Manaus and the Amazon

Post date: Dec 20, 2010 1:22:09 PM

Night 1 in Manaus, my friend Maria Lucia, her friend Patricia, and our new friend Martin from Holland all went to a churrascaria, where you pay $13 and get all the fantastic meat and buffet food you can fit in. Bar none, the best I’d eaten since my going away Thanksgiving party.

Day 2 I hunted down a new place to stay since I wasn’t fond of Hostel Natureba’s owner, whom refused to let me park inside. Then his son and us went to Ponta Negra, a nice beach. I crunched my spine on the bottom after jumping through an inner tube. My neck is still stiff, 2 days later, but no permanent damage, I don’t think. The ride home was a trip. Cars jumped in and out of the lanes, and while the traffic is drastically less than Bogota’s, these drivers are far more pathetic. Drunk, lazy, or stupid, I don’t know, but one car stopped without warning in front of me on the highway, and having a shirtless Martin plus two fully loaded saddlebags weighing me down, I wasn’t going to be able to stop entirely, so I slid between the gap between that car and the car in the next lane. I thought we were goners, but we passed through with only a pop sound of my left bag tagging the idiot’s car. We made it home alive.

That night was the Christmas show. The next day a nice couchsurfer took me to several fishing stores that have fishing poles! And reels! And giant, low quality circle hooks! And, and, and! I spent way too much, including a new rod and reel and line, some hooks, sinkers, and swivels- basic ingredients for catfishing. I couldn’t help myself after I learned there is no limit to the number of poles you can have. Wilton also showed me the market where I could buy fair priced produce and meat. I absolutely love farmer’s markets.

I got a good night’s sleep and did some light exercising the next morning. Then I went to the market, bought apples, mamau (an Amazonian fruit I’ve never tried), potatoes, eggs, tomatoes, 2 foot long green beans, olive oil, some kinda spicey hot sauce, honey, and some kinda fish. I’m ready to cook. The amazing thing is the generosity of the vendors. The guy gave me the 2 mamaus (papaya) for free. I had too little money for the apples, so the lady let me walk away with a 30% discount. I bargained a better price for the honey and hot sauce, and I got 2 servings of green beans for 25 cents. People seemed more amused by my lack of Portuguese than interested in abusing my naivety and stereotypical gringo wealth. Maybe Brazil’s got more heart!? Bogota does have a reputation for being money hungry.

I spoke for a bit with the owner of the hostel. Turns out this Australian studied psychology also and simply wanted to live in the middle of the Amazon. I inquired about the costs of things around here. He said you can get a cheapo house without documents outside the city for $1000. An average, middle class house in the city is about $30,000. It’s hard to acquire loans, however, so you must pay for all or most of it upfront. Being more interested in the country side, he said you can just go there, build a house, and live, without paying or getting documents. It’s highly unregulated. You basically become the “owner” once you’ve lived there a year or two. Or, you can buy some land from someone in the wild. No papers necessary. It blows my mind and calls my name. If I run into lots of big catfish, I may be in trouble. I may have some very difficult goodbyes to make.

Ah, and then my Japanese brother. I’ve developed a fondness recently for the Japanese. First I heard of a Japanese woman travelling around the world by motorcycle, solo. She passed through Manaus a few months ago, and now she’s in Venezuela or thereabouts. Then an employee at this hostel said that one time a Japanese guy showed up at their hostel, dropped off some equipment, and then disappeared on the Amazon River for 3 or 4 weeks before returning to collect his belongings and fly back to Japan. Then I meet, a self-proclaimed crazy fisherman hunting for the peacock bass world record. I saw him check in in complete awe. A fisherman! He had a well-travelled, stickered rod holder and a camoflauge shirt. His face is a sun-beaten reddish tan, but his eyes are clear as the Caribbean. I could barely focus on the directions being given to me by my couchsurfer friend. I quickly initiated conversation, and it just so happened that he would be sharing my dorm. So, the conversation moved to the nicely air conditioned room. I pulled out my map of Brazil. He points to areas of plain green tens of miles from any road, and he says, “Here, many, many bagre (catfish).” He has travelled over the last 6 years all over Brazil in search of the record peacock bass. He has had malaria 5 times. He works for 6 months, then fishes for another 3-6. He calls his style, “hippie style,” meaning that he just goes to an Indian village, asks to rent a boat, then takes off fishing. I told him I intend to do the same, and have done that once already. This pleased him. He was even more pleased to hear about my trip by motorcycle, and he says that such travel is his dream. Funny how it works; he’s living my dream, in a way. It was encouraging to hear his confidence describing the accessibility of some of the remotest areas of the Amazon. He has a website: http://moon.ap.teacup.com/teru/

A few days later I spoke to Carlos, a man who bears a striking resemblance in appearance and vocal style to Jacques Cousteau, who operates a fishing guide service that relies on Indian guides as well. It seems, then, that that is the way to go- go to a village, speak your best Portuguese, offer some money, and go fishing.

The ride to Vila do Engenho, the home of my friend’s parents, was easy and 3 hours long. The plan was to fish there a few days because they have a boat, a room, I hit a straightaway that begged for speed, so speed I gave, and I reached for the first time 100 mph on my speedometer. As if to warn me, the gas hose popped loose, spraying gas all over my leg. It was an easy fix to pop it back in. The bike was maxed out; it has lost power since the wrecks and repairs. Sad, sad, sad to see such beauty and power fade.

When you’re flying down the highway, it’s hard to remember that you’re surrounding by jungle as far as the eye can see.

Vila do Engenho sits on the Rio Preto, which feeds into the Amazon River. It consists of a couple thousand people. Its gas station, which I visited on the way out of town, is operated by a 12 year old and his little 7 year old brother. They did the job as well as any professional could, but as I was preparing to rev up and roll out, I heard their Mom starting to shout from indoors. This began a shouting match between mother and sons.

The town also has a carpenter with an open air shop on the one main road through town. Two little stores float on the riverbank. There’s a church, a school, and farms all over. Most people work the fields growing pineapple.

Simply the best pineapple I’ve tasted. In the U.S. we pay extra money for organic, but down here, all you find is organic. Nobody has the money for or interest in pesticides, herbicides, and fertilizers. To prepare a lot for planting, you burn it all down. Whatever doesn’t burn you cut up and pull to the side. On one or two acres of land you can plant 6 thousand pineapples. The land itself costs about $5000 per acre a couple hundred yards from the river.

The Rio Preto is filled with happy dolphins. They swam about as I fished the floating tree trunks supporting the riverside stores. To catch my bait I’d go there, and the banana succeeded once again. Miracle food. I wonder if it works in the U.S. also.

The house I stayed in is a rather nice country home with tiled flooring, air conditioning, and all in all nice. Chickens roamed about. On day 3 the guy owner (nameless to preserve anonymity… reasons why to follow) gave me the honor of shooting one of the chickens for dinner. He whistled, tossed a bowl of rice onto the ground, then scraped the bowl a spoon. Here come the chickens! They run so stupid. He pointed, and I took my aim. Chicken heads never stay put. I missed and they ran.

They farm pineapple. I arrived the day one of their fields was burning. It will be ready to plant in one week, he said.

He and his wife live with their 15 year old daughter, but she didn’t come home until my last night there. They all speak only Portuguese, a language which I know maybe 20 words of, and the man, who seemed incapable or unwilling to understand that it didn’t matter how many times you say gibberish at a rapid pace- it’s still gibberish. Add to that the fact that they have thick accents in the countryside, and the fact that this man in particular likes his drink, and you have recipe for a communication disaster. It was one long headache communicating with this guy, and he loved to talk. His wife was pleasant, spoke a little more clearly and slowly, but I seldom saw her.

Much of my time was spent roaming two towns with this man in search of info about catfishing in the area and a fisherman to take me out. The guy knows everyone and everyone knows him. It was funny to see him walk up to this house or that, and he without questions started snacking on whatever they had. It wasn’t just him, I don’t think- I think it was culture. Everyone shares everything. We picked up a generator at one spot and transported it to someone down the road. Someone needed a ride up the hill, so we hauled him up.

Two things disgust me about this married man. I vent here and now. First, every woman he saw he whistled and made sexual remarks towards. As long as the girl had reached puberty, he slowed the truck to take a look. He took one young girl’s hand and rubbed it softly as he spoke sweetly to her, and the girl was clearly uncomfortable with him. She walked away and did not look back. Two other women he hugged and kissed on, and I’m pretty sure we visited a prostitute that he asked to have sex with me. I’m surprised this guy thought I would be okay with it. I can’t imagine his wife doesn’t know. The town is tiny.

Second, he reminded me why I don’t drink. He got so drunk when we went hunting for bait that he fell into the water twice, drove the boat into the shore twice, and could not park the boat. I ended up carrying everything up to the house because he couldn’t help. He just sat in the water. People asked me if he was drunk, and I told them the truth. Kids ran down to laugh at him. When I returned to lock the boat up, he had finally got out and muttered stuff that clearly meant he was frustrated, calling me an “American” something or other. Whatever. He later asked why I left him with the boat and carried the stuff up the hill, and I pretended not to understand. I’m not going to lecture an alcoholic in a language I don’t even know! He laughed when I told him I don’t drink and haven’t for over 6 years. He promoted alcohol as mosquito repellant and cold medicine. Seriously.

And yet he didn’t understand why I was leaving after 3 days.

The fishing wasn’t good. They had told their son that there was piraiba and pirarara in the area, and the fishermen confirmed this, but they clearly didn’t know how or where to catch them. The first night I watched an Indian try for 2 hours to spotlight and spear a fish in the flooded grassy riverbank. He got nothing. But a fish jumped in the boat! It was perfect bait, but it wasn’t enough. We gave up after 2 hours of nothing. I can’t believe they don’t use castnets there. Some fishermen.

The next day we got some free fish from some fisherman using set nets, and I caught some chub-like fish using 5 year old Berkeley powerbait from a river gas station. That night I fished a point where multiple fishermen referred me to. I went there with one of the guy’s field workers. I requested to go alone, but he said he was worried, and he mentioned something about the motor. I advertised my experience but refrained from saying, “Well, I bet I can not drive the boat into the shore!”

We paddled up to shore and fished from the boat. It wasn’t long before I hooked one. A giant one. Oh yeah! I was hooting as the beast pulled my drag AND the boat around. He spun our canoe in circles and held us solid in the current. I could not lift it! Then SNAP! My brand new MH action rod busted half way down. I’ve never had a pole snap on me. That’s okay, the fish was still hooked, so I kept pumping. I had given my second rod to the boy to reel in, but he clearly didn’t know what to do, so I made motions to reel it in, but he did as all inexperienced people do, he held the reel upside down. He never reeled the dang thing in all the way. After 5 or more minutes, I got the fish close enough to see a massive water displacement and flash of fin. It looked big! The fin looked funny though. “Que es esso?” I said, and he understood, but I didn’t understand his response. As soon as it got to the surface it bursted back down, and I just held on, hoping my broken rod didn’t fail me. I loosened the drag some to accommodate the loss of flexibility in the rod. I started to feel some burn in my biceps, and that made me happy!! My first big catfish in the Amazon! Ehhh… no. I got it up enough to break the surface and was greeted by the devilish stingray. Another stingray!? We paddled to shore as I held on carefully. My heart was pumping nonetheless. I hopped out and heaved the thing up, but it was too heavy to drag ashore. I had to pry it up inch by inch with an oar. It spanned 3 and a half feet in diameter. A little hesitant to just flop the thing over due to its flurry of fury everytime it was touched, I paused. Then the boy started beating it with an oar. That shut it up alright, disgusted as I was about killing it. I was then able to pry it over and pull the hook. I snapped some pictures and asked what the people do with stingray in their village, and it was apparent they don’t do anything with them. I decided to leave it there and let the man know later so that he could decide what to do with it. It ended up being left for the birds. A shame. Mine was about 40 pounds. They reach 400 pounds in the Amazon River. It would be physically impossible, I think, for a human to catch one of those by rod and reel. Only a commercial boat with a hydraulic winch could manage that.

Well, that was exciting, but the rest of the night was just little bites. Tried another point without success. It rained but I didn’t care. When I’m on the hunt, I acquire certain immunities, I think! The boy was in the back, hugging himself and shivering, but he shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I kept fishing a couple hours.

The next day we got in a real boat, a classic Amazon river boat, and we motored to the union of the Preto and Amazon Rivers. The man wanted to go, and he fished with a big hook and spool of line that I ended up donating to him. He hooked a little stingray and caught a little catfish. I caught a handful of baby piraiba. Nothing else. I sat there, irritated by their incessant singsong Portuguese chatter, in a place I didn’t choose to fish. After a couple hours, we left.

Well, I learned a few things from this trip. I need a bigger rod. Mono is better than braid in heavy tackle conditions. I vastly prefer to fish alone. Resources are severely limited in this region; I cannot explore the areas adequately to locate the fish. They don’t even use anchors here, so you’re limited to fishing within casting distance from shore, which is seldom the best way to catch a monster. Locals know no more about fishing these fish than I. In fact, they all smile a smile that says, “Are you crazy? Those fish eat people!” when I say I want to catch one. I need more control over the boat and fish hunt to feel satisfied. Everyone is underestimating me and my experience, which is very tiring. If I could rent a nice boat with a solid 25hp motor, an anchor, and a depth finder… geez.

Back in Manaus, I’m divided about what to do next. I suspect the fish are still holding in the main river channels in the deep holes; the water hasn’t sped up or risen enough. I also think the less commercially fished regions to the south would be better; the Japanese fisherman, Carlos from Ikarus Amazon Adventures, and a National Geographic video all mention catfish to the south. The problem is transportation, time, and money. The road is horrendous at this time to Porto Velho. The boat there costs 200 reals, but I’d miss out on the fishing along the way. I could go to Belem for a whopping 600 reals, but it’s the same story- I’d miss out on the fishing. Belem gets me to Sao Paolo quicker, Porto Velho takes me closer to fish… I’m also looking at the option of fishing from the uninhabited point where the Rio Negro and Rio Amazonas/Rio Solimoes meet, and camping there, but the problem is that no boats travel there regularly, so I’d have to arrange a private boat to take me there and pick me up and certain times, and that is difficult without Portuguese or trust. I could pay Carlos to take me fishing, and maybe he’d offer me a special rate. In an ideal world I would take the road south to Porto Velho, fishing from the villages along the way, but it’s the rainy season and I must be in Sao Paolo in less than 3 weeks.

Have I noted the link with images of the TransAmazon highway? The pictures apply to more than just that road; any unpaved road through the Amazon, which is almost all, look like this at some point during the year, especially during the rainy season, which is now. Thus am I reluctant to take such road at this time. http://acidcow.com/pics/10404-trans-amazonian-highway-another-very-bad-road-65.html

But the more I look at this Brazil map, the more drunk I become, imagining all the possibilities. More time! I need more time! And money! Last night I joked about trading my motorcycle for a boat and living on the river.