Dear
friends and family,
We last emailed you from
Barra do Garças, Brazil, where we awaited parts to fix our outboard motor again.
We bought two cylinder/piston sets and had them sent separately via UPS in hopes
of getting at least one set soon. On March 25 both packages reached São Paulo, whereupon we were instructed to go to a bank and pay import
duties amounting to 100% of their value including exorbitant shipping costs. But
they didn’t come anywhere near when promised, and our inquiries produced vague
results.
We were holed up in a
covered storage compound belonging to our friends the ice cream makers who were
off travelling in their motor home. We had a room, a shower, and a refrigerator.
Life was good. To fill our days we took hikes. We visited a popular hot spring,
where we lounged in a series of beautifully landscaped pools, and hiked to
misty waterfalls in the nearby hills.
Thurston
was tied up to the floating restaurant down at the port. One day while getting
something from the boat we noticed rat turds and chew marks! Steve looked for
the culprit with no luck and we assumed he had left. When we were ready to
leave it was clear he was still aboard, so we moved Thurston to a beach and shifted everything from the cabin onto the
sand until there was no place left to hide. Suddenly the small rat broke cover.
He scrambled about until Steve killed him with a bamboo pole. He had torn holes
in our packaged food and various articles made of fabric. This would be the
easiest rat to kill.
On April 8 the first
cylinder and piston arrived! Overjoyed, we took them to our mechanic, Godó, a
retired native of São Paulo. He had no sophisticated tools but was wonderfully
wise and pleasant to work with. The cylinder had factory defects, so Steve
hopped on a motorcycle taxi and took it to a machine shop, which installed
missing threads. Finally we got the motor back together. Neither Godó nor the
machinist accepted any money for their services.
We moved aboard back Thurston, re-immersing ourselves in life
at the port, where grandstand-like steps marched down into the water. By day people
sat looking out over the macho jet-skiers who zoomed back and forth, turning on
a dime and shooting up maelstroms of foam. One guy specialized in riding
backwards. Another guy acted like a matador. While spinning his machine he
stood with both feet on the floorboard to the inside of the spin, one hand on
the throttle, the other arm waving gracefully in the air as if he were waving a
flag at a bull. The jet skiers stayed in front of the steps as if they were a
grandstand. It was purely a spectator sport.
That was the daytime. By
night the port rocked with folk music and happy partiers. In the morning
municipal workers picked up the garbage and woke up the drunks still asleep on
the steps.
The motor required
further debugging due to a leaky oil seal and a dirty carburetor. The rats kept
coming and the stove and backup stove were nearly out of commission. We were
beginning to feel like Barra do Garças was against us! However, it would be
weeks before we reached a town as large as Barra, so we had to be sure
everything was in order. Five trips to the mechanic, two aborted attempts to
leave and two more increasingly clever rats later brought us to April 12. Though
leery of our cursed Honda, we cast off! We kept the motor barely above idle to
break it in gently. We were eager to get some kilometers under our keel because
the rapids two-thirds of the way to Belem would get worse as the dry season
progressed, lowering the river level and exposing rocks.
The tall hills soon
melted away, leaving only low, green banks. Almost nobody lived along the
river, nor was there any farming. If we managed to squeeze past the matted
riverine brush we found vast expanses of twisted trees, tall grass, and palm
shrubs with thorns like six-inch needles. We settled into travel routines,
waking at day break as George crawled over us. Steve made breakfast in the
cockpit, then rowed after if it wasn’t yet too hot. Motored through lunch,
George splashing in the cockpit off and on all day as we dumped water on him.
An afternoon break to explore a beach, town or bank, late afternoon row, then a
sunset stop in the least buggy place we could find. George played in the
cockpit with Steve reading “As Viajens do Gulliver” (Gulliver’s Travels) over
and over and over again, while Ginny prepared dinner. Steve operated the stove
while Ginny and George read “As Viajens do Gulliver” over and over and over
again in the cabin. Eat, clean up, pass out. A simple life can be quite
exhausting!
The river, initially
around 500 meters wide, spread more and more with the addition of new
tributaries. Because these were relatively clear, the soupy-orange Araguaia
became clearer until visibility reached one foot. At first we ran onto sandbars
and had to pull ourselves off. But perhaps the tributaries were at a higher
stage than the Araguaia because as we proceeded north the banks got fuller, the
sandbars fewer.
Every morning the
temperature quickly rose into the 90s and up and stayed there until late
afternoon. The only time we saw a thermometer it was 94 in the shade and 114 in
the sun. We all developed itchy heat rashes. The cockpit was okay with the
awning up and the artificial breeze of the moving boat, but the cabin was
unbearable, partly because the varnished cedar of our cabin absorbed too much
heat. So, we stopped in a small town and painted the sides white (we had previously
painted the top white). We frequently doused ourselves and George with the
bailer bucket. At night, even with the fan on the cabin became too hot for all
three of us, so Steve slept curled up in the cockpit footwell, a space about
two feet by four feet!
Clothing was optional except
to combat insects. By day midges caused swollen bites if we stopped at a beach.
Biting flies sometimes found us on the river. Mosquito necessitated nets from
sunset to sunrise. Other insects were simply a nuisance. At night our headlamps
attracted beetles and flies small enough to get through our nets and tickle our
faces. Flying crickets swarmed the cockpit, crawled under Steve’s net, and pestered
him. They all died during the night and required mopping up in the morning.
Ginny laundered
incessantly. Sitting in the cockpit she stretched the articles out on deck, scrubbed
them, and rinsed them in the river. They dried lightning-fast on the line
running from stem to stern. Steve ramped his rowing up to two hours per day,
mostly in the early morning and late afternoon when the heat was less intense.
He soon felt the beneficial effects in his arms and shoulders.
We saw toucans, roseate
spoonbills, and tuiuius, the big
white stork with a red neck. Blackbirds gobbled like turkeys until they all
roosted together in a tree, then they whirred like cicadas. We were happy to
reacquaint with our old friends the Venezuelan Mohawk-Hairdo Chicken and the
Paraguayan Eagle. We call them by these names, never remembering what they are
really called. They are probably neither chickens nor eagles.
Fishermen in aluminum
skiffs were a frequent sight. They were friendly, not nosy. Every couple days we
passed a town with a hotel or two which catered to them. We took the
opportunity to stretch our legs. We walked a wildly grinning George between us,
each holding one of his hands, until he got tired. Then we put him in the
carrier on Steve’s back. The towns were small and neat, with buildings of
stuccoed brick, painted with a darker band on the bottom. Their river-fronts
were protected by walls of mortared stone, atop which plazas faced the river. To
see the surrounding country we walked to the edge of town, where a connecting
ribbon or dirt or asphalt roadway receded across the limitless plain or swamp.
Then we walked back to the boat, stopping for a 600-milliliter bottle of Skol
or Antartica beer on the way. With any luck the bakery might have some bread
rolls and the fruits and vegetable store might have some mangos or carrots.
Because mosquitoes
congregate around vegetation we got into a habit of getting as far as possible
from greenery when evening came. Sometimes we followed still channels into
offshoot lagoons and anchored out in the middle. The mosquito hour was milder
there than tied to a bank. We also slept where islands were about to immerge,
tying to brush or anchoring in sand. On one such night, far from any real land,
we waded in current-swept shallows as the sun set. The coarse sand had the
disconcerting tendency to give way until one was buried up to ones ankles. Suddenly
Steve saw a flash of silver and felt something brush against his ankle. He had
bumped into a freshwater stingray but its spiny tail had failed to penetrate
his skin. Stingray wounds are notoriously painful.
As we travelled downriver
the land got ever swampier. On our right, over the course of a week we passed
Ilha Bananal (Banana Tree Island), supposedly the world’s largest fluvial
island. It was more swamp than island, a vast maze of channels and lagoons
studded with gnarly old snags. There were no signs of people on land, and few
on the river. Dark grey dolphins (apparently the same as the pink dolphins we
encountered before) often followed us. Otters snorted and tumbled in the water.
Alligator eyes glowed pink in the night along the marshy shore. Howler monkeys raised
their cacophonous din, unseen in the forest.
Ginny had probably spent
a hundred hours on Google Earth building our GPS map for the Araguaia due to
its countless islands and channels. Her map was reasonably accurate except that
the imagery was shot during low water, so the river was much bigger than the map
showed. We often navigated where it showed land. Once we got stuck in a dead
end, when a strong current dissipated into brushy swamp, forcing us to motor
back to the main channel. We often never knew if channels we passed were tributary
rivers or sister portions of the Araguaia, delineating islands. To build that
level of detail into the mapping would have required three times as much work.
Rarely was the river
completely calm. Minute swirls etched its surface. Whirlpools and upsurges
suggested bottom disturbances such as rocks or sunken logs. Ripple lines marked
the downstream end of sandbars, where shallow water became deep again. If we
got to that line without running aground we would be back in deeper water. The
islands were rarely flat or of one piece. More often we saw a myriad of small
islands separated by knee-deep channels. They were studded with pools, dunes,
and copses of low trees.
On April 30 we reached
São Felix, Mato Grosso. By Facebooking with our friend in Barra do Garças we
found that our second package had arrived, so we waited four days while he
shipped it by bus. São Felix is in the land of the Carajás, a major indigenous
group. Every second person on the street was Carajás, and the town was full of
government offices catering to their needs. They generally had tattoos, the
women with geometric bands around their calves, with men with crude circles
around their cheekbones. We befriended a Carajás biologist with a spotted
leopard running down his arm who told us a little about his people. Many of
them live in small aldeias with mud and wattle houses covered
by thatched roofs. Other people are allowed to visit, but it is against the law
to take photos of anyone. In his youth they used to grow manioc
and maize on the emerging islands, but now many depend on government provided
food. He also explained a little about their spiritual beliefs, how they greet
the sun when it rises, say goodbye when it sets, and how they salute the river
and other natural spirits. This biologist had once travelled to Wyoming on an
exchange program to visit with the Arapaho tribe. He said he saw many similarities
between them and the Carajás.
São Felix’s outskirts contained
new subdivisions for the rural poor. They had dirt streets and tiny brick
houses. The houses often had only of one pitch of roof, but after they had
accumulated enough building materials they built the other pitch, doubling the
size of the house. We often saw stockpiles of sand, covered with bricks to
protect them from rain, the mounds looking like graves. Crude signs advertised cottage
industries such as popsicles, fish, and culinary specialties.
Travelling downriver is
such joy! This is our third such leg, the other two being the Casiquiare/Negro
and the Paraguay/Paraná. For weeks on end one drifts with the current,
supplemented by such movement through the water as one cares to effectuate. Rowing
is feasible and motoring can be done at slow speed, thus quietly and with
little fuel consumption. The scenery changes quickly. We started seeing
hills. The state of Tocantins now lay to right, the state of Pará to left. We
saw our first sea horizon: a short patch of horizon with no land, however
briefly, though we were still far from the sea. The river was now a mile wide.
On May 11 we reached
Conceicão (Conception), a city the size of Barra do Garças. The shore was lined
with planked canoes with long-tail motors. We tied up to an out-of-service
tourist boat and explored the city. A local family has adopted us, feeding us
delicious fish and cakes and showing us around town. It is a good place to
pause for a while.
We are happy to be
cruising again. It is a life full of continuity yet renewal. We are always the
same Steve, Ginny, and George in the same Thurston,
yet we are always in new places. We keep things fixed, keep ourselves clothed
and fed, and make progress toward our goal. We set a leisurely pace, yet we are
barely able to stay awake until 9:00, so full are our days with parenting,
small-boat contortions, and the myriad labors of travel.
Some new photos may be
found at: https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart4
Lots of love,
Steve, Ginny, &
George
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