I've been such a bad customer that I almost don't feel bad that I'll
be paying this dude R$150 (~$75 USD). My wimpy watch alarm is no
contest for the alcohol of yesterday evening teamed with my
ever-lurking narcolepsy, so I arrive to my 8:00 downstairs meeting
with Daniel only after a lady who works at the hostel comes and wakes
me up around 8:30. Yep, I'm that guy.
Cool is Daniel's truck, ~a late '90s Ford Ranger that's a lot like the
Dodge Dakota I just bought. His is definitely cooler because of the
tank at the front end of the bed, ~the diameter of a BBQ's and as long
as his truck is wide. For $1,000 U.S., he had a mechanic install a
conversion kit so his car will run on natural gas. The cylinder only
holds enough gas for ~100 miles at a time, but filling stations are at
most gas stations, it's less polluting, costs ~half as much per mile
as gas, and his annual car tax drops from about a grand USD to less
than 200 bucks. Plus, as occurs while we're driving, he can switch to
normal gas when the cylinder runs out with the flip of a switch and
without shutting the car off. Heat doesn't hurt and it's bulletproof;
Daniel says the latter is an important consideration in Rio. If there
were filling stations in the U.S., I'd have one put in my truck
tomorrow; if I can figure out a way to rig a homebrew filler, I'm
still tempted to do it myself. Maybe Austin needs a commercial
natural gas conversion and tank filling station? Maybe everywhere
else with high smog levels, lots of environmentalists, and lots of
trucks / SUVs (the tank is quite large) needs one, too? Maybe this is
business idea #5,281 that I won't follow through upon?:)
Ok, back to why I'm in the truck in the first place: I'm going to
climb the K2 route up the upper section of Corcovado, the mountainside
upon which that really famous Christ the Redeemer statue spreads its
arms. Or, more accurately, I try to climb it: I make it through the
first of 4 pitches (~50 meters worth of climbing, a little under the
rope's length) only using bolts as holds (a big no-no for serious
climbers that prevents me from claiming to actually have climbed the
route), Daniel's guidance (at my behest) on almost every single step,
and his diligence with the gri-gri (=climbing device for belaying,
etc.) saving me from what would surely be a lethal fall hundreds of
meters when I slip attempting a step. Even though we only climbed
maybe 40 meters vertical height, looking down we see a cliff of what's
gotta be at least 200 meters, the city like anthills below us, because
we began our climb at a plateau maybe 2/3 of the way up and cut left
of the plateau. I may act hardcore, but I'm more than happy to heed
Daniel's advice and not attempt the rest of the climb, especially
considering that the next section is a horizontal climb during which
turning back would be much more difficult. As I belay back to terra
firma, I'm humblingly reminded that there's a huge difference between
walking the walk and climbing the climb.
We hike a trail up to the statue. It's cloudy, so we can't see the
city, but the statue's neat to see up close. Nothing too amazing or
worth hanging out at, just a big sculpture that looks like it does in
the postcards and during any movie featuring Rio's obligatory fly-by
shot.
Even with advice from Daniel, a vague plan and a heavy pack are a bad
combo for a long mountain biking expedition. I'm tired around 20
miles into it, when wrong turns have me asking some girl who can't be
more than 18 but is fluent in English for directions. My original
plan, courtesy of Daniel, was to make it to Guarantiba today, but the
beyond incredulous look from this girl and the consensus among
multiple people she asks that there's no way I could arrive before
dark force a revision to a target of Prainha.
Some hours, highway, and a tunnel or 2 that are uncomfortably narrow
later, I'm in Prainha. Unfortunately, cheap pousadas (= hostels)
aren't. I wander around asking for one, finding nothing below R$70
($32 USD) per night, and then take a break to stuff my face in a
churrascaria. I put away probably a good double-digit slices of pizza
and several piles of pasta before feeling pleasantly bloated. I feel
the diarrheal effects of drinking local water and eating weird stuff
to excess then start dozing while I wait for the bill. To do: get
this narcolepsy thing checked out. Asking around a bar near the beach
eventually yields some kid relatively fluent in English, and his
generosity gets me a spot on the floor of his friend David's very
humble abode. R$20 (~$8 USD) and the generosity of strangers is good
for a dirty mattress in a clean wooden shack within feet of the beach.
David is the typical surfer dude, complete with long blond hair and
hippie hoodie. He speaks no English, so the "thumbs-up" and "hang 10"
signs are our main forms of communication. We're also sharing the
room with 2 beautiful puppies, 2 of the 4 dogs he has. At least
they're cute until the damn thing whining wakes me up; I feel like
they may have something to do with these bugs that keep biting me...