ON THE AMAZON RIVER, Brazil— It was a trip I have always wanted to
take, and not even the pouring rain, the days of endless monotony and
flying beetles the size of my thumb made the trip down the river
Amazon anything other than a fantastic voyage.
Ever since I was a child in Scotland, the Amazon had called me with
its promise of immense rivers and inhospitable jungle, screaming
monkeys and brightly colored parrots, searing heat and tropical
downpours. The word itself, like Siberia, the Pacific and the Outback,
implied wilderness, challenge and greatness. And now I was here, face
to face with the mighty river.
As I stood on the dock in the Brazilian border town of Tabatinga and
watched small boats laden with green bananas and silvery fish struggle
against the current I thought of the Spanish conquistadores for whom
just seeing the river "filled us with the greatest fear."
I read their historical accounts and realized the river has changed
little in the centuries since. As I threw my rucksack on board the
Bandeirante II one Wednesday morning in May, islands of grass still
floated toward the Atlantic and indigenous people still paddled
resolutely against the current in dugout canoes. What had changed were
the craft navigating what is known as the Solimoes. (The river does
not become the Amazon until Manaus, where the Solimoes meets the Rio
Branco.)
Boats like the Bandeirante are the buses and trucks of the Amazon.
With no roads, river travel is the only way to get people and things
where you want them to go, and so the boats' holds are laden with
cement, sugar and blocks of ice. Passengers are also packed into the
boat, and by the time the horn sounds and we sluggishly drift out into
the current late on Wednesday afternoon, there are 48 hammocks strung
across the second level, many of them so close together they bump into
each other when waves rock the boat.
Unique experience. (Photo: Andrew Downie)
As we get underway, a surprising sense of community develops, not only
among the foreigners but also between them and the Brazilians, who
seem genuinely interested in their visitors. Some invited their guests
to share bananas or fruit juice and even though the language barrier
was formidable, friendships were expressed in unmistakeable smiles and
gestures.
A retired sergeant in the Brazilian army noticed my Morocco soccer
shirt and though he spoke no English we did our best to debate
Brazil's failure to win last year's World Cup. A sneaker salesman on
his way to visit clients joined in the conversation wanting to know if
I have a kilt. Edson, a gold prospector who has just visited family in
Tabatinga, was keen to give me Portuguese lessons in return for
English classes. Quite a few of the men wanted to know if the
beautiful Danish student in the hammock next to mine was my
girlfriend. Unfortunately, I had to tell them no.
I had made friends and when it finally stopped raining, a few of us
went up to the top deck to check our progress down river. Although it
was pitch black, a few people had gathered at the small bar and were
downing bottles of beer and fried egg rolls. A man in a Brazil soccer
uniform approached the captain (who doubled as barman and cook) and a
few moments later a television appeared and the first mate was
dispatched to the roof of the bridge to turn the satellite dish.
Word got around and within minutes a small crowd—half the male
passengers and all the crew, it seemed—were standing watching a
crucial Brazilian cup tie. I couldn't believe I was watching a live
soccer match on a boat in the middle of one of the remotest areas in
the Western Hemisphere. The tales of Brazil's love affair with soccer
are not exaggerated.
Just before halftime it started to rain yet again and I went
downstairs to bed. Considering we were just three degrees south of the
equator, it was remarkably cold at night. However, we awoke to clear
skies on the second morning and a heat and brightness that made it
impossible to stay in the sun too long. I spent time on the top deck
only at dawn and dusk, moments when it was cool and the Amazon was at
its most spectacular. The sunsets were breathtaking, immense
explosions of crimson and vermillion that in one dramatic 30-minute
show of shifting light announced the Amazon's greatness.
Watching such phenomena happen around us was about all there was to
do. I spent most of the days either reading or gazing endlessly at the
wall of trees and the muddy brown water that surrounds us. There was
no pressure and no stress. The only noise was the chugging of the
boat's engine. We were in the middle of nowhere—even the region's
famed wildlife was nowhere to be seen. The river is just so wide and
the wall of trees so dense that there was little chance of spotting
jungle animals or birds. At one point, we did get close enough to the
bank—about 100 yards away—to hear the excited shrieks of monkeys and
birds. But, apart from the vultures wheeling overhead, the only wild
animal I actually saw was a pink dolphin.
After three days afloat, the journey was becoming monotonous. Rain was
continuing to pelt the boat, and the river had broadened to the point
where it was now several kilometers across and there was even less to
see than before. Then, at around 8:30 on Saturday night, almost a day
earlier than expected, the bright lights of Manaus came into view. The
army sergeant joyously shouted "Manaus!" and we gripped the rails and
looked eagerly toward the familiar orange glow of street lamps and the
headlights of something we hadn't seen for days—cars.
My radio was picking up sounds again and I knew we were approaching
civilization when, before we had even hit the quay, I heard the Spice
Girls on the radio. It was enough to make me look to the heavens. At
least it had stopped raining |
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