Reality Of The Ghost Highway

 The reality of driving the first hundred miles of the ghost road had a full day to sink in on Tuesday. I got up at five in our wild camp and it was cool and pleasant, indeed Layne sleeping next to me was under a blanket. There were no insects biting despite all the doors and windows left open overnight.  There wasn’t even any traffic rumbling down the dirt road. It was a surprisingly pleasant start to the day.

We had 260 miles of dirt to cover and it was supposed to look something like this. I had expected a much narrower road made of dried red clay lined by impenetrable jungle but instead  we got a freeway through ranch land. Mind you the road surface varies wildly and our speed alternated between ten and occasionally twenty miles per hour depending how lumpy it was.

Of course we had dust to contend with especially when vehicles overtook us or met us heading at speed. An 18 wheeler going fifty on some of the sandy patches raises a vast balloon of talcum powder  and unless we are parked well back by the side of the road (below) we have to drive through it (above). 

Then there are, amazing to relate, roadworks on this forgotten chunk of highway, and what a mess they are as the full half the highway with a pile of dirt and slowly tamp it down.

The best part is there’s no flagger and you can’t see the other end do in the event we met somebody I don’t know what the protocol is. This is South America so it would all come out in the wash I guess. We just pressed on.  

The scenery is rather what you might expect driving through ranch country for hour after hour. 

The odd thing is nothing is as dramatic as I had expected  but I should point out that as I wrote this we’ve covered one hundred miles and another 160 are ahead of us still until we meet pavement again. We also drove through the only village on the route 27 miles into the dirt road drive, a place called Reality:

And weren’t we surprised to see commercial billboards welcoming us to Reality:

The appliance store welcomed us and there’s a motorcycle repair shop too. 

But the village was really more like a Western film set with wooden buildings scattered alongside the highway. Silly me but I had been expecting something more organized with sidewalks and so on but I guess this place is improvised  and not properly incorporated.

Always the speed bumps in urban areas: 

Drug companies can afford paint for their pharmacies. 

This car wash operation seemed odd to us even though GANNET2 was covered in dust.  Taking so much care to clean the car without a piece of asphalt anywhere in sight seemed to defy caution non sense but I suppose everyone wants a clean car from time to time even if it involves standing out in the heat. 

But for us there was one big attraction in Realidade:

This piece of decrepitude is the only gas station for the next 300 miles.Rusty immediately assumed the position. 

Brazilians are always ready with a smile. 

I could explain I wanted our jugs filled which was pretty obvious but talking to him and making small  talk is completely out of reach. 

We come from the US and I always say Miami as every Latin American is familiar with that city. 

In Mexico and Peru I’ve paid for a motorcyclists gas adding their liters to my bill just because I can. Here I can’t even explain a freebie. I find it frustrating. 

Across the highway we got lunch.

He said beef, we said fine then like the gas station they offered us WiFi and we could have used our translator but we got what we were given:

A dog cane by to watch and she got Christmas in August, a pile of kibbles, some wet food and Layne’s rice and beans. I can’t stand having a hungry dog watch me eat. 

Back to the dirt highway  on and on it went.

And the bridges  we drive over also support semi trucks, a fact  which gives us confidence we will be okay. All bridges have names and in Brazil they are described as the bridge over such-and-such stream or river.

By about four in the afternoon we were well past being ready to stop.

GANNET2 was of course covered with dust about which we could do nothing.  Our lower tire pressures made the ride more comfortable which helped but driving dirt tires me as it requires constant attention. 

I’m pretty sure Rusty prefers Patagonia to the hot jungle but we’ll be back there soon enough. 

We stopped of course but they waved us on, no injuries and no excitement. It had just happened but they pointed to their phone to say they had already called for help. 

Our stop for the night at Maria’s 100 miles into the road. 

Maria cooking…

…our dinner. $14 and filling.  

Rusty got kibbles and cheese and chicken and wanted to stay aboard as he was too tired to deal with the dogs. 

It was hotter and stickier than the night before but there was also a cold shower. We lack for nothing on this strange road.