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After thirty six arduous hours of travel, complicated by a freakish snow
storm in Charlotte
and northern South Carolina en route to our
final destination of the Jufari River in northwest Brazil, we sit beneath a freshly
risen moon in its full radiance above a sugary white sand beach. Surprisingly
few members of the Insecta phylum
join us as we enjoy our first night on the river.
Snow made the first leg of the journey difficult, but its completion was
complicated by events entirely man made in origin. Physicists should spend some
time observing the incoming security baggage check system at
Manaus International Airport.
Contrary to a basic law of physics, this particular system did not move towards
chaos- it already WAS chaos. In fact it was total chaos that remained unchanged
for nearly two hours, as masses of arriving passengers and their bags and boxes
of electronics, clothes, and other treasures gathered in America, all funneled
down to a single choke point controlled by a bored young Brazilian border agent
who obviously would have preferred to be elsewhere. His jocularly rolled up
sleeves and coiffed hair made him seem better suited to whipping up innovative
new French Haute cuisine than completing his Sisyphus like task of protecting Brazil from the hundreds of cardboard packages of
Wal-Mart clothes and home appliances brought back by Brazilians from the
shopping malls of south Florida.
Mercifully,
we finally managed to run that gauntlet of frustration and met Brahma, our aptly
named local facilitator, once past incoming security. He was a tall, dark,
muscular man with broad shoulders and massive arms hailing from
Trinidad, and built like his namesake. He “coordinated” our group’s
passage through the airport and into waiting vans for the fifteen minute drive
to the Tropical Hotel, on the banks of the mighty Amazon
River. He even managed to create some semblance of order from the
check in process at the hotel desk.
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When finally my eyelids produced a total eclipse
of the hotel room lights, slumber fell on me like a 57 Buick off a cliff. My
deep sleep was interrupted only by the sudden opening of the room door at
3:30AM. Visions of Brazilian robbers flashed through my head as I leaped from
bed to meet the threat. The “threat” turned out to be a particularly attractive
young flight attendant. It was difficult to say if she was more terrified of
having been given the electronic key to an already occupied room, or the sight
of a REM sleep interrupted, middle aged, obese male, eyes splayed wide open with
the fight or flight fear response all over his face, jumping up to respond to
the intrusion in his wrinkled black underwear.
Her surprise was certainly no greater than my own, and she let out a sort
of muted scream, ever mindful of other peacefully sleeping guests, I suppose.
Once we mutually recognized the error, low decibel laughs replaced the fear, and
we went our separate ways-me back to my bed, and she, hopefully, to an
unoccupied room. George Durban, my roommate, remained blissfully unaware of the
entire incident, continuing his uninterrupted sleep in the other bed.
A civilized get up time of 7:30 AM required no
significant effort and was followed by an unusually complete breakfast buffet.
We then brushed our teeth and carted the bags to the hotel lobby, where the
omnipresent Brahma patiently waited. He then packed both us and our baggage in a
van for the return trip to the airport. Once there, he shepherded us to the
waiting area for the next leg of the trip- a two hour flight to a small fishing
village called Barcellos, some 250 mile away. The flight was uneventful. Along
the way, we were treated to a view of the apparently endless expanse of jungle
canopy completely carpeting the ground below, save where the many rivers broke
the green surface into myriads of geographic shapes. As we flew, I read a copy
of National Geographic magazine that featured an article about the massive slash
and burn destruction of Brazil’s
precious rainforest. I uttered a silent prayer of thanks that the decimation was
occurring in the southern part of the country. Nearly all of the jungle in the
north had been spared, at least so far. I prayed that the Brazilian government
might be able to protect the vast unspoiled lands beneath our wings.
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I was
surprised to see a paved runway in Barcellos, as our previous trip involved a
mud strip surrounded by tall trees, which had made me fear for my life.
Barcellos even had a tiny terminal of sorts. It was clean, neat, and had
restrooms and even air conditioning, although it was inoperative. The walls were
adorned with fishing lures and painting of peacock bass. We waited there for
about an hour before the giant Cessna Caravan which was to transport us the
final 50 miles to the river camp appeared, looking like some kind of
prehistoric beast, resting
on its combination of both floats and wheels. The flight crew quickly and
efficiently packed our bags and rod cases into the cavernous floats, and we then
climbed a ladder to gain entry to the amazingly roomy cabin of this single
engine monster of a plane. A fast
refueling job, and we were off to Gloryland!!!
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