from 05.12 .: Cuiabà / Matto Grosso

05.12 .:

it is dry and hot! 33 degrees!

I decide to adjust my outfit. The motorcycle rain jacket is replaced by my anorak, the rain pants by long pants. Maybe this way I can tolerate the temperatures better.

It is about 220 km to Cuiabà. I am immediately on BR 070. The traffic allows for fast driving. The road conditions are good! They are always good as long as they are paved. Only then are there demands that potholes or worn ruts should not be there. It's the same here. The ruts make driving difficult because the scooter doesn't obey me, but chooses one of the worn tracks. This results in a gentle wobbling and swaying, but then she does what I want - until next time.

In the distance, there are mountains about 6 to 700 meters high. Otherwise, it is a beautiful route, forests alternate with marshy, deep green meadows. They remind me of rice fields. The Neroles cattle stand in grass soaked with water up to their bellies. If you like the green-white color combination, you could feast your eyes on this section of the landscape. This breed of cattle has Indian origins. They are resistant to parasites and cope well with the heat and intense sun. They look satisfied.

So that I do not have to write down the mileage when I start, I form a year and a month from the last three digits. Today it is the year 62 in September. That is, 44.629 km. And then the question arises of what happened in September 1962 in my life. Many things come to mind. I have time to dig into memories and bring many things to light.

It's time for a break. Walking around and having the second morning cigarette.
Since my departure from Pto Maldonado, I haven't seen any long-distance bikers. No big enduro machines that also want to go from the Pacific to the Atlantic. Not today either. Instead, I see a cyclist pedaling along the left lane. Not excessively packed. We see each other and greet, but then he turns around because he is also curious about what lies behind the unusual outfit of this solo traveler.

His Brazilian flag is blowing in the wind. He is a youngster, in his early twenties. Top fit!! No bead of sweat on his forehead. He speaks English and tells me that he wants to go to ALASKA by bike. Even after several attempts, I fail to find out where he started. His route: Colombia, Venezuela (!), Panama...

ALASKA! As a local, he knows that there are spare tires and tubes here.

We take photos, and he continues his journey. On the left lane. He certainly had his experiences with truck drivers and would rather see them than just hear them from behind and be unexpectedly exposed to their powerful wake. This is almost an invitation with the straight road layout.

It gets dark behind me, and there are even a few raindrops that hit my helmet hard. But I am faster than the weather and it stops after a few minutes.

It's almost 12 o'clock. Time for lunch. There is one at every major gas station. And with it, the certainty that there is plenty to eat for little money.

I feel like I'm on the mountain pasture. It is a wooden house, with wooden walls, exposed beam construction, and a saddle roof covered with red tiles.
A lavish buffet is ready. I concentrate my gaze on the salads and sliced mangos. There is no holding back. My plate is indulgently overloaded. Only too late do I see that delicious vegetables are also offered. I will have several opportunities again.

Just 13 km to go to the destination. From a distance, I can already see the skyline of this city with 500 thousand inhabitants, the capital of Matto Grosso. Huge white skyscrapers pierce the sky. I'm not completely comfortable with that. Not because of the skyscrapers, but because of the traffic.

But the GPS is working. Reading is difficult though - the sun is almost directly overhead. So I can only decipher the display of my smartphone reasonably well if I shade it with my hand. Car drivers can be estimated. Not motorcycle riders! They approach from both sides at a fairly fast pace, working their way through the lines of cars in a zigzag pattern to be the first at the intersection. Because of my rear attachments, I behave politely and I am constantly startled by motorcycles passing me on the right. After the mishap in Pto Maldonado, that is to be expected.

The merge goes well. Only 30 more meters to the destination. A hotel cannot be seen. I turn into the next street on the right so as not to go too far and realize that I am on a three-lane one-way street directed against me and: that there is a patrol car parked on the opposite side. The accompanying policemen - still young in years - watch me. They are my chance! They must know where the hotel is. Only then do I notice my driving error. In Germany, there would be penalty points raining down... here I am met with three grinning faces instead. I don't let them get a word in, but ask them for directions. Communication is done with hands and feet. They don't ask where I come from. They assume - like many others here in South America - that I have a Chilean registration. The license plates there look similar to ours.
And as if all the tolerances hadn't been exhausted long ago, one of the police officers sends me into the opposite one-way street, which is blocked for me. But it is the shortest and certainly the easiest way to describe to the hotel. When I am about to leave, he warns me. The road is closed for me - I should be careful!

Something like this only happens in South America!

I'm here! There is still one more hurdle to overcome before I can go to my air-conditioned room: the scooter must be parked in an underground garage. I try to negotiate an improvised parking space right behind the hotel, but there is definitely no space planned.
The lady at the reception almost defensively asks if I had a reservation. When I deny it, she was probably about to say that they were fully booked... I also don't necessarily look trustworthy....

My room is on the sixth floor with a great view of Cuiabà.

Many trees and small parks. So-called pedestrian zones framed by two-story houses. It's a neighborhood, like those in every big city, you just have to know them. Thanks to Nora, I landed in this neighborhood, barrio pupular.

The word morbide keeps coming to my mind

The metal shutters are closed. That's also Ciuàba

Communication still works

The namesake of my hotel is Getúlio Dornelles Vargas, dictator and later elected president from 1930 to 1945 and 1950 until his death in 1954.

Its height and clarity are impressive. The lead singer convinces with a great soprano voice.

The WhatsApp contact with Jacqueline works right away. Would 9pm tonight work? Would I be up for a ride? I answer yes to everything and wonder what awaits me. Do we want to take a bike tour through the scorching hot city? Or go for a jog in one of the nearby parks??? I'm not really up for either... but maybe she just means a leisurely walk through the greenery.

I try to find out something in advance through Nora. She only writes: say yes to everything. And later, she would drive by car - not by bike.

At half-past nine, a small silver-gray Toyota stops in front of the hotel. The rear door opens, and I am greeted by three young ladies in harmony. Surprisingly, I'm not really surprised. Perhaps Jacqueline thought the evening would be more relaxed with four people.

We drive for about twenty minutes and park in front of a street bar with many yellow plastic chairs. The liter bottles of beer in styrofoam containers on the tables, young people at the tables. I liked this atmosphere right away. No loud music.

But we don't go there. The three ladies have come up with something special.

We walk towards a palatial building in yellow. In its courtyard, there are tables with tablecloths, a little further away is the gastronomy. The tables are generously distributed, no loud chatter from neighboring tables - an exceptionally good atmosphere.
It used to be a building that belonged to the Ministry of Defense, Anna tells me (I forgot her real name). Today it is a cultural institution funded and maintained by the city. There is open-air cinema, theater - a public space. Only the gastronomy area is in commercial hands.

Only Jacqueline knows Nora. First, we take a photo and send it to her. I tell them that she works the night shift at a psychiatric clinic and will certainly appreciate some variety. We speak English. The three of them are highly educated. Jacqueline is an architect, the other two are lawyers. All around 30 years old. Ambitious, talkative, each with their own assertiveness and charm.

Regarding Bolsonaro, all three agree that he is not 'smart' enough to lead the country into a dictatorship. He is a foam at the mouth (my interpretation) who cannot be taken seriously. Someone who speaks first and then thinks and apologizes extensively or simply denies ever having said such a thing. I have the impression that they don't take him seriously. Until now, there is no experience with him, I say cautiously. After all, his term of office does not begin until January next year.
And if he behaves differently than they expect, Anna says, then we take to the streets.

He mainly campaigned through the internet. For TV advertising, he had only 30 seconds available to him.

I dare to point out how easy it is to compress the supposedly worldwide web to small-town level if that is what the government wants...

Too bad. The chairs are already put on the tables. There is already yawning emptiness around us. We have to leave.

It was a nice but tiring evening.

06.12 .:

I wake up at 6 o'clock. I didn't close the curtains and this morning I am awakened by a slightly sleepy sunrise. No trace of a winter dark Nikolaus sky.

In our country, children ring doorbells, recite a poem or sing something - usually always the same thing and accordingly monotonous - we are spared that here.

The Christmas trees are in the shop windows, you can also hear Jingle Bells in a pop version. And there is even a small shop whose entire assortment is designed for this one day.
In the two churches I visited, there is an Advent wreath and the nativity scenes are set up.

The city is not in the pre-Christmas consumer frenzy. Everything goes on leisurely here.

After my blog post, my smartphone drives me to the city to the Claro provider. It's worse outside than in a sauna. The air is stagnant. The locals don't mind, the shady sides of the streets are just as busy as the sunny sides.

And it is confirmed once again: Brazilians have a sense of humor. The conversation at Claro starts out factual. I explain my problem and suspect that I need a different SIM card that is valid for all of Brazil. My CPF card comes into play and I am caught in the bureaucratic loop again. Again the question about my mother's name... all the data is already in the computer. Finally, the boss joins in. She talks a lot, I understand little. She grins to herself and I too find the situation just funny. The other colleague, who should actually be serving waiting customers, is curious about what's happening with us and comments. Eventually, all colleagues are involved in my case. But the waiting customers who had to draw a number don't mind.
For what reasons my smartphone works again without a new SIM card, etc., would be interesting to find out, but I lack the vocabulary for that.

After that, I find two long-sleeved t-shirts that will save me from wearing the much too warm anorak on the Vespa.

I take a look at the church, which bears a distant resemblance to Notre Dame, enjoy the coolness and tranquility, but I am not captivated by it. Everything around me seems too kitschy.

I have another beer in one of the many squares and arouse the interest of ladies of the night. Such a gringo, drinking his beer alone, can be asked...

By half past seven, I'm back at the hotel. There really isn't much more Cuiabà to take in.