Altaira size gave hope of mechanical salvation, big enough to offer refuge for my beleaguered motorcycle. The mission was clear: reinforce the battered pannier frame, straighten the rakish angle the left engine crash guards had assumed (a byproduct of dropping the bike), and snag a mesh shirt to combat the heat rash blooming on my lower back. Priority number one: the bike. I found a mechanic who didn’t just fix—he reinforced, conjuring up some mechanical magic that would hold up until I hit the halfway mark in Argentina. Call that a win in the world of two-wheeled travel.

While the ace mechanic worked his wizardry, I embarked on my own quest for comfort. Turns out, an elusive airflow shirt has not been in style for ages. I settled for a sleeveless workout shirt—affectionately dubbed a muscle shirt—while I adjusted my riding jacket to let the wind do its thing under my backpack. Days later, the heat rash began to recede, a small victory in this sweaty battle. Just thought you’d want to know.

With the bike in fighting shape, I blasted through the countryside, only stopping for food and sleep. Each mile burned felt like a step closer to my next big destination: Chapada Diamantina and a long-anticipated visit with Veronica. The next big city was Marabá. Riding on fumes I was relieved to reach a gas station at the city edge. For me, Marabá was nothing special, except getting a laugh at a half-sized Statue of Liberty outside a huge department store, Havan. I reached out to my friend Veronica, saying I thought the Status of Liberty was in the US. She brought me up to speed with the news flash Havan installs a replica of Lady Liberty in front of every location.

The next day, I couldn’t help but laugh at the name of a tugboat, Gringo, pushing a ferry across the Rio Xingu, near Favânia. The name made me feel right at home.

In my relentless internet trolling for attractions in northern Brazil, I stumbled upon Cachoeira Santuario Pedra Caída, advertised for a dramatic canon and a few waterfalls. Unfortunately, I rolled in too late to join the guided tour, and the ticket booth suggested I return tomorrow. Not a chance, I only go forward.  Another waterfall attraction—Poço Azul—was a short jag off the route ahead.

Ultimately, I was glad to have skipped the first waterfall. On the ride, I quickly learned there was a downside to visiting Poço Azul: 15 km of semi-loose gravel road before reaching the falls. Gravel, my sworn enemy. The trek was worth the experience: a full restaurant, changing rooms, and stunning waterfalls with crystal-clear pools to swim beneath. The walkways and stairs were surprisingly well-maintained—almost a luxury in South America. There was even a lifeguard posted at each waterfall-swimming area combo. A relaxing swim followed by a bite to eat, then back on the road again.

A few hours later, dark clouds loomed ominously approaching the town of Balsas. No time to waste finding a place to spend the night. My standard protocol kicked in: find town center, locate a bench, pull up Google Maps, and search for hotels. Before leaving on the trip, I downloaded points of interest from the iOverland website and, with technical trickery, loaded them into my GPS. Because the GPS was on its deathbed or at best it was on life support, using my smartphone was easier and Google usually returns rich results. iOverlander can deliver good advice, along with outdated prices. Back to the present, a list of hotels appeared on my phone and one option resembles a love hotel. A crack of lightning illuminated the urgency of my quest, so I settled on the paramour’s choice, Pousada Delirius. The selected love lodging was classic: located on the edge of town, surrounded by a high-gated perimeter and an intercom system to gain entrance.

For the uninitiated, let me explain. Love motels cater to a discreet clientele seeking complete privacy. Think of them as safe havens for secret rendezvous—perfect for those wanting to slip away for an hour or more without anyone knowing their vehicle was parked outside a…bunny hutch.  How is that? Each room has a private garage, ensuring my motorcycle, loaded with gear, would be safe for the night. This is not my first time at the love motel rodeo. Awkwardly and against the Bhuddah nature of the property, I checked in alone.

The experience of checking in was as surreal as you’d expect for a motel that features no face-to-face contact when checking in. Paying for a room is determined by the planned number of hours the room will be occupied. Communication is usually done via intercom, then sliding cash or a credit card through a slot—privacy rules supreme. My check-in turned into a comedy of errors thanks to my minimal Portuguese and the clerk’s nonexistent English. Google Translate once again saved the day. We established the charge based on ten hours; then, there was a little surprise. The rate was valid until 5:00 AM, after which extra hours would cost more. I was getting squeezed. The total came in less than your average hotel, and with the rain pouring down, I paid upfront and unpacked. 

In the morning, I hit the road south on BR-330, splitting off from the infamous TransAmazonian Highway. The journey eastward continued.