Amazon.compromise
Trip Start
May 23, 2005
1
23
36
Trip End
Mar 25, 2006
Manaus,
Brazil
Saturday, November 26, 2005
The Amazon: One of the world's last and least explored sacred natural treasures - although facing more environmental threats now than ever. In this wild region exist stone age native tribes only 'discovered' in the last few decades, tens of thousands of unique plant species - many with unknown medicinal properties, 17% of the world's freshwater and wildlife which could be the basis of a science fiction series. Other than pink dolphins swimming 3000 kilometers upstream from the Atlantic Ocean are: stingrays with dangerously barbed tails, three meter long electric eels capable of killing a human with their 600 volt electric shock and seven meter long anacondas. Many other animals which are dangerous to humans thrive here in the jungle, having adapted special defenses over millions of years in this competitive jungle habitat: Poisonous snakes, crocodiles, big cats such as jaguars and pumas and all kinds of insects. Perhaps even more frightening, peskier, and much more deadly (albeit as a vector) are mosquitoes, which spread malaria, dengue and yellow fever. Then there are the specialized fish: piranhas, who usually only get a piece of a finger and - no joke - a tiny catfish variety (one of 2000 freshwater fish species in the Amazon), the Candiru, which, at five centimeters, is attracted to urine and is purportedly able to swim into the urethral tract of humans and lodge itself inside with its spines, where it feeds on blood, and must be removed surgically.
bananas manaus
Come on, nature, give a man a break! Additionally, the Amazon holds dozens of species of pesky monkeys (I don't like any creature who is both more clever and stronger than me), sloths, the endangered freshwater manatee, and the undisputed king of Amazonian river fish, the Piraruca, a three meter long red beast, weighing in at over 100 kilograms. So what business did my pink dolphin and I have here in Darwin's test kitchen? Honestly, not a damn thing. I can appreciate this type of wonderment from afar; 'appreciate' meaning watching Animal Planet while eating popcorn and 'from afar' meaning on my couch. However, my 6 month Brazilian visa had just expired and I needed to get out of the country ASAP before I obtained yet another multa (fine) - my least favorite word in Spanish or Portuguese - from the Policía Federal. I have been slapped with multas too many times in my life and I was determined to get out of this one somehow. So the fastest way out of Brazil going my direction was through Venezuela. But to get to Venezuela I had to brave the Amazon.
Arriving in the city of Belém at the mouth of the Amazon River, just two degrees south of the equator, I nearly had an emotional breakdown. As I walked up to the several kilometer-wide stretch of river which flows past Belém's port and out to sea I stuck my foot in the water and almost wept like a schoolgirl. Not because one of the aforementioned animals had taken off a piece of my foot but because I had come so far: Thousands of miles from the far south of Brazil, through 20 of the country's 26 states, to arrive here to the mouth of the largest river system on the planet.
fish manaus
And all by bus. The brown and dirty river water - in this moment - was truly fantastic. The river - running 3500 kilometers upstream into Peru and even further west than the Chilean Pacific Coast - effectively drew a north-south line which, when I crossed, I would be crossing the equator, out of Brazil and into Venezuela. The only problem was that the one land crossing into Venezuela from Brazil originates in a city called Manaus, in the heart of the Amazon jungle, 1500 kilometers inland and upstream from Belém, the city at the mouth of the Amazon where I now stood. at its mouth near the Atlantic."So just take a bus from Belém to Manaus, Sherlock."
I wish it were that simple, son. The Amazon region's geography dictates that roads are not the preferred surface of transportation. Countless lowland tributaries wind about and join into the Amazon and the low elevation area around the delta is a vast, jungle-covered flood plain. Thus, there are no trans-Amazonian roads; In fact, all federal efforts undertaken by Brazil to gouge transportation corridors into the heart of the Amazon have been spoiled by the mighty river and thick, unrelentingly territorial jungle. Therefore, the mighty network of rivers is the roads; and cars are boats. So if I wanted to continue my overland trip through South America I would have to embark by passenger/cargo boat on a five day river trip up into the jungle. There was just one other major problem: I fucking hate boats more than Indiana Jones hates snakes.
manaus port
And here are another 200 reasons why: Day 1: First allow me to dispel the notion that this trip was a glamorous sightseeing event in a glass bottom boat where we lounged by the onboard pool sipping Cuba Libres by day and ate, sang and danced with native tribes by night. This idea couldn't be further from the truth. The reality was that the voyage was a cramped and steamy and smelly and chaotic transport up an endlessly wide body of brown water, whose banks were barely visible (though all we likely missed was the redundant scenery of tree, bush, shrub, repeat for five straight days). No, we were human cargo, tightly packed in with the postmark 'Manaus' stamped on our foreheads. To drive this point home, I was the only gringo on board. The others must have had the sense to fly.
The recommendation I had received from many a traveler was to arrive to the port six hours before my boat was scheduled to leave, in order to secure a good spot to hang my hammock. Upon navigating the sketchy port, which was full of palettes of rotting jungle-grown fruit and toothless and shirtless river-men sitting motionless, only casting a standoffish glance my way, I found my boat, A Estrela (The Star). Yes, it was a one star accommodation, indeed. Only about 50 feet long, there were two covered decks where hammocks could be strung between support posts. The upper deck was lighter, more open, more expensive, and smelled less like the estranged mixture of urine, mold, sweat and gasoline than the lower deck. So I hung my hammock near the upper deck's front and laid down, awaiting departure.
As show time neared, more hammocks were strung around me, until we were a big, web-like network of hand-tied nets. Lack of space meant that hammocks had to be hung to my left and right, and above and below me, so that I could reach my arms out and touch no less than eight other passengers. At six pm the boat finally left port, headed to the north side of the river and slowly began putting its way up the Amazon in the darkness. All my neighbors, who had come aboard dragging enormous sacks and baskets full of clothes and other goods, lay eerily silently in their hammocks. The only noise to be heard was the engine of the boat. I decided to explore the poorly lit surroundings which I would be confined to like a prisoner for the next five days. The two decks were in the front of the boat. The lower deck was fuller, darker, and muggier and seemed like a fantastic location for tuberculosis transmission - so I stayed up top. The boat's middle section consisted of some expensive, tight and stuffy private cabins, storage areas, the boat's already dirty bathrooms, captain and crew quarters and the engine and control rooms. In the rear of the boat was a third deck (above) and more storage (below). Up top was really the only place on the boat where I was able to stand and move around freely. Aside from the exhaust fumes it was a wonderful and less crowded place to chill. However, soon enough I realized I needed to return to my hammock because all my valuables were sitting out in the open. The boat had no security for bags or belongings and duct tape and padlocks could only do so much to counter prying hands.
I decided to make like a local and sleep. Four hours later I looked at my watch. Damn! Only midnight and I felt like I had already had plenty of sleep. How were these people able to lay so motionless for such long periods? Then I smelled the answer: a draft of marijuana smoke had drifted my way. Now that's a good idea! I am not much of a pot-head myself because of the way it affects me: I become lazy, apathetic, brain-dead, tired and time just floats by. Wait a minute! That is the precise combination of effects I desire in order to survive this long bout of boredom on the river. I made a mental note to find the proprietors of the 'hippy lettuce' the next day. During my busy schedule of sitting on my ass sweating it should not be too tough. I tried to fall asleep again on this impossibly humid night but the sounds of mosquitoes buzzing in my ear somehow overpowered the engine noise. Our speed must have been just slow enough for the bugs to keep up with us. Good for them.
Day 2: I awoke to the six am call of the 'boat roosters.' That is, all of the babies of the several families on board began to cry and wail almost simultaneously as the sun rose. This unsolicited awakening signaled the coolest and most action-packed part of the day. From the 5:30 sunrise until 10:30 when the day becomes unbearably hot, the passengers eat, talk, play cards, feed their boat roosters and then, amazingly, settle back down to sleep for the next 19 hours - after smoking the ganja, of course. Breakfast consisted of stale French bread, butter, bananas, coffee and water. Really, better than I expected for this lousy, floating stink-wagon. As the day continued I figured I would pass the time by meeting some of my neighbors. Why not? We were sharing intimate quarters. First there was 'Ze, a 25 year-old laborer from Belém. He had been lured up the Amazon by rumors of higher pay and more opportunities in the construction business. He left his home city for the first time when the boat had set sail the day before and he seemed quite homesick. Then there was Jessé and his wife and their three boat roosters. Jessé had taken his family to Belém from Santarém - a city midway to Manaus - to visit a sick relative on his wife's side. They were now on their way home. The family of five shared three hammocks, the youngest daughter slept with her mother and the other two daughters shared a hammock. They were all very sweet and soft-spoken but they had the look of hunger and loathing in their eyes. Finally, there was Roberto Carlos, an energetic 50 year-old factory worker from Manaus. I never did find out why he was on the boat with us.
Over lunch, which everyday consisted of - without fail - rice, beans, mystery meat and water, Roberto Carlos (R.C.) and I discussed life in the Amazon. He said he came from a small, indigenous town in the Amazon jungle (his face looked native and he carried a smaller frame than many of the well-mixed Brazilians) near Manaus. He was lured to Manaus when the federal government designated the city a duty-free area. This move attracted all sorts of domestic and international business concerns - from snack food producers to textile manufacturers - to the middle of the jungle. Even car parts are produced in huge factories Manaus - a city with only one road connecting it to the outside world - and shipped along with all other Amazonian goods from the enormous city (population 1.7 million) to the mouth of the Amazon and all around the world.
I chatted away much of the day with R.C. He told me about all the terrible factory jobs he had worked throughout his life, the low pay, the harsh conditions, etcetera. But he always wore a proud smile, especially when describing to me how he lost a finger a few years back in a loading dock accident. R.C. currently works in a plant which manufactures car parts and ships them by river to other parts of Brazil where the cars are assembled.
Eventually dinner came around. Upon even distant inspection it became painfully obvious that 'dinner' was just the components of lunch mixed together with additional mystery meat added. I figured this might be a good time to abstain from boat food and to break into the bananas I had brought with me. Good call. About two hours after 'dinner' was served there was a sudden boat-wide rush to the bathroom. The reheated leftovers were not sitting well with the locals (who knows what they would have done to me?). The already smelly toilets stuffed inside a tiny wooden box of a room became a shit-strewn disaster area. I did my best to avoid the dark and sloppy crap caves from that point on. Fortunately, for once I was spared the dreaded stomach troubles. Showering was a separate problem. A couple of pumps drew river water into buckets and we had to use a cloth and the brown water to clean ourselves or to cool off. Needless to say, our collective smell increased exponentially over five days.
That night I decided to break into some of my non-fruit emergency rations I had brought with me. Out on the back deck 'Ze, R.C. and I played cards and drank throat-searing cachasa. The booze soon attracted others out of their pupal state and soon a full-on party with music and dancing had begun. Like always, the cachasa was a hit and everybody stayed around until the bottle was finished. But it was clear, as the crowd quickly dispersed, that the alcohol was the only thing which roused the locals out of their cocoons and onto the more spacious back deck. I sighed and concluded that this would be a perfect time for the boat to pull into port at Manaus, because I had done everything there was to do on this boat - except become ill. The rest of the trip would likely be a three-day repeat of the first 24 hours. It was.
Day 3: See: Day 2, but with a more intense boat rooster arousal at sun-up.
Day 4: See: Day 3
Day 5: Oh yes, whatever dubious magic existed at the beginning of this journey had long since worn off. And it had no intention of returning. I re-learned painfully the lesson of why I hate boats so much: outside of the fact that I had to be stuck in a confined space without the ability to move freely, exercise, find decent food or be alone, there are the horrors of the bathroom, the threat of mosquito- and food-borne illness, the helplessness of knowing the only way off the boat involves a painful piranha and penis-piercing plunge, and don't forget the omnipresent cry of the 'boat rooster,' which now lasts most of the night; and the dank smell of many unwashed humans in close proximity. Given, this is far from a slave ship, but for the last three days I had begun to question the amount of value I put on my own freedom and, in fact, free will, as I willingly made the decision to board a ship of such squalid conditions. Alas, there was mumbling that Manaus was just a few hours' sail. Yarrrrggghh!!! I was relieved and ready for dry land.
The depressing blur of five days, only made more depressing and more blurry by the cachasa, was finally giving way to a clear destination. As the scenery broke, the repetitive blocks of unending trees changed to signs of civilization. And soon the boat's air horn signaled to the hoards waiting on the docks at the port that we were comin' in. The other passengers were as ready as I was. All hammocks had been taken down and stowed and cargo was stacked head high, ready to be offloaded. As the deckhands tied the ropes to the dock we were secure and there was a mad rush to exit the watercraft. With only a backpack, I escaped the chaos quickly, only looking back to wave goodbye to ´Ze and R.C., passing the hundreds of family members, onlookers and dock scum waiting for the economic and human cargo we had brought upstream with us the 1500 kilometers from Belém to Manaus. I headed back from the port, away from the madness, to the other side of the street and found the waiting air-conditioned taxi in front of which a driver stood, holding a sign that said, "Mr. Tyson." We zipped off, out of the choking heat and jungle humidity to new, more upscale quarters called Hotel Millennium, my complimentary 4-star hangout for the next few days in the Amazon. Booyah!
