On The River Again

Post date: Jan 3, 2011 4:25:41 PM

Where serenity ends, there begins the “twist in my panties” and the “hot as a Mississippi fire ant” cycle. Look at the Yin and Yang symbol. Notice that the blackness grows until the bubble bursts and light trickles through and grows until it too bursts.

I made the boat on time. Some guys I assumed worked for the boat eagerly, rudely pushed to unload the bike and load the ship with my stuff. They never put the bike on because the cargo wasn’t positioned yet to accept it. Better that way; they weren’t the gentle sort. They plopped my gear down by the drinking water tank, next to the heavily trafficked 20 foot food trough/table, with hammocks strung up so tightly to one another you’d be snoring with your nose in someone’s armpit, directly over the rumbling, boat jarring engine. Here the guy told me to hang my hammock and pay him 40 reals ($20). Ha! Right! I refused. I said in my best Spanish (although I think he was dumb enough to miscomprehend even simple Portuguese, based on the flat glaze of his eyes, which were so dark you couldn’t distinguish between the pupil and iris, not that dark eyes are bad...) “I am not paying you anything. I already paid for my ticket (I show him). Gilson (the booking agent) was supposed to be here to not only reserve a hammock space but to help me load my motorcycle and gear into a safe place. I paid him. If you want money, go to him. I am not paying you. I did not even ask for your help.” The price dropped to 30. I repeated myself and walked away from him. He followed and requested 20. Again, “NO!” He flashed his badge. It still didn’t feel right. I ignored him. Minutes later, the captain appears in what appears to be a soccer jersey. He’s a tired looking old man, and based on his inability to look me in the eye, I figured he, too, knew something was unfair, but he said the loading charge is not included in the ticket price, and that I should pay the two men a total of 20 reals ($10). As principled as I am, I wasn’t in the mood to take the fight to Gilson or take another boat, so I paid. I consoled myself with the fact that I whittled it down to $10 instead of $20, but the very fact that it was negotiable makes it fishy. And not my kind of fishy. Some local men who watched my fight shook their head in agreement with my frustration. Ah well, just another day in the life of a stubborn ass gringo in a poor country.

I had to search high and low for a hammock spot. A nice old man helped me find a better place for my sidecases and a bag. I eventually strung up on the top deck, near the front by the kiosk. Probably one of the best spots on the ship. A smaller ship than the Tabatinga-Manaus one, and in shabbier condition. The toilets seldom flush and are clogged daily, maybe hourly. It’s as if the river is saying, “Look, I’m tired of your SH#%! “ Everytime you go into one of these shower-toilet stalls you’re punched by fermented, concentrated urine (no one drinks enough water here). Water somehow collects around the toilet, and I’m pretty sure I can guess what’s in that “water.”

Mealtime! What better way to feel like an animal, besides being chained below deck? You stand in line for up to an hour. 250 people on this boat, and they feed 12 at a time. Once you manage a seat on the bench, you then proceed to stare with sunken, cramped shoulders, at the sticky, rice-strewn plastic table cloth and flies for another 30 minutes. No one speaks. No one complains. You sit there and wait like a cow with its drooling head stuck through a gate over an empty feeding trough. The equally portioned plates come two by two, hand carried by the surprisingly chipper waitress from the lower deck kitchen, which I suspect has one burner, based on the rate of meal preparation. Eat and get out. People are waiting. No time to chat.

If there is one thing Latin America will teach an American, it is humility coupled with pride in the U.S.A.

I’ve met some characters already. I am the only tourist on this boat. 3 people know a few words of English, no more. And these 3 are travelling together. The two guys are in a heavy metal band based in Rio Branco, a remote Amazonian town. One’s a former professional basketball player turned into a fat chef due to motorcycle injury. He plays metal guitar and blues harmonica, and has been enthusiastic and emphatic as only an Italian can (even if it’s only ¼ Italian) in teaching me harmonica and Portuguese. The other band member is a former street fighter turned Jesus lover who spits when he speaks and loves to put his explanatory hands in front of your face. He expressed extreme patriotism and disgust with ever other Latin American country. He said the other countries all hate Brazil because it refuses to adopt the Spanish language. He called Colombia a bunch of junky war starters, which aroused from me a blindingly-heated rebuttal. He never answered my question if he has been to Colombia. Ignorance is best kept to places without significance, like Rio Branco, so at least his worldview isn’t that contaminating. They travel with a Brasileira (Brazilian gal) studying to be a medical researcher in Manaus. She showed me her English textbook with pride. A handful of less interesting people have greeted and chatted with me as well.

As of this morning, Thursday 12-30-10, I’d say the highlight so far has been the $2.50 all-you-can-eat BBQ (minus the sauce) pork ribs grilled on the top deck yesterday afternoon. Yes, I must say Brazil does at least two things right: great meat and the most talented dancers.

I am excited to see that the further up this Madeira River I go, the more green bank grass I see flooded and the shorter the bank becomes. Rising water means faster current means faster catfish action. Or, so the theory goes. The reports on the boat about the fishing in Porto Velho are mixed. The med student asked if I am afraid to fish alone. I have heard this countless times. People have developed a perhaps well-warranted fear of this river and its fish. I have heard the same stories as the host of River Monsters- piraiba eating swimmers, piranha attacking and devouring waders. But, as the show shows, the piraiba are probably crocodiles, and the piranha must scent blood and lots of movement, and only certain species found in certain areas will actually attack. I have a wicked roundhouse and ridgehand though, so I’ll be fine.

New Year’s Eve 2010. Friday 4pm.

We just finished watching Avatar up here on the top deck, and it just so happens that my hammock was the best seat in the house. Funny how initial disasters eventually turn into good fortunes.

I noticed people carrying empty bowls below deck and returning with food, so I followed. I no longer wait in line to feed at the pig trough. Now I wait with my ziplock Tupperware on Deck 1, fill up, then eat and watch the river roll by in quiet solitude.

More interesting folks:

Top of the list, obviously, is a fisherman adventurer. He lives in Manaus and is on this boat to begin his 3 month roundtrip adventure through the Amazon. He’ll take a boat to Humaita, bus to another town on the Tapajos River, then canoe downstream for a couple months to the Amazon River, where he’ll take another ship back to Manaus. He plans to drink water from the small tributaries and fish for peacock bass and whatever else he can manage to wrassle in along the way. He currently works for a fishing adventure company that builds fishing camps in the middle of nowhere then brings in fishermen from all over the world to fish for 5 days. He told me the story of how he and his older brother often skipped school, to the dismay of Mom, to go fishing. One time he and his brother landed a big electric eel in their neighborhood crick. His brother, being a teenage daredevil, had to touch it. He did with no problem. Then he aggravated it by yanking repeatedly on the line still hooked to its mouth, and he touched it. His brother flew back from the shock and he rushed to his brother’s side thinking he was dead, but he was just severely stunned and jolted. With great pride they took the fish home and cleaned it, thinking Mom would be thrilled when she saw its steaks nicely laid out on a pan in the fridge. Guess again. Not only did Mom give them a verbal lashing, but she threw out the fish they’d nearly died catching because it’s meat is bad and poisonous. Well, this kid is now a mid-thirties adult who’s lived in Europe and other places, and is now ready to pursue his dream. 1- to see up close a wild jaguar. 2- to live out the rest of his days in a river boat, taking it easy and fishing, making a living by renting space and giving tours in his boat. He says you can buy and customize a 2 decked 30 foot boat for $10,000. Drool. I think I may have met my Brazilian alterego.

More countless species of moths on this boat. Even stranger looking more giant ones.

We have been passing many beaches lined with wooden huts with funny looking ramps. My multi-talented pal Lucas says they are gold hunters and that if you lay a foot on their beach, they will shoot you dead without a word. I joked that all you need is a bigger gun, but he didn’t get it. Such a shame when good humor is lost in translation.

Another Brazilian I met has a dream of visiting Arizona. His favorite actor is Charles Bronson.

There is a mother of about 25 years of age on this boat who surprises me. She’s blind. Her eyes wander all over the place like one of those dolls. All 3 of her children have the same eyes. Blind mothering 3 blind children… sounds like a chore. Yet somehow she manages. Her hammock is close to the water and feeding table and bathrooms. Watching her, it is a marvel to see how she knows where things are, including her children. She uses no walking stick. I wonder if she is able to see shapes at all. Her one child has a fair number of scrapes though, and sometimes she swats the child for no apparent reason.

I’m learning some Portuguese with the help of Lucas, Renato, and Marcella.

Some young boys caught me doing some hapkido exercises in what I thought was a secluded area on the first deck. They laughed and tried to mimic me, thankfully to no success! I showed them different ways to do pushups and a wrist grab defense technique. We’re friends now.

Interesting to me- the road from Porto Velho to Manaus is unpaved and not even attempted by buses at this time. I map says otherwise. The road from Porto Velho to Rio Branco is paved and quite passable, as is the road to Cusco. This information is the exact opposite that I’d expected, based on my map. I’m also told that buses are currently running from Humaita, on the TransAmazon highway, to the Rio Tapajos. I bought a second map recently that has road condition update phone numbers. Could help if I trek back north to balls-to-the-walls it along the TransAmazon like I’d originally planned.

My new and improved road map also says that it is prohibited to stop for about 80 miles along the highway connecting Manaus, Brazil, to Venezuela. This area is an indigenous land. The highway is not very well maintained due to limited governmental involvement. 10 years ago, I am told, it was quite risky to pass through this area due to indigenous attacks on travelers. Now, it’s still illegal to stop, and perhaps for good cause. The thing is, I met a Minnesotan bicycler taking that road this week. He has been on the road 18 months and has worked in a couple places, including an Argentinian bakery for 4 months. Now he plans to bike north to Venezuela, and although he claims to put 100 miles behind him in a day, he needs to know he better pass that much asphalt through the reservation before nightfall. He has camped everywhere along the road, often stays with volunteer firefighters, sleeps in churches, behind gas stations, and in random peoples’ homes. He’s had no troubles yet. I’ll email him once I reach Porto Velho. He has funded some of his travel by playing violin in the streets. He told me about how to choose a good location, which is the key to money. He says he has often made in one or two hours more than he makes in a full time shift in the United States. He says that if I went out to the street and blew on my harmonica, regardless of the fact that I’d struggle with Hot Cross Buns, that I’d make a little cash.

If there’s a will to go somewhere, there’s a way to do it. He told me that in Brazil he met a man in a wheelchair rolling himself up a mountain with massive shoulders enroute to Venezuela. Another crazed duo were trainhopping from New York to Panama with only $30 in their pockets. They made it. I can see why this guy has considered writing a book that compiles all of his adventuring personality encounters into one supercharacter.

Also impertinent to this leg of the journey, but worthy of recording, is some info I received from a fellow couchsurfer that contradicts what I said in a previous journal entry. It turns out that pesticides, fertilizers, and genetic modification is rampant throughout South America. I should have known- American corporations have sunk their roots in here. Even poor farmers have access to these chemicals, and it sounds like they are highly, highly resistant to change. Capitalistic greed has hit the once nature-balancing indigenous populations.

Add to this knowledge my observations of littering and pollution, and one truly begins to appreciate the progressiveness of the American culture. On the boat I see the janitor lady routinely sweep all the cigarette butts and plastic cups over the bow and into the river. Men toss their empty beer cans in as well. The toilets all flush into the river. The ports reek and shine with the sheen of oil on the water. Fish somehow tolerate this water and peck at floating brown foam. People here, I think, are experiencing what American pioneers felt 150 years ago- that the world is endless in resources. Population and consumption increases now point to the very real limit of energy, space, water, and ozone. I met one traveler who expressed his astonishment about some kids he met in Brazil who did not realize that there were other continents. Having come so far, it is sometimes hard to remember where we came from.

I write this now from my $10 torture chamber in Porto Velho. Stained walls from water leaks, a greasy looking door, missing outlet covers, and a room vent that has been chiseled around as if someone was making a prison break… and yet I somehow feel just fine here (minus the lack of A/C).

So, in retrospect, my New Year’s Eve was quiet and thoughtless, really. I chased moths for photos with the eager assistance of two young boys of the family who occupied the only other hammocks on the top deck. Almost everyone left in Humaita. Had I known that was an option, I’d have taken it; it’s cheaper than the straight shot to Porto Velho, and it takes 2 hours to reach Porto Velho by road from Humaita, but 18 hours by boat. Ah well. I got some chocolate at the market during the pitstop in Humaita, and I shared it with the kids.