tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16713245784174605162024-03-05T02:07:53.565-08:00The Adventures of Ginny and Steve (and George)!The Ladd family travels the Caribbean and the rivers of South America.ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-32066785425174526502022-02-24T19:41:00.000-08:002022-02-24T19:41:11.496-08:00The Book is Done!<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Hey you 28 followers, still following? You haven’t gotten a post from us
since the voyage ended seven years ago. Time flies when you’re having kids (we now have two) and
writing a book. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">A new edition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Three Years in a 12-Foot Boat</i> can now be
ordered in ebook or paperback!</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0959RP7BK?ref_=dbs_m_mng_rwt_calw_tkin_0&storeType=ebooks&qid=1645750934&sr=8-3" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2665" data-original-width="1785" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2-E7o3afeGPtwz5elU8mpav_J8phnmOEIx3WbZd0D0VxJAvD_9WwCU1Qtcy6kqNYu5xrHP40HgAmNpdHg13YCTUKq4aIq2BI2nc8IL3NGF_xkT_YUX1mHQK0ovLyt2FDuUxlac8_T_rkouL3Db7x41GXDnc6nF80BpaqYIMm-xC5QsSowbsQ011rp2A=w134-h200" width="134" /></a><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09Q1L6MW8?notRedirectToSDP=1&ref_=dbs_mng_calw_1&storeType=ebooks" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinb3EFYsGOL2k6Vqh8kygtGLNXSvEZUmAp-xH7kuIKlIJ2RxgZRcGIL64lWp8-zdtlMxKb_B4Y9vLEHwrXs1TR2WWguSRJ2vx1wWE6a5Y2WnInCm6kz49l0za1d-W3zsr9gXczbTjtdmkSQxHV7xGBpfbrpwpsvrDjKibHGo_92FU10dyjj6z-hOD-iA=w125-h200" width="125" /></a></div></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"></p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Likewise Ginny’s and my book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Five-Year Voyage: Exploring Latin
American Coasts and Rivers,</i> can now be ordered in both formats! In both cases the publication date is April 5, so
you may have to pre-order with delivery on that date. The two can be bought as a series: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09QC2M7GN?searchxofy=true&binding=kindle_edition&ref_=dbs_s_aps_series_rwt_tkin&qid=1645750934&sr=8-3&fbclid=IwAR3AhNyQnalM4IRUjFL54KZT2I4NoV3ThryHdmUnrkTC97of5T8QcFe3oCg" target="_blank"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Ladd Small-Boat Adventures</i></a>.<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I'm sorry we never got to know most of you. If you would, please comment something about yourselves. Have you had adventures of your own you care to mention? Would you recommend other true adventure books to us?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Steve and Ginny<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"> </p>
ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-29284016522447018892014-12-19T10:19:00.000-08:002014-12-19T10:19:20.992-08:00Death of a Voyage<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear friends and family,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Steve speaking. I last wrote to you from St.
Martin at the northwest end of the chain of small islands that begins with
Grenada. I was there for two weeks under a bridge, mainly fixing a broken mast
step.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At midnight on November 19 I sailed from St.
Martin for the Virgin Islands, course 300º. As clouds flew west, windows of open
sky flew with them, framing ever-changing patches of stars. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston’s</i> compass is unlit, and I didn’t
want to ruin my night vision by keeping my headlamp lit, so I kept finding new
stars to steer by, each with a different reference point on the boat, like the
motor’s gas cap or the starboard oarlock. I changed star and reference point
every ten minutes or so. The lights of St. Martin and Anguilla dulled and faded
astern as the night progressed. The wind blew inconstantly between ten and
twenty knots.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the morning a series of rains passed over.
But these rains were not the squalls that had pummelled me in the Guyanas. The
wind picked up and died only marginally as they passed over. In a day alone at
sea I saw only one cruise ship, like a white ghost stalking the world’s
northern rim. The air was cool and damp. No longer in the tropics, I wore rain
pants and a windbreaker. I frequently glanced aft. The coming waves were 6-8
feet tall, worth keeping track of. To stay awake I drank a 1.5-liter bottle of
cola.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Virgin Gorda (Fat Virgin) is well-named because
she is bulky, smooth, and nicely rounded. Haze hid her until only sixteen miles
away, but this delayed sighting was less traumatic than in pre-GPS 1993, when I
almost missed the British Virgin Islands altogether! I sailed around Virgin
Gorda’s north end and slept at anchor in a bay full of chartered sailboats.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sparkling white sails flitted here and there as I
cruised down Sir Francis Drake Channel, spending nights in Tortola, St. Thomas,
and Culebra. As always, in towns where waterfront is expensive and there is no
public landing, I looked for a place where I could step ashore without the
property owner objecting, yet that was public enough that a potential thief would
fear being seen. It was usually in a quiet corner that developers hadn’t
touched lately, within a few paces of a public road. This scouting is much like
when we are on the road and looking for a place to sleep in our vehicle. It
requires consideration of both physical characteristics and the likely reaction
of unknown people.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I continued around the south coast of Puerto
Rico the water was brilliant blue where deep, jade green over shallows. I reefed
so as to only occasionally surf wave fronts and maintain an average speed of around
5.5 knots. Going faster was too stressful. Ponce is the principal city on Puerto
Rico’s beautiful south coast. As in 1993 I asked the Ponce Yacht Club
management if I could anchor off their beach and access town through their
gate. This time they weren’t as enthusiastic, but when I showed them the pages
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Three Years in a 12-Foot Boat</i> that
describe my previous warm welcome they honored that precedent! As in 1993 I
walked a lot because the stores are miles inland, and found white gas at the
same Kmart. This was a great relief after using automotive gas in our stove for
three years. An American in Puerto Rico feels comfortable because the people
know the States well; you aren’t entirely a foreigner to them.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">From Boquerón, at Puerto Rico’s southwest
corner, I sailed halfway across the Mona Passage to Isla Mona, which stands by
itself, five miles in diameter. In 1993 I didn’t linger because a cold front was
due to arrive. This time I stayed a second night. It is a nature reserve, with
only a small staff and sportsmen that come to hunt the goats and wild pigs that
impact the native sea turtles and the Mona iguana, which exists no where else
in the world. I hiked all day on trails etched through the cactus and-small-leaf
scrub. The island is a plateau surrounded by cliffs, made of karst: crackling
limestone full of caves and sinkholes. Only at the end of the day, my feet
satisfactorily blistered, did a ranger tell me I wasn’t allowed there because I
didn’t have a permit.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The second half of the Mona Passage concerned me
more than the first half. For one thing I couldn’t leave at night because in
order to maximize my protection I had worked my way in among some coral heads before
anchoring, and I was afraid I might bump into them in the dark. For another,
whereas in 1993 I sailed around the south side of Hispaniola (the island shared
by the Dominican Republic and Haiti), this time I wanted to go north-around in
order to position myself for the Turks and Caicos, which would in turn position
me for the Bahamas. The east coast of the Dominican Republic consists of capes
projecting eastward into the wind, useless in terms of protection. The north
coast also has few harbors. But, having read a cruising guide and studied the
area with Google Earth, I saw places that might shelter a small, shallow-draft
boat able to come in among corals and mangrove.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was December 1, 2014. The sea outside Isla Mona’s
lee was fierce. For only the second time during the voyage (the first time was
tacking out to Mexico’s Chinchorro Bank) I left the cockpit drain open while
underway because I couldn’t keep up with the bailing. (With the drain open a few
gallons of water ride along in the footwell, robbing a bit of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston’s</i> buoyancy, but it can’t get
any worse.) I steered northwest, and in the afternoon started seeing a low
coast to port. I rounded Cabo Engańo (Cape Cheat) several miles out. Here a coral
reef began, paralleling the coast a mile offshore. The shallow lagoon between
was exposed to wind waves but free of swell energy, it having been dissipated
in huge breakers. I passed a local skiff fishing outside the reef. It was
visible only when both it and I were atop waves. If either of us was in a
trough it disappeared from view. The swells were about ten feet tall, but there
must be a way back in or the skiff wouldn’t have come out.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On Google Earth I had identified a breaker-less pass
a quarter mile wide with many boats anchored just inside. I arrived per the
GPS. It looked clear so I reefed down, to take it slow, and steered into the
gap. Everything looked good until the breakers were immediately to my left and
right. Suddenly a roar caused me to look back. A breaker as big as those to
either side was rearing up! No matter how I steered I would broach. One second
I was saying, “Oh shit,” the next I was swirling underwater, blind and
disoriented. My tether towed me until my belt and fanny pack strap, to which
the clip was attached, both parted. Soon thereafter I broke surface. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> was back on her bottom. She had
quickly self-righted because both masts were gone. Masts, booms, sails, and
oars were floating just upwind. The wind was blowing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> toward the beach faster than the flotsam. We seemed to be
past the critical line so I anchored (the anchor and rode had stayed in place under
their cover at the bow) then swam this way and that recuperating <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston’s </i>parts as they floated by. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A Sea Pearl’s masts consist of a smaller upper
aluminium tube lodged inside a larger lower tube. Both masts’ upper tubes had
broken where they immerge from the lower tube. The main sail had a hole in it,
the mizzen was shredded. My sliding-seat rowing station had worked loose from
its holder and sank. The motor had spent time underwater, so it couldn’t be
expected to start. All three of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston’s</i>
modes of propulsion were gone.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I pulled the last piece of mast and sail aboard
an open boat drew up. They were two Dominican Navy guys come to rescue me. I could
have paddled ashore but it was easier to go along. I couldn’t pull the anchor up,
it having snagged on a coral head, so I tied a buoy to its rode for later
retrieval. (I subsequently returned to that spot per my GPS, which survived the
capsize, but couldn’t find the buoy.) The corals, orange-ish columns in the
turbid, turquoise water, rose almost to the surface. This was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> a pass! The Navy guys, afraid of another
breaker, quickly towed me to the anchorage, where I dropped my remaining hook. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The other boats were for the tourist trade: marlin-fishing boats, “pirate”
barges, glass-bottom excursions, etc.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I started putting things in order. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> had performed as designed. No
water had entered the cabin. Her 24 tanks and bins, which ballast her, had
shifted to starboard a couple inches, riding up and over the “blobs” intended
to hold them laterally, but they had not come loose. The floorboards (3/16”
aluminium) had bulged upward but their edges were still trapped under the port
and starboard “ledges.” Judiciously hammering, I got everything back into
place. Smaller objects had travelled in circumferential paths. Evidently the
breaker slammed her starboard-side-down then rolled her 360º. Her mast heads may
have hit bottom on the way.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The satellite photos one accesses through Google
Earth are a weak guide because they capture only a point in time with no
information as to swell height, tidal state, or wind condition where and when
the photo was taken. These factors may be more or less conducive to breakers
when you arrive. In this case they were more conducive.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I should have studied the “pass” more, cruising
back and forth at a safe distance. I would have seen the occasional breakers
and known I had to keep to sea that night, an unpleasant prospect but better
than capsizing. Protected water is like the Sirens of Odyssey fame, luring the sailor
onto the rocks. He so craves rest he succumbs to wishful thinking and relaxes
his vigilance. I had capsized due to waves in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Squeak</i> a few times during my 1990-93 voyage, but never in one these
bone-crushers. I had came close, and had nightmares about them, but until now
could only wonder what it would be like. I lost the rig only because I was
sailing at the time. If I had rolled up the sails and motored in the masts
would not have broken (but the motor might have ingested more water).</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was angry at myself. To fix <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> would cost plenty and further
delay my reunion with Ginny and George. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>
was old and of little market value, so she could be considered totalled. We
planned to sell her when I got back anyway because she is too small now. Better
to sell her for whatever I could get.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I felt relief that I might soon be back with my
family, and that I could say adios to this difficult coast. But I paled at the
thought of not finishing the voyage, and of leaving <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> behind after the thousands of hours of work we had put
into her.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The anchorage was rough, but I had to stay put
for a day and a half until officials cleared me in. Then I anchored closer and
swam ashore. I walked in both directions looking for things lost in the
capsize, like my cockpit cushion and water bottle, but too much time had
passed. Dozens of swarthy men in jump-suits were clearing seaweed off the beach.
This coast is a huge tourism complex! They call it Punta Cana after a minor
point whose name has a better connotation than Cabo Engańo. For twelve miles the
beautiful beach is strung with fine hotels. Millions of vacationers visit annually
from all over the world.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My immediate beach supported a large community
of Dominican and Haitian tourism laborers. They were excursion organizers, gift
shop hawkers, and masseuses. One guy trained manta rays at a nearby aquarium.
Another took people up in a flying boat. All day long they said, “Hello my
friend!” to the people passing by in swim suits and tried to herd them this way
or that. Inland there was no town in the conventional sense, just scattered
commercial strips and malls.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Word of my plight got around. A mechanic fixed
my motor for free. The clerk at a pharmacy gave me free wi-fi. The landlady for
several shops gave me a space under a stairway to put my stuff and sleep. It
was close to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> so I could keep
an eye on her. When the space became full of my stuff I slept upstairs on a massage
table or in my tent on the sand.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I let it be known that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> was for sale for $1000. A fishing-charter crewmember known
as Tio (Uncle) immediately wanted her. Tio was of mixed African and Hindu
blood, barrel-chested, with greying hair tied tightly into a bun on the top of
his head. His posture was erect, his face sharp, almost fierce. He got along
well with everyone yet kept aloof. Having lived in Brooklyn he spoke English,
often finishing a statement with the words, “You know what I’m a-sayin’?”. Dedicated
to his work and family, he also laughed a lot and appreciated a good adventure.
He wanted to restore <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> and not
change a thing. He would use her personally, not as a tourism venture.</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kp1SLA9Lsdg/VJLqM0eBo0I/AAAAAAAAQTs/iTxYCeFAb7s/s1600/PC100194.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kp1SLA9Lsdg/VJLqM0eBo0I/AAAAAAAAQTs/iTxYCeFAb7s/s1600/PC100194.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> It took a week for papers to be drawn up and for
Tio to get the majority of the money together. The lawyer will give him the
title when he wires me the rest. Meanwhile a Naval Intelligence agent smelling
strongly of corruption periodically reminded me that I must report to him
before I left the country. His organization had already extracted money for the
privilege of searching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> for
drugs, and they wanted another crack at me after I had received payment for the
boat. Tio and I thwarted him by keeping it a secret. I bought a ticket on-line
and in the coming days pretended to not know when I would be leaving. The
locals were friendly but too inquisitive. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">During five years we had accumulated a lot of
stuff considering how small <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>
is. I decided what to keep and how to ship it. On my last swim out to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> I cried and patted her
affectionately. “You’re a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">f**king</i>
good boat,” I said, “A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">f**king</i> good
boat!” And so she is. What other vessel could have taken us all those places?
Her every detail was honed to perfection in the rough-and-tumble of ultra-light
voyage.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On December 14, 2014, almost exactly five years after we
departed from Pine Island, Florida I stepped off a plane at Sea-Tac airport and
hugged my family. George grinning wide in disbelief. The next day I went to Goodwill, bought a belt, and threw
away the rope I’d been using to hold my pants up. I am no longer a shipwrecked
sailor.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Steve Ladd</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For more photos see <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/VirginIslandsToDominicanRepublicAndHome">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/VirginIslandsToDominicanRepublicAndHome</a></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-026bQfRQ4kU/VHZJCc4_B7I/AAAAAAAAQLk/V2Pzw5Nxn0w/s1600/PB030334.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-026bQfRQ4kU/VHZJCc4_B7I/AAAAAAAAQLk/V2Pzw5Nxn0w/s1600/PB030334.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear friends and family,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Steve speaking. I last wrote to you from Trinidad,
southernmost of the Caribbean island chain. I was there for three weeks at a
marina, fixing things, writing, and mapping.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">On <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_83797621" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ">October 13</span></span>, my work finished, I launched <i>Thurston,</i> cleared customs, and motored
west around the mountain range that caps the island’s north end and extends
west as a peninsula, not quite reaching Venezuela. Passing through the Dragon’s
Mouth, northern gate to the Gulf of Paria, <i>Thurston</i>
re-entered the Caribbean after an absence of three years. My first passage
would be to Grenada, eighty miles north. The wind and current would be carrying
me west, so I travelled east along Trinidad’s north coast twenty miles to
better situate myself for the jump-off. To minimize my exposure to the contrary
Guyana Current, wherein sufficient water enters the Caribbean to match that
which exits it via the Gulf Stream, I followed the cliffs closely and dipped
into amphitheatre bays. Cactus and palm trees grew on rocky shelves. At one
headland, following the example of a fishing skiff, I cut through a gap between
the mainland and a craggy island taller than it was long or wide. The vertical
walls of this marine alley were ten paces apart. A heavy ground swell was
running through the gap, occasionally breaking white against the walls. The
swells reeled, tipped, and rolled through the chasm. I stayed in the center,
not to be dashed against a wall. It reminded me of a carnival ride I went on as
a child where you walk down a long, revolving tube.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I reached Maracas Bay after dark, anchored in
its most protected corner, and rested a bit. Then at <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_83797622" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ">midnight</span></span> I turned on my
navigation lights and steered north toward Grenada, the motor at half throttle.
There was no wind. A half moon illuminated sea and clouds. Heat lightning
played in the sky ahead. Later enough breeze stirred to allow some sailing, but
not enough to turn the motor off. The sun came up and I fought sleep. In 1992 I
got a ride across this strait with <i>Squeak</i>
aboard a freighter. This time, with a motor, I did it on my own.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">At <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_83797623" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ">4:00</span></span> I entered Prickly Bay on the south coast
of<span> </span>Grenada. Hundreds of yachts were
moored there because it was hurricane season and Grenada, like Trinidad, lays
south of Hurricane Alley. I found wi-fi ashore and told Ginny I was OK, then
anchored in shallow water off a swimming beach. A sign said No Anchoring, but I
got away with it.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gluxw36bIoQ/VHZIoyUk65I/AAAAAAAAQIM/bbdiBAaPad8/s1600/PA170131.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gluxw36bIoQ/VHZIoyUk65I/AAAAAAAAQIM/bbdiBAaPad8/s1600/PA170131.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In the morning I visited with a wraith-like
French Canadian live-aboard I had met the evening before. He sold art to
support himself, but had only earned $30 in the past three months! He was
skinny as a rail and his feet were swollen from malnutrition. I gave him some
potatoes, which he ate raw because he didn’t believe in cooking food. He
claimed to be learning to live without food and water altogether, based on some
alternative-spirituality theory. “Then I won’t have to worry about food anymore,”
he said. His boat was a worthless hodge-podge. The bottom hadn’t been scraped
for ten years. He had taped and twined a framework of plastic pipes onto the
bow of his dingy, like a projecting prow, and intended this evolving sculpture
to become his new main boat, in a logic I couldn’t fathom. He had made it all
the way down from Montreal, but what would he do now, starving, hardly able to
walk, with a boat that could barely move? As I worked my way up the chain I
would meet others who had followed a dream but reached dead ends.</span></div>
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<img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0_Gs7fivMoQ/VHZIt9hlUDI/AAAAAAAAQI0/C6oO8S5xra0/s1600/PA200174.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I got some East Caribbean dollars at a cash
machine, and in the following days revisited islands along my 1992 route. In
Bequia I ran into Andy, whom I wrote about in <i>Three Years in a 12-Foot Boat,</i> and swam a stretch of coast looking
unsuccessfully for an underwater tunnel I found back then. I stayed only a day
or two each in St. Vincent, St. Lucia, and Martinique. Everything seemed
smaller and closer together than I remembered, but as beautiful as ever, so
lofty and emerald green. If only Ginny and George could have been with me! But
they were with in Los Angeles with Ginny’s mom, Lois, helping her get through a
surgery on her pancreas.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x0sYJyAUomg/VHZI4lldNtI/AAAAAAAAQKU/HrHduiTUAFY/s1600/PA250261.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x0sYJyAUomg/VHZI4lldNtI/AAAAAAAAQKU/HrHduiTUAFY/s1600/PA250261.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">On the west coast of Dominica I found the Layou
River unchanged. As in 1992, it was just deep enough, and I and the available little
boys were just strong enough, to pull my boat up a 200-yard-long natural
spillway through a gravel beach to a limpid lagoon behind the impoundment. “Tie
up good, the river goes strong she rain,” said a local guy whom I joined on the
bank for conversation.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Did you clear in at Roseau?” asked another.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I waded back out into the water. “I don’t have
to clear in because I’m not on land, see?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My interrogator laughed. “Don’t worry, I am not
a policeman.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Hustlers hassled me in the towns of these poor
islands, but here in the countryside my curious acquaintances left when they
saw I was ready to retire. No one bothered me as I slept afloat in that fresh pond,
nor in the morning half-light when I tied a line to <i>Thurston’s</i> bow and lowered her stern first through the river’s
swift final rush, wading upstream of her, leaning back against her resistance, pulling
left or right to steer her. Where fresh and salt water joined, in a minor
confusion of conflicting waves, I got in and continued north.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Since leaving Belém I had travelled 1,570
nautical miles, averaging 18.5 miles per day including days in port. At that
rate I would reach Florida in early January. The separation had not been easy
for Ginny or me. She sent me lots of pictures and videos of George. He was
always being cute and doing new things. I ached with <i>saudade,</i> as the Brazilians would say.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I constantly looked for free places to sleep in
calm water and get ashore without a dinghy. Sometimes I found places to wade
ashore unopposed. Other times I stuffed clothes and fanny pack into a waterproof
bag and swam in from an anchorage, then changed on the beach. In Rodney Bay,
St. Lucia, I thought I had hit the jackpot when I found, behind a mega-yacht
marina, on a shoreline adjoining the main road, a line of cheap and abandoned
boats. Those boat owners obviously weren’t paying much, so I pulled in there
too. My self-congratulation waned when a black man angrily approached. “What
you doing coming into my marina without permission first?” he demanded. He had
built a couple of flimsy wooden platforms over the water, probably without
permission, and in his mind this made him the owner of a marina, albeit on a smaller
scale than the real marina. I might have contested his right to charge me
except I hadn’t cleared in and needed to avoid the authorities. It didn’t make
sense to legally enter island nations where I only stayed a day or two. The
processes are time-consuming and they often want money now. And every island,
or pair of islands like St. Kitts and Nevis, is a different country!</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Martinique and Guadeloupe differed from the
English-speaking islands in that they were part of France. White or black, the
people were French, and financially secure. They used euros. The English
speaking islands were more independent, and poorer.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Around Martinique the winds came back. I sailed
more as I rounded the curve of islands, my northing done for now and a lot of
down-wind sailing to look forward to. I tethered myself in for the crossings in
case I fell overboard. My course was a succession of open crossings then a coastal
run up the island’s lee. They were old volcanoes, bulky enough to shade me from
waves and the harsh morning sun. At an island’s north end I passed through a
zone of unpredictable gusts and wind veers before enjoying the undisturbed
trade winds again.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">North of Guadeloupe I left my 1992 route and
went to Antigua instead of Montserrat. During the crossing one squall after
another plastered me. They were areas of darker cloud mass with white or grey
rain tendrils, visible well in advance but mercurial. They often dissipated
before hitting, or intensified, so what looked like a flimsy shower became a big
downpour forming right over me. You never know how much wind they will contain.
I reefed in advance but it wasn’t enough, so I removed the main mast altogether
in order to point into the wind, and kept the sea anchor tied to the bow, ready
for quick deployment if all else failed. “What can go wrong?” I often asked
myself, because as the wind crescendos it finds a weak link and breaks it, then
a sail goes out of control. The squalls slowed me down because I could make
little progress until they had passed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">At Antigua I stayed in Falmouth Harbour on the
island’s south shore. It is a haven for English ex-pats that had sailed there
long ago and stayed, and a focal point for high-end yacht racing, but it was the
off season now. I met some fellow sailors at a yacht club bar and several times
sat with them at their accustomed table. Two weeks before the eye of Hurricane
Gonzalo had passed right overhead, catching everyone completely by surprise. Over
a hundred boats had been lost there and at St. Barts and St. Martin. Upon my
arrival the satellite weather image showed a formation identical to that which
led up to the recent disaster, so everyone was prepping their boats for a
repeat. I moved <i>Thurston</i> to the
island’s best hurricane hole, English Harbour. It has been regarded as such
since at least 1627, because I found a letter of that date containing that
affirmation, posted in a display at the old English Harbour shipyard, which has
been restored as a national park. (Horatio Nelson commanded the post for a
while, so they call it Nelson’s Dockyard.) Had a hurricane hit I would have
been safe, but we didn’t even get a good storm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I sailed to St. Kitts, a sixty-mile crossing. At
the capital, Basse-Terre, I found a fishermen’s harbour behind a short jetty
and passed a tranquil night. The following day being Sunday no internet could
be found in the old town, so I continued, past Dutch Statia and Saba, to St.
Barthelemy, another French island. Gustavia, its principal town, showed
sophisticated urban design in its modern yet historically sensitive architecture.
A low sea-wall and esplanade encompassed the clean harbor. Boats lay tied to
mooring buoys, one to bow and one to stern so no one swung, or med-moored, with
one line to a buoy and another to the sea wall. The roofs were red like tiles
but actually of some sheet material. Development had crept up the surrounding
amphitheater of hills, but the green peaks were still sacrosanct.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I stopped at Anguilla, a British overseas
territory, and used up the last of my East Caribbean dollars because they
wouldn’t be any good further west. Here the expatriates in the resorts and new
homes were Americans, and the development was auto-oriented with little
sense of history.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">On November 4 I reached St. Martin, the north
half of which is French, the south half Dutch. (The Dutch spelling is Sint
Maarten.) During the crossing <i>Thurston’s</i>
mizzen mast step cracked. Part of the tube the mast goes into broke off in my
hand. The fitting had been leaking on-and-off throughout the voyage. Also the
engine would have to be removed from the outboard again to fix a slipping
clutch. These things would take a while to fix, so I cleared into the French
side, where the fees are lower. Then I cruised around Simpson Bay, a large
internal lagoon, looking for a good place. With no dinghy I couldn’t anchor out
like the other live-aboards. While working on the mast step I couldn’t erect
the awning so I needed a place with shade and shelter from the rain.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I found it under a new bridge that crosses the
lagoon, by the main live-aboard anchorage. On the east end, in shallow water next
to its abutment, I tied to overhead utility conduits. Then I found a heavy plank
and propped it on the abutment rip-rap, weighting it with rocks so it projected
toward <i>Thurston</i> like a diving board.
Thus I could step ashore without getting my feet wet. I had to crouch under the
bridge’s massive concrete beams but could stand upright between them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I would need certain things, so I explored the
highly developed area around Simpson Bay. Upon tying up at Lagoon Marina’s
dinghy dock, on the Dutch side, a husky blonde man in his thirties said to the
older man next to him, who turned out to be his father, “You know what this
boat reminds me of? Remember that <i>really</i>
little wooden boat that stayed here a while a long time back?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Was it around January, 1993?” I asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“That’s about right.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Did you have a big map on the wall back then
showing hurricane tracks?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“That was me!” The blonde guy, Bernard, was only
fourteen at the time but he remembered me. Then he was the son of the owner, a
Dutchman. Now he managed the marina but his mother and father were still with him.
They dug up a photo of me sailing <i>Squeak.</i>
The marina had changed entirely, but the same family still ran it.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As in 1993, the boat owners were of many
nationalities, the most numerous being English, French, South African, and American.
St. Martin was the hardest hit in Hurricane Gonzalo. Dozens of boats lay
wrecked along the shore of the Lagoon and in the saltwater bays. Little
recovery had been done. No one felt responsible for disposing of the totaled
boats. They will probably remain as nuisances. Many had saved their boats but sustained
damage. Masts were broken off, topsides holed, stanchions bent. One live-aboard
drowned. I listened to the survivors. The mayhem was fearful. The wind clocked
around to the west and blew a hundred knots for three hours. Many boats dragged
anchor, and many that were holding were swept away when boats dragged down on
top of them. They smashed into the bridge and got their masts sheared off.
Those tied to docks beat against the concrete until they sank. The wind worked
the roller-furling sails loose and tore them to shreds. Some planned to fix
their boats. Others lacked the money, or thought their boats weren’t worth it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In the cool dry space under the bridge I broke
out the old mast step, gouged out rotten wood where the mast passes through the
deck, and waited for the remaining wood to dry before installing a new tube to
accept the mast. A ten-minute walk from my private dock there was a modern
supermarket that accepted guilders or US dollars. Another fifteen minutes along
a congested road brought me to Lagoon Marina, or I could boat there. A
live-aboard with a shop there helped me with the motor. I became a regular at the
marina bar, which had two-for-one beers from five to six.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The Amazon and Caribbean have their rainy
seasons at opposite times of year. I left Brazil just before their monsoon hit,
but here it was still in force. Few days passed without a good shower. Again,
the people were a fascinating mix. One occasionally heard Dutchmen conversing
in their native tongue, Sint Maarten being a quasi-independent nation within
the Netherlands kingdom. Anyone who had attended public school in Sint Maarten
could speak Dutch. But mostly one heard West Indian English. Most of the black people
had come from other islands or from Guyana looking for work. On the buses the
principal language was Spanish, because the laborers were largely from
the Dominican Republic.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Pretty soon I will cross over to the Virgin
Islands and Puerto Rico. I will have more stories for you then. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-TT" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Steve Ladd</span></div>
Lots of photos to be found here:<a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/TrinidadToStMartin"> https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/TrinidadToStMartin</a>
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<br />
September 30, 2014<br />
<br />Dear friends and family,<br />
<br />
I last wrote to you from <i>St. Laurent</i> on the <i>Maroni </i>River, boundary between French Guyana and Suriname. On September 1 and 2 I sailed from there to the <i>Suriname </i>River, a hundred nautical miles west along a low coast. An energy drink kept me awake through the night, and a half-moon boosted my confidence by illuminating the waves and the horizon.<br />
<br />
I stopped where the <i>Suriname </i>River and <i>Commewijne </i>rivers join, a few mile inside the mouth, and got permission to tie up at rickety fishermen’s dock. Crossing the mangrove zone via planks set on pilings I entered the village of <i>Nieuw Amsterdam</i>. The land was low and flat, the lanes wide apart and paved with bricks. It looked much like Holland except the people were East Indians, Indonesians, and Africans. It was also far hotter than Holland!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_8nItu4NmM/VCnNRe7N_iI/AAAAAAAAP5s/TOBb9HTHmQ4/s1600/DSCN4559.jpg" height="240" width="320" /> </div>
<br />
I went to a cyber café and looked at the place in Google Maps. The image showed a perfect five-pointed star where the two rivers join. Curious, I walked there. The star is the moat of a fort built by the Dutch in the 1700’s! It still had cannons of several vintages, including some used to sink a German ship when it tried to enter the river in World War II.<br />
<br />
When I got back the tide was out and Thurston was laying in a bed of soft ooze. It didn’t matter because I was going to see <i>Paramaribo</i>, the capital city. I took a ferry across the river, then a bus. The center was of ornate wooden buildings in an old Dutch style. In <i>Cayenne </i>I saw lots of French people, but in <i>Paramaribo </i>I saw no Dutchmen. Now that Suriname is independent its colonial roots seem to lack relevance.<br />
<br />
The coast of the Guyanas has no bays, only river mouths. In some cases they are within 65 nautical miles of each other, the distance I can generally cover between sunup and sundown. In other cases they are further apart. It is unsafe to arrive at a new place in the dark, but okay to leave in the dark if you have looked it over in the daytime. The river mouths are deep and north-facing, free of breakers, but they contain hundreds of pilings that the fishermen have sunk into the bottom to hold nets. Even miles from land there may be lines of poles, most no longer in use but still hazardous. I constantly scanned the horizon for them.<br />
<br />
There was no high ground, just straight coastlines of salt-tolerant trees. At spring high tides the sea just covers their roots. At low tide the forest is a wilderness of muck and thick vegetation.<br />
In the <i>Coppename </i>River I went up a narrow tidal creek and tied to a mangrove branch. No-see-ums kept getting into the cabin despite my fine-mesh net. Their bites gave me itchy welts. It was hot and stuffy inside, and the mangrove gave off a sour smell. As the tide fell I had to go out and loosen the lines. When the current switched direction I had to re-situate her to stream properly in the center of the creek. As the tide rose I had to clear her of projecting branches that were trapping her downward. Each time no-see-ums got into the cabin.<br />
<br />
These days I ate for breakfast what I call “Brazilian Grape Nuts.” In the Guyanas, as in Brazil, manioc flour is popular. Though made from a root, not wheat, it is similar in taste and texture to Grape Nuts! I ate it with milk from paper cartons and chopped fruit. In the tropics foods containing lots of fluids and sugars are the most appealing.<br />
<br />
On September 8 I entered Guyana, formerly known as British Guyana. I entered Georgetown, on the <i>Demerara </i>River, but didn’t fare well. The waterfront was all broken-down wharves. A young man frantically gestured for me to tie up at a dock with sagging, uneven beams. He looked suspicious, but I needed a mooring. He tied my line then promptly requested payment for his services! He also warned that my boat would be stripped unless I hired him to watch it. Just then a police boat pulled alongside. One officer told me to climb up onto the dock. By the time I got there another officer had boarded <i>Thurston </i>and was ordering me to come back aboard. They asked me questions and looked blankly at my papers. Finally they told me to report at “the embassy” and left.<br />
<br />
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<img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SnusvFXpl4I/VCnN1r_PpOI/AAAAAAAAP8c/1ejq8Ww8xn0/s1600/DSCN4668.jpg" height="240" width="320" /> </div>
<br />
The guy who wanted money didn’t know what the place was called either, but it was only two docks away, so I went there. It was a tall, rambling structure containing the Customs and Harbor-master offices. I hadn’t checked into the country, or into Suriname or French Guyana for that matter. Normally I would have, but my friend Peter, the yachtsman we had met in Manaus, had advised me that clearance procedures aren’t enforced. At the Customs office the word “agent” was mentioned. That is a bad word because an agent is someone you have to pay to do a lot of worthless paperwork. “Hey, I’m leaving in the morning,” I said. “I just stopped here to get some sleep!” The harbourmaster finally allowed me to tie alongside a patrol boat provided I didn’t go ashore. I left at dawn with my money intact.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t far to the <i>Essequibo</i>, a larger river with several islands in its delta. The coastline now was lined with buildings, the interior having been drained for cultivating rice and sugar cane. Every few miles I passed a canal opening with a tide gate for letting water out but not in. <br />
<br />
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<br />
A few miles up I found the marina Peter had recommended. The owner was of Madeiran (Portuguese) ancestry, a former seaman interested in my stories, and in telling his own. He had no place to tie up, just a ramp and sheds full of boats, so he pulled me out on a spare trailer. He charged me nothing. I gave him a copy of my book, <i>Three Years in a 12-Foot Boat, </i>which he savored. The town of <i>Parika </i>was two miles away, Georgetown twenty miles away. I visited both by mini-bus during my week there.<br />
<br />
In all three Guyanas the closer I looked the more ethnic schisms I perceived. In French Guyana I was told of a town where the leading language is Portuguese, the second is an Amerindian tongue, the third is Creole, and hardly anyone speaks French! In <i>Albina</i>, Suriname some of the people I passed on the street were <i>Maroons</i>, descendents of runaway slaves that still view the outside world as hostile. They in turn are split into several tribes each speaking a different language! Now, as I rode from Georgetown back to Parika one night, my taxi driver told me how in Guyana, unlike in India, Muslims such as himself get along with the Hindus. I had thought of the East Indians as a single group, but they aren’t. Every time I thought I had a handle on the Guyanas new wrinkles appeared. Generalizations were difficult. They contain such diversity yet they are tiny, numbering only a few hundred thousand people each. They are enclaves of variety in a continent otherwise awash with Spanish- and Portuguese-speakers.<br />
<br />
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<br />
On Sept. 19 I sailed to the <i>Pomeroon </i>River, another uninhabited mangrove bay. In the bright green trees were red and white dots which turned out to be scarlet and white ibises. From there I had planned to travel by interior streams into Venezuela, maybe stopping to visit Jonestown, which wasn’t far out of the way. But I was tired of mud, bugs, and tides, so before it got light I went back out to sea.<br />
<br />
When I got twenty miles out a huge storm started gaining on me from behind. It was enormous, and full of violent black energy. Anxious to avoid it I steered further seaward, sped by the faster winds that radiated from it, and tousled by the rougher seas it generated. A gust broke loose one of the<br />
fittings that hold my mainsail, causing it to fly up and flap. I jury-rigged it with a shackle and a piece of rope. Finally the storm drifted over land and I resumed course.<br />
<br />
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<br />
When night fell I felt very alone. I’m still not used to the open sea. This time there was no moon. As the hours dragged on I fought the urge to look at my watch. Using a headlamp with a red light to avoid spoiling my night vision I constantly checked my GPS and steered to keep it’s red arrow vertical. (When you tell it to navigate to a waypoint it gives you an arrow which rotates left or right when you go off course.) Fortunately the wind died down to a steady ten knots and the waves became regular. With the wind directly astern I put one sail to starboard and the other to port and positioned the tiller to hold her on course. I buckled into my harness, leaned against the lazarette, and slipped into and out of sleep. Twice I saw a brilliant light, slowly gained on it, and slowly passed it. They were big trawlers travelling slowly in the same direction as me. I had to stay awake while in their vicinity to avoid risk of collision.<br />
<br />
When sailing west it is best to make landfall in the morning or early afternoon, before the sun drops low enough to blind you. On the Guyana coast the shoals and high tidal range further restrict the time window, it being undesirable to arrive at low tide. Preferably one arrives in the latter half of a rising tide, with the shoals covered and the current in one’s favour. In the morning the east wind has an off-shore component (comes from the southeast) whereas in the afternoon it has an on-shore component (comes from the northeast). On the complex Guyana coast one must consider all these factors.<br />
<br />
In this instance it was unwise to aim for the <i>Waini </i>River, on the Guyana/Venezuela border, but propitious to target <i>Cańo Guiniguina</i>, a mouth halfway around the Orinoco’s fan-shaped delta. By the time I sighted land, thirty hours after leaving the <i>Pomeroon </i>River, the wind had almost disappeared. The surface waves were now only glittery wrinkles on the surface of big, round swells passing underneath me, like house-sized balls rolling under a blanket.<br />
<br />
Just inside the opening I passed an Indian hamlet, two or three houses of crude thatch. Further on I stopped at a raft consisting of plastic drums lashed together, covered by a plastic tarp, anchored away from shore to escape bugs. I visited with a dozen men, the crews of three open fishing boats. Then I gave them a big buoy I had found during the passage, probably lost by one of those big trawlers. I also gave them 100 <i>bolivares</i>, worth about five dollars, which I had left over from when we were in Venezuela. I wasn’t going to need them. The gifts were probably unnecessary in terms of good will, but it was reassuring to have friends nearby as I dropped anchor and cooked a much-deferred meal. Thunder rumbled through much of the night but again the storm passed someplace else.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I was out of the Guyanas. The bottom was firmer now. The Orinoco water was a glossy, translucent brown, not the opaque tan of the <i>Amazon </i>and the <i>Essequibo</i>. The following night I took refuge behind <i>Punta Pescador</i>, where I had stopped in 1992 as well, and the next day I rounded the point into the Gulf of Paria. To my right were the beaches, palm trees, and hills of Trinidad. Two days later I was here at <i>Chaguaramas</i>, a yachting center just west of Port of Spain, the capital.<br />
<br />
Our friends from the Rio Negro days, Peter and his lovely wife Louise, had arranged a free haulout for Thurston next to their power yacht, the <i>Passagemaker</i>. I spent a few days recuperating in luxury at their beautiful Amazon Lodge and now I am living aboard the <i>Passagemaker </i>as I write this. Thank you Peter and Louise for helping me prepare for the next leg back to my family!<br />
<br />
Steve Ladd<br />
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For more photos see <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/SurinameGuyanaOrinocoDelta">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/SurinameGuyanaOrinocoDelta</a>ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-5779426730555386082014-09-02T16:43:00.001-07:002014-09-02T16:43:58.013-07:00 St. Laurent, French Guyana<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dear friends and family,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We last wrote to you as guests of the municipal marina in <i>Belém</i>, Brazil. The employees and boat-owners there were exceptionally kind. From the second-story of a huge shed where boats were parked we occasionally had a free wi-fi signal. Mosquitoes were a problem and the bathrooms left much to be desired, but we had a safe, secure place and were never asked to pay anything. Thurston was parked on land next to where a rowing club had its boats. The rowers came every morning to work out. We became friends. They always checked in on George and asked, “Are you going to row today, Jorge?”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />We repainted parts of the boat, made a new way to hold the oars when not in use, and filled more holes in the bow, where five years of plowing onto things had taken a toll. New friends drove us around town. While not keeping George out of mischief Ginny taught Steve how to use the software for mapping and photography. Steve researched navigational problems, including the dreaded <i>pororoca</i>, the tidal wave that terrorizes certain areas around the mouth of the Amazon River at times of extreme tidal flux. People surf it! Fortunately it is only extreme in February and March.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The city had over a million inhabitants. The waterfront was mostly dangerous slums but it got cleaner and more prosperous inland. We sometimes walked around the old business district under the scortching sun on some boring errand or another. Perhaps looking for a little hat for George or some new bowls to eat out of. Ginny memorized the shops in town offering free tiny cups of coffee and we made our rounds accordingly.<br /><br />Brazil wanted so badly to win the 2014 World Cup of which they were hosts! The people prepped for astronomic celebrations, but their star player got injured while playing Colombia so they lost to Germany and Holland. The Brazilians took their defeat in stride and we missed out on the party of the century.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">On July 17 came the separation we had been dreading. Ginny and George flew to Los Angeles. Ginny kept her homecoming a secret from her mother and grandmother, and scored a big surprise. Since we ran away together in 2007 we had never been apart for more than a few days. We love each other deeply. Can we handle it? My job now (Steve writing in the first person) is to sail back as quickly and as safely as possible.<br /><br />Suddenly the boat was super-roomy! I felt guilty re-arranging everything to my liking, in all our former battlegrounds of space usage, but if I have to be lonely I might as well be comfortable. With George and Ginny no longer in residence I was also able to turn Thurston upside-down, fill dings in the bottom, and add a layer of fiberglass. Then I improved stowage in the forepeak by making a triangular box for boat-repair chemicals, on the lid of which I stow the heavy anchor and rode.<br /><br /><i>Belém</i> is on the <i>Pará </i>River which, like Argentina’s <i>Rio de la Plata</i>, is not so much a river as a common mouth for several rivers. The <i>Pará </i>is connected to the <i>Amazon </i>by the tidal streams that form the western edge of<i> Ilha de Marajó</i>, which is 170 miles from east to west and 120 miles from north to south. The <i>Pará</i>’s mouth is southeast of <i>Marajó </i>Island, the <i>Amazon</i>’s is northwest of it. Yet the entire complex can be considered a single delta.<br /><br />From <i>Belém </i>I planned to travel west around <i>Ilha Marajó</i> then exit via the <i>Amazon</i>. That way I would stay in rivers as long as possible and delay entering the Atlantic. But I changed my plans upon talking with my Russian friends, Anton and Julia.<br /><br />Their boat was the <i>Scalawag</i>, an old 37-foot fiberglass cutter built in the U.S. They had already tried twice to leave via the <i>Pará </i>mouth and each time were defeated by engine problems and strong currents. The second time they were attacked by pirates to boot. They were ready to try again. This time they would leave at the half moon, when the tides are in neap and the are currents slower.<br /><br />I liked the idea of catching the neap, which was only three days away, but from <i>Belém </i>to the ten-meter contour outside the mouth was 170 nautical miles, the latter half among treacherous shoals. I could never stay awake long enough to clear the danger zone, so I asked if they would tow me out the mouth. They agreed. I got a clearance for Trinidad. My hosts launched Thurston for me, and early on the morning of August 6, 2014 the <i>Scalawag</i> towed <i>Thurston </i>out into the <i>Pará </i>River. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />We were still within sight of <i>Belém </i>when the <i>Scalawag </i>lurched to a halt. We had ran aground, though the chart showed two meters. The tide was falling so we had to wait. By noon she was high and dry on a ribbon of sand. We set out anchors and dug a pit to facilitate turning the keel. As the water came up we winched her around until the bow faced deep water. Finally the keel lifted and we motored off.<br /><br />Where solid land ended we waited for the tide to change again. A three-knot current pulled the anchor chain straight as a rod. During the night a new sound brought us up on deck. A fishing net had gotten draped over the chain. While we wondered what to do a boat came close. They did something, and the net slipped away. Back to bed.<br /><br />In the morning favorable currents helped us get out past the critical zone where navigable channels are interspersed with shoals that break at low tide. When we reached the ten-meter depth contour we turned northwest, toward French Guyana. But the sea was too rough to separate so we continued together through a third night. <br /><br />I had slept much of the day so at 9:00 p.m. took the helm. I sailed <i>Scalawag </i>through fleet after fleet of fishing boats, knowing each had a net several kilometers long that could catch on a hull appendage. Whenever I thought I had passed the last boat more lights appeared on the horizon. Innumerable small wooden fishing boats were working these shallows fifty miles from land.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">At 3:00 a.m. Julia came on deck. The wind and waves were high. We were completely surrounded by fishing boats. She spoke no English, I spoke no Russian, so we got Anton up. They started bickering about something. Suddenly <i>Scalawag </i>stopped dead in the water while <i>Thurston </i>streamed ahead until arrested by the tow line. We had snagged a net.<br /><br />A long net is the ultimate sea anchor. It doesn’t move, whereas <i>Scalawag </i>and <i>Thurston</i> wanted to be blown downwind. The matter seemed to resolve itself when the net slipped free of <i>Scalawag</i>’s hull, but then it caught on the tow line connecting the two boats. Now the net was upwind, the boats downwind side-by-side. I swam to <i>Thurston </i>and untied the tow line, hoping Anton could pull it through from his end, but it was stuck. So I sat on <i>Thurston</i>’s bow and pulled hand-over-hand until I reached the net. The strain had caused it to snarl around the tow line. The best I could do was cut the line – actually my main anchor rode - on either side of the snarl and save the two halves. By this time <i>Scalawag </i>had snagged again, but the wind and waves were dying. In a couple hours it would be light, so we all went to sleep.<br /><br />At dawn we freed <i>Scalawag</i>. It was a good time to separate, so I got my things and departed. By the time I had put <i>Thurston </i>in order and raised her masts <i>Scalawag </i>had disappeared.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />The down-side to having exited via the <i>Pará </i>mouth was that I now had about 250 miles to travel before I would find a safe refuge, further than any of my previous passages. I would spend three nights adrift, difficult in <i>Thurston </i>because she rocks so violently.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The wind soon built to twenty knots from the east, an ideal angle. I positively flew all day, deeply reefed, the waves hissing as they slowly overtook me. At sunset I dropped my sea anchor, a cloth parachute attached to the bow by a stout line. The GPS now showed that a current was pulling me west at five knots. The speed and direction varied during the night as the tidal waters swirled. The wind stayed strong. <i>Thurston </i>oscillated once per second, to such an angle that the gunwales sometimes dipped under the water, obliging me to leave the cockpit drain open so water wouldn’t accumulate. Laying normally was impossible so I curled up in a fetal position transversely to the narrow hull so the roll would act on me longitudinally instead of laterally, and slept fairly well.<br /><br />The next day I sailed fast through alternating green ocean water and brown river water, still about fifty miles off-shore. Suddenly the GPS said I was going east, though the compass said I was going northwest! What current could possibly do that? After a half hour it disappeared and I was going northwest again. Without the GPS I’d never have perceived the deviation. I fought drowsiness by singing songs. I heard voices, but knew they were from the dreams I kept falling into and shaking myself out of.<br /><br />My second night at sea anchor went badly. The sea anchor dragged me over a shoal only five meters deep according to the charts. The strong wind running contrary to the current created short, steep waves, like in a river. So at 9:00 p.m. I got back underway. When I regained the ten-meter contour I stopped, but after a couple hours fishing boats got close so I had to sail again. I slept little.<br /><br />On my third day alone I saw no boats. At times I was able to adjust the controls to make <i>Thurston </i>self-steer, and got some blessed sleep. This was fortunate, because my third night at sea anchor was also nearly sleepless.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">On day four I was anxious to reach the shelter of <i>Cabo Cassiporé</i>. When the wind became light I cranked up the motor and added its propulsion to that of the sails. Low jungle became visible to port. I passed schools of large, silver fish that swam close together on the surface, their gaping round mouths open as if ingesting water. Some bashed against my boat. When I finally reached the cape, scores of scarlet ibises and flamingos took flight from a wall of verdant trees, then re-landed. I tied to a snag in the bay behind the cape. There was no real land, just sea-level swamp and mudflats. The ebb tide laid <i>Thurston </i>down in bottomless muck, but the flood tide lifted her back up again. High tide at sunset is a blessing because you have it again at dawn and can leave. When low tide is at sunset you have to stay further out, and get less protection.<br /><br />The next day I sailed around <i>Cabo Orange</i>, often sitting in the shadow of my mizzen sail to escape the broiling rays of the sun. I stayed a couple miles from land but it wasn’t enough. I kept encountering muck only a few inches below the surface of the sea, and had to steer further out. These capes are merely deposition sites for the immense volume of silt coming out of the <i>Amazon </i>River.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rounding <i>Cabo Orange</i> I left Brazil and entered French Guyana. In a small river mouth I found the village of <i>Ouanary</i>, with a population of under one hundred. Street lights and flowering shrubs adorned the lane running into town! Black women wearing colorful, flowing garb said “<i>Bonjour</i>” as I passed. There were no cars or motorbikes, just a few quads running on paved tracks. The school teacher, a huge man with a booming laugh, let me use his computer so I could email Ginny that I was okay, out of Brazil and in a fascinating new country.<br /><br />Sitting in his empty schoolroom I spliced my anchor line back together. I washed my clothes, and hiked to the top of a small mountain. The view was of endless virgin jungle. At the teacher’s house the TV played the news from Paris. French Guyana is actually part of France, like Hawaii and Alaska are parts of the United States. Everyone had decent homes and lived well with generous welfare benefits. The people spoke French Creole, and to a lesser extent French. There were also a lot of Brazilians mining the rivers for gold and coming into <i>Ouanary </i>for government assistance. Though illegal they were tolerated.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Two days later I reached <i>Cayenne</i>, French Guyana’s largest city though its population is only 50,000. I anchored in the harbor and got rides to the wharf from Venezuelan fishermen on a nearby boat. The town was full of Gallic charm, with two- and three-story buildings, wood or masonry, in old colonial styles. The public infrastructure was excellent, the streets clean. Less sanitary was a narrow channel into which fishing boats of several nationalities squeezed to sell fish, refit their boats, and replenish their provisions. Here Creole, French, Brazilian Portuguese, Venezuelan Spanish, and Guyanese English were spoken equally. I chose not to stay there because the water was full of fish offal. I bought groceries at a modern supermarket stocked with goods from France. On top of the hill was a fort with a plaque telling how in 1647 Dutch attackers captured the fort, but the French valorously won it back.<br /><br />On August 20 I sailed to Devil’s Island, where the <i>Papillon </i>story took place. Actually it is a cluster of three palm-covered islands. The prison colony is now a resort/nature preserve. Several excursion catamarans were there with tourists from the nearby town of <i>Kourou</i>, site of the European Space Agency’s Guyana missile center. As luck would have it, an Ariane rocket was due to launch that evening so everyone had to leave. The authorities cleared the area lest the rocket blow up, showering the area with fragments. So I sailed into the mouth of the <i>Kourou </i>River and slept there.<br /><br />A couple days later I reached the <i>Maroni </i>River, the boundary between French Guyana and Suriname. Fifteen miles upriver lay <i>St. Laurent</i>, on the French side, and <i>Albina</i>, Suriname. There was no bridge. Traffic between them was via a multitude of wooden canoes thirty to forty feet long. This boat consists of a dug-out bottom to which freeboard is added by attaching thick slabs of wood on the sides. At the bow and stern the bottom bends up to form large spoon-shaped appendages. Their two-stroke outboards created a constant buzzing sound.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The shores on both sides were busy with people and merchandise coming and going, but in <i>Albina </i>I found a house with a beach in front where I was allowed to stay. I laid a stern anchor and tied the bow to a tree. At high tide I was afloat and able to wade ashore. At low tide I was beached.<br /><br />The people of <i>Albina </i>presented a confusing mix! They mostly spoke an English-based Creole language unique to Suriname, but everyone also spoke Dutch, the official language. Most people understood some English and French. As if that weren’t enough, Amerindians spoke their own languages, as did the mysterious “Bush Blacks,” who in English are called Maroons. In addition to the usual European, Amerindian, and African blood lines, one saw Asian Indians and Indonesians as well, from other parts of the former Dutch Empire.<br /><br /><i>Albina </i>was garbage-strewn and drab. The people were rather poor, Suriname having had a difficult history since separating from Holland in the 1970s. Rastafarians hustled aggressively along the waterfront. Many of them had dreadlocks tucked into voluminous knit bags and pants worn so as to display their fine buttocks. I was warned not to go out after dark. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was a good place to work. I made new holders for my GPS, the previous device for holding it at eye level on the mizzen mast having broken. The house in front of which I stayed doubled as a sort of restaurant. They had no sign, but in the evening a few people would come around to drink beer and dance to music that sounded vaguely Caribbean. They served me <i>roti</i>, a meal of chicken and potato wrapped in an unleavened slab of bread.<br /><br />I stayed in <i>Albina </i>until August 27 then crossed over to <i>St. Laurent</i>. It was a lovely town, with clean streets, wide sidewalks, and charming colonial architecture. The town began as another penal colony, and the old prison, hospital, gendarmerie, etc. were still in good condition. Despite newer additions the historic ambiance has been maintained.<br /><br />There were half a dozen cruising yachts anchored in front of the town. Some had stayed for years. I anchored next to a wrecked ship that has become an island due to trees growing up inside it, and each day tied up at a nearby floating dock in order to go into town. It was so pleasant I decided to stay and write this email there.<br /><br />After this I sail to <i>Paramaribo</i>, capital of Suriname. In the meantime after spending a month in Los Angeles with Ginny's mom and Grandma Ginny and George are back home in Bremerton, awaiting my return impatiently.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pfOO3z2-vjE/VAZVpaMNEFI/AAAAAAAAPrs/8xWljX2kgEY/s1600/WIN_20140902_164027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pfOO3z2-vjE/VAZVpaMNEFI/AAAAAAAAPrs/8xWljX2kgEY/s1600/WIN_20140902_164027.JPG" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">New photos may be found at: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/FrenchGuyana">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/FrenchGuyana</a><br /><br />Lots of love,<br />Steve, Ginny, & George</span></span>
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<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WnoOFhdb31I/U8fg6xiyMmI/AAAAAAAAPN0/hx0eJx_vGdo/s1600/DSCN4367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WnoOFhdb31I/U8fg6xiyMmI/AAAAAAAAPN0/hx0eJx_vGdo/s1600/DSCN4367.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Dear
friends and family,</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">We last wrote you from Marab</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">á</span><span style="color: black;"> in the
state of Par</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">á</span><span style="color: black;">, Brasil, on the Tocantins
River. When we left
there, on May 28, we weren’t in a hurry, yet we rarely stopped because shade
and trails for walking were hard to find on shore. It was more comfortable to
keep going than to stop.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Rowing and motoring downstream we
soon reached the reservoir of Tucuruí Dam. The surrounding hilly jungle
distinguished it from the low, dry land we had experienced on the Paran<span style="color: windowtext;">á River</span><span style="color: windowtext;"> </span>reservoirs. The
water was like that of the Rio Negro:
translucent black and devoid of mosquitoes. Hundreds of tall islands dotted the
lake, but they were generally inaccessible due to natural hedges composed of a
plant reminiscent of a ten-foot-tall asparagus growing densely on the banks and
on the immersed foreshore. Our best campsite was on a small island where
someone had cleared just enough to step ashore. Inside the perimeter the
rainforest was virgin and relatively open, the trees tall and large-leafed. We
hiked to the top of the single hill which made up the island, trudging through
deep forest litter. The tree cover was too dense for views, but it was good to
reacquaint ourselves with the rich, clean Amazonian smells.</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CSw4MqtcCVg/U8fgo3MkGII/AAAAAAAAPM0/UD_m1fOvSyc/s1600/DSCN4265.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CSw4MqtcCVg/U8fgo3MkGII/AAAAAAAAPM0/UD_m1fOvSyc/s1600/DSCN4265.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">After three days travelling north
on the lake we reached the 75-meter-tall Tucuruí Dam. They wouldn’t lock us
through, so we found a cheap transport to a ramp below the dam in the city of Tucuruí, population
100,000. The common launch now was a wooden boat 20-30 feet long with a Diesel
engine, a steering station forward, and a stern so long and tapering that no
weight could be carried aft of amidships. A seaman of a bygone era would have
described them as having “cod’s heads and mackerel tails,” in contrast to the
modern tendency of boats to be wider in the stern. These streamlined vessels
were gracefully fitted with a variety of roofs and cabins, and their paint jobs
were often quite beautiful.</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AGneX-SNu6I/U8fg5skxLAI/AAAAAAAAPNo/2RcRoVoNUCE/s1600/DSCN4345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AGneX-SNu6I/U8fg5skxLAI/AAAAAAAAPNo/2RcRoVoNUCE/s1600/DSCN4345.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The river level dropped nine feet
each night and rose again in the morning, presumably due to uneven operation of
the dam’s hydroelectric plant. To avoid drying out we crossed the swift,
mile-wide river and found a steep bank with an overhanging branch to tie to. Here
we dropped and rose without unpleasant surprises. We learned to loop the line
over the branch and back to the boat to avoid having to climb the tree in the
morning! We stayed several days, protected from the storms that blew from the
east, shifting in the morning to an adjoining beach with shade trees where we
could work on our projects while George played in the sand. In the afternoon we
crossed over to the city for errands, then returned at dusk to our secluded spot.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHY3wkh66fyFbe-AbBhXrr9kcUWxfr34A4Q1VTmkA1UQ7yg1m1rYKONaqq5WpnrqmiTElvLpLqnF0TuXQbYGF3a4YX1hO1VcrO1H-JwLOvoUnUydAzTbfa_wfvtITumE3cFfR_rXmO4Svh/s1600/DSCN4379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHY3wkh66fyFbe-AbBhXrr9kcUWxfr34A4Q1VTmkA1UQ7yg1m1rYKONaqq5WpnrqmiTElvLpLqnF0TuXQbYGF3a4YX1hO1VcrO1H-JwLOvoUnUydAzTbfa_wfvtITumE3cFfR_rXmO4Svh/s1600/DSCN4379.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">As we continued downstream a
powerful oceanic tide started combining with the dam’s artificial tides,
confusing us totally as to when we might rise or fall. In the riverside
communities the boats were moored to tall poles set in the river bed. The
streets were of bare dirt, the houses of stained planks. Yellow school boats brought
outlying children into town for school. On the docks were burlap bags full of
acaí, an un-sweet fruit that looks like a purple grape. The locals boil it into
a pulp and consume in vast quantities.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Our last town on the Tocantins was Baiáo. A woman we had met in Sao Paulo, a friend of
our couch-surfing hosts there, was from Baiáo and had arranged for us to stay
with her mother. We found her and a grown nephew living in a modest brick house
near the port. She put us in a spare bedroom and immediately began serving us the
famous foods of Pará, including <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">manisoba</i>,
consisting of a certain leaf that has to be cooked for a week! It was nice to be
made to feel at home with such giving people. Steve took the opportunity to
fiberglass and paint <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston’s</i> weather-worn
tiller.</span></div>
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<img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ODmDwTv5NuY/U8ffi0mvpNI/AAAAAAAAPHk/MLHN1DDLrH4/s1600/DSCN3838.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">When we left on June 14th the
river quickly widened. The land-less horizons looked like the ocean, but the Atlantic was still a hundred miles away. Now a current
ran against us on the rising tide. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">On the 16th, just shy of the Tocantins’s juncture with the Rio Pará, we opted for a sheltered
back route into Belém by turning east into a maze of islands and tidal rivers. We
learned to wait out periods of contrary current, but the usual six hours of
flood followed by six hours of ebb was complicated by how the waterways
branched and joined at odd angles; we never knew how the current would run in
the next segment. The land was low and swampy, the shoreline lined with shacks on
stilts. The houses often had large boats propped up next to them, the
explanation being, of course, that they had come at a high tide and could leave
at another high tide. Being unable for several days to go ashore was a burden
for George who, at fifteen months, was eager to exercise his wobbly little
legs. He compensated by standing in the companion-way and marching in place!</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w3aZHXqF86A/U8ff1CwG5WI/AAAAAAAAPJU/qShzvNTnB_g/s1600/DSCN3926.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w3aZHXqF86A/U8ff1CwG5WI/AAAAAAAAPJU/qShzvNTnB_g/s1600/DSCN3926.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Everything moved by river. Each
community’s waterfront was a bee’s hive of boats loaded with bricks or fish
traps or people. We even passed a boat transporting heavier-than-water logs. Several
of these massive trunks, as long as the boat, were suspended from each side,
below the waterline, parallel to the keel. Members running transversely across
the gunwales supported the heavy ropes that looped down and cradled them.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The waterways became small, then
big again as we approached Belém, at the southern margin of the vast Amazon
delta. On June 19th we reached this city of one-and-half million inhabitants.
Our final approach was across a mile-wide channel which was ebbing swiftly; forcing
us to angle sharply into the current to cut across. The skyline was a mass of high-rises
while the waterfront was an chaotic succession of docks, sawmills, and boatyards.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yFmPtb_OJnk/U8ff3rkh1mI/AAAAAAAAPJs/fGVGp5C_rx0/s1600/DSCN3948.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yFmPtb_OJnk/U8ff3rkh1mI/AAAAAAAAPJs/fGVGp5C_rx0/s1600/DSCN3948.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span> </span><span style="color: black;"> </span>
</div>
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<span style="color: black;">We found a yacht club we had heard
about, and were immediately welcomed. Their dock was unprotected, but a sailing
instructor with an extra trailer soon hauled us out and set among a hundred
other boats in a big fenced area. Two other foreign vessels were present, a
Swedish yacht with a female single-handed skipper named Eva, and a boat with a
Russian couple that had recently been robbed by pirates while anchored at a
nearby island. “The joke was on them,” said Anton, “because our stuff was
mostly broken!” Now they were waiting for a new starter motor so they could
escape to Trinidad.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Thurston was still on the trailer,
so we used old tires and our aluminum floorboards to make steps. Someone gave
us a worn-out boat cover, which we stretched out between tall boats to either
side for shade. To make more room in the boat we pitched our tent and put a lot
of our stuff in it. The nights were cool but by noon the sun and humidity
bathed everything in suffocating heat. In the afternoon an intense storm
usually hit, testing the web of ropes stretching our tarps and covering the
ground with an inch of water. And this is the dry season! Steve finally broke
down and bought a pair of flip-flops, the standard Brazilian footwear.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qVM25Ker_So/U8ff8EUmx5I/AAAAAAAAPKE/H70MqMLzXn8/s1600/DSCN4010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qVM25Ker_So/U8ff8EUmx5I/AAAAAAAAPKE/H70MqMLzXn8/s1600/DSCN4010.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Belém, founded in 1616, is densely
built on a low peninsula. The Old
City, twenty minutes away
by bus, was very beautiful, but slums were more prevalent. Beyond the marina
gate the neighborhood was tumultuous and fetid. Drainage and sanitation were
sorely lacking. Our immune systems were in a state of constant challenge,
challenges we sometimes lost. Loudspeaker cars passed by piping out commercial
spiels. Over-amplified music emanated here and there. We had a lot of work to
get ready for the next phase of this voyage. New-found friends took us looking
for epoxy, fiberglass, paint, etc.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uKn_ITH_9Mc/U8ff9g_R7fI/AAAAAAAAPKM/PbBOXziAsKY/s1600/DSCN4030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uKn_ITH_9Mc/U8ff9g_R7fI/AAAAAAAAPKM/PbBOXziAsKY/s1600/DSCN4030.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The World Cup was going on and Brazil was
host. Yellow-and-green flags and bunting filled the streets. When Brazil played
every house and store had a TV tuned in. When Brazil scored a goal you knew it
from the fireworks and horn blasts all over the city. They even rang the church
bells!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The Brazilians use the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">saudade</i> (sow-dáw-jee) a lot. It means
tenderness, or a longing for loved ones. The word applies to us with a
vengeance now, because on July 17 Ginny and George took the red-eye to Los Angeles, where her
mother and grandmother live. We always knew this day would come, because the
sea would not be safe for George. Steve will single-hand <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> back to Florida.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Some new photos may be found at: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPt5">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPt5</a></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Lots of love,</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Steve, Ginny, & George</span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEingfVUMP3ltlXBlpS6D3ABK0r7KokWdJ3v8K8XTdo0jEeN7-_8d1Ab3R958h3vl4Bo-UWQvEk6MAc1IkQq-dLDI0jjj5vA0cr5UEGpBId_tFhZNiA2_Bd3u1sG_vm21Ci_Hr9dX0HZMRQC/s1600/DSCN3937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEingfVUMP3ltlXBlpS6D3ABK0r7KokWdJ3v8K8XTdo0jEeN7-_8d1Ab3R958h3vl4Bo-UWQvEk6MAc1IkQq-dLDI0jjj5vA0cr5UEGpBId_tFhZNiA2_Bd3u1sG_vm21Ci_Hr9dX0HZMRQC/s1600/DSCN3937.JPG" height="320" width="238" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Dear
friends and family,</span><span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; tab-stops: 386.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Should one travel
slowly, relishing each unique locale, or fast, knowing as many lands as
possible? Right or wrong, we have always roamed toward the vigorous end of the
scale. We enter a place, walk it, talk to some people, then move on before it
gets stale.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">It has been seven years
since we ran away together, first in the little pickup truck with a canoe on
top, then in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston.</i> To help keep
our memories straight we often play a game whereby one of us, reminiscing on a town
or campsite, gives the other clues until they guess it, which they usually do rather
quickly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Lately, however, we
have been experiencing “town blur” as we descended the Araguaia River quickly in
order to reach the Xambio</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">á</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"> rapids before the low-water
season. It doesn’t help that many towns have had similar names: Aragarças,
Aruan</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">á</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">, Araguacema, and Araguan</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">á</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">, for example. We were there so recently, yet we need quite
a few clues to distinguish one from another in our memories.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rY3tofKm0X0/U4SAnPQxRBI/AAAAAAAAPAU/ggMR5Bh4DwE/s1600/DSCN4094.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">We last wrote from
Conceic</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">á</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">o, Par</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">á</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">, where a pawn-broker named
Geraldinho (Little Gerald) welcomed us into his home. Steve plugged our laptop
into an outlet, sat in a corner, and typed. Later Ginny uploaded photos at a
cyber café while Steve, with George on his back, explored the city’s edges,
where paved streets became dirt, the houses became poorer, and green hills poked
up in the distance. It was hot, and whoever carries George in the carrier can’t
reach around behind, so Steve periodically stopped at shops and asked the
proprietors to feed him some water, which they were ecstatic to do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">On May 15 we left
Conceic</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">á</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">o. We rowed two hours per day and motored maybe
six on average. Now and then we passed a planked canoe with a little-tail motor.
Whereas in Barra do Garças the dry season had fully arrived, here we started
experiencing brief but fierce storms of wind and rain, thunder and lightning.
The tempests always came from the east, so we learned to camp on the east bank,
where the waves couldn’t build. The days remained seeringly hot, and the nights
offered little relief. Ginny’s heat rash has spread all over her back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">The land became higher,
less swampy. Tall, wispy palm trees appeared. Lagoons and creeks became rare.
Dense emergent brush grew along the shores, making it difficult to reach land.
Often a floated line ran along just outside the brush with short hooked lines
dangling every couple feet, for intercepting the fish that hang out in the
immersed vegetation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">In the towns, in
addition to brick houses we now saw wooden ones as well, with vertical plank
siding and thatched roofs. The waterfronts often had rustic shelters, half
underwater, where beer and snacks would be served when “summer” arrived and the
beaches became exposed. The locals spoke eagerly of the crowds that would then
flock from all over to party, enlivening the local economy. For now, though,
these settlements were quiet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P7i_QwWiGDw/U4SASwMqFpI/AAAAAAAAO_E/Vl_rIXt1_W8/s1600/DSCN4002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P7i_QwWiGDw/U4SASwMqFpI/AAAAAAAAO_E/Vl_rIXt1_W8/s1600/DSCN4002.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">People hearing us talk together
sometimes overcame their shyness and initiated conversations. English is greatly
esteemed in Brazil. Many knew some words but few had heard it spoken except in
movies. Most people were of mixed European, African, and Native American descent.
They often marveled at the whiteness of George’s skin and the blueness of his
eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Our GPS maps being
based on low water, the rocks they showed were still covered. In these places
the river roiled and ran two or three knots faster than usual, nothing more. We
hoped that we could also transit the serious rapids that commence at Xambio</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">á</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"> (the “X” is pronounced “Sh”), but upon arrival in this
lovely town on the Tocantins side, refreshingly hilly after so many flat places,
we learned otherwise. The local boatmen, who earn their living ferrying people
to a sister city across the river, decided that it wouldn’t be safe even to tow
us through. Just downstream of Xambio</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">á</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"> is a long rapid whose roar
is audible from town, and after a gap comes another rock-patch extending to a
point sixty kilometers downstream. A month sooner high water would have covered
all the rocks, but now they were exposed, and the whirlpools and gushers were
too violent in an under-powered boat such as ours.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Fortunately, across the
street there lived a man with a long flat-bed truck. He had no engagements and
his price was reasonable, so we reconvened at a nearby ramp where many hands
helped load <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>, and we were off
on our twelfth transport.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OroZyA_VOVk/U4SAddcraBI/AAAAAAAAO_s/H_j54GHK-xI/s1600/DSCN4038.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Our route took us down
seventy kilometers of paved highway then fifty kilometers of rough dirt road with
little traffic. We passed through rangeland and forest, arriving finally at a
hamlet called Antonina where there was a ferry to the Pará side. Ferry
employees, an agricultural inspector, and a local teenager helped us lower <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> into the water.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Relieved at having passed
the rapids, but sorry we wouldn’t see them, we spent half a day observing life
at this remote ferry crossing. Antonina had about ten humble houses and an open
store/bar. Now and then a vehicle would appear. If arriving at the other side
they would honk their horn to make their presence known. Then the skipper would
saunter down to the landing and fire up the diesel in a tugboat whose bow was
attached, via a pivot, to the midpoint on the downstream side of a barge. A
deckhand raised the ramp. The skipper, pushing with his propeller and rudder,
rotated the boat 180 degrees while the barge remained stationary. Then they
chugged to the other side, lowered the ramp, and picked up their passengers,
whom they seemed to know well. When the sun went down we drank beers at a patio
overlooking the river, while George played with local children and two men
tinkered with a little-tail motor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">In the Araguaia’s final
two hundred kilometers it flows through wild forest. We passed through long
stretches where patches of emerging brush, and barely-submerged rocks, pocked
the surface of the mile-wide river. There was no main channel, just an
imponderable volume of greenish-brown water passing through a sieve of rough
bedrock. We kept our eyes well ahead, picking our route, slipping over low
shelves, swirling left and right as the water sucked and surged, not violently,
but impressively.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WOmt6rPsh4w/U4SAumaHT3I/AAAAAAAAPAs/ZvNbCU79nAM/s1600/DSCN4110.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"> On May 21 we reached
the juncture of the Araguaia and Tocantins rivers. Though the Tocantins is the smaller
of the two, its name applies to the combined stream, so we had finished with
the Araguaia. Downstream there would be no more rapids, and the state of Pará
would occupy both banks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Later that day we went
under a bridge, passed a flat where upside-down boats were being caulked and
tarred, and reached Marabá, population 230,000, on the left bank. Needing to
extend our tourist visas, we hiked blindly away from the river, asking
directions to the Policia Federal. We eventually found it and got another
ninety days. In the process we learned that this city is divided into three
parts, separated by large expanses of swampy floodplain. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">The only section of
interest to us now is Marabá Pioneira, the old town. Here the houses are small
and the sidewalks are a mish-mash of irregular and broken surfaces, often
encumbered by rubble. The riverfront is a tall seawall with park benches on top
and, at intervals, stairways leading down into the river. We are tied to a
heavy, 30-foot wooden passenger boat, one of about ten at this landing, whose
livelihood is to carry passengers to a party beach on an island in the river.
The beach is visible from here, a line of colorful tents and golden sand,
surrounded by boats, with music loud even from a kilometer away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jznBzZlGV5c/U4SA_0SygbI/AAAAAAAAPBc/pcWbDrqjObo/s1600/DSCN4137.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">The boatmen are expert.
On a busy Sunday afternoon they zip back and forth, their open, roofed craft crowded
with gay passengers, their poorly-muffled Diesels bellowing and belching smoke.
The landing is crude: just a narrow stairway disappearing into the river and a makeshift
float streaming parallel to the waterfront. They compensate for the current and
jostle each other to get their bows onto the stairway so their passengers can
clamber on and off. When the sun goes down and everyone wants to go home at the
same time, they squeeze in together at the landing, newcomers wedging their
sharp bows and round bellies between the other boats. When the skipper has
finished his loading he stands on a stern deck, pushes a tiller hard over, and
gives a deep pull to a string by which opens his throttle. “Brraammm!” and he’s
gone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">There is a park here
with a play area covered with shiny brown pebbles that George loves, and good
shade trees. A new friend has made their living room and electrical outlet
available to us. Here we write. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Some new photos may be
found at: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/Brasilpart4">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/Brasilpart4</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Lots of love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Steve, Ginny, &
George</span></div>
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-P7i_QwWiGDw%2FU4SASwMqFpI%2FAAAAAAAAO_E%2FVl_rIXt1_W8%2Fs1600%2FDSCN4002.JPG&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P7i_QwWiGDw/U4SASwMqFpI/AAAAAAAAO_E/Vl_rIXt1_W8/s1600/DSCN4002.JPG" --><!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P7i_QwWiGDw/U4SASwMqFpI/AAAAAAAAO_E/Vl_rIXt1_W8/s1600/DSCN4002.JPG" with "https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P7i_QwWiGDw/U4SASwMqFpI/AAAAAAAAO_E/Vl_rIXt1_W8/s1600/DSCN4002.JPG" -->ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-10824560275598556682014-05-14T10:45:00.000-07:002014-05-14T10:45:46.464-07:00Conceiçao do Araguaia, Mass Email<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vXMB3urnol4/U3Oj7Zwyg9I/AAAAAAAAO4s/aOIViUdZjiA/s1600/DSCN3604.JPG" height="241" width="320" /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US">Dear
friends and family,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; tab-stops: 386.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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 S</span><span lang="EN-US">ão Paulo, whereupon w</span><span lang="EN-US">e 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LogX-lZzyiY/U3Ojw9YreJI/AAAAAAAAO28/rzHh_UHEVbQ/s1600/DSCN3367.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Thurston</span></i><span lang="EN-US">
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 <i>Thurston</i> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We moved aboard back <i>Thurston</i>, 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KMuLPb4Zbq8/U3Oj1uXZiaI/AAAAAAAAO3c/9zihyHDI558/s1600/DSCN3447.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKfMs1g84vhW71LbbfgOuJPFGtZgl4gu9w0lgY3NEU1srJQdyx230sTNaCWp_mAlA4km0p-Y3FnvRBJXPm2f4nYw1VWbvq6gQMTTIgV8olg9utPb3w3lke7VbHgaDMKE723yWkS5KfTyz7/s1600/DSCN3491.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKfMs1g84vhW71LbbfgOuJPFGtZgl4gu9w0lgY3NEU1srJQdyx230sTNaCWp_mAlA4km0p-Y3FnvRBJXPm2f4nYw1VWbvq6gQMTTIgV8olg9utPb3w3lke7VbHgaDMKE723yWkS5KfTyz7/s1600/DSCN3491.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VA4FKGJFZic/U3OkIlw1YVI/AAAAAAAAO6U/I7KlMLUiC78/s1600/DSCN3785.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VA4FKGJFZic/U3OkIlw1YVI/AAAAAAAAO6U/I7KlMLUiC78/s1600/DSCN3785.JPG" height="250" style="text-align: center;" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We saw toucans, roseate
spoonbills, and <i>tuiuius,</i> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2baVhS2cpyw/U3Oj2oDcqbI/AAAAAAAAO3w/12YiuODC6jY/s1600/DSCN3467.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2baVhS2cpyw/U3Oj2oDcqbI/AAAAAAAAO3w/12YiuODC6jY/s1600/DSCN3467.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MSeYal5kG-A/U3OkXDt9gCI/AAAAAAAAO7g/pyuue-S15CY/s1600/DSCN3845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MSeYal5kG-A/U3OkXDt9gCI/AAAAAAAAO7g/pyuue-S15CY/s1600/DSCN3845.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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 </span><i><span lang="EN-US">aldeias</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p0VWQHFY_A0/U3OkDx8CQeI/AAAAAAAAO5w/0nM0e8enMXc/s1600/DSCN3744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p0VWQHFY_A0/U3OkDx8CQeI/AAAAAAAAO5w/0nM0e8enMXc/s1600/DSCN3744.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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. </span>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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">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 <i>Thurston</i>,
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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Some new photos may be
found at: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart4">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart4</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Lots of love,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Steve, Ginny, &
George<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Tw9EohYt2LM/UzXZ_US6fnI/AAAAAAAAOu0/WlIvhQGJ7iU/s1600/DSCN3252.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Tw9EohYt2LM/UzXZ_US6fnI/AAAAAAAAOu0/WlIvhQGJ7iU/s1600/DSCN3252.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K3IXe_p86HA/UzXYIgfUsRI/AAAAAAAAOpk/xRfkt7ge_YI/s1600/DSCN5468.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Dear
friends and family,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 386.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We last emailed you from Larry and
Karen’s near Atlanta. On February 26<sup>th</sup> 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chacara</i>
(small farm) on the Rio Verdao. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jHKFuK6NaeI/UzXYZ0pROxI/AAAAAAAAOqU/r34fauDqLlc/s1600/DSCN5625.JPG" height="240" width="320" /> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> 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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"> </span><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZsQeLvlDnts/UzXYuUFDyTI/AAAAAAAAOrU/PCwNKfJncNk/s1600/DSCN5684.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> up inside
and closed the doors.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xhAUQVqylGo/UzXY0G3pBlI/AAAAAAAAOrk/Uh8YYxZWk5c/s1600/DSCN5698.JPG" height="240" width="320" /> </div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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 Gar</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ç</span>as
rivers join. One lies on the east side of the Araguaia, one lies on the west
side of the </span><span style="color: black;">Gar</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ças, and the third lies on the tapering peninsula between the two. The
largest is the western-most city, Barra do </span><span style="color: black;">Gar</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ças, which means Mouth of the River of
Storks.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ERFoHkXC4fo/UzXZOcvscOI/AAAAAAAAOss/n_XJhRqEpbo/s1600/DSCN2986.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"> 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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We arrived at the Barra do Gar</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ças</span><span style="color: black;"> 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> into
the river. But suddenly Marcus started pumping the brake and yelling for someone
to </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston </i>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> 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.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOUyIVtV3FhKiS7AxIFUXZSgOvwIwBkkZiLjEjb9AbL-p6g3JbdPd0VDFrNKlrWokW29UpfDQRlptkRP6TlgqKiRhL7jhVkAmMmUQPd40-bn6V0yvKR8VxnSth5jRkKR20bvrbcIIxBA7n/s1600/DSCN2921.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></span></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> 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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Soldiers, firemen, news
media (see: <a href="http://www.olinguarudo.com.br/site/index.php/noticias/13-mt/barra-do-garcas/737-caminhao-cai-dentro-do-rio-araguaia-em-barra-do-garcas">An article here </a>) and a</span><span style="color: black;"> 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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MQ02CbtqNr8/UzXY7ykXiqI/AAAAAAAAOr8/PncfGtPjLRQ/s1600/DSCN2932.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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,</span> <span style="color: black;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> 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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jiAo1bm0Fx4/UzXZZqa7exI/AAAAAAAAOtM/Ibu9yJ8CEzI/s1600/DSCN3027.JPG" height="240" width="320" /> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We are putting our delay here to
use. We have George-proofed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>,
improved storage arrangements, repaired our awning, and mended our mosquito and
no-see-um nets. Barra do Gar</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ç</span><span style="color: black;">as 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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1LOgoymRPxY/UzXZtMdjugI/AAAAAAAAOt8/8UXYrWhywXc/s1600/DSCN3112.JPG" height="240" width="320" /> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pequi</i> 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. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-10cPJ68tQO4/UzXZ69-lJ-I/AAAAAAAAOwU/dx08doqWq3I/s1600/DSCN3231.JPG" height="240" width="320" /> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>. 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.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqGOpOYzkbHqvwVbGxl1ww1IemAqsoBASAXIzHyLKK9t3nyUgjACCBx4L7bcj1OWi0bnRqqb9PfEIFTk4KBm9gni4bUqV-KJPLqMFtOedEp4KkiqLOJrG5cPC0w3XmFcvAm6vwanzAQF1T/s1600/DSCN3304.JPG" height="240" width="320" /> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"> </span><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mVf9_I1HkM0/UzXZTb_nz1I/AAAAAAAAOs8/TwTd20ZJw60/s1600/DSCN3016.JPG" height="240" width="320" /><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">More new photos may be found at: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart4">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart4</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Lots of love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Steve, Ginny, & George</span></div>
<br />ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-7657233024225717072014-02-22T06:30:00.000-08:002014-02-22T06:30:42.352-08:00Atlanta, Georgia Mass email<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Dear
friends and family,</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 386.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We last emailed you on </span>December
7 <span style="color: black;">from </span>Bremerton, Washington,<span style="color: black;"> where we lived for over three months with Steve’s mom and
dad in the house Steve grew up in. We brought a scrawny hemlock back from our
property in Snohomish County, decorated it, and laughed as it lost all its
needles, becoming the world’s ugliest Christmas tree. Yet our household – five
people of highly diverse ages plus a gray-and-white cat Mom and Dad got at the
animal shelter - was content. Ginny’s mom, Lois, came up for Christmas, and we
saw lots of Ginny’s sister, Carley, and her boyfriend, Matt. We visited old
friends at every chance, but still failed to see half of the people we
meant to see.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We had plenty of projects to keep
us busy. Every couple weeks we drove the loop around the Puget Sound, taking
care of issues at the Snohomish County property and the City of Pacific house,
with assorted visits in Seattle and Pierce County. Dad, who is ninety now, got
a bad cold which debilitated him. Finally his appetite came back and he
regained some weight. He is on hospice now due to congestive heart failure. Steve
and his siblings discussed how to help their parents as they “age in place.” On
January 19 we attended a memorial service in Seattle for Steve’s departed best
friend, Jim Hogg.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">On January 22, with some sadness,
we left Bremerton. We visited<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> a few of Ginny’s friends
and relatives</span> in Portland and Steve’s
nephew in Ashland, then continued to Los Angeles, where we stayed with Lois and
grandma Dorothy. </span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b-rWHCcKe78/UwfqtzyyebI/AAAAAAAAOfA/L9d_8DQxn8M/s1600/DSCN5149.JPG" height="240" width="320" /><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">On February 2 we hit the road
again, sleeping in the back of our station wagon in Walmart parking lots as we
drove east. On this trip we preferred to drive late into the night with the
heater on than to find a nice wilderness campsite at dusk. We encountered snow
in New Mexico and overnight lows of 9º F. in West Texas. Our two sleeping bags
and one blanket weren’t enough that night! George doesn’t like to travel
non-stop, and it was too cold to recreate outdoors, so a couple times a day we
followed out GPS to libraries in various small town. God bless our libraries
for their enlightenment and child-friendliness! We rested for a couple days at
the house of Steve’s friend Brenda, in Shreveport, Louisiana, then continued to
Larry and Karen’s in Stone Mountain, near Atlanta, arriving on the 11<sup>th</sup>.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-afDEVdJJsQI/UwiyN1WfqsI/AAAAAAAAOhc/Br9sr-lmGIA/s1600/g11.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We are back in our old bedroom
here. We have child-proofed the house by erecting a low barrier so George can’t
get into the radio/electronics room. George is crawling and pulling himself up on
everything now. He just turned 11 months old and is happy, curious, and active.
We are making new cushion covers for our boat and completing last-minute
preparations for our return to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSg3VCa3aqZ34peuAc_XBsEfpsG1DmZAdMEe6X3efkxWaGfitSg_1cVOidcd7hpEhl3M7jXzCe1gi0nAFi1_bSqeMMTx-mBs9U_Rd84wca8OY2IpUAz3CH3FFmb4UgSvNnLkpFQXLitS1/s1600/IMG_0279.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">On February 26<sup>th</sup> we fly
back to Goiania, Brazil. Our boat is several hours from there by bus. Then we
transport it to the Araguaia River, which will take us several months to
descend. At its mouth, which it shares with that of the Amazon, we may have to
split up if we are to get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>
back to the U.S.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">A few new photos at: https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/USA2013</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Lots of love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Steve, Ginny, & George</span></div>
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ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-49036343943855543812013-12-04T16:12:00.002-08:002013-12-04T16:14:43.975-08:00Bremerton, Washington, USA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4VrzQLOkA8s/Up-_IHtJ_EI/AAAAAAAAOXE/2Xk7ZeMI5nA/s1600/DSCN4152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4VrzQLOkA8s/Up-_IHtJ_EI/AAAAAAAAOXE/2Xk7ZeMI5nA/s320/DSCN4152.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Greetings! We are back in the
States on a six-month leave from our boating adventure. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">We last emailed you on </span>August
21 <span style="color: black;">from </span>Goiania, Brazil<span style="color: black;">. The next day we flew to Brasilia, where we changed planes. We had to
show George’s birth certificate four times to get him out of the country! Then we
flew to Atlanta, Georgia where our old friend Larry was waiting for us. </span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J8PZY7Sdmrk/Up-_ASLWqDI/AAAAAAAAOUQ/JLYewBl4ayE/s1600/DSCN2897.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J8PZY7Sdmrk/Up-_ASLWqDI/AAAAAAAAOUQ/JLYewBl4ayE/s320/DSCN2897.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">It was a hot and buggy time of
year at their home in the eastern suburbs, where we occupied our old bedroom
and got the Isuzu pickup running after two years dormancy. We soon realized
that two adults and a child don’t fit on it’s small bench seat, so we sold it to
a firm that has exported it to Egypt! We then bought a 1996 Volvo station wagon
complete with advanced (for Steve) technology and countless luxury features,
like airbags! Woo! </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Having been out of the country for
two years, we appreciated the little things we had missed like overflowing,
cheap supermarkets, and plentiful cold water fountains. We bought a cell phone
and prepared ourselves for our stay in the U.S. Larry has retired now and has
many interesting ham radio and boat projects. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t-jO-WR-ztw/Up-_A4AjEKI/AAAAAAAAOUY/eV16gHGXm7M/s1600/DSCN3034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t-jO-WR-ztw/Up-_A4AjEKI/AAAAAAAAOUY/eV16gHGXm7M/s320/DSCN3034.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">On September 8 we drove to St.
Louis where we stayed with friends Lena, Jesse, and Violet. Violet, now a
precocious and adorable five years old, eagerly played with George. After an
all too brief 9 days, we got into the big cross-country drive, going across
Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, sleeping in rest stops,
abandoned lots, and unfenced farmland. Each night we moved our gear onto the
roof of the Volvo and made up the bed for sleeping. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">We arrived at Ginny’s mom and
grandmother’s house in Los Angeles on September 26. Ginny and George stayed
there while Steve backtracked to New Mexico then drove down through Chihuahua
state to seek his best friend Jim Hogg, who hadn’t been heard from for over a
year. Formal inquiries had produced no information, so Steve dropped down into
the rugged Copper Canyon where Jim had been living. There he sought out the
Catholic father in the mining town of Batopilas, who said Jim had died in
April, 2012. He enumerated Jim’s many good works on behalf of the local
community, to whom Jim had dedicated his life. Steve broke the sad news to
Jim’s family in Seattle, then drove back to LA, stopping to repair a broken oil
pan resulting from a bad road.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"> </span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nKjkLTQFnE0/Up-_JMI0f6I/AAAAAAAAOXY/uQZTUKObxkA/s1600/Pic-10112013-003.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nKjkLTQFnE0/Up-_JMI0f6I/AAAAAAAAOXY/uQZTUKObxkA/s320/Pic-10112013-003.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">On October 19 we reached the
Bremerton home of Steve’s mom (Bonnie) and dad (George, our son’s namesake).
This has been our residence. Having been gone from the U.S. for so long there is
much to do. We tended to the landscaping at Steve’s house in Pacific and worked
on a little cottage for the caretaker of the twelve acres in Snohomish County. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RE6qMux-iGM/Up-_G2W0p_I/AAAAAAAAOXA/1jtVA61YB9I/s320/DSCN4047.JPG" width="320" /> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">We have also helped Dad organize his shop and acquired various articles
necessary for the next leg of our voyage, which will resume in February. We dug
out old Ladd family home movies, got a projector to work, and watched the early
days of David, Steve, Mike, and Susan. We have been visiting friends, but
haven’t gotten around to everyone yet. We had a big family Thanksgiving and
look forward to another get-together over Christmas.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">A few new photos at: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/USA2013">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/USA2013</a></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Lots of love,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Steve, Ginny, & George</span></div>
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ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-88401740630844308032013-08-21T12:35:00.000-07:002013-08-21T12:43:00.880-07:00Goiânia, Brazil - Mass Email #27<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="303" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EG_VB26GzFM/UhTrni2mnMI/AAAAAAAAN-4/4arxCUeh6gk/s320/DSCN2550.JPG" width="320" /></span></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Dear
friends and family</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">We last emailed you on </span>July
15<span style="color: black;"> from </span>Presidente Epitacio,<span style="color: black;"> S</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o Paulo State, Brazil. From there we continued up the next
reservoir on the Paraná River. With no current to fight we ran the Honda 2HP
slow and cruised for four hours on one liter of gas! We cut across the lake’s
huge arms, navigating from point to point, threading through forests of dead standing
trees. Weekend fishermen anchored their boats in the river and sat fishing under
colorful umbrellas. We camped behind low islands and in secluded creek mouths,
luxuriating in the quietude. The landscapes were open and watery, full of low
greenery and wildlife, with farmland beyond and bright southern constellations
overhead.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h1xhUwbvG2g/UhTp8hUMdhI/AAAAAAAANyY/uB--x_rRoC4/s320/DSCN1796.JPG" width="320" /> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"> </span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Steve read books about Brazil’s
expansions in the 1700s and 1800s, aided by the fact that we had already
travelled many of the waterways by which the country was opened up. He looked
up unfamiliar words in a dictionary but, having found that he couldn’t remember
from one time to the next the meanings, he made lists of synonyms. There are so
many ways to say something in Portuguese! Similarly, when he tired of trying to
remember the conjugations of the words for “to see” and “to come,” which are
maddeningly similar (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ver</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vir</i>), he made flash cards, one for each
conjugation (I see, you see, we came, they came, etc.). We then drilled each
other until we knew them all. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The reservoir narrowed, current
increased. At the next dam up, the Jupi</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">, we caught a ride into the city of
Tres Lagoas, Mato Grosso do Sul State. Our host was minister of a new
congregation. “This area is growing like wildfire,” he enthused. “Soon we will
have all the major fast-food chains!” The land was perfectly flat, the city
widely spread. A pair of blue macaws sat cawing on the cross of yet another new
church. We got a four-monthly vaccination for George and worked in a cyber café,
then caught a bus that meandered through dusty new neighborhoods back to the fishing
settlement where we had left <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9cTeH-xbXD8/UhTqLR2bpcI/AAAAAAAAN0Y/Lv64EDUDN2w/s320/DSCN1894.JPG" width="320" /></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">That dam locked us through, for a
rise of twenty meters. The next one up, Ilha Solteira, didn’t have a lock, but
our Couch-Surfing host Vinicius in Sao Paulo had connected us with his friend
</span><span style="color: black;">Vicente there, who quickly got a truck and trailer together. When he pulled us out of
the water Ginny and George were still in the cabin and Steve was sitting on the
bow to put weight on the trailer hitch. We expected him to stop once we were
out of the water but he just kept going, so we all carefully stayed put, with the
wind in our hair, as he drove eight kilometers to the ramp above. Dam number
six under our belts. Only one more to go!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYa3LiqmcfmVhzK5CHoh5bQDD3eiECNZ68MXle0jUve5X36TdE4f5p2wcIFr6ulI4xxHhxusWnpY-bLMCal5l4c9h3ulfqeQgF0YxMN_YcdTV9KZpRh_YR6UUuQkx6w1l27NkXvNCE5waT/s320/DSCN1925.JPG" width="320" /></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">With our visas running out on
August 26<sup>th</sup> we needed to buy advance tickets back to the States. But
where should we fly from? Projecting our progress we saw we wouldn’t reach Bel</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">é</span><span style="color: black;">m in time, so
we bought tickets online for a flight leaving from Goiânia, the capital of
Goias State. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">A cold front hit. The southerlies
were too cold and violent to sail with George aboard, so we rowed, the waves
rocking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> as they passed under.
The flatland gave way to low, rolling hills with few houses. It reminded Steve
of the big Missouri River reservoirs in Montana except the grass was greener, often
growing right down to the shore. The sun was blocked by flying grey clouds until
it reached the horizon whereupon it peaked through a slit, firing to golden-red
the trees growing interspersed among the pastures. Many were palms with small
nuts growing in long clusters. As we veered left into a bay the waves diminished.
We then steered into a the full protection of a small, north-facing cove.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p0HwPrpQFBM/UhTqi8ShIPI/AAAAAAAAN3A/jnjUMMIGkfk/s320/DSCN2048.JPG" width="320" /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The best thing about the way we
cruise is the campsites. This cove was formed by a hook-shaped spit of pebbles
the size of raisins and the color of peanut skins. After washing and hanging
diapers we stepped from the bow directly into the colorful, crinkly gravel: no
mud, no wading! Beyond a narrow belt of woods stretched pasture land of low, soft
curvature. We hiked cow paths with George in his “wrap.” At one point we almost
stepped on a big armadillo! His scales were yellow-brown with sparse, coarse
hair. He played dead until we stooped down, then scuttled into a nearby hole. We
also saw green parrots with patches of red on their shoulders and a flock of hopping
emus, the South American ostrich. Here and there the land was split by tapering
waterways where the bay divided, its armlets extending further into the land. The
only sounds were of wind, waves, and birds.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">On July 24 we arrived at the
junction of the Paranaiba and Grande rivers, which together form the Paran</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">. We had
followed the latter to its source but still had plenty of navigating to do. We
continued up the Paranaiba, now with Minas Gerais State to our right. Then Mato
Grosso do Sul State, to our left, gave way to Goias, the most central of
Brazilian states.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">We had chosen cotton diapers to avoid
garbage and to be good citizens, but it wasn’t easy keeping up with all that
laundry, not to mention the bottomless pile of clothes and blankets which
needed to be washed as well. Ginny scrubbed and rinsed in the river a few hours
every day. Steve wrung them and hung them on a line running overhead from bow
to stern, with room for about fifteen articles. Fortunately, wintertime in
central Brazil is extremely dry. On big days we filled up and emptied the
clothes line three times! We missed out on some good sailing because the
working of sails and booms was incompatible with clothes-hanging.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3s6pWxFrowph5MovnO02twP_Sd5JcTydBdBjQSm0a5KrzDU-eCWdRCa90xDMl2Zhf5vMSEA-5HOyp8xDFg8kv1sfFPX7jsrlpVWfiT-vOEbx2fubYxZSwgOgywDYx_BdXxpWMrFsEfRQd/s320/DSCN1981.JPG" width="320" /></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The days were hot and sunny, the
nights cold and dewy. A new kind of no-see-um appeared, with butterfly-like
wings, and a new mosquito that, when biting, aligned his body vertically, looking
like a little thorn stuck in our flesh. One evening, as we relaxed by a brushy
bank, a giant ant-eater strolled past, like the one we saw on the Orinoco!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">On the 28<sup>th</sup> we reached
the final dam, S</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o Sim</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o. Here we hung out at a boat ramp a couple days until the
president of the local fishermen’s union loaded <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> on his trailer and took us to the upper ramp.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">This final reservoir was smaller.
It took only two days to reach the mouth of the Rio Dos Bois (River of the
Cows), whereupon we turned left. Steve, tired of rowing, turned the sliding
seat over to Ginny. Per custom he then gave her a “Port!” or “Starboard!” order
until she was on course, then said “Mark!” so she could row directly away from
the landmark of her choice. Steve plucked his guitar until he noticed she was
drifting off-course. “Port! Watch your mark!” he said.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">“I was using a cow!” Ginny
laughed. “I guess they move too much.” She went back to using hills or trees,
and we stayed on course. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">At first the Rio Dos Bois was
impounded by the S</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o Sim</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o Dam. Then it became a river. A new species of tree now
grew out over the river with long-extended branches, as if evolved to catch
more sun than the others. The river corridor included long strips of marsh
separated from the river by slender natural dikes. Where openings revealed
these swamps we saw spongy waters full of floating grasses, lilies, and algal
clusters. From our campsites we walked the fields. What we had taken for
harvested corn was actually millet or sorghum, with hard, red seeds the size of
baby peas.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5HwKORuLIRY/UhTq2EzmKcI/AAAAAAAAN5Q/V0-ludkSD8M/s320/DSCN2175.JPG" width="320" /></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">On our second day on the Dos Bois
we hit our first rapid. It was too shallow and fast for the Honda 2 HP outboard
so we got out and pulled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>
through. At the next rapid we switched to the 5.5 HP little-tail motor. This
reduced our draft and increased our power. Even so we barely made it, Steve
poling with a bamboo staff while Ginny wrestled the long little-tail tiller. There
were rapids around every island, and sometimes in between as well. Our progress
slowed.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">On August 2 we turned left (northwest)
onto the Rio Verd</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o. We had been studying the upcoming portage off-and-on
since Manaus, when we decided to hop over into the Paran</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;"> basin. The
transfer from Vila Bela, on the north-flowing Guapor</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">é</span><span style="color: black;">, to Caceres,
on the south-flowing Paraguay, had gone well. Now we were a thousand kilometers
ESE of that portage, ready to jump from a different tributary of the Paran</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;"> to a
different tributary of the Amazon. As for the latter, the 2,000-kilometer-long Araguaia
was the logical river. We could launch in the city of Barra do Gar</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ç</span><span style="color: black;">as. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The best place to pull ourselves
out was less clear. The Verd</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o went in the right direction, but we didn’t know how high
up we could navigate. Google Earth doesn’t show topography; so we didn’t know
how tall the banks would be. There are no big cities on the Verd</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o,
therefore fewer transport options. Only one town touches upon it, Maurilandia.
But would we reach it? Would there be a place to pull out?</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wM438nsvSGs/UhTq_CHEhrI/AAAAAAAAN6Y/9aIbu_LiO1A/s320/DSCN2229.JPG" width="320" /></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The river was 150 meters wide,
lined with fist-sized stones, rarely more than waist-deep. Sharp rocks protruded
here and there. We swerved left and right looking for at least a foot of depth.
The rapids got more and more frequent. They would have been easy for a kayak,
but for a sailboat they were nearly impossible. With a narrow stern (no planing
surface) and nineteen feet of waterline length <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston’s</i> maximum hull speed is about 5.9 knots. “We’re not going
to make this one,” Steve kept thinking, but we always kept creeping up, motor
wide open, our GPS registering one or two kilometers per hour. We reached the
critical spot, where the cold water bubbled over a shallow ledge, swirling white
around the black rocks. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston’s</i>
bow lifted perceptibly; we stopped dead relative to the banks. Then we shifted
a little to left or right, found a slower eddy, and inched through.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gGO7whtD_60/UhTqx5qlReI/AAAAAAAAN4w/C8hiBvyC3dw/s320/DSCN2163.JPG" width="320" /></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Eight kilometers before
Maurilandia we stopped for the night at an island. Three interrelated families
were vacationing at a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rancho</i>
consisting of a kitchen, bunkhouse, and bathroom in separate cubicles of stuccoed
brick. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Bem vindo, fica a vontade!”</i>
they said. (Welcome, make yourselves at home!) They had tents and coolers full
of cold beer. While the men and boys went fishing in an aluminum boat the women
and girls gushed over George. He loved the attention and the jumping they all
gave him, their arms lifting, his legs pushing against their laps.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">The next day the river was faster
than ever. Once we hit a rock so hard that two floorboards clanged together,
pinching Ginny’s toe! Each rapid had only one possible route. But the banks
were low and here and there dirt roads touched down; so one way or another we
would get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> out. Then, at
11:00 am, August 3, we reached Maurilandia.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SU5UJUK2jkc/UhTrg-SlFvI/AAAAAAAAN-I/KO476NSJ_BY/s1600/DSCN2525.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SU5UJUK2jkc/UhTrg-SlFvI/AAAAAAAAN-I/KO476NSJ_BY/s320/DSCN2525.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">It lay on the left (west) bank. A
bridge entered town from the east. Under the bridge raged the worse rapid yet.
We tried it but the current was too swift. No matter, just below the bridge on
the east side was a little ranch with a smooth bank and shady trees. Seven
months after heading back upstream in Uruguay we had reached the head of
navigation! We were later told that only five people navigate the river up to
Maurilandia, in aluminum skiffs with 15- or 40-horse outboards, and no one
navigates above. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_XR2YnD07eA/UhTre1TjEfI/AAAAAAAAN94/kyVeB0gYQCk/s1600/DSCN2510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">The property consisted of a couple
acres of bare red earth, well-scratched by chickens. Numerous mongrels barked
but never bit. There were four houses of tubular red brick, each inhabited by a
section of the Nortenseu clan. The oldest member, Jo</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o, spoke
softly if at all. He might be seen watering a dusty mango tree with a bucket,
but mostly he sat in a shady spot in front of his house. Diego, a young
truck-driver, his wife Evelyn and their 2 year old son Pedro also lived there. Jo</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o’s
stepson, Aldin lived across the way in a modern ranch style home with his wife Kelly
and eighteen-year-old daughter Karen. Aldin dredged sand for a living. He was knowledgeable,
hard-working and always grinning. “Maurilandia began right here,” he said. “My granddad
came in 1945, mining diamonds from the riverbed. There used to be a ferry here
before the bridge got built.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We started walking across the
bridge and were promptly enveloped in a cloud of dust as a huge truck loaded
with sugar cane barreled past. Dust, the bane of Maurilandia! The
truck-trailers haul cane from the fields all around the town to an alcohol plant
near the Nortenseu place. The locals attribute their colds to the dust and the
extreme dryness of the winter air. We learned to cover our noses and mouths with
a cloth whenever trucks passed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_XR2YnD07eA/UhTre1TjEfI/AAAAAAAAN94/kyVeB0gYQCk/s320/DSCN2510.JPG" width="320" /> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">A water truck sprinkled the main street,
settling the omniscient red dust. The town was five blocks wide and fifteen
blocks long. The cyber café manager said we were the first foreigners he had
ever seen there. A loudspeaker car slowly worked the street, detailing a new
loan now available at the local bank. Another car with a loud sound system
passed the other way blaring bizarre electronic music. In front of a
construction materials outlet a guy tied a fistful of half-inch rebars to the
tail of his motorcycle and zoomed off, the steel rods snaking behind him with a
zingy sound. Everything was loud and dusty, but the people were the soul of
hospitality. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We looked for transport, but
nothing economical fell into place. Meanwhile the Nortenseus offered to store <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> for us, so we decided to leave
her there and do the portage when we got back. Whenever we stopped by Jo</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o’s or Aldin’s
house they offered us a shower, or a meal if there was food in the kitchen.
Lunch was their big meal of the day, with rice, beans, chicken or meat, and cucumber
or cabbage salad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z5Z7QVGWB5M/UhTrWaaR2HI/AAAAAAAAN84/z0v5hSaMwKA/s1600/DSCN2443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z5Z7QVGWB5M/UhTrWaaR2HI/AAAAAAAAN84/z0v5hSaMwKA/s320/DSCN2443.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">On Sunday there was a birthday
party for a five-year-old relative of Aldin’s who lived in town. Family members
came from all over. Babies were compared. Everybody held and “jumped” George. It
may have been his best day so far! Then we went for a long walk along a farm
road where the cane fields butt up against the riverine scrub. Toucans flew
from tree to tree, and small owls stood guard next to their burrows.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ySxAdGQ6F88/UhTrc4ldv6I/AAAAAAAAN9o/NL7p2-bJnSM/s1600/DSCN2504.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ySxAdGQ6F88/UhTrc4ldv6I/AAAAAAAAN9o/NL7p2-bJnSM/s320/DSCN2504.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">On August 15 our friend Douglas
took us to a junk yard where we borrowed a chain-fall and some tubes suitable
as rollers. Back at the Nortenseu place we used these implements to pull <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> up the bank, beyond the
rainy-season highwater mark. She now sits under a mango tree, which will cover
her with mangos while we miss the mango season. Where’s the justice? We found a
hole in the bow below the waterline, caused by a sharp Rio Verd</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o rock,
perhaps when the floorboards pinched Ginny’s toe. It hadn’t leaked because the
hull there is backed up by pour-in-place foam. We will repair it when we get
back in six months.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3GH5SQ7SDx4/UhTsCuPp4UI/AAAAAAAAOCI/14kVTdI5Wcw/s320/DSCN2702.JPG" width="240" /></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">On the 17<sup>th</sup> Aldin and
Kelly drove us to a nearby city where we caught a bus to Goiânia, a city about
the size of Seattle. Ginny had a Couch Surfing date with a sweet couple, Felipe
and Waldeska, lined up in advance. We are at their house now enjoying their
company and our last taste of Brasilian hospitality for awhile. In a few days we
will be in Atlanta, Georgia. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Warning: we have encountered a real
live Brazilian Wiggle Monster and are bringing him home with us! We call him
Georgie, but he also answers to “Georg</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ã</span><span style="color: black;">o” and “Gordinho” Wish us luck getting
him through customs.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">See our new photos starting with #215 at: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart3">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart3</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Lots of love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Steve, Ginny, & George</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioW5SLY7OZT7SZbNr_DlrMMgr0kNG3VlkhyphenhyphenVy0SVG9HrXcgOtTPH1KW0rjjmDiqDeuKFJgiMMz-FPcgFts_UhWA1Zg4PK8rZDCpluIQPIL4fvxQCi6gW80gakv-7qdaGoIcnwGkZG-TDXw/s320/DSCN2286.JPG" width="320" /></span></div>
ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-72428365952165921022013-07-15T11:29:00.002-07:002013-07-15T11:35:14.837-07:00Presidente Epitacio Mass Email<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X8qDYqe1me0/UeQXlxpoudI/AAAAAAAANsk/Z7l0iCWjxSE/s1600/DSCN1474.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X8qDYqe1me0/UeQXlxpoudI/AAAAAAAANsk/Z7l0iCWjxSE/s320/DSCN1474.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Dear
friends and family,</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 386.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We last emailed you on May 10 from
Foz do Igua</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ç</span><span style="color: black;">u, where George was born. After the month in the apartment
we moved to the Lake Itaipu Yacht Club and worked on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston,</i> sleeping in a bunkhouse behind the restaurant when the
boat work was too disruptive to live aboard. George created a steady stream of
dirty clothes and diapers. Ginny washed them in a sink with a built-in
scrub-board in the camping area. The wi-fi reception was good there, so she
often Skyped with her mother and grandmother, who were eager to see George. We
dried the clothes on lines by the bunkhouse, taking them down during the cold
rains, and at night when the dew was heavy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iPVnbDHu3sw/UeQTO8fmZYI/AAAAAAAANg8/9gfzKRCEcac/s1600/DSCN0587.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iPVnbDHu3sw/UeQTO8fmZYI/AAAAAAAANg8/9gfzKRCEcac/s320/DSCN0587.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">On May 30 we started up Lake
Itaipu, a reservoir on the Paraná River. Paraguay was still on the left (west)
bank but now we had Brazil to our right. The reservoir was an inland sea with
wooded shores. As in our two previous reservoir experiences they hadn’t removed
the trees before filling the reservoir, so snags protruded wherever the lake
was shallow. Sport fishermen fly-fished from aluminum skiffs, and commercial
fishermen in planked boats tended nets. The Honda 2-horse outboard conked out,
but we tracked the cause to the ignition cable, for which we had a spare. Ginny
rowed for the first time since she was five months pregnant. The wind was
rarely good for sailing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">George was fine with living aboard.
As necessary we applied his life jacket, ear-protectors, sunglasses, and
sunscreen. Ginny created a wrap for him whereby George is carried snugly on her
chest leaving her hands free. We shared colds, always harder on George than on
Steve or Ginny. During meals Steve read Brazilian history books, looking up the
words he didn’t know in a Portuguese-English dictionary. We dried diapers on a
line stretched between the masts.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FwukDyQiZIY/UeQTpY8XcGI/AAAAAAAANh8/v9rBCrfjtq0/s1600/DSCN0737.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FwukDyQiZIY/UeQTpY8XcGI/AAAAAAAANh8/v9rBCrfjtq0/s320/DSCN0737.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On June 2 we reached Guaira, a
small city where there used to be falls similar to Iguaçu, but the dam has
drowned them. Somebody invited us into a creek, so we paddled in until we came
to a long, ramshackle boatshed with fifteen or so long, slender, wooden fishing
dories. We squeezed in among them. We stepped onto a low, grassy bank, crossed
a street, and found ourselves in a neighborhood of new and in-process small homes
inhabited by fishermen and their families. They were excited to meet us. They had
us over for meals and took us on errands in their rattly cars. The local press
interviewed us. Little girls brought ramen noodles, bottled water, candies. We were
told, for the umpteenth time, of someone who some years before had kayaked the
same stretch of river.<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kbLxzLuPEBw/UeQUBOyEvHI/AAAAAAAANi0/Rv5xCR7DE-0/s1600/DSCN0765.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kbLxzLuPEBw/UeQUBOyEvHI/AAAAAAAANi0/Rv5xCR7DE-0/s320/DSCN0765.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Leaving Guaira we were in current
again. We weren’t in a hurry so we ran the long-tail motor slow. averaging
seven kilometers per hour. Now both banks were Brazil, so the naval patrols
dropped off. It took two and a half days to get past Ilha Grande, our longest
riverine island to date at 130 kilometers. With the river undivided again it was
three kilometers wide: big considering how far upstream we were. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WdGkUVy0KNiXuxJ9LDpQuU-8CNJWsRDg3TofLDXet6U8kxYHIk-JDl92CBo657xMo3DftA_IwLLdhpB8tX3j0avdxc6CCWqghlZmUU9N2ril3m3D1FPZfnWWZ2uXhXZbM_NNKd6VflJy/s1600/DSCN0854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WdGkUVy0KNiXuxJ9LDpQuU-8CNJWsRDg3TofLDXet6U8kxYHIk-JDl92CBo657xMo3DftA_IwLLdhpB8tX3j0avdxc6CCWqghlZmUU9N2ril3m3D1FPZfnWWZ2uXhXZbM_NNKd6VflJy/s320/DSCN0854.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Rather than take one long break at
mid-day we tried stopping every couple hours for a quick stroll on a sand bank,
a forest trail, or in a town. On June 9 we reached the mouth of the
Paranapanema River. Thereafter São Paulo State lay on the east bank. The water
became wonderfully clear as we approached the next dam, because it had settled
out the sediment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">The Sergio Matto dam has a lock,
but could we use it? The fishermen said it’s only for big boats. We put up our
masts to look more like a sailboat, therefore deserving. We entered a canal
chiseled down through bedrock and stopped within sight of the lock. We called
for assistance on VHF Channel 16, afraid we wouldn’t understand the operator’s
Portuguese, but we managed all right. Someone took our data, consulted their
superior, and said to approach the lock. The operator was a tiny figure in a
glass structure high over the downstream gate, which he now lifted. We paddled
into the chamber, which was big enough for a hundred <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurstons,</i> and tied to a floating bollard that slides vertically on
a track. Creaks and groans echoed through the chamber, flowed by a gentle
swirling as we rose about twenty feet. Then the upstream gate opened, this time
vertically downwards. It was dark when we emerged into this new reservoir, but
we soon found a cove to anchor in. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GiMz55I0k6Q/UeQUnXB0G5I/AAAAAAAANkc/M24ZzaxAjLk/s1600/DSCN0957.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GiMz55I0k6Q/UeQUnXB0G5I/AAAAAAAANkc/M24ZzaxAjLk/s320/DSCN0957.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">The next day was Steve’s 60<sup>th</sup>
birthday. The sun shone brightly, the water was clear and cool. The sandy bottom
lent itself to wading. In the following nights we camped in equally lovely coves.
They were generally creek mouths, marshy at their heads, with forested banks
and rising farmland beyond. We saw capybaras, otters, parrots, macaws, and
tapir tracks five inches across, but so far no tapirs.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fE-8ynmcWkE/UeQU5GEGMHI/AAAAAAAANlM/p0LEfLW3sgY/s1600/DSCN1026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fE-8ynmcWkE/UeQU5GEGMHI/AAAAAAAANlM/p0LEfLW3sgY/s320/DSCN1026.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">On June 14 we reached Presidente
Epitacio, a small city on the east bank. We pulled into a lily-lined inlet and
nosed up to a grassy bank among some other recreational boats. The land was park-like,
gently rising. To our left a couple of steel boats were getting welded up. To
our right was a restaurant with open-air seating. As in Guaira, people took an
interest in us. Reporters arrived. The marina manager invited us to stay in a
guest house. Downtown was a ten-minute walk away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hUvIie483Rw/UeQW_ysx3PI/AAAAAAAANrU/6uIXkY-El_A/s1600/DSCN1404.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hUvIie483Rw/UeQW_ysx3PI/AAAAAAAANrU/6uIXkY-El_A/s320/DSCN1404.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We needed to go to the U.S.
consulate in São Paulo city to get George an American passport. Pleased with
what we had seen of Presidente Epitacio we decided to leave <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> here and catch a bus. We had
heard of something called Couch Surfing, where people register themselves on a
web site as being willing to put up travelers. We checked. It’s popular in
Brazil and we soon got an invitation from a guy in São Paulo!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We packed light, using just our
day packs. A fellow boat owner helped us secure <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> and took us to the bus station. At 8 PM we caught a modern
bus with reclinable seats and rolled off into the night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MfSi-m4FLWY/UeQVnGUUPWI/AAAAAAAANnc/en5gZ1MbIXE/s1600/DSCN1226.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MfSi-m4FLWY/UeQVnGUUPWI/AAAAAAAANnc/en5gZ1MbIXE/s320/DSCN1226.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Dawn found us in a huge São Paulo
transit terminal. We took a subway to Praça da Sé (Plaza of the Old Cathedral),
at the city’s core. The crowds included gold-buyers with special vests,
policemen of varying uniforms, and homeless people snoozing under brown
blankets. Nearby stood the former Jesuit school where the first mass was held
in 1554, inaugurating Brazil’s first inland settlement, seventy kilometers from
the coast and a cool 2,600 feet above sea level. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">São Paulo grew as the jumping-off
point for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bandeirante</i>
explorations, wherein hardy Portuguese canoed the rivers for years on end in
search of gold and Indian slaves. Another new type of man, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gaúcho,</i> ranged southward, adapting the
plains to cattle herding. Here and in Paraguay everyone spoke a lingua franca
based on Tupi-Guarani. In Paraguay Guarani remained the language of the people
while in Brazil further European influxes caused Portuguese to prevail. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bandeirantes</i> discovered gold in Ouro
Preto (Black Gold). Coffee was introduced. Millions emigrated from Italy,
Germany, Japan, and Eastern Europe. Now São Paulo, population twenty million,
is the biggest city in South America, and in the Southern Hemisphere.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We obtained an atlas that broke
the city up into 445 pages worth of maps, the minimum number capable of
depicting all its 131,249 streets. São Paulo is actually a city of many
centers, each a cluster of skyscrapers, the whole spreading over an area forty
by sixty kilometers.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5sWmAZhyO0U/UeQV-rPhg9I/AAAAAAAANoU/8QTioCdi3ws/s1600/DSCN1265.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5sWmAZhyO0U/UeQV-rPhg9I/AAAAAAAANoU/8QTioCdi3ws/s320/DSCN1265.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">We found our amiable host, Vinicius,
in a sub-city called Butantá, west of the Pinheiros River. He, his wife
Fernanda and a couple friends, all recent graduates of the U. of São Paulo
engineering school, inhabited a common-wall house in a hilly district. They gave
us the bedroom of a roommate temporarily out of town, keys, and bicycles. Our
hosts were leftists, active in the anti-corruption demonstrations then shaking
the country. They spoke English, which facilitated communication. We soon
developed close friendships with Vinicius and several others.</span></div>
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</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Next we found the U.S. Consulate,
a bus ride and train ride away. A State Department official originally from
Seattle<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>interviewed us and approved
George’s citizenship. On the public conveyances George inevitably made new
friends, men and women of all ages who cooed at him phrases like, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Ay, que pequeninho tao bonitinho e
branquinho.”</i> (“My what a lovely little boy, so cute and white-skinned.”)
George now smiles ecstatically in response to such entreaties. The other day we
caught him befriending a cardboard cut out of a man in the grocery store!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSACHnv9iuZt_M2SuNB-SFw3kkAPbDMhriAsUym97ys04yqcj4PcLbkOR4IF1efuM64Cva7qH4cnBPTDimButYpAIHICydId2uGoOrC0gWlUstjY7EUA18V6zJQUoBVZlE_rshXd9Dh5cC/s1600/DSCN1557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSACHnv9iuZt_M2SuNB-SFw3kkAPbDMhriAsUym97ys04yqcj4PcLbkOR4IF1efuM64Cva7qH4cnBPTDimButYpAIHICydId2uGoOrC0gWlUstjY7EUA18V6zJQUoBVZlE_rshXd9Dh5cC/s320/DSCN1557.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">In the following days we toured
the Museum of the Portuguese Language, the Museum of Contemporary Art, and the
Paulista Museum (a native of São Paulo state is a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paulista</i>). We did a walking tour of downtown architecture. We found
our way through subway stations four stories tall, interconnected with other caverns
via conveyor-belt tunnels. The old financial district was entirely vehicle-free:
streets curving in medieval patterns, paved with black and white stones, with
fountains and street musicians. Here and there demonstrators marched with
banners. Mounted policemen marshaled their forces in ranks of groomed horses
and shiny black leather. Our new friends took us out to see places we may have
never found ourselves. We toured an alley famous for its graffiti. At a street
fair we sampled regional sweets and listened to a family performing folk
classics on flute, clarinet, ukelele, guitar, and tambourine. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="color: black;">With time to kill pending the
arrival of George’s passport, we got another Couch Surfing date and took an
all-nighter to Ouro Preto, in the mountainous state of Minas Gerais (General
Mines). In 1696 – a hundred and fifty years before the California Gold Rush! – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bandeirantes</i> found gold in these steep hills
and the creeks draining them. Nobles and commoners, Europeans and creoles, African
slaves and everyone else. rushed up from São Paulo and Rio de
Janeiro to get rich (or help their masters do so). And before the problem of
provisions was solved (the soil being inadequate for farming) many died with
gold in their hands! </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">With their new wealth the survivors built a city of steep cobblestone
streets and two-story townhouses with mud-and-wattle walls. Those that occupied
intersections often had alters like little false balconies set high in their salient
corners in the hope that the saint represented therein would protect the residents
from ghouls. The well-endowed brotherhoods of the day flooded the town with
baroque and rococo churches such as are no longer seen in São Paulo, where the first
generation of churches were demolished and rebuilt in newer styles. Their
interiors are packed with primitive but colorful paintings, wooden statuary,
carved soapstone, and gold-leaf. The most famous architect and sculptor,
Aleijadinho (Little Cripple), was a leper who completed his final works with
prosthetics attached to his limbs because he no longer had hands. </span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wqBJ7SDVnY0/UeQWg1CuuAI/AAAAAAAANp8/itPMulqNg6I/s1600/DSCN1370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wqBJ7SDVnY0/UeQWg1CuuAI/AAAAAAAANp8/itPMulqNg6I/s320/DSCN1370.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Our hosts were a young couple who
spent their days trying to sell illustrated poetry in the streets. They were
anarchists, simple in their lifestyle and pure in their beliefs. Their only
furniture was scrounged mats and wooden crates found on the street after market
day. We stayed three days with them in their rental house on top of a hill so tall
that it was usually in the clouds, cold and misty.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0szQcvGFe9A/UeQXL4dvEKI/AAAAAAAANrs/GrVo9ciEfLM/s1600/DSCN1424.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0szQcvGFe9A/UeQXL4dvEKI/AAAAAAAANrs/GrVo9ciEfLM/s320/DSCN1424.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">To complete our side-trip we took
a bus down to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil’s most beautiful city and long its
capital. Set among sugarloaf mountains, scalloped bays, and luxurious beaches,
the city rises from a commodious harbor to steep urbanized hillsides. When
Napoleon occupied Portugal in 1808 King Joáo of Portugal moved his court there,
promoting Brazil from colony to seat of a world-wide empire. When Joáo returned
to Portugal his son remained to became Emperor of an independent Brazil. Various
separatist movements were crushed, preserving Brazil as a single whole while
Spain’s New World empire crumbled into eighteen separate countries, all relatively
weak. This allowed Brazil to win the race for the interior of the continent, its
settlers spreading out in the footsteps of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bandeirantes,</i> protected by imperial soldiers.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Our Rio host was a friend of
Vinicius, a chemical engineer with a demanding job and a new condo near the
beach. In the city center, among more grandiose attractions, we discovered the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Real Gabinete Portuguese de Leitura,</i> or,
roughly, “Royal Portuguese Reading Library.” A gem of arches and spires, it consists
of little more than a three-story atrium filled, from floor to glass dome, with
antique books, a sort of Gothic altar to the beautifully soft language of
Portugal. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Npv0KLOK0m4/UeQXisNyDTI/AAAAAAAANsc/uhKPYgsPvp4/s1600/DSCN1468.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Npv0KLOK0m4/UeQXisNyDTI/AAAAAAAANsc/uhKPYgsPvp4/s320/DSCN1468.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Friday night fell as we meandered back,
George in his wrap. We crossed a glittery theater district, then stopped in a
scruffy back street with tall building fronts and hole-in-the-wall booze shops.
Drinkers drank in the light emanating from the shops. Families sat on their
steps. We bought a big rum drink for $1.50 and sat on the pavement, our backs
against a dark wall. Skateboarders tooled around. Kids on bikes passed through.
A drunk raved harmlessly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hippie
jewelry vendor tended his wares, spread out on a cloth. He must have been
charismatic, because a baseball-capped teenager brought him marijuana to smoke,
and one young woman, then another, came and sat on his knee. Everyone just
relaxed, as they must do every Friday night when the weather is nice.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Back at Vinicius’ place in São
Paulo we celebrated our third wedding anniversary. Has it really been three
years? Our friends Francisco and Berlane, from Manaus, were in town so we got
together for a trip to Santos, the port city nearest São Paulo. What a treat to
see old friends! George’s passport came, then a debit card to replace one that
had expired. We bicycled to new neighborhoods. Kids flying kites were a common
sight. If no park was nearby they flew them in the street, their first
challenge being to get their little squares of paper and balsa up through a gap
in the cables and power lines that filled the air overhead. Once the kite was
up the boy had to stay put, but his kite was free to fly far and high, a brave
symbol of joy.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVSdNE4g_tODTXf92y0W22cnSjDjz_ZnQQpEDQpJ1CJt7IHjcjdguLDhHCYMgchwWWfKQJI16-ucV2rnAS0BJIiA8x_onNJrhHo2IbXRC6v2_b-bV0bjMG4IVqyF8PY-OX6G-4QloZ3K3/s1600/DSCN1637.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVSdNE4g_tODTXf92y0W22cnSjDjz_ZnQQpEDQpJ1CJt7IHjcjdguLDhHCYMgchwWWfKQJI16-ucV2rnAS0BJIiA8x_onNJrhHo2IbXRC6v2_b-bV0bjMG4IVqyF8PY-OX6G-4QloZ3K3/s320/DSCN1637.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
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<br />
On July 11 we caught another night bus back to Presidente
Epitacio. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> was fine, our
hosts still welcoming. We now plan to finish our ascent of the Paraná and a
series of tributaries as far as they remain navigable. In upstream order these
additional rivers will be the Paranaíba, the Dos Bois, and the Verdáo, the
latter two in the state of Goiás. At some point we will arrange transport to Barra
das Garzas on the Araguaia River. Around that time our visa will expire, so we
will leave <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> someplace and fly
back to Atlanta. We plan to drive around visiting friends and relatives for six
months, then return to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> and descend
the Araguaia River to Belém at the mouth of the Amazon.</div>
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<span style="color: black;">See our new photos at: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart3">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart3</a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Lots of love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Steve, Ginny, & George</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-26375107686040734522013-05-09T09:48:00.000-07:002013-05-10T08:35:50.493-07:00Lago de Itaipu, Brazil<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Dear
friends and family,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 386.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We last emailed you on March 7
after having ascended the swift Paraná River, with Paraguay on the left (west)
bank and Argentina on the right, to the mouth of the </span>Iguaçu<span style="color: black;"> (or Iguassu or Iguazu) River, which joins on the right.
Both rivers are set in deep, forested canyons. Puerto Iguazu, Argentina and Foz
do (Mouth of the) </span>Iguaçu,<span style="color: black;"> Brazil lie on the
north and south sides respective of the </span>Iguaçu<span style="color: black;">
River. Ciudad del Este lies on the Paraguayan side of the Paraná. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The meager Argentine and Brazilian
port facilities face each other a kilometer upstream on the </span>Iguaçu.<span style="color: black;"> We had decided to have our baby in Brazil, so after a week
we crossed over and tied up at a facility for getting dredged sand up onto
trucks. The bank was steep and muddy. The glossy, red-brown waters rose and
fell dramatically for reasons unclear to us; both rivers had major dams
upstream. Getting to shore was difficult, and getting from there to downtown
Foz required a long uphill walk and a bus ride.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xVwG_Zce3mc/UW7TrZV9Z8I/AAAAAAAANVs/HHXdbkBSMo8/s320/DSCN2265.JPG" width="320" /> </span></div>
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With<span style="color: black;"> </span>a population of
250,000, Foz had a fair availability of goods and services. <span style="color: black;">Ginny’s extended belly didn’t lend her to vigorous
exploration, but</span> Steve, with no such handicap, b<span style="color: black;">ought
a used bicycle and a map of the city. </span>The<span style="color: black;"> nights
were hot and our solar-fed electrical system lacked capacity to run a fan, so
we installed a second battery and a fan of lower amperage. The weather
subsequently cooled with the onset of Southern Hemisphere autumn, but we would
need the cooling capacity later as we re-approached the Equator. Playing on Brazilian strengths we ate mangoes and chocolate and drank beer from returnable
liter bottles. There was little traffic. On weekends families came and set up
chairs and umbrellas and fished at the foot of the boat ramp as if it were a
beach.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Qbg0D_C2VU/UW7TvIx5LBI/AAAAAAAANVs/D5Lifc3nZIo/s320/DSCN2317.JPG" width="320" /> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Ginny’s mother, sister, and her
sister’s boyfriend were scheduled to arrive around birthing time, so we found a
small furnished apartment ten blocks east of downtown, near a shopping center.
On March 15th we picked Mom (Lois) up at the airport and moved in. Normally
talkative, she was so excited she switched from subject to subject like a
hummingbird sniffing flowers, zigging and zagging. At the apartment she showered
us with gifts, including peanut butter, hostess treats, and five (!) tiny magnifying
glasses, not to mention a suitcase of things she had transported for us. Lois
took one bedroom, we the other. Then we sat on the sofa and feasted on pizza
and ice cream. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">On March 19<sup>th</sup> , one day
past the due date, Ginny woke up feeling “different somehow.” At 8:00 a.m. she
started having contractions every five minutes, then every four. That being the
indicated frequency, Steve called a taxi, but when we tried to leave the gate wouldn’t
open! In our apartment block each landing led to a pair of apartments sharing a
barred gate. We had never locked it before, nor had the neighbors, but this
time they had locked it and left. And our key didn’t work! We were stuck inside
with Ginny in labor! Ginny was calm, expecting labor to take all day anyway,
but Lois and Steve were in a panic, yelling for help and trying to kick the gate
down. Finally a neighbor, reaching his hand through the bars, got our key to
work.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Ten minutes later we were in the
lobby of the Hospital Cataratas, a small private institution. We had already
purchased a birth plan. Staffers promptly examined Ginny. Pronouncing her “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pronto</i>!” (ready) they wheeled her away
into the depths of the hospital where no one could hear her scream. Lois and
Steve took care of paperwork, then tried to follow her. They wouldn’t let us into
the birthing room! Steve remonstrated with increasing insistence until some
nurses dressed him in scrubs and led him into the inner sanctum. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Ginny was in full labor, screaming
with pain, foaming at the mouth, thrashing on the table. The doctor was working
calmly only taking time to occasionally give the impossible order “<i>Tranquilo</i>!”.
A brawny, demonic nurse had her arm passed through the metal framework of the
birthing bed from one side to the other in such a manner as to clamp Ginny down
while also pressing her bulge vent-ward. “Push!” she commanded. “Stop, breathe
deeply! Now push! Harder!” Steve, crying but calm, held Ginny’s hand and
translated the commands. His presence helped Ginny feel more secure, but it
didn’t relieve the primal agony. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">After a short, but unimaginably
long 30 minutes the anguish was over! They snipped the cord and all too briefly
showed us our baby, then took him away. During his forty-five years of practice
Doctor Fava had done 28,000 births, so he knew his business. He was the only
doctor we could find who did normal births as Brazil is notorious for having an
astronomically high rate of C-sections, something like 90% in the private
hospitals. In the big cities there is a move back towards normal, what they
call “humane” births, but Foz is not so progressive. Their attitude seems to be
that anyone who requests a natural birth must be poor or masochistic.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">They rolled Ginny into a private
room where Lois was waiting, content because she had previously been in the
nursery holding the baby who then spent four hours in an incubator. Finally
they brought George Iguassu Ladd to us, healthy and beautiful! Various doctors
and nurses came and went asking this, injecting that. George was chubby and
calm. He weighed 8 pounds, 11 ounces, much bigger than the doctor had expected.
He began nursing right away. “Now we’re immortal,” said Ginny. Unable to sleep,
she just stared at George all night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bkoQzUEZGj8/UW7TkuzMUnI/AAAAAAAANVs/ZaqhrBw9MX0/s1600/IMAG0566.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bkoQzUEZGj8/UW7TkuzMUnI/AAAAAAAANVs/ZaqhrBw9MX0/s320/IMAG0566.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">We spent the night in the hospital
room and in the morning took a taxi to the apartment. Ginny’s sister Carley and
her boyfriend Matt had arrived during the night. We spent several happy days
together. When Ginny wasn’t scrubbing diapers, nursing or just staring at
George she was zoned out pondering the baby’s mysterious needs and wants. Lois kept
us all well fed. When she wasn’t cooking she spent every possible moment
holding and cooing to her first grandchild. Carley brought a huge bag of prizes
for George, donated by kind friends. Matt, in taking a walk, discovered a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">favela</i> (slum) lining a stream only a
quarter mile from our relatively lush apartment complex. Steve studied guitar
and Portuguese. It has even more verb forms than Spanish! And those devilish Xs
can be pronounced four different ways: “sh”, “s”, “z”, or “cs”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PUQfkkwTDcs/UW7T6hyFyvI/AAAAAAAANVs/GYi10eiPML4/s320/DSCN2460.JPG" width="320" /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ShHjHt2lRgo/UW7UA-qJulI/AAAAAAAANVs/S7P75NnV7rc/s1600/DSCN2493.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">On George’s seventh day we all
took a bus to Iguassu Falls, which occupies matching national parks on either
side of the Brazilian/Argentine border. We followed a trail on the lip of the
gorge with views of the countless individual falls, up to 270 feet tall, over a
large area where the river plummets over a cliff that curves in plan view, and
which in places is broken up into two steps of half that height. The trail had
many vantage points, some immersed in swirling droplets due to proximity to one
or another of the cataracts. We held George aloft in the mist that he might
absorb power from his namesake. We also rented a car and explored the Brazilian
state of Paraná. Corn blanketed the rolling hills, dotted with neat little towns,
cleft with deep valleys.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LjyyeefTr_c/UW7TnDUHZcI/AAAAAAAANVs/1hu_00530S4/s320/DSCN0008.JPG" width="254" /> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The third leg of the stool, Ciudad del Este, is an infamous
duty-free zone and smuggling center. Lois and Steve took a bus there to buy cameras
and new clothes for Ginny. It was comparable in size to Foz, but poor and
congested. Paraguay’s lack of import duties had created a retail boom
necessitating a profusion of new six-story buildings. Typically the side facing
the street was emblazoned with mega-graphics while the other three were of
unfinished brick. In the canyons between the buildings overhead cables filled
the air like vines in an Amazonian forest. But one rarely glimpsed such things,
because stall-keepers had turned the sidewalks into congested tunnels of shoddy
Chinese merchandise, while the streets were full of stalled traffic.
Flyer-distributors tried to entice us into Lebanese- or Syrian-owned electronics
stores. Ambulatory vendors sold phone chargers, hats, belts. When a rainstorm
hit a little boy in shorts and flip-flops turned a discarded chunk of Styrofoam
into a boat and floated it down an engorged gutter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XHiGLVdTax0/UW7T57IFL7I/AAAAAAAANVs/kjz25uJL13U/s320/DSCN2451.JPG" width="320" /></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Carley and Matt went home all too soon, but Lois stayed over
a month. Foz is a bland, automobile-oriented city, but we had plenty to do. <span style="color: black;">We had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>
transported from the river to a reservoir above the city,</span> and got George
a shiny new Brazilian passport<span style="color: black;">. We made new friends
and enjoyed a few musical get-togethers with them</span>. A newborn
necessitates a lot of idle time, but we could
always count on an American action movie dubbed in Portuguese to keep us
entertained. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<img border="0" height="269" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yaVYbRxxMb8/UYvDiRMvxAI/AAAAAAAANXM/q0B4LW5tnCE/s320/DSCN2890.JPG" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">On April 16<sup>th</sup> we sadly
accompanied Lois to the airport. Our rental now expired, so we packed up our
stuff and caught a bus to the boat. A few miles upstream of Foz on the Paraná
River lies the mammoth Itaipu Dam. The Lake Itaipu Yacht Club had not only
consented to accommodating <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston, </i>but
had towed her there free of charge. An army of employees in matching blue T-shirts
kept the grounds immaculate and launched and retrieved the members’ boats,
which were kept on land, each on its own trailer. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> waited for us under a shady tree, on land to facilitate
some boat work. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qf2hnJTH4nE/UW7UHmkhzCI/AAAAAAAANVs/l3oLVAz-3xs/s320/DSCN2548.JPG" width="320" /> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Except for the yacht club, the
shore of Lake Itaipu is a wilderness reserve. A troupe of tufted capuchin
monkeys sometimes comes to pick a big green fruit called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">guanábana </i>(soursop) from a tree behind the club’s workshop. All the
conveniences are available here, but we live aboard as usual. Ginny re-arranged
the cabin to accommodate George, who sleeps beside her up forward. She has made
up funny songs to sing while she feeds him, changes his diaper, etc. He gets</span>
fussy but Ginny is patient. <span style="color: black;">In the morning Steve
plays with George in the cockpit while she washes diapers. The nearest stores
are a twenty-minute bike ride away in Tres Lagoas, a suburb of Foz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-07PQCuCz8NY/UYvEBazzRGI/AAAAAAAANZ0/0DLBX8bVJzc/s320/DSCN0315.JPG" width="240" /> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We made a new sail cover and are now building new hatches
for the aft stowage compartment because the store-bought ones always leaked. We
are also cutting the compartment’s forward edge down a little to allow a full
rowing stroke even when the water is rough. (Waves necessitate lifting the oar
blades higher, which in turn necessitates <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a lower arc at the grips.) After learning
guitar for two years with standard tuning, Steve has gone over to Major Thirds
tuning, which gives the fretboard a symmetrical pattern of notes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jh8wNcW81R8/UYvDs4lOLVI/AAAAAAAANYM/ps7fto3oMnA/s320/DSCN0124.JPG" width="320" /> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">As eccentric travelers who had
chosen that their adorable son be Brazilian instead of Argentine or Paraguayan,
and had middle-named him for their waterfall, we enjoyed ideal public relations
conditions. Besides the kind hospitality from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Iate Clube Lago de Itaipu</i> new friends put us up in their posada for
a spell, a TV crew filmed us (<a href="http://g1.globo.com/pr/oeste-sudoeste/noticia/2013/05/casal-que-viaja-pelo-mundo-de-barco-escolhe-parana-para-ter-filho.html" target="_blank">see the video here</a>)
, a newspaper reporter interviewed us, and the yacht club wrote us up in their
glossy quarterly magazine. Too bad we didn’t have anything to sell! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we get underway again we plan to ascend the Paraná and
Paranaiba rivers into the state of Goias, transport to the Araguaia River, and
descend it to Belém at the mouth of the Amazon. George has been asked to hurry
up and learn how to row. Wherever we are in about four months we intend to fly
back to the U.S. for a long visit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">See our new photos at: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart3">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart3</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Lots of love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Steve & Ginny (and George!)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O8pBDSHcdaU/UYvD1gNG8YI/AAAAAAAANY0/EdRNXibh-NM/s320/DSCN0192.JPG" width="320" /></span></div>
ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-37582312626243199292013-03-08T07:48:00.004-08:002013-03-08T09:30:59.762-08:00Foz do Iguaçu, Brasil<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-36tytZmmea4/UTn_EabdHjI/AAAAAAAANIE/jnGdfJReW1M/s1600/DSCN2136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-36tytZmmea4/UTn_EabdHjI/AAAAAAAANIE/jnGdfJReW1M/s320/DSCN2136.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Dear
friends and family,</span><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; tab-stops: 386.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">We sent our last email from
</span><span lang="EN-US">Concordia, where we re-entered Argentina. On January 30,
2013 newfound friends trailered us around the Rio Uruguay’s Salto Grande dam. Above
it we found ourselves on a reservoir with thick arms extending west into
Argentina and east into Uruguay. Continuing north, we cut from point to point,
camping in the many coves formed by tributary valleys. We stuck an anchor in
the beach or tied to a branch. One night we tied to a cattle fence sloping down
into the water and were visited by a curious herd.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wW6Lpl0CskU/UTn8sjHuRhI/AAAAAAAANDk/EdPsRb8uMOM/s1600/DSCN1831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wW6Lpl0CskU/UTn8sjHuRhI/AAAAAAAANDk/EdPsRb8uMOM/s320/DSCN1831.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">As the lake narrowed, the river current again
opposed us. Whoever built the dam had not bothered to first cut down the trees
growing along the banks. The water rising to nearly the tops of these groves
had drowned them, but they still stood, their trunks obstructing the near-shore
where we wished to navigate. The above-water parts rotted faster than the
immersed parts, so many stumps lay just below water level. We hit some, but
they were soft, harmless. Every few days the sluggish heat built into a violent
storm that we fled by tucking into a lily-filled inlet flanked by tall, viney
forests. In one such refuge we celebrated Ginny’s thirty-third birthday eating
watermelon and recuperating from the ill effects of a batch of bad drinking
water, discovered in time to prevent serious sickness.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">The banks were low, the forest increasingly
tropical. Most of the trees were massed broad-leafs, but interspersed among
these were pines, palms, bamboo, and a species much taller than the others,
with delicate, wispy boughs and white bark. We also passed vast, regular
plantations of eucalyptus trees for making paper pulp. There were few houses,
but we sometimes passed swarthy fishermen standing shoulder-deep in the river, immobile
except for their heads, which slowly turned to watch as we passed. This posture
kept them cool while allowing them to cast their hooks further out into the
river. We gave them a wide berth to avoid catching their lines in our propeller.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-th3YFlO1g7c/UTn8yQwXj0I/AAAAAAAANFA/M22VxgKexnw/s1600/DSCN1931.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-th3YFlO1g7c/UTn8yQwXj0I/AAAAAAAANFA/M22VxgKexnw/s320/DSCN1931.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Uruguay gave way to Brazil on the right
bank, but we didn’t land for fear of angering the touchy Argentine officials. We
stranded on a sandbar, and in cutting the motor heard the familiar cry of
howler monkeys. In the distance stood the skyscrapers of Uruguaiana, a city in
this southern appendage of Brazil. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">After a long day of sailing or motoring we
welcomed a cool bath and a quiet evening under the southern stars. Yellow and
green fireflies flew about us. When we washed our dishes in the river, bending
over the gunwale to reach the whirling, semi-transparent water, hordes of minnows
fought for the scraps. They also bit us we when bathed, but their tiny jaws
never broke our skin.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Our little outboard motor developed a fuel
system problem, so we pulled into a creek mouth to fix it. “Damn, it’s a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura!”</i> said Ginny, noting a boat and
a little building with a radio antenna on the upper bank. But the usual hassles
did not occur. A lanky officer, off-duty in shorts and T-shirt, told us how boring
the work was. “Nothing happens here except sometimes the Brazilians cross over
with contraband fireworks,” he said. “For a month at a time we don’t see our
families.” He offered us ice, water, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mate</i>
tea, whatever he could help us with. We located the problem, a restrictive gas
filter, and left in the morning.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">A week out from Concordia we reached Santo
Tomé, a small city where the Uruguay River passes within a hundred miles of the
Paraná. It had a boat ramp and good highway access, so here we looked for
transportation to the larger watercourse that would take us to Foz do Iguaçu,
where we planned to have George. No friendly fellow boaters materialized, but the
local <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura</i> connected us with a chunky,
tattooed businessman with a trailer eager to earn $400.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Upon backing the trailer into the river we
found that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> didn’t fit because
its side posts were too close together. “No problem,” he said. He dashed home,
got a grinder, and cut the posts off. Once we had loaded <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> Steve noted that the trailer’s tongue weight was dangerously
negative, but he drove off anyway. The hitch soon lifted off the ball, got
jerked forward by the safety chain, and smashed his trunk in. We shifted equipment
from stern to bow until the tongue weight was positive. </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pVLniLvU6j8/UTn_PITNpBI/AAAAAAAANKk/iOdbWZhKSaU/s1600/latenighttransport.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pVLniLvU6j8/UTn_PITNpBI/AAAAAAAANKk/iOdbWZhKSaU/s320/latenighttransport.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">It was now midnight but he preferred to
leave right away because there were fewer highway checkpoints at night. We
stipulated only that he put us in the Paraná River upstream of the Yacyretá
dam. He chain-smoked and drank beer while we dozed in the back seat. At 3:30
a.m. he backed us into a water body with suspiciously strong current for a
reservoir. “Don’t worry, you’re above the dam,” he said, and drove off. We
anchored in shallow water and fell asleep.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">In the morning of February 11 we looked up
and saw the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">downstream</i> face of the
huge Yacyretá dam shared by Paraguay and Argentina. Whether our driver’s
geography was mistaken or he had deceived us we never determined, but we
weren’t too worried because the dam has a lock. We were in a city called Ituzaingó.
We found our way to a large <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura</i>
compound and surrendered ourselves to their smothering care. Data was entered
into books, papers were checked, an entry document was created. “To open the
lock requires written request forty-eight hours in advance,” they said. We got
that started.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">A meeting was convened in the chief’s
office. Various officers gravely warned us how murderous the Paraguayan
smugglers are, how dangerous the lock is, how perilous the reservoir, how calm
weather can quickly change into a killer storm. “The waves come at you from all
directions at the same time! And you can’t go ashore because the coast is too
hazardous. No one boats up there!” Someone asked to see our certificates of boater
training. We had none, since such a requirement had never existed in Washington
State. We showed them the authorization already granted us by the Concordia <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura</i> to navigate to Foz do Iguaçu,
and some magazines in which our articles had been published. “You can see that we’re
experienced sailors,” we argued.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">“I am sorry,” said the chief, “but without
such proof of competence I cannot permit you to navigate the reservoir. But I
have a friend who might be able to give you a ride to Posadas, beyond the
reservoir. Good luck!”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">A plump, young officer took us in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura</i> vehicle to a company that gives
boat rides. “I have no trouble giving you a ride to Posadas. Just give me some
gas money,” said the manager. He hooked a Land Rover to a trailer, loaded us in
the car with him, and drove to the waterfront. “I didn’t want to tell you in
front of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefecto</i>, but I can’t
take you all the way to Posadas. I’ll take you past the dam, to a ranch on the
lake.” He pulled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> out of the
water and drove us out of town, our second transport in three days. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ue90yW1QdDI/UTn-46nSM5I/AAAAAAAANFU/vPSQQ84rbM4/s1600/DSCN1987.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ue90yW1QdDI/UTn-46nSM5I/AAAAAAAANFU/vPSQQ84rbM4/s320/DSCN1987.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">We rumbled along twenty miles of red dirt
roads through pasture and forest, avoiding the highway for the same reason our
previous transporter had avoided travelling during the day. When we got to a
cluster of buildings on a big lake he backed the boat down a gentle bank. We
untied and climbed aboard. “When you pass <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura</i>
stations stay at least a kilometer from shore so they can’t bother you,” he
advised.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">As we motored out into this new reservoir
we wondered what about it so terrified the Ituzaingó <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectos. </i>It looked no different from the one we had navigated
near Concordia. After a couple hours we reached an island consisting of a
single huge sand dune, uninhabited and barren. We climbed to the top. Was this
a drug-smuggling base? Were we were being watched? Paraguay was visible to the
north. The “deadly” lake was like a mill pond, hot and airless. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Resuming our transit we stayed far from
shore until we had passed what looked like a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura</i> station, given its tall tower, then pulled into a cove
surrounded by open grazing land and rolling hills. We relaxed in the cockpit as
the air cooled and the sky turned purple and red. Doves cooed, cicadas whirred.
Ginny cooked vegetarian spaghetti. We had just started eating when we heard a
boat approach.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">“Goddamn it, it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefucktos!” </i>Ginny swore. They pulled alongside, their twin
high-powered outboards idling. “I’m sorry,” they said. “This area is unsafe due
to cattle rustlers. We have orders to ask you to accompany us.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">They tossed us a line. We morosely finished
our meal as they towed us to the station we had passed. The senior officer came
out. “The Ituzaingó <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura</i> is
unhappy with you,” he said. “They prohibited you from going out into the lake
and you went anyway. You’ll have to stay here until I get authorization from
Posadas.” We turned in with repressed anger. Our little cove had been protected
but here waves made sleep difficult.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">In the morning they let us go after a few
phone calls provided we report to headquarters when we reached Posadas. As we
continued the reservoir narrowed and a current asserted itself. Posadas was our
last large Argentine city, capital of the Province of Misiones, named for the
Jesuit missions that claimed this region. Our Google Earth-derived shore outline
was inaccurate; it turned out the dam had been raised higher after the
satellite imagery was taken. The old yacht club was underwater. The new basin
was unprotected and without docks, but the courtesy was great as in all
Argentine yacht clubs. The club gave us a buoy to tie to, a canoe to get to the
buoy and back, and rides into town for gas and laundry. The water was too rough
to sleep so we set up our tent on land, the first time we’d done that since
Colombia.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pNNW6tKsMw8/UTn_CqD0lxI/AAAAAAAANHs/3h3jsbgklmY/s1600/DSCN2094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pNNW6tKsMw8/UTn_CqD0lxI/AAAAAAAANHs/3h3jsbgklmY/s320/DSCN2094.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">It was now mid-February, a month from Ginny’s
due date. Steve read the chapter in our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where
There Is No Doctor</i> book pertaining to midwifery, just in case. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura</i> continued to plague us in
this final stretch. Armed vessels sometimes accompanied us. They said it was
for our safety, but we concluded that they exaggerated the dangers to justify
their overbearing control. Why do the Argentines put up with this? Why does <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Peronismo</i> still govern the country
decades after the death of those demagogues, Juan and Eva Peron? We camped
where the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectos</i> told us, or hid
deep in swampy holes, among trees adapted to seasonally flooding like in the
Amazon, pushing past floating logs and squeezing under spider-filled branches
until no searchlight could reach us.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Butterflies swarmed wherever the sun
penetrated to a solid surface, be it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>
or a muddy bank. We had entered a rainy season, or simply a region that has no
dry season. The land became hills and tall basalt cliffs. Every few kilometers we
passed an indent in the shoreline at the base of which, maybe a hundred meters distant,
a stream fell off the cliff into the river. Waterfalls peeped out through the
forests that blanketed the canyon walls. Occasionally a red dirt road sloped
down to the river. Those on the Argentine side of such a road might feature a
house or two, a boat or two, but on the matching Paraguayan side the steep,
diagonally sloping track would be lined with wall-to-wall wooden shops, those
on the downhill side perched on tall, precarious stilts. “Argentines go to the
other side to buy cheap clothes, shoes, etc.” we were told. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">The river narrowed to as little as three
hundred meters. The current increased, the banks became rocky. We retired the
two-horse outboard and put the five-horse long-tail into service. It was too
brutish for Ginny to steer for long. Taking advantage of the countercurrents in
the many coves we still averaged seven kilometers per hour. In its middle the
river flowed at a steady five knots, but the current along its margin was
splintered into a myriad of whirls. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston
</i>spun this way and that as we negotiated from one patch of water to another,
watching for rocks that didn’t quite reach the surface. We clung close to shore
at the risk of hitting the sharp black boulders and outcroppings on the
forty-five-degree bank. After a hard bump we felt under the floorboards to make
sure we hadn’t sprung a leak. </span></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyAsK1f7aTQ7F-Wmz9QO7rGN8VOHZhDhnFX5ef86Bf0Q9wcPeZ0B8NxolcPnC90FUkYNabo76Svdxo_W_EnOEx3InAUJTaTwYTYtyj6Ws35Nqq9AyA768FHAsQhLRhEJfywll0jqCerQ79/s1600/DSCN2170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyAsK1f7aTQ7F-Wmz9QO7rGN8VOHZhDhnFX5ef86Bf0Q9wcPeZ0B8NxolcPnC90FUkYNabo76Svdxo_W_EnOEx3InAUJTaTwYTYtyj6Ws35Nqq9AyA768FHAsQhLRhEJfywll0jqCerQ79/s320/DSCN2170.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">We skirted around nets strung from the shore
out to an anchor, buoyed by a string of plastic pop bottles. The Paraguayans,
poorer than the Argentines, fished from wooden rowboats, and constantly snuck
over to the Argentine side for illegal purposes such as smuggling and tree
poaching. Ferrymen rowed passengers across, dropping them off at trails leading
up the 500-foot-tall banks. This was a feat given the current; in order to land
where they wanted they first had to row far upstream in the long-shore eddies,
then pull across while the current swept them back down.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">On February 22 we turned right into the Rio
Iguazu (Spanish spelling), which entered at ninety degrees from the east. Its
canyon walls, like those of the Paraná, were heavily forested, too steep to see
the cities above: Puerto Iguazu on the Argentina side and Foz do (Mouth of the)
Iguaçu on the northern, or Brazilian side. Ciudad del Este, Paraguay, lay on
the west bank of the Paraná. Each country had a prominent monument marking its corner
of the Triple Frontier. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Puerto Iguazu was the smallest of the
three. Its waterfront consisted of a flat spot with a road down to it, a few
boats and government buildings. After paying homage to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectos</i> we walked up and got our bearings. Busy streets ran at
all angles. It was a tourist town, a base for people going to see the Argentine
side of the Iguaçu Falls, ten miles upriver. We took the first of several bus rides
across the bridge into Brazil.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QfI4tt7cWrQ/UTn_KB86jCI/AAAAAAAANJY/XA2ypeu4qQY/s1600/DSCN2185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QfI4tt7cWrQ/UTn_KB86jCI/AAAAAAAANJY/XA2ypeu4qQY/s320/DSCN2185.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Crossing over for the day required minimal
paperwork. Our first priority was to find a place to live aboard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> until Ginny’s mom, sister, and
sister’s boyfriend came. A sewage outlet just upstream spoiled our mooring in
Puerto Iguazu. Due to cliffs Foz do Iguaçu has almost no waterfront access, but
directly across from our current tie-up was a sand terminal. A steel boat
sucked up sand from somewhere up the Iguaçu River then slurried it up to a
de-watering enclosure, where a front-end loader hefted it onto trucks for
construction purposes. There was a boat ramp, an office, and a minor <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Policia Federal</i> post. No one objected to
us tying up there.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">With this assurance we went through the Argentine
exit procedures. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectos</i> invented
a new twist: they called ahead to the Brazilian authorities to see if they
would grant us entry, failing which, presumably, they would not let us go. This
was ridiculous because no bureaucrat would think of answering such a question
unless we were standing in front of them with our papers. “Someone will call you
back,” they said. But we had a trick up our sleeve. Knowing they would pull
some stunt like that we had left our clothes at a laundromat and in reality we
weren’t ready to go yet! By the afternoon our clothes were done and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectos,</i> giving up on their attempt at
international relations, granted us a flowery new clearance paper, the last in
a sheaf that we aren’t very sentimental about, but which we respect for its
sheer absurdity.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">We then rowed the two hundred or so meters to
the sand terminal and started work on that side. After taking buses to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Capitania Fluvial</i> and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Policia Federal</i> headquarters we discovered
that all we had to do was go to the international bridge and get our passports
stamped. No customs document, no <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">capitania</i>
papers, no equipment checks, nothing! Steve always had a soft spot for
Argentina, due to the hospitality of the kind people we met there and of course because it was cheap, but Ginny was ecstatic to be back in
Brazil where supplies of coffee, chocolate, mangos and wilderness are seemingly infinite.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Our next priority was to find a place for
us, Lois, Carley, and Matt to stay from March 14 to April 17. Lois would be
paying, so we tried to fill her specifications: three bedrooms, kitchen, air
conditioning, close to downtown, at a good price. After scouring the city’s
real estate offices, classified ads, and web sites we concluded that such a
place did not exist, but Lois graciously lowered her expectations a bit, and a
place was reserved.</span></span><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">We have been at the Foz sand terminal a
week now. The dredger is usually off someplace sucking up sand. Periodically they
return and pump it up to the terminal. Twice a week they load it onto dumptrucks.
A couple of tourist outfitters and police boats use the ramp. There is a
watchman at night, and three cute little dogs that no longer bark at us.
Otherwise hardly anyone comes here. It’s quiet compared to the Argentine side,
where carnival music plays until dawn.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">We are next to the ramp, one anchor out in
the river and another up on the bank, bow to shore. The river raises and lowers
as much as two meters a day in a pattern we have not yet discerned, due to variable
rains in the Iguaçu basin and greater or lesser releases from the Itaipu Dam, a
few miles up the Paraná. We have to keep adjusting the anchor lines
accordingly. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">From the sand terminal a road leads along a
cliff face then up over a steep hill. On the other side the city starts, first
a scattered poor neighborhood, then a wide arterial leading downtown. It’s a
city of 250,000, of recent construction, the result of a boom when the dam was
built and the immense tourist draw of the Iguaçu Falls. Ciudad del Este,
meanwhile, is a famous duty-free zone and smuggling center. Over there the
canyon faces are lined with garbage tossed down from the slum homes along the
brink of the cliff.</span></span></div>
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</div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Steve has bought a used bicycle. Ginny
tried one and decided against it. Her body isn’t as balanced or agile as it
once was, so she is learning bus routes. We have found a good private hospital and paid
a deposit. We don’t need to go there again until Ginny enters labor, which could
be any day now. Ginny now sleeps in the wide end of the cabin, by the big open
hatch, where it is cooler and easier to get in and out. Still the hot nights,
back pains and inevitable worries of a mother-to-be keep her awake most of the
time. She stays positive however, knowing she’ll have to learn to live without
sleep sooner or later.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">See our new Rio Uruguay
photos at: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioUruguay">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioUruguay</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">and photos from this
portion of the Rio Parana at: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioParanaPart2">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioParanaPart2</a></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Lots of love,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Steve & Ginny</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-4989971468140179672013-01-31T08:46:00.000-08:002013-01-31T08:46:09.203-08:00Federacion, Argentina<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Dear friends and family,<br />
<br />
We sent our last email from the Santiago Vazquez yacht club, tucked away in the
reeds of a river estuary just west of Montevideo, Uruguay. There we hauled out,
plugged some leaks in the deck, painted the topsides where the gelcoat was worn
away, added a new skeg (short keel at the stern), and put her back in the
water. It was early summer and the days were long. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pamperos</i> (violent southwesterly winds) hit, bulging the shallow Rio
de la Plata, causing high tides. Our dock was often underwater, so we used our
inflatable kayak to get ashore, until we sold it on a sort of Craigslist. We
never used the kayak much, and wouldn’t have room for it when George arrives.
We went for walks in the countryside around the village and sweated out the
heat with our various friends, human, canine and avian. The Uruguayans were
always sweet with us.<br />
<br />
One weekend Steve participated in a club regatta. Four boats raced. Steve came
in second place, much aided by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston’s</i>
shallow draft, which allowed him to cut corners over sandbanks on which the
others would run aground. The race ended with a cordial barbeque of steaks,
ribs, and sausages over a wood fire in the club’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">quincho</i> (picnic shelter). <br />
<br />
We received items we had purchased on-line and which true-blue friends Larry
and Karen had forwarded via Georgia. With the new cylinder, piston, rings, camshaft,
and valves we rebuilt the Honda 2HP motor. We enjoyed this meticulous work,
closely examining every part. Our tiny engine responded well to our care, so
hopefully we will be good parents too. How much difference can there be between
a baby and a motor anyway? They’re both noisy, messy and always needing more
attention and more money to be spent on them! We passed Christmas and New Years
of 2012 alone, in good spirits, with little observance.</div>
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<br />
Ginny’s mom and sister, Lois and Carley, decided to come down for the birth! Excellent! But where should we meet up? George will have dual nationality. Should
the second one be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Uruguayo, Argentino,
Paraguayo, o Brasileiro?</i> The president of the yacht club urged us to stay
free of charge until the baby comes. A doctor urged us likewise, promising free
medical attention. But we couldn’t sit still for so long, and Ginny prefers
that George be Brazilian.</div>
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<br />
We yearned to continue east along the Rio de la Plata then turn north and
explore the tall, island-strewn coast that begins around Florianopolis, Brazil.
But to get there we would have to pass through hundreds of miles of refuge-less,
storm-prone shores in Brazil´s extreme south. So we reverted to the original
plan of returning north via rivers. Rather than go back up the Paraná, we
decided to ascend the Uruguay River, with Argentina on our left and Uruguay,
then Brazil, on our right. At Posadas, Argentina, the Uruguay and Paraná rivers
almost touch. At that narrow neck we would seek a transport to the Paraná,
upstream of where we navigated before, and ascend it into Brazil. We planned to
have the baby in Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil.</div>
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<br />
On January 7, 2013, we began sailing the way we had come. After three years of
travel we were homeward bound! Henceforth we will travel north, and west a fair
bit as well, Uruguay being three time zones east of Florida.</div>
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<br />
Our first day out we sailed to a little river mouth we had stopped at before
and spent four days there working out a new bug in the motor. An oil seal had
leaked, causing the clutch to slip. Our side of the river mouth was a
wilderness of brush and sand dunes. On the other side was a big campground full
of Uruguayan families on vacation. Tied up next to us on the steep-to sandy
bank was a sailboat with an Uruguayan couple. They were Ricardo and Sandra, a satellite
communications technician and a high school teacher. They drove us around the
rural countryside they loved so well and found us a new oil seal. Steve had
been reading with great difficulty <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Martin
Fierro,</i> an epic poem written in the 1870s in the style of the Argentine
guacho ballads. Ricardo and Sandra had us over for meals in which they
helped us translate this tale of lamentations wherein the cowboy hero is
drafted into the Argentine army, deserts, and becomes an outlaw. Written in
slangy old Spanish, the verses required much explanation. ¨"Even young
Uruguayans can’t understand this dialect anymore, so much have times
changed," they said.<br />
<br />
We returned to Colonia, where we first landed in Uruguay, and continued to
huge, flat islands where the Paraná and Uruguay become the Rio de la Plata. At
first the Rio Uruguay was wide, with tidal currents. By the time we reached
Nuevo Palmira, however, we faced a steady, gentle stream. The water expanses
shrunk until we no longer saw sea horizons (where no land is visible). We
rowed, sailed, and motored in equal proportions, using the 2HP, not the more
powerful but awkward little-tail motor which we expected to be using. We camped
in small river mouths among sand flats and weeping willows, dipping in the
river to cool off on hot evenings. <br />
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<br />
We passed plenty of fishing skiffs but few houses. In the ports, soybeans were
being loaded from huge silos onto ships. In Santo Domingo de Soriano, the
oldest European settlement in Uruguay, we found the birthplace of founding
father Jose Artigas, a guacho and smuggler turned general who helped gain independence
from Spanish. There was no plaque, no remains of the structure he was born in,
just a brightly-painted statue of Artigas in gaucho garb with the traditional
long knife in a scabbard at the small of his back. He sits on a stump with a
humorous expression on his face, next to a dog and an native boy who is
pointing at something. This statue is very different from the many bronze ones
in which he somberly stands or mounts horse in heroic fashion.<br />
<br />
In the city of Paysandú we found the three offices in which permissions are
needed to leave Uruguay, and on January 26 we crossed over into Concordia,
Argentina. Friends from another yacht club had lined us up with an acquaintance
there. At the Club Regatas Concordia a member named Maximo Muller awaited us. He
helped us through two days of entry procedures. Foreign boats rarely entered
there, so the officials didn’t know what to do. After many excited conferences
in offices all over town they elaborated a new stack of documents sprinkled
with stamps and signatures. <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
Yesterday our Concordia friends Maximo and Omar transported
Thurston around a dam and into the first of many large reservoirs we expect to
travel in the coming months. They also filled the boat with melons and escorted
us five miles or so up the reservoir. Once again we feel the pains of separating
from new friends so soon, but we still have a long way to go up the Uruguay
River and the Parana. If we can somehow minimize time spent in Prefectura
offices along the way we may just arrive in Brazil by this time next month.
Once there we hope to get comfortable and await the arrival of George, Lois and
Carley. All of whom we are looking forward to seeing.</div>
<br />
Love always,<br />
Ginny & Steve<br />
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<br /></div>
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See our pictures at <a href="http://www.picasaweb.com/ginnygoon/RiodelaPlata">www.picasaweb.com/ginnygoon/RiodelaPlata</a>
and <a href="http://www.picasaweb.com/ginnygoon/RioUruguay">www.picasaweb.com/ginnygoon/RioUruguay</a></div>
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ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-11330179677695000972012-12-24T11:01:00.000-08:002012-12-24T11:19:52.519-08:00Montevideo, Uruguay<br />
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<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CZKTIi19Ok0/UNhqrmz8cnI/AAAAAAAAMlM/bez_W9sozPo/s320/DSCN1088.JPG" width="240" /> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Dear
friends and family,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 386.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">In our
last email we had just emerged from the low islands at the mouth of the Paraná
River. It flows into the Rio de la Plata, which on the map looks like a gulf of
the Atlantic Ocean but is considered a river because the water remains fresh,
and turbidly brown from the runoff of five countries, until well out to sea.</span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black;">Buenos
Aires, Argentina, commences promptly on the south bank of the Rio. Yacht clubs,
canoe clubs, and rowing clubs covered the entire waterfront. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Club de Veleros</i> (sailboats) of the
suburb city of San Isidro gave us a courtesy moorage.</span></div>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">From here
we walked through a posh shopping district to a covered platform thronged with urbanites.
When the train came we pressed in and hung onto overhead rails. After forty-five
minutes we arrived at a tall station in the classic European style at the
northwest edge of the downtown.</span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r3Le-CA31OQ/UNhpg0esXFI/AAAAAAAAMjk/5j2DC07FdYo/s1600/DSCN1043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r3Le-CA31OQ/UNhpg0esXFI/AAAAAAAAMjk/5j2DC07FdYo/s320/DSCN1043.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Our friend Addison in Atlanta had said
that Argentines are Italians that speak Spanish and think they are French. That
many are from Italy is clear from the prevalence of Italian foods and family
names. As for francophilia, Citroens, Renaults, and Peugeots dominated the
streets, which looked Parisian, with their solid flanks of mansard-roofed, seven-story
buildings, packed with severe ornamentation. The immense theaters, government <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">palacios,</i> obelisks and statues dated
from within a decade or two of the turn of the twentieth century. According to
our readings, Argentina then nearly equaled Europe and the English-speaking
world in affluence, but this promise faded with the populist totalitarianism of
Juan Peron, the Dirty War of the 1970s (in which leftist terrorists vied with
government death squads), and the monetary collapses caused by mistaken
economic policies. On the Paseo Florida musicians and tango-dancers performed
for tips<span style="color: black;">. In </span>the plaza fronting the
President’s palace an unkempt band of Falkland Islands War veterans were in
their third year of a campout, protesting for denied benefits.<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
We relished the cool nights and
increased vegetable life of the temperate climate, Buenos Aires being as far
from the equator as Los Angeles. We learned the quirky buses, trains, and
subways. The stamps of twenty countries having filled our passport pages, we had
new pages inserted at the American Embassy. At a clinic we got an ultrasound
which revealed that our unborn baby is a boy! We will name him George after
Steve’s father.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;"> </span><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphenDx8mZRxhj2Ekhp7sPDI7mXfi9_MOikjvJHTjfyC5t50Oargz8vYzNxcUNl09_MnH7_bXSp3bwMFPHjO8SAHdYHnEYePOb2GCbHuliWW9NdW7LaiPJ9b7q757H5DROlpXjkjpo3N10-3/s320/DSCN1066.JPG" width="320" /></div>
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<br /></div>
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We didn’t intend to go any further
south, but we faced two hurdles before we could start returning north. The
first was that Brazil requires tourists to spend six months of every year
outside Brazil, three of which months remained. The second was that our Honda
two-horse motor was still crippled and the parts were unavailable in Argentina
due to import restrictions. Ginny’s internet research showed that receiving
parts from the States should be easier in Uruguay,
a small country on the north coast of the Rio de la Plata. So a<span style="color: black;">fter twelve days in San Isidro we sailed to the historic Yacht
Club Argentino in downtown Buenos Aires, where we savored a week’s courtesy
mooring and waited for the right weather to cross over. Two foreign yachts were
present, ours and a German sailboat, so the U.S. and German flags flew from the
Club’s yardarms, at the foot of which stood a polished brass cannon. The cannon
pointed out at the harbor mouth, as if to threaten the ships coming in from
sea.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Exiting
was a hassle. Immigration detained us for four hours. Inexplicably, their
records showed that we had already checked out of the country. Finally they
checked us not out, but in. “You have to return just before you leave for us to
check you out.” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“But we
want to leave at 5:00 am!”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“That’s
okay, we’re open 24 hours a day.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">It took
three trips to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura</i> to get
their loftily-worded clearance. To reach Customs required taking a bus to a
different part of the city, but that kind official emptied out his precious
pocket change so we could get back to the boat. You need coins to get on the
bus but they are almost impossible to find! </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">At 3:00 am
we trudged about the port district banging on gates and rousing officials. “You
gave us the wrong stamp!” Ginny exclaimed to the sleepy immigration official.
“You need to put your seal there,” she instructed the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefecto</i>. We bore their fumbling with pretended patience.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L5zEEZpO8vs/UNhshjJxhLI/AAAAAAAAMn8/8nb5KAJRrsE/s320/DSCN1204.JPG" width="320" /> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">At dawn
on November 17, 2012 we motored out of the harbor into a light headwind. The
Rio de la Plata was too wide to see across, the waves short and steep. The
boat’s pitching caused the propeller to lift out of the water, briefly revving
the engine. Every two hours we drifted while replacing the crankcase oil that had
burned off due to our misshapen cylinder. A rural coast became visible. The
wind changed, allowing us to raise masts and sail into Colonia del Sacramento,
a town full of Portuguese colonial ruins and Argentine tourists.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Montevideo,
the capital, lay two hundred kilometers to the east. The coast was a succession
of forests and farms, surf-less beaches and low black rocks. Small rivers
issued from the land. After leaving Colonia we pulled into one such mouth. We
passed a ruined wharf, a quarry, a path where cattle came down to drink. The
encompassing trees were a curious blend of willows, cactus, and palms. We tied
to a branch and fell asleep.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">“Something’s
wrong,” said Ginny drowsily at 4:00 a.m. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>
was sloping sharply down at the bow, and tippier than usual. We eased into the
cockpit. The tide had dropped, catching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston’s</i>
skeg (a small keel at the stern) on a rock thirty inches above water level,
while the rest floated free. We stabilized her somewhat by removing the masts. There
seemed to be no remedy in the dark so we went back to sleep.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-85IX5Y2OIS8/UNhrrjid03I/AAAAAAAAMms/SoGLkXIr4lk/s1600/DSCN1161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-85IX5Y2OIS8/UNhrrjid03I/AAAAAAAAMms/SoGLkXIr4lk/s320/DSCN1161.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">In the
morning Steve slipped into the dark, chilly water and felt around. We were
poised over a scattering of huge, sharp boulders. There was no place to stand
and lift. The water reached its low and starting rising again. The Rio de la
Plata’s tides are caused more by its mercurial winds, which pile up water one way
then another, than by the orbits of the moon, so we didn’t know what to expect.
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Unfortunately,
at noon the tide started to drop again. The stern was still a couple feet high.
We hated to pry it off because it would slide down a sharp ridge of rock, but
we didn’t want to wait another day, either. “Okay, let’s do this,” said Steve. We
inserted a lever between the skeg and rock and lifted. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> splashed into the water with a cracking sound; the skeg we
had installed in Guajara-Mirim had broken off. The dense wood sank straight to
the bottom. Something else to fix.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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As we proceeded east mud gave way
to sand. Dunes and pine forests blanketed the shore, reminding us of Washington
State’s Pacific coast. Reeds grew thick in the estuaries, where little red
fishing boats bobbed at their anchors. Leaving <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> in a hidden riverbend we walked to a nearby town for
groceries and marveled at the clean roadsides and newly-mown pastures, like a
Latin Illinois.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fBX4BoxL1gU/UNhtQ_g85eI/AAAAAAAAMpM/xH_xw5gWqAg/s320/DSCN1242.JPG" width="320" /></span> </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
On November 27 we entered the Rio
Santa Lucia. On the east bank we found a small yacht club. The facilities were few
but well-tended. The employees were whiskery men who in their spare time tended
ducks, dogs, and caged birds. The members, who came mainly on weekends, had elected
as their captain Pancho, a husky retired fishing boat skipper. Pancho gave us a
courtesy mooring at a dock that the other boats couldn’t use because the water
was too shallow.</div>
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<br /></div>
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From our cozy new berth a five-minute walk took us to the
heart of Santiago Vazquez, a town with two grocery stores and a gas station.
From here a forty-minute bus ride got us to downtown Montevideo, l<span style="color: black;">ike Buenos Aires only smaller, less hectic. The Old City stands
on a peninsula protecting a large harbor. Here we found the customs building,
where we learned how to get yacht-in-transit status, and the historic Hospital Maciel
where Ginny got more pregnancy screenings. After spending 20 years avoiding
doctors she is making up for it now. Our errands took us on many long walks,
with time-outs to sit on park benches and watch people. They seemed like Argentines
but with a subtle difference, perhaps as Canadians might be compared to
Americans. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="260" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-N1QGdN46eNw/UNht0ODqnHI/AAAAAAAAMqE/csV6Ogq07lQ/s320/DSCN1342.JPG" width="320" /> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">For entertainment we looked for
rubber bands along the wide, tiled sidewalks. It was practical as well, because
in a small boat you hate to buy a whole package of anything. We also made a
game of sniffing for pot-smokers in the plazas, because marijuana is legal
here, but we rarely smelled it. Perhaps legalization has made it uncool. We are
told that Uruguayan politics make a virtue of compromise. Controversy and crime
seemed nonexistent. The president was a leftist flower farmer who prefers
overalls to fancy suits. </span></div>
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</div>
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<br />
<span style="color: black;">Back at the yacht club our fellow sailors
owned small boats of modest value, but their enthusiasm was keen. One such is El
Ruso, so called because of his Russian ancestry. Tall and thin, he has worked as
a Vespa mechanic in the same shop for thirty-five years. His wooden sailboat is
old but the seams are tight. With him and two other boats we went on a weekend
outing up the river. It was the first time since Florida we sailed in company
with other boats. The wind was perfect, the boats were tilting, and the variable
currents added complexity to our speed comparisons. We rafted up for the night
at an uninhabited island. The Uruguayans ignited dry branches and banked the
embers so that heat, not flames or smoke, cooked their steaks and sausages.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dqkshQOEoDw/UNhvLWc5-7I/AAAAAAAAMqo/h4MfyQ9Vjoo/s1600/DSCN1399.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dqkshQOEoDw/UNhvLWc5-7I/AAAAAAAAMqo/h4MfyQ9Vjoo/s320/DSCN1399.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">The Brazilian consulate in Buenos
Aires said we couldn’t get new visas until March 5<sup>th</sup>, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but at Montevideo they issued them promptly.
Sometimes you just keep asking until you get an answer you like. The club
employees pulled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> out on an
old trailer so we could fix the skeg and paint the topsides. We await the
package that will allow us to restore our outboard motor to health and head
back toward Brazil. We stay busy, George included. He practices his butterfly
kick in Ginny’s bulging belly.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The heat here seems inconsistent
with Christmas, but we nonetheless wish you all the best during your holiday
season.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"><br />
Lots of love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Steve & Ginny</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">See our new photos: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioDeLaPlata#">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioDeLaPlata#</a></span></div>
ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-66807973551274222812012-11-07T09:07:00.001-08:002012-11-07T09:07:36.338-08:00Buenos Aires, Argentina<br />
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Dear
friends and family,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 386.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="clear: left; color: black; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">You may
recall from our last email that on September 2 we came to where the Rio Paraguay
joins the much-larger Rio Paraná. Below the confluence, in the city of Corrientes,
ocean-going ships were being unloaded at a tall dock. From the downstream end
of the dock streamed a line of two-story floating buildings. These concrete structures
served as breakwater for about fifty sailboats and power-craft. One of the
structures housed the Club Nautico Corrientes, a representative of which waved
us over.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span><span style="color: black;">“Tie up
here,” he said, indicating the dinghy dock. “You won’t be in the way. My name
is Carlos. Is there anything I can help while you are our guests?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“Well, we
would like to get our smaller Honda motor going again. It’s been broken down
since Brazil.
Do you know a good outboard mechanic?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“Sure! I
can take you there myself, no problem.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">After we
had settled in Carlos led us up two flights of stairs to a busy city scene. Parks
and walkways overlooked the river. Everything was clean and orderly. We loaded the
motor into his vehicle, a new mini-panel van made by Renault, and took it to a
shop on the outskirts of the city.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">The next
day we returned to the shop. “The rings are cooked like spaghetti,” the
mechanic said. “The rod broke from being fused onto the crankshaft bearing. We
can’t get imported parts in Argentina
because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la Presidenta</i> won’t let us
have dollars.” (He grimaced referring to President Christina Kirchner.) “But our
after-market industry can make most things.” We gave him some money to get the
process started.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W8oKUI33LCg/UJaaauR-_mI/AAAAAAAAMR4/dzT8VSAvCPs/s1600/DSCN0728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W8oKUI33LCg/UJaaauR-_mI/AAAAAAAAMR4/dzT8VSAvCPs/s320/DSCN0728.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">The
crankshaft had to be sent to a distant city for rehabilitation. In the meantime
we had much to learn about Argentina.
For example, there were oddly few restaurants, and they rarely opened before
eight o’clock. It took several days to figure out how to adapt our cell phone
and computer modem for use in Argentina,
the technology and plans being very different. The buses only accepted coins,
which were acutely scarce. And to get market rate for our dollars we had to ask
around until we found a shopkeeper who dabbled in the “parallel market.” He
took us into his office and gave us 35% more pesos than we could have gotten at
a cash machine. At the resulting rate of exchange Argentine goods and services
were very cheap.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"> Hardest
to get used to, however, was the long siesta. Businesses closed at noon and didn’t
reopen until 4:00 or later. Everybody went home and enjoyed a long, mysterious
interval. Some used the time to go windsurfing, as we knew from the colorful
sails that zipped back and forth across the river in the afternoons. This
mid-day idyll lost its luster, however, when we considered that everyone had to
return to their shops and offices for another four-hour shift, which explains
why the restaurants didn’t open until eight o’clock.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">We went
to a clinic for Ginny’s thirteenth-week pregnancy checkup. The ultra-sound
showed our child to be vigorously dancing around inside her womb, perhaps the
tango given our location. We spent a month completing various projects and
taking in the sights. We attended a Kafka play where men in leotards portrayed
apes and aggressively shouted incomprehensible monologues while waving canes
dangerously near our faces. We also attended a dramatization of poetry by
Garcia Lorca and checked out every museum in the city. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cmHLd5-j-yo/UJabLhMsGhI/AAAAAAAAMSc/iutQJMUeETs/s320/DSCN0745.JPG" width="320" /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Finally
the mechanic called. “I got the motor running, but the cylinder is ovalled,” he
said. “It will burn oil until you get the cylinder repaired.” We were glad for
this partial success because going downriver the outboard would outperform the
“little-tail motor,” which was incompatible with sailing. So we broke the little-tail
down into several parts and stowed them away, to be re-assembled whenever we
should travel upriver again.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">On
October 4 we went to the local <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura
Naval</i> office to get a permit to leave Corrientes.
A group of neatly-dressed officers began crafting a legal document.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“You’ll
have to carry a pilot,” one informed us. We made faces of disbelief and waited
until a superior officer exempted us from this real or imaginary requirement. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“Your
boater’s license, please.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“I’m
afraid I don’t have one,” smiled Steve. “In the U.S. they don’t give licenses for
pleasure boating.” </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“Then how
do you avoid collisions?” he asked, astounded.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">We could
think of no proper response to this, nor to their dire warnings regarding
thieves and storms, having concluded that they exaggerated all dangers. After
three hours of supreme patience we signed in quadruplicate. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“Where
will you sleep tonight?” they asked.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">An answer
was required. “Barranqueras,” we said, it being now too late to go any further.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">In the
following days the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectos</i> (Prefectura
officials) kept close tabs on us. They insisted that we contact them by phone
or VHF at least once daily. If we stopped near one of their major offices we
had to report ourselves and get new paperwork. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectos</i> were paranoid mother hens, friendly busybodies. But they
never lost patience with us, and in one town invited us into their barracks for
much-needed showers.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4FCP_0JJwL8/UJacegNjYKI/AAAAAAAAMTM/Xzs6cGEI1SE/s320/DSCN0769.JPG" width="240" /> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="clear: right; color: black; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">Listless
heat alternated with blustery cold snaps. We rowed and sailed some but mostly
motored due to headwinds. The river was a sheet of brown water with huge
islands and adjoining swamps. Innumerable side channels added to or subtracted
from the torrent, maintaining a complex balance between the river and its
surrounding lagoons. Cattle now outnumbered alligators and capybara; the woods
were full of their trails. Once a sudden storm obliged us to douse all sail and
start the motor. In the building waves a sheet got caught in the propeller,
disabling us. We washed up on a sandbank beset with breaking waves, but by
wading chest-deep in the chill water were able to manhandle <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> into the lee of the bank. Here
we strung our clothes along the horizontal masts to dry and waited out the gale.</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">In the
city of Paraná another
yacht club hosted us. It was large and immaculate. The yachties had us over for
barbeques in a community shelter equipped with a big fireplace for roasting beef
and sausage. Most were of Italian descent; they kissed each other on the cheek
in greeting and were exquisitely polite. Twice a week the five-to-ten year-olds
launched tiny Optimist sailboats. They milled about the basin, working their
tillers and sheets, until someone in a powerboat tied them together in a long
line and towed them upstream so they could race back to the yacht club. Teenagers
sailed Lasers or went wake-boarding.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_KsxrydGuP8/UJait-wQzRI/AAAAAAAAMWk/rlBi5L6RpJk/s1600/DSCN0906.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_KsxrydGuP8/UJait-wQzRI/AAAAAAAAMWk/rlBi5L6RpJk/s320/DSCN0906.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </span> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">In Rosario, our biggest
Argentine city so far, we ghosted past miles of grain-loading terminals. The
ships’ homeports were Limassol, Manila, Monrovia. When we stopped
at a marina to ask directions, an athletic-looking yachtsman, who turned out to
be a symphony cellist, offered to arrange a courtesy mooring for us. Thinking
this a good place to make further progress on the Honda 2 HP motor, we accepted.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">This time
we took it apart ourselves. We removed the engine then split open the crankcase,
marveling that something smaller than a lunch box could propel us so effectively.
We removed the piston and took the cylinder to a specialist. “These are meant
to be disposable. Can’t be fixed,” he said. We bought a torque wrench and
reassembled the motor, tightening the bolts to specification. We hadn’t stopped
the oil consumption, but now we knew which parts to have shipped down from the
States. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="clear: right; color: black; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">Below Rosario we entered the
delta of the Rio Paraná. The channels became smaller and more numerous. Willows
and vacation homes lined the banks. People paddled about in canoes and kayaks.
The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectos</i> became increasingly
obsessed with monitoring us. Ginny, a great lover of privacy, started calling
them “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefucktos</i>.” They called us on
our cell phone so much we learned to turn it off at night. One day we forgot to
turn it back on until 2 pm. Our phone service immediately sent us a text
message saying we had missed a call. “It’s a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefuckto</i> number,” spit Ginny. We immediately got another. And
another. For a half hour the phone company notified us of our accumulated
missed calls. There were twenty-nine of them, all from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefucktos!</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">On
October 30 we exited the right-most river mouth and found ourselves in the
suburb city of San Isidro. Beyond stood the Buenos Aires skyline. We had
completed the southward leg of our voyage. Starting at 29 degrees north of the
equator in Florida, we were now 35 degrees south of it. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EF1s_gdSbMA/UJasuz5Ka1I/AAAAAAAAMZc/_olNBT9q0j4/s1600/DSCN0985.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EF1s_gdSbMA/UJasuz5Ka1I/AAAAAAAAMZc/_olNBT9q0j4/s320/DSCN0985.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="clear: left; color: black; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">The
waterfront was entirely occupied by yacht clubs, canoe clubs, and rowing clubs.
The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Club de Veleros</i> (sailboats) gave
us a courtesy moorage. We called the local <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura.</i>
“We’ll be right over!” they exclaimed. For the rest of the day we were at the
center of a swarm of happy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectos,</i>
customs agents, and sniff dogs. Everybody filled forms to their hearts’ content
then left us to our devices in the shadow of a great metropolis.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Bye for
now,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Love
Steve and Ginny</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">New
photos can be found here: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioParana">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioParana</a></span></div>
ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-31568741048409043422012-09-23T16:35:00.001-07:002012-09-23T16:35:59.325-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2tU56XhWBBIQsJvURlcs9lQAaLOLCKYAF2ki6cRi2yctDe_z187H5VZkQU8oShRGtZH0ykd87SC9Nw47yKIVzyz-7Jde19DBn5wNts896J7sZ2gcRBiJrM062tuVsV7HOnZO8RHqxGrYr/s1600/arrow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2tU56XhWBBIQsJvURlcs9lQAaLOLCKYAF2ki6cRi2yctDe_z187H5VZkQU8oShRGtZH0ykd87SC9Nw47yKIVzyz-7Jde19DBn5wNts896J7sZ2gcRBiJrM062tuVsV7HOnZO8RHqxGrYr/s1600/arrow.JPG" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: right;">
Look! </div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: right;">
Over there!</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: right;">
We now have a page of Steve's voyage haikus and a map of our travels thus far.</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Enjoy!</span></div>
ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-53808788084144709272012-09-11T07:48:00.000-07:002012-09-11T08:07:06.671-07:00Corrientes, Argentina<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1QppQNnbVIo/UE5CFSh7NMI/AAAAAAAALo8/svm905b1ilE/s1600/SAM_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1QppQNnbVIo/UE5CFSh7NMI/AAAAAAAALo8/svm905b1ilE/s320/SAM_0253.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="color: black;">When we
last wrote to you we had just completed a four-hour transport from Vila Bela, at
the head of the Rio Guapore, to the city of Caceres on the upper Paraguay. Here
the waterfront was lined with aluminum skiffs and plush, three-story “hotel-boats”
for taking sport-fishermen on multiple-day outings into the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pantanal,</i> the world’s biggest swamp. We
planned to transit the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pantanal</i> via
the Rio Paraguay, which runs through it from north to south, through the
Brazilian states of Mato Grosso and Mato Grosso do Sur. Our next point of
re-provisioning would be the city of Corumba, 850 river kilometers downstream. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">We left
Caceres on July 29, 2012. What a relief to be travelling downstream again! The
river was gentle and moderately wide. It being the dry season, the cactus and
scrubby trees covering the hills were a dusty brown color. On the second day
these hills receded. Now all was swamp. The river meandered deeply, sometimes
nearly doubling back on itself. In addition to the flowing channel there was
usually a previous channel nearby, the upstream end of which was silted in, the
downstream end still open, allowing access to a long, curving inlet. We knew
from the satellite images that the swamp stretches for hundreds of miles,
dotted with varying grades of marsh and lagoon. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">We saw no
mineral earth, just water, vegetation, and wildlife. Otters, capybaras, and monkeys
abounded. Now and then something bellowed in the marshes, whether alligators or
bullfrogs we never determined. The birds were a summary of those we had been
seeing since the Amazon plus new species, such as a busy fellow with a body the
size of a golf ball and a bright red head who often rode the drifting hyacinths
snatching up insects. A cold snap hit, easing the severity of the evening and
morning mosquito hours, but not enough to dispense with the nets that we
erected in our night hours, when we rested in convenient inlets.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Big
clumps of water hyacinth (free-floating lilies) floated in the stream and stuck
to anything anchored to the earth, like tree snags. They also adhered to the
adjoining, bottom-anchored plant communities, constricting the channel. Most of
the wetland was covered with grasses and leafed succulents that grew thickly in
the ooze and stood chest-height above river-level. Short trees also grew in
patches.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">The only
people we saw now were the sport-fishermen inhabiting the hotel-boats. They
would park at some secluded spot and the guests would disperse, three or four to
each aluminum skiff, with a guide driving. In the evenings they reconvened in
the air-conditioned comfort of the mother ship.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8Aky2oVK4r4/UE5CCv6thiI/AAAAAAAALo0/6g9-ZPRFfss/s1600/SAM_0246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8Aky2oVK4r4/UE5CCv6thiI/AAAAAAAALo0/6g9-ZPRFfss/s320/SAM_0246.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Our
regimen was less luxurious but pleasant nonetheless. First we rowed a couple
hours for the exercise and to save gas. Then we motored peacefully at
quarter-throttle, which burns far less fuel than the wider throttle openings
which are necessary to go upriver and is consequently quieter (you can almost
have a conversation)! If it was hot we put up the awning. The water had become
cold, so while one of us steered the other bathed on the foredeck in the
afternoon sun, dipping the bailer into the river and dumping the contents
quickly over our bodies, braced against the chill.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">On our
third day in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pantanal</i> we came to
its western edge: a razor-sharp range of mountains running north and south. We
climbed about 1500 vertical feet through thorny scrub and sharp boulders to a
vantage point. To the west lay Bolivia. To the east stretched two hundred miles
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pantanal,</i> far further than we
could see. The swamp, being more water than land, conformed precisely to the
curvature of the earth. Its brilliant green and scattered sky-reflecting blues
contrasted sharply with the dusty brown of the uplands of its western edge.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />At the
foot of the range lay a chain of large lakes. The river skirted and sometimes
flowed right through them. Where a lake butted against a rock cliff we found
petroglyphs consisting of curved lines concentrically nestled with a dot at either
end of each line.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
</div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9IecyWLE44RnsVxOVipJmegb8kpSDwQpUJ-vCicVfgauek5Lb-D90k64jZEchY50DwBAM3xrcXvMohnRbsOo6fweTdRw0qGOTmBZ-bbTrjfLRY6k_KphbH9ENPC0UcQDYwmFUtjme7gjX/s1600/DSCN0364.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9IecyWLE44RnsVxOVipJmegb8kpSDwQpUJ-vCicVfgauek5Lb-D90k64jZEchY50DwBAM3xrcXvMohnRbsOo6fweTdRw0qGOTmBZ-bbTrjfLRY6k_KphbH9ENPC0UcQDYwmFUtjme7gjX/s320/DSCN0364.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">On our
sixth day out from Caceres pink-blossomed trees appeared on the riverbank. The
land, though still flat, became dry. Native dwellings appeared. Ginny, as
always, became depressed that a wilderness sojourn was drawing to a close.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Corumbá,
southern gateway to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pantanal,</i>
stood on a high plateau. At the seawall we moored among the work boats common
to this stretch of the Paraguay: about thirty feet long, crudely made of wood,
with a sharp bow, wide transom, and a big, boxy cabin. A beautiful plaza
adjoined the waterfront. Strolling teens thronged this space of evenings. A
sound system broadcast its medley of hits, among which “I’m Sexy and I Know It”
was unfortunately prominent. Fields across the river were being burnt, as a
result of which ashes like black snowflakes sprinkled the boat.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-koq-V94ljJ0/UE5ChTgeZDI/AAAAAAAALqk/7Kzq6g_p7Jo/s1600/DSCN0075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-koq-V94ljJ0/UE5ChTgeZDI/AAAAAAAALqk/7Kzq6g_p7Jo/s320/DSCN0075.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="color: black;">In this
city of 110,000 inhabitants we stayed a week. We scoured the city for such
necessities as a new fly-swatter (we had worn out our old one!), earplugs, and
Vaseline to lubricate the oarlocks. Across the border in Puerto Suarez,
Bolivia, we bought a wonderful Nikon Coolpix S900 with 18X zoom. May you notice
an improvement in our wildlife shots henceforth! At internet shops we built our
GPS map of the upcoming river.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br />
<span style="color: black;">We now
faced a bureaucratic dilemma. Our next country would be Paraguay, which also
requires that Americans get visas beforehand. In their website Paraguay claims
to have a consulate in Corumbá. This proved untrue. A lady at a tourism office made
some calls for us. She found that the nearest place we could get visas would be
in Sáo Paulo, a thousand miles away, but that officials at the border <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">might</i> issue us a temporary transit pass.
We decided to proceed on this hope. Since Corumbá was the last Brazilian city
on our route we checked out of the country and got a naval clearance for Argentina.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_IN9_Y3LLig/UE5DOFbdkpI/AAAAAAAALss/gx6WLCEIJ8c/s1600/DSCN0175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_IN9_Y3LLig/UE5DOFbdkpI/AAAAAAAALss/gx6WLCEIJ8c/s320/DSCN0175.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">On August
12 we continued through a flat landscape covered with chit-palm trees. The tall
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tuiuiu</i><span style="color: black;">
stork with a black head and scarlet band around his neck stood passively on the
bank like a wooden Indian. Barge tows up to four barges wide and five long now
carried iron ore to smelters downriver. On the second day the west bank became
Paraguayan. The first naval post had no boat, only a building with a uniformed guard
out front. Steve approached him nervously. It would be so easy for him to make
trouble for us!</span></div>
<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">"Pardon
me, with all respect, I am stopping to notify you that we are passing through
your country on the river. Are there any rules or regulations we should be
aware of?” Steve got this out haltingly in Spanish, which he hadn’t spoken for
six months. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“No señor,
you are welcome. The regulations here are no different than elsewhere. Here on
the border we cross freely across.” At a subsequent, larger post the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">comandante</i> typed out a naval pass for
us. That was the sum of our paperwork in Paraguay, where our passports were
never stamped and no official ever approached us, but all responded courteously
to our approach. A huge relief.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yjMyQtMiKBY/UE5EOO4Y_jI/AAAAAAAALvc/7CuFBt7-t6k/s1600/DSCN0303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yjMyQtMiKBY/UE5EOO4Y_jI/AAAAAAAALvc/7CuFBt7-t6k/s320/DSCN0303.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9IecyWLE44RnsVxOVipJmegb8kpSDwQpUJ-vCicVfgauek5Lb-D90k64jZEchY50DwBAM3xrcXvMohnRbsOo6fweTdRw0qGOTmBZ-bbTrjfLRY6k_KphbH9ENPC0UcQDYwmFUtjme7gjX/s1600/DSCN0364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="color: black;">After
travelling for five days with Brazil on the left and Paraguay on the right we
entered Paraguay entirely. We typically covered a hundred river kilometers a
day. A pointy hill or two would pop up in the morning and by night we would be
past them. In one stretch a dusty white mineral, perhaps limestone, was being
mined from the tall riverbank, packed into sacks, and stowed into rusty boats. The
Paraguayans lived in rough-hewn plank homes and rowed their planked dories, a
means of propulsion strangely absent elsewhere in Latin America. Though most of
the people were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mestizos</i>, they spoke
among themselves the language of the Guarani Indians, and switched to Spanish for
us.</span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kX_hp8ylCvU/UE5Dyc-bnDI/AAAAAAAALuU/hyt8Y6614c8/s1600/DSCN0254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kX_hp8ylCvU/UE5Dyc-bnDI/AAAAAAAALuU/hyt8Y6614c8/s320/DSCN0254.JPG" width="215" /></a><span style="color: black;">We were
now far enough south of the equator that steady winds were frequent, so we
re-arranged the hardware on the transom to allow either the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">motor rabeta</i> to be mounted or the rudder,
with a switch-over time of fifteen minutes. Henceforth we often sailed. The trees
tended to block the wind and the river bends resulted in constant changes in apparent
wind direction, but the favorable current eased any frustration.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<br /></div>
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<span style="color: black;">In the
small city of Concepcion everyone enthusiastically drank <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yerba mate</i>, an herbal tea, from a special leather-armored mug using
an engraved silver straw incorporating a filter at its lower end. Unwilling to
depart from her morning ritual, Ginny searched the whole city until she found a
market woman</span><span style="color: black;">, a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brasileira</i> as it turned out,</span><span style="color: black;"> able to prepare instant coffee. </span></div>
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<span style="color: black;">Horse-drawn carts outnumbered cars,
but small motorcycles were most numerous. The principle buildings were
monumental antiques in the heavy Spanish style, with ridiculously tall doors
and ceilings. The 10,000 Guarani note was worth only $2.30 U.S.; they had
suffered crazy inflation at some point but saw no need to remove the zeros by
issuing a new currency, as is the practice in most Latin American countries.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FnvjWwLUKYQ/UE5FRa6rlnI/AAAAAAAALyI/TSQea0iq4cE/s1600/DSCN0394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FnvjWwLUKYQ/UE5FRa6rlnI/AAAAAAAALyI/TSQea0iq4cE/s320/DSCN0394.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<br /></div>
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<span style="color: black;">Asuncion,
Paraguay’s capital and only large city, lay on high land on the left side of
the river. The river traffic intensified, mostly small rusty freighters. Some
had been secured to the sloping bank at a time of high water then abandoned;
now these hulks lay at awkward angles, partly immersed, with sections missing. Rowing
men retrieved fishing lines they had set the night before, each secured by a
rock on the bottom and a plastic bottle on top. We passed a belt of shanties
and tarp shelters, the refuse from which was dumped over the bank. Behind rose skyscrapers.
Turning left into a bay we found ourselves in the heart of the city. We moored
at a pier crowded with arriving and departing passenger boats. No one questioned
us as we ventured through the thronged terminal and out into the street. We had
only one mission here: to gather cash for use in Argentina.</span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Downstream
of Asuncion Argentina occupies the east bank. There we could legally enter
because they don’t require a visa. Unfortunately, like Venezuela, Argentina maintains
an artificially high exchange rate vis-à-vis the dollar. We had deduced from
scouring the internet that we could stretch our funds by buying pesos in
Paraguay, where the free market prevails. So at a cash machine we withdrew
Guaranis and exchanged them with a net result of 6.11 pesos to the dollar,
compared to 4.5 if we got our pesos from a cash machine in Argentina. We also
withdrew dollars for use in the Argentine black market. That day and the next
we withdrew to the daily limit allowed by our bank, hoping that would get us to
Buenos Aires.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><br />Before
leaving Paraguay we couldn’t help investigating something we had noticed on
Google Earth. On the other side of the river, where Paraguay meets Argentina,
the border is a clogged slough called the Pilcomayo River. On the Argentine
side is the city of Clorinda. The Paraguayan side is rural except where, by
zooming way in, we discerned a footbridge over the Pilcomayo. On both ends of
this walkway the streets were highly congested. What could this mean?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br />
<span style="color: black;">To find
out we crossed to the west bank and entered a swamp-lined channel. This led to
a low-density slum. At a car bridge Ginny hid in <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the boat from the freezing winds which the
penguins were sending up from Antarctica while Steve walked for a kilometer
along a street paved with broken rocks set by hand. Suddenly the street was
constricted by parked vehicles and tarp-roofed stalls covering most of the
roadway. Continuing down this chaotic gallery of shops, typical of border
crossings where “free trade zones” blend into condoned smuggling, men bent
under the weight of huge bundles started passing Steve. Some carried impossibly
tall stacks of eggs, the tiers separated by sheets of molded cardboard, the
mass of eggs far exceeding the mass of the man! Others carried cases of beer,
maybe twenty each! Their bundles were expertly tied. Clearly these were
professionals. Some carried their loads to a crowded bus stop, others into dark
doorways. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0ya9NPPLfeo/UE5F_5h7aNI/AAAAAAAAL0A/hNehNU5egHw/s1600/DSCN0464.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0ya9NPPLfeo/UE5F_5h7aNI/AAAAAAAAL0A/hNehNU5egHw/s320/DSCN0464.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black;"><br />Concluding
that these were Argentine goods arriving in Paraguay, Steve retraced his steps.
At an inconspicuous entryway he had just passed he noticed an especially high
volume of pedestrian traffic, including porters emerging with merchandise or
returning with their canvas-and-rope bundling gear collapsed under their arm.
Inside the semi-lit space were tiny shops hustling watches, cell phones,
underwear, shoes, etc. The walls were splotched, the ceiling low. At the far
end was a light like at the end of a tunnel. Emerging into this light, Steve found
himself at the approach to a double footbridge about a hundred yards long. One
carried regular pedestrians, the other was for porters. On the far side was
relatively affluent, spacious downtown Clorinda. A new country! No one asked to
see Steve’s documents, but rather than risk being caught on the wrong side he
returned to his wife.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">The next
day we descended the Paraguay to </span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Puerto Pilcomayo, </span><span style="color: black;">a ferry landing by which people and goods
crossed the river. Here we found an office building full of armed men in neat
tan uniforms with black ties. They pertained to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura Naval Argentina,</i> a non-military force which controls
Argentina’s waterways. It being Saturday afternoon, the immigration and customs
officials were gone for the weekend. We didn’t mind waiting because it was too
cold to travel, but were not excited to be limited to the small
swamp-surrounded plot of land which constituted their station. Grey clouds
streaked across the overcast sky, blown by a frigid south wind. We cuddled in
the cabin, hatch closed, and warmed it up with our body heat. It’s times like
this that the smallness of our living space really pays off.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">When
Monday, August 27 arrived the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura
Naval</i> officials launched into our paperwork. They were friendly but
obsessed with legal language and protecting us from ourselves. They made us
sign a document promising, among other things, to always sleep in established
ports and to present our pass at all <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura</i>
stations along the way. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Warm
weather slowly returned. With Paraguay now on the east (left) bank and Argentina
on the west (right), we entered a land still flat but green with the verdure of
early spring. On the banks were huge silos and conveyors for loading soybeans
onto barges. At Formosa we got a load of clothes washed. With our adjusted
exchange rate a continental breakfast for two in a fancy restaurant cost only
$3.67! We sometimes violated the terms of our pass by sleeping in estuaries and
ignoring <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura</i> posts when no one
was looking, but the authorities seemed more interested in making rules than
enforcing them.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EkcERDtAI7I/UE5JMSBechI/AAAAAAAAL2s/6_ad15IjBHE/s1600/DSCN0557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EkcERDtAI7I/UE5JMSBechI/AAAAAAAAL2s/6_ad15IjBHE/s320/DSCN0557.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="color: black;">On our
last night on the Paraguay River we stayed at a place called Puerto Bermejo.
The “port” consisted of a creek mouth ten feet wide with a snag in the middle. Using
the oars as poles we pushed ourselves fifty yards up the gushing creek then
tied to a stake among some rowboats. The bank was steep and muddy. On the dusty
flat above a chubby <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prefectura Naval</i>
guard sat on a chair watching, but quickly rose and greeted us when we
approached. Behind him was a series of row-houses, about half of which were in
ruins.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“What
happened to this town?” Steve asked.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“Bermejo
is very old,” he said, “but it is declining now because of the 1983 flood,
which destroyed many of the houses.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“Were you
here then?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“Oh yes.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">A boy on
horseback picked up a parcel from the store, a tall brick structure with no
sign, and left. A drunk got Steve to take his picture with Ginny, and Ginny to
take his picture with Steve. He wanted to take our picture too, but we were
loth to hand over the camera. In the middle of town were low spots from which
came little calls of descending pitch, like babies crying. “Frogs,” said the
drunk. The cemetery was calving off into the river. At the foot of a tall
vertical bank broken vaults and headstones lay half-immerged in the brown current.
Torn metal caskets exposed their ancient, disrespected occupants.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vJKfinKf56M/UE5JtkpelvI/AAAAAAAAL4E/cEA-Pxr0h_s/s1600/DSCN0620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vJKfinKf56M/UE5JtkpelvI/AAAAAAAAL4E/cEA-Pxr0h_s/s320/DSCN0620.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: black;">The next
day, September 2, the Paraguay emptied into the much-larger Rio Parana. Both
sides of the river were Argentina now. Twenty kilometers downstream on the east
bank we stopped at Corrientes, a city of about 700,000 counting
Resistencia, its sister city on the west bank. Here the local yacht club has
adopted us! We will tell you about it next time.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Now, if
you’ve made it this far you must be news hungry. So here, we’ve saved the best
for last! In the fashion of our native land we took the opportunity of beating
our way upriver to spawn. Ginny is now 3 months pregnant and we’re planning to
have a Brasilian river baby, so when the world goes to Hell s/he’ll always have
the freedom to run away to the Amazon!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Bye for
now,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Love
Steve and Ginny</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">New
photos can be found here: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioParaguay">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioParaguay</a></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">and here: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioParana">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/RioParana</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
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<br /></div>
ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-46591800943969159552012-07-28T09:03:00.000-07:002012-07-28T09:03:10.203-07:00Caceres, Brazil<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="color: black;"></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yyZqzEq4c9o/UBP7ZlL9m1I/AAAAAAAALUg/0BRLlyRpD-I/s1600/SAM_0101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yyZqzEq4c9o/UBP7ZlL9m1I/AAAAAAAALUg/0BRLlyRpD-I/s320/SAM_0101.JPG" width="295" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"> Dear
friends and family,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">We last
wrote as we were leaving Manaus after a stay of over two months. On June 14 we
motored to where the Rio Negro joins the Amazon, the black and tan waters
mixing only slowly. The combined river averaged four kilometers wide.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-P4skAylLPoo/T_dOJuQJrrI/AAAAAAAALUU/pHNjD3e7pN0/s1600/029-IMG_0186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-P4skAylLPoo/T_dOJuQJrrI/AAAAAAAALUU/pHNjD3e7pN0/s320/029-IMG_0186.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">On the
banks were half-immersed houses, the Amazon being in flood. At dusk green
parrots cawed as they flew overhead, and monkeys scampered in the trees, their
presence noticeable by waving branches. We motored into a matrix of inundated forest
and open waters, not knowing if the latter were normally clearings or lakes,
and tied to a tree. A current flowed through, streaming us away from the tree. We
were within view of ocean-going freighters on their way to Manaus.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">When Ginny
slid open a floorboard to start dinner she found three inches of water in the
bilge! We found a small hole through the hull just below the waterline aft on
the starboard side. On our last disembarkation in Manaus, to get fruit and
vegetables at the municipal market, the boat had bumped against something
projecting from the seawall. It must have been sharp! Fortunately the inflow
was slow.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">The next
morning we found a solid bank to work on. Positioning <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston </i>under a tree we ran a line from the starboard quarter to
an overhead branch. By hoisting upward we raised the hole above the water line.
Steve patched the outside with fiberglass cloth and epoxy resin. To the average
person the hole was inaccessible from the inside, but Ginny managed to squirm in
and patch it there too.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5wRxAaOHwkw/UBP2XzS0bHI/AAAAAAAALUY/PVPdCr4qf_4/s1600/096-SAM_0046.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5wRxAaOHwkw/UBP2XzS0bHI/AAAAAAAALUY/PVPdCr4qf_4/s320/096-SAM_0046.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">Rather
than proceeding to the mouth of the Amazon we had decided to first explore
southern South America. Consequently on the third day we turned right up the
Rio Madeira. We hoped to ascend it and its tributaries along the Brazil/Bolivia
border to the head of navigation in Vila Bela. From there a short transport
could put us in the Paraguay/Parana river system, which we would descend to
Argentina. We had only 80 days left on our Brazilian visas. If we failed to
reach Paraguay in time we could enter Bolivia, but then we would be stuck for
six months because there are no river routes through Bolivia and Brazil requires
tourists to leave the country for six months before they can re-enter.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">We
motored from sunrise to sunset every day. At first the Madeira, like the Negro
and Amazon, was so vast that land could not be seen on portions of the horizon.
As we proceeded upstream it narrowed. The flooding decreased until muddy banks
were exposed. The shore was primitive forest interspersed with altered scrub. The
trees become shorter indicating less rainfall, but remained exquisite in their
varied shapes and smells. Each homestead was a gap in the forest with a planked
house on stilts, a few banana trees, farm animals, dogs, kids, and a canoe out
front. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HEBc4PxiPN0/T_dNxqxHveI/AAAAAAAALUU/kFtdDoxb24U/s1600/027-IMG_0178.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HEBc4PxiPN0/T_dNxqxHveI/AAAAAAAALUU/kFtdDoxb24U/s320/027-IMG_0178.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;"> The same
craft plied the river as we had seen on the Rio Negro: canoes, river boats, and
tugs pushing tows of up to six barges. The upper Madeira also had hundreds of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">garimpeiro</i> barges: small wooden flatboats
that anchored in the river and sucked up bottom sediment with a thick hose to
extract gold dust. They often tied up side-by-side for companionship while they
worked.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">We
minimized contrary current by hugging the insides of the banks, swerving in and
out to avoid projecting snags and branches. Leaves and twigs littered our decks
whenever we brushed against vegetation. Grasses and lilies often crowded out
from shore, requiring detours. Dead canes swirled in the current. We took turns
steering. The other person would sew, fill water bottles, write, or do laundry.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> often had clothes drying along
the horizontal masts. When darkness fell the mosquitoes came out, so upon
stopping we hurriedly snapped the mosquito net around on the cabin hatch. We
made one for the cockpit too, so Steve could sit there while Ginny cooked
dinner.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_vod_NaldFLht5qx2fyG4uWTh3M-1fl7nVJzdIJiPwvmocod7Y7rLUiwbSXNW6f7rq2umpdt3bAY1D5zw9xoOv1WXdnkwlZi30IQk4kP9DthKmNMeTUcVU2JSyvUOii0kKOp9vTRSGNK/s1600/045-IMG_0245.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_vod_NaldFLht5qx2fyG4uWTh3M-1fl7nVJzdIJiPwvmocod7Y7rLUiwbSXNW6f7rq2umpdt3bAY1D5zw9xoOv1WXdnkwlZi30IQk4kP9DthKmNMeTUcVU2JSyvUOii0kKOp9vTRSGNK/s320/045-IMG_0245.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">Every few
days we passed a town. Borba was named for a long-ago monk, a thirty-foot tall
statue of whom stands before a blue-and-white church. At Nova Aripauna the main
street was thronged with uniformed school children celebrating a scholastic
milestone. Each had paved streets busy with motorcycles and pedestrians but no
roads connecting the towns. The heart of each was the municipal floating dock,
where passengers waited for boats to depart and goods were hurried to their
destinations. Stevedores carried refrigerators, bicycles, etc. ashore via a
wobbly gangplank while plantains and similar exports moved in the opposite
direction.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_TTbiHOBqNQ/UBP1SYOo5yI/AAAAAAAALUY/k2ayKEqHXl0/s1600/059-IMG_0310.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_TTbiHOBqNQ/UBP1SYOo5yI/AAAAAAAALUY/k2ayKEqHXl0/s320/059-IMG_0310.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">We always
wondered how long the Honda 2 horsepower motor could be ran at ¾ throttle. On
June 24 we found out. It had started using oil. Its oil capacity being only a
quarter liter we failed to check the level often enough. Sounds of destruction
issued from the engine. It stopped, compression-less. Probably a broken valve,
unavailable in Brazil.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Should we
give up and go to the mouth of the Amazon? We would still have time to row and
sail there if we hurried. Or buy another motor and continue up the Madeira?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WEJNlCbfpT8/UBP1N75i2TI/AAAAAAAALUY/wwueeFB6ue4/s1600/073-IMG_0390.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WEJNlCbfpT8/UBP1N75i2TI/AAAAAAAALUY/wwueeFB6ue4/s320/073-IMG_0390.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">Deciding
in favor of the latter we rowed back down to a line of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">garimpeiro</i> barges and tied up to them. Twelve of them lay at anchor
in the full stream of the river, secured side-to-side to each other. Each had
two horizontal wooden cranks for controlling lines. With one the operator lowered
or raised the suction head. The effluent gushed out of a large hose onto a
carpeted ramp. The carpet caught the flecks of gold. Every half hour or so,
when the excavation became too deep, they would all start whistling to each other, a sign to crank the second roller and pull themselves closer to their anchors. They would then re-lower the suction
heads and start a new hole. Each morning they turned off their engines long
enough to remove the carpet and agitate it in a tank of water with a mercury
additive. They then collected the gold dust that had settled at the bottom of
the tank.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k8VV4qLDIZo/UBP2AGOuCAI/AAAAAAAALUY/xF1TivZ5dnw/s1600/082-SAM_0006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k8VV4qLDIZo/UBP2AGOuCAI/AAAAAAAALUY/xF1TivZ5dnw/s320/082-SAM_0006.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">garimpeiros</i> were young men. They worked
in two-man teams, many with their brothers or cousins. They operated
twenty-four hours a day, six days a week, on six-hour shifts. The off-duty man slept
in a bunk in the attic of a thatched roof. Twelve diesel engines powering twelve
suction heads made for a formidable round-the-clock rumble.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">One of
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">garimpeiros</i> offered to sell us a
used <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">motor rabeta</i>. which means
“little-tail motor.” No one in the Amazon uses outboards under 15 horsepower.
Instead they use 5.5 horsepower stationary motors with horizontal crankcases to
which a long propeller shaft is bolted. The unit is mounted to the stern with
the propeller shaft angling down and aft. They steer via a tiller pointing
forward. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">motor rabeta</i> in question
failed the test drive, conking out repeatedly, so we waited for a tow to the
next city, Humaita. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NMPUC_5tK2M/UBP2kTomzjI/AAAAAAAALUY/QkPrurAbRFk/s1600/097-SAM_0047.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NMPUC_5tK2M/UBP2kTomzjI/AAAAAAAALUY/QkPrurAbRFk/s320/097-SAM_0047.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">After two
days with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">garimpeiros</i> one of them
took Steve in his skiff to speak with a passing boat. They were Catholic
missionaries providing scheduled services in tiny communities along the river. A
woman Ginny’s age said that they would gladly tow us to Humaita, where their
diocese was based, but that it would take them four days to get there. We accepted,
bade goodbye to our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">garimpeiro</i> friends,
and tied <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> to the stern of the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Edigio Vigano</i>, a stately one-story
wooden river boat.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">The woman
was Ianda, a nun from southern Brazil. She wore blue jeans, never a habit. The
priest was a tall, jovial Cameroonian named Cristian who had moved to Brazil
six years before. The boat also had a skipper and a cook, so there were six of
us. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Edigio Vigano </i>was well-organized,
with mosquito screens for all the windows. The skipper showed us below decks,
where a low-ceilinged engine compartment ran the length of the vessel. On deck
she had one main room plus sleeping cabins, pantry, galley, and head. Once we
were sure <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> was being safely
towed we spent our days aboard the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Edigio
Vigano</i> and shared meals with them.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0qZxWpRyyq4/UBP29SQ-FeI/AAAAAAAALUc/p9EzsLInVL0/s1600/117-SAM_0102.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0qZxWpRyyq4/UBP29SQ-FeI/AAAAAAAALUc/p9EzsLInVL0/s320/117-SAM_0102.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">In the
following four days we stopped at nine communities. Each had five or ten wooden
houses. The staple food was manioc, the crumbly kernels of which they roasted
in a huge pan over a fire, stirring with paddles. They also grew cacao, from
whose large pods come the dark seeds that become chocolate. In the evening they
cast-netted little catfish.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u5cMDK7HYYM/UBP389WAc1I/AAAAAAAALUc/9mm7c9llAWE/s1600/SAM_0149.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u5cMDK7HYYM/UBP389WAc1I/AAAAAAAALUc/9mm7c9llAWE/s320/SAM_0149.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">The church
was a small door-less structure. The attendees were mostly mothers and
children. They had a lot of Indigenous blood (but Cristian warned us not to
call them <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">indigenas</i> because they
consider this derogatory). Cristian donned his vestments. His theme was that
changes were occurring in their world. “Some of these changes are good,” he
said. “America has a black president now, did you know that? Other changes are bad.
Beware the evils that will affront you and rely upon the guidance of the
Church. Because the world changes but the church does <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> change!” He affirmed their worth as individuals, and advised
them <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> to use condoms! (They
evidently don’t, because most families had eight or nine children.)</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">That
night over dinner Cristian pointed out an irony in that their work is to
advocate, revolutionarily if necessary, for the poor <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">riberinhos</i> (river people), yet the Church oppresses its own workers.
“The bishop has a car, air conditioning, everything, we have
nothing!” said Ianda. “And women are kept in subservient roles. But this will
change!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">But Cristian
said the Church does <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> change,”
Steve noted.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“Actually
it does,” she said.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Edigio Vigano’s</i> chairs were all semi-broken, so when we got to Humaita
we bought them six nesting chairs as our thank-you. Then the captain showed us
a shop where f<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">or $775 we bought a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">motor rabeta</i> and had a mount fabricated that
attaches where the rudder normally goes. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Three days later, on July 3, 2012, we arrived in Porto Velho, a city of
400,000 and capital of the state of Rondonia. Huge barges were moored along the
bank. One was being loaded with soy beans via a chute that emitted a plume of
chaff. At the small-boat waterfront laborers were paving a
new plaza. Brazil’s highway network extends to Porto Velho, so for once we felt
connected to the rest of the country.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We tied up to a passenger terminal built on floating logs and started
looking for transportation around the dams and rapids that block further
navigation. A naval official said that above Porto Velho the river is navigable
only in short isolated stretches. However, the local fishermen and our own satellite-image
research said we could boat from Guajara-Mirim, 200 miles north on the Bolivian
border, to a place called Vila Bela in the neighboring state of Mato Grosso.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We roamed the city looking for a boat trailer. The manager of a boating
store connected us with someone who had a trailer and a Toyota Hilux pickup. We
agreed to pay him 900 reales for the move, about $475.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A couple days later we met him at a boat ramp. The road to
Guajara-Mirim was pot-holed, the land flat and studded with termite mounds. Guajara-Mirim
was dusty and spread-out. The driver unloaded us at a ramp and left, but we
kept Thurston on land another day in order to install a wooden skeg (a small
keel at the stern). We needed one because without the rudder <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> had wanted to swerve left or
right. Then we launched <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> in
the Rio Marmore, a tributary of the Madeira.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Guajara-Mirim would be our last large town, so we filled up two extra fuel
jugs. From the local <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">capitania dos portos</i>
we got a clearance to Corumba, a city on the Paraguay River. That night, as we
slept afloat at the landing, boats kept arriving quietly without lights,
unloading gas drums or household goods, then departing. They were smuggling Bolivian
goods, avoiding the high Brazilian duties. One load delivered consisted of
nothing but wooden tables and chairs!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z0qT6YLxSck/UBP5q4LvJbI/AAAAAAAALUg/dXolKYwFGaw/s1600/SAM_0283.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z0qT6YLxSck/UBP5q4LvJbI/AAAAAAAALUg/dXolKYwFGaw/s320/SAM_0283.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">To get a map of Bolivia we crossed over to Guajara-Mirim’s Bolivian sister
city. The officials there didn’t require us to legally enter Bolivia just to
shop, the Bolivian side being a free trade zone. The first sign that we were in
a new country was the traditional clothing of many of the women: long skirt, a
colorful smock, braids connected in back, and a hat.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">On the Rio Madeira we had ascended 1,056 river kilometers. On July 9 we
left Guajara-Mirim to finish our upstream leg: 1,462 kilometers up the Marmore
and Guapore rivers to the head of navigation at Vila Bela. On the Madeira we
had travelled southwest, now we went southeast.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Operating
the </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">motor rabeta</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> took
getting used to. It was so loud we wore ear plugs and used sign language. The
motor vibrated so much the bolts holding the tiller in place kept breaking. We
drilled the holes larger and inserted larger bolts. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">motor rabeta </i>is also very sensitive to lateral weight distribution.
The boat wants to turn in the direction of the lighter side. You have to
balance the boat exactly or exert constant pressure on the tiller. Our extra-long
tiller got us further away from the noise, but the tiller and “little tail” got
in the way. One day as we were rounding a sharp turn with the throttle
wide-open the whole motor jumped up out of its mount and landed in the cockpit
with us! We kept it tied down after that. Though we got little exercise we were
exhausted by the end of the day.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The boats above the rapids were fewer and entirely different. Instead
of curvaceous “Popeye” boats we saw flat-bottomed, diesel-powered barges made
from heavy timbers. Some were open, others had boxy houses of one or two
stories.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9RPqPtrTXSI/UBP6ZIjBTjI/AAAAAAAALUg/bw4dHZMqMLY/s1600/SAM_0368.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9RPqPtrTXSI/UBP6ZIjBTjI/AAAAAAAALUg/bw4dHZMqMLY/s320/SAM_0368.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">At the
junction of the Guapore and Marmore rivers we kept left on the former, which
remains the international border. After a week we reached the town of Costa
Marques. We refueled there and at Porto Rolim. The towns kept getting smaller,
the river traffic less.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">The river
slowly changed. The Guapore meandered deeply, often doubling the distance
compared to a straight line. Muddy banks gave way to sand. We were glad to see
the mud go, but as the river got shallower sand bars became a problem. Often we
were no longer able follow the insides of the bends. We constantly probed for
depth with our boat-hook. Our GPS map (created with Google Earth at a cyber
café in Porto Velho) told us which way to go at forks. Its speed read-out
helped us decide how to position ourselves laterally in the river. A GPS shows
absolute speed whereas speed relative to the water remains constant at a given
throttle setting. Therefore a faster GPS speed means less current. We averaged
eight kilometers per hour (four knots).</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7_cWM8lQs9s/UBP6pmophqI/AAAAAAAALUg/0kmdY-2o1p8/s1600/SAM_0440.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7_cWM8lQs9s/UBP6pmophqI/AAAAAAAALUg/0kmdY-2o1p8/s320/SAM_0440.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">A cold
front hit! We were still only twelve degrees below the equator and 550 feet
above sea level, but July is mid-winter in the Southern Hemisphere. A frigid wind
blew off the Bolivian Andes, 250 miles away to the southwest. We wore all our clothes
and slept with the cabin hatch closed. There air smelled like autumn.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">One night
we slept tied to a dangling vine on a long, skinny island. When we cast off at
5:30 a.m. it was still dark but there was a rosy line on the east horizon. A
thick mist was rising from the river. The motor wouldn’t start! It had gas and
spark but wouldn’t fire.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-egowY-mUu_8/UBP6_iDT_TI/AAAAAAAALUg/_D5WrIDzytA/s1600/SAM_0457.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-egowY-mUu_8/UBP6_iDT_TI/AAAAAAAALUg/_D5WrIDzytA/s320/SAM_0457.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">We waved
our flashlight at a passing canoe. Three Bolivian fishermen were returning home
from a night on the river wth several large spotted catfish. They couldn’t
solve the mystery either so they towed us upstream to a low-tech Bolivian naval
base. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">comandante</i> welcomed us and gave us a
mechanic. This fellow tinkered for hours. The calls for breakfast and lunch came
and went. The sun got hot as it rose high in a cloudless sky. At a bugle call a
hundred joyous men came down to the river, stripped to their skivvies, and bathed
all around <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>. Ginny demurely
kept her distance but she counted them, so she must have been looking. Steve and
the mechanic worked with the motor on an old upside-down boat under a tree. It was
challenging to switch back to Spanish after long immersion in Portuguese. Finally
the mechanic found the problem: a sticky intake valve. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“But I
don’t have any emery cloth,” he said. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“I’ve got
some!” said Steve, and came back with a piece. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">“The
American has everything!” he said, impressed. He cleaned it up, put the motor
back together, and got it running. We had lost only six hours!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rabeta</i> consists of a long shaft running through
a tube. We discovered that the four evenly-spaced bushings holding the shaft in
alignment inside the tube are made, in true third-world style, of wood. By July
21 these had become worn, so in the town of Pimenteiros d'Oeste we had a
woodworker replace them. Meanwhile, at the local internet service we ran into a
missionary from Mississippi, the first American we had met since Cartagena. Ernie
C. had blond hair, blue eyes, and a thick Southern accent. “I had a
misguided youth,” he said. “In fact I was even shot once. Oh, you might say it
was a drug deal gone bad. But God had plans for me. I could only ignore Him for
so long.” Working alone through an interpreter he must have been lonely because
in the few hours we spent together he loaded us with details from his life and how
he had ended up in a small town in western Brazil. “This here’s the end of the
road,” he said. “You don’t come to Pimenteiros unless you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mean</i> to come here.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vlmAXIK4j8M/UBP6sMjaJ9I/AAAAAAAALUg/NR-ZlIuz4wE/s1600/SAM_0401.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vlmAXIK4j8M/UBP6sMjaJ9I/AAAAAAAALUg/NR-ZlIuz4wE/s320/SAM_0401.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="305" /></a><span style="color: black;">It’s a
shame to travel so quickly, and torture for Ginny to get up early, but the
ticking clocks on our Brazilian visas roused us the next morning at our usual
5:45 a.m. There would be no more towns until Vila Bela, where the Guapore
issues from the Mato Grosso <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pantanal</i>
(swamp) like a trickle from the world’s largest sponge. Mosquitoes like dawn
almost as well as dusk, but in this case they made a weak showing, numbed by
the mist and soon brushed aside by the eight-kilometer-per-hour wind of our
progress through the stream. When the sun rose high, however, a heat-loving
insect began his stalk. The black fly with clear wing-tips intercepted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> as she passed and awaited its
moment to pierce our bare feet with his syringe. If we made the mistake of
stepping onto a sandbar with bare legs a striped no-see-um like that on the
Casiquiare (our magnifying glass justifies itself at times like this!) would hurt
us until the distinctive sting of his bites dissipated. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Not much
larger than a no-see-um, a tiny beetle of unknown eating habits and life-cycle
had long since invaded the cabin. Moths lived in our noodles. Two varieties of
weevil subsisted in our flour and rice. (Sifting removes them but our next food
purchase would probably bring more.) Two or three species of ant generally walked
around wondering what to do with themselves now that they are cut off from
their colonies. (We don’t spray ant poison unless they come in strength.) </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnLn2cmhag0132mrvEbM1PY82eauKZ-dpMOfAB_lHpX5MA4P7AYjaAi8VwlZ9j5Pjntwe9QkvA_HQs7Cd8nq2x3kR0WZmSgS1xq-H1QmF1og4RG4EtCZVP0FuOZRNC-uytnpb8E8iuM9M0/s1600/051-IMG_0284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnLn2cmhag0132mrvEbM1PY82eauKZ-dpMOfAB_lHpX5MA4P7AYjaAi8VwlZ9j5Pjntwe9QkvA_HQs7Cd8nq2x3kR0WZmSgS1xq-H1QmF1og4RG4EtCZVP0FuOZRNC-uytnpb8E8iuM9M0/s320/051-IMG_0284.JPG" width="271" /></a><span style="color: black;">On the
positive side, likable spiders and grasshoppers fell aboard when we scraped
against branches. New species of butterflies, dragonflies, and wasps were
always touching down. After the mosquito hour had passed the various mayflies,
gnats, and crickets crowded aboard, attracted by our headlamps. Some passed
through the mosquito nets and tickled us by crawling on our faces while we
read. But our favorite nocturnal visitor was something we have no name for. Two
inches long, it flies aboard then scurries without stop, every now and then
executing a back flip. On one such flip Ginny swears he caught a mosquito in
the air! His body is flexible. His abdomen is similar to that of a cricket but his
thorax and head are more like a tiny lobster with powerful “forearms” of
unknown purpose, unless it was to catch that mosquito.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IPGGNWk14KE/UBP7X4zo3vI/AAAAAAAALUg/r3PsL3H7TtM/s1600/SAM_0083.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IPGGNWk14KE/UBP7X4zo3vI/AAAAAAAALUg/r3PsL3H7TtM/s320/SAM_0083.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">The further
we got upriver the more wildlife we saw: turtles, alligators, river otters,
dolphins as always, capybaras by the dozen! The latter is a 150-pound rodent with
a body the shape of a hog, a square head, and rich brown fur. They sat on low
marshy banks feeding on the vegetation as we passed. We now saw green
kingfishers in addition to the red-bellied ones. Cranes, storks, herons,
egrets, mergansers, and cormorants abounded. On a given beach among several
dozen such birds we sometimes saw a few roseate spoonbills, the color of pink
flamingos but with spoon-shaped beaks. Several types of hawk or eagle were
common. We’d love to have had a bird book, and a camera without a broken screen!
Only the upper right-hand corner works so we have to frame shots seeing only
that much.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">At night
we couldn’t identify animals by sight, yet this is when they were most active.
We usually we slept in marshy bays that once had been river channels. All night
we heard splashes, sighs, chortles, chirps, peeps, and grunts. We also need a
device that identifies animals by their sounds!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z9yaRL9wjVo/UBP7Agpo6rI/AAAAAAAALUg/LGSrgfH3MP8/s1600/SAM_0013.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z9yaRL9wjVo/UBP7Agpo6rI/AAAAAAAALUg/LGSrgfH3MP8/s320/SAM_0013.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">Bedrock
occasionally appeared through the green mantle. We passed to the left of a
Bolivian mountain range and came within sight of a Brazilian one, the Chapada
dos Parecis. Upon passing the mouth of the Rio Verde we left Bolivia behind.
The Brazilian state of Mato Grosso now occupied both banks. Masses of
filamentous vine cocooned the tall bushes among the swamp grass. The vines then
died, leaving what looked like haystacks.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">The river
shrank to as narrow as fifty yards, then twenty yards. The scenery changed more
rapidly. We no longer saw native dwellings in the sense of modest shacks, only a
few ranches. For a while sport fishermen in small aluminum boats were common,
then nothing. As we neared the head of navigation we wondered what could go
wrong. We’d never met anyone who had been to Vila Bela. Steve got sick but soon
figured out it was a cumulative effect from the water we had gotten from a roof
tank in Guajara-Mirim. He filtered some river water using our pump-action
filter, drank it, and immediately improved.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">By July
25 the Guapore was a minor stream gushing through forest, swamp, and range
land. The bends were so sharp we had to slam the tiller hard over causing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> to heel as she rounded up. Sometimes
we miscalculated and crashed into the bank Then we saw a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rabeta</i>-powered canoe; somebody lives here! Rounding a final island
we saw buildings: Vila Bela da Santissima Trinidade. We had completed our
ascent! </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jtvG3twPQXE/UBP7Xb_WeAI/AAAAAAAALUg/-SfMJUJf1Zw/s1600/SAM_0112.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jtvG3twPQXE/UBP7Xb_WeAI/AAAAAAAALUg/-SfMJUJf1Zw/s320/SAM_0112.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;">Within
two days we had arranged for a truck to carry us to the Rio Paraguay. Its bed
was short so we unloaded <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i> to
make her light. Then Steve, the driver, and five friends slid her bow up over
the cab. The stern hung over the back of the truck but she was secure. For $370
the driver took us 300 kilometers across dry, flat land to the city of Caceres
on the Rio Paraguay, where we are now.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">This is
the beginning of the Mato Grosso <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pantanal</i>,
the world’s biggest wetland. We will descend the Paraguay as it snakes through
it. Our next town, Corumba, is about 850 river kilometers away.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Bye for
now,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Love
Steve and Ginny</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">New
photos can be found here: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart2">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/BrasilPart2</a></span></div>
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<br /></div>ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-12674099251677770422012-06-04T15:22:00.001-07:002012-06-06T09:41:45.346-07:00Manaus mass email #2<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQrECO3HuWzS_cQWdqcjNrH6cr6_zWNgAWN_JeapIeEZhvA1NCzJ-NtUQLVn_37B4k3GqWwwBOQKFlhb9YGtkEAMhJEPUG2pRssLVaD1sxYpQKqeO7rhCtZ8t1xJL3preEIXr9yuafD9I/s1600/76-SAM_1347.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQrECO3HuWzS_cQWdqcjNrH6cr6_zWNgAWN_JeapIeEZhvA1NCzJ-NtUQLVn_37B4k3GqWwwBOQKFlhb9YGtkEAMhJEPUG2pRssLVaD1sxYpQKqeO7rhCtZ8t1xJL3preEIXr9yuafD9I/s640/76-SAM_1347.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Dear friends and family,<br /><br />We last wrote on April 21 as we were arriving in Manaus, on the north shore of the Rio Negro near its junction with the Amazon. Instead of drowned forests we now faced red bluffs. Mega-yachts sat under made-to-fit boathouses. Industrial and institutional buildings began sprouting from the heights. A new bridge stalked southward across the river on dozens of tall columns.<br /><br />In Novo Airão we had met cruisers Peter and Louise. “When you get to Manaus, tie up with us, at Erin Shipyard,” Peter had said. We found it on a tract of sloping red clay just before the bridge. Petroleum barges were being built under big steel sheds. Ferry boats in red primer paint lay on ways. Welding torches sparked here and there. Floating workshops and drydocks lay moored along shore. One drydock held a huge barge. Workmen were painting it’s tall sides with long-handled rollers. A crane held the stern of a tugboat up in the air while men worked on its propellers. </span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Dl3V40iCQb4/T8ZYGWCAlAI/AAAAAAAAKz4/q8D8BQAfT10/s1600/84-SAM_1372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Dl3V40iCQb4/T8ZYGWCAlAI/AAAAAAAAKz4/q8D8BQAfT10/s320/84-SAM_1372.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We tied to the shoreward side of a barge and crossed a gangplank to shore. Red-bellied kingfishers chattered along an eroding bluff. We hiked up a steep drive us to a bus stop and caught the 124 to the Centro Antigo (Ancient Center).<br /><br />The Centro Antigo occupied a bulge between two narrow inlets. Many of the buildings dated from the late 1800s and early 1900s, when Manaus was rich from the rubber boom. The facades of the old masonry buildings were molded in a heavy, neo-classical style. The grimy waterfront street butted against a sea wall. Tour boat operators hawked rides to the Encontra das Aguas, where the Amazon’s brown and Negro’s black waters meet. High-speed ferries streaked across the river. All along the waterfront floating gas stations lay about two hundred meters out. A passenger terminal accommodated a cruise ship and a score of triple-decker river boats. We particularly liked a class of wooden boats with forward steering stations, fantail sterns, and a roofed interior. They were styled after the big river boats but just big enough to fit a family.</span><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8CKeZQ7r2fg/T8ZSgqO_F6I/AAAAAAAAKz4/xSalgFYbhYU/s1600/40-SAM_1162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8CKeZQ7r2fg/T8ZSgqO_F6I/AAAAAAAAKz4/xSalgFYbhYU/s320/40-SAM_1162.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">Produce was being hand-trucked from rough-hewn cargo boats into a sprawling public market. One shed the size of an auditorium contained nothing but green plantains. Vendors sold exotic fruits, vegetables, and fish. The menus were full of unfamiliar dishes and juices. We treated ourselves to a liter of beer at the Bar dos Jangadeiros. If we understood him correctly, a fellow patron explained that the jangadeiros were Portuguese who came to Brazil on sailing rafts bringing their own musical style. A sextet was playing emotional folk ballads. The lyrics were so long that the singers had to sit together and read from a songbook.<br /><br />We found a city map, got a customs exemption for Thurston, and exchanged money. In a neighborhood called Educandos we found the upholstery district, where we bought material for a new awning, which we promptly had fabricated. Rises and ravines divided the city. Forty years before it had only 200,000 people. Then the government created a vast Duty Free Industrial Zone where multi-national corporations have erected assembly plants, including the world’s biggest motorcycle factory. The population grew ten-fold. <br /><br />There were roomy middle-class neighborhoods, but our missions generally took us into crowded sectors where the streets were narrow and winding. Through each ravine ran a open sewer. Even here the two-story shacks pressed close, on stilts to avoid flooding. The poorest areas were accessible only by narrow walkways. Everything was made of the same red brick, an extruded block with eight square holes. They often left the bricks unfinished, to be stucco-ed and painted when circumstances allowed.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Un8SAaL1HOI/T8ZMou7ByxI/AAAAAAAAKz4/7fsKoZnZRFo/s1600/01-SAM_1015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Un8SAaL1HOI/T8ZMou7ByxI/AAAAAAAAKz4/7fsKoZnZRFo/s320/01-SAM_1015.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">Our immediate neighborhood was Compensa, a warren of steep streets and dead-ends. Our internet shop lay at the bottom of an urbanized ravine. The street crossed the valley transversely, thus it rose in both directions. One day, while we were working on computers by the plate-glass window, we witnessed a different sort of encontra das aguas. A cloudburst hit: gusts, lightning, torrential rain. Pedestrians took shelter. Water pooled in the street. The shop keeper took a specially-cut board outside and wedged it along the foot of the building to keep water out. Soon runoff was coming from both directions, colliding in front of the shop, and spilling out into a concrete-lined ditch running away from the shop, perpendicular to the street. The waters from the two slopes were a foot deep, lightning-fast, laden with garbage. They collided in a wave that swirled down into the ditch like into the drain of a sink. It became too deep for cars but buses still drove through. After an hour the rain tapered off, the water subsided, and the shop keeper removed the board.<br /><br />This metropolis of two million sits alone in the center of the Amazon Basin. Manaus is like an island in a sea of rivers and forested floodplains. The Amazon is bigger than the world’s second through eighth largest rivers combined. Several of its tributaries, considered independently, would rank among the world’s top ten by volume. Due to these water obstacles no roads connect Manaus with Brazil’s far-larger cities a thousand miles or more to the southeast.</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h2-d5vdEios/T8ZOGYJ5KZI/AAAAAAAAKz4/xFIShwNdxzc/s1600/14-SAM_1081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h2-d5vdEios/T8ZOGYJ5KZI/AAAAAAAAKz4/xFIShwNdxzc/s320/14-SAM_1081.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">We were no longer in a splintered remnant of the Spanish Empire, under the shadow of the U.S economy. Economists class Brazil with Russia, India, and China: nations large enough to create their own momentum. The Brazilians seemed self-confident. No one hustled us. They were friendly and good natured nearly without exception. We surmise this is due to their fine appreciation of sweets and chocolate in particular. Brazilians have even found a way to spread their friendliness silently by their ubiquitous habit of giving a “thumbs-up” for any variety of reasons. For example, to say “Hi,” “Bye,” “Thanks,” “Okay,” or “Cool!” It’s a great boost to one’s self esteem to have people giving you thumbs-up all day. Hope we haven’t misinterpreted the meaning!<br /><br />Brazil is South America’s only Portuguese-speaking country. The Spanish-speaking countries from Cuba to Venezuela had been variations on a theme, but Brazil was abruptly different. The various musical styles reminded us of Cajun, or sixties pop, or European folk songs, but they never reminded us of mariachi.<br /><br />Brazilian Portuguese is similar to Spanish but with a soft, mushy sound,. Many consonants are pronounced differently. “R” sounds often become “h.” “H” sounds become “zh” as in “measure.” “B” sounds become “v.” “Ch” and “x” sounds become “sh.” “T” sounds might become “ch.” “D” sounds frequently become “j” as in “just.” We studied the language on our laptop with a program called Rosetta Stone.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Mj8l_OZh9h0/T8kdWpL7EeI/AAAAAAAAKz4/gUukxKYcbf8/s1600/1-SAM_1377.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Mj8l_OZh9h0/T8kdWpL7EeI/AAAAAAAAKz4/gUukxKYcbf8/s320/1-SAM_1377.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">The workshop barge we tied to sheltered us from the afternoon sun and from waves kicked up by passing rainstorms. The water was the color of black tea, opaque at depths beyond a meter. The air on the equator is warmer than one would wish but the river is perfect. In full sun the barge was too hot to tread in bare feet, but a leap into the water brought instant relief. We jumped in every night after tramping all over town in the overbearing heat. Soon we were jumping in every morning as well. Currently we are working in a lot of afternoon swims and before long expect to spend all of our time in the river.<br /><br />At first it felt strange to live in an industrial shipyard. On all sides workers in bright orange coveralls clanged and clambered over vessels. Equipment and balks of timber lay everywhere. It seemed impossible that they would want us around. Wouldn’t our presence violate safety rules? <br /><br />Peter assured us we were welcome. He was sixty-five years old, tall and hearty. Born in England, he had emigrated to Trinidad. Louise, his lovely South African partner, had more sailing experience, having sailed her own boat from South Africa to Trinidad before meeting him. They had sailed his fifty-foot motor-sailer around the Caribbean then up the Amazon. The <a href="http://passagemaker.org/" target="_blank">Passagemaker,</a> built from teak in Singapore in 1961, was famous as a prototype for yacht designer Robert Beebe’s ideas on trans-oceanic cruising under power. Peter and Louise often invited us over for drinks, conversation, and movie-swapping.<br /><br />One day Peter and Louise took us on a cruise to an old rubber plantation up the river. The other guests were Francisco, the manager of the shipyard; Berlane, his wife and daughter of the shipyard’s owner; a Japanese-Brazilian plastics factory owner and his family; and other successful friends of Francisco and Berlane.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fRifP0aIeRA/T8ZNXyp7AvI/AAAAAAAAKz4/0agpLaTHhmQ/s1600/07-SAM_1038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fRifP0aIeRA/T8ZNXyp7AvI/AAAAAAAAKz4/0agpLaTHhmQ/s320/07-SAM_1038.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mL5Tyg3STmw/T8ZR-GVeO3I/AAAAAAAAKz4/nUyMjMS3X6s/s1600/32-SAM_1142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-size: small;">When Peter and Louise continued their cruise up the Amazon, Francisco and Berlane became our closest acquaintances. Francisco, a brown-haired, grey-eyed, native of São Paulo, spoke English with what seemed a French accent. Berlane was Amazonian by birth, blonde, always happy. They took us out to fine restaurants, a zoo, and tours of the city. The few parts of the city we hadn’t yet explored by foot, bus or bicycle Francisco made a point to show us by car.<br /><br />Their welcome was a boon because a package coming from the United States was delayed. We kept busy with writing, laundry, boat repairs, and seeking hard-to-find items. (For example, we needed acetone in a quantity small enough to would fit in our repairs bin. The solution: fingernail polish remover.) Finding places was difficult because we could not find business directories or bus schedules. Businesses often did not post their hours of operation, so you didn’t know when to come back. Restaurants had no menus, vendors often didn’t bother with price labels. The lack of written information forced us to combat our shyness and speak Portuguese. </span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-btAVT4ciEPM/T8zWMOIBlRI/AAAAAAAAK0E/9tsq-vT03wQ/s1600/2-IMG_0013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-btAVT4ciEPM/T8zWMOIBlRI/AAAAAAAAK0E/9tsq-vT03wQ/s320/2-IMG_0013.JPG" width="234" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">We mapped upcoming rivers on Google Earth. Virgilio, our travel guide friend in Puerto Ayacucho had said it is possible to ascend a southern tributary of the Amazon and portage to the Paraguay/Parana River basin, so we researched it. We found that Virgilio’s projected route is now impossible because the Pilcomayo River, where it used to form the boundary between Paraguay and Argentina, has disappeared due to irrigation diversions. However, we concluded that we could go up the Madeira, Mamore, and Guapore rivers; then portage; then down the Jauru, Paraguay, and Parana rivers to Uruguay. We could even make a loop of it by then ascending the Parana to the vicinity of Brasilia, portaging to the Araguaia River, and descending it and the Tocatins to the Amazon near Belem! It would add a year to our trip.<br /><br />In northern Latin America the rainy season is from June to November. In the southern hemisphere it occupies the opposite months. By crossing into Brazil we had gone from the waning months of Llanos dry season to the waning months of Amazonian rains. In Manaus the Negro/Amazon reaches its highest mark in June, when precipitation fallen on the Andes reaches that point. The river continued to rise as we waited for our package. By late May it had exceeded previous records. Low areas of the city were inundated. In the Centro Antigo businesses stacked sandbags around their entrances and erected elevated walkways along the flooded streets.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mL5Tyg3STmw/T8ZR-GVeO3I/AAAAAAAAKz4/nUyMjMS3X6s/s1600/32-SAM_1142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mL5Tyg3STmw/T8ZR-GVeO3I/AAAAAAAAKz4/nUyMjMS3X6s/s320/32-SAM_1142.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">One day, while crossing the bridge from the Centro Antigo to Educandos, we noticed that the riverfront shacks, docks, and floating businesses continued under the bridge itself. Descending to river level, we saw that wooden and brick shacks had been built around the abutments, protected from rain and sun by the bridge high overhead. Crude plank walkways snaked from shack to shack. Some had a foot of water inside yet remained occupied. In some structures the downstairs was a combination bar/restaurant/store, with seating for two or three customers and shelves offering cooking oil, candles, etc. Laundry lines ran from upstairs windows to convenient attachment points. We sat at one of the “bars” and split a tall bottle of cold Brahma beer. Men drank quietly. Women cooked. Children darted in and out. Dogs, cats, chickens, and ducks inhabited whatever ledges they could find. The planks were wide enough for one person or animal at a time. People had top priority, followed by dogs, cats, ducks, and chickens. A dog accidentally nudged a fighting cock into the water. Someone reached over, lifted it by the shoulders of its wings, and set it back down on a plank, probably for the tenth time that day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Another day, in the Lirio do Vale neighborhood, we noticed a walled garden with the words União do Vegetal over the gate. “Union of the Vegetable?” said Steve. “What the heck is that?” Peeking in, we were noticed by a handsome young man. He beckoned us inside. “We are a Christian group,” he explained. “In our sessions we take a special tea made of Amazonian plants. If you would like to try it come back on Tuesday at eight o’clock.”<br /><br />Ginny was tired that night, but curiosity had the better of Steve and he wandered off into the night to check it out. The grounds were now inhabited by about forty men wearing green smocks and white trousers, and a smaller number of women. They were gathering on a covered patio around a table on which stood a white ceramic urn. One by one we drank a glass of tea called ayahuasca, extracted from the leaves of a tree and the sap from a vine. It was bitter and pungent. All sat on comfortable chairs. Five leaders sat on one side of the urn, the others sat facing them. Steve and other newcomers were placed to the right of the leaders. A chairman opened the session. He and others gave short talks. Members stood, were recognized, and asked questions. Sometimes someone would chant. There were long periods of meditation during which soothing music was played on a CD player. <br /><br />At nine o’clock we were offered a second cup. Having felt no effect, Steve accepted. Soon his body felt wiry. Closing his eyes he saw colorful, slowly evolving patterns suggestive of plant growth or zeppelins or skyscrapers, composed of light arrays like a pixilated TV screen. He noticed certain words being repeated, like espiritu, vegetal, Gabriel, and Soloman. He fell into a dream state that he could at any time terminate by opening his eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIyhsj5xj9bXK2XU9mA_EWKg-wXVi9svAbj5WB8OYK5e6Ob_Uq7DSMiomUXht1nZtsNO6qLC3q6uvrX4yDMGajfENZWbPIMVWpMcbEFW9d4fftTNbAiiSNyqTFlIEB-NoqAoBrT_8_riH/s1600/30-SAM_1139.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIyhsj5xj9bXK2XU9mA_EWKg-wXVi9svAbj5WB8OYK5e6Ob_Uq7DSMiomUXht1nZtsNO6qLC3q6uvrX4yDMGajfENZWbPIMVWpMcbEFW9d4fftTNbAiiSNyqTFlIEB-NoqAoBrT_8_riH/s320/30-SAM_1139.JPG" width="246" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">At eleven-thirty the ceremony ended. People lingered, chatting in good humor. Some ate. Steve maintained his intoxication until a man sat by him that emitted a sharp odor. Suddenly Steve had to vomit. Fortunately a restroom was nearby. Instant sobriety! He was then given a ride back to the shipyard. He woke the next day feeling refreshed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After weeks of waiting for our package we have finally have it! We have gotten a fresh 90 days on our visa and are ready to continue down the Amazon. Should we go straight to the Atlantic and sail back to the States, which would take at least a year, or go up the Madeira and explore the rest of South America first?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br /><br />Bye for now,<br />Love Steve and Ginny<br />Lots of new photos can be found here: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/Brasil">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/Brasil</a></span></div>ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-85105277944622023922012-04-21T16:13:00.000-07:002012-04-21T16:15:33.852-07:00Manaus, Brazil - Mass email<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear friends and family,
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We last wrote you from São Gabriel da Cachoeira, a city of
perhaps 50,000 people in Brazil’s
remote northwestern corner, where it adjoins Colombia
and Venezuela.
The dry <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">llanos</i> of those countries had
fully given way to equatorial tropics, though the land remained predominantly
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We managed to exchange our leftover Venezuelan and Colombian
money for Brazilian <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reais</i> (pronounced
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hay-ishe</i>). We had no navigational map
of the Rio Negro so again we found an internet
shop and created our own using Google Earth. The distance to Manaus was about a thousand river kilometers.
Though we represented shorelines by only about one click per kilometer, and rapidly
traced our route via the satellite images, the task took twenty-five hours. Most
of the way the river contained at least one long, sharp-ended island, sometimes
as many as ten abreast! In some regions vegetation and water intermingled in
vast swamps, visually fascinating but hard to map. In a few arbitrary clicks we
categorized untold watery wonderlands. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_RNJpvIUOsw/T1o4XhxMnVI/AAAAAAAAJ8E/0cKc3w9CIsc/s1600/rio+negro.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_RNJpvIUOsw/T1o4XhxMnVI/AAAAAAAAJ8E/0cKc3w9CIsc/s320/rio+negro.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The river’s undulating shapes as viewed from above reflected
its slow writhing over time. In places vast striations reflected the river’s
accretions, its migrations toward the outside of each bend. The striations mimicked
the river’s curves, each line representing a former shoreline or silted-in channel.
There were also breaks in the pattern where the river had cut new short-cuts.
We saw “hollow” islands with lakes almost their own size, channels that tapered
to nothing as they stabbed into land masses, and dozens of converging
tributaries, some so large as to merit their own delta archipelagos. </div>
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The imagery couldn’t tell us where heights of land might
exist, nor which areas of dense tree canopy would be dry and which would be
inundated. The presence or absence of whiteness, however, told us that the only
significant rapids were those near São Gabriel. A riverboat owner named João
took Steve for a motorcycle ride along the river road, pointing out the best route
through the first and worst drop.</div>
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It was March 12, 2012. The river was at moderate height and
rising. Ginny, though scared, chose to accompany Steve through the rapid, in
case the inevitable capsize should leave him in need of superhuman assistance. Just
downstream of our tie-up the river compressed from a mile in width to a mere quarter
mile. The shoreline there was whitewater but the middle was black and roiling. Casting
off, we motored at an upstream diagonal to the river’s centerline, just missing
the first set of rocks. As we entered the apparently placid narrows, patches of
river suddenly boiled up and whirlpooled around us! Current speed far exceeded
our through-the-water speed, so we noted the horizontal alignments of near and
far objects to sense how fast we were going and in which direction. When we
were clear of the first hazard we angled back to shore to avoid the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cachoeira</i> itself, where the river drops
over a ledge of perhaps eight feet. By staying close to the granite bank we sped
down a swath of unbroken water which soon deposited us, swirling and bobbing,
in a quiet embayment.</div>
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For twenty kilometers the river remained broken into islands,
rocks, and riffles. Then the river compressed once more, mightily. Here we had
no choice but to bump through a series of white corduroy waves. To Steve it was
fun, to Ginny it was anything but.</div>
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Thereafter the current was mild. The hills and round granite
rocks we had been seeing since Caicara slowly subsided until only flatland
remained. In spots we could see an actual bank. More commonly the competition
for sunlight in the foliage was so intense that branches and vines extended
well out over the river. It did so in varying degrees, forming “vegetative
coves.” We kept our distance just enough to prevent <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston’s</i> projecting parts from catching on something. The forest
edge was a verdant wall with varied adornments. There were vertical stalks with
tiny white flowers in a “zipper” pattern, vines with leaves like elephant ears,
maroon trilobytish lichen, small red and green bulbs like Christmas lights
hanging off the brush, and a thousand other mysterious plant forms which we
gazed at as we floated past.</div>
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You may remember how we hurried along the coast of Panama, Colombia
and Venezuela
to avoid the stronger winds that begin in December. Inland Venezuela was
also rushed as we desired so strongly to escape the clutches of their Big-Brother
government. For once we were in no hurry! The water was fresh and clean,
facilitating bathing and washing. There were almost no waves. The wilderness
was pristine. There were no more biting insects, due, we were told, to the
tannic acid that makes the river look black. So we decided to slow down. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-fxZ0qSvU236pX6cy_G1YNkgzLYpnw3ITjinz2Ua4lzXlcRCLvDbRJtVNzdy3Gt8a6UQWeiE71LnxkXjHnuKyqqhyphenhyphenh26rHi2az1tJAOJAwcR7VYLfM-ewW8qOjVaca-4skqUq0EMINXx/s1600/20-SAM_0701.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-fxZ0qSvU236pX6cy_G1YNkgzLYpnw3ITjinz2Ua4lzXlcRCLvDbRJtVNzdy3Gt8a6UQWeiE71LnxkXjHnuKyqqhyphenhyphenh26rHi2az1tJAOJAwcR7VYLfM-ewW8qOjVaca-4skqUq0EMINXx/s320/20-SAM_0701.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Our first indulgence was to ascend a randomly-selected
tributary on the north bank called the Rio Cauaburi. About the size of the Washington’s Skagit
River, its watershed is within the
Parque Nacional do Pico da Neblina, named for Brazil’s highest point, on the
Venezuelan border. We motored along as close to the bank as possible to minimize
current, weaving in and out to avoid branches. We connected the steering lines,
left the awning up to shelter us from the intermittent sun and rain, and had
great fun navigating our miniature ship from the companionway hatch.</div>
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After a couple hours we arrived at a rapid which we were
unable to climb. Upstream the river braided around rocks and thundered toward
us, but in a bay at the outside of a bend we found a forested slough leading
into the jungle. By lifting a few branches we squeezed inside. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sbO9l3DK07s/T5GBklQhf5I/AAAAAAAAKRw/eqRPqRw3Y6w/s1600/54-SAM_0854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sbO9l3DK07s/T5GBklQhf5I/AAAAAAAAKRw/eqRPqRw3Y6w/s320/54-SAM_0854.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div>
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Here under the forest canopy there was no wall of leaves
separating us from land. We parked between two trees and explored, minding our
track with a compass, observant for any dangers. There were small palm trees
covered with long spines which we had to avoid grabbing whenever vines tangled
our feet. Ants crawled up and bit us if we lingered in the wrong place, and unidentified
animals had burrowed holes which needed avoiding. Where big trees had fallen
they had pulled the vines down with them and the hole in the canopy had allowed
dense shrubs to proliferate. Elsewhere the forest was walkable. Only the
newness made us careful. Overhead a copper-colored monkey returned our stare.
We found a five-inch-long grasshopper that wasn’t afraid of us, a cinnamon-colored
tarantula on a rotten stump, and a small mantis-like stick bug. Then a cloudburst
hit, and the leafy forest floor, though well-drained, soon puddled from the
intensity of the rain. </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-weITR4BIB04/T5F_4FCllXI/AAAAAAAAKMw/6oGEQ4A7T1g/s1600/15-SAM_0684.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-weITR4BIB04/T5F_4FCllXI/AAAAAAAAKMw/6oGEQ4A7T1g/s320/15-SAM_0684.JPG" width="320" /></a>No people detected our presence, but a river otter examined
us while chomping a fish nearby, his big, round head above water. We felt
isolated yet safe. We were at peace and had everything we needed. But, since
that is an unnatural (and therefore unstable) state for humans we left our
satori after two days and continued on our way to “civilization.”</div>
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The wilderness and the monotony of our travel resulted in
much philosophizing and introspection. We ruminated on the meaning of life,
human purpose, and the existence of God. We wrestled with the concept of remoteness.
Since Puerto Ayacucho the towns had been far apart with no connecting roads. Nor
had we noticed any long-distance trails. Native villages exist here and there
on the rivers and streams, but what about the vast forests beyond that? Is much
of Amazonia simply uninhabited? Steve found
this idea subtly disturbing, while Ginny relished it. We struggled with the
desire to keep exploring deeper into the wilderness and the logical
impracticality of it. In wilderness travel is there always someplace even more
remote you can’t reach?</div>
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With the right gear could one hike into lands of which even
the natives know nothing? Could one ever find a nirvana in which sloths could
be cuddled, being too slow to run away, and spotted agoutis minutely observed? When
if not now would we ever penetrate nature’s next layer of secrecy? The rivers
injected renewed enthusiasm into our voyage. We daydreamed of following them
into Colombia, Peru, Bolivia,
Argentina.
We even fantasized about trading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thurston</i>
for a riverboat, becoming beekeepers, having a kid, adopting a cat and turning
our voyage into a permanent lifestyle.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kW25MskEQv0/T5F_o1etq8I/AAAAAAAAKL4/QDa4u8TOPyY/s1600/08-SAM_0633.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kW25MskEQv0/T5F_o1etq8I/AAAAAAAAKL4/QDa4u8TOPyY/s320/08-SAM_0633.JPG" width="320" /></a>Then what of our families, friends, professions,
possessions? Might we not eventually become lost to our former senses of
belonging? Our subconsciouses suggest this is already occurring, to Ginny and
Steve in different ways. We have already been traveling for over two years.
When will the wanderlust wane? Setting these dreams aside for future voyages we
agreed to continue toward the mouth of the Amazon then turn left, back toward
the States. </div>
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With this sobering decision in mind we continued down the Rio Negro. Typically we rowed for two or three hours per
day and motored for five or six due to mild headwinds. With the awning always
up clothing was optional. Sometimes the river was so wide that large extents of
the horizon were land-less, like we were looking out to sea. Other times we
were in a maze of islands. Sometimes the only dry land was a narrow strip along
the river, its natural levee. Then even those went away and we could no longer
go for walks. Fortunately, rowing with a sliding seat exercises the legs as
well as the upper body. Pink dolphins were common, but never so active or
interested in us as were those on the Portuguese and Apure
rivers. The narrower channels abounded in lime-green parrots and macaws of both
the scarlet and blue species. All flew in pairs or larger groups and were very
vocal during the day. At night monkeys howled, cicadas whirred, frogs “croaked”
in strange new ways, and bird calls of every description reverberated through
the forest. Once we even heard the guttural growls of a wild cat accompanied by
lots of splashing. Closing her eyes Ginny could have sworn it was her dear cat
Snazz munching on a hotdog. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bo541a7tKp4/T5GCHIQqh1I/AAAAAAAAKTQ/rkXrcwSGrZo/s1600/66-SAM_0913.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bo541a7tKp4/T5GCHIQqh1I/AAAAAAAAKTQ/rkXrcwSGrZo/s320/66-SAM_0913.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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It being the rainy season, the river was seven or eight
meters higher than in the dry season. This allowed us to camp under full canopy
in drowned forests. We also stayed along quiet banks and in open water with
scattered trees and brush. One night we anchored in a swampy cove of a bay in a
lake inside an island! On another we settled into a side-channel not knowing if
an island or a peninsula separated us from the river proper. As it turned out
it was neither, because in the morning a boat passed by, which we heard but
could not see. Its wake came right through the forest and rocked us.</div>
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It was springtime for the trees. Fist-sized “acorns” often
splashed from the canopy into the water. The locals were gathering wild Brazil
nuts, whose container case resembles a cannon ball. There were big crimson bean
pods; and grey-green discs which, when opened like a clam, revealed a
horizontal stack of thin, seed-bearing wafers.</div>
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At first we supposed that a tree standing in water wouldn’t
have ants. Wrong! Our worst invasions came from contact with vegetation on which
there were thousands of desperate small ants. Perhaps they get “treed” as the
river rises then die off unless they find another home. We have also heard they
make bridges with their own bodies to move among the inundated plants. We spent
hours washing them off with bucketfuls of water and smashing them as they
scurried about. We executed mercilessly, though in Ginny’s case it was not
without remorse. After that we reached down and tied our mooring lines below
the waterline of branches or trunks so nothing could climb aboard. We tolerated
spiders and crickets. We would have exterminated the tiny flies and beetles that
appeared in the cabin if we knew how to. Most mornings we had to get an early
start because honey bees swarmed us at about 7 AM, but they soon flew away when
we left. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2u069fjrPg0/T5GAvifafrI/AAAAAAAAKPw/eEhvN6dcaYs/s1600/38-SAM_0801.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2u069fjrPg0/T5GAvifafrI/AAAAAAAAKPw/eEhvN6dcaYs/s320/38-SAM_0801.JPG" width="240" /></a> </div>
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Sometimes we passed a paddled dugout, a planked canoe with a
“stick-out motor,” or a barge. We saw fish traps along the bank looking rather
like half-submerged outhouses made from slender poles fastened close together
on a flimsy frame. Here and there trees had been cut, milled with chain saws,
and the rough lumber removed. The wood was red and heavy. We dropped a scrap in
the river and it sank.</div>
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We took a side trip up the Rio Branco for a couple days,
stopping at a small community to trade an empty gas bottle for 10 lbs of fresh
brazil nuts! Otherwise we rarely stopped at indigenous communities because they
often had “entry prohibited” signs. We assume they just do not like visitors,
though we have read there are still communities remote enough to be threatened
with extinction by the common cold.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NPpM8G8NNBk/T5GBGjelL5I/AAAAAAAAKQg/TIRwNdePoQU/s1600/44-SAM_0817.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NPpM8G8NNBk/T5GBGjelL5I/AAAAAAAAKQg/TIRwNdePoQU/s320/44-SAM_0817.JPG" width="320" /></a>There were only four towns big enough for
provisioning and we spent time in each. Barcelos was our favorite and the one
in which we spent the most time. It was peaceful and clean, active and friendly.
The military guys we passed as we pulled up to town merely gave us a smile and
a thumbs-up. The first and only drunk who approached to beg for money was
quickly halted and criticized by his friends. “Don’t bother them, they are
tourists!” We marveled at the contrast of this Brazilian experience to our
Venezuelan, feeling like we were still healing from the escape of an abusive
relationship! </div>
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The other three towns were unique and equally charming. They were
Santa Isabela, Moura, and Novo Airão. Other "big" towns showed on the map, but if
they had ever existed they were overgrown now. The towns generally had few restaurants
or stores, but we had no trouble stocking up on the essentials. In towns we moored
alongside other live-aboard families, many of whom had traveled long distances
to provision or sell their crops. Some lived in boats with thatched roofs and
removable side tarps; others in miniature river boats with forward pilot
houses, diesel engines, and fantail sterns. They were poor but happy with infinite
kids, a dog or cat and plenty of hammocks. Our pathetic Portuguese hindered
communication, but they were friendly and accepting. We had finally found a
boating community to which we could relate. </div>
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The world’s biggest fluvial archipelago, the Anavilhanas,
began near Novo Airão. They were a profusion of inundated islands, up to fifty
kilometers long, like emerald ribbons streaming in a current. Some were bulbous
with interior lakes to which we could find no access. The water’s commonest
mood was steel gray and oily smooth. When we exited these islands the river was
several kilometers wide and thirty to fifty feet deep with very little current.
A diagonal crossing from one side to the other took two hours, during which the
daily rainstorm packed with lightning and black clouds passed over, blinding us
and kicking up waves. </div>
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After days of nothing but riverine swamp we began passing
tall red river banks. Then on March 6 we saw skyscrapers in the distance. The
river corridor had remained relatively untouched until its very end, where Manaus sits on the north
bank. The transition from wilderness to a metropolis of two million people was
abrupt and kind of painful.</div>
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In Novo Airão we had met a charming couple traveling from Trinidad. They had come up the Amazon in their famous motor-sailer,
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Passagemaker</i>. We were the first
sailboat they had seen coming up the river and they were the first we saw
coming down it. A friend of theirs owned a big shipyard in Manaus and on his behalf they had invited us
to tie up there. We approached the city with this in mind, exploring the little
inlets along the way as is our custom. We were overwhelmed by everything. There
were motor yachts, jet skis, skyscrapers, barges; everywhere activity on a
large scale. We tied up beside <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Passagemaker</i>
on a huge floating dock where barges were under repair. A new bridge loomed
nearby, separating us from the downtown. </div>
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We expect to be in Manaus
another couple of weeks. Having already tried your patience with this novel (in
which we could only scratch the surface of our experience), we will reserve an
in-depth description of Manaus
until our next email. Enjoy the many new photos to be found in:
<a href="http://www.picasaweb.com/ginnygoon/brasil">http://www.picasaweb.com/ginnygoon/brasil</a></div>
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<br /></div>ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-56651027016212792182012-03-09T06:38:00.002-08:002012-03-09T06:53:20.883-08:00Sao Gabriel da Cachoiera, Brazil<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jwZK70BvYDs/T1n6zSsFxNI/AAAAAAAAJs4/HzF9Rs6VGdw/s1600/SAM_0348+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jwZK70BvYDs/T1n6zSsFxNI/AAAAAAAAJs4/HzF9Rs6VGdw/s320/SAM_0348+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ULP_Hy8KsCU/T1j-x2HjNJI/AAAAAAAAJp8/W2n3-BUfogQ/s1600/SAM_0223+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<br />
Dear friends and family,<br />
<br />
We last wrote you from Puerto Ayacucho, where we obtained the permits necessary to continue up the Orinoco River into Brazil. The grand finale was a boat search by the Department of Military Intelligence that took seven men three hours. They even checked our camera and computer storage devices, but still couldn’t find any incriminating material. During the process a couple of them sidled up to Steve and whispered that they want to go to America. Like this was the Cold War and they wanted to defect to the West!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
On February 17, 2012 Virgilio, our hard-working friend and tourist agent, loaded <i>Thurston </i>onto a trailer and towed us with his old Toyota pickup over a paved road to Samariapo, a landing upstream of the rapids. About a hundred boats were there, mostly bongos (long, slender, steel canoes with outboard motors), transporting people and supplies on the upper river.<br />
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<br />
As we continued upstream Venezuela was still on our left, Colombia on our right. If the current was too strong in one channel we found another. There were now hills on both sides of the river and the forest was denser. At the town of San Fernando de Atabapo the river turned away from the border; both banks were now Venezuelan soil. It was a relief to get away from that source of tension. The armed forces of the two countries are hostile toward each other, and Colombian guerrilleros still operate along the border on a reduced scale.<br />
<br />
After Atabapo we followed the river southeast. It shrunk as we passed tributary mouths but it never became less than a quarter mile wide. Running our motor at 2/3 throttle we circled around sandbars and globular granite rocks. Sometimes we hugged the bank, other times we went down the center. At times we walked the boat when it became too shallow, the river being very low at this time of year. Our 100 liters of fuel resided in 20-liter containers lashed to either side of the cabin. We gave away the containers as they became empty. We used up the last of our bread and fruit and dug into our canned food. We passed a couple indigenous communities per day, typically ten or so neat mud-and-wattle houses and an open assembly hall around a grassy common. The foreign missionaries who organized these evangelist communities were expelled about ten years ago, though Venezuelan missionaries still visit. In some villages they spoke Wotuja, in others they spoke Kurripako. The people mostly ate fish, yucca, and plantains. They were friendly and quiet.<br />
<br />
In Venezuela gasoline is virtually free. To keep the Venezuelans from reselling their gas to Colombians across the river the government requires all boats to stop at a string of Guardia Nacional checkpoints and get their papers stamped. We stopped at six such posts. Some coincided with indigenous communities, some were just a building in the wilderness. The young soldiers were bored and listless. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SrkpQz0RRxg/T1kQ6mrXwKI/AAAAAAAAJp0/bOH0qizTHSk/s1600/SAM_0273+%2528883x1024%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SrkpQz0RRxg/T1kQ6mrXwKI/AAAAAAAAJp0/bOH0qizTHSk/s320/SAM_0273+%2528883x1024%2529.jpg" width="275" /></a>All day we droned upriver with our earplugs in, probing with our boat hook to check water depth. We now passed among tepuys: huge mesas such as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle popularized in his book The Lost World. Scarlet macaws flew overhead in twos and threes cawing like crows. Large black-and-yellow birds tended their young in teardrop-shaped nests that hung from the trees. Rust-breasted kingfishers flew from one overlooking branch to another. Then Jackpot! Ginny spotted an animal swimming across the river. Steve motored to it. A giant ant-eater! It reached the far bank and pulled itself out of the water. We gasped as it revealed its great length, six feet counting its big bushy tail and long, droopy snout! It tried to climb the bank but it was too steep, so it followed the waterline until it disappeared in some vegetation. Someone told us each anteater paw consists of a single gigantic claw! Another time we surprised a swimming cougar! When it saw us it turned around and swam with surprising speed to the shore it had started from, where it stared at us until we were past. <br />
<br />
On our seventh day out of Puerto Ayacucho we reached the geographic phenomenon we had long yearned for: the Brazo Casiquiare distributary! There was no signpost, no break in the uninterrupted jungle. Maybe one twentieth of the Orinoco simply split off and disappeared southward toward the Amazon. Both branches would eventually reach the Atlantic but via mouths that are thousands of miles apart! We had reached the hump. Until now any mechanical malfunction could require us to give up and follow the Orinoco back downstream. Now we could row with the current. Until our gas should run out we fell into a new pattern of rowing three hours per day and motoring for six. <br />
<br />
Local tributaries quickly added their translucent black water to the turbid brown Orinoco water that the Casiquiare had started with. Initially only fifty yards wide, it grew and became blacker and clearer. This was the most isolated part of our passage. The communities which our maps showed along the Brazo Casiquiare didn’t exist. For four days, averaging seventy kilometers per day, we saw no sign of man on shore and few boats on the water. When not steering the boat or admiring the scenery Steve practiced the guitar or sewed, Ginny read or washed clothes.<br />
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<br />
On the Orinoco we had slept moored in front of native settlements or well-hidden in tributary creeks, for security and privacy. Here there was no need to hide. We camped at scenic confluences or next to dramatic rocks. In the twilight bats fluttered about like large moths. It was frustrating to hear strange night calls and have no idea what was making them: birds, bats, insects, monkeys? One morning a coral snake slowly swam along the swampy shore we were tied to. “Red next to yellow you’re a dead fellow, red next to black you’re alright Jack,” recited Ginny. “He’s got red next to yellow so he’s poisonous!” By day a new species of biting insect plagued us, between a mosquito and a no-see-um in size, whose itchy bites have a red dot in the center. We battled one ant invasion after another and learned to tie up to trees that stand in the water so they can’t come aboard.<br />
<br />
On the fourth day we arrived at a Yanomami settlement. These people are usually photographed wearing loincloths and with narrow sticks inserted horizontally through the skin of their faces. Our Yanomamis, like the other indigenous people we had met, wore factory-made shorts and skirts. We landed where a crowd of children were playing in the river. Ginny swam with them while a tiny man showed Steve around the thatch houses. On the packed earth under an open shelter a young man was hypnotically chanting and dancing. He wore paint on his face and arms and had feather arrays projecting from either side of his head. Steve’s Spanish-speaking guide said he was under the influence of a drug, a powder that one person blows into the nostrils of another. He said that the song was traditional and is for communicating with nature spirits.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AhpkQS-Lk7g/T1oIaempFqI/AAAAAAAAJwg/NZfsdei2Xsc/s1600/DSCF1176+%2528683x1024%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AhpkQS-Lk7g/T1oIaempFqI/AAAAAAAAJwg/NZfsdei2Xsc/s320/DSCF1176+%2528683x1024%2529.jpg" width="213" /></a>Tribal villages proliferated as we neared the mouth of the Brazo Casiquiare. On February 29 the latter joined the Rio Negro. Each was a half kilometer wide, of the same translucent black. We now had Colombia on the right bank again. On the left bank was San Carlos del Rio Negro, administrative center for this remote part of Venezuela. <br />
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San Carlos didn’t have internet or a restaurant, but it had a Guardia Nacional post and a naval base. The naval comandante, a fastidious man with a golden retriever puppy, invited us into his office. He fondly reminisced about living in Alabama as a teenager while his father attended F-16 flight school. He showed us his cherished photos of Epcot Center and Disney World, but he also defended Chavez’s policies. We responded just enough to be polite. He complained that the U.S. won’t sell them spare parts for their Hercules air transporters, and that CNN distorts the news about Venezuela. He went on for hours in a curious balance of friendliness and tension. He seemed torn between Chavez’s xenophobic demagoguery and a repressed fear that Venezuela was becoming increasingly isolated. “We need a change!” he murmured. He also had nothing good to say about the Colombian navy, who had a base just across the river from his own. “They buzz by here and goose their engines just to provoke us!” he scowled. <br />
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On March 2, when our GPS indicated that we had left Venezuela, Ginny high-fived Steve. “Adios assholes!” she bellowed, referring not to the generous people but to the government. Their policies had complicated our lives in ways we have explained and in another matter which we can divulge now that we are out of the country. It pertains to their currency. <br />
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The bolivar is a controlled currency, meaning that the government sets its official value relative to other currencies. The value it sets is artificially high, so if a traveler exchanges his or her native currency for bolivares in a Venezuelan bank or ATM (which automatically converts the withdrawal to bolivares) his or her cost of living while in Venezuela will be about twice as high as the free market would dictate. We had gotten around this by:<br />
1) estimating how many months we would be the country,<br />
2) multiplying that by our past average of expenses per month,<br />
3) building up a stash of US bills in that amount while in Colombia (we had to convert to pesos then back to dollars), and<br />
4) exchanging our dollars for bolivares on the black market in Venezuela. <br />
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Carrying thousands of dollars in cash had added to our stress. So had the black market transactions. In some towns it was easy: you just ask around at stores. In other towns it was difficult to find a dealer. Then we ran out of dollars due to the fees levied upon us and the long waits for permits. We got around this once by a quick visit to a Colombian ATM and another time by using PayPal to transfer funds to the U.S. bank account of an affluent Venezuelan. Once the transfer cleared he gave us our bolivares at the good rate. We’d had to hide all this activity from scrutinizing officials as it is a crime punishable by huge fines and possible imprisonment. <br />
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All that behind us now, we hungrily opened our senses to this new country. Brazil was huge and flat, still totally forested but with isolated mountains here and there. We had entered a region still in its rainy season; showers were frequent, otherwise it was very hot. The banks were often inundated forests. There were palms with upward-radiating fronds and hardwoods with buttress roots. Some trees sported yellow or magenta flowers, others had large pendant pods. Giants with thick, straight trunks held spherical canopies above all the others. Vines smothered many trees. Curlicue rope vines dangled here and there, their tips often dragging in the river current. The people, mostly indigenous, drove dugout canoes sporting outboard motors with long propeller shafts projecting aft into the water. One had a radio playing. To Steve’s unaccustomed ear the music sounded like Cajun: rock-and-roll chord progressions at dance tempo with accordion and strings. The settlements had plank-built homes, old stucco churches, and stands of coconut and banana trees.<br />
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One campsite deserves special description. As the sun dropped low we descended a side-channel of the river, mainland to right, island to left, until it squeezed through a rocky defile. On the mainland side of the gap, obscured from the river by a heavily-forested hemispheric peninsula of igneous rock, was a small, semi-circular cove, the walls of which were of the same smooth rock. We tied to roots and pulled ourselves up. It was the same geology we had been seeing since Caicara, but here the immense rainfall caused trees to root in the bedrock and a deep leaf litter to form. The forest floor was like a soft, springy mattress! A gentle chaos of stray eddies wafted <i>Thurston</i> left then right. A pink dolphin hunted among the stronger currents at the cove’s neck as the setting sun turned the clouds pink and blue.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kEopM5yJ1V8/T1oQtn9w_2I/AAAAAAAAJ1E/3z0h7UUzy7k/s1600/SAM_0536+%2528767x1024%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kEopM5yJ1V8/T1oQtn9w_2I/AAAAAAAAJ1E/3z0h7UUzy7k/s320/SAM_0536+%2528767x1024%2529.jpg" width="226" /></a>On March 5 we passed through a vast archipelago of forested islands interspersed with rapids where the river dropped over shelves. While Steve concentrated on the chutes Ginny watched the GPS while its latitude readout run down to º0.000.000: the equator! Just beyond, on the left bank, lay Sảo Gabriel da Cachoeira. Cachoeira means waterfall, the city being located just above where the mile-wide Rio Negro falls thunderously over a shelf. The shoreline was crowded with wooden boats, many of them roofed and inhabited by large families. Boats with fish and yucca were arriving while others loaded to the gunwales with cooking oil and bags of rice were heading upriver.<br />
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We landed next to a barge on which cane liquor was being served to drunken Indians. They held their hands out to be shaken. To shake with them was like squeezing a sponge: passive, soft, and wet! There were cars in the streets and government offices where we were politely escorted through the Brazilian entry procedures. Portuguese is similar to Spanish except for the pronunciation so we are getting used to its soft, lisping sounds via the Rosetta Stone course which we have on one of our laptops.<br />
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They have internet here. We will catch up on our writing and Google Earth mapping then begin the 1000 river kilometers to Manaus. We’re not sure what we’re doing after that but we are thoroughly enjoying this new phase of our journey.<br />
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Bye for now,<br />
Love Steve and Ginny<br />
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New photos can be found in the Venezuela album here: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/Venezuela">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/Venezuela</a><br />
And Brasil album here: <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/Brasil">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/Brasil</a><br />
<br />ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1671324578417460516.post-43593574111740694522012-02-17T01:56:00.000-08:002012-02-17T02:41:41.197-08:00February 16, 2012 - Puerto Ayacucho, Venezuela<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Who wants a ride to the
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">We last wrote to you from Caicara, a dull town overlooking the mile-wide Orinoco River and its flanking sand flats. The climax of our stay there was a bus trip to the Venezuelan capital to pick up a package of goods ordered from the States and get a visa from the Brazilian Consulate. Caracas has the highest homicide rate in the world according to most sources so we meticulously planned this trip. Some things are mysteriously difficult in Venezuela; it took three trips to the bus station just to buy tickets! The bus left in the evening and at dawn arrived at a three-story bus station in downtown Caracas. We spent the day in crowded subways and apprehensively walking among skyscrapers. We accomplished our goals in one day and took another 14-hour bus ride back to Caicara where we caught up on sleep. We were happy to have received the much-needed laptop computer, hatch covers, motor parts, pressure cooker parts, and treats from Mama Phelan who facilitated the shipping for us.</span></div>
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We then went to an internet place, turned on Google Earth, and used its tools to trace electronic “tracks” of the river’s shorelines and islands. Ginny converted the tracks to Garmin files and loaded them onto our handheld GPS. The cursor shows where we are relative to the shorelines, which is helpful because the land is flat and there are many islands and tributaries. Looking at the horizon it all blends together. The river is constantly changing course and the Google Earth images aren’t very current, but they help us decide whether to turn left or right around shoals. <br />
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To get from El Baul to Caicara we had motored downstream but upwind. On February 2 we sailed upriver but downwind toward Puerto Ayacucho. It was the same strong trade wind we fought on the Venezuelan coast. On average the current was 3 kilometers per hour, our speed through the water was 10 km/hour, and our progress was 7 km/hour. It was nice to use our sails again.<br />
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The GPS also helped us look for places to stop at night. We prefer to be alone in nature at night and for no one to be aware of our presence. We need a beach facing away from the prevailing northeast wind with no houses nearby. No boats can pass between the time we stop and that of full darkness. If we then remain quiet and shine no lights we remain unnoticed.<br />
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Unfortunately, houses and fishing camps were common around beaches and coves, and fishermen were especially active at dusk, setting and checking nets. Sometimes we traveled for hours without seeing anyone but as dusk approached the fishermen came out, ruining great sites for us. The fishermen are honest and hard-working, but we are very strange to them and they may mention our presence to predatory people. One night we failed to find a spot before dark and ended up parking in front of a house. We stayed very quiet so as not to frighten the people and left early. Another time we parked on a beautiful beach, were found by fishermen, then moved to re-establish privacy.<br />
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One night we thought we had found the perfect place, inside a calm cove in the sand flats. We got there as it was getting dark. Only one house was within sight. But before we could settle in a boat approached. They stopped at a shoal. Two got out and walked toward us yelling something. When they got close one raised a rifle, racked the action, and aimed it at Steve. “Manos arriba! Nombre!” It turned out the “house” we had passed was a Guardia Nacional post and we had parked in a turtle preserve! Normally we don’t like people pulling weapons on us, but in the interest of turtles it´s OK. We followed them to their installation and slept tied to the bank. In the morning we toured their facility. They had three large tanks full of baby Arrau tortoises, one of many species that used to be common on the Llanos and Amazonas rivers. We got to hold them in our hands! They fold their heads and tails sideways to take shelter in their shells. We were glad to see they had friends devoted to returning them to the rivers.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">We stopped at the town of La Urbana and bought bread and bananas, but then got lost in a maze of sloughs. We kept thinking the next channel would lead to the main river but it was always a dead end. Finally we returned to the town, got directions, and got back onto the principal channel.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">On February 6 we reached the Rio Meta, an east-west river that joins the Orinoco at a right angle. North of the Meta is Venezuela, south is Colombia. We stopped at Puerto Paez, on the Venezuelan side, to get an exit stamp but they don’t have an immigration post anymore. (Steve entered Venezuela there in 1992.) We then went to Puerto Carreño, a larger town on the Colombian side.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">Colombia and Venezuela used to be one country so it is interesting to compare their relative progress. Historically Colombia has been plagued by civil wars and drug cartels while Venezuela has been relatively peaceful and has lots of oil. So you would think that Venezuela would have advanced more. But Colombia has the clear advantage now. Stepping onto Colombian soil Ginny felt the weight of the universe lift off her shoulders. After two and a half months in Venezuela, Puerto Carreño looked clean and prosperous. The military presence wasn’t overwhelming. Tourists from Colombia’s interior cities took pictures from a commanding hilltop and sat at a riverfront bar drinking beer. We got money from an ATM, bought groceries, and left for Puerto Ayacucho.</span><br />
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From El Baul to Caicara we were in flat llanos. But the Orinoco has the llanos to its northwest and the Guyana Massif to its southeast. The massif consists of blue hills in the distance and huge rounded rocks closer up. They are hard, glossy-grey, of ancient volcanic origin. Sometimes they are bedrock, sometimes they are mounded boulders the size of a car or house. Some are whole, some are split. They are smooth in big scale but rough to the touch. They often lay partly submerged in the ubiquitous tan sand or in the river. Trees, rocks, drifting sand, water, blue sky, and fluffy clouds combined nicely in the landscape. We climbed among the boulders for views, and hiked across tracts of cracked mud. The riverine flats were often thick with a stalky bush that bends easily when underwater but stands up straight when the waters recede.<br />
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A day and a half after Puerto Carreño we reached Puerto Ayacucho, a substantial city. It is the capital of the Venezuelan state of Amazonas and situated at its northwest tip. It is a frontier town in that it is on the border with Colombia and also in that it is the final civilization before the road-less Amazonas.<br />
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We stopped at a Guardia Nacional post where a lieutenant gave Thurston her most thorough search to date. He ripped into us for supposed equipment deficiencies. We sat passively. He eventually gave up with whatever was his intention. We next proceeded to the naval base. This included a four-story, open framework docking structure designed to accommodate boats both in the dry season and in the rainy season, when the river rises forty feet. The sailors occupied us for hours with questions and instructions then let us tie up. From the river bank we climb three flights of steps up the dock structure, pass through the naval base, and exit a guarded gate to enter the city.<br />
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Above Puerto Ayacucho there are impassible rapids, but the river is navigable again<br />
starting at a place called Samariapo. We need a portage plus permission to navigate to Brazil. We first took a bus to the immigration station and got stamped back into Venezuela. On our way back we saw a building with “Tourist Information” painted in large letters on its front. Inquiring, we met Virgilio Limpias, a Bolivian-born doctor who also has ran a guide service into the Amazonas for thirty years. Virgilio runs the office by himself. He has white hair, animated mannerisms, and a perpetual grin. When we told him our plan he was ecstatic. He said that in thirty years only two other parties have gone through with their own boats. Brazil and its other countries don’t have any large Amazonian wildernesses anymore, only Venezuela. He showed us maps and literature he had gathered. We soon realized we could never negotiate the many permit requirements by ourselves so we retained him.<br />
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During the coming week we worked together. Virgilio’s extroversion, patience, and humor opened many doors for us. He had relationships with many of the officials and does them assorted favors. We have obtained permits from customs (a despacho de aduanas para cabotaje), immigration (a post-dated exit stamp because there is no immigration office on the Brazilian border), the port captain (a zarpe exemption), the transportation authority (a road permit to move the boat), the state petroleum company (permission to buy 100 liters of fuel), the Guardia Nacional (a control de la ruta de combustible that will be validated at Guardia Nacional posts along the way proving that we were using the fuel, not selling it as contraband), and the Gobernacion Indigena Amazonas, Secretaria de Turismo. The latter was the most difficult because Brigade General Jesus Manuel Zambrano Mata had to sign it, which took some doing! We were also interviewed by a major in Military Counter-Intelligence and a captain in the Military Intelligence Department of the 52nd Army Brigade. The National Guard, Navy, Department of Military Intelligence, and National Institute of Aquatic Spaces all searched our boat!<br />
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After much anxiety, uncertainty, irritation and unpleasantness we have obtained all the necessary permits to continue our travel. We will transport tomorrow past the rapids and continue on the Orinoco to the Brazo Casiquiere, reportedly the most pristine portion of the Amazon basin and also possibly made by aliens! It flows into the Rio Negro a couple days travel north of the Brazilian border. The Rio Negro then flows into the Amazon River at Manaus. We intend to flow with it!<br />
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It may be a month before we have internet again. <i>Thurston </i>is packed to the brim with supplies. Take care all.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">More photos online
here:<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2016455691"> </a></span><span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/Venezuela">https://picasaweb.google.com/ginnygoon/Venezuela</a><span style="color: black;"> starting with <i>Leaving the boat at the Naval
post in Caicara.</i></span></span></div>ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10771548742331236384noreply@blogger.com2