Cycling the Transamazon Highway

Ninety-five percent is still native forest, but once in a while, I pass farms or these strange bamboo huts. I learn that these bamboo huts are inhabited by Indigenous people of a big local tribe (I have forgotten the name) who still live a traditional lifestyle. They clear small areas for farming and move on after a couple of years to a place with fresh soil. Probably they notice me long before I pass by and hide somewhere in the bushes; that's why I never see anyone.

Later in the day, the clearings become more frequent, the hills also, and, yeah, I meet the first vehicle in five days on the Transamazônica: a local cyclist visiting his neighbor some 10 kilometers ahead... He's as surprised as I am to meet another cyclist, and the first thing he asks is how I have survived all these dangerous Indigenous people and the hungry jaguars without a firearm. He has a big old gun strapped to his antique bicycle, but I wonder what that is good for if an onça jumps onto your back. And finally, he has to confess that he himself has never seen one, but he knows that a friend of his neighbor's friend saw a dangerous jaguar disappearing anxiously into the jungle "recently".

The Brazilian state of Pará is roughly the size of France, Germany, and Italy together. Today, I cross from Pará into the state of Amazonas, which is about the size of one United Kingdom bigger. Two of its three million inhabitants live in the capital, Manaus; the rest is spread over an area of 1.5 million square kilometers.

No farm in the late afternoon, so I pull into the jungle to find a nice campsite. It's very difficult to drag a loaded bike through the jungle, so I lean it against a tree while searching for a flat place with few plants for my tent. I find a good spot, but still, it takes some time to prepare my four square meters. I swing my machete for several minutes, and by the time I'm pleased with the results, it's dark. No problem, I've set up my tent hundreds of times; I can do that with my eyes closed... But where is the bicycle?

At night, heavy rain drums on my tent, and my right foot, which I sprained yesterday with the liana, hurts.

Nov. 8th

The next morning, the wet road slows me down, but the sun soon dries it out. I'm looking forward to reaching a small village marked on my map, but all I find are some ruins and an old, abandoned gas station, with trees and bushes growing in the gas tanks. Many homes along the Transamazon have been abandoned, and lots of the remaining settlers have posted "For sale" signs. Obviously, the euphoric 1970s are over.

Later, I reach another river with a ferry crossing. But the ferry is anchored at the other side, and there is no one to be seen... The guy who operates this ferry must be somewhere around; I wait, walk up and down a bit, but it seems to be siesta time. I pull off my shirt to swim to the other side, but when I enter the water, I can see someone paddling his canoe upstream.

Behind the next corner, there is actually a small village, and while I have lunch in the local "restaurant", I spread out my banknotes on the desk to dry them out.

Nov. 9th

When I wake up at five in the morning, my host is already up to milk the cows. I left my bike outside yesterday, so I don't have much to prepare. It's only 10 minutes to Apuí's "airport", and after the airport, the road is really paved. But if I had continued at night, I would probably not have noticed. The quality of the pavement is such that I wish it weren't... I'm surprised by the size of the town. It's much bigger than Jacareacanga; there are several shops, a small hospital, schools, even a high school, and a bus terminal! From here on, there is even regular public transport to Porto Velho.

While doing some shopping, I learn about Sister Theresa, a German nun who takes care of the local orphans. I try to find her, but she's out of town today. I leave some presents for her - the books I finished 1,000 kilometers from here and that I have still been carrying around.

At noon, the road is blocked by a big herd of cattle. The herd is supervised by two cowboys ahead and two at the end. I cycle along with the cowboys, but these stupid cows seem to be afraid of bicycles. I increase the distance, but the cows still push forward while the two guys in front of the group try to slow them down. The cows continue pushing, and suddenly they all turn around and run back in my direction! I jump off my bike, hop over the ditch and over the fence, and then I can see a cloud of dust - hundreds of white Zebu cows and four cowboys shouting and waving their hats, trying to stop the stampede.

They disappear in a cloud of dust behind the hill... My bike is still OK; I just have to remove some cow shit. (It doesn't make much difference though, as dirty as it was before...)

It's a really busy highway here; three trucks passed by today, all three westbound. At 4 p.m., I reach the Rio Aripuanã, and that's where I find out why no truck came the other way: the ferry is out of order. The three trucks that passed me in the morning are still waiting; several trucks and the bus that runs between Porto Velho and Apuí have been waiting since yesterday on the other side. Passengers and drivers have already crossed over in small canoes, and they have all gathered in the small restaurant at the "harbor". These are the moments when everyone looks jealously at you and your bike: I could put it on a small canoe and continue! But first, I eat in the restaurant, and I drink a lot, as everyone calls me to their table to inquire about this stupid idea to cycle here... They have quite good beer in Brazil; the most common trademarks are "Antarctica", "Skol", and "Brahma". They come in 600-ml bottles, and the bottle is considered public domain for everyone at the table, so I have lost count of the amount of beer I had that afternoon... Everyone is quite happy, as the repairs are in their final stage and the ferry is promised to run "daqui a pouco". And really, an hour later, the bus is loaded on the ferry and it crosses over. Legend has it that the river is 90 meters deep here, so I take advantage of the big ferry instead of a small canoe. I set up my tent on the soccer field of the small village on the other shore. It's a wonderful place. The sun sets over the river, and I drift in the crystal-clear, warm water until darkness.

At night, a thunderstorm comes up, with very strong winds. I have to get out to secure my tent.

Nov 10th

It's raining. And it's cold. The temperature has dropped down to not much more than 20°C, and that makes you really freeze if you are used to 30 or 35. It's not raining hard - just some spray - but today the rain is not the pleasant, warm shower that it was the days before. I have some company today. João "da Vila" is commuting to work, to a fazenda some 20 kilometers ahead. He carries a gun, a machete, and a chainsaw on his bike - a real overkill. His job is to cut down trees to clear new land, and while we pass a big burning field of another fazenda, he comments that the weather in Amazonia is not what it used to be.

It's not enough rain to turn the road into mud, but it still makes it difficult to cycle on soft, wet dirt. There are billions of small black flies around, and each time I stop, I lose half a liter of blood.

In the afternoon, I reach another small, nameless village with a dirty but good restaurant. I have to slow down; there is an Indigenous reservation some 20 kilometers ahead, and non-Indigenous people are not allowed to stay overnight without permission.

I learn about two other cyclists who came here "recently" - only two years ago. They were probably Americans, but no one knows exactly, as they did not speak a word of Portuguese. They cycled in from Porto Velho, stopped here for two days, and then gave up and returned to Porto Velho by bus. That's why I never heard about them in the villages before.

I continue for some more kilometers and then camp on the deserted land of an old, abandoned farm.

Ants are probably the most annoying creatures in the tropics. They might be crucial for the environment, but when they constantly crawl over you, bite you, and swarm any food not packed in airtight plastic bags, you quickly learn to hate them. On a previous tour, my tent was actually "attacked" by leafcutter ants. They seemed to like the thin mosquito netting of the inner tent and simply started cutting it to pieces. When I woke up, I could see them carrying away thousands of green leaves—along with pieces of my white tent. Since then, I have been using insect powder. Don't worry, I don't poison the soil. I spread it on top of the large plastic sheet under my tent and around the inner tent. It might not be the healthiest environment to sleep in, but it's certainly better than waking up without a mosquito net - and catching malaria, yellow fever, or dengue. It had always worked perfectly until now. But here, on the poor soil of this abandoned farm, they seem to be hungrier. Hungry enough to ignore the white powder, cut through the fabric, and enter my tent. I probably shouldn't have crushed chocolate cookies inside. Luckily, I noticed just in time. Now, a midnight cleanup is required - and a bit more insect powder.

Nov. 11th

I enter the Tenharim Indigenous Reservation in the morning mist. The reservation gives me the opportunity to cycle another 30 or 40 kilometers through unspoiled jungle. It's a welcome change from the boring cattle pastures I passed the day before. The road passes three small Indigenous villages.

It's not far to the Rio Madeira - maybe 120 kilometers. I have cycled a distance that I expected to take almost two weeks in just six days, at an average of more than 130 km per day. That means I don't need to hurry anymore. I find a small bar at a clear, cold river where I stay for the whole afternoon.

At night, I camp in an old banana plantation.

Nov 12th

Fifty kilometers to go. It's a hot day again, but it's easy cycling on a flat, recently maintained dirt road. I can see some clouds on the horizon, but now rain has no chance anymore. At 9:30, I reach the Rio Madeira, a 3,200-kilometer-long and, at this place, 1,000-meter-wide tributary of the Rio Amazonas. Its water comes from a huge area - from almost the whole Bolivian Amazon, the eastern Bolivian Andes, and from big parts of Mato Grosso. It is brown and muddy, and lots of big trunks ("madeira") drifting downstream make it quite dangerous to navigate.

The next part will bring you there.

Até logo

Micha

--> continue with part 6: Rio Madeira to Rio Branco