The Blackberry three-toned us out of the rack in pretty quick fashion. When they said to be in the lobby at 5:00, and to please be on time or they’d send somebody for you, we decided it would be best to get our worn-out asses out of bed and comply.

As I was gingerly performing the evacuation portion of morning ablutions, I stared at the “no toilet paper” sign until the ad man in me blurted out to Jean, “Give me the Septic Life!” Then, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember who I was ripping off. I made a mental note to ask Robo. Jean was certainly no help.

The rain had ended about an hour earlier, but the crunch of the gravel path still had a squish to it. The foliage was low-hanging and heavy with rain that dropped on us puckishly as we made our way to the lobby in the eerie post-storm darkness.

We were wearing matching shirts, but different colors. They were Magellans that Jean had bought at Academy Sports. I thought they were a down-market version of a Columbia shirt, but was corrected by Tim Denny, one of my partners at work. The shirts were 150% man-made quick-dry fiber, replete with mystery pockets, waterproof inserts and more clothing gadgets than I could count. Surprisingly, there were no epaulets. I had already worn one in Rio and found it acceptable, but in a weird way.

Robo and Pettus had just gotten there, and we had all beaten our guide. Jean decided to follow the dictum and never pass up a bathroom, and took a detour into the lobby facilities. She came running out about 15 seconds after she had entered.

“There’s a monster in there!” she screamed softly. “Go look at it. Do something!”

I did. I took a picture of it.

“It’s just a moth, honey,” I said. “You can go back. It hasn’t moved an inch.” And it didn’t for almost all day. Every time I went in there, it was sitting in exactly the same spot. Weird.

Our guides arrived shortly thereafter, and we all began the trek down the gravel path that led to the hefty set of wooden steps that led to a board over the water that led to the boat dock. It was still dark as hell, but the courtesy lights were lit. They gave an extra looming presence to the trees that were already leering at us.

Jean and I had never been down to the dock, and actually never left the lobby, cabin or dining room before now. Of course Robo and Pettus had been to the pool, seen the dock and everything else on the premises, and identified five rare species by the time night had fallen the day before.

MawMaw and I carefully descended the dark, steep set of stairs. Over a tenuous board and we were on the dock. It was beautiful in the dark, and I particularly like this shot of one of the boats at 5:00 am.

We all loaded the boat as the English-speaking guide told us. There were a couple of girls from New York who were on their last activity before they had to leave. I got a flash shot of Robo and Pettus just for the hell of it. Did I mention that I hate flash?

While I was taking their picture, I asked if either of them knew what “Give me the DAHDAH life” came from. I tried to give them the back story on why I was asking, but they both looked at me with expressions that offered not one iota of help.

Notice the hooded girl in the background. Looks like some kind of killer or unabomber. The Kennemers were wearing jackets, but Jean and I were fancy free and loving the rare feel of cool air. The sunrise was spectacular and changed every second. We were fortunate to have had a storm the night before that had left its remains hanging around for dawn.

Robo took this shot of us after we had gotten underway and the skies began to lighten. Matching Magellans! We should wear them to Six Flags.

The river looked strangely like any of the lakes in Alabama, and not like what I had pictured. Of course, we found out that being in the rainy season, the water was about 40 feet higher than the low point, and expected to rise another 10 feet before the season was over. So this foliage and all these “tiny” trees were really 40 feet taller than they looked. That was food for thought.

What followed for a while were various locations, complete silence save for the small use of the motor, and numerous shots of the scenery. Here are a few.

How ’bout that beautiful purple cast?

Here’s a great shot of our guides. At the time we didn’t know their names or anything.

The photo ops were crazy! Remember, these trees have forty feet under the water that we haven’t seen.

We eventually headed back as it was getting decently light outside. The staff was arriving just as we were, all packed into a small boat. The girl in the very front is one of twins, and they alternated at the front desk. They were both efficient and very sweet, though they hadn’t learned much English yet.  The cooks and a couple of guides are also aboard. This water bus kind of gives the idea how people get around on the Rio Negro. All these folks look like they’re having a great time. The Anavilhanas deal was obviously a good one for them.

Here’s that boat I first shot when we left. Look at the difference in the light!

This neat boat passed by on its morning rounds of whatever it does.

We milled around the dock for a while after disembarking, just checking out the serenity of the whole scene. Other than boats like the one above and our lowered voices, there was no movement or sound.

Our English-speaking guide came and sat down on a bench against the wall of the boathouse and began examining his finger. We all rushed over to see what was going on. It seems he had gotten a cayman bite a couple of nights before on the wild animal roundup and release.

“This is the first time it has ever happened in all the years,” he told us. We also found out his name was Cassio. He was glad to show us his wound, and didn’t charge a thing.

The little brown bottle is filled with anaconda fat. Many of the locals use it religiously for a number of things. I KNOW he drank it, because he described the taste as “not bad–kind of oily.” I believe he was also putting it on the wound.

“It will be better soon,” he assured us. “Anaconda fat is good for it.”

On that delicious note, we bade him goodbye and good healing and began the trek to breakfast. While helping MawMaw over the board to get to the steps, watching for anacondas and thinking about their delicious fat, it hit me like a thunderbolt:

“Give me the CAMPBELL life!  Y’all remember!  It’s ‘Give me the CAMPBELL life!’ ”

“Yes, we remember,” they all chorused in their patronizing fashion as we trudged up the stairs for food.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.