Leaving Brasilia
Leaving Brasília’s cooler climate, we soon found ourselves travelling through changing terrain once more. The endless flatlands of croplands gave way to rolling green hills and farmlands. Big machinery groomed the earth into perfect rows of cotton, soy, and corn ready to plant after the first rains. Harvest done — cotton bales are stacked in fields, and the freshly tilled earth waits patiently. It’s a long but fun drive toward Goiás, and by mid-afternoon the temperature had climbed back into the mid-thirties.
Stepping back in time
The small colonial town of Goiás, once the capital of the state and a bustling centre during the gold rush of the 18th century, now feels like a place where time has kindly stood still. Founded in the early 1700s, its cobbled streets and pastel-coloured houses whisper stories of fortune seekers, Portuguese settlers, and the indigenous people who were here long before. Today, Goiás is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, preserved for its charming colonial architecture and easy-going rhythm of life. It’s a town that invites you to slow down, listen to the church bells, and simply wander.
Goiás is also the birthplace of Brazil’s beloved poet Cora Coralina, who spent most of her life writing about the town’s simple people, cobbled streets, and daily rhythms. Her former home now serves as a small museum, and a bronze statue of her sits gracefully by the riverbank — pen in hand, as if still observing and writing about the life flowing quietly around her.
morning stroll
24-25 October. We rolled in after dark and parked for the night in the town carpark. Turning off the engine, we climbed into the back and straight into bed. It was a fairly quiet night — except for one car that crept by within feet of us, stereo blasting at full volume. I guess that’s how the night crawlers get their kicks. Eventually drifting back to sleep, only to be woken by roosters crowing ridiculously early.
We spent the morning walking around the old town — another striking contrast to Brasília. Here, everything is small and old. Small houses with tiny windows and low doors line chunky, narrow cobblestone streets shaded by ancient trees where toucans hop about, picking berries. Craft shops overflow with local handiwork, but the air is especially sweet around the candy stores selling homemade fudge and bright, sticky treats.
Bicycles, bells & wooden spoons
The mail is delivered by bicycle, and locals stroll to the bakery or butcher for daily supplies. Markets brim with fresh fruit and vegetables, with locals chatting as they pick their fruit.
The church sits proudly on the highest point, simple in its design — concrete walls and a hand-painted wooden ceiling with a separate bell tower. A clear, garbage-free river runs through the centre of town, hemmed by stone walls. We wandered for more than an hour, soaking it all in, and before leaving, stopped to buy a few hand-carved wooden spoons — small reminders of this peaceful, storybook village.
Layers of History in Stone and Tile
The town’s architecture is a patchwork of Portuguese colonial and early 19th-century styles — whitewashed walls, colourful wooden shutters, and heavy clay roof tiles that glow warm and earthy in the afternoon sun. Many buildings are gently leaning with age, their doors uneven and stone foundations worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, adding to Goiás’s timeless, slightly whimsical charm.
The town’s architecture blends Portuguese colonial roots with a few unexpected influences — hints of Greek symmetry in the clean lines and columns, and subtle Art Deco touches from the early 20th century. Together they give Goiás a quietly elegant charm, where timeworn facades and tiled roofs sit gracefully alongside flashes of more modern imagination.
160km wasted
Continuing west, we spent an uneventful day driving toward Cuiabá, aiming to pass through a national park and visit a free waterfall where we could swim and camp. The day was hot, and we were both looking forward to a cool dip.
Only five kilometres before our destination, we were stopped by large signs warning of a road restriction — maximum weight 3.5 tonnes. We couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t they have posted that 80 kilometres back at the last turnoff? There was nothing to do but pull a U-turn and retrace our path, disappointed and dusty.
Camped then re-camped
By around 4 p.m., we started searching for a quiet side road to camp for the night. With few options, we turned down one narrow track that eventually opened into a small gravel pit with sweeping views over the valley — perfect, or so we thought. Out came the cold beers and chairs for a blissful but buggy, sunset unwind.
Twenty mins later we heard two vehicles approaching quickly. It was the landowner and his right-hand man. After hearing our story, they shook their heads saying It wasn’t safe to camp here. That this road was frequently used by armed smugglers crossing illegally back and forth from Bolivia. They insisted we follow them to their secured compound, where we could stay the night instead.
When we arrived, we met his wife and son, who spoke English and welcomed us warmly. They explained again that the area wasn’t safe but assured us we could camp on their property, use the kitchen to cook dinner, and even take a shower.
Their 5,000-acre farm stretched over cotton, soy, corn, and beef fields, complete with staff housing and shared meals for the workers. Clean, fed, and grateful, we slept soundly that night and enjoyed breakfast the next morning. We left without being able to say thank you or good bye. Nobody was around.
Continuing for the morning on dirt roads till we rejoined the highway just before a toll booth. Within an hour we were on our way out the other side of the city with the truck once more full of food as we head into the Pantanal.