Sunday, May 1, 2016

Serra do Ibitipoca: the trip

After my mom's death in March of 2014, I decided to explore the outside world again, and went on a trip to Minas Gerais where I visited a State Park at Serra do Ibitipoca.

I took a bus that could roll downhill any minute. But locals seem not to be aware of the danger. I focused on the scenic drive.
Then I got to the village of Conceicao do Ibitipoca.
Many homes would look like this.
But it is actually dominated by this kind.
Beautiful expensive hotels for my pocket. So I stayed at an apartment with three bedrooms and more beds than I could count. The only thing that they didn't have and probably the one that I needed most besides cell phone signal was the internet connection.
But the park was a few kilometers away.
I stopped by a cafe to charge myself with caffeine.  As any touristic place, everything looks upscale, but it is in truth just overcharged.
Then, I took the road.
 Three kilometers of uphill walk. I understand now why there is a bus to the park entrance.

Well, by the time I arrived at the entrance, I was already on top of the mountain.
I saw I gigantic wall with stream of dark water running at its feet.

I took a trail to the lake.

Mirror Lake says the sign.

Found a waterfall, a stream, but I am still to find a lake, a mirrorlike one.
And then it became flat.


Sometimes pretty.
Definitely thirsty. 
I wished this were amber ale while drinking straight from the stream.

Then, I changed direction. Steps to the top?


Walking down to find the stream running through the rock wall.

Then I followed the stream.

I also dunk my feet into the cold water.



On the Mango Trail

My  morning run included a free fresh breakfast along the way. Aromatic, creamy, luscious, ripened on the tree mangoes.  

Sometimes too far up in tall trees. My option was to find a fresher one on the ground.

Not a hard task.

My hardest task was to get the fibers off my teeth (yes, the indigenous mangoes are small and full of fibers) and walk up the hill until I reached a faucet conveniently located at the front garden of a neighborhood church.

Of course, my run would stop at the first mango tree, and from then on, an arduous pilgrimage from one tree to another, until I was full and satisfied. Or no ripe mangoes left on those trees. (Hey, they don't ripened all at once.)

On some bad days, I would also get some guavas.