Just after 5pm the engines spluttered to life and we slowly edged our way from the dock in a cloud of diesel fumes and smoke. On the far bank of the river, which was just visible through the evening’s heat haze and diesel fumes, a huge electrical storm was beginning to brew. Fork lightening flickered across the sky, strobing the landscape into elemental shades of black and charcoal.
The night was still humid and amongst the 15 or so hammocks that were strung on the top deck the air was thick and syrupy. The passengers slumped in their hammocks, swinging in the humidity. Some took out ancient leather bound bibles to read, whilst others instantly fell into deep peaceful sleep. I sat on the rail with a slight breeze in my face, a la Leonardo, as the boat grumbled and shuddered its way into the fast midriver flow. Smells of cooking began to waft up from the deck below.
My first meal on the boat was surprisingly good. The chef was obviously talented as he had managed to turn a bucket full of chicken entrails, some cold greasy spaghetti, some macaroni and some crunchy farinha (a flour made from the local manioc root) into a tasty meal. I climbed back on top and wiggled through the mass of hammocks in search of some air.
The original estimate from the captain was that this trip would take about a day, which seemed reasonable. However, other passengers seemed skeptical and gave me estimates ranging from 3 to 5 days, depending on traffic on the river, breakdowns and such things. For the tourist with a fixed itinerary this might cause problems. Timetables and plans have little meaning here where life is tied inherently with the pace and tides of the river. As I had found in trying to track down a boat, it is a land of myths – boats which are said to exist, don’t. Busses leave when they are full and at no set times and captains potter up and down the river under their own personal agendas and everyone accepts it for what it is – the life blood of this region and an excellent way of travelling and meeting people. Merely being here implies an adventurous spirit.
As the hot humid night wore on the Brazilians began to warm to me and lost their suspicions of my note book and camera. They slowly began to open up to me, calling out the names of two-shack towns we passed, asking me a million and one questions about my life and primping and preening themselves every time they caught a glimpse of my camera.
Towards nine o’clock the passengers began to gravitate towards the back of the boat and huddled ’round the television which was bolted to the rafters. The huge parabolic reflector dish which was mounted on the back of the boat, and looked like it had been cobbled together from the left-overs from a low budget sci-fi movie, was carefully positioned by a crew man who found that the best picture quality was achieved by suspending a empty bottle of beer from the rim of the dish. The screen crackled into life to polite applause just in time for us to catch the opening credits of the latest novella. The deck was silent as the intrigues on screen unfolded, the jungle which was closing in around us with thick foliage was forgotten and even the sound of parrots returning home to roost was pushed to one side as the strange and surreal on-screen events unfolded.
At the front of the boat all was in darkness, the man at the wheel was staring keenly out into the night, no lights or radar spoiled his view as we chugged along. I chose not to think too deeply about the ramifications of this and retired to my hammock.
The next morning I sat on deck shivering as the sun came up. I was wrapped in almost all of my clothes and chilled to the bone. A thin, vaguely menacing mist hung limply over the river. I felt miserable and cold. There was no reason really for me to be here and I suddenly felt terribly isolated amongst the gently snoring bodies.
Slowly people began to wake and the day to day bustle of the boat resumed. Ana, who had slung her hammock next to mine and was a source of endless facts, gave a mammoth yawn, stretched and passed me her still sleeping baby whilst she went downstairs to wash. I paced around on the back deck of the boat scared of waking the sleeping baby whom she was taking upriver to visit someone or other – our conversation had gone round in circles long into the night leaving me utterly confused. Her grandmother shot me a toothless grin which obviously meant something profound.
When Ana returned, relieving me of my charge, I fell into conversation with another passenger who was something big in the military police. Despite the fact it was still early in the day he pulled out a bottle of cane brandy and poured me a large shot. The first shot had just begun to warm my aching bones when the second shot kicked in and I began to feel a little better about life.
Read all four parts of The Secret Policeman’s Whorehouse
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4