A la casa de Jorge

I had heard about Jorge from Ana and Andre, the two Brazilians I had camped with a few nights earlier. They said I should go to the small bike shop in town and ask about the casa de ciclistas. I imagined a Rastafarian man who would open his home to cyclists. After riding a tough 93km of pavement to Villa Manihuales, I stopped by a panadaria for bread with chicharones, bread, lunch meat, and dulce de leche. I asked the woman if she knew of Jorge and the bike shop, and she told me both were across the street on the corner. 

A man with glasses, dress pants, dress shirt, and black dress shoes popped out the door of a small bicicliteria and 5 boys swarmed around him, all needing bicycle repairs. He patiently dealt with each one, dismounting a tire, patching, adjusting a wheel bearing, straightening handlebars. 

I asked the man if he knew Jorge, who had a casa de ciclistas, and the man told me that he, indeed, was Jorge, and I was welcome to stay in his house. His home consisted of a large back yard, a garage area for bicycle repairs, a small chapel where he preached on Sundays, and a storage room. The storage room doubled as a sleeping area for the cyclists, and the work area doubled as a kitchen, with a stove and a sink.

When Jorge had fixed every bicycle presented to him, and after I had finished explaining to each boy my journey and the aspects of my bicycle and confirming the current US president several times (and pointing out that Spain was in fact in Europe, etc., etc.), Jorge was able to show me my room and point out the two guest books with messages from over 600 guests. Michael, the Polish walker had left a message. Momo, the Belgian from San Martin during New Year’s was in there. Ana and Andre. But no Urs and Gustavo. Perhaps they didn’t know of the casa de ciclistas. 

Jorge had raced bicycles in his early twenties, then became an accountant. Now he worked long hours and had gained some weight. He did much missionary work, too. In 2008 he went to Cidade de Deus in Rio with a group of missionaries and lived in the favela, proselytizing to drug users. He could not run in the favela as he might be shot by either narcos or police.

He holds regular services in his home on Sundays. During the day he drives 60km (a one hour commute) to Puerto Aysen. He kept pointing to his stomach each time he mentioned accounting. He was no larger than I in my early accounting days (I was about 30 pounds heavier). He told me  he wanted to work with his father, do more missionary work, run the bike shop, and spend more time with his Colombian wife and two children. In the mean time, his generosity extended to the hundreds of cyclists who passed through his doors, slept in his home, used the kitchen, bathroom, shower, and washing machine. 

Early the next morning as I ate oatmeal and drank yerba mate, Jorge came out, shook my hand, and told me he had to drive to Puerto Aysen. Accounting duty called. 

On the way to Jorge’s home over the last few days, I had ridden 48km of medium riding past Lago Risopatron to Puyuhuapi, where I found a camping on a man’s home on a lake and camped in his workshop and used a large common kitchen that had a wood stove to keep everyone warm at night. Two French hikers/kayakers appeared, along with Eduardo and Giulia, a Brazilian and an Italian who both loved in Floripa. All 5 of us cooked a dinner of fish, vegetables, and rice and spoke in Spanish. 

Eduardo had studied philosophy, and then had explored the world and had been a chef for many years in several countries. He sold organic fruit and vegetables with Guilia in Floripa. He spoke in great detail about the North of Brasil and gave me excellent advice. A new fire was lit. 
 
It rained heavily that night and the rain didn’t subside until just around noon, when I began to ride. I had to wash the chain off several times as an abrasive silt materialized, but the riding was beautiful along rivers and Canal Puyuhuapi. At around 5, I stopped by a river with a large, rocky shore, and prepared yerba mate and rested on a large log. A fisherman pulled up in his truck and waded out to the river to fly fish. He returned, and I asked him if he had had any luck. None. As I pulled out, he asked me if I knew of the large pass I would encounter in 5km. “Ah, buena onda,” I told him (“good times”). 

Not soon after, I ran into Fletch, a man on a motorcycle from Colorado, who told me about the steep switchbacks. “But it’s only like 5 miles of switchbacks and then you’re done.” It was a wet, incredibly steep, and very foggy 8km of silty, gravel switchbacks. When I reached the summit, it was 7:40, and I only had 30 min of sunlight before all would grow pitch dark. The descent was fast, wet, bumpy, and revealed great cliffs, mountain peaks, waterfalls, and rivers. When the descent was over, I saw asphalt, the first in 6 days of riding. I didn’t have to ride for 5 minutes before finding a place to camp and cook polenta and yerba mate. 

 Where the cyclists sleep. 18 have slept here and in the shop during one rainy January day.

 Jorge's shop.

 Kitchen and workspace.

Iglesia.

Esquel--La Junta

It is slower but richer. The roads are as tough as the mountain biking I remember in Wisconsin, but not as tough as mountain biking in Durango. I am riding a folding bike with lots of gear.

From Esquel to the border, the ripio was rough and steep--washboard in the first 15km, then smoothing a bit until the control. The control went without incident, and I rode 10km of *pavement* to Futaleufu where I paid to camp. It was late at night, I was exhausted, and everything was fenced. I was able to used a gas stove at the campground and an old woman put wood in the water heater for a hot shower. Her elderly husband liked chatting with me in the kitchen. I understood nothing because he had a thick accent and spoke in sharp jabs of slang. The woman didn't have change for the bill I had and so I bought a half dozen eggs across the street and ate them for dinner and breakfast, hard boiled. 

The riding was very steep, with constant rolling hills that had me out of my saddle most of the time. Since Esquel I have been in my small chain ring. The ripio is generally well-behaved. The washboard hasn't been bad, and the loose gravel is only in sections.

From Futaleafu I rode 38km in about 5 hours, and arrived at a villa that had no provisions, except an elderly woman who fed me a slab of meat, a sliced tomato, bread, and tea. I helped her moved a huge table she was trying to move into her kitchen by herself. She would have been fine without my help. 

I rode about another 8-10km until I reach a hidden entrance to a beach for Lago Yelcho. I pushed two wooden logs through the slats and pushed the bike on to the shore and had a large beach to myself. I noticed four homes, all very modern, but they didn't disturb the landscape. 

I washed in the lake and laundered the cycling clothing and cooked polenta and yerba mate for dinner and polenta and yerba mate for breakfast. I rode a very, very steep 20km to reach Ruta 7, Carretera Austral, in Villa Santa Lucia. On the way I passed striking waterfalls, rivers, streams, cliffs, lagoons, small, green farms with huge cattle and healthy horses. Water was everywhere to filter and I often did so.  In Santa Lucia I bought cream of wheat, a can of tuna, lunch meat, bread, cookies, and apples.

I continued South and was quite spent from the 20km of climbing. I stopped by an arroyo (stream) and washed and drank some instant coffee and ate and apple. I rode on until I passed an excellent beach on Rio Frio. Yet I spotted what I believed to be a lone cyclist, perhaps the American Adrian the 4 Brits had spoken of. I didn’t want to disturb him, so I rode on. At 7, I knew I had little sunlight, and when I passed another river with ideal camping, I did not let the smoke of the campfire deter me. 

Two Brazilians, Anna and Andrei, has set up camp, and said I would be welcome to joine them. They were from Floripa, a town a knew well, and had been riding from Brasil for 200 days. I set up camp, filtered water, cooked a large package of cream of wheat, spoke with the two for about an hour, and then slept. 

It rained heavily through the night and the rain did not stop until 11, when I packed up camp and got on the road. Heavy construction began almost immediately and the road changed from gravel to deep mud. The grind of the mud in the drivetrain was difficult to listen to. 

I encountered a Polish man in his early 40s who lived in Syndey and was running, hiking, cycling, and kayaking across South America. When I ran into him he was pushing a wheel barrow, and had his signature yellow inflatable duck with him. Michael also knew Peycho, the Bulgarian. Michael had surveyed the area earlier, hitch hiking around South America, dropping off food bags in trees and in homes. Out of the last 20 food drops, only 2 had been lost. In Argentina, one food bag had been lost when another man went on vacation. The remaining man at the outpost refused to help him or sell him food and he had to run another 50km to the next food drop. 

I continue south. The knees and the hands are adjusting to the new terrain. I spent last night at a hospedeja in La Junta, and the drive train is now clean once again after a bath and a lubrication of the chain. I will need to find a bank eventually to exchange dollars, as the ATM card has not been working, and I am getting down to my last few pesos.