When I arrived in Brasil for the second time, I was asked how many kilometers per day I rode. The question makes more sense from the perspective of a motorist who can power through mountains and can drive through the wind.
On bicycle, there are many things that matter: wind, cold, heat, climbing, food, water. I would rather hear: how tough was it today? Or, tell me about some of your days?
The toughest thing about riding is leaving the land that gives life to my eyes and soul and spirit. What is hard about riding is leaving those who become my family each day.
You eat well and cheap in Ouro Preto—ochra, zuchinni, corn meal, beef, chicken, salted greens, rice, beans, raw beets, tomatoes, carrots, lettuce, sweet preserves of orange rinds, the local cachaca.
I found a hostel that was opened just two weeks previously. There I meet Leonardo, Lucas--the two partners—and Bela and Barbara, two students who worked there. Republicanas are the student quarters throughout the city, reflecting the city’s historical importance as a center of education. They are private and public homes spread throughout the city and the parties are legendary. The hostel itself, overlooking the city at the top of the mountain, was just recently a republicana. Neighbors are apparently happy about the conversion.
When I arrived at the base of Ouro Preto I asked directions to the city center. Like most days riding in Minas Gerais, the answer is: ascend to the top. I rode out of the saddle 1km to in the steep cobblestones to the city center and ate a self-service dinner for a very good price. I hung out with Leornardo, Lucas, and their mutual friend, Pedro, a cyclist who lives in nearby Mariana. I was spent that night and slept early.
In the morning Leonardo showed me around the hostel and I saw the construction in progress of the first story, and explored out in the back overlooking the view of the city. Their space is perfect, they have an intelligence and energy which is obvious, and have a genuine passion about the city. It was a great pleasure to encounter such people.
There were excellent museums in Ouro Preto I explored that day documenting the first revolution against Portugal. The city itself is well-preserved with most of the buildings dating back to the 1700s. As I was walking the streets I stepped into the first theater in South America, built in the 1790s. They were having a concert of John Cage that night. I ran into three Argentineans in the hostel, in Brasil to see the Pope speak in Rio for his first visit to South America. We went to the John Cage concert that night, and it was different to listen to John Cage in such a setting. Two pianists played 40 different pieces and the piano was modified and many in the crowd wondered when the noise would end the the music would begin. Yet the crowd applauded loudly at the end of the performance, not quite knowing what hit them.
I would later spend the night listening to about every type of Brazilian music possible with Lucas, everything from traditional folk music to death metal.
I descended from Ouro Preto and passed through Mariana and ate almoço there. Typically, the food was beautifully executed mineira cuisine. I rode through Camargos and ascended difficult hills until there was no more sunlight and arrived in Santa Rita Durão I asked the military police for a place to sleep for the night. He directed me to a market, the people at the market directed me to a family, and the family directed me to another family where Mara let me a room for a nominal price. I ate next door with 8 miners who worked nearby at Vale.
The room was simple and perfect. The neighbor's home next door was curious--an extravagant mansion, barbed wire and electric fences. How did others drop by and knock on the door to borrow sugar?
I left very early the next day, and headed through Catas Alas, and landed in Santa Barbara, where I met Viko, the poet of Santa Barbara. I had with me a translation in Portuguese of Federico Garcia Lorca’s “La casada infiel—A casada infiel,” translated by Guilherme Mansur, a poet from Ouro Preto, that was part of an exhibition I had passed through. He read the poem aloud in front of the small restaurant where I ate my almoço He invited me to his home and gave me several book covers of his works. He gave me a bottle of wine he had produced—Vinho de Jabuticaba. He wrote his first work when he was 8, he published his first work when he was 50. Viko directed me to his friend who worked at the casa de cultura.
In the morning I ate the best pão com queso of my life. Can they make it any better?
I knew it would be tricky to pick up the Estrada Real, and so I asked some men on motorcycles. They told me to head in one direction. I asked two military police, and they told me to head in an opposite direction. I arrived at a pineapple vendor, selling pineapples on a bicycle with a loudspeaker. He told me to return to the center. I asked two old men, who affirmed the military police where correct.
I rode in the mountains for the entire day over cobblestones and dirt roads. I rode for 3 hours and thought I had reached the top of the mountain and was happy and ate granola. I continued to climb in the sun and reached a communications tower. One man had arrived on motorcycle, another was leaving. I told the man of his fortune to work amidst such beauty. “No, it’s ugly,” he said. “It’s lonely and dark at night. To work alone in such conditions, nothing is uglier. I like to be with people, I like to be where there is light.” We spoke a bit more about the area and my descent. He wished my brakes well. I told him once again how fortunate he was to work amidst such beauty. “Yes, it is awfully beautiful,” he admitted.
I descended in the hot sun over trails of sand, silt, and rocks. I opened 5 barbed wire gates and negotiated among dogs, horses, and cows, I knew I was no longer on the Estrada Real, but I didn’t know how it was possible I departed.
The descent was slow and brutal and I had to throw the bike into a ditch to avert a crash. Eventually I ran into a farmer who told me I was way off course. His message angered me but it wasn’t his fault. I descended, over river beds, sand, and gates, to Cocais, where I found a cheap place, where the family cooked me dinner and breakfast and gave me a place to sleep for the night.
I left early the next morning and rode about 30km to Bom Jesus do Amparo, where Joazinho had a pousada. I felt very ill, run down, overheated. I slept for a few hours when I arrived, then went to the town square for a pastel and a beer. When I returned, there was a churrasco. Three guys arrived. Then 4 more guys arrived. Then a family. Then another family. Then the grandparents. Then the two military police. One policeman had worked in construction, then worked in Belo Horizonte for 4 years. He liked the tranquil life in the smaller village. His dream job would be a professor of mathematics, but perhaps later. The police were very friendly and boasted about training and various dangerous accomplishments. They liked to put their hands inside their bulletproof vests. They drank cola while the rest drank beer. We ate and drank until 11, well-guarded by the military police.
I rode in the sun and steep dirt hills to Senhora do Carmo, where there was a large festa. The town normally had 500 residents, but there were 5,000 people in the streets that day. I ate cheaply and quickly and continued my descent in the steep dirt roads to Itambé do Mato Dentro where local workers fed me sweet wine and strategized about the route for the next day.
Lobo Leite
Descending to Ouro Preto
Ouro Preto as the sun sets
The old republicana's being renovated
View from the old republicana
old republicana
Pianist prepares for her John Cage performance in the oldest concert hall in South America
Santa Rita Durão--church for slaves
Santa Rita Durão--church for non-slaves
Santa Rita Durão--simple room, perfect
Yet the neighbors next door have electric fences and barbed wire.
Viko, poet of Santa Barbara, winemaker
Santa Barbara
Casa de cultura, Santa Barbara
Steep cobblestone mark the old road
Near the top, but not quite the top--ascent from Barão de Cocais
I was relieved and in wonder of the beauty, but there was still more ascending, and the descent was very hard.
More beautiful views, but I grew concerned about the difficulty of the trail
The top-top, almost.
I knew I was off-path when I began opening gates to private property.
These cows were not impressed with my journey. They would not get out of the road and not one "Opa" did I receive.
The descending was challenging.
Cocais
On the way to Ipoema
On the way to Senhora do Carmo
When I later arrived in Itambe do Mato Dentro, my face, as well, was covered in dirt. I did not notice until later, but did receive special looks.
The toughest thing about riding is leaving the land that gives life to my eyes and soul and spirit. What is hard about riding is leaving those who become my family each day.
The riding in Minas Gerais is beautiful and difficult. There are foothills and mountains and there is never rest. When I can follow the dirt roads and trails of the Estrada Real, I am challenged by the raw terrain and brutal ascents and descents. When I am lost, I follow the paved roads, still ascending and descending.
So it was that I departed Congonhas and picked up steep dirt roads and trails to Lobo Leite. There, I stopped to speak with a family. I asked a woman about a place to eat lunch and about the direction to Ouro Preto. Her husband, young son and daughter then came out. We spoke for 40 minutes about the town, their lives, history. Similar stories begin to emerge about government spending on local projects—a local rehabilitation of a square that locals eyeball at 10,000 reis, came in at 85,000 reis by government reports. The mines are healthy and active and the salaries are decent and the working conditions are OK too.
I rode in the intense sun to Ouro Preto that day—intense descents and hard climbs in the mountains. I rode through untouched valleys and mountains and when I reached Ouro Preto there were large mines and factories at the outskirts and there was some pollution. I climbed out from the valley and descended into Ouro Preto, a city that dates back to the 17th century that was a source of gold for Portuguese empire. It was also where the revolution against Portugal began, and the museums show the relics of the early revolutionaries, the relics of the old empire, the relics of the church.
You eat well and cheap in Ouro Preto—ochra, zuchinni, corn meal, beef, chicken, salted greens, rice, beans, raw beets, tomatoes, carrots, lettuce, sweet preserves of orange rinds, the local cachaca.
I found a hostel that was opened just two weeks previously. There I meet Leonardo, Lucas--the two partners—and Bela and Barbara, two students who worked there. Republicanas are the student quarters throughout the city, reflecting the city’s historical importance as a center of education. They are private and public homes spread throughout the city and the parties are legendary. The hostel itself, overlooking the city at the top of the mountain, was just recently a republicana. Neighbors are apparently happy about the conversion.
When I arrived at the base of Ouro Preto I asked directions to the city center. Like most days riding in Minas Gerais, the answer is: ascend to the top. I rode out of the saddle 1km to in the steep cobblestones to the city center and ate a self-service dinner for a very good price. I hung out with Leornardo, Lucas, and their mutual friend, Pedro, a cyclist who lives in nearby Mariana. I was spent that night and slept early.
In the morning Leonardo showed me around the hostel and I saw the construction in progress of the first story, and explored out in the back overlooking the view of the city. Their space is perfect, they have an intelligence and energy which is obvious, and have a genuine passion about the city. It was a great pleasure to encounter such people.
There were excellent museums in Ouro Preto I explored that day documenting the first revolution against Portugal. The city itself is well-preserved with most of the buildings dating back to the 1700s. As I was walking the streets I stepped into the first theater in South America, built in the 1790s. They were having a concert of John Cage that night. I ran into three Argentineans in the hostel, in Brasil to see the Pope speak in Rio for his first visit to South America. We went to the John Cage concert that night, and it was different to listen to John Cage in such a setting. Two pianists played 40 different pieces and the piano was modified and many in the crowd wondered when the noise would end the the music would begin. Yet the crowd applauded loudly at the end of the performance, not quite knowing what hit them.
I would later spend the night listening to about every type of Brazilian music possible with Lucas, everything from traditional folk music to death metal.
I descended from Ouro Preto and passed through Mariana and ate almoço there. Typically, the food was beautifully executed mineira cuisine. I rode through Camargos and ascended difficult hills until there was no more sunlight and arrived in Santa Rita Durão I asked the military police for a place to sleep for the night. He directed me to a market, the people at the market directed me to a family, and the family directed me to another family where Mara let me a room for a nominal price. I ate next door with 8 miners who worked nearby at Vale.
The room was simple and perfect. The neighbor's home next door was curious--an extravagant mansion, barbed wire and electric fences. How did others drop by and knock on the door to borrow sugar?
I left very early the next day, and headed through Catas Alas, and landed in Santa Barbara, where I met Viko, the poet of Santa Barbara. I had with me a translation in Portuguese of Federico Garcia Lorca’s “La casada infiel—A casada infiel,” translated by Guilherme Mansur, a poet from Ouro Preto, that was part of an exhibition I had passed through. He read the poem aloud in front of the small restaurant where I ate my almoço He invited me to his home and gave me several book covers of his works. He gave me a bottle of wine he had produced—Vinho de Jabuticaba. He wrote his first work when he was 8, he published his first work when he was 50. Viko directed me to his friend who worked at the casa de cultura.
I rode out of town and missed the casa de cultura. I stopped at a hardware store and asked how to pick up the estrada real. I rode back into town and was told to return back to where I ascended. I descended again and was lost. I asked a family for directions and ascended the steep cobblestones again. I found the casa de cultura on my was back into town and it was closed but I was given a quick tour by Viko's friend. He had ridden his motorcycle to many of the places in South America through which I had cycled. He was staying in place now, working on the restoration of the building for the time being.
I eventually followed paved roads to Barao de Cacais where I found, after much searching, a cheap room for the night. I inquired of 4 places, and each place was cheaper. On the square, the owners were generous. When I told them of my riding, they offered me their best room, but I refused. I told them I only needed simple accommodation. There was a festival on the square and there was music, dancing, grilled meat, I felt at home. I felt among family.
I eventually followed paved roads to Barao de Cacais where I found, after much searching, a cheap room for the night. I inquired of 4 places, and each place was cheaper. On the square, the owners were generous. When I told them of my riding, they offered me their best room, but I refused. I told them I only needed simple accommodation. There was a festival on the square and there was music, dancing, grilled meat, I felt at home. I felt among family.
In the morning I ate the best pão com queso of my life. Can they make it any better?
I knew it would be tricky to pick up the Estrada Real, and so I asked some men on motorcycles. They told me to head in one direction. I asked two military police, and they told me to head in an opposite direction. I arrived at a pineapple vendor, selling pineapples on a bicycle with a loudspeaker. He told me to return to the center. I asked two old men, who affirmed the military police where correct.
I rode in the mountains for the entire day over cobblestones and dirt roads. I rode for 3 hours and thought I had reached the top of the mountain and was happy and ate granola. I continued to climb in the sun and reached a communications tower. One man had arrived on motorcycle, another was leaving. I told the man of his fortune to work amidst such beauty. “No, it’s ugly,” he said. “It’s lonely and dark at night. To work alone in such conditions, nothing is uglier. I like to be with people, I like to be where there is light.” We spoke a bit more about the area and my descent. He wished my brakes well. I told him once again how fortunate he was to work amidst such beauty. “Yes, it is awfully beautiful,” he admitted.
I descended in the hot sun over trails of sand, silt, and rocks. I opened 5 barbed wire gates and negotiated among dogs, horses, and cows, I knew I was no longer on the Estrada Real, but I didn’t know how it was possible I departed.
The descent was slow and brutal and I had to throw the bike into a ditch to avert a crash. Eventually I ran into a farmer who told me I was way off course. His message angered me but it wasn’t his fault. I descended, over river beds, sand, and gates, to Cocais, where I found a cheap place, where the family cooked me dinner and breakfast and gave me a place to sleep for the night.
I left early the next morning and rode about 30km to Bom Jesus do Amparo, where Joazinho had a pousada. I felt very ill, run down, overheated. I slept for a few hours when I arrived, then went to the town square for a pastel and a beer. When I returned, there was a churrasco. Three guys arrived. Then 4 more guys arrived. Then a family. Then another family. Then the grandparents. Then the two military police. One policeman had worked in construction, then worked in Belo Horizonte for 4 years. He liked the tranquil life in the smaller village. His dream job would be a professor of mathematics, but perhaps later. The police were very friendly and boasted about training and various dangerous accomplishments. They liked to put their hands inside their bulletproof vests. They drank cola while the rest drank beer. We ate and drank until 11, well-guarded by the military police.
I rode in the sun and steep dirt hills to Senhora do Carmo, where there was a large festa. The town normally had 500 residents, but there were 5,000 people in the streets that day. I ate cheaply and quickly and continued my descent in the steep dirt roads to Itambé do Mato Dentro where local workers fed me sweet wine and strategized about the route for the next day.
Itambe do Mato Dentro
