Over the next three days, I would leave the dry landscape of central Bahia and pass through more farmland on my way to the capital, Brasilia. First, I had to find my way from Rancho Arcturus back to the village of Caeté-Açu. I usually pay attention to the twists and turns that would deliver me back to a destination. Therefore, I’m usually good at backtracking. This fine morning was an exception. Verónica had been doing all the driving to and from the village, and I had not internalized the twists and turns…that’s my story for getting lost, and I’m sticking to it. The story is two-fold: I was the victim of a diabolical conspiracy between my inattention and that digital demon, the imp Loki (my Garmin Zumo 550 GPS.) In a perverse sleight of hand, the GPS cackled with glee as it directed me to the “shortest” yet diabolically the most difficult path to the village. I traversed devilishly steep and rutted roads when I should have been making good time returning to the nearby hamlet.  Refusing to be bested, I negotiated gravel and ruts until I encountered a parked car, and barbed wire fencing on each side. All forward progress came to a sure halt. The owner of the car and kind lady of the house broke the news. I had arrived at a dead end. There was no point arguing with the mapping data when the reality proved otherwise. The mountain goat path I braved and conquered moments earlier laughed as I retreated with my tail between my legs. In all, the fumbling start to the day cost less than 20 minutes and lightly frayed nerves. Once back on track and taking on the stretch of potholes-infused packed dirt road, leaving Caeté-Açu wasn’t as bad in the daylight. Soon, I was on BR-242 headed west, dodging trucks and buses hell-bent on turning me into roadkill.

Heading southwest on BR-349, I Pressed on once again in big sky country, puffy clouds floated high above like a Rene Magritte painting. The farmland stretched out to the horizon, interrupted only by tall, dense fortress-like groves of trees surrounding farm complexes. The trees were thick.

A plume of thick dust crossed the road ahead. A half dozen farm combines were harvesting dried hulls of an unknown crop. The mechanical locusts devoured endless piles of dry remains and spewed thick columns of chaf. I found myself riding again through another enormous agro-industrial zone of Brazil. In full disclosure, the image has been enhanced to capture my experience more than reality.

Many country roads branched off, which sought to tempt me from my quest to reach Brasilia. Sadly, my schedule kept me from exploring far afield. 

Verónica suggested stopping in a town that was on my route. I tried finding lodging in Bom Jesus da Lapa and the search became a nightmare. The streets were packed with people. The town is “…home to the third largest Catholic festival in Brazil…” and it was one of those weekends. A large outcropping looms over the center of the town. Under the mountain are several grottos, so naturally, the faithful built altars to hold Catholic services. I don’t understand the connection between a cave and the draw to construct a church underground, but it works for them. At the moment, I only wanted a room for the night, not to explore the underground chapel. The streets near the famous underground chapel and every hotel were filled with pilgrims.

There might have been a room at the love hotel near the edge of town. The property looked modern, and I was considering getting a room. I couldn't bring myself to check into a no-tell motel so close to a religious site. A chaste sensation came over me; rather odd of me, but that's the story. There was still plenty of daylight left, and the road was in good, so after spending too much time looping the length of the town searching for a room, I returned to the highway.

Further along, the sun dipped below the horizon as a truck stop appeared. A basic and reliable Brazilian buffet with a side dish check-in with Verónica and a recommendation for lodging was in hand. The year before, she spent the night in a nice place on the banks of the Corrente River in São Félix do Coribe, just another hour further. The hotel's name was ambiguous, and Google Maps wasn't overly helpful. The game of hide and seek took me first to the eastern side of the river, then across the bridge to Santa Maria da Vitória, the town on the western side of the river. No joy after searching a several block area, so back to the eastern side. The hotel was playing hard to get in the darkness, a cruel joke that left me circling like a deranged moth. The confusion was aided by a lack of a lighted hotel sign, making the property hard to spot after dark. All was good in the end. There was a serviceable breakfast buffet and an obligatory morning dip in the pool. Friends of Veronica rallied, stopping by with pizza for a nightcap, then returning for breakfast. Brazilians are wonderfully social. 

Verónica mentioned the town of Correntina, where the locals swim in the river. It sounded like a nice place, but I decided getting out of my riding gear for a quick dip was too much trouble. A bright pink church caught my eye near the riverbank. It reminded me of the Eagle “Hotel California” album cover. You gotta love the vibrant colors in Mexico, Central, and South America.

Cool street art from Correntina.

The balance of the day was focused on getting closer to Brasilia. By late afternoon, the ribbon of asphalt remained 3 to 4 hours of road time to the capital. The village of Simolândia had lodging choices, and it was time to quit riding for the day. A quick tour scouting the town returned nothing special. Something hit my foot when leaving an intersection. Looking back, I noticed something on the ground. My wallet was staring at me from the ground with dirty looks that said, “How dare you leave me behind.” A truck stop across the highway promised a no-fuss Brazilian buffet for dinner, and the balance of the evening was spent hand-washing clothes. 

In the morning, it was time to check the oil and chain tension before getting back on the road. I took the steps to loosen the back wheel axle and nudge the rear wheel to tighten the chain. Hmm, the chain had faithfully driven the bike forward, but now it was stretched to the maximum that sliding the back wheel could accommodate. Find a motorcycle shop in Brasilia was added to my list. 

The Honda XRE 300 is made in Manaus, Brazil, so finding parts and service is never a problem. Truth be told, sometimes I post a request for a recommendation online in a subtle brag about my travels. Typically, I get great advice pointing me to a reputable service and, occasionally, an offer to connect with a local rider. This time, my online ask for a recommendation in Brasilia devolved into a thread about how long chains should last. Using Google Maps, I ended up finding ADV Moto Parts and pointed my smartphone to the “north wing” of Brasilia.