresias. Plus half the hostel was going. Apparently it is a world famous bar where all the best djs and most beautiful people go. I went not for the party but to see what the fuss was all about. 100 reals stabbed me hard, and I’m still not sure whether it was worth it, but what’s gone is gone. The dj was quite good. I was almost brought to musical orgasm, but almost is just painful. I haven’t had musical release since Bogota, Colombia, but I fully expect to disappear into sound in Buenos Aires when I see DJ Tiesto. Sirena has a nice ambience to it. The whole club is beneath the stars and moon, built up on a wooden deck with trees growing through it. Lanterns illuminate the atmosphere just enough to see clearly and soften the air. I danced to the trance.

Throughout my stay I was explaining my accident because of all the bandages I was still wearing. The last people to ask received my best response of all: “The roads in Brazil are dangerous; there are many bad drivers; if you see me, be careful!”

After more fun than I’d expected from Maresias, I departed on Sunday for Peruibe, bound for a hostel the address to which I’d found on google. Well, I got to the town and was surprised by all the grass sprouting through the cobbled streets. No cars, no people walking around. Quiet. What coastal town is this? What a contrast to the last places I’ve stayed like Maresias and Ipanema. The streets were unmarked, so an information booth pointed me the right direction, but the address was actually a home for abandoned youth, not a hostel. I eventually found “Green Lion Pousada,” an adorable hotel/hostel/bed and breakfast where I negotiated the price from 50 reals to 30. Got some much needed rest there.

Before the rest, though, I walked the beach. Very different. The sand was browner, finer, siltier, harder. The water was brownish from the silt, and the water was terrifically warm. I salted my wounds and strolled. Such tranquility. 40 year old men rolled in the sand, burying themselves in it, laughing. Little Brazilian boys chased and retreated from the coming and going tide. A little girl sure to be a sculptor some day was burying herself and shaping the sand around her. Families lounged around plastic picnic tables and chuckled about the things families do on vacation. Everyone’s shoulders were relaxed. There was a naturalness to people’s walks that expressed a complete disconcern for appearances, whereas in Maresias the men and women strutted with tail feathers spread, and their sunglasses did not betray the fact that their eyes were watching others watching them. Peruibe is no place to visit unless you live within 30 miles, I think. I was without a doubt the only non-Brazilian on the beach. I could feel myself breathing.

Starving, I ordered a x-tudo, my favorite sandwich from a little restaurant in town. Outside of there, the little Japanese daughter of the owner ran around the sidewalk in her adorable little dress. She initiated conversation with me, but I understood very little. Still, she liked me, and she pulled her chair up beside me at my table as I awaited my food. Meanwhile a group of very conservative Japanese men stood around, waiting for their friend to arrive. One of the men stood in an empty parking spot to save it for their friend. Something hilarious about those men with their tucked in collared shirts, shorts with belts, and the uniformity of their nicely trimmed hairstyles. They probably all went to the barber that day in preparation for whatever gathering they were there for.

Nearby the Pousada was a Carnival with maybe 30 rides and games. It was virtually empty, which depressed me. I think I came to Peruibe two weeks after the tourist season ended, but the town was just having a hard time admitting that it was over.

The next day I actually enjoyed discussing my trip with smiling Portuguese moto/auto part shop workers. I think it was the bounciness in their eyes that made me enjoy talking to them about my trip. It’s a little old telling the same story for the 1000th time, but their interest reminded me of how strange my trip is. It’s been my life for almost 10 months, but these people probably rarely if ever see an American.

Having a great need to escape the beach and hostel/hotel life, I throttled south to Curitiba and had the nicest ride I’ve had in one month through forested mountains. Some areas reminded me of Kentucky with their style of lone, wooden houses in the valleys. It was nice. Plus, the road was wide open. I was reminded of why I love riding my motorcycle.

Finding my couchsurfer host’s place in Curitiba seemed easy enough based on the directions I’d copied from Google maps, but the only signs along the highway were of the kind that pointed the way to points of interest, not road names. So, I picked one that pointed to downtown, and my trust in the world worked to my favor. Of the 10 or so exits leading downtown that I had already passed, I just so happened to pick the exact one I was supposed to take. I must be psychic. But I realized it too late and went too far on the road. Not to fear! I was turning around when a man in the car beside me at the light shouted in Portuguese, “Where you going?” I answered. He told me to follow him there. Wow, right? At another light, I pull to the driver’s side and he shows me a photo album of him on his motorcycle. He’s a motorcycle traveler also! We look for each other. There is a thread of solid respect between riders. Phenomenal. He put me back on track and I arrived at my host’s place 45 minutes early. Amazing.

Two days with Cassiano, and then I'll move into my friend Yara's place.