Sao Paulo

Post date: Jan 21, 2011 2:46:53 PM

For the first time on my trip my current location matches the tentative itinerary I’d set back in San Diego nearly a year ago. Life on the road in foreign nations is a roll of the dice, but experience turns those dice in your favor, the scars make for good stories, and the costs and rewards are always greater than you had planned. Humans have a remarkable capacity for adapting and overcoming, and it seems to me that too few among us trust or even know about the powers within us. Supposing one believes in evolution, one cannot but feel humbled by and supremely proud of our ancestry. The day we learned to make fire was probably the most pivotal moment in history, a moment worthy of novels. The mountains my 10000x great grandfather summited barefoot in the snow is an achievement for which I’ll never possess the strength to match. His babies fought off untold viruses and bacteria without any medicine but love. Leaves and animal hides protected them from the elements, not climate-controlled, earthquake resistant, ice-withstanding 5000 square foot homes and snowsuits stuffed with the latest synthetic fibers. THOSE are my heroes, and I come from them. I too have their will, their determination, their vision, but the “use it or lose it” principle applies in truest colors here.

We are an evolving species, and this condition we are in, this globalized, commercialized, de-familialized, computerized culture, is testing us in ways our ancestors had neither the time, the need, or the interest in taking. Leave it to the moralists to decide whether we are a declining or ascending species. My point is that we are changing, and in my opinion, we are better off to remember that from which we came and the strength and skills they have imbued into our blood.

Even without the belief in evolution, one might feel privileged by our ancestors of even 200 years ago, the days of the pioneers (in the U.S.). “If you want to survive this winter, you better have 30 trees felled, stripped, and chopped into logs of even lengths by the end of summer.” “If you want to drink some water, you need to patch the hole in your bucket (dear Liza) and get your butt down to the stream.” “And hope that the cows upstream haven’t relieved themselves near your same watering hole or else you may end up with a mysterious intestinal catastrophe” (E. Coli poisoning). The list of trials is endless. I need look no further than my very own grandmother to know the face of endurance. The oldest of 9 children, she virtually raised her siblings herself. They had a wood stove for warmth and cooking. You had to heat the water on the stove if you wanted a warm bath in the big bucket. Every piece of clothing was hand scrubbed.

So, to say that I’ve come a long way is really a laugh. Ushuaia, Argentina, which is, perhaps, my final destination is no big deal either, really. Most of the people who rival our elders’ achievements of endurance, adaptation, and ingenuity are either completely removed from society or publicized in the media.

It is a comfort to us when we remember and acknowledge the fact that obstacle before us has already been overcome. Few challenges in life are unique to us; we all deal with the same stuff, and chances are, someone, somewhere figured out how to get over it. Navy Seals have this drilled into their brains as they sweat, cry, bleed, shiver, and strain during Hell Week. Some say, “God never throws something at you that you cannot handle.” Belief, belief, belief. IT CAN BE DONE. In the words of my father, “If there is a will, there is a way.”

Is it too soon for this sermon? I have yet to complete my mission. Disturbingly, however, my mission’s end is just one more city on my road. The longer I go at this, this travel, the more I recognize that this need not end, that “this” is just life, and along the road of life one just has experiences, one after another, until your body dies. So I get a little confused by what “the end of the trip” is supposed to mean. Do you mean, “When do I return to the U.S.?” People assume I will return to the city from which I started, San Diego, but I’ve figured I’d return to Ft. Wayne, but… …. … I have questions. I will be remain receptive to answers as they come.

Back to Here and Now. Sao Paolo, Brazil. A decent point in which to reflect, I suppose. Reaching a coastal city has that effect on people, no?

Yesterday I visited a Kawasaki shop and a tire shop down the street to buy new front and rear tires, oil and filter, and a spark plug. I went but did not buy. $$$ Triple the costs, here, for everything. I said “screw that” and headed back to the apartment to research options, but the motorcycle traveler forums were of no help, and so I’m left with come contact info from stores I found via google search. I’ll also contact a motorcycle lover my bicyclist friend Andrew referred me to. That guy lives a couple hours north of here and may have some good advice.

We ate at a good quality “pay by the kilo” (of food) restaurant, and then stuffed ourselves again on hor’d’oerves and desserts at a “Tasting.” Chad, Michelli, and I went to the wedding reception hall they will use in their wedding later this year in order to preview and sample the goods and services they will be having for their own wedding. The place was all set up for the wedding that was taking place at the church around the corner. They discussed the flowers, the playlist with the dj… well, Michelli did all the talking, and in quite male fashion, Chad stood back and let the woman handle the details, as he has been doing through most of the planning, he said! Then we went to the wedding to see how the company conducts it, especially the orchestra, which will play about 7 songs during your 30 minute wedding. The options included “Unforgiven” by Metallica, for some reason. They must not understand the lyrics to that one. At least “Nothing Else Matters” makes a little more sense, if you’re going the metal route. The male orchestra singer reminded me of the dancing, singing frog from Warners Brothers cartoons. The wedding was okay. Outside a guy was flying a kite, and Michelli explained that one must be careful around them because the kite flyers in the streets compete viciously. They coat the kite strings in glass dust. They maneuver their kites so as to attack neighboring kites and cut their strings. Once cut, the attacker runs and steals the kite and keeps it as a trophy.

Today, the 16th of January, me, Chad, Michelli, and Michelli’s dad, brother, and sister went to the stadium to watch one of the biggest, best soccer teams in Brazil, Corinthians, squash their opponents in a pre-season match. Michelli is a big soccer fan. That’s no surprise; I have yet to meet a Latin American who doesn’t adore soccer. Walking through the sea of black and white, the colors of Corinthians, towards the stadium was like approaching the Roman Coliseum. The booming chants and roars of the crowd within reverberated like echoes from ancient gladiator fights. I’ve been to a number of large sports competitions before, but the energy of this mere pre-season match was rippling and hypnotic. Inside the stadium various fan clubs occupied their own sections of the bleachers. They come on their own private buses, have their own songs and dances, and wave their own banners, which are 50 yards square and are unfurled over the section’s heads in a matter of seconds. Those banners can’t be cheap. The most famous player in Brazil, Ronaldo, has returned from retirement to Corinthians, but he was chubby and stiff and pretty much stood around by the goal, cherry picking it looked like. Some people just don’t know how to let go of the glory days. At least Favre still plays like he means to win.

Took care of some motorcycle maintenance today, Monday, 1-17-11, but it may be one of the lousiest places for such work. The prices here are outrageous. Granted, I went ahead and had them install my chain and both tires for a mere $20 (you read that correctly), and perhaps I should consider myself even since the parts themselves cost over twice as much as those purchased in the U.S. I’ll install my brake pads myself tomorrow. I am growing concerned about my slowly thinning clutch cable, so I’ll investigate prices, replacement method, and such tomorrow. Another oil change is due, but I’ll do that once I make it into the country. Oil is not exactly disposed of in landfills down here, so I’ll just drain the bike on a roadside. No one in Brazil carries the filter I need because KLRs are not supplied here. I still have a sticky something or other in my carb and/or fuel system because after a couple days of sitting, it was nearly impossible to start. But, a twist of the idle screw as soon as it makes a couple thumps seems to knock loose something and immediately shoots the RPMs up from 500 to 1300, which is still weak with a pulled choke, which has never been the same since accident #1.

All signs are pointing me in the same direction: sell the bike before I cut my wrists. I’m all about learning about motorcycle maintenance. I enjoy it. But on a near 0 income in a foreign land where parts are double priced and information is scant, the U.S. would be a more welcoming school. Shipping the bike back is nearly absurd; the price of doing so almost equals the value of the bike, I am sure. I have yet to cross that bridge, but I have learned that Paraguay and Bolivia are the most likely places to buy my bike since their document and registration controls are so loose. I have a website to read up on about this topic.

My eyes are focusing further and further down the road, and it doesn’t feel good. I can make it to Ushuaia. This I know. But then what? THEN WHAT? My heart is insufficiently pulled to any direction for me to recognize the next best step. Perhaps I am not supposed to know right now. I have more training to undergo, I guess. Two friends are making apparent to me my success as I define it.

I left Ft. Wayne lost and confused and longing and willing to do anything. This trip has been my greatest test, and it was designed to specifically develop my character. The unforgettable experiences have certainly been dreams come true, but the sentimentalist in me that longs for a complete self knew from the start that this is what I need to be, or to release what is within me. I have MANY walls and disguises within me, and it has been a slow war uncovering my weapons of massive self destruction. First, Cassia notes the fluidity with which I dealt with my motorcycle failures. Second, I see the stable conservatism growing in my friend Chad, so different than the life I have chosen.

This blog is no blog. It’s a journal. It’s more for me than any reader, but I know there are a handful of people who read what I write for some reason. It is nice to be listened to. I’m lucky to have people on this planet who think kindly of me. Really. I am lucky. And I’m going to continue to push myself because it’s not over, I’m told by the voice without voice.

I think of my first journals, the ones mandated by my 10th grade creative writing teacher Mr. Hislope. They were full of lament and confusion and pessimism, full of craving, full of longing for pity and understanding… full of passion, naivety, idiocy, and perhaps most importantly, fear. Fear is for me the most remarkable source of suffering, and it is only cured by confrontation.

Attachment can be a spiritual disease. Choose your attachments wisely. Gardeners commonly prune the limbs of their plants. It seems counterintuitive; “Why would I ever cut my beautiful plant?” “How can hurting it ever create good?” But the courageous gardener has learned that by cutting a branch, TWO will take its place. Perhaps the old branch possessed the prettiest flower or the sweetest piece of fruit. The gardener will mourn the loss of this flower and sugar of that fruit, but this mourning will pass as his faith is rewarded with TWO new flowers and SEVEN more fruit than before! The moral is: to grow, one must sacrifice. Have faith that strength will arise from the suffering of your loss. It is for this reason that I believe that those with the most tragic childhoods have the most potential for greatness. It is for this reason I’ve strongly considered creating a program for the most delinquent adolescents from the most dysfunctional homes.

Did I say already that I cut my hair? It’s the worst haircut I’ve had since my sister Cindy massacred my fragile 4th grade ego with her scissors. I used scissors to cut as close to the scalp as possible, but the hairs are uneven and patchy. It’s just a test to see if I care. I should have known- I haven’t a speck of interest in what people think. Then again, it’s not exactly THAT bad… unless you actually care about hair. I do find ways to amuse myself.

I am shocked and amused by the media here. The most famous Brazilian soap opera, “Passione,” showed fake but highly realistic burned limbs of a dead character. The news stations are all over the floods ravaging the region, especially north of here, and one of their mottos is something to the effect of “graphic for the purpose of saving lives.” They have shown dead bodies half protruding from mudslides. Another gruesome scene, the news cameraman was clearly anxiously reaching his camera around to get a better shot at a dead body being examined at a crime scene. Today I saw on the news a video shot from a helicopter hovering over the throng of people and order-keeping policemen surrounding a crime scene that inspired the television screen headline of “Woman found without a head or limbs.” Apparently in the middle of the street. Walking into a family restaurant you find topless women on pornographic magazines shelved and lined up at the entrance.

This morning of the 18th I changed my brake pads and lamented to find my front rotor scored a bit by a perhaps overworn pad. Not sure. I succeeded at lowering my headlight, so I should be able to actually see the road at night instead of the tree leaves. I adjusted the angle of the “gozinta” (my favorite new word) to reduce the friction on my fraying clutch cable. During my parking garage test drive the bike lost gas or air and quit. It would not restart. Inspection revealed a pinched hose on the carb, and this led to a 2 hour take-off-the-the-tank-trim-the-tube-and-readjust-all-the-hoses-for-air-and-gas ordeal. But, it looks right now that that was the fix. She roared into action like hasn’t done in a long, long time. The broken choke cable gozinta continues to nag me, but it doesn’t seem to be overly pertinent.

I saw Chad and Michelli off later that evening. Michelli’s family and I stood and waited well over an hour until the two of them were truly out of reach. Dedicated parents. I assured the father, the kind Edson, that his daughter was in good hands. Not that my word counts. The man met me three days prior. He still welcomed me back anytime. Yet another person to add to my list of debts. I look forward to having them as guests.

The following morning I rode out and thought something was wrong with the bike because it felt so smooth. The new tires, coupled with about 5 psi less air, cushioned me like I was riding a brand new bike with aftermarket uprgraded shocks. The chain didn’t bust, so that’s good. The front brake was squishy at first, but that quickly disappeared or became unnoticeable after a minute or two. The bike even felt like it was vibrating less at higher RPMs in each gear. Once I reached Ubatuba, the bike sounded a little fluttery and it lurched a bit, so I’ll check it over in the morning. I wonder at this point how much is a figment of my paranoia. It’s like post traumatic stress syndrome induced hallucinations.

What is not a hallucination is the fact that I have no place I must and the only dates I must obey are my credit card bills, tax return, and motorcycle registration. And no one is MAKING me do any of those things. So…