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Published: March 21st 2007
In Belém, I've booked a hotel straight out the Lonely Planet guidebook. It's justly full of tourists from every corner of the world that all speak English. The hotel staff is like the Adam's family, but if they were really indescrivable monsters and not family friendly comedians with a laugh track: the old woman, a stout ball of anger the shape of a stool; her grey haired giant son lurks clad only in a purple towel, amphibiatically darting in and out of the shower. As one of the few bilingual, I get the chance to be a bridge between the worlds. But rather then the warming love of the olive branch, I just feel dirty.
It is through a businessman I hear of a city called Porto do Moz - and as I do not wish to plunge straight into the large Amazonian centers of tourism, I decide to head off in this direction. Accompany me is Phillip, a 20 year old Swedish kid, whose Portuguese is commencing, and whom I convince of the importance of getting off of the tourist track and into small town Brazil.
The port lies on the other side of town and we embark at night. This is not a boat, but a 'balsa', a cargo ship of which the front is a large flat pad piled high with supplies and the second deck of the back half serves as passenger space. There are nearly forty of us, our hammocks tied and swinging literally on top of eachother. The hum of the motor is constant, and we speak loudly over the roar. The first night falls and darkness descends save the hundreds points of light of other boats, other traffic, skirting through space on the wide river.
We will continue such journey all through the following day and the following night. We've bought more rum then food and pass the time by forgetting it exists. The boat breaks in the evening and we drift downriver for three hours, impatient, yet enjoying the momentary silence.
A round drunk man relies to me of the deadly snakes of some 8 varieties that "you have to kill" as they prey upon small children. Of jaguars of ferocious size that rarely appear, only to kill. Of his land, and how his neighbor's cattle ate his crop but of which he cannot complain lest the man hire a 'pistoleiro' from Altamira ("who sometimes murder for free").
A young girl of rounded face and thick hazel hair tells me that women here can't go in the water when they menstrate lest they attract a dolphin. Of an aunt, who once slept with her husband, yet it wasn't her husband, yet a dolphin appearing in his guise, and how she consequently gave birth to a creature with a fish tail. Of the pink dolphin that used to frequent the harbor and during festivals how she would turn into a beautiful blonde haired woman; and how the dolphin/woman was killed not five years ago by a young boy.
And it's not deep into the afternoon of the next day that we leave the murky brown waters of the Amazon and into the XÃngu, shortly into Porto do Moz. Moz is an indian word for "stone" or "rock," as the city was once the home of an indian village. In fact the entire area was once territory of indians - I meet an old honey gatherer (as here they don't raise bees but actually extract the honey from the wild) who relies a story of his friend who was kidnapped at the age of 15 and left for dead, only to be discovered living deep in the forest with a tribe some 30 years later. The city is roughly of 10,000. The people are a mixture of light skinned and fair haired to those whom have strong indian features. The city itself is unspectacular, uncomplete as it sits in a state of eternal construction - either halted projects or decaying buildings. It is, as most of the cities in Pará, reputedly a violent town. As someone from 'outside,' I will walk carefully here, and I feel on departing it is with some luck that we do not fall to the edge of a blade here.
Yet it is only a day into the town that I begin to fall violently ill. My foot is abcessed with infection and swollen to twice it's normal size. But this is something else - a stomach cramping and insufferable fatigue, I'm unable to sleep outside of feverish dreams. And after two days pass in my hotel room, I wander into the local hospital, where I am admitted.
I am led to a ward where I lay on a black rubber cot. The others, in worse shape then me: an unknown illness of weekslong durationg, a infected burn wound that engulfs a hand, and a man with a knife wound in the gut. Late in the evening I send someone to check on the Swede as he wasn't looking good. And not 30 minutes later he appears as well.
The hospital is an aging building, that reminds of a public school in the states (which on reflection is to say that ir is an underfunded government institution). There is a tiled floor, rusty and spotted and missing lightbulbs and cracked windows. No medical history is taken, no questions of allergies. The only consistency is inconsistency as my vitals are taken just once, before I leave and they ask me if I have a fever. Food is strange and impossible - large pieces of steak with oily rice. Which is not to say that I'm complaining. I recieve IVs and antibiotics and it's fully government funded (and the care, while terribly understaffed is at least present - the most difficult part is waiting in the lines to get in the door). It appeared that I and the Swede had perhaps eaten something, perhaps caught some tropical virus that had been passing through Pará. And on the second day I returned to the hotel, but still weak and unable to eat. And the days pass in confinement, my mood of the city fouling...unable to leave, held hostage by sickness and boat schedules
I've now left, again under the cover of darkness, and headed to Altamira. Here I hope to meet with the Transamazônica highway onto Santarém and back onto a boat headed to Manaus.
new photos here
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Jena
Jena Hazlerigs
Please take care!
It's good to see another post from you. I'll be heading down to visit Mark for a week in July, it's the only time I have to get down there with. Have you lost the second camera?