Rolling Down Jungle River to Jungle Cities

Post date: Dec 14, 2010 11:35:03 AM

On Saturday I went with Camilo to his cousin’s 36^th birthday party. The family owns one of the two gas stations in town, or something, and it was apparent that they have money. He had a full on club set up in his front yard- a bar offering Cristal and other costly liquours, multicolored lazer lights, and a dj with great speakers. Plus he had two flat screen tvs on stands playing various music videos, including MJ’s Thriller. Family and friends alike showed, about 25 people total. I met an exuberant Brazilian delighted to hear about my plans in her country. Another cousin and I discussed psychology and indigenous villages of Brazil. The cousin’s best friend is a radio news journalist in Cali.

On Sunday I went skiing on the Amazon River with some guys Camilo hangs with. Only the guy inviting us got up for a sustained period. I got up once out of my 5 tries, but as soon as I let out my hoot, I toppled. Nobody else got up. The boat didn’t have a lot get up and go, so there was a lot of drag to overcome. We were attacked by demon flies sent to massacre us by the devil. We were floating down by the river when one by one these gnat-like flies starting busying about us. We were swatting and complaining, and two minutes later we were all in the water. They left some nasty welts. After skiing and the sunset we all sat around on crates and plastic chairs on an anchored river barge the host’s family owns. They drank beer after beer as I sat and listened. As if Spanish wasn’t hard enough to understand- try listening to carefree, slightly slurred Spanish. They spoke about what all guys typically talk about in circles with beer- women. It was entertaining.

Finally, I got stopped by the Colombian police at a checkpoint. I hopped off the bike and handed the young cop a torn and ragged copy of my passport. He took a couple steps to the side to inspect it as three other cops of about 20 years of age approached me with questions of where I’m from, where I’m going, how fast my bike goes, etc. The norm. I popped the top box for one them to look in. He was shy asking. The first cop returned my ragged passport copy. I never even got to try out my fake bike registration!

On Monday I got my Brazil motorcycle permit! I never checked out of Colombia. This border worried me more than any other, and it turned out to be by far the easiest. Plus, it was totally free. I think I made a good choice coming this route.

I had learned that the next boat for Manaus was on Wednesday, so I went on Monday to buy the ticket. The receptionist said one left on Tuesday for 370,000 pesos, 170,000 more than I was told the Wednesday boat would cost. I decided to wait. I could by the Wednesday ticket on Tuesday.

There’s no better way to wait than fishing, and fishing I went. I tried out Takana River again, and I was disappointed to see the water was a good 6 feet shallower. I caught one little one. Before dark I headed to the Leticia port, which I’d previously researched and learned could be fished by the public. I used stingray scraps as bait, and I caught a couple catfish, including one keeper, when one of the young military dock patrolmen handed me a bit of smooshy yellow stuff I thought was a piece of corn. I tossed that in and immediately pulled up a little catfish. He brought me several more chunks that I learned was actually platano, a banana-cousin. Those little fish LOVE platano. I caught little catfish and other shiner/shad type baitfish. Nothing substantial. One of the other military was thoroughly interested in getting to know me as I fished. I was polite. I taught him how to say, “What’s your name?” and “My name is…” He was delighted to learn some English. I moved down the bank through the thick, head high weeds to a quiet corner in the channel. There I posted up. I had another opportunity to use my Rambo machete to cut some stalks for pole supports. I caught well over a dozen catfish using the fresh cutbait- the stingray worked but wasn’t that great. Plus it stunk like hell, and my motorcycle’s topbox still has a lingering smell to it, even after soap and water.

Alba, Camilo’s aunt, and I ate the catfish the next day. Here, you eat them skin and all, boiled in an onion-tomato puree. And with that we ate the traditional sides, rice and platanos. With some guanabana juice. We stuffed ourselves fat.

Tuesday night being my last night in Leticia coincidentally coincided with the Christmas night of lights, a traditional Catholic holiday, I guess. All the store and homefronts and neighborhood streets were lined with candles. A parade that started at 3pm continued marching along well past 8pm. All the neighborhoods had finished decorating the telephone wires and poles. They string up ornately cut and painted plastic bottles donated by the Coca Cola plant here in town. All the neighborhood kids are involved in the process. It was a party atmosphere. Kids were running around, playing. Adults were out and about also, chatting. Even the dogs were excitedly running about. It reminded me of the good ol days when a kid is safe to roam anywhere in the neighborhood.

I ended up settling with the offer the Wednesday boat captain, Isaiahs Monteiro, made me. I figured with two back to back boats costing the same, I might as well take the boat. Plus, my friend Maria had arrived the night before from Bogota, coincidentally planning to take the very same boat to Manaus. Everything was falling together just fine.

Then the ramp to the boat. With a fully loaded bike, they expected me to zip up a two foot wide, twenty-five foot long ramp eight feet in the air to the boat deck. I was vividly reminded of the river crossing in Panama. Why is it such a pain to put a bike on a boat? Everyone was watching, waiting for me to freak out, slow down mid-ramp, and slide right off the ramp. At least it would hit concrete if it fell, I thought. I took a deep breath in, let out a chuckle, and hit the gas. My mind sorta blacked out for a second while on the ramp. With a clunk I landed on the deck to the hoorays of the crew. I let out another, more sincere chuckle.

I was the first on. The police went through all of my stuff. One of them lived in California a year during high school and thus spoke good English. He asked me where I got the peanut butter; he wanted some. I told him about the supermarket Casa Bella in Leticia. The only real supermarket in that town of less than 50,000 and 4 square miles.

Strung up my hammock, ensured my motorcycle was safely tied and stowed, and waited. Had one last chat with Mr. and Mrs. Caldas, my Bogota parents, and off down the Amazonas the M. Monteiro went. Within an hour I spotted the breaching backs of two pink dolphins. I hope to get a closer look at the renowned mammals over the next couple days.

The ship has 4 decks, plus a lower cargo deck. The first two are packed with hammocks strung up uncomfortably close to one another. Someone near me stinks. My first night of sleep was sleepless. I dreamed I was fighting the whole night.

We stopped once the first day, once the first night, and in the morning the first day. There are 5 more stops before Manaus. At each stop, we pick up people, vendors market their blankets, pineapples, and oranges. I cast around the docks. No luck yet.

Miles and miles and miles of jungle river banks. Just so many trees. The water is littered with driftwood and torn shore grasses. I inspect the currents hungrily and notice every current break that might hold fish. It kills me to pass a big eddy or fallen tree, knowing with complete certainty that a beast lurks somewhere within. The motor doesn’t even hesitate, as if to say, “Gary, don’t even think about it.” I can wait for Manaus. I guess.

In the morning, circa 6am, an irritating man with a megaphone preached in Spanish about how we all need to repent. There’s no place to find some peace here. Everywhere I go there’s bad music playing. It will be a relief to have a real bed and real quiet, if only in a hostel. To top it off, this “3 meals per day” boat fed me two sticks of bread and a cup of coffee for breakfast. Yeah, “Good Morning” to you, too!” Yet, somehow, the river seems to be my fail-safe medicine. I think I’ll go now and watch the jungle and river roll by…

It kills me to just watch the river. I see all that jungle but can’t go into it. I see all the logjams and current breaks and can’t fish them. Into my college years I was able to sit and just think. Now I get restless. I want to make something. I want to do something. I want to expand myself and my world.

Given the time to just sit is strange. I look for problems, something to fix or solve. I have Maria here to chat with, which is nice, but talking only goes so far with me. I reckon I’ll cut some rubber tabs to tighten the fit of my rattling topbox.

At each port I toss out a bait. I’ve caught a few fish, including a keeper catfish that looks prehistoric, but there’s no way to prepare it here. The meals are served at 6 and 11am and 5pm. Lunch consisted of beans, rice, stewed meat, and warm potato salad type stuff.

One thought that’s occurred to me: When your dream finally becomes reality, when you truly living in your dream, the magnificence and epic feel of that dream diminishes. It is the unknown, I think, that adds an element of mystery and grandiosity to the dream. Upon realization, the dream’s holiness vaporizes. You are left with the very sober feeling, “Here I am, no different than before.” Dreams simply take work to make come true, and the work is no different than one’s dayjob. For me, visiting the Amazon has been a dream since I was very young, and yet, being here, all I want to do is fish. I look at the river banks and think, “Gee, I could set up a floating house right there. I could save my money for a few years or decades and return to this river with all the modern fishing equipment, live in a shack on the Amazon, and fish out the rest of my days.” It is such a not-far-fetched idea to me now. Big things have become smaller. It’s really not that big of a deal to make a dream a reality. Just take the steps you need to take. It’s just life.

Seeing this river I know the fish in it are bigger than those found in the U.S. And there’s probably more of them here also; miles upon miles upon miles of unfished river taunt me. These little villagers don’t fish further than an hour from their villages, I’m certain, and there are often hours between villages. And with their scanty equipment, they don’t reach all the hiding holes of the monsters. A GPS sonar with side scanning and a reliable anchor system would work wonders. This kills me. But I also recognize that it is a river not much unlike the Ohio, the Missouri, or the Mississippi in the homeland. It’s just wilder on a grander scale. What lurks in the jungle beyond those banks, though? This river is a highway. I know it will take me to civilization. But past those banks is Indian land for hundreds of miles. There are plant and animal species yet to be discovered. This is the wildest place on the planet. I love that fact, but nothing in that jungle would ever pull me from the real attraction, the fishing. My half-minded fantasy of living on the river, managing my affairs through satellite internet, began with the Ohio River. But what about the Amazon? With a powerful cabin cruiser I could haul myself to Manaus in a day, stock up on supplies, stay the night, and return the next day. One doesn’t require electricity, but if one does, there are generators. I could learn to build a floating house from neighbors on the stream. I could fish and trade with the Indians. I could learn the land, plant some crops, and perhaps make a living by guiding people to big catfish. It’s a burgeoning industry in the U.S., and with the Amazon becoming more and more accessible and attractive due to the heightening consciousness of natural resource depletion, the market is likely to grow in this region.

Or I could be a psychologist with a little farm in the Midwest U.S. Or any other number of careers. Few things absorb me like the wilderness and fishing, however. The question is whether to build my life around those things.

Such are the thoughts one has while clipping down the Amazon at a 20 knot pace. What do I want to do?

On Day 3, the atmosphere on the boat has established a steady, comfortable rhythm. You recognize the familiar faces, who sleeps where, and the general attitude of many of the people. We are living on the river together. It’s mostly a Brazilian batch heading to Manaus for work, vacation, or a new home. I passed some time learning Portuguese from some admiring teenage Brasilleiras (Brazilian girls) and chatting with the only other two English speakers on the boat besides my friend Maria. The one guy is a history and migration teacher from Holland. He taught in Suriname for 6 months, and now he’s on a tour through South America. His English is impeccable, as is most Europeans’ from Holland and Belgium. The other guy is a mid-40s weirdo who clearly is not in the United States any longer due to the simple fact that he does not fit in there. He walks around with a bandana and tank top like Richard Simmons, but he isn’t gay. In fact, he says he loves Brazil because he has “SO MUCH MORE LUCK” with women there. I can see why. He has a Canadian accent (not that that drives women off) and the obnoxiousness of an idiot 5 year old. He told me is has two potential offers on a “marriage of convenience” in order to gain residency in Brazil. He says he did a similar trip as I 20 years ago, and he would like to buy my motorcycle, perhaps, when I’m finished with it. I’ll be getting his info before riding off the boat.

Last night I was awoken by the slamming of 60 100 pound frozen pirarucu, the largest fish of the Amazon, being tossed into the boat. I snapped some pics in awe.

Breakfast is bread and butter each day. Lunch is rice, noodles, beans, and some kinda meat. Only the meat really changes; it’s the same for lunch and dinner, everyday.

The showers, toilet, and hand washing sinks are all fed by river water. I see people brushing their teeth with that water and wonder just how they avoid illness. I am positive the dirty water is flushed right back into the river along with all the wrappers and beer cans intentionally or not toss in. Nonetheless, I rinse off in the showers 3 times per day. They offer some relief from the heat and humidity, but you’re sticky again just 30 minutes later. Take what you can, I guess.

The shoreline and sky is fascinating.

And I’m learning how to sleep in a hammock for more than 15 minutes.

I’m next to the boiling engine room in order to charge this computer, and I’m burning up, so I’ll write later…

Later being now, not much has changed. I continued to practice my Portuguese with the women; they have a great deal of patience, I must say. I think they just like to laugh at my stupidity.

On Saturday we finally reached the official start of the Amazon River where the Rio Amazonas and Rio Negro converge. It’s a famous collision of two giant rivers of drastically different water qualities. The Amazonas is brown with silt, and the Rio Negro is blackish brown. The waters from the two do not mix for a mile or two, so there is a wavy hairline brown-black division (like caramel and chocolate pudding layers). Interestingly, “negro” in Portuguese does not mean “black” as it does in Spanish. Here, “negro” means the African race.

Manaus greeted us with a shower and a rainbow. Lots of rainbows on this trip. This rainbow had no visible end. It’s arc continued past 180 degrees, and where it should have stopped at the water, I thought, it actually continued uninterrupted above the water with the same curvature. I think it would have made a complete circle, but the colors faded from visibility over the water.

The people unloaded first. Driving up the ramp of the port, I was stopped at the exit by officials requesting $10. I asked if everyone must pay, and if the cars ahead of me had paid. I thought it was a scam. I asked if they offered receipts, and they said yes. The older man was very serious, but the younger guy was smiling and trying to ease my fears, but I understood none of the Portuguese. I paid, received my receipt, and took my time getting started again because I wanted to see what they did about the next car. The next car drove right through. I asked why. They said that car already paid. I still don’t know for sure. Some welcome though, paying a tax.

Wow, a new city. A big city, over a million people, here on the Amazon’s headwaters in the middle of the Amazon rainforest. I was immediately lost in the old familiar chaos of unmarked, crowded streets. I asked for directions a few times and eventually made it to my hostel, only to find that the owner refuses to let my motorcycle inside. I retorted with his advertisement’s “parking” available feature, and that he clearly had space inside. He said, “This is a business!” Whatever. I ended up not liking the guy in general, and in spite of the fact that none of the other hostels I drove to the next day offer indoor parking, and that the best of those hostels offers insignificantly more secure parking, I moved anyways. My friends remained at the original hostel, but mostly out of principle and to show my disapproval of the man’s business practices, I spent 5 hours locating and transitioning to another home. All is well that ends well, right?

He was somewhat redeemed the next day by his son, who bought my friends beer and guided us to a nice beach upriver. We swam. I cracked my head on the sandy bottom after jumping through a tube. My left aluminum saddle bag bopped a car that I had to veer away from as it stopped without warning on the highway. I ate a burger and saw a down syndrome lesbian dike yell at a couple sitting nearby.

Last night, Sunday, was a Christmas festival at the Teatro Amazonas, the primary landmark in the city. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Lights and wreaths and displays and a full on choir singing Christmas songs, with giant screens showing the video of them singing. It was worth going just to hear the best Christmas song there is. I think it’s called “What Child Is This?” It was the first time I’ve heard a live choir sing it. I’ve only heard it sung by an individual.

A hot lead: a couchsurfer informed me that his parents have a home in the country with a boat. I can rent it all from them and hire a guide to take me out fishing. All at a rather reasonable price. I’m probably going to go that route. Plus, I can drive there, it sounds like. A 3 hr drive. I hope it’s down river. I hear that’s where the fish are.