It was at the small town of Breves that I hit rock bottom. I put it down to lack of sleep, a year or so of continual travelling, poor diet and a substantial lack of moral character, but when I saw the millions of people who were spilling onto the boat and slinging their hammocks with wild abandon from every possible nook and cranny I thought “Do I really need to go through this?”

Claustrophobia, or more fear of crowds, is a major phobia of mine and the 60 or so people who were jostling for space (albeit in a lovely Brazilian – this can only possibly end in a party – type of manner) sent me spinning off in a cold sweat. I had never seen anything like it, not even travelling third class on a Chinese boat. I looked at my bag which was packed, and then back at the mêlée of hammocks and then across the quay to the town trying to decide if I jumped ship here would I get stuck, and if so for how long. It took me a few moments to come to my senses and to think of the stories I could tell when I got home and instead of fleeing I took out my camera and began to snap away. As we nudged our way out of Breves the boat began to make sounds like an old person eating custard, which didn’t seem at all encouraging. My journey suddenly seemed a trifle frivolous.

A few drinks later (I am never sure if I drink to travel or travel to drink), things looked a lot better and I managed to write the word ‘homely’ in my diary without my hand shaking too much. My spirits soared as we passed through some dense jungle which was, for once, close enough to the boat to be interesting. For a while we were followed by a flotilla of simple dug out canoes, each one piloted by a young girl of indeterminable age and determinable beauty. My friend the policeman had joined me at the rail and spent an amusing hour or so attempting to get the girls to show him their breasts or inviting them to join him in something that I just couldn’t manage to translate. It’s nice to know the fate of the country is in such stable hands. I crawled into my hammock and thought: “this is not so bad after all.” Two minutes later I was sound asleep.

Sometime in the night we hit some choppy water and the hammocks began to swing menacingly. I laid there in the blissful state between being fully awake and being asleep and watched the hammocks swinging. I wondered what would happen if they hit resonance. No one else stirred and as I drifted off to sleep it occurred to me that the collective term for hammocks (rede in Portuguese – pronounced ‘hedgee’) should be a hades of redes. I amused myself with my own cleverness until the sun began to rise.

It was quite a sad and poignant parting when we reached Santa Ana. I had travelled through a lot with these people, including some of the lowest times I have ever experienced on the road, and it seemed a little melancholic just to slip away without a proper goodbye. Ana’s grandmother caught me as I was jumping over the rail and gave me a toothless kiss (more of a suck, I guess) and wished me ‘god speed’. Ana just blushed some more and told me to take care. My policeman friend scribbled his address on a cigarette packet and told me never to forget our dreams. I felt sad and terribly alone once again.

I took a taxi and crossed the equator, and then just for fun we drove back and crossed it again. After the third time the taxi driver told me to stop buggering around and insisted on driving me out of town. Some people just have no sense of occasion.

A short time later I stood in the middle of Brazil’s most northerly road slack jawed. The road-leading north appeared reasonably good but the bus driver was insistent, it might take a number of days to reach Oiapoque or it might take a few hours, he really couldn’t be sure. I still had no agenda but felt grubby and tired. Another long bus trip was not high on my list of preferred pastimes just then. I sat in the shade and wondered what to do, I had no idea how the next stage of the journey would work out, or even where I was going, so I took the coward’s way out and went back to the airport. I crossed the equator twice more just for fun, and then an hour later I left the country…

Read all four parts of The Secret Policeman’s Whorehouse
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4