Hot days on the coast of Uruguay and Brazil. Steamy hill climbing and torrential rain in South West Brazil. Eyes wide in Iguazu falls.

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On my last night in Montevideo, I arrived back at the hostel at 6:30am and departed on the bicycle a few hours later. Fortune favours the stupid, and I spent most of the morning on a bike path that ran along the beach, helping me to avoid riding amongst traffic in my tired condition.

I was further rewarded with beach side shacks offering fried seafood and fish empanadas. The afternoon was devoted to napping and I hoped that the leaf cutter ants would not mistake my tent for foliage.

Pulling off the highway the following day to sample some homemade sausages, the owner told me that there were a couple of small castles nearby to check out. Castillo Pittamiglio looks to have been inspired by the Australian Post War brick veneer style.

Closer to Punta del Este, I saw a large billboard for a new Trump Tower that is under construction in the resort city, and I felt highly energised. The city itself is packed full of large towers of holiday units and condominiums. It looked like a small Miami and I felt out of place as a grubby cycle tourist.

The bridge out of Punta del Este has been designed to allow users to make Dukes of Hazzard style jumps over the river, but my heavy load prevented me from getting any meaningful air time.

The asphalt eventually gave way to dirt, then the dirt to sand. My maps showed that the coastal road terminated at a beach, and a long inland loop was required to continue north. Being a glass half full kind of guy, I tried to continue on the coast anyway.

There was no road, but the sand was firm enough close to the water that I was able to walk the bike forward. In the lagoon on my left, hundreds of blue crabs scurried in the shallows. I emerged in a small fishing village (to puzzled looks) and continued on dirt roads until I found a lighthouse in the next town.

There is an abundance of eucalyptus trees on this section of coast, and under the hot sun it could be mistaken for a slice of Australia. I ran into Sam from the UK again who I had ridden with on the way to Montevideo. He was heading south this time and in his company were a South American couple on a fixed gear bike and city cruiser.

I looked for camping in a town called ‘sweet waters’ and met an older Dutch couple who were also cycle touring. The gentleman didn’t have great English (unlike his wife) but we did have a brief exchange:

“Is your bike custom?”
“No, it’s an Austr-“
“Ours are custom!” [pointing to a custom made logo on the bike]

There were ample open spaces and a football field with picnic facilities in the town, but when I knocked at the police station, the officer (rather smugly) told me that there was no free camping possible.

I rode off into the dunes and had a lovely free camp regardless.

The next destination was Punta del Diablo, or Devil’s Point. An old man on a bicycle stopped me en route to chat and wanted to know what I had studied at university. He was a man of science and started to tell me something about mathematics not being a science but a model for interpretation. He failed to interpret that my Spanish was wholly insufficient to grasp anything that he said.

The town is a relaxed collection of seaside bars, surf schools and scattered accommodation.

In the evenings, the streets are filled with stalls of dreadlocked vendors selling wrist bands and handmade items. In some of the stalls you can see Tupperware marked “Brownies”. Storms roll in from the sea and are lit up by the setting sun.

It was time to leave Uruguay and continue the coastal expedition into Brazil. Ten kilometres out of town, I suddenly found myself flat on my face on the side of the road. I’m not sure exactly how the crash happened, but a bottle had broken off the bike and perhaps became entangled somewhere.

It was during a descent and I was travelling pretty quickly when it happened. Rolling myself onto the grass I began to inspect the damage; face – OK (thank god), hands and arms – OK, legs – OK, feet – una problema pequeña!

There was some skin missing and pretty painful bruising. After cleaning myself up, I found that my handlebars had been twisted and more seriously, by front wheel had been bent far out of alignment.

I had a go at aligning on the side of the road, but only managed to improve it slightly. Nevertheless, I pushed on towards Brazil and crossed the border. Shortly thereafter I got a flat on my rear wheel.

Looking for a place to camp in Santo Vittorio, I met cyclists Rodrigo and Gonzalo from Argentina. We camped together at a petrol station and it was nice to have company after a trying day. They also gave me a spare bottle cage to replace the one that had broken off and caused me to crash.

In the morning I found a bike shop and they aligned the wheel for me at no cost!

Back on the road, some cyclists from Brazil passed in the opposite direction, but the road was mainly flat and the scenery farmland.

The farmland was interspersed with areas of ecological reserve. Huge birds wandered around the canals and lagoons, and Capybaras sunned themselves between plunging in and out of the water. There were also (inexplicably) several Ostriches.

In Rio Grande, there was nothing approaching suitable accommodation for cyclists. There were expensive looking hotels and I felt uneasy about camping in a large urban area. Reluctantly, I went to the local fire station to see if I could camp in their courtyard. They set me up in a spare room and one guy even gave me a plate of home cooked food for dinner.

In the morning, Wagner presented me with a Bombeiro t-shirt and some patches to sew onto my bags. Fire fighters really are great people.

I caught a local barge the next morning to continue north on the coastal route. Packed with trucks and local traffic, it cost less than $2 Australian.

There was little protection from the wind and when blowing from the north, it was slow going. At the first town I stopped at, a young kid offered to share his fruit bag with me. Soon a friend joined and they were leading me around town looking for a place to camp. I didn’t have enough Portuguese to understand them, and more kids joined the collection as we moved along.

Somewhat shamefully, I got sick of the throng of kids yabbering around me and I cycled out of town. I bought a beer and cheese and went and camped in a pine forest. The sound of rain on the tent was a lot more tranquil.

Long, dull riding was occasionally interspersed with interesting moments. In the middle of nowhere, a motorcycle flew past at high speed, the rider lying down in a superman position on top of the bike.

I was chased by dogs, which had become more aggressive since crossing the border. They are generally cowards and retreat when you turn the bike towards them or pick up a rock.

I tried to take another shortcut to the coast on a dirt road through farms. In the middle of nowhere there was a small guard house and a chain across the path. The man told me that I was not allowed to take the road; it was private land with wind turbines. I showed him my map and tried to convey that I hadn’t cycled from Patagonia just to sabotage these turbines, but he refused. I selected some choice words in English for him and, as I rode back, I watched him allow several cars to pass.

One evening I thought I was camping alone in a building until I noticed a pervert frog watching me in the shower.

Another night I ended up cycling long after sunset, heading for a camp site in a national park that was shown in my map. The park ranger told me camping was forbidden and I had to push onto the next town with dogs running at me out of the darkness. I eventually found another place and in the morning, the elderly owner was so taken with my trip that he refused to take any money from me.

The road passed through sleepy seaside towns and larger tourist centres, alternating bitumen and dirt between the highway and local roads. The whole region felt like it was in holiday mode.

There are regular stalls on the side of the road selling cold coconuts, cane juice and sometimes local spirits.

On my last night before reaching Florianopolis, I shared camp with two enormously fat Labradors called Bruce and Spicy.

I took another local ferry and rode more than 150 kilometres to reach Florianopolis in one day. Traffic became heavier close to the city and it was a relief to eventually find myself on a bike path.

The relief was short lived as I soon found myself back on the highway, taking the bridge over to the Island. I ended up in the multi-lane, vehicle-only route and had cars honking me as I hugged the right hand side, trying to make a small target.

Coming down off the bridge, at near 40km/h, I hit a cat’s eye reflector in the road and both of my rear panniers came off in the middle of the highway. I threw the bike against a wall and sprinted back to collect the bags before they were hit. A motorcycle swerved wildly to avoid them, but with incredible fortune, there was a break in the congestion that allowed me to snatch the bags. Not five seconds later, all four lanes were filled with vehicles traveling at 80-100km/h.

I took a few deep breaths and stayed on smaller roads all the way to the hostel.

Ilha de Santa Catarina/Florianopolis is a stunning island of the coast of Brazil with sharp, green mountains and beautiful coastline. I stayed for a week of partying, samba, rock jumping, beaches and general non-cycling activities.

Leaving the island, I took the bike path under the bridge rather than trying the highway a second time. I aimed for a camp site at Praia do Pinho, which appeared to be a beautiful secluded beach on my map. The nearby coastline was spectacular and I was looking forward to a beach camp.

To my surprise, upon arrival I was told that I would not be allowed to camp in this paradise. This was Brazil’s first nudist retreat/beach and, as a single male, I was specifically prohibited from entering. It was one of the rare occasions in which the Patriarchy has failed me.

On my final day on the Atlantic coast, I meandered along local beach roads and boardwalks, drinking cold coconut water and enjoying the cool ocean breeze. My campsite for the night was adjacent to the beach and two 4 month old Boxer puppies kept me company.

I bid farewell to the coast and traced rivers back inland to start my journey west.

The vegetation became denser and I saw mountains looming ahead. Towards the end of the day, I found myself cycling through banana plantations and began climbing up the sides of steep hills.

On a rest day, I hiked up a mountain and saw more than a dozen waterfalls at Rota das Cachoeiras.

Minutes after I returned to the bar I was camping at, the heavens opened with torrential rain and hail.

In the evening, a local guy started chatting with me about the trip before dashing to his farm home to get a huge bag of home-grown bananas to gift to me.

I needed all the energy from those bananas the next day, when I climbed some 1800m in 80km. On a lightly trafficked dirt road, I passed a group of men cleaning fish at the crest of a waterfall.

The road to Iguaçu falls was a constant series of rolling hills through farmland. Scorching sun followed heavy rain and soon all my gear and clothing was sodden.

There are frequently snakes lying on the shoulder of the road. Usually they are stretched out, but sometimes they are coiled and it is impossible to tell if they are alive or dead. At 30 or 40km/h there is little time to react, and the sharp step up from the shoulder to the road prevents escape in that direction. The only course of action is to pull your legs up into the frame of the bike and hope that the snake does not strike or get caught in the spokes.

Pig trucks drive past, pink bodies standing, sitting and snorting between the slats. You hold your breath as long as you can while riding; 5, 10, 30 seconds. It doesn’t matter, the smell envelopes you like a cloak and on your next breath you will draw in the slightly sweet and entirely disgusting smell of a truck full of pigs.

In Canoinhas I had my first Couchsurfing experience with Tania and family, who kept me out of the rain and shared their meals with me. In Unaio da Vitoria, the manager of a petrol station had a space cleared and swept for me, before laying down cardboard to pitch my tent on. In the morning he treated me to coffee and gave me a big bottle of water for the road.

Near Abelardo Luz, a campground allowed me to camp by the river for free. In the morning, another camper offered me a Vick’s vapour drop and a litre of soy milk. I’m not sure on the origin of this custom, but I accepted the lozenge.

I camped in front of a trucking office, then in an auto repair workshop. Near the Argentine border, I camped on the Iguazu river at an Eco reserve. During the night I heard the animals of the jungle broadcasting their sounds out across the river. In the morning, the owners brought down coffee, biscuits and the Secretary of tourism for the local town. We took photos and they refused to let me pay for anything.

After crossing into Argentina, I camped in a Bocce lane, adjacent to a football field and bar. I stayed up drinking beer with the owner, discussing life at the junction of Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay.

Finally, it was time to enter Iguazu National Park.

At the border of the park, the farmland abruptly stops and is replaced with thick green jungle. A single dirt track runs across the park, rough at times and hard packed and smooth in others. As you progress further from the entrance, the number of butterflies swells and soon there is a cloud surrounding you as well as tens of thousands more along the path ahead and behind.

Animals start to appear; insects, birds and small mammals. Sounds reverberate around the trees and you hear sudden rustling in the bushes as you pass. For a fraction of a second, I saw the back half of a small jungle cat disappear into thick vegetation.

I came upon the closed, back entrance to the park and pushed my bike along a very overgrown track.

After getting quite muddy, I emerged in the park near Garganta del Diablo (the devil’s throat). A janitor looked very upset at my entrance and went off to find a ranger. When the ranger did come up to me, he was relaxed and seemed to understand the shortcut saved a lot of cycling time.

I left the bike and headed out on the boardwalk to the throat. It is not easy to capture the Garganta in one photo – the immense chasm stretches all around as huge volumes of water flow in.

 

Back at the bike, the head ranger was waiting for me (I could tell because he had a more impressive hat than the other ranger). It was against the rules to ride (or even walk) my bike anywhere in the park, so we loaded up into his ute and drove to the front of the park.

Once the bike was stored securely where it couldn’t hurt anyone, I headed back to the main falls area. The scale of the falls is staggering; hundreds of metres of cliffs with incredible torrents pouring over. Huge plumes of mist shoot into the air as rainbows play across them.

I left the park full of wonder and stayed in Puerto Iguazu, Argentina before cycling to Foz do Iguacu, Brazil the next day.

Here it was time to sit and catch up on the boring admin I had been ignoring for two months. While installing a new cassette and chain on the bike, I noticed the rear rack was loose. The bottom connection had snapped clean off the frame.

In the space of about 40 minutes, I found a welder and had it repaired for $6 AUD.

At the Paraguayan Consulate, there was an old English fellow and his younger Filipino wife. He didn’t appear to speak Spanish or Portuguese and so just repeated English words with increasing volume. Eventually they managed to convey whatever they needed to and began to leave. As his wife was trying to open the large bolted gate that enclosed the entrance, he turned back to the foyer with a big grin on his face and said ‘looks like the monkey’s trying to get out of the cage!’

The non-English speakers sat uncomprehending while I winced.

From here I will cross the Parana river and commence my journey through Paraguay, country number 5 for the trip.