Archive | October, 2008

Second day in the Amazon–swimming with pink dolphins

Notice how the fat on my face floated in the water, making my head look like it was pasted on

After a fantastic breakfast that resembled what we had eaten in Salvador and Rio, we had a short rest before our next outing: feeding and swimming with the famous Rio Negro Pink Dolphins. (They deserve initial caps in their title.)

Our guide for the outing was Cassio again, assisted by one of the darker Brazilians who was piloting the staff boat from that morning. It was neat to begin to piece together the people who made the place go–kind of like your first days at camp. Hell, not KIND of–it was JUST LIKE camp! The counselors began to show themselves: Cassio, Marino (whom we had met the night before at dinner), and Elmo (whom we hadn’t met yet). And the junior counselors were Sebastian, the dark guy with us on this outing, and the guy who had taken us on our daylight cruise.

The scenery along the Rio Negro was really neat and beautiful in a time-frozen way. The first thing we saw was a boat under construction. It looks just like something from old Greece. The concept hasn’t really changed, has it?

On our outing with us were Yavor and Natacha, and an Indian family we had only briefly met the night before: a father, his stylish and sexy wife, and two lovely daughters. The dad looked like anybody you may have worked with. His wife was open, expressive, and she dressed incredibly, as did her daughters. Her fashion could be described as very modern and Western styled with the very best of Indian influence to give it individuality. I didn’t know their names at the time, but they became best friends with all of us international jungleers, especially given that they all spoke flawless English.

The trip to the dolphins was laced with fantastic Rio Negro sights.

It was a riot to hear Jean and Pettus say “gelo.” In order to avoid ridicule from the natives, I never said the word.

This floating house was cool. If I were a location scout for big movies, I’d say we had found our place to shoot the scene where Huck finds Pap dead. Yeah?

I guess not everybody loves us. Who was this guy shooting the bird at? Me with my big fat American camera and blubberous countenance? The Anavilhanas Lodge for some reason? The guys on the boat for “selling out” to the tourist trade? Or was he trying to sleep and the motor on the boat woke him up? In reality, he was probably mad to see anybody that didn’t belong there, because strangers represent the beginning of the end of life as he knows it. I just hoped it wasn’t me in particular. He probably had connections with Iemanjá.

Cool cool sights abounded. Almost Gilligan’s Islandey. And don’t think I’m not aware of the plethora of TV references I base things on.

Except on Gilligan’s Island, nobody would be able to figure out how to make any of those boats go anywhere. The professor was really a professor of literature.

Here’s a great shot Pettus took of the intrepid crew. I love the way the youngest Valecha girl was trying to “get out of the shot,” meanwhile making herself more conspicuous. It’s always fun when that happens. It’s odd, though, because her mother was shooting video at the time. What a dilemma! What a polite young lady. She deferred to Pettus’ picture over her mother’s video.

And then Yavor turned around and took our picture with his camera.

We began to pull into the place where the dolphins were. There was a humongous party boat right there with nary a soul partying on it. The kids were cute as hell, and at least THEY were glad to see us. Hmmmph.

We all got out of the boat that had pulled up onto the sand enough to get my socks ‘n’ Crocs wet, marveling at the little portlet (NOT Port-o-Let. I said PORTLET, meaning “a little bitty port”) we had landed in. The dolphin place was the first house on the right. This lovable dog and dolphin greeted us.

Inside the little house was an older lady and her daughter and grandchildren, it looked like to me. I don’t know how she got possession of the dolphins unless she started this way back when, and the dolphins know to go there. There were a couple of ice chests with drinks in them, and she was selling some kinds of homemade food, in addition to the dolphin food.

On “I don’t know how she got possession of the dolphins unless she started this way back when, and the dolphins know to go there.” You may have deliberately skipped over this, but the back story was that the place was originally a restaurant. When they cleaned fish each day, they would throw the remains into the river. The dolphins soon figured out where to get a free meal. As the appearance of the dolphins became a predictable occurrence, people started to come just to see the dolphins. Today, the owners spend most of their time at their villa on the Italian Riviera, paying the old lady and a street urchin two reais a day to preserve the character and ambience of the place.

OK… the part about the rich owners is just speculation. Back to real info: It was interesting that they do limit the hours they’ll allow visitors to feed the dolphins so they don’t forget how to survive in the wild.

The dish of the day was piranha, and it was for sale by the old lady. Obviously, food for us came with the outing, because Cassio appeared on the dock behind us with a huge bag of it.

Pretty soon, everybody was seated and standing around the dock in time to see the dolphins make their entrance. I think Cassio stomped on the dock a couple of times or something, but surely they were picking up the scent of piranha. I know I was.

Of course, the one on the right immediately reminded me of Spike.

They don’t call it the Rio Negro for nothing. It is as black as it looks in the picture. And anything in it looks tea-colored, so this ramped up the pink effect of the dolphins. But when you could see them out of the water, it was obvious that they were really pink. Not all over, but splotchy pink, mainly on their undersides, like they had vitiligo, Michael Jackson’s disorder.

I guess feeding them would be a good prelude to swimming with them. That is, of course, unless they mistook certain body parts and fatty areas as more food. For that reason, I was slightly wary and had to screw up my courage to swim with them. But we had to feed them first. The long snouts are really long alligator like jaws with supposedly benign teeth. But I didn’t want any teeth snapping on my money-earning fingers, so was rather the pussy about the whole thing. By this time, Robo had commandeered the camera and began taking these flattering pictures.

Jean was much braver than I was. Look at her hand so close to that mouth. Once it let me know it wanted the fish, I let go.

Meanwhile, the Rio Negro continued its stroll toward the junction with the Rio Solimões to become the Amazon River. You’ll know more about that later, just like we did. But for the time being, we knew that the Rio Negro was very acidic, therefore mosquitoes were not a problem. And that was largely true.

The boats on the river were always interesting. This one had a satellite dish on it. I’ll bet that same old grumpy guy shot them a bird too.

It was time to swim with the dolphins now that they had been fed. Nobody was ready to go first. Finally Yavor couldn’t stand it any longer and got in. Natacha stayed on the dock. We were all so proud of his bravery until a dolphin bumped him and he let out a little scream. There was nothing left to do but get in with him.

Jean, Pettus and I were the only other ones from our party to get in. I swam with my feet real close to my body the way I do in a lake, not wanting to put them low enough for some snake to see. Every now and then, the dolphins would swim by and brush up against us, which was slightly startling, though kind of expected. And that’s why I wanted to know where they were at all times.

Notice the way my face fat floats. Very, very attractive. With this one shot, Robo got me back for everything I had ever done to him.

This boatman looked at us with an only-slightly-disgusted expression.

There was no way I was gonna swim in the Amazon and not do a Jon Voight. This one was particularly good, portraying Paul Serone at an advanced age, after eating too much Anaconda fat. Old maybe, but still mean as a snake.

It was time to get out of the water. The next part of our outing was at hand.

Second day in the Amazon–town tour and art school

Some hefty trekking with neat art rewards

We thanked the dolphin lady, me at the time having no idea that she was a shill for a couple of new-money aristocrats (thanks for the scenario, Robocop!). Our boat driver stayed behind, while Cassio assembled us and directed us to go with him. We headed toward the main downtown strip, which consisted of a couple of art shops, a couple of bars, and a couple of other enterprises, some closed.

Cassio led us into one of the first art shops on the left. I had it in my mind that I wanted to buy one of the wooden frogs that you use to make clicking percussion with. They had one at the lodge, and Yavor and I were playing with it the night before. The stick comes out and you use it to rub over the spines. It’s very cool.

The shop had several, and they were, like 30 Reais each. I immediately bought a frog, not knowing that we were going to the motherlode of frogs in a little bit. So of course, I paid the inflated “gallery” price. I felt like a sap when I found out, then immediately felt like an asshole for pining over 5 Reais. In retrospect, however, I got the best frog in the city, being made from so many different kinds of wood. There weren’t any quite as elaborate anywhere else.

There was a genuine Amazonian bow and arrow that I had to try. I’d probably be able to hit a target, say, two feet away with THAT pull.

After Robo bought a blow gun that exicted him to no end, we left the shop and followed Cassio up to what I would call Main Street, but which was, in actuality Avenue Presidente Getúlio Vargas. I wasn’t sure who he was, but he had the best residential real estate in town on his street.

The houses were really tiny and colorful. Most of them had electricity, so this was probably a very progressive Amazonian town. I never did get the name, but will find out.

This was a pretty plush place, comparatively. They’re probably the ones that own the dolphin concession. Their neighbors were less plush. That is, unless the yellow house bought out the owners of the green house and now use it for a guest house. Who knows? Really? Would they have any kind of “society” structure here? A fascinating sociologial thought, considering we’re so gol-durned status conscious here in the U.S.

Some things are inescapable, but so much less offensive than others. I found this kind of quaint and refreshing in a “See Rock City” kind of way. Notice the “marcus reg.” on the logo. This was produced by somebody in authority. No intellectual ripoffs here.

This cluster of houses was kinda cool. What’s the little one in the front? The teenager’s pod? Who knows? I would have loved to. This whole world was unveiling itself to us on a rather annoying hill, and I started to become annoyingly suado and thirsty simultaneously.

This was a thought-provoking shot: an empty lot with waterfront view. Did somebody own the lot? What if I went all crazy like Howard Sprague did on Andy Griffith, and decided to move to the Amazon. Could I just build me a house there? Would my big fat 2-to-1 American money get me anything I wanted there? How would the locals accept me? Would the ladies on Avenue Presidente Getúlio Vargas have some kind of tea for Jean and me? After all, it WAS the Mountain Brook Parkway of this village. WHAT WOULD HAPPEN? I know one thing: I’d capture every one of their souls with my devil box.

The flora was beautiful on Avenue Presidente Getúlio Vargas, and the fauna was interesting as well.

We finally reached the top of the hill and took a right onto another commercial street. This was populated by a transmissão shop and a restaurant that billed itself as “carioca.” Was this to attract the people from Rio? Was this an effort to be cosmopolitan, because the cariocas are from Rio, and Rio is hot and glitzy and modern? Is it the equivalent of having a place off Interstate 65 in Thorsby called “New York Bistro”?

This place is called Toca do Gordo. When I Babel Fished it, it said “It touches of the fat person.” So, maybe it’s supposed to be a restaurant/bodega that gives you more than your money’s worth? Or maybe “a touch of the fat” is an idiom for “luxurious” in Portuguese. I would suspect so. And here’s the Restaurante Carioca. Pretty colors. And notice they’re working on a TV for the patrons to watch.

I was walking with Yavor most of the time, and got to know a little more about him. He had told us earlier that he wasn’t just a casual musician. He had a band called Jailhouse Chili, and his stage name was John Cool. I liked both names, and told him so. The name John Cool (which I changed to Johnny Cool for my own purposes) had just enough irony and retro appeal to it to be good in any language.

We started talking about real estate in recreational areas, and he told me of the good values that could be had in Bulgaria on the North Sea. “But they are costing more and more every day,” he added. Nothing we weren’t familiar with in America. I may not remember correctly, but he indicated that 75 thousand would get you a decent North Sea house to call your own. But getting to the North Sea was another matter.

We passed a couple of streets to the right that were also residential and very neat. Yavor was as hot for the views as I was and took a bunch of pictures with his small camera.

We took the next right and went down about 100 yards before turning into a pair of stucco posts leading into the art studio. We had seen the work the night before at the lodge, because they had some of the homemade paper for sale. That was the first artist we ran into: one of the paper makers. The product was thick, cushiony, textural and lovely. Made the old fashioned way.

The paper studio was just one of the small buildings contained in the courtyard. They had begun to landscape it, and it was very pretty and serene. Cassio led us to a large open sided shed where the wood artists were at work.

There was a large water machine with a jug of bottled water on top that attracted me instantly. A neat stack of paper cups sat under it, just like at any office. I downed three or four cups, then found a shelf to put the cup on, knowing I’d use it again.

Several different things were made in the studio, but they managed to keep the menu rather simple, which was probably smart. There were carvings of turtles, frogs, canoes (with paddle), sting rays, boxes, small tables that were easy to assemble, wood plates, and a few other things.

“Sweatshop!” you’re fuming. Not so! Each artist signs his work with a wood burner, and as the pieces are sold, the artist is paid directly. Part of the money goes to the studio, but the artists are actually earning based on their proliferation and quality of work. They have an incentive to be inventive and quality craftsmen. While we were there, the girl you see on the left was working on an incredible large wooden platter made of about 5 different woods. Pettus wanted it. The Indian woman wanted it. And they had to tell us it was already pre-sold. The girl seemed very proud. Particularly because she would sign the bottom, and possibly create a market for her work apart from the others.

The gallery room was shelf after shelf, all covered with the carvings. Each one was different and had its own personality. It took Jean and me a long time to decide what to get. We already had the frog, made of five different woods. I had my eye on some turtles. We had to get a stingray, just because, plus it was less expensive. We were running out of money. Oops, but there was a canoe that was perfect. The paddle had the signature on it.

How cool! There were several artists who were in a small catalogue that the school had printed. They were the emerging stars. But who paid for the wood? How did the school get there? From a government grant and private contributions. The wood? It is rescued from its former fate of burning. That’s right. All that beautiful Amazonian wood. . .if it couldn’t be used for building anymore, it was burned. It was now all brought to the studio, and they had shelves and shelves of it, lots of large pieces, and it was all gorgeous. Wow!

I went in to look at the wood room, and was particularly enamored of this sign.

It looks like the skull was getting fried before turning white. Totally cool.

I had to pee after all the water, and wandered out into the courtyard to find the sanitário. I was arrested by this flower first, which looked very much like something in the honeysuckle family.

Standing outside the bathrooms looking at the flowers, I could hear Yavor singing inside. What a voice! I didn’t recognize what he was singing, and figured maybe he had written it. It wouldn’t have surprised me. He and Natacha were incredibly capable people.

When I got back to the studio, Jean was admiring one of the little tables. I think it was about 100 Reais. We had to have it, since its pieces were all flat stackable and easily packable. Pretty, eh? I have a Yellow Submarine lava lamp on top of it in our house, but here it is, with the incredible teapot from Rio lurking in the background.

Wow! That was great! Now we had to walk back. Shit. I couldn’t wait. I was already beginning to feel the beginnings of a gald coming on. Well, at least we could turn left out of the place and go down one or two blocks and pick up Vargas Avenue instead of having to go back up, over and retrace going back down Vargas. I started to go that way and Cassio said, “No, wrong way. Come this way.”

“Why can’t we just go down a block or two and go over?” I asked him. I had seen two streets come out on Vargas that I knew would be these two streets.

“No, it won’t work,” he said. I figured he didn’t want us to go rudely trooping by a bunch of strange houses or knew some bad secret about my chosen route, so I followed the others and trudged up to the main street. As if to answer our prayers, a white cab drove by slowly and stopped upon Cassio’s signal.

“Does anybody want to ride?” Cassio asked.

“Hell yes, we do!” I hollered. Jean and I headed toward the stopped cab. “How much will it be?”

Cassio talked to the driver, whose wife was sitting in the front seat beside him. The rest of the cab was a large van back with a bench seat. “Two Reais each,” Cassio said.

“Done,” we said, and climbed in. The Indian family joined us, as did Natacha and Yavor. Cassio and the Kennemers decided to walk back to the boat.

The cab driver’s wife got in the back and crouched on the floor with no seat while the rest of us sat. 16 Reais for three blocks is pretty good. But I was glad they got it.

Here’s a picture Natacha took of us and Yavor sitting in the way-back of the cab. He emailed them to me a few months after we had returned.

We arrived back at the boat place lickety split, and decided to sit at some tables outside a little bar. I ordered Jean and me a couple of beers, and the proprietor brought two behemoth bottles each in its own styrofoam cooler to the counter.

At first Jean protested, only weakly, and before long we had finished both bottles. They were cold and delicious, and suddenly downtown looked even groovier, and the glow of our new purchases was even glowier.

Here’s a great shot of the family followed by Natacha Downtown.

That one giant beer had made me feel kinda cozy, as my Aunt Titter says. Pretty soon Cassio and the rest of the gang returned.

That’s when Yavor decided to get a coconut and drink the water. The barman was more than happy to oblige. Neither he nor Natacha were enamored of this particular coconut, and I was asked to have some. Ummmm.

Look at Cassio chatting up Natacha. She’s definitely chat-uppable.

It was time to get back in the boat and go back home. It was almost lunchtime! That big brewski had kicked up the ole appetite, and I was ready for whatever they had to dish out.

On the way out, some of the kids were kind enough to let me capture their precious souls. Beautiful ain’t the word.

Second day in the Amazon–piranha fishing

Maybe we smell funny to the piranha.

We made our way back to the Lodge, seeing the neat sights in reverse. We passed ole bird shooter, but he wasn’t visible this time. Good thing. Robo had been practicing up on his blow gun, and wasn’t in the mood for any rudeness.

When we pulled up to the dock at the Lodge, it was just like being home again. The exact same feeling you’d get at camp the second day. You’ve laid your scent down, recognize enough faces, and have had gobs of fun. Your bed is familiar, and the way to the dining hall is, too. First thing I learned after the way to the bar.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, we met the rest of the group for lunch.

Sebastian was hovering over the giant fish he had just put out for us. You’ve seen him hover. Now look at the fish in all its limãoey glory.

We ate with Yavor, Natacha and Rupi, whose identifying carvings had been moved to our table. Once we adopted them and our table expanded, it all became even more fun. The Indian family sat right across from us against the railing, and we frequently conversed across the aisle with them during meals and moved chairs around for drinks afterwards. The father’s name was Laxman Valecha, but I never got the names of his wife or daughters. Robo learned his and Rupi’s names at some time–by writing them down. (Rupi’s actual name is Rupendra Mukherji. Cool. I wonder how many Rupendra Mukherjis there are in India. Probably more than I would imagine.)

Food was delicious, and afterwards, we retired to the lobby for relaxation. We had a couple of hours before our next outing: piranha fishing, so I lounged on one of the couches while Robo and Pettus played checkers and Jean looked on.

The Kennemers are both competitive, and it’s always fun to enjoy their marital banterings in addition to their sparring on the card table or checkerboard. Look at Jean’s sublime expression as she is able to enjoy the game without any skin involved.

The big Amazon beer and fish were enough to put me down for a while. It was so totally relaxing, listening to their voices drone on in the background while a light breeze wafted through the room. I was actually not hot at the moment. This is a nice picture Jean took. Good, flattering angle. Looks like I’ve got a life preserver on under my shirt. No angle in the world can cure that.

Here’re Robo and Pettus still hard at it. I don’t know what the final score was, but I believe I heard word that Robo was obnoxiously victorious.

I woke up in time to see the owners come in to talk to Jean and the Kennemers about the afternoon plans. We had originally been scheduled for something else, but found that piranha fishing would fill our bill the best. It would be fine to go, the owner said, but he didn’t have anybody that spoke English to take us.

“That’s no problem,” we said. “We’re ready!”

Here’s a shot Pettus took of us with her little Canon. Before the trip down the big steps. Notice the information about the archipelago that is Anavilhanas. Notice Jean’s and my matching Magellans! If there were a Six Flags in the Amazon, we’d fit right in there. The only thing to make it better would be to have “I’m with Stupid.” on Jean’s shirt, and “Stupid” on mine.

Our guide was the boatman from the dawn cruise. He was a thoughtful looking guy, kind of serious, but quick to smile or even laugh when provoked. Which we did. He was great, and it was fun being with him, neither of us being able to communicate much beyond “obrigado” and the like. I asked the guides his name a couple of times, and was told a couple of times, but I couldn’t retain it. I suck. So I’m gonna call him Capitão Piranha.

He took us over near where we had gone that morning, but detoured into a bunch of sloughs with heavy overhanging branches. Robo and I loved that. I kept waiting for some sort of tree mambaconda kind of thing to drop its writhing ass on me, and given the fact that Robo had suddenly lost his neck, I’d say he felt the same way.

Once we had settled down, the Captain baited all our hooks with chicken. Cane poles and chicken. That was it. Sounds strangely southern. After we were all baited up and he had put his hook in, he began to quickly slap the water with the tip of his pole. Obviously indicating an animal in distress. It sounded so cool the way he did it–quick, random, and thrashy. Of course we had to all try to imitate him, which must have sounded like animals in distress from doing water aerobics. It was hilarious, and every time we tried to do it, we would all laugh, and so would the Captain.

Pettus was particularly aggressive at the pole shake, being as she was dying to be the first one to catch a piranha. Robo’s lips of concentration indicate his support for team Kennemer.

What was really happening under the water was something like this:

“Olá! irmão!”

“Olá! yourself.”

“The gringos are above us trying to catch us again.”

“You can smell them all the way to Manaus. I am never fooled.”

“Crazy gringos, they’ll never learn. Hey wait! There’s a small animal in distress right over there. I think I’ll go check it out.”

“Okay, see you later, irmão!”

That’s right. O Capitão was the first to catch a piranha. And the second. And the third. Meanwhile, we continued to thrash the water like the smelly gringos we were, failing miserably, but having a high old time. Pettus and Jean started really putting the English on their casts, and ended up in the trees a couple of times. Before we knew it, Captain Piranha was high in the branches untying the line with efficient aplomb. Robo and I were especially mindful that he didn’t dislodge some kind of tree boa in the process. But there he was, in his Havaianas (or equivalent), like it was something he did every day. Oh. Yeah.

Pettus took this shot of Jean and me with her litttle Canon. Isn’t Jean’s hat great? 10 bucks! Can you believe it?

The Captain patiently piloted us to several great sloughs to help us catch something, but it was not to be. He caught 4 the whole trip, and released them all. It would have been great to catch one, but at least nobody did. The scenery was beautiful in a threatening sort of way. It sort of said “You could never survive out here, pal.”

It was time to let the waters of the Rio Negro settle back down after our severe thrashing. So we started the motor to go back home. Yeah, the motor was less disturbing than our “fake animals in distress.” Totally hilarious and fun.

The ride back was slow and pleasant. And very beautiful. Once we were underway really good, Jean began to strike one of her standard poses inherited from her mother. I had just taken a shot of the Captain, then took one of her in her pensive state. I then gave her the standard line to anybody with their fingers on their face: “Shit on a stick.” This made her laugh, then quickly respond with a digital remark very similar to the grumpy guy on the way to the dolphins. I couldn’t be married to anybody else.

I like this shot of Pettus’ camera screen with Robo bottom left. Great gag.

And HERE’S the picture that Pettus was taking. It’s all too cool. Like looking in a mirror in a mirror.

After docking in shame for being such lousy fisherpeople, we feebly hustled on up the stairs because it was cocktail hour! Who really CARES if you can’t fish?

Second day in the Amazon–wild animal roundup

Who would bring a snake into a boat in the pitch black dark with a huge smile on his face? Marino the Maniac.

The cocktail hour was more fun and even cozier than usual, being as we had bonded with 3/4 of the guests at the Lodge. I made a few trips back and forth to the monkey cabin to make us “free” drinks. We had run out of ice in the two tiny trays, but I began using the water Jean had poured into the pan. Big sheets of ice in tiny hotel-style glasses with limes filched from Mirante de São Francisco. Works for me.

The night before, we had briefly met Marino, one of the guides, who was a transplant from Italy. He told us he had always wanted to be a jungle guide, and told his wife and children so, moving to the Amazon to work at Anavilhanas. He never said if he was divorced or not, or if his family was tolerant of his choice of occupation. Whatever the case, Marino was a charmer, with a voice kind of like an Italian Peter Lawford, and a sense of humor that spanned the international dateline.

He was to be our guide that evening, with another of the dark Amazonian assistants we had seen but never experienced. Marino flat-out told us that he loves to catch stuff at night, and hoped we’d have good luck. I did too, I guess. I wasn’t sure about him bringing some snake into a dark boat the way Yavor had described it to us that day at lunch. I don’t know what Robo was thinking, but I have a hunch.

Our party consisted of us, the four Valechas, Marino and his assistant in that small green boat I photographed our first morning in the Amazon. We set off in the dark, with the motor running on low. Marino began to tell us some things about the Amazon, our evening’s search, and other interesting stuff. It took on the feel of a campfire at night, with the stories and uncertainty, only there was no fire–just a spotlight that Marino used sparingly.

We were looking for anything with eyes that shined in the dark when hit with the spotlight. Marino swept the light over the trees quickly, which was very eerie. “Look for the glowing eyes,” he said. We succumbed to a couple of false alarms and one cayman spotted diving in the water. But finally, we hit it big. Marino had the boatman come in silently and stealthily, spotlighting the cayman the whole time. The Valechas were in the front of the boat with Marino, so we couldn’t see it all very well, but it seems that we pulled up to the bank, Marino pulled out a loop and snared the cayman, and the boatman ran up front on his command, releasing the beast from the loop and holding it firmly in his huge brown hands.

Marino looks like an insane man. Insane with joy at the size of the cayman we had snagged. The Valecha girls were first to pet and see it, while Laxman held the light, which burned out the shots in strange ways. Look at his daughter’s face: demented with glee like Marino’s. Something about that cayman. Possibly she’s thinking of what a clever accessory the handbag would be. Her father was in the fabric business, I believe.

The boatman held the cayman with gentle insistence, and as Marino told us, the cayman knew it wasn’t in any immediate danger, so it decided to relax. I’ll bet the boatman had good cayman ju-ju. I never did hear his name, but I’ll call him Colonel Cayman.

Look at the beautiful cayman head. Notice Col. Cayman’s gentle grip.

You’re gonna laugh, but I swear, the cayman reminds me of Spike when I’m holding him and Jean is clipping his doo-doo butt. Zoey would never lower herself to be in a boat without air conditioning.

I was never the least bit concerned about the cayman’s escaping, though I believe Marino told us that it had happened before. And then I flashed on Cassio’s finger wound “from a cayman” and decided I wouldn’t lower my guard quite so fast.

After all of us had stroked the cayman’s leathery belly, Col. Cayman let him back into the water, much to his splashy delight. We backed up and headed back out looking for a snake or bird or something. After a little spotlighting, Marino had the Colonel pull the boat over to see a pair of birds. I swear he called them Honeymoon birds.

We sailed close in to look, and they placidly sat there and let us do it. If I were them, I’d be on the lookout for some kind of tree snake.

The bird on the left is going, “Shit! The light! Give it a rest!” The one on the right is going, “You ain’t a snake are ya?”

No, but Marino was determined to find one. Which we did in short order. A pink tree boa, but that’s not what it was called. It just happened to be pink, and when the spotlight shined on it, its spine was visible through the translucency of its body.

On Marino and the snake (I don’t even like to see that word in print!), do you recall that after he had spotted it from a distance, we pulled in to the overhanging vegetation as far as I cared to go, and all he could spot was a moth. He thought he had been decoyed by it, but then all of sudden we pulled in even further (ahhhh!) and he leaped forward into the limbs. He thrashed around a good bit and then emerged with… that… serpent.

You mean like this, Robocop?

Marino was in an almost manic state of excitement about the huge success we were having that night. He told us that caymans are fun, but catching snakes is his favorite thing. Good for him!

We all got to pet the snake, the Valecha girls going first, then Mrs. Valecha. This next shot was so totally primal I could hardly stand it–Mom feeling the snake as it shared a beady stare with her daughter. But let me go on record as saying I have NO INTEREST in mixing snakes with sex IN or OUT of dreams. PERIOD.

I touched the snake briefly, enough to satisfy myself that it wasn’t audioanimatronic. Snort! Then it was Jean’s turn. She kept petting it and petting it until I thought Marino was gonna let her REALLY pet it. I knew he was a cutup, but didn’t know how MUCH of a cutup.

Finally Marino put the snake back on the branch where he had found him, I heard a big sigh from Robo in the very back of the boat, and we pulled out to head home. After our huge success in the roundup and release, part of our trip home was spent slowly with no lights while Marino pointed out constellations we may never see again. Against the inky black sky, it was something not to be believed. Robo knew what some of the groups were, but Jean and I just thought they were pretty stars. I tried to find the Big and Little Dipper. I don’t know if they were even there or not. Pretty.

On the boat ride: With absolutely no light pollution — which is hard to avoid anywhere near the populated areas of the U.S. — the night sky coming back was absolutely splendid. The point I was making about it was that we had NEVER seen ANY of the stars in most of the southern half of the sky. We were looking at a different part of the universe than we can see from Birmingham. There is some overlap in the northern part of the sky where we were, but the Little Dipper, as one example, could never be seen from there because of its northiness (that’s a relatively new astronomical term).

We were still slightly exhilarated when we got off the boat, but by the time we got to the top of the stairs and finally to the monkey room, I was whupped. As was Jean. We didn’t have any sunrise activities, but one that started at 7 am: the jungle hike for me and the visit to another village for Jean, who had opted out of the jungle deal. I was slightly apprehensive about the effect on my arthritic knees, but couldn’t pass it up.

Third day in the Amazon–jungle hike

I had never seen it rain inside a camera before.

The morning dawned damp and rainy. The view out our porch doors was foggy but beautiful. Notice the hammock and chair that stay out there all the time. They seemed unperturbed by any of the weather.

Jean had opted out of the jungle hike deeming it probably not good for her surgically maligned ankle, and would later join one of the village tours that we weren’t doing.

The caveats for the outing were no sandals, and long pants advisable. YAGG! I couldn’t wait. But being as I had nothing but two pairs of Crocs and my gifted Havaianas, I was hoping that by “sandals” they didn’t mean “Crocs.”

The long pants were a pair of Magellans with the legs zipped onto them. That was fun in itself, trying to figure out how to zip those bastards in there. That accomplished, I set about to send galding packing with a healthy whoof of Desenex. This always made Jean laugh, because it perpetually ended up on the floor due to my haphazard application methods.

I said goodbye to MawMaw and trudged up the wet gravel path wearing the most unnatural clothing I’d ever put on. All the various zippers, pockets and hidden crevices coupled with a fiber that felt like a wet bathing suit, and I was one comfortable dude. It had already begun to rain inside the biosphere beneath the relentless fabric.

It was lonely going to the dock without Jean to produce my arthritic movements in stereo. Robo and Pettus provided a hale and hearty picture.

Robo looks like he’s fixing to go handle some hazardous waste in that outfit. But it’s a hazmat suit with je ne sais quoi. I hate that he didn’t have the hat on. That would have been quite the photo op.

Our guides for the trip were Elmo ably assisted by Capt. Piranha at the tiller. Elmo was a dry, matter-of-fact Brazilian who spoke excellent English and reminded me of Miguel Ferrer. As the photos attest, I’ve NAILED IT AGAIN!

This could be the best one yet! And the thing is, their demeanor was the same, too!

We all loaded the red and green boat for our water trip to the embarkation point. Yavor and Natacha were with us, as well as a German couple we had briefly met the night before at dinner. They were new to the Lodge, and were pretty green. It’s a good thing they were with us. Three Swedish people (I think they were Swedish) rounded out the group. I could tell they were hothouse flowers from the get-go.

We rode in the boat for a while, finally pulling into a snaky looking slough that hung heavy with moisture. Duh. There was a huge partially submerged log that was our gangplank to the outing.

So first I had to navigate the boat, then the log, carrying the camera and wearing clothes from outer space. Elmo had assured me that all was cool. He even held my camera while I traversed the log. Successfully, I might add.

Right out of the chute, we had to go up a pretty sizable hill, and I was glad I had Crocs with plenty of grip on the bottom. The flora was dense, moist, and omnipresent. Elmo told us that they had just cleared this path, and he didn’t know it very well. Neither did the Captain. Oh boy. He also assured us that we were going at the pace of the slowest person. That was good, but I’m sure nobody wanted to be the slowest person. Unless it was the Swedes.

Pettus took this great shot of all of us debarking the boat and mounting the hill. Yes, Pettus had her gol-durn cheerleader-looking ass at the front of the line without a doubt. Notice me using the tree for support to get up the hill. But also notice I’m at the FRONT of the LINE! Look, also at Robo carrying my camera bag. What a pal.

Here’s what was at the top of the hill. Cool vegetation and ominous looking stalks. Everything looked like a snake to me.

All along the way, Elmo pointed out various things about the plant and insect life. He showed us a place where a wild boar had been. I was glad he used the words “had been.” Those things’ll KILL you!

He also explained that survival in the Amazon is dependent on certain things. If you were to have to spend the night there, the first thing you would have to do was string up your hammock about 40 feet in the air. Sleeping on the ground, if the snakes didn’t get you, the jaguars would.

The palm leaves that are so plentiful in the Amazon are the key to this procedure. (They’re the same leaves that comprise the thatch roofs at the Lodge.) The stem of the plant contains the as-of-yet unfurled leaves, and when the stem is cut and shaken, the fronds come forth. The Captain demonstrated this, shaking the stem and making a good-sized racket in addition to the production of a butt-load of insistent, sinewy leaves. Elmo joked that if you couldn’t get in a tree, you could possibly scare a jaguar away with this method.

What they were doing was using the fetal leaves as a tree climbing aid. Elmo tied the leaves around his boots and the tree, then ascended the trunk in a ratchet fashion. Each time he pulled his feet and the leaves up, they locked onto the trunk, providing him another push up.

Yep. I could do that. Of course, I’d get all the way up the tree and realize that I had left the hammock on the ground. Or in the middle of the night, I’d be swaying safely in the sky only to encounter an as-of-yet-undiscovered species of tree viper that only lives above 40 feet.

Captain Piranha was next to demonstrate his tree-climbing mettle. Being a good twenty or so years younger than Elmo, he was able to scoot up the trunk before I could capture the whole event. I was also wrestling with a new phenomenon: it was raining inside my camera. That’s right. The 150% humidity was not only creating a maelstrom in my Magellans, it was causing extreme fogging inside and outside the camera, making it all very difficult.

The vegetation was very unusual. Elmo told us all about it, but I was kind of distracted with my moist camera. Most of the shots from the hike are replete with hot spots from moisture refraction. Some of them look like Bob Guccione had shot them in his Vaseline-on-the-lens style made famous in Penthouse. Kind of cool, actually, especially now that I know how tough that ole Canon really is.

Here’s the German guy standing next to a tree being slowly pythoned to death by an aggressive vine. Everything in the jungle had to fight to survive.

Pettus told us a great little tale about the German man that afternoon. She had gone to the pool to spend her downtime. When she got there and stretched out on a lounge chair, the man and his wife had been in the pool. When the couple got out of the water, the man went over to their chairs, took his bathing suit off and began changing his clothes right out there in front of God, Pettus and everybody else. She said that after she had gotten over the shock, she had a chance to see that he had an old man’s butt. No doubt.

The hike was pretty strenuous, but I managed quite well. The usual 98% water content of my body had grown to 99.9, and I was flowing along kind of like a slug. The Swedes were perpetually in the back. I had no idea that the jungle was so hilly, but it was, and we must have gone up and down about five of them.

This is a cool shot Pettus made with her baby Canon. You can feel the depth of the jungle.
Look at Robo. It’s as if he’s saying, “Yes ma’am, yer toxins have caused these trees to grow all funny like this, but we’ll get it cleaned up right away and yer dogwoods’ll be good as new. I’m not so sure about all this other stuff.”

Once we were back near the boat and on our final descent, Elmo pointed out a big pod in a tree that resembled an old man’s scrotum. Herr Nekkidmahnn, perhaps?

“Do not go near that,” Elmo warned us, though the thing was pretty much right in the path to the boat. “It is full of giant ants that, once they get on you, they go straight for your ears and will burrow into your skull if you don’t go to a hospital quickly.”

WHAT??? We had to go PAST THIS THING?? On a slippery slope? Naturally, this was the time when the Crocs didn’t offer quite enough traction, and as I tried to go past, I slid toward the tree. “Shit!” I hollered, just as Elmo grabbed me and stopped my rapid descent.

Soon we were all loaded in the boat. The Swedish daughter didn’t look so good, and they all huddled in the back, talking quietly. We had landed in an ominously beautiful slough, and the surroundings were strange and exotic, but still sort of familiar looking to me, having been on plenty of lakes and streams.

The trees were in constant competition with each other for sunlight, dirt and air.

Once we were underway, Elmo asked no one in particular, “Would you like to go see a manioc plantation?” The Swedes looked totally disinterested. Pettus and Yavor said, “Yes!” Robo and Natacha were silent. Under my breath, I muttered, “Let’s don’t but say we did.”

“Okay then,” Elmo said, giving some instructions to Capt. Piranha in Portuguese. I didn’t know if that meant we were going home, or to this plantation.

This next shot is cool. The Swedish woman had almost burned out completely due to camera fogging. I think this is probably an accurate depiction of how she felt at the time.

It soon became obvious that we weren’t headed back home, and when we rounded a bend and saw the boats and the gigantic hill I knew we weren’t in Alabama anymore. There was a canoe half submerged in water, another house-type boat with a tarp over the top, partially under construction, and another canoe turned over and partially submerged. I believe they do that to keep the wood from cracking.

Elmo had called it a plantation. Okay, I know that the term can mean any place where stuff is planted and people live there, but coming from the South, it’s not quite what I had expected.

We all got out of the boat (except the Swedes, who opted to stay down) and Elmo instructed us to follow him up the hill to the hut where the mother of the house was processing the manioc root. Here’s a shot Yavor took of me and the Swedes before I left them to see the plantation. Look how sweaty!

The view down to the boats was interesting from this angle. Meanwhile, my steamy camera continued to crank out weirdly exposed shots.

The processing hut also doubled as the “tation” part of the plantation. A tiny wizened old woman came out to Captain Piranha, who embraced her and asked if we could visit. The answer of course was “yes.” She was cute as hell.

Notice the hammocks in the picture. Even in a processing hut, you’d need to be off the ground. Don’t know if it would be high enough for me, acrophobia or no.

Here’s Pettus’ camera’s version of the scene. The non-sweaty camera.

My camera was going apeshit with fog and exposure conundrums. Here’s a bunch of the manioc root ready for processing. It is peeled, mashed and cooked, with all the moisture being squeezed out of it. Good thing. The “moisture” is cyanide. Who figured THAT out? How many deaths did it take before they realized it? Why did they keep eating it when it killed them? Who was the first person to eat blue cheese? These kinds of beginnings-of-food questions are so interesting to me.

Sorry about the blurriness. The camera was very uncooperative.

Capt. Piranha began peeling some of the root to help demonstrate the process. He was obviously pals with the plantation owners, just coming in their hut barefooted, picking up his machete and peeling him a big ole manioc root.

The actual manioc plants were further up the hill. The path to the field was filled with natural beauty, like these ferns and mosses.

The fields reminded me of a Vietnam War movie set.

Past the field, we found the man of the manor harvesting the manioc root. He, like his wife, was a little bitty thing, but was quite happy to be photographed.

Elmo told us that he and his wife don’t actually live on the plantation, but come there to work it during the day. I don’t know where they lived, but I suspect it was in a village like the one we had visited the day before.

I asked if they would pose for a picture with me, which they did gladly. Notice how I loom over them. Also notice how my hat looks like something worn by Crazy Guggenheim.

It was time to go. We followed Elmo down the hill, passing more interesting stuff on the way, like this orange mushroom.

Captain Piranha was already in the boat waiting for us. The Swedes were hanging around by the water, having missed the plantation tour.

This is a cool shot taken after I had boarded the boat. It looks like Yavor is wearing a Hannibal Lechter mask of some kind. I don’t know what that is.

The trip back was pleasant, with the wind cooling me off somewhat. We had a couple of hours before lunch, and Jean was off on her village tour, so I pulled off the Magellans, marveling at the water contained therein, then flopped down on the bed with the air conditioner pointing straight at me.

Third day in the Amazon–Jean’s village trip

There’s no telling what they would have done if they had seen
the MawMaw purse

Back, oh, about 8 or so years ago, Jean was cruising through the grocery store, minding her own business and helping the local economy. Coming up rapidly behind her, heedless of anything, was a mother talking to her child who was sitting in the cart. She slammed into Jean’s Achilles heel, nearly sending her to the ground in pain. The mother blithely said, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Jean, with her hereditary Southern manners, said, through gritted teeth and tears, “That’s okay.”

As she explained it to me, what more could she have done?

I don’t know, but the aftermath was horrendous. She had to have her Achilles tendon surgically removed, then her heelbone scraped to remove the shattered pieces from the shopping cart impact. The tendon was reattached, but the surgery was kinda sloppy (we had a half-off coupon), because she still has a Frankenstein scar running up the back of her ankle. And we both had 6 months of recuperation, her immobile for 3 of them, and me waiting on her hand and, er, foot for the same amount of time. We both managed to maintain our sanity and good humor, and one day we woke up and she was free. But not really.

She’s still doing therapy on it, and it’s no picnic for walking on uneven ground or for long periods. Hence her opting out of the jungle hike that the Kennemers and I were on.

Her trip was going to be to another village to see manioc processing, and buy some souvenirs. She took her box camera and these shots. I don’t have any narration, but you’ll get the idea.

Here they are coming into the village from the water.

Looks kinda like any small body of water in Alabama during the 50s, inhabited by modest houses for the modest people that used to inhabit such places. Today there would be a 6,000 square foot house with floating boat dock and azaleas planted all over the bank that was created by bringing in dirt.

Probably the best way to tell about her trip would be to relate in bullet form what she told us:

The villagers have a satellite dish that hooks up to one TV in the main town building and they watch Brazilian soap operas all the time.
By watching the soaps, they are exposed to all kinds of technology that they don’t have. They desperately want to be like the people on TV.
One guy in town used the money he made processing manioc to buy a refrigerator. He has no electricity to run it.
Another guy used some of his money to buy a cell phone. They have no service out there, he doesn’t have electricity to charge the battery nor know how to use it, but he walks around town acting like he’s talking on it.
The Amazonians have a very low tolerance to liquor. That explains why Captain Piranha refused a beer when we offered to buy him one. They very rarely drink, but when they do, there are sometimes consequences.
In order for the guys to meet girls, every so often, two villages will get together for a few days to generate some permanent hookups. There is usually drinking and partying, and both villages realize that “somebody is gonna end up crying.” Or dead. Which usually happens. The death, that is.
There’s a missionary faction there that has opened a town hall with activities for the villagers. They can only be admitted, however, if they join the church, accept Christ and renounce Candomblé or whatever religion they currently practiced.
The new missionary-sponsored town hall is being built with material containing asbestos because it’s cheaper. The old town hall probably has a thatch roof and is made with natural materials. Those who don’t heed the religious requirements are relegated to the old town hall.

Here’s Marino, her guide for the day, fiddling around with something that looks like a lawn mower motor. They must use in the processing of manioc. I imagine it’s to get the cyanide out. I would hope so.

Here’s the manual labor squad prepping the manioc.

I don’t know what this is. I’ll ask Jean. It looks like some kind of racetrack or something similar.

There were, of course, souvenirs for sale, with the kids all over the visitors to buy them. The caveat
for the villagers was that the stuff they sell only be harvested from fallen bird feathers or already eaten fish, etc. No killing of wildlife or destruction of environment to produce the souvenirs would be sanctioned by Anavilhanas.

Jean bought a couple of pairs of earrings with little bird feathers on them (like maybe a stripper would wear?), a necklace made from little petrified wood pieces (neat), a piranha head and a piranha jaw.

I’d hate to have one of those little nippers feasting on my white skin.

At some time during the trip, Jean took these pictures of a parrot that hung around town. It’s kinda ironic that we never really saw any parrots while were on any of our excursions, and that they’d be relegated to civilization.

I was lying on the bed half asleep when Jean walked in from her excursion. I was hungry as hell, and it was close to lunchtime.

“How was your outing?” I asked her.

“It was fine. But I had already seen one village, and I decided to stay at the bottom while they walked up to the plantation.”

“Sounds good,” I agreed. “What did you bring me?”

She pulled out the piranha head.

Third day in the Amazon–archipelago canoe trip

Gliding oafishly over schools of piranha in a tiny boat whose rim was level with the water

This was the last outing for our stay at Anavilhanas. It was kinda sad in a way, but also kinda satisfying: we had successfully enjoyed and endured everything the Amazon had thrown (like a girl) at us lilly-white, lilly-livered Americans. And now, all we had to do for a complete scorecard was take a trip around part of the archipelago in native canoes. Sounded easy.

Elmo was our guide again, so we had gotten right chummy with him. Col. Cayman was our co-pilot. As we were assembling on the dock, the Valecha family and guide were pulling in.
They had caught 8 fish, and the guide was keeping them to take home to
feed his family. The catch and release rule seemed to have a grey
area–smart and benevolent at the same time. While the Colonel was tying three small canoes to the big boat, Robo was able to pose with the stringer of piranhas, being as he was such pals with the Valechas by now.

I decided not to bring the soggy Canon on this outing, particularly if we were gonna end up in the drink (shudder!), so the only two pieces of photographic evidence come from Pettus.

I love his expression. It reeks of “what could have been.” The fish give him no pleasure at all. Only a sense of failure, seeing as none of us gringos caught anything when we went.

Also notice what Robo is wearing. Like he’s going to a gol-durned golf tournament. I, on the other hand, had on my favorite Art from the Heart t-shirt, food stained from years of enjoyment, soft cotton worn thin, stretched large like a dashiki and dotted randomly with peek-a-boo holes. A nice study in contrast.

We all got in the boat with Elmo and the Colonel and took off slowly down the river towing the three canoes. Before long, we entered a large slough with tons of overhanging trees interspersed with large open areas of water. We pulled up on the bank, and the Colonel began to untie and arrange the canoes. Meanwhile, Elmo was trying to figure out who would be in which canoes. “I need to equalize the weight,” he said. Okay, so that would mean Pettus and me in a boat and Jean with Robo. That way we would both be in a boat with partners possessing some sort of expertise, maybe. No. Jean and I were in one canoe and the Kennemers in the other. Elmo had his own.

That was a laugh, trying to get the ungainly Burfords in this little bitty canoe without tipping it over. And let me tell you, tipping it over was a very distinct possibility. Elmo instructed us to get in the boat while it was on the bank, which we did. He then pushed us until we had started moving on the water. He got Pettus and Kennemer in their boat and on the water in a flash, then hopped in his canoe and with a couple of strokes was in the middle of the river before we knew it. The Kennemers were right behind Elmo, gliding like natives. Meanwhile, Jean and I were rocking erratically back and forth trying to get our bodies at least stabilized. And the rim of the canoe was very close to the water. Jean made sure to point that out. Repeatedly.

Meanwhile, the rest of them had hauled ass into this big area, and Pettus (who did most of the rowing) was cutting these Olympic styled moves while Robo sat like Caesar in the back. Little wonder. Pettus is part Alabama Cherokee. That explains a lot.

Little by little, Jean and I got the rhythm of it, and began to catch up to them. Every now and then we’d have a little lateral movement that would rattle us, but it became less frequent.

Pettus took this of Jean and me with her baby Canon. It’s actually very cool, because it reminds me of the last scene in Anaconda, when J.Lo and Eric Stoltz finally get to see and film the elusive Shimmy-Shamma tribe that they were looking for in the first place, before Jon Voight hijacked the boat with his wild ideas about catching giant snakes.

Behold that big t-shirt! Looks like THAT Shimmy-Shamma needs to Shimmy a little bit more. Also notice the miniscule amount of wood between us and the piranhas below. Egads! A small failure and there’d be some genuine gringo thrashing that would lure those little bastards from near and far. Jean didn’t bring the MawMaw purse, thank God. That would have put the whole thing over the edge, though she probably has some sort of piranha-related remedy or product in there.

Soon enough, we were pretty proficient in the thing, with Jean and I tossing back nautical insults to each other that put the zing into the whole event. The sound of all of us laughing as unobnoxiously as possible echoed in the small areas. It was really fun rowing around all that stuff, but always plenty creepy when we’d go under trees, which we did frequently.

Our canoes were just like the one our friend, Jim Klopman, world traveler and bon vivant, had brought back from the Amazon years ago. He has a delightful tale of getting that thing on airplanes and through customs. Apparently the lady was cool, and didn’t see any harm in him having it, so she devised some great way of describing the item on the form, and it went through. I first saw it in his backyard at a party one night, and noticed it was filled with water. Mosquito breeder, I thought, and dumped it out. It was then that I found out from Jim that he keeps water in it to prevent the wood from drying out. Oh.

As we cruised around these beautiful sloughs, Elmo would point out various wildlife to us. We saw toucans fly overhead, “always from higher trees to lower landing,” he said. There was the nest of the weaver bird, which, when pronounced by Elmo, sounded just like Jon Voight saying it: “wee-fvuhr buhrd.” It was great! The whole bringing to life of one of the world’s great films WITHOUT the actual anaconda!

Robo was the first to overflow with satisfaction from the trip, and seemed rather chagrined as Elmo led us deeper and deeper down this watery path. The late afternoon sky was beautiful, and of course overcast, so there were some patches of sprinkles in addition to downright ominous canoeing for a while. I thought we were gonna go back and meet the Colonel where we let off, but by then I was so turned around I had no idea where we were. But it was true. He was there waiting for us as we slammed into the bank with the dainty boats and then erupted into raucous laughter as he pulled us up. No stepping in the water for us! “Where style and nature meet.” Indeed!

Elmo was wonderfully tolerant of us, and the ride back to the lodge was very nice and relaxing. We hadn’t capsized or anything! And it was time for cocktails in the lobby followed by a great dinner.

Throughout the trip, Jean had been trying to figure out a way for us to see the meeting of the waters: the junction of the Rio Negro and the Rio Solimões. It looked like truly an amazing sight from the pictures she had showed me. The Rio Solimões comes from the Andes Mountains, making it cooler than the Rio Negro. The color is of light chocolate milk, and the water is not acidic like the Negro. The settlements along the Rio Solimões are subjected to the infernal mosquitoes for which the Amazon is legendary. But the rewards are greater: there is far more bird and animal life and more spectacular flora merely because of the increase in bugs and lack of acidity.
I don’t know which would be better. I hate mosqitoes, I know that.

When the Rio Solimões meets the Rio Negro in Manaus, the two waters don’t mix, due to the heavy density of the Negro and at least a 10 degree difference in water temperature. They travel side by side for about 10 miles, finally exhausted with fighting each other as they mix to become the Amazon River.

What a spectacular show! And while we were so close, Jean wanted to see it. Bad. And nothing can stop MawMaw when she’s on a planning jag. She had asked the owners at first how it could be accomplished, and they provided her with information for a seaplane trip that would be totally cost-prohibitive.

During cocktails, she talked with Elmo and Cassio about how we could accomplish the meeting of the waters before we had to leave Manaus. Cassio had told us that the docks were close to the airport, and that it was possible for us to do it. He would take us. Elmo got in there with news of a driver that could take us three hours earlier than our shuttle was supposed to leave, and it looked like we were all set.

We were experiencing the traditional warmth that comes from a couple of brisk strolls down to the cabin for liquor. And dinner looked fantastic, though I can only remember the broccoli and the toasted manioc flour. Our table (us, Yavor & Natacha and Rupi) spent a good bit of time with the Valechas after this particular dinner. Robo got everybody’s name and address, and Yavor gave me a Jailhouse Chili card. Cozy and international. Rupi made sure we all drank his wine.

So the plan was set for our trip to the waters: our van was going to leave at 5 a.m. to take the four of us to Manaus. Being as the van scheduled for that’s day’s departure wasn’t until 8:00, and our flight was at 11:50, we couldn’t have gone on that shuttle anyway, so Jean figured that our van ride wouldn’t cost us anything. The package price for the lodge vacation included transportation to and from the airport in Manaus. All was in order. Elmo assured us. Cassio was going to meet us outside the Opera House and take us to the waters. A price of some sort was agreed upon, and it turns out the excursion was going to be very reasonable. We thought.

Back to the Monkey room to begin the hated packing process, once again having to deal with wet clothes of all kinds. The place looked like a locker room with stuff draped all over everything, and with the 110% humidity, it wasn’t gonna dry any time soon.

We got our special staff gratuities together and divvied them up in labeled sacks. Jean and I had also decided to give two of our pairs of Havaianas from Rio to Sebastian and Captain Piranha. They had been most important in our experience, barring the guides, but I thought the flip flops would be a more personal gift that really showed our extra appreciation (along with the money, of course). One of the twins at the front desk was glad to take them for us.

I was through packing before Jean (imagine that), and flopped down on the bed to watch her finish. I was conscious of the rain outside, but was so used to it by that time that it was nothing but soothing.

Amazon to Manaus–Meeting of the Waters

An ironic denouement, in which the goddess of the sea tracks Robo down and makes him pay for his insolence

At 4:30, Jean and I were up, dressed, had our enormous bags packed and filling the foyer to our room. As we headed up the gravel path for the last time, we saw Robo and Pettus talking earnestly with Elmo. Robo didn’t look so good. I mean REALLY didn’t look so good.

We hustled up to them to find out what was up. Pettus explained that they were investigating Med Jet for Robo to fly to the hospital. The owners weren’t there, and Elmo was trying to help them.

“WHAT?” we hollered (quietly).

“Yeah,” he drawled sleepily, “I woke up about 2:00 this morning with violent diarrhea and vomiting. When I tried to get back in bed, I couldn’t stop the chills. Pettus put all the blankets on me, but that still wasn’t enough. She had to lie on top of me.”

“Well, that was actually to stop him from shaking so I could get some sleep,” Pettus casually confessed.

“It is the absolute worst I’ve ever felt in my life,” Robo continued. “I thought, ‘I don’t want to die here in the Amazon. I’m gonna have to call Med-Jet. How will they land? Where will they land?'”

“It had to be some kind of food poisoning,” I offered. “I don’t think it’s life-threatening.” I don’t know what Robo thought. Probably more than that.

“Well how do you feel now?” Jean asked. “Our van should be ready to go back. You don’t still wanna call Med-Jet do you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied weakly. “I think I may can make it back to Manaus.” The light rain at 4:30 had turned to a healthy shower by 4:35.

The van was indeed there, and soon our luggage was aboard. Robo limped out with the aid of his stalwart half-breed wife. He gingerly entered the van.

Jean and I were right behind, wondering what this was gonna do to our Meeting of the Waters trip. It seemed that we had plenty of time, provided the driver would haul a little bit of ass and the rain would slack up. I told him in my fantastic Portuguese that Robo was sick and we may need to pull over at any minute. He understood.

We took off for the three-hour journey to the ferry. The driver was not only NOT hauling ass, he was driving like an old lady. About 25 miles an hour, I swear. The rain continued beating at the windshield, and Robo curled up in one of the back seats. Pettus sat next to him. In the dark of the van, with the intermittent flashes of ambient light, he reminded me of when a roly-poly has died a long time ago and you find it lying in semi-fetal position on the sidewalk, all white and powdery.

I was afraid to touch him, lest he be like a mousetrap and spring at me with a Linda Blair-style stream of vomit. But still I was fascinated by his pitifulness. He looked as if he needed poking with a stick.

I sat back in my seat. Jean was already snoring next to me. As a matter of fact, only the driver and I were awake. I began to stew about the impending potential clusterfuck of getting to Cassio at the appointed time, the meeting of the waters, and the airport. I was also painfully aware of the driving rain, and snail’s pace we were keeping, and the fact that Robo could erupt at any second. Where would we take him? What would we do? I guessed we were doing the best thing we could be doing under any circumstances and tried to settle down.

I also ruminated on the irony of the situation. Here I was thinking that Iemanjá was after ME, when all along, she was just using me to get to Robo. His original derisive comments regarding her big holiday were obviously well felt by the jealous, angry goddess. He never actually got IN her sweet waters like I did. And he called Maria the cook in Rio “No Neck.” It all made perfect sense. I chuckled as I thought about the fact that we were headed for “the meeting of the waters.”

I tried to doze off, and was almost successful, when my thin eyelids were pierced with the flickering of a TV screen. The driver had put on a tourism tape of Brazil in general and Manaus in particular. There was no volume, but the images were so bright and stroby in the dark van that I thought I might have a seizure. I certainly couldn’t sleep, so I began to watch the tape, which was really very pretty and interesting. I tried to ignore the driver’s speed and clear my mind of everything that shouldn’t be there.

Everybody started waking up just as we pulled into the line for the ferry. If the driver had gone 1 mile an hour faster for 3 minutes every fifteen minutes, we would have made the one that we sadly watched pulling away. I had no idea how long before the next one came, but I was about to jump out of my skin.

Our time had been eaten up and then some. But what were our current alternatives? When the ferry finally came and began to load, I got these pictures of the little harbor and the beautiful floating houses.

The ferry trip to Manaus was not near as much fun as it was coming over, due to the rain, our lateness and the uncertainty of Robo. Meanwhile, Pettus was carrying on as if the world were spinning perfectly on its axis, checking everything out like an interested meerkat, while every now and then giving her old man a little pat.

The driver knew we were gonna meet Cassio at the Opera House in Manaus, and had we been ANY faster at all (especially those critical pre-ferry minutes lost) we would have had time to see it a little bit. As it was, I got the Cliff’s Notes version from Cassio, who had been standing there for about 45 minutes: “Opera House is old and pretty, and we are proud of it. The ships around the base of this statue represent the nations that have come into Brazil, and affected it.”

The plaza was tiled with the incredible Brazilian sidewalk style, this design different from the one we had seen in Rio at Copacabana.

Pretty cool, eh? I’d love to have it at my house. This shot of Robo talking to Cassio about God-knows-what should accurately reflect how he felt. The look he’s giving me (?) or not (?), it’s hard to tell, is one of Alec Baldwin being hounded by paparazzi.

This church on the other side of the street was nice. See Pettus running for the van with Robo standing in front. No telling where MawMaw was. Probably inside, ready to go to the waters.

We had to really book it to make the waters. As for the intermitttent rain, Cassio informed us that the guy wouldn’t take us out there in it. Getting there fast was even more important. So of course our driver crept to the boat landing, while I thought I was gonna vibrate my left leg off. Robo said he was gonna stay in the car at first, but after we had all left and it was just him and the driver, he suddenly popped out of the van and indicated that he had changed his mind.

The landing was lined with little sheds containing food and drinks. We went inside one place that Cassio knew, and I didn’t pass up the bathroom. Jean got some water and didn’t pass up hers, either. The rain was still holding off.

Cassio led us down the ramp to our boat. These beautiful shots lay in between.

The boat was there when we got to the bottom of the ramp. Cassio gave us all life jackets and hustled us into the boat. The captain pulled out and sped to the left. The meeting was not far away at all.

The Captain was probably a member of that fundamentalist sect that Carol had told me about, judging by the phrase on the back of his chair. It reminded me of the old “God is my co-pilot” days. I believe it translates to “God is with me.”

The meeting was upon us! It was the craziest thing ever. The Captain sailed around and around letting us feel both waters, one being even more chilly than ususal: about 15 degrees cooler than the Negro. The visual difference was incredible. I could see how it would be very neat to see it from a small plane, and follow the two waters down until they merged.

Pettus’ reaction was pretty much standard for the rest of us. Even Robo perked up for this natural oddity of a lifetime.

Okay, we had seen it, it was fantastic, and it was time to go. That’s the problem with things like the meeting of the waters: how long do you stay after you’ve seen it and touched it and know what it does? I guess we could have followed it for a while, but it would have been useless unless we followed it to the real merge in the Amazon River. It was unforgettable nevertheless.

On the way back to the landing, these boats sailing at the juncture presented themselves for capture. Notice the Solimões in the background. So very cool.

The lifering was really nice and offered an interesting picture. The primary colors are unbelievably irresistible to me. I think they hit people on a subconscious level, being as all the colors come from these three. Everything in threes. One of the fantastic mysteries of life.

We pulled into the dock, which was jammed with boats, none in slips of any kind, and upon debarking, encountered this charming little girl and her father. I asked if she would mind me taking a picture, and Dad said no.

I like his gaucho-style hat, and look a those incredibly straight, white teeth. Where did they come from? Heredity?

We said goodbye to the captain, obrigadoe’d the shit out of everybody and headed up the landing to the bus. The little cafés were an interesting picture–the last one I took on the trip. After this, the camera went into the bag and stayed there until it woke up in Birmingham.

We had to hit the road fast in order to get to the airport in time to check in for our TAM flight. The amazing thing is, the minute we were all loaded in the van, the bottom fell out, and it rained like it hadn’t all week. Great for us to have been able to see the meeting, but bad because it was a proven fact that our driver hated going fast in the rain.

The clock ticked on. My leg started jiggling again, and I tried to divert my attention with anything. This skeevy resort on the left with the gigantic sign of cutout letters spelling PLAYBOY in their logotype was fun. Looked like a hot pillow joint that aspired to be more. I pointed it out to Robo, knowing how he loved the Brazilian take on intellectual property. He snorted.

In a couple of minutes we actually pulled up to the airport that wasn’t crowded, with a parking place for us right on the curb. It was time to pay the pipers for the outing. Uh oh.

Manaus to Miami

In which we are stripped of cash and sent via coach on a delayed plane

On the way back from the waters, Robo and Jean asked Cassio how much we needed to give him. The total he came up with was 400 Reais more than we were told from Elmo! We finally honed the information down to find out that the 400 extra was for the driver and the van! Oh great. And this driver wasn’t the least bit interested in waiting to see if the Anavilhanas paid him or not. Apparently Elmo had thought the transportation would be on the Lodge’s dime, since our flight time dictated that we leave earlier than the main shuttle anyway. But since the owners weren’t there to verify it, the driver, I’m sure, took it that we were paying him. Cassio too.

When we protested that we shouldn’t have to pay the driver, Cassio almost got huffy, probably fearing that they were gonna get screwed by the tourists, while the tourists were thinking they were getting screwed by the locals. Since Jean had instigated the trip, she felt most responsible for the mixup, with Robo’s illness making her feel even worse about it all.

Once Jean and Robo figured out the reason for the problem, they put their heads together for money. I certainly didn’t have any. Maybe .25 Reais in my pocket or something. Robo pulled out a bunch and put it in a pile. Jean went in the airport to get money out of the ATM. We finally had the requisite amount of cash. Jean had 1.80 Reais in coins left. Cassio graciously accepted the money, and we were all able to leave without a bad taste in anyone’s mouth, I think. Except of course for Robo. He had just gone through a two-toothbrush ordeal a few hours earlier.

We schlepped our luggage through the sparsely populated airport to TAM’s check-in desk. There was nobody in front of us except a young family with their baby in a basket. And there were two agents to boot! Hot dog! Jean decided to try the old “It’s his birthday” gag on the girls. In actuality, it WAS my birthday (like you could really fake them off when they’ve got your ID sitting right there).

“Can’t you put him in first class for his birthday?” Jean pleaded. “He’s never been in first class in his life.” I stood there with an expression I hoped was just north of pitiful, blending in loveability and cuddliness. I should have just presented the even look.

The main girl was very nice in turning us down with a flat, “Sometimes they will do on domestic flight, but is a policy to not do so on international flight.” This was delivered with a big smile and a “Happy birthday, sir!” Alas. She added, “Maybe you will come back for your next birthday!” Right, I thought. On my birthday FROM HELL! I smiled back at them as Jean and I picked up our carryon stuff and trudged off.

We went through security with no problems, and emptied immediately into the waiting area, which had all the amenities in the same big room. I was starving by this time, and on the right was a place that sold those cheese balls and everything else that could possibly be related to them as specialty items. Cheesy, doughy goodness in easy-to-eat pieces! Everything started at 2 Reais. Pettus was fortunate enough to have some money left, and bought a tray of balls, which she shared with us. I kept silently cursing our 1.80 Reais. Robo, of course, was uninterested in the food.

It was at that moment that we learned that our flight was going to be delayed an hour. Whoop te DOO! I couldn’t wait to sit there and have my stomach eat itself from the inside, bored to death, tired, and not scheduled for first class. At least Robo was feeling better.

It was a great chance to lay on my good old “Yeah, I told you it was food poisoning; I’ve had it before; not like that, of course; it sounds like you’ve gotten it all out at one time; when I had it I had it all night long; as a matter of fact, it was on my birthday when Jean and I were in college; we went to Ireland’s for my dinner and both got the chopped steak; I got mine medium rare, and Jean got hers medium well; well the meat was bad, and about four hours later I started in; then two hours later Jean started in, since hers was cooked more than mine; well we threw up and diarrheaed all night and all day long and I even went to a band job that next night, slept all the way to Nashville in the back of the Cadillac blahblahblahblahblahblahdlaha;jha;sdhjh;ad.” He responded with the perfect even look. Everybody was doing my own look better than me!

I decided to get up and look in the souvenir shops. Of the two, one was closed. There were some pretty neat masks for sale that cost more than the one Pettus wanted in Rio, and were about 1/5 the quality or imagination of hers. I’m sorry, NOT hers.

I went back to sit down just as a guy who looked like a walking Ralph Lauren ad sat down with us. Tan jacket. Blue jeans. Expensive tasteful boots. We had been looking at the luminary signage advertising Peacock Bass fishing tours with floating cabins. It was guaranteed safe, legal, etc.

“Those guys are a bunch of crooks and poachers,” he spat, seeing us looking at the ad. “Those cabins are unsafe. Who the hell knows when one will float off down the river? These guys go into the villages and pay off certain of the big shots who allow them access into the area, and to fish for the Peacock Bass. It’s very dangerous. Who says that everybody in the village goes by what these few guys say?”

“Wow!” we all enthused. “That’s heinous! How do they get away with it?”

“They pay the right officials. It’s amazing that they are so bold as to advertise in the airport like this. Now if you want the proper Amazon experience done right, you should see the place I have.”

He whipped out a packet that included full color pocket folder, brochure, DVD, with a 2008 calendar included. Luxurious paper and packaging, beautifully designed. It made the art director/production whore/advertising guy in me swell with pride. This guy had beaucoup class, because I wasn’t the least bit offended by his gesture, especially after seeing the quality of the piece and having a good idea of the per-unit cost. And also because he had displayed his concern for the Amazon people and how these other groups exploit them in their way. His card was included in the packet with his name: Philip Marsteller. His company is Amazon Tours. amazontours.com. It looked and sounded fantastic. The peacock bass is one of the most beautiful fish on the earth, in my opinion. Any fisherman would have to get a chubby thinking about it.

“At my place, I try to get these professionals like dentists and doctors in there. I’ll comp them the vacation as long as they’ll spend a few days working in the local clinic that I helped to set up. Once they do it, they’re hooked. They find out how sweet the people are and how great it is to directly help them, plus they get an incredible vacation out of it at the same time.”

All this was not only interesting, but compelling! The guy lived in Texas, was on his second marriage, had parents who were missionaries in Brazil, and he had lived there half his life. He had a buttload of money, obviously, but a love for the country that made me proud to have met him.

He was involved in the Rio Negro Foundation, that was designed to help the people of the Rio Negro while teaching them, healing them, etc. According to the literature, Phil helped to pioneer the catch and release programs for sport fishermen in the Amazon.

We told him we had been at Anavilhanas, and he nodded. “I hear that’s a great outfit. I’ve never seen it, though.”

He told us how he had been on 60 Minutes for helping expose some sort of trucking scandal in Alabama! It blew our minds! But he was specific enough about details and everything else that we had no reason not to believe him. I’d like Robo’s take on all that. I missed some of the details.

Phil Marsteller’s story was really interesting. Here are the quick-recall high spots (all with implied question marks on the detail): He made the point early in the conversation that he had brought his life back from the bottom. Later, after telling us about his fishing lodge, the clinics, etc, we asked him about that comment. He explained that he had had an aircraft charter and maintenance facility in Dothan. When he discovered that they were being supplied with parts being sold as “refurbished / certified” that were in fact of sub-standard quality, he started to track down the prevalence of the problem. He discovered that it was not only happening in private aviation, but also in commercial and military facilities. He tried to blow the whistle on it, which is where his appearance on 60 Minutes came in. Somewhere in the process he relocated his operations to Texas. The forces on the dark side passed along “tips” to the FBI that his charter planes were being used to smuggle drugs. A protracted legal defense ensued, which ultimately led to his going broke. ??? And to prison for 6 months — or maybe that was the threat if he didn’t come clean ???

Another interesting topic he talked about was land ownership in the Amazon. There are many regional authorities that are similar to our counties, and they control the policies for owning land. In some of these, you can basically stake out your claim, develop it, and it’s yours. The caveat is that typically you won’t have a clear deed to the land, and if the powers that be change (or change their minds), you could be at risk. He went through a long legal labyrinth of local and regional government offices to finally get a clear deed to the large tract of land his lodge is on.

Well! What a great way to be diverted before we were herded onto the big silver bird sure to fly sluggishly toward Miami. I honestly couldn’t tell you one thing about the flight. Surely it’s kind of like what happened to Sybil, when she blocked out the horrors of her childhood.

I do know this: we were late, and our connection in Miami to Orlando to B’ham was going to be ridiculous, and probably unattainable. My leg began to vibrate again. Happy birthday, indeed. I was beginning to feel a good pout coming on. Great.

Miami to Atlanta to Birmingham

The domino effect from hell

With our hour lost in Manaus, we felt sure that making our Miami to Orlando connection was gonna be a pipe dream. And we had to get our luggage to go through customs again!

I was in a severe travel funk by this time, swirling with negative vibrations. The Kennemers had a different connection from Miami, going through Atlanta to Bham. They also had the luxury of a flight that left an hour later than ours was scheduled to leave.

By some miracle, our luggage came out pretty fast, and we were able to haul ass through the correct line in customs and breeze into the country. The only good thing that had happened so far. Meanwhile, Pettus and Robo were with us, trying to get us to the Delta counter for our flight to Orlando.

We rushed up to an available agent named Pat, who was completely friendly, helpful, and keen to our hurry. We were throwing our luggage on the belt, hoping that none were over 50 lbs. And one was. Of course it was. So here we stood in the lobby of the Miami airport pulling underwear and damp shirts out of the heavy suitcase and cramming it into the smaller one. Not enough. How about these travel books? Or this table from the Amazon? I felt like I was on The Price is Right. In that bent position my back was beginning to kill me, and I was getting more bummed out by the second.

When the luggage was finally accomplished, Pat took a look at our tickets. After two seconds, she informed us, “Well, you can make your flight to Orlando after all. It’s been delayed an hour and a half.”

“Great!” we exulted. Perfect timing.

“Uh, no, not really,” Pat said in a sympathetic Midwestern twang. “If your flight to Orlando is delayed from here, you’ll miss your Orlando to Birmingham connection. Maybe we can route you through Atlanta.”

“That would be good if we could get on the Kennemers’ flight,” we agreed.

She immediately began tapping on the keyboard in perkily efficient airport fashion: the rapid fire of several strokes followed by the legato of a few keys, then a cacophonous finale punctuated with a triumphant tap of the last key.

“All right, you CAN get on the flight to Atlanta with your friends. But the flight from Atlanta to Birmingham is completely booked. Possibly you could rent a car and drive to Birmingham.”

That sounded wonderful. Just wonderful. Our reluctance caused another flurry of keystrokes, raising my hopes until she gave the final punch and said, “Noooo, that looks like it’s going to be your best option.”

“Well we don’t want to book it until we know there’s a rental car for us,” Jean said. “Do you happen to have any numbers?”

“Of course,” Pat said, and gave us the usual suspects. She was in no hurry to have us leave the counter until we had settled everything. I liked her immensely. For somebody who had to give you the big screw, she did it with class and elan.

We found a car at Alamo with no problem and reserved it right there at the ticket counter. Then Pat issued us boarding passes for Robo and Pettus’ flight. I was still pissed off, but at least I knew what the plan was, despite not liking it worth a damn.

We found our gate and took seats. Jean and I began watching all the people and discovered that Miami isn’t really in the United States. At least that’s what we observed. And then the announcement came: Delta flight blahblahblah from Miami to Atlanta would be delayed an hour and a half. Whatever joy I had mustered up to that point was quashed by that annoying, distorted, echoey voice on the P.A.

I sat sullenly in the chair while Jean offered to go get me some food. “No, I’m not hungry,” I said, lying. I had to be a dickhead because it was my birthday and I deserved it. After the requisite period spent “not being hungry” I decided that something from Nathan’s hot dog place would be good. Robo wasn’t interested, and Pettus didn’t want anything either. When the food came back, it was the wrong thing, but for some reason I didn’t care. I dug into a really good sandwich of some kind, with fries. Like a wary wild animal, Robo ate first one french fry, then a few others. I was glad to see him feeling like eating. I guess the food perked me up, because after that I behaved pretty decently.

On the flight to Atlanta I was able to enjoy a couple of cocktails that made the trip and the circumstances seem better, if only for a while.

After landing, we bade the Kennemers a sad goodbye and headed for the trains. We both had on shorts and short sleeved shirts, but I began to notice a lot of coats all of a sudden. It didn’t really concern me, because everybody anywhere always has more clothes on than I do.

Atlanta’s trains are very efficient, and we were at the luggage place quickly. This particular baggage claim was like something from a 23rd century department store with the stuff coming out on a cool, space-age track. We found ours pretty quickly and saluted our good luck. One thing Jean and I try to practice is not bitching at each other in stressful or unpleasant situations. We each know that the other doesn’t like it either and didn’t cause it (usually). It is an amazing balm in difficult times.

Once the outside doors opened and the blast of arctic February air hit us, we remembered how fickle winter in the South can be. We had lucked into a 35 degree night, but we bravely rolled our uncooperative English-speaking luggage out to the rental car shuttles. We had just gotten our bearings when we saw an Alamo bus ambling off. Both of us hollered at it, but it did no good. We took our place on the sidewalk, balancing all that stuff and freezing our asses off.

A few people asked us if we were crazy (politely–after all, Atlanta is still part of the South) to be dressed that way, and we got to explain that we had been in Brazil, etc. etc. It passed the time (about 10 minutes) until the damn Alamo bus came. The driver was a funny, mumbling, catchphrase spouting late-middle-age black man who was intent on taking care of everybody on the bus. He was great, and actually helped make our short trip to the Alamo lot kind of fun. It was nice to be back home, even if it WAS Atlanta.

He dropped us off at the office, where we stood forever and watched one agent try to help an obstinate woman with a faulty GPS of some kind. Jean finally suggested that we try the automatic check in machine. Which was successful! We knew where to go to get our car without having to get the help of the counter lady. HA! There goes YOUR job, girlie!

We schlepped the stuff clumsily outside to find our parking spot, when we were met by a large black lady wearing a bunch of clothes and a sweet, “Honey! Y’all need to get in that car! Whatchew doin’ without a coat on?”

“We’ve just gotten back from Brazil,” Jean chattered.

“Yeah? You had fun? Here’s your car, darlin. Lemme help you with that luggage.”

She popped the trunk and threw the stuff in before we could say anything. I think Jean gave her a couple of bucks. She deserved more, because she was the soothing sendoff that made the trip go fast. Our car had XM or Sirius or one of those systems, and we were able to listen to great stuff on the way home to the dogs. Jean drove and I put my feet on the dash.

Not such a bad birthday after all.

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