It was so early that my brain has a hard time dredging up a lot. The airport was very lightly crowded, and we got our stuff checked in quickly while Daniel and Patricia waited outside the line. Their flight was due to leave later, so they had the pleasure of watching us go through TAM preliminaries.
We bid our sad goodbyes to the Cerqueira-bots, making them promise not to get kidnapped or anything. I also mentioned that should they happen to run into the goddess Iemanjá when they got back to Salvador, to tell her I had left the country.
Pettus had given me her library copy of John Grisham’s Playing for Pizza, since she had finished it. It was short and looked like perfect airline reading. I was hoping for full diversion on the way to São Paulo.
The candy greeting was right on time. Jean and I had perfected [I thought] the multi-grab to get 3, even 4 pieces without looking like a front-loader excavating a foundation. I don’t know how Jean scored, but I ended up clawing at the basket bottom for as long as I dared, and only coming up with two. My move was not slick at all. I felt the lardish buffoon as the white-shirt-blue-skirted-neck-scarf-wearing stewardess looked at me with thinly veiled impatience dusted with disgust. Probably no chance of getting a Bloody Mary out of her. I smiled sheepishly, hoping to prevent any lapse in service.
There were three of us on the row, and we were nowhere near any comfort zones in the airplane, so I buried my head in the book while Jean managed to alternately doze and read scandal rags until we landed.
One would think that Jean and I had learned something from our last experience at the São Paulo airport. But we didn’t. So we all followed Robo through the same string of rumors about where the luggage was, and if it was indeed in the airport at all. We fell for a few of those, rushing through the place in a wiggly tandem, finally gambling on the luggage and winning.
And at last! Robo had found out where to go. It was like a glass mouse maze containing escalators and windows, windows, windows. When we got to what was supposed to be our entrance, I saw a horrified expression on his face as he was the first to realize that we were at the international departures section. WTF?? The SIGN had SAID Domestic Departures, I swear!
I can only remember his head, as if it were on a pole, sticking above the crowd and rotating like crazy. He finally pointed back to where we had come from and we all dashed after him. It was correct this time, but I could tell you nothing about anything, being as we were schlepping three uncooperative suitcases plus carry-ons, and none of them could speak Portuguese.
By some miracle, we found the place to check the suitcases (easy), and made it on to the waiting area to do some serious waiting. There were a bunch of international duty free stores. Robo scanned the area and turned to Pettus. “Step away from the shops,” he said.
“I’m not gonna buy anything,” she protested half-heartedly.
We wandered through the aisles, but there was really nothing of huge bargain status to buy. Not even liquor. Especially liquor. It was more expensive. Back to the uncomfortable metal chairs with an absurd back slant. I still would rather sit there as long as I could than be in the plane, and since we had reserved seats, I figured we’d make it, so I didn’t bother to stand in the line.
Once aboard, we couldn’t even see Pettus and Robo. Jean and I were in a two-seat configuration that wasn’t that bad. There were no boxes and no third passenger. But there was no empty third seat, either.
Jean kept watching this group of French people who were obviously on some kind of tour. They had been rather vociferous and fun-loving in the airport, and made themselves known as a cohesive force immediately. The tour guide or leader was a chatty thing, and I noticed that she would talk to all the people in serving positions in a very French way.
“I wonder what she’s up to,” Jean muttered to me. “She keeps talking to that stewardess, and they keep pointing up to first class.”
“I don’t know,” I said, knowing exactly what she was driving at. I almost wanted to avoid any hassles and stay where we were, but was dying to know what was up with the tour director’s excited motioning to her group and their subsequent rush to the front of the plane. “Why don’t you go and see what they’re doing,” I offered. If anybody could make chicken salad out of this chickenshit flight, it would be Jean.
“Okay,” she said, and disappeared down the aisle, passing a man who had his head covered with a blanket the entire time we were boarding.
She returned in a hurry and breathlessly whispered, “Get up, we’re going to first class. Try not to attract attention.”
“What about Pettus and Robo?”
“I looked for them, but can’t find them. And they’re not in this section. We gotta go!”
I delicately and nonchalantly grabbed everything at lightning speed that I had already spread out all over our two seats and followed Jean up the aisle past blanket guy and hot on the trail of those brazen French. After busting through the hymen of First Class, Jean immediately sought out her brand new best friend the stewardess, who pointed to two seats that were across the cabin from each other. Jean took the one against the left wall, and I ended up in the very front seat on the right side. For first class, probably the worst real estate in the room. But who cared?
I settled into my seat next to a portly gentleman who looked like a businessman that would wield a lot of cash. He was very congenial, and I couldn’t tell what his nationality was. I had managed to scarf three candies on the greeting out in steerage, and had them in my pocket. I tried to find some kind of position to read in for a while, and wrestled with the controls for a good five minutes while the executive looked at me with a bemused expression. After turning around three times like a dog does, I settled down and popped a candy into my mouth and picked up the novel where I had left off.
I let it dissolve in my mouth for as long as I could stand before I had to give it the bite. When my teeth came apart, something felt strange, but I knew instantly what it was: my freeking gold crown had come out of my lower right jaw. A lotta gold, I’ll tell ya! And a great crown job, done in 1975. Probably 400 bucks worth of gold there.
I did my very best to not act freaked out, as I ate the candy surrounding the crown. This had happened before, and I knew that sometimes they can be put back in like a jigsaw puzzle piece, at least temporarily, and with careful chewing can work beautifully until repair can be made. This I did with little effort. I then turned to the large man and offered him my other two candies, which he took graciously.
He had meanwhile been having trouble with his chair controls, and called the steward to help. I looked around frantically to make sure there were other seats, because I felt sure that this was the ONLY paying first class passenger. I was in awe of his fine demeanor, considering he surely knew none of us hillbillies belonged there. Fortunately, he was able to find other arrangements, and as he left, he gave me a cheerful salute.
I settled back into my seat, placated by the wonderful re-fit of the crown into the crag it came from. I was still just waiting for some prissy head guy to sweep through the curtains and point to all of us, curse the stewardesses in flowery Portuguese, and throw us out. But it never happened, so I was free to fiddle with the stupid chair in peace.
The air began to hum with the vibration of breakfast! I don’t know how, I just knew it! My virgin experience. I was trying to figure out how to say “eggs ben
edict” and “mimosa” in Portuguese.
I looked up and a young lady was handing me a box and holding a pot of coffee.
What? If I were Mr. Businessman, I’d be royally pissed off about this. But I could only smile at her, us both knowing what an airborne social climber I was. It was almost a condescending look she gave me, as if she had read my book of expectations and then set it ablaze right before my eyes. “Eu não posso ler o inglês,” she spat, as the match reflected in each of her red fingernails.
“Obrigado,” was my meek reply, as I took the box gratefully. It was the same stuff they got back in economy class. W T F?
Oh well. I ran through the contents voraciously and had two cups of coffee on top of that before I picked the book up again. My crown was acting as if it had never left its socket. Jean was asleep to my left. I pulled down the shade, spent 10 of 15 minutes adjusting the seat, put the book down and went to sleep for however long that would be. When I awoke, we were landing in Manaus.
I immediately began to feel guilty for having sneaked up to first class without Robo and Pettus. “Don’t tell the Kennemers about our being up here,” I said to Jean on our way out.
“Why? They won’t care,” she said.
“I feel bad about leaving them,” I whined.
“Whatever,” she tossed back. “I still say they won’t care.”
We were herded up a ramp to the luggage claim, an area about the size of a small meeting room, packed with humanoids. The conveyor stuck out of one wall like a giant silver fist. We looked over to see Robo and Pettus leaning over the luggage, Robo’s face bearing the sinus expression. I was glad to keep my mouth shut about the first class upgrade after taking a look at him.
In true fashion, the Kennemers’ luggage, both dainty pieces of it, came out within mere seconds of us bellying up to the belt. That seemed to bode well for Jean and me, being as we had been loaded close to the same time. But it was not to be. And why, I’ll never figure out. Possibly because our suitcases were the largest ones on the conveyor, and caused it to groan in displeasure as it spit them out at us. By this time, the room was almost empty.
We schlepped our stuff out into the main lobby, which was lined with shops of all kinds and interspersed with bars and snack kiosks. Immediately, a tall black guy with beautiful dreads held up a sign reading “Anavilhanas Lodge” practically in our faces. How he knew it was us I’ll never know. Once again, I’m sure Robo and Pettus were the tipoff. Jean and I look so international you can’t tell WHERE we’re from.
The guy smiled broadly, spoke stellar English with a cool accent, and gestured like a surfer as he told us we would be leaving shortly, but were waiting on one more passenger for the van to the lodge. He told us we had a little more than an hour, and suggested we eat and relax, that he would find us when the van arrived.
To the left, anchoring the whole room, in a place of honor next to the tourism office, was a Big Bob’s Hamburgers! I was hungry as hell, being only tormented by the tiny suggestion of a breakfast.
We trooped over to the table area and immediately commandeered one, building a fortress around us with our luggage. Robo and I went up to get the food. The menu read just like something in America, obviously because WE are the king of hamburgers. We ordered various stuff, me getting some kind of burger.
Our faces must have been very interesting as we all took our first bites. Like Darrin trying to eat Samantha’s cooking on Bewitched is what I picture. “Man, this is WEIRD!” I said. “It’s got so much filler in it. Is there any beef?”
“I think it’s soy,” Jean said. Neither one of us stopped eating.
Robo and Pettus had gotten chicken. “Well it’s kind of like a McNugget sandwich,” Pettus said. “But it’s not bad.” Robo wasn’t saying much, just looking suspiciously at his food.
“I think I’m gonna walk around,” he said, getting up. “Can y’all watch my stuff?”
“I’ll go with you,” Pettus said.
“We’ll watch the stuff,” we said.
As they disappeared into the crowd, Jean and I ruminated on the contents of our lunch. The texture was like half-quiche, half oatmeal, kissed with the lips of a big beef cow. I had never experienced anything even close. There was no similarity to even a McDonald’s patty. It was almost repellant. By then I had begun to wonder if it were some kind of special meat that only Brazilians can eat–kind of like drinking their water. It started to freak me out a little bit, but I kept eating the “hamburger” anyway. I don’t need to be sick in the Amazon, I thought, reaching for the rest of Pettus’ food.
Presently, Robo returned carrying a great safari hat with “Amazona” and a leopard embroidered on it. It was one of those button-the-sides things with the string to go under your chin. “I only paid 10 bucks for it!” he enthused.
“Where?” I shouted.
I was already headed down the left side by the time he had finished telling me. He was right! I got a hat like his but with a toucan on it, and a crocheted sun hat decorated with polished wood for Jean. Only 20 bucks for both!
We had more time left, so Jean decided to see if she could get some money from an ATM. AGAIN. I stood by her while she tried all the machines to no avail. There was a young guy and girl of undetermined nationality also having a go at getting something from the uncooperative machines. They were having no more luck than we were, and I made some kind of pithy comment about it as I was lurking around, then asked the girl if they were on their honeymoon. She gave me a strange look and shook her head.
We had been seeing them all the way from Rio to Manaus. Her boyfriend
was carrying around a berimbau wrapped in brown paper, but there was no
disguising what it was. Robo wondered what it was going to be like
carrying it around all over Brazil.
Our greeter showed up shortly, and waved us to the curb outside where our van was waiting. He and the driver took care of all the luggage, managing to get it in with no difficulty. I was extra mindful of the carryon that had my Rio treasures in it, but all was handled beautifully. We had been waiting on an Indian gentleman to complete our group. When he got in, we all greeted him cordially. He responded in kind. His name was Rupi. That’s what I thought he said. As it turns out, it was true. Like the money, but spelled differently.
Also in our van was the young couple from the ATMs. They were both camera-ready, the guy being particularly effusive, speaking in flawless English.
“I am Yavor. This is Natacha,” he told us.
We began to introduce ourselves just as the van took off.
I knew we were going on a ferry, but didn’t really grasp it when it was told to me.
There were a couple of ferries on the water, this being the first one. It wasn’t ours. It looks like several boats are tied on to the thing. And he didn’t land at our place, so there’s no telling what he was up to.
Our ferry was coming. Look at the gaggle of Brazilians standing at the bow/stern to get off as fast as they can. Right now, the only way to get from the Amazon to Manaus and vice versa is via ferry.
The ferry is an important factor in preventing the wholesale rape of the Amazon. Any resources taken from there must travel by ferry to get to the rest of Brazil or the world. It is a pain in the ass, obviously, and it’s surely time-and-money-prohibitive in certain cases.
This shot of the pedestrian passengers is quite pretty.
The ride was longer than I thought, and I was thirsty again. Fortunately, there was a little guy with a big aluminum bowl filled with ice and various drinks, including the blessed agua. I bought a couple for Jean and me at 2 Reais each. Still a bargain, and nobody was trying to rip anybody off just because they were captive on a ferry in the middle of the river. That seemed to be the mindset of the Brazilian small vendor everywhere. They operated under invisible price guidelines, obviously, because we never paid more than 2 Reais for water anywhere, under any circumstances. Even the beer at Rio Carnaval was reasonably priced.
We were all getting kind of antsy. Yavor decided to go up and converse with some of the locals. In addition to great English, his Portuguese was also fantastic. The kids of course loved him, and I could see how the performer in him was a permanent resident of his psyche.
Jean looked at me and said, “Enough pictures of me. Let me take one of you.” I should have been suspicious, knowing our history and all, but I let her. Another album cover! Love Songs for Manatees. Notice the embroidery on Robo’s hat. TEN BUCKS AMERICAN! Who can believe it?
It was time to land! When we approached, I could feel a weird commercially festive vibe, like a tiny little Cozumel or something. There was a floating bar surrounded by kids swimming in the Rio Negro. It was very strange to me to see the kiss of tourism on the lips of this former virgin. It’s hard as hell to get there, so whatever attractions they have are kind of thrown together at best. The naive charm is ingrained, but I’m not so sure it can last much longer.
I don’t know what it is about my insisting on photographing people when their soft underbellies are showing. In Robo’s case, it has to be because he’s so gol-durned smart and looks so good in that quick dry fabric that is all the rage in Brazil.
Of course they had a dog: a big friendly black lab that I set upon immediately. He would roll on his back in a flash for the old stomach rub–the best kind of dog.
While we were gathered, the owners gave us an orientation and passed out complimentary drinks made from fresh fruit. The bar was also open and the staff could make any kind of roska or caipirinha you could have wanted. They weren’t too expensive–about 5 bucks American I think, but eventually Jean and I clued into the fact that we could make our own drinks in the room and bring them to cocktail hour. Having packed all the liquor from Rio, we were set. We are such pikers.
On the counter by the sink with a couple of glasses was a giant bottle of water with a small sign hanging on the neck reading “It is a gift for you.” It had been printed in a nice Helvetica Bold, hand laminated and punched, and was tied with a piece of hemp string. Everything at the place seemed to be one with the area.
It was time to join the others back at the lobby for cocktails. Jean and I trooped back up the wet gravel path, rocks leaping into the side holes of my Crocs. Happy Hour was quite a comfortable scene: we sat on the various couches with Natacha, Yavor and Rupi. The staff was beginning to become familiar, and after a couple of their fine drinks, they were rapidly becoming our new pals.
Dinner was served on an elevated wraparaound porch with thatch roof. The center of the building was the kitchen, with a giant serving window that looked out on a long table covered with food, buffet style. The small number of guests made it feel more like a big family dinner.
They had set the dining room with tables for each group staying there. Ours was denoted by a neat local carving of an Amazonian monkey (us) and a stingray (the Kennemers).
The food was delicious, being fresh and prepared in local fashion much of the time. There was a big bowl of manioc flour in the middle of the table that was fun to identify. The main dish was chicken cooked similarly to the way Carol had served it our first day in Salvador. The vegetables and fruits were plentiful, with three kinds of juice in addition to stellar coffee.
“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.
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?
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.
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.
How ’bout that beautiful purple cast?
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.
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.
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.
It was a riot to hear Jean and Pettus say “gelo.” In order to avoid ridicule from the natives, I never said the word.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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!
It looks like the skull was getting fried before turning white. Totally cool.
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.
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.”
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’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.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
What was really happening under the water was something like this:
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.
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.
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.
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?”
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.
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.
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.
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.
This could be the best one yet! And the thing is, their demeanor was the same, too!
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.
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!
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.
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.
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?
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Here’s the manual labor squad prepping the manioc.
There were, of course, souvenirs for sale, with the kids all over the visitors to buy them. The caveat
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 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.