Lisa’s pretty and not getting much sleep as she’s battling to fill her lungs. Up at a reasonable time and spent the morning trying to find an ATM that would accept our visa card. The airport ATM would not and so we ended up riding into down town Flori’.

Picked up some shopping and more tissues. Dinner was salami, cheese and a bottle of wine for £1.50. Spent the evening on the website.

Spent the day nursing our colds. Lisa’s feeling a little better but not up to a long and demanding ride.

The splintering snap sounded eerily familiar. The rear tent pole had just decided to give up the ghost and snap. So much for Hillebergs ‘unbreakable tent pole’. This is the 7th section of pole we’ve had go and like before it went without warning and without any force being applied, I mean c’mon, no torrential weather or Antarctic temperatures. No howling wind, nothing. For a tent that came with the massive price tag of the Hilleberg this is just bloody ridiculous and for that matter unacceptable. This type of crap just wrecks what is otherwise a great tent. But unfortunately lets it down in the same way as Hillebergs own customer service. More on that later!

We’d hoped to get a really early start and be away by 6:00am, the repair to the tent ensured that wasn’t going to happen. The early morning dew had left the tent soaking, it was going to be packed that way. By 7:00am we’d cursed Hilleberg and their shitty tent poles and were heading out of Campeche. We had a long day ahead of us and planned to ride as far North as possible, making sure we could stop at a reasonable time to get the tent up and dry it out in the late afternoon sun. That wasn’t going to happen!
The highway ‘101’ was leading us North to Sao Francisco Do Sul, where we would bear North East to Curitiba. So far the country side had been pretty industrial. That was about to change. Loooong, sweeping fast bends would lead us all the way in Curitiba. This was more like it. We were making good time. We’d planned to stop for lunch in Curitiba but by 11:15am we were already there. The Sun’s shining, the road is good. With lush green mountains around us, we just had to keep riding; besides if we were to get anywhere near Sao Paulo today we still had a long ride ahead of us. The last thing we wanted was to be nearing Sao Paulo at dusk or worse, at night.

Past Curtiba the road became the death trap, race track we’d been warned about; Do not blink for a second and make sure your concentration is 110%. Slow overloaded lories crawl up and down the steep mountain sides. Nutters in cars push their cars and their luck to the max in the desperate quest to get past anything in front of them. Over-taking on blind mountain bends just seemed to be the ‘norm’.

By late afternoon we’d had more close misses than I want to remember and were on the receiving end of some very resentful glances as we rode up inside and past what must have been 20 miles of stationary traffic.

Time was getting on, we’d made good progress this morning but now the twist and turns of the 101 were taking their toll and as yet we’d seen no sign of any camping and little chance of getting off the main road far enough to make ‘bush camping’ a safe alternative. We were going to have to speed up and try to get past Sao Paulo before nightfall. The idea of riding through SP at night was a daunting one based on its reputation alone.

Long queues of staionary traffic on the outskirts of SP brought our rapid progress to a halt. Filtering through the barrage of smoke belching, horn honking metal work, we again drew looks of worrying disapproval; however this queue unlike our earlier one wasn’t due to roadworks. Nearing the front the cause was obvious; a group of filter tip smoking police dressed in sombre karki were discussing what to do with the bodies. Two large trucks had hit head on and taken with them a number of pedestrians form the flavella nearby. Fuel was streaming across the road from a ruptured fuel tank and mixing with the blood from one of the dead. The police, each with a red glowing cigarette but perched in the corner of their mouths seemed oblivious to the possible danger of explosion as they casually tossed old white sheets across the bodies on the floor. It was a chill and sobering sight. The whaling older lady trying to push her way towards one of the victims was like a reel from a news scene only this was too close for comfort. We estimate that the accident had happened only 10-15 minutes before we’d reached the scene.

It was now becoming dusk and we were exactly where we didn’t want to be, on the outskirts of Sao Paulo. Our new plan was agreed quickly; we’d grab some fuel and head east out of the city to Santos on the coast. We were attracting plenty of attention and so far most of it had been good natured and enthusiastic. By the time we’d got past the city centre and had found the main road out, it was pitch black. Maybe because we were tired or maybe because we’d seen just too many news clipping about Sao Paulo’s reputation, either way we were feeling very nervous and incredibly vunerable. The steep mountain decent (checking the GPS it confirmed we dropped from SP at 2,568 ft to sea level in 10.6 miles…that’s steep) to Santos was proving to be a test of nerves and concentration as drivers eager to get home pushed and jostled for positon to get past the hundreds of trucks in the descending ‘crawler lane’. Santos was a relief; well eventually, when we managed to get out of the port district. Spotting a sign for a hotel we parked up and headed in. The girl behind the counter manouvered and wrestled her massive breasts, which were escaping her tiny top and garbled something dissinterestidly in Portugese at us. The guys at the reception were making their arrangement with the ladies of the house; Ohh shit here we go again. With key in hand we made our way up to the 3rd floor. 3 minutes later and we were heading down again. Lisa had made it clear that exhausted or not she wasn’t staying here. I’d already thought the same. The round bed in the middle of the room had no sheet and the mixture of smeared stains on the matteress looked like one of those peculiar shapes that psycho-analysts use, you know the ones that are meant to look like butterflies. Back at reception we handed back the key and made a break for the door.

30 minutes on and we’d reached the main beach area and after cruising it twice had spotted a large hotel. With the bikes parked up and the price agreed we headed for the nearest bar and down ½ a litre each of the cold lager. 456 long miles. What a day. Night night.

Santos looked picture postcard perfect as we rode the main promenade, heading for the small ferry at the end of town that would take us across the mouth of the river. We lined up easily with the plethora of other scooters and small bikes at the front feeling, ohhh, just a loittle conspicuous.

The idea was simple; we’d have a leisurely ride to Parati, which the GPS confirmed was 120km North, as the crow flies. The reality was that the mountain coast road doesn’t go ‘as the crow flies’ (in a straight line), and so after one of the most exhilertaing road rides either of us have ever enjoyed we arrived in Parati, yep you guessed it…in the dark having ridden 330km. What a road! If we thought that ‘Chapmans Peak’ in South Africa was mouth watering to ride, this well, was true drool material. Tight twisty bends, ridiculous hairpins on impossible inclines, long fast bends that just go on forever and all this either submersed in the half light of the jungle and forestation that shrouds the sides of the road or skirting some high rise pass as the sea crashes below with the hazy blue and purple horizon swallowing the Hundreds of Island that dot this coastline.

We’ve given a lot of thought and err, umm we’re definatley staying for a least a few days. Parati is beautiful. Parati sits on the shoreline of this spectacular coast line. Backed by steep jungled mountains and with the clear lapping waters of the Atlantic in front. The jungle literally drips from the huge rock formations that make up the shore line into the warm sea. The possibilities to explore here are almost endless, with the area comprising of over 120 separate islands. If Lisa’s is to get rid of her cold then she might as well do it here. Enough words…just look at a few of the pictures, you’ll get the idea.

Stayed in Parati and just played ‘toursist’, besides the hotter weather is helping Lisa’s cold/flu thing…?

We’d already spent too many frustrating hours in internet cafes trying to sort out a hotel in Rio that had secure parking and didn’t require a kidney or your first born son as a deposit. We were going round in circles and the prices were ridiculous. More than a little frustrated we ended up popping into to ‘Paraty tours’ in the towns centre and came out 30 minutes later having reserved and paid for a Hotel 2 blocks back from Copacabana Beach with onsite free parking and breaky included for good measure…how much I hear you cry? £40 per night and for those of you in the UK £19 less than a ‘Trust House Forte’ by the side of the M5. It’s quite a relief. The last thing we wanted was to ride into Rio and ride round aimlessly trying to sort out something on the fly. As usual our biggest priority was the security for the bikes, infact that’s the only reason we’re in a hotel.

We’ll tell you if it’s a god forsaken hell hole or not in a few days.