Rub-A-Dub-Dub

Post date: Jan 31, 2011 3:05:06 PM

I fail to see the correlation between this entry's title and the following material. I think it came to mind as I remind myself of the first place I visited after Sao Paulo, Ubatuba.

The bike checked out perfect in the morning. That, in addition to the lift on my PayPal account’s restrictions started me off right. Well, the breakfast helped. It was included in the price of the hostel I was referred to by Ennio. It was the most I’ve paid for a place in 7 months, but it was also the nicest. I was their first American, let alone first rider, and I was also the first to stay only 1 day. The price pushed me away while the lure of Rio beckoned…

But Ubatuba and Praia Grande (Big Beach) has its small town charms and the beauty Americans journey to Hawaii to see. My first sight of the Atlantic rinsed away the many months I’d been pushing my way through jungles and mountains. Rolling down the green cliffs that slip vertically into the ocean, just like Hawaii, I thought I saw pirate ships harbored out in massive cove. Islands dotted the cove. The shoreline twists and turns- perfect ambush spots. I am certain buried treasure lies somewhere along those beaches.

All I had to find Ennio, whom Andrew the U.S. trans-American cyclist referred me to, was a phone number and the name of his restaurant. Too cheap to make a call first thing, I cruised the shore hoping I’d spot it. Gary Gone Wild doesn’t follow traffic laws so well these days, so I was zipping by all the piddly traffic by using the bicyclist/pedestrian lane. A cop checkpoint spotted me and the cop started shaking his head and waving his arms as if to say, “What the @#%*#@ are you doing?” They waved me over. Time to pull out my Gringo-Special-“Get Out Of Jail Free” card. Hey, if they want to charge me 25% extra on everything, I gotta get some perks, right? Well, I hop off, laugh and explain my trip. Situation defused. The cop even went back to the kiosk to grab a fellow cop to come meet me. It was deathly hot, and we laughed about the heat. I take it as fate because I was forced to stop EXACTLY in front of Ennio’s restaurant, “Patropi,” or tropical paradise. You could call it that, all right.

The guy loves motorcycles, and he is obsessed with Harleys. He teased me about my Kawasaki. His story is that he was born on a Harley. His father rushed his pregnant wife to the hospital on a Harley, and there she gave birth to Ennio. Unfortunately I arrived during the busiest month of the year, so he wasn’t able to go cruising with me, but he offered me the finest plate of fried, breaded fish and fries I’ve had in I can’t remember how long. I took a dip in the ocean while I was there, and it did the expected- it made me feel reborn. Puts you right in the moment, makes the past a dream, and deletes the future.

Now you can read the first paragraph. Ok, and now we return to the narrative present…

I made it to Rio and got lost as heck. This goes without saying, I suppose, but Google Maps showed I very distinct MLK Jr drive connecting to the primary highway leading into Rio from the South. So, you’d think it would have a sign. Nah. I gave up on finding my couchsurfer host’s place and headed to Plan B, a hostel in Ipanema named “Piratas da Ipanema,” which is sorely lacking in Pirate décor. I recommended some ship rigging and nets. Later that evening went to the largest gathering of Couchsurfers I’ve ever seen: 150-200 of them. I was able to walk there from Ipanema. Met a German living in Australia training in jiu jitsu here in Rio. He said this is probably the best place to learn MMA because it’s Brazil, the birthplace of vale tudo, the father of MMA and Ultimate Fighting. It made wheels turn.

Day 2 I strolled the infamous Ipanema beach for the second time in my life and snapped the necessary photos, including those of some interesting bathing suits and bathing suit occupants. My CS host came over, we hopped on the bike, and navigated our way through the maze of Rio and up one of the mountains adjacent to the Big Jesus. Santa Tereza is a gorgeous little neighborhood, complete with ivy-blanketed walls, wooden colonial doorways framed by original stone walls, and little cafes here and there. At the top, Dona Marta Viewpoint, I believe it’s called, we gaped at the 360 degree view of Rio, Niteroi, Sugarloaf, Big Jesus, Macarena Stadium, Tijuca Forest, the massive city cemetery, and the numerous individual mountain spires jutting from the land and sea.

Planning our next step was slow and unfruitful, but I said, “Let’s just get some food. We’ll figure out what to do after that once we reach the restaurant. Let’s just get there first.” Hmmm… what mental trickery do I sniff? Rolling down the twisty, cobbled streets, which are also used massive, disrespectful buses and electric trolleys guided by metal grooves in the streets, I was carefully maneuvering this way and that to dodge traffic and avoid stabbing a wheel into one of those grooves- while managing the weight of my passenger, who was fond of leaning way out to the side to see what was ahead. A very slow bus irritated me so I began to pass it but at just the perfect angle to suck my wheel into a groove and pitch the bike to the left. I hit the brakes some but the lurch was heavy and sudden. We went down! Now, Gary Gone Wild not only breaks governmental laws but personal laws as well. I was wearing nothing but a helmet, swimsuit, and sandals. My bike fell on top of me. The gravity of downhill travel prevented a quick halt. I felt my passenger fall into me, somewhat on top also. He later said he jumped off the bike some when he detected a problem. I held on mercilessly. The left handlebar landed on my hand and drove it into the pavement. My whole left arm trapped beneath me clear to the shoulder. My left leg pinned beneath the motorcycle, and my consciousness absorbed one massive load of blinding pain and panic as I felt the pavement ripped skin from my arm and leg, especially my ankle which I immediately thought was going to disappear. The bike just didn’t stop. I heard the scrape of the bike on the pavement, the burst of acceleration in the engine, and I remember thinking, “Why is this bike still sliding?”

It stopped. I somehow slipped out from underneath as the bike continued to run somehow. It stopped after 20 seconds. My ankle! I was of course barefoot at this point, and hobbling in agony. I looked back and my poor passenger was ridiculously calm. I scanned me- nothing broken but nasty scrapes. He was barely scathed and more concerned about me.

The bus I’d attempted to pass had already disappeared downhill, but a car coming up stopped and a lady encouraged us to go to the hospital up the hill and around the corner. I looked at my ankle pouring blood and freaked out at the white showing through. Bone? I touched it! No, just white under-skin, I guess. Calm the breath, examine the damages, be rational. My bike lost two pieces of plastic from the left side. It was cracked (again), but everything was otherwise normal, and it started back up fine after I moved it to the side of the road.

We debated our move and I decided to go to the pharmacy for some hydrogen peroxide, anti-bacterial ointment, and bandages, then go HOME to my host’s place.

We survived another eternal 40 minutes of stop-and-ask-where, bypass the stopped highway traffic, and don’t-get-hit to buy the iodine, purified salt water (no peroxide here), and bandages. My host cooked us some dinner after we showered and medicated. Then we watched a movie, chatted with his housemates, and went to sleep, by ankle still oozing after 5 hours.

I write this now the morning after the accident. I apologized profusely to my host, but he said it was his choice and that he knew the risks involved. He showed no signs of hatred! Of course, he’s probably just a master-concealer.

On the agenda then is A) postpone my return to the hostel, B) order and determine a shipping address for a new clutch cable, and C) keep my skinless areas disinfected. I can’t believe I didn’t lose muscle. The pressure from that fall was intense. I’ll take this as a lesson learned.

Hmm… later this day… I limped halfway across this neighborhood today, lost and looking for the shop where I was supposed to meet my host and the house where he lived. All ended well, I guess, but the shower I took almost made me vomit from pain. Don’t know why, but this shower hurt more than the first one. I used some anti-bacterial soap and scrubbed the open wounds with my fingers. The pain had me dizzy. I don’t remember the last time I hurt so much I reacted so drastically. Must be years. Maybe since I broke my wrist 6 years ago. But the unfathomable beauty of simple human compassion fixed me. My host’s housemate, Daniela, cleaned my ankle, the worst area, and bandaged it with the new gauze and tape I bought earlier. I retired to the bed for a minute to rest and thought about how such superficial injuries could hurt so much. How could I ever handle a gun shot or a skull fracture or a knife stab? I feel kind of like a sissy at this point. My bloated foot mocks me.

Ah well, it’s what happens when boys fall off their bikes. They scrape their knees. It’s just that now the bike and scrapes are little bit bigger. Wounds heal, but these are the least favorite of my trip. Heck, my broken nose was a breeze compared to my torn skin and squashed ankle! I do not collect souvenirs except scars. My host joked that I gave him a mark he will carry for the rest of his life. We’re laughing about it.

Jan 26. I did some light maintenance on her yesterday. I found no new problems during the inspection, the hose from the carb to the fuel tap, which I shortened to remove the kink, is still stretched but holding position. The bike starts like it hasn’t in a long time. I think that’s been the problem since Bogota after the Kawasaki guys messed with it. But at low speeds on the road I detect random moments of drag. Bouncing my front fork yesterday, I think the problem may be from insufficient front fork oil since they catch a little bit during the stroke. Or maybe an occasional puff of air is getting through the stretched hose. Whatever the case, it doesn’t seem to be a big issue.

I want to put down that I like the free water and coffee down here. Stop at a gas station and you get filtered water by the pump. You can also get a baby cup of coffee. In many stores, you can get the same.

My views of customer service may have changed since being out of the U.S. over 8 months. An Ebay seller is following, in typical American fashion, “policy.” They refused to authorize a direct payment via my credit card, demanding that I pay through cash deposited into my PayPal account. PayPal shut down my account due for security reasons but nothing irregular had inspired such action. Americans’ world class organizational skills and efficiency are compromised by their sickly obsession with legalities, standard operating procedures, and permissions. At this rate, we will have to sign release from liability papers to use a public restroom. Latin America “gets” that people experience issues, so businesses are more receptive to working with a customer as an individual, not a number. Calling PayPal this week, I was actually put in touch with a “virtual customer service specialist,” complete with a shadow-figure of a woman who “answered” my questions on a chat board, to make it look like it was a live conversation. This is a level of trickery above the universally despised automated recordings. At least it “understood” what I meant when I wrote, “How about you give me a real person to talk to?” I wrote a letter of complaint to Ebay explaining how their pre-programmed, forwarded messages in no way acknowledged the nature of my order, and the lady acted surprised and stated their company had done nothing wrong. They also had nothing right, hence the dissatisfaction, hence their failure. I have little choice, financially, but to pay them anyways and get my clutch cable ASAP. Big business, if it’s to stay, must humanize. The companies that work with their customers on individual levels will be the ones that succeed in the long term.

As much as I hate the inefficiency of this land, I have to love the consciousness with which things are done here. The checkout lane. You can learn half of a culture by observing the checkout lane. You have economics, media, people’s values, and social norms all mixed in this one location. What do the magazine covers show? What type of last minute items are beside the cashier? What type of food do the majority of people buy? Is there a credit card machine? Is the work station organized? How quickly and carefully does the cashier or bagger bag the product? Are they big or little bags, and does anyone use reusable bags? Is it service with a smile, a chat, or a frown? How many times must the person scan the item and check it on the screen to be sure it worked right? Are the lines long? How do people behave while waiting? What do people wear to the supermarket? Which people from the home attend the shopping? Is music playing overhead? Is there a security guard monitoring the activity? How many cameras are spying you? Do you hear intercom paging?