Dear
friends and family,
We last emailed you from Larry and
Karen’s near Atlanta. On February 26th we took an overnight flight
to Brasilia, then a half hour flight back to Goiania in Central Brazil. There we
stayed with Felipe and Waleska, our Couch Surfing friends from before. After a
short visit with them we caught a series of buses to Maurilandia, where our
boat was waiting for us at a friend’s chacara
(small farm) on the Rio Verdao.
It now being the rainy season this
farming town’s dust had turned to mud. Our friends, Aldin and Kelly and their
19-year-old daughter Karen, kindly put us up in the master bedroom and
bombarded us with delicious Brazilian food during our first week in Brazil.
Right away we patched a hole in the bottom of Thurston and installed a new motor mount that will allow us to
adjust the height of the motor. With these things completed we resumed our
search for the 200-mile transport to the Araguaia River. This would be our
longest and most expensive portage yet.
We wandered around introducing
ourselves to truck drivers until we met Marcus, the owner of a produce store
and three trucks of varied sizes for moving his fruits and vegetables. He
finally agreed to transport us for $500 in his largest truck, which is like a
moving van in that it has a tall box in back. With a lot of hard work, five men
and three boys got Thurston up inside
and closed the doors.
It was the early afternoon when we
said our farewells to our Maurilandia friends, Aldin, Kelly, Karen, Diego, and
Douglas. Karen promised to visit the US when she’s older. Kelly asked that we
leave Georgie behind. We hope that by denying the latter request Kelly and
Aldin will have a reason to come visit us too!
As we drove northwest the land
changed from a rolling plain covered in soybeans, corn and sugar cane to hilly
uplands with picturesque escarpments and valley floors studded with palm trees.
We crossed the divide into the Amazon basin and descended to three adjoining towns
where the Araguaia and Garças
rivers join. One lies on the east side of the Araguaia, one lies on the west
side of the Garças, and the third lies on the tapering peninsula between the two. The
largest is the western-most city, Barra do Garças, which means Mouth of the River of
Storks.
In crossing the Rio Araguaia we
passed from the state of Goias to that of Mato Grosso. Like in the U.S.,
Brazil’s states get steadily bigger and wilder as one proceeds west from the
Atlantic. Mato Grosso is all the way at the west edge of the country. We had travelled
along its western margin, opposite Bolivia, when we ascended the Guapore and
descended the Paraguay. Now we would descend a river dividing it from Goias.
We arrived at the Barra do Garças boat
ramp at nightfall. It had a good grade and good pavement yet Marcus was
reluctant to back down it. He checked his brakes by having Steve pump the pedal
while he checked the escapement of air at various locations. Then he acted
impetuously. He backed down until his rear wheels were underwater and the floor
of the box was at river level, then shut off his engine. We were relieved that
we could simply push Thurston into
the river. But suddenly Marcus started pumping the brake and yelling for someone
to chock his wheels. We hustled
out, Ginny with George in her arms, but before we could run ten paces in search
of a rock or log the truck had rolled backward into the river! The water pushing
against the box quickly rotated the truck ninety degrees, leaving it parallel
to shore, facing upriver. It rolled backward until it came up against an
underwater obstacle, then came to rest thirty feet from shore with the driver’s
side tilting downward toward the deeper water further out. The cab was almost
entirely underwater, the box half-submerged. Marcus swam out from an open
window. There was no telling how long the truck would stay where it was.
Ginny watched with mixed horror
and awe as Steve jumped in the river and swam to the back doors. The current
was swift, the water turbid, reddish brown. The current gushed violently around
the truck but left a calm eddy at the back. Opening the double doors he found Thurston afloat inside. The masts and
booms were also afloat. He closed himself in the truck and ordered the floating
objects. Then to Ginny’s great relief he emerged, swimming Thurston out, much as one would lead a horse from a burning barn.
Someone tied the boat to a concrete post while Steve returned to the truck for
the spars, which he pushed to people on the tall concrete steps that lined the shore.
Ginny’s daypack and Steve’s
shoulder bag were still in the cab. Steve found them floating inside and
retrieved them through a window. They contained a camera, a Sony Walkman, and a
Kindle, all ruined, also our passports and other vital documents, which would require
careful drying. The leeboards and the heavy aluminum floorboards were still in
the box. The rest of our equipment had been stowed in Thurston and was therefore safe. Ginny paced impotently and swore
in disbelief while facilitating people who wanted to coo at George. Then she made
up a bed for him in the boat and put him to sleep amidst the chaos.
Soldiers, firemen, news
media (see: An article here ) and a crowd numbering in the hundreds
quickly gathered. A pair of scuba divers suited up. Due to the hazardous
current they worked with agonizing slowness, but eventually they attached one
cable to the front of the truck and another to the side facing shore. Then two massive
tow trucks slowly winched these respective cables in.
By 2:00 a.m. the truck was back on
dry land and the crowd had dispersed. Steve retrieved the remaining gear and
paid Marcus his money. Apparently he had lost control because the hand brake
didn’t work, the air leaked out of the road brakes, and the transmission got stuck
in neutral. Normally breezy and boastful, he was a sad sight. “My mouth is dry
with shame,” he said as he left with the tow-truck drivers. The towing and
repair bills would be huge and he had no insurance.
The next day we began
recuperating. Ginny dried the passports while Steve filled our water and fuel
tanks. We quickly made friends, attended an excellent barbeque, and got shown around. The towns downstream being smaller
and further apart, we bought provisions. Then we motored a bit upstream to verify
that the motor was functioning properly. It wasn’t. First it wouldn’t run except
with the carburetor fully choked, then the clutch slipped intermittently.
We returned to the port, which is
frequented by jet skis and light pleasure boats. There are no large watercraft.
The upland consists of small parks and outdoor bar/restaurants. There is also a
floating restaurant upstream of the boat ramp. We moored Thurston at the downstream edge of the port, her hull nudging against
a sandy bank overgrown with tall grass. At night musicians performed folk
ballads in the parks and restaurants. They played guitar and sang with great
skill.
One of our new friends, Doctor
Chu-en-lay, took Steve and the motor to a mechanic on the other side of the
river. This fellow, a retired specialist in outboards, helped Steve replace the
bottom oil seal. But in the next trial the motor ran rough and oil gushed out through
the crankcase vent.
This time Steve and the kindly
mechanic opened the motor all the way to its single piston. The clip holding
one end of the wrist pin had come loose. The pin had drifted into contact with
the cylinder skirt and eroded a groove, lowering compression and causing the
piston to pressurize the crankcase, hence the escaping oil. We needed a new
cylinder and piston, which we didn’t have. We had replaced them in Uruguay and
didn’t think it would be necessary again so soon.
After sleeping on it we decided to
buy the parts on the internet, have them shipped to ultra-dependable Larry, and
have him ship them to us. To double our odds of getting the parts quickly
through customs, and to end up with a spare set, we bought two cylinders and
two pistons. Larry shipped the two sets independently, to different addresses, of
friends on either side of the state line. One of the shipments also included a
new camera and other items. The shipping and import duties will be horribly
expensive but we want to leave as soon as possible, before the river drops to
the point where exposed sand bars and rocks hamper navigation.
We are putting our delay here to
use. We have George-proofed Thurston,
improved storage arrangements, repaired our awning, and mended our mosquito and
no-see-um nets. Barra do Garças is home to Parque National do Serra Azul, which is a
treasure-trove of trails and waterfalls! A steep mountain in the park with a
statue of Christ on top overlooks the town. We have hiked up there ascending the
infamous 1220 step staircase and back down via a chain of 8 waterfalls that follow
a cleft in the mountain.
We are getting to know Barra and
its little sister cities. One day while we were lunching in a restaurant Steve
tried what looked like a stewed potato. It didn’t give way as he expected so he
bit harder. Suddenly his teeth broke into a soft interior and dozens of tiny
spines became lodged in his tongue and the walls of his mouth! Concerned
employees explained that it was a fruit called pequi and you are only supposed to eat the outer flesh. They
assumed we knew, because who doesn’t? In fact we had been told of it back in
Maurilandia, but thought it would be something fruitier and less potato-like! Ginny
labored an hour removing most of the spines with tweezers. A dental surgeon got
the last few.
The days are hot but the nights
are bearable. Rainstorms hit every couple days. The river has gone up and down,
mostly down since the rainy season is tapering off. On March 19 we celebrated
George’s first birthday party with new friends in Kiosque do Lazaro, a bar/restaurant
directly above Thurston. Lazaro
himself brought a giant cake which George relished. He and everything within a
three-foot radius quickly became covered with white frosting to the amusement
of all. Georgie enjoyed the attention. An unexpected birthday surprise came in
the form of Marcus who was back in town with a new engine for the truck.
Now that George crawls and gets
into everything the boat seems smaller than ever. One of us must constantly
monitor him. To ease our stay here Heltor and Mari, who run the local ice cream
factory Sorvetes Heytto, have installed us in a spare room inside their walled compound
downtown. When the motor is fixed we will begin our descent of the Rio Araguaia
to the city of Belem at the mouth at the Amazon. This will take months, so vast
are the distances.
For those of you wondering how George
is adjusting to being back in his native land here’s a little glimpse of the
average day in the life of George. He wakes us up around 6:30 am jabbering and
crawling all over us with a big droolly grin. He plays what are to him
hilarious games with his dad awhile, then paws through the fruit and veggie
department taking a bite out of each item he finds. We share our breakfast with
him and he smashes it around his face and our clothes. The morning is topped
off with a map of the constellations made of cookie crumbs, then a nap. A nice
bath when he wakes up then he wants to go out and crawl around.
We take him
up to the park and he maneuvers among the palapas, collecting dirt and looking
for old or new friends. When he sees someone smiling at him he stretches out
his arm to them, “Ooooh!”. They come over or he crawls to them, then begins a
scene of mutual cooing which can extend infinitely as George works his way from
one set of arms to the next. We are invited to lunch with new friends, George
taking over their home and pets. When it cools off we go for a walk, George in
his carrier. He is well known in this town and people often stop us to talk to
him. Sometimes they talk to us too. As 8pm approaches he turns up the squirms
and we have to get him to bed. On a good day he’ll conk out, limbs spread to
take up as much room as possible. When we crawl into bed a couple of peaceful
hours later we have to settle for the tiny gaps of bed he has left us, but
we’re usually so exhausted by then we hardly notice. In short, George is about
as happy as a baby could be, which it turns out is pretty damn happy.
And a final George note, he now
has a college fund, so if anyone wants to make a donation for his birthday
please contact us and we’ll tell you how.
More new photos may be found at: https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart4
Lots of love,
Steve, Ginny, & George
