The Amazon

Intriguing River

Carolyn LeFleur

Suddenly, out of the Amazon’s muddy brown water, popped a great wad of pink bubble gum.  Of course, it wasn’t really bubble gum; it was a dolphin.  A pink dolphin, bobbing and weaving in the wake of the ship, playing as dolphins will.  He was looking at us, showing off for us, just like dolphins I’ve seen all over the world, from the Gulf of Mexico to the Mediterranean.  But this dolphin was swimming in completely fresh water, three hundred miles up the Amazon River, and he was pink.  I thought I knew dolphins, but this one was intriguingly different from any other dolphin; I thought I knew rivers, but the Amazon was intriguingly different for any other river.

 The very idea of the Amazon evokes a sense of awe.  Images of lush jungles, exotic animals, and primitive tribesmen come to mind.  There is the vision of the river itself, rushing beneath a canopy of dense jungle vines, perhaps with a giant anaconda swimming by.  The truth is, nothing could be farther from the truth.  Still, the reality of the Amazon is no less awe-inspiring than this imaginary scene, and in many ways more so. 

 Western man first discovered the Amazon in 1500, when Vicente Yaner Pinza realized that he was sailing in fresh water, while two hundred miles from shore.  He turned westward, becoming the first to sail into the mouth of the Amazon.  In 1541 the Spanish explorer Francisco de Orellana brought home wild tales of fierce, female warriors in the jungles around the river.  Although a myth, the claim of Amazonian warriors labeled the river forever.  

 With an interior inhospitable to overland travel, the Amazon was immediately the main artery into the heart of Brazil.  The richness of Brazil’s natural resources could not be resisted, despite the challenges of topography and climate.  Rare woods, nuts, cocoa, and other forest products were the first goods to be exported.  Gems and other rich mineral deposits were discovered, enriching the colonial powers and attracting more settlers.  The eighteenth and nineteenth centuries ushered in a boom in the rubber industry, with rubber plantations located initially in the more accessible regions of the rain forest, then slowing spreading further inland.  In the 1930s, jute and pepper plantations were introduced.  Construction on the trans-Amazon highway began in the 1960s, making overland travel to the interior more comfortable, but still limited in scope.  Today, the life giving pulse of trade and travel still flows down the Amazon.

 The ship’s transition from Atlantic to Amazon was hard to realize, since the delta is over two hundred miles wide.  Throughout the delta and well upstream, the Amazon is peppered with many mid-river islands.  Some are very small, others quite large; the largest is the size of Vermont.  Standing on the ship’s deck for several hours, I looked across to a distance shore. I believed I was looking at the farthest bank of the river.  Rounding a bend, I realized that we have been cruising along the coast of an island; the actual riverbank was miles beyond. 

 The many islands are not the only hazard to navigation on the Amazon.  Between the dry and wet seasons, the landmass covered by the river and its tributaries can grow from 110,000 sq. km. to 350,000 sq. km.  This process erodes land in one area, and then deposits it in another, altering the line of the bank or creating a hidden sandbar in the river.  Root systems are washed away, sending large trees careening down river like battering ramps.   It is no wonder that only highly skilled, licensed river pilots can guide a ship on the journey inland to Manaus. 

 It was fascinating to see the ease with which the pilot moved the ship from within a few feet of the bank at one point, to the middle of the river’s wide course at another.  My first and most profound impression of the river was its overwhelming size.  Mile after mile, hour after hour, we moved upriver, along a shoreline of very little variety.  My view extended for miles across the primarily flat terrain.  Along the waters edge, the foliage was generally green and thick with small trees, brush and river grasses.  I spotted the occasional heron or egret, and a moth larger than my hand landed on my shoulder, but the Amazon’s more exotic animals cannot be found along the shore of the river. The vista would be unbroken for hours at a time: brown water, green banks, and blue skies.  Interestingly, this ongoing sameness did not become monotonous; it simply affirmed how gigantic this river really is. 

On our second day of moving up the Amazon, I saw what appeared to be a large log floating towards the ship.  Coming closer, I realized that it was a dugout canoe.  Two small boys interrupted their fishing to wave exuberantly in greeting.  Soon, other dugouts could be seen, along with a few huts along the shore.  These river people are not the original tribes that lived in the Amazon basin.  With few exceptions, the native tribes have almost entirely disappeared, displaced from the land by lumbering and mining.  Along the river, sporadic settlements are inhabited by the equivalent of America’s Cajun and Creole societies: a combination of native, African, and European dissent.  For generations, they have subsisted primarily by fishing and bartering, living in small clusters of huts or in floating shanties.  These villagers may share a small plot for planting, a goat or a few chickens, but for the most part they live off the resources of the land and river.  Today, the Brazilian government is seeking to provide these communities with medical and educational services, while still preserving their traditional way of life. 

 With increased exposure to modern society, maintaining the integrity of this culture’s way of life may prove to be like putting the genie back in the bottle.  The cruise line had made arrangements for a river settlement visit.  When the ship dropped anchor, several dugouts raced out to greet us.  The ship’s passengers were tendered up a small estuary for a closer look at the landscape of flowering water plants and gently sloping hills.  In the community itself there were six to eight huts, a one-room school, and a small, open-air platform for the locals to gather and trade.  It was apparent the locals from up and down the river had turned out for this big event.  As part of the effort to preserve the traditional way of life here, the cruise personnel discouraged everyone from actually purchasing anything.  Rather, we were encouraged to offer small, useful items for trade, or treats for the children.  Also, we were warned against accepting anything made from the pelts and plumage of Brazils many endangered species.  Sure enough, I saw jaguar pelts, stuffed piranha, and feathered headdresses for sell, along with wooded beads, miniature dugouts, and blowguns.   The children were delighted to receive a piece of candy as a treat, but no one was interested in goods for barter, just currency.   If further proof was needed that the modern world had definitely made an impression, I spotted a cooler in the central gathering place with a boldly lettered sign: “Cold Beer”.  That genie has no intention of going back in the bottle.

Early on the fourth day of cruising up the Amazon the ship neared Manaus. This is the birthplace of the Amazon proper, where the many upland tributaries, brown with silt and high in alkaline, meet the black, acidic water of the Rio Negro.  The portion of the river on which we had been traveling consisted of the two types of water, finally joined into one powerful river.  When the contrasting waters first meet, they do not mingle.  Several miles before reaching Manaus, the water looked like a divided highway, one side milky brown, the other side a deep, dark charcoal.  Here and there, small pools of black water would be surrounded by the brown, like floating islands.  Only gradually had the two types of water merged into one. 

The port of Manaus was crowded with every conceivable type of vessel.   Large cargo ships and oil tankers were docked on the fringes of the city.  Directly across from our luxury ship, several wooded riverboats were docked, busily loading everything from mangos and coffee to passengers.  These floating grocery stores serve as the main system of transport in a country with few highways and no bridges spanning the river.  People were hanging mesh hammocks on the open deck, claiming a few feet of sleeping space, and dropping tarps for protection from the equatorial sun. 

Manaus itself offered as many contrasts as the port.  The streets were literally lined with open-air stalls, the vendors hawking every imaginable good: shoes, toys, soccer balls, cloths, fruits, and more.  The main shopping area was in a large, central market which bore the lacey wrought iron work of a bygone age.  Here, the aromas of coffee and tropical fruits filled the air; an open-air butcher market was packed with shoppers.  Wooden crafts, native inspired jewelry, sandals, preserves – anything and everything that represented Brazil was for sell, the aisles teeming with local residents and tourists alike.  Through out the city, streets were crowded, traffic moving with little regard for lanes or lights.  In the middle of this confusion stood a magnificent Victorian-wedding-cake of an opera house, testament to the era of rubber barons.  In the evening, the Manaus Symphony Orchestra offered a performance worthy of its lovely setting.

Finally, Manaus gave me an opportunity to see a bit of the jungle.  A small riverboat moved a group of eight passengers up a tributary stream.  We disembarked and walked up an elevated boardwalk to a jungle eco-camp.  Here, the water was a rich, dark green, reflecting the dense, verdant jungle surroundings.  Guides led us up a trail for a demonstration of the skills that had made life in the jungle possible for centuries.  They cut plants for fresh drinking water, started a fire with flints, set traps for small animals, quickly constructed a small lean to, and wove a sturdy rope from leaves.  Lush foliage was all around, vines gracefully draped down from towering trees, and the occasional exotic flower was in bloom.  I caught bright flashes of yellow and red as startled birds took flight, a few playful monkeys came out to chat, and I saw a spider of a size I hope never to see again.  At last, I had glimpsed the Amazon of my imaginings.

The next morning, I left the Amazon behind and headed home.  I still do not know the river; that would take much more than one visit.  Someday, I would like to return and begin my trip in Peru to see the origins of the Amazon.  This is no ‘Old Man River’, like the rivers I’ve know all my life; this is a powerful and mysterious behemoth, and it still intrigues me.