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Prior post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2020/02/13/south-america-by-subaru-20-02-10-solo-hiking/

My hotel last night was very cheap but attractive and comfortable.

For that price, though, the breakfast buffet can hardly be anything more than Brasilian basic, but it punches above its weight and I have no trouble stoking up for a day of driving. A particularly nice amenity is plentiful cold milk and chocolate powder. That alone makes it a treat. Unfortunately, in Brasil, virtually all milk sold in stores is processed at ultra high temperature (UHT) so it doesn’t need refrigeration, which gives it, to me, an unpleasant cooked taste. Oh, how I have to suffer. The refrigerated dairy drink distribution system here only extends to yogurt.

I’ve been communicating with a non-profit group whose mission is to advance the conservation status of the golden lion tamarin. I saw one of these in the wild on my first Brasilian visit in 1984 — at least I think I did. None of the research I’ve done recently confirms that they ever existed in the place where I saw them despite my vivid memory of trekking out there specifically for that purpose. It wouldn’t be the first time I remember something that turns out not to have happened. Memories, despite being fundamental to how we manage our lives, are a neurological phenomenon — not necessarily an accurate representation of reality.

Getting back to the tamarins, this species only exists in the wild in Brasil and at one point was down to just a few hundred individuals. The Golden Lion Tamarin Association (AMLD in Portuguese) was formed at this low point in 1992 to try to save them from extinction. Through their efforts, the population is up to several thousand and I’m interested in getting another (?) look at these unique creatures.

There are two government reserves containing tamarins but they’re open only to researchers. AMLD is creating private reserves to increase the habitat and encourage more genetic diversity. On one of these, they offer guided public access to allow observation. They told me last week that it would be possible to visit on February 12. At the time, coinciding with Susan’s flight home and the onset of my solo journey, I thought I would be long past the area of the reserves, but it hasn’t worked out that way.

Yesterday, I received a confirmation from AMLD that the Wednesday viewing would happen if I confirmed today but included something new — a strict requirement that all visitors show proof of vaccination against yellow fever. I was vaccinated in 1984 before my first Brasilian visit but the documentation is long gone. Susan and I both got the shot in Bolivia, which is the only South American country to still require it, about a year ago on our prior road trip but I forgot to bring my proof with me on this one. I immediately emailed AMLD assuring them that I am vaccinated and asking if they will accept my word for it, It would be unfortunate if leaving the card home prevented me from seeing tamarins.

As of this morning, I’ve heard no word on whether or not I can actually go tomorrow. Since the AMLD office is only 2 hours away and on my route out of the area, I decide to drive over there and see if I can clarify the situation face to face. It’s still the rainy season, but with eternal optimism, I plan a back road route to reach there. Each of my “shortcuts” turns out to be dicey due to extensive mud holes. During the dry season, I rarely give up on a rough road, but faced with a severe risk of getting mired, it only makes sense to turn back, although the required U-turns are themselves often difficult on muddy, one lane ranch roads hemmed in with fences on both shoulders.

Today, I backtrack to the paved highway three different times so my route ends up being the exact long, boring way I was trying to avoid.

To my surprise, rather than a dingy office, I find a modern, rural facility set back from the highway near one of the public reserves.

I walk in and explain that I had emailed and heard no response as yet. As usual, the answer is a torrent of Portuguese that exceeds my auditory decoding ability. It’s very frustrating to both be able to express myself and read Portuguese reasonably well but still have a terrible time understanding the spoken language at normal conversational speed. I meet many people who have learned a language primarily by listening to music or watching television. It makes me crazy jealous but I just don’t have that talent or brain wiring. I need to see the words or mentally visualize them in writing and that really slows up my ability to comprehend conversation. I’ve had many great exchanges in Portuguese about politics, society, travel, etc with people on a one-to-one basis as long as they are speaking directly to me and understand that they need to restrain their normal speed and keep the vocabulary simple and/or rephrase things when my eyes start to cross. Ambient noise level is also important as music, multiple voices, or traffic noise makes it much harder to decode the spoken word. This is extraordinarily frustrating at parties and group dinners to which I’m periodically invited.

Seeing my quizzical looks and repeated questions covering the same territory they’ve just explained, two staff member ask me to wait and in a few minutes the association’s executive secretary, Luis Paulo, comes out and we end up spending over an hour in his office as he explains what the association is doing — in English. He says their internet connection fails frequently during the rainy season and that my latest inquiry wasn’t received for that reason.

I tell him about my recent vaccination and fortunately he accepts my word, so I’m go for the tamarin walk tomorrow. AMLD’s efforts are inspiring. Operating with no government money, they are working on the future of the tamarins and, by extension, the Atlantic Forest biome on many fronts. They’ve bought farmland needed to connect fragmented habitats (sometimes through consistent, nagging pressure), they’ve replanted native trees with great success, they collar individual tamarins so they can monitor the location and condition of groups. they raise money by allowing people to see the tamarins in the restricted areas, they’re trying to build a tamarin-based tourism economy to encourage locals to support conservation, and many more. They’ve successfully pressured highway builders to install a major tamarin trailway over an expressway (many roads in Brasil are government concessions to private companies). The contractor doesn’t want to publicize their effort, presumably because similar amenities could be demanded in many other places along their roads. Luis Paulo says the AMLD will trumpet the overpass far and wide as soon as it’s put into service. By the time our conversation ends, I’m so impressed by the selfless, difficult work of these volunteers that I donate substantially more than the excursion fee they charge.

Why the strict yellow fever vaccination requirement? He tells me primates, along with humans are susceptible to yellow fever, which is often fatal. In the past 3 years, the golden lion tamarins have been hit hard by an epizootic (that’s an epidemic among non-humans). Just when they were doing quite well, 30% have now been killed off by the disease. AMLD is trying to develop a vaccination program to alleviate the danger, but capturing each animal to vaccinate it is going to be very expensive, if their is even a safe and effective vaccine for that species.

Unfortunately, private conservation efforts often depend on “marquee species”, particularly cute or striking animals, to attract substantial funds from the public. The golden lion tamarin (mico leão dourado in Portuguese) is certainly one of those “awwww, cute” generators but the proceeds of that feeling are benefiting Brasil’s Atlantic Forest and everything that lives in it. That forest used to blanket all of eastern Brasil, an area larger than Alaska, but has steadily been cut down and fragmented until now there is only about 12% left. Since it was never extensively studied, just exploited, we’ll never know how many Mata Atlantica species have already gone extinct. Even in it’s vastly reduced state, it’s still a reservoir of biodiversity.

The private land I’ll be visiting tomorrow is 20 miles back the way I came and the area has few hotels, so Luis Paulo gives me the name of a cooperating ranch nearby that can offer me lodging. I make my way back there and pull into Fazenda dos Cordeiros (Lamb Ranch), a big active place with the guesthouse in the family residence in a quiet uphill spot.

The owner, Ana Beatriz, welcomes me into the house, surrounded by jungle-like woods. The price she quotes, US$50, is higher than I’d like but I quickly succumb to her friendliness, the inclusion of both dinner and breakfast, the overall family vibe, and the paucity of other nearby choices.

As soon as I accept,she offers me “coffee” which turns out to be, essentially, lunch, with homemade bread, local cheese, and a variety of fresh fruit and preserves. She describes how sustainable they are, harvesting most of the fruit and vegetables they eat from the trees and garden. The fazenda is totally organic and she seems quite knowledgeable about farming practices, recent developments, and marketing of unfamiliar fruits. She frequently refers to agricultural and culinary reference books during our discussion, which is smooth and rapid due to her fluent English.

I spend the afternoon and evening sitting outdoors in the shade with the computer, amidst the beautifully landscaped surroundings, replete with various orchids, which the fazenda also raises for sale.

I take advantage of the covered parking to reorganize the car without standing in the hot sun. At 8:30, dinner is called. The selection of dishes is ample and I have no trouble eating my fill. Ana Beatriz’s husband and mother-in-law have come home and we have a lively discussion, more in Portuguese than English this time, eased along with Ana’s translating help. After dinner, it’s time to hit the hay as I have to load up, have breakfast and drive down the road to the rendezvous site by 8 AM.

Next post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2020/03/08/south-america-by-subaru-20-02-12-i-see-rare-golden-lion-tamarins/

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Prior post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2020/02/09/south-america-by-subaru-20-02-08-a-taste-of-carnival-in-rio/

After 3 welcoming and restful nights with Servas host Déo in Rio de Janeiro, it’s time to move on toward Brasil’s Northeast. Since I’m still waffling whether to wait around until Wednesday for the opportunity to see golden lion tamarins, I decide to spend today in nearby Serra dos Orgãos National Park. The mountains are named after formations that struck someone as resembling organ pipes.

The jewel attraction is a 20 mile traverse of the entire park, which tempts me briefly, but it’s clearly not practical. It’s a three day trip with a severe ascent, hiring a guide is both mandatory and advisable, and the gear I have is suitable for car camping but quite heavy to haul into the back country. Reluctantly, I let the idea go.

Research indicates the park opens at 8 AM and has 3 widely separated accesses, so I plot a course that hits each one. I’m sure the entrance fee is only good for the day and, of course, I want to get my money’s worth. I set off early, before Déo and Gilberto are stirring. This is not very polite and not my normal style, but Déo is a late riser so I leave a note and slip out.

Northbound out of Rio, I decide to take the toll road to save time and encounter one of the strangest divided highways I’ve ever seen. It starts out very typically, and I cruise along at 75-80 mph, but right after the toll booth, the road divides. Directly ahead, oncoming traffic is moving toward me on a flat road at high speed but my direction veers off on a completely different track along a steep upgrade. Although it remains one way traffic, the route twists, turns, and climbs like a typical, slow mountain road. More curious, there are quite a few homes and businesses along the roadside. They can only be approached from one direction and exited in the other, so moving even a hundred feet backwards would entail driving against traffic on the busy road.

It dawns on me that this used to be the regular two lane highway (maybe the segments of poorly painted out double yellow line were my clue) and the residents were really screwed when it went one way only. To go south, anywhere south, they have a 10-20 mile loop to the north and back. Apparently, the government built a new, more modern road on a completely different route across the mountains, miles from the road I’m on, but never finished the northbound lanes.

Thus, the old highway became the “temporary” northbound lanes. This is confirmed later when the road ducks under a modern underpass, one side of which ends in midair with no indication of current construction. Although the Brasilian federal highway system is generally excellent, this project seems to have gone terribly wrong for who knows how many years.

I later find out this route, the Washington Luiz highway (named after the president who ordered it built, declaring “government means opening roads”) was the first paved road in Brasil, opened to traffic in 1928, when there were only about 130,000 vehicles in the entire nation. 1,783 of them traveled the road on its first day.

I was hoping to get to the first park entrance right at opening time, but I’m not going to make it. From the highway, Google Maps routes me along a terribly pot-holed, one lane road toward Petrópolis. There’s enough oncoming traffic that I frequently have to squeeze onto the non-existent shoulder to let a taxi, truck, or school bus slip past. Part of the road, still in very poor condition, runs through a mountainside subdivision full of expensive homes, complete with guards at both ends and frequent monitoring cameras. I guess because I’m on a public road the guards don’t actually stop me but they carefully eye each entering vehicle.

I don’t tarry in Petrópolis although it’s interesting due to it’s having been the de facto summer capital of the Brasilian Empire in the 1820s… because the emperor liked the upland climate much better than down in hot, swampy Rio de Janeiro. As Mel Brooks said, “It’s good to be the king.”

Once in Petrópolis, the way toward the national park is clearly marked — for a while. As the road gets narrower and rougher again, one last sign says “Park entrance 1.5 miles. No parking on site.” A few additional signs would have been helpful since the road devolves into a series of dead end tracks. Worse yet, Google Maps depicts the entrance on what turns out to be the wrong dead end. Workmen I ask along the way seem oblivious even to the existence of a nearby national park until I come across a tourist jeep excursion whose driver gives me detailed and comprehensible directions to the correct branch. One more serious ascent in low gear and I reach a small entrance complex. I’m the only visitor in sight. Confirming that I’m welcome and that there’s no parking area, indeed almost no room to reverse direction, I jockey the Subaru around in the narrow space and go downhill about 200 yards where an enterprising landowner has posted a crude sign announcing parking. There’s no room to negotiate the 315 degree uphill turn into his steep, bedrock driveway, so I have to go further down the road to a slightly wider spot where I can pull a tortuous multi-step K turn and surge back up the steep grade into a small parking area.

Paying my fee to the owner, I stash safety gear and supplies in my pack and slog back up to the entrance, where more money is collected and I’m given a small trail map.

The trail is a spur that runs over two miles up valley along a rushing stream, past half a dozen named pools. The first quarter mile is lined with barbed wire fence and I can see banana trees and other crops on the uphill side. Above, on both sides, very steep rock walls covered with epiphytic bromeliads form the valley. I wasn’t expecting to see such rugged terrain. I haven’t been much above sea level for weeks so this pseudo-alpine terrain is a nice change. The vegetation is still the jungle-like Atlantic Forest but at this altitude it’s more of a cloud forest, frequently awash in mist and fog. The trail is steadily and often steeply uphill, quite wet, and by turns rocky and muddy. I make the short detours to the various pools. They’re boulder filled and pleasant, but not overly impressive.

As I continue up the valley, alternately leaving and rejoining the stream, the uphill effort gets quite noticeable. Behind me, there are periodic long views down the canyon’s impressively severe topography toward the distant settlement miles below.

As I walk the final half mile or so, the 20-mile traverse trail branches off, clearly marked “permit required”. At this point, I’m tired enough by the uphill slog that I give it only a quick, envious glance as I continue past. The final attraction is Bridal Veil Falls (how many of those are there in the world?), but reaching it requires three traverses of the rushing stream, none with bridges or even a prepared crossing path. I have to hop from rock to rock and enter the water to get across, The first crossing is at the very brink of a substantial waterfall requiring some cautious stepping in order to cross without serious mishap.

The trail ends at Bridal Veil Falls, a respectable 4600 feet elevation and they are indeed rewarding. I’m grateful that after seeing thousands of waterfalls, each new one is still interesting, even delightful. I don’t now why they never get boring, but I’m glad. Perhaps there’s some genetically preserved reaction triggered each time I see one.

The trip back to the entrance requires less energy for being downhill but at least as much caution to avoid losing footing and taking a humiliating or even injurious fall on the slippery mud, exposed tree roots, and uneven rocks.

For decades, I’ve reminded people that doing things solo is inherently more dangerous than with even one companion. Mishaps that are trivial if there’s someone else around can be serious, even fatal, by yourself. A twisted ankle, the beginnings of hypothermia, a slip off a narrow trail, or anything else can ruin a solo hike — or a solo life. In my long gone Alaska days, where I often took novices into the wilderness, including a week or two of ocean kayaking, I always had redundant plans for contingencies — storms, bears, snow, loss of gear, etc. Although nature in Alaska is always trying to kill you, I had an unblemished record, no deaths or maiming injuries. Of course, a few people did disappear, but my policy is if the body isn’t found, it doesn’t count.

Here, I am hiking a moderately difficult trail by myself, so you can be sure I’m super cautious. Of course, almost every time there are no mishaps, including today, which is lucky since except for passing one group of 4 hikers as I near the car, I have the whole trail to myself.

I’m back to the car by 12:30 and immediately creep back to the main road and head for the second park access over an hour away.

On arrival there, I check out the posted trail map and decide on a route up to what’s labeled as “the post card view”. This area is more developed than the last, with a small visitor center, winding paved road with parking areas near various trailheads. I pass a camping area that looks like it may no longer be functional and a pousada (lodge) that is definitely defunct. There’s thunder sounding in the distance and the clouds look like they may be closing in to obscure distant views but I set off anyway, humping my way up the steep trail over an endless series of uncomfortably high steps leading uphill. Alas, after a half mile or so of effort, I hear heavy rain approaching and barely have time to don my rain jacket and hat before the deluge. I retrace my steps downward in a deluge, and my shoes and legs are thoroughly soaked when I reach the car.

As I’m backtracking the cobblestone road to the park entrance, the roadway is blocked by a fallen tree, just toppled from the muddy bank during the current rainstorm. One car is already stopped and its driver is pulling on the tree in a futile effort to move it out of the way. With the addition of my effort, we get it moved just enough to slip the cars between tree and the steep downhill bank. A couple of park employees are looking on but apparently think that dealing with a blocked road and stranded motorists is not in their job description.

I’ve hiked less than six miles today but I’m very fatigued. As I drive out of the mountains, I’m trying to figure out why. I can only think of three possibilities:

1. I’m out of shape after 4 months of sitting behind the steering wheel, OR
2. Hiking solo is much less fun than having companionship and my brain is saying, “I’m not going along with this foolishness,” OR
3. Perhaps, just perhaps, it has something to do with my recent 70th birthday. Nah, no chance it’s that.

It’s too late in the day and too rainy to bother with the third area of the national park, so I locate suitable lodging online and let Google Maps show me how to get there as quickly as possible. When I turn off the highway, though, something is not right. The turns I’m being instructed to make aren’t quite in the right place, although I find similar ones a bit offset from what the map shows. Shortly, I’m descending a steep, rough one lane road out of the mountains. Although it’s only 4 PM, between the afternoon hour, thick clouds, heavy rain, and tree cover, it’s almost dark where I’m driving. I have my high beams on, concentrating on the steep turns and slopes in front of me. As I glance down at the map on my phone, I see the location arrow has diverged from the road on the map, meaning Google thinks there’s no road where I am — not a good sign since this road has clearly never been rebuilt here from a different alignment. I keep descending for a couple of miles until suddenly, on a particularly steep and narrow stretch, the road ends at a couple of closed driveway gates. Great, a dead end with barely any room to turn the car. I manage to get it pointed uphill and have to retrace my route back up the rough mountain road through the runoff. Considering Google has mapped basically every road in the world, it’s amazing how rarely they get them wrong. Tonight, though, I’m a victim of bad data.

Back at altitude on the main road, I realize that the only way to my chosen lodging is now a long drive. I search for something more convenient to my new situation, find it, and head directly there. I’ve gotten lucky. The pousada I’ve chosen, suspiciously cheap at $18, is surprisingly nice. A big room, pleasant grounds, swimming pool, and decent internet (far from assured in Brasil). Worn out from hiking and fighting with Google Maps, I’m asleep in record time despite the early hour.

Next post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2020/02/21/south-america-by-subaru-20-02-11-monkey-shines/

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Prior post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2020/02/08/south-america-by-subaru-20-02-06-susan-heads-home/

I wake up this morning without Susan and the impact of traveling without her strikes me immediately. In addition, I have a message from daughter Helene in Berkeley, California that her labor has started, which means I am on the verge of being a first time grandfather. I wander downstairs and find Francisco preparing breakfast for us.

I’m not seeing much of Jairo because he is studying continuously. He’s on his way to becoming a judge which, in Brasil, means he must first become a lawyer. He’s been in law school and the day after tomorrow must take a make-or-break test. It’s similar to our bar exam but doesn’t immediately allow you to practice law. It’s very difficult, requiring memorization of tons of detail, and you only get to take it 3 times. If you fail the third time, all your law school effort goes into the trash. Jairo is determined to pass the first time and studying has consumed him.

Since Francisco is working and Jairo locked away, I decide to move on today so as not to be in the way. I start doing research on where to go next and it turns out to be more time consuming than I thought. There’s a private nature reserve I’d like to visit, one of the few places where the endangered golden lion tamarin, a small monkey, is thriving, but it takes hours to find out that the next opportunity is 5 days from now — longer than I planned to stay in this part of Brasil. I decide to hedge my bets by trying to stay with a host in the Rio de Janeiro area, even though we just spent 9 days there, and see how I feel about waiting around for the reserve visit. I contact a Servas host in Rio who had invited us to stay with her 3 days ago and ask if I’m welcome solo.

I start the same long drive back eastward that I just did yesterday, not sure where I’ll end up tonight. By 2 PM, I get a “welcome” email from the host, Déo, and plot a route to her address in Laranjeiras, a Rio neighborhood we hadn’t visited earlier. Six hours of hard driving, interrupted only for a 30 minute nap, refueling, and 2 tiny cups of cafezinho — the ubiquitous Brasilian expresso offered as a courtesy in many gas stations and stores, or at a minimal price in every restaurant. I roll in to my destination after dark at 8 PM. It’s a street that dead ends against a rock wall at least 200 feet high — only in Rio are the residences immediately adjacent to precipitous, wooded mountains all through the city.

The short street is populated by six residential towers of about 20 stories each and an equal number of seven story edifices.

I park the car and search out the exact address on foot. To my surprise, Déo’s address isn’t one of the high rises, but a tiny, gated, perpendicular, dead end alleyway lined both sides with small attached homes.

It’s like something out of a Sherlock Holmes setting. I find my way to the correct house, knock on the door, and am assured I have reached the right place. After carefully squeezing the Subaru into a parallel parking space in the narrow alley, I’m welcomed into the house by Déo and Gilberto.

Déo had warned me in advance that the house was messy and now I see it’s because it’s under major remodel, with construction supplies and displaced furniture piled haphazardly in much of the open space. Nonetheless, the alley is a charming anachronism in an otherwise tower-dominated residential street.

Although Gilberto speaks no English, Déo is fluent so my initial use of Portuguese quickly changes to English to enable more efficient communication. I’m wiped, so after a couple of hours of get-acquainted conversation (during which I’m watching my phone for further updates from Helene — there are none), I go to my assigned room and drop off immediately.

Next post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2020/02/09/south-america-by-subaru-20-02-08-a-taste-of-carnival-in-rio/