That's "left" in sea-talk. See what an experienced mariner I've become? Then again, when you're as clever as I am you tend to pick up things like that on a 30 hour boat ride into the Amazon.
We started in Manaus, a perfect stereotype of a port town - narrow, one-way streets with small, one-room shops overflowing with goods (a lot like the towns in Bolivia, in fact - ironic considering they have no ports there), lots of people coming and going and stocking up on supplies, and then, of course, the port area itself: an endless stream of boats and longshoremen, the latter so thick that the river behind them can only be sensed, rather than seen. The workers loaded and unloaded goods coming and going from all over Brazil, while stereos cranked out funky reggae or the latest reggaeton song (or maybe it's the oldest - hear one, you hear them all). Most of the worlds white VW buses must be in Manaus, because the fleet seems endless; they are the vehicle of choice for transporting goods and people about town. Maybe it's cheaper to get the old beater painted white than any other color, but they all had fresh, identical exteriors, and I was confused more than once while on the lookout for my particular transport. Before I loaded onto the boat along with Chris and Tabacco (another Xixuau community member), I had to pick up a hammock for the overnight journey, have lunch, and go to the bank to pay for my trip. The lunch bit was easy, cheap and delicious - they love rice and beans, I love rice and beans. I went to a pay-by-weight place that had several delicious grilled meats, fresh salsas and fruits, and, yes, rice and beans. Finally, a country where I can eat on the cheap, and the food is excellent! But the banking part proved more difficult than lunch, and indeed more difficult than any previous attempt I'd made at getting cash while in South America - first, I had to find an ATM that sported a Cirrus, Link, or Mastercard logo, which was harder than it sounds. Next, I had to deal with the frustration that the first 5 machines I found with those logos would not dispense cash to me. "Unable to complete transaction at this time. Try again later." No explanation given. When I finally found a machine that would dispense cash, the most it would give me was 600 reais, or about US$300. I needed three times that, but the machine wouldn't complete another transaction, for the non-reason given above. Since I'd already exhausted virtually every ATM in town, it was off to the bank with my travellers checks, which I couldn't change because they were Visa checks and they would only accept American Express (not everyplace you want to be, apparently). In the end, I signed my checks over to the Amazon Association man in Manaus, and they let me come with on the boat.
We had to arrive early on the Bom Natal IV (Good Christmas IV) - a massive lump of a boat, perhaps 150 feet long, painted all white with royal blue trimmings - so that Chris could supervise the loading of all the stuff that was being brought to the reserve: besides fish, wood, and manioc flower (a starchy substance made from a tree root), the jungle doesn't provide a lot. So we loaded up meat, vegetables, rice, pasta, beer, soda, candles, matches, toilet paper, etc. along with the newly-repaired diesel generator that had gone on the fritz (since the installation of the solar project in 2002, the power needs of the reserve have grown considerably). Even once that was done, we still had a couple hours to kill, so we snacked on homemade coconut popsicles being sold by vendors wandering on and off the boats as we watched the endless parade of longshoremen load the rest of the cargo, destined for all the cities and towns upstream: manioc flower, all kinds of soda, boxes and boxes of formerly-frozen whole chickens, powdered milk, instant coffee, sugar, nails, shingles, bricks, furniture, appliances, and flats of eggs stacked perhaps 6 feet high, 4 feet deep, and 15 feet wide. All of this was brought on in a seemingly unlimited supply by longshoremen carrying seemingly impossible amounts - e.g. 2.5 liter bottles of soda, bundled into six packs, and one guy would carry three of those, propped in a stack on one shoulder. Meanwhile, it was virtually impossible to stay out of the way as passengers were also coming on board, buying passage, milling about, buying snacks, and looking for good hammock spots. This last bit proved important, as everyone jockeyed for position in the best spots - or any spot at all. A sign on the boat said that the boat could carry 140 people between the two decks, but it was obviously overloaded, which didn't seem to bother the harbor authorities checking off the manifest. What did bother them was that people wanted to set up camp on the very bottom deck, which is ostensibly only for cargo, but as soon as we weighed anchor people went into a mad frenzy trying to get their ropes rigged and their hammocks hung. And since our stuff was on the bottom deck, we rigged up there, stacked thick amongst the eggs and other passengers. Really though, I got a pretty good spot with a nice breeze. It may have been underneath a rather large, old Brazilian man, prompting me to hope that he had tied good knots, but at least I wasn't in the aft of the deck - right next to the bathrooms, and above the fumes and noise of the diesel motors. Several people who didn't jockey well enough for hammock positions ended up back there, which looked downright miserable.
As we pulled out into the tar-black waters of the aptly named Rio Negro, the sun was setting and the lights of Manaus were beginning to twinkle. As soon as we travelled around the bend and away from the city, fierce lightning storms began to rage far away on either bank, lighting up the clouds with fiery bronze and orange explosions, like Napoleonic-era battles being fought for control of the territory. But above us, it was all stars. I always forget how many there actually are, since I spend most of my time in places with too much light pollution to actually see them all. But when I can, I'm always serenely amazed at their number, twinkling away in milky-white patches across the night sky. Even more exotic is that I'm in the Southern Hemisphere, so the stars are all out of place, and I recognize no constellations. But looking at the stars always makes me feel tranquil, kind of like the beach I guess. Self slips away at moments like staring at an endless ocean, whether of stars or water. OK, yes, I'm being a cheesy romantic again.
At first, being on the boat is fun and exciting, but it's a long ride, and eventually people settle in to wait. The lower deck was cargo and hammocks, the middle deck had a small kitchen (full board is included in the passage, and it wasn't half bad), but was mostly devoted solely to hammocks - looking through the deck, where every square meter was covered by hammocks of every color and size, I felt as if I had wandered into the hammock area of some bazaar in Casbah. The top deck was open-air, and had a small snack bar selling delicacies such as Skol beer (awful) and Flesh soda (orange flavored, also awful). There was also a television. Yes, even in the depths of the Amazon there is plenty of access to television, thanks to the magic of that parabolic plate we call the satellite dish. There was cell phone reception, too, which pretty much dissolved any romantic notions I may have had of adventure into the unknown.
The night passed uneventfully, and I slept well in my hammock. When I awoke, I was able to really see the river and the jungle for the first time, and be amazed at the river's scope: on either side of the boat, the water stretched to the horizon. At the edge was a thin strip of green, and above, an endless, sunny heaven of blue and white. I mostly hung out and drank beer, and cursed the maddening similarities between Spanish and Portuguese as I tried to communicate or at least eavesdrop. I met one girl who claimed Spanish abilities, although we couldn't communicate much. Her friend said he spoke English, but seemed too shy to practice with me, despite my attempts (although not too shy to have CDs of him having sex mixed in with his music, I found out later). Occasionally people asked me questions, which I found flattering - their assumption that I speak any Portuguese at all, and that I'm just as good a person to ask as the Brazilian next to me - but I just said "que?" which I wasn't even sure was Portuguese for "what?"
Mid-afternoon of the second day, we transferred to the Xixuau speedboat. What I immediately realized as the stalled boats transferred supplies was that it was only the breeze from the moving ship that kept the oppressive heat and humidity of the jungle at bay - I became immediately sticky, and began to sweat hard. But the speedboat was a whole different experience from the Bom Natal, as it was only about 25 feet long and sat just above the water. As our driver maneuvered expertly through the dense, flooded forest, I couldn't suppress my smile as I thought "wow, I'm in the AMAZON." The sense had become real as the Amazon pressed in on both sides - no actual land in sight - as we zipped through the open river that was occasionally punctuated by small mazes of tightly-packed, flooded forests (it's high-water season). Not much animal life was evident, except for the spiders, which are kind enough to build houses that are easy to see - delicate orb webs and intricate box webs seemed to be strung on every leaf and branch, and they shimmered in the late-day sun. I didn't see much else, thanks to our speed and the noise from our engine, no doubt, until the evening. That was when I noticed the lightning bugs, as large as my thumb, making their way over the river and blinking at regular intervals, like tiny little cargo planes. Often they would barrel straight for us, and veer away at the last second (I've never really seen lightning bugs, so I was thrilled). We would have to stop and refill our small fuel tank from a barrel of gas occasionally, and I wondered what would happen if our engine wouldn't start again - as it threatened to do each time we had to fill up. Unlike the feeling I got on the Bom Natal, on the speedboat I sensed as if we were in the middle of nowhere, with only our wits and 25 feet of tin separating us from the undoubtedly pirhana-filled waters and hostile, thick jungle.
Long after darkness had fallen, we finally arrived at the milaca, the open-air guest-house for tourists at the Xixuau, which can host up to 18 people. It was an impressively large, but simple affair with perhaps a 30 foot, conical, palm-thatched roof. The rooms were more like the Amazon version of cubicles than actual enclosed rooms - the walls extended only about 8 feet high, so there's no real sense of separation in the building. There's a sizable kitchen (by South American standards) and a separate building of showers and bathrooms (and septic system). The whole place gets its energy from the solar array and bank of eight truck batteries adjacent to it, although there are only a few compact fluorescent bulbs to power - lighting in the individual rooms comes only from candles.
After dropping my stuff, I got a much-needed, cold but not unpleasant shower. When I came out, I overheard Chris explaining to some of the villagers about the debacle I had changing money. Sure, I wouldn't have wanted to wait in the van for two hours either, but I was a little hurt that he didn't at least tell that story while I was in the shower or something. I almost said something like "but it all worked out in the end, right Chris?" After all, my first impression was now officially "sheltered gringo who can't negotiate the Big City, let alone an alien jungle." I held my tongue, despite the temptation to prove that I could understand some Portuguese. Not a huge deal by itself, but unfortunately it proved to be an indication of the overall unpleasantness of the social scene here.
After I had showered, I was invited by Chris across the river to the village for a party - it was Saturday night. The milaca is isolated from the village proper, so transfers must be made by dugout canoe. How could I refuse a party? As we pushed off the dock, I noticed the intense noise from the jungle life, and how silent the canoe was in the water. "We're not the loudest, not here," I thought. We headed off into the black night, towards the cough of a generator and the pitch and thrall of samba music.
