PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 (below) | PART 5

Cast off.

It was 2 AM. Two days after leaving Belém, our boat had finally arrived in Santarém. The worldweary woman who ran the snackbar had assured me: the boat would not leave for Manaus until noon.

There was plenty of unloading to do, she said, so feel free to stay and sleep in. It’s what most people do.

I went back to sleep. A mere four hours later the boat’s huge diesel engines coughed to life. I immediately sat up in my hammock, or at least as best as one can. I struggled to untangle myself and went to the railings. Workers were beginning to cast off the ropes.

Are we leaving? I asked, to no one in particular.

It was only 6 AM. I thought I had until noon. I didn’t get an answer that made sense. I frantically pulled down my hammock, stuffed my things into my backpack. I’d heard of this happening. Perhaps I could get a taxi-boat to take me to shore. Beneath me I felt the large boat begin to pull out from the dock. There was no way I was spending another two days on the boat to Manaus. Sure, I would eventually head that direction, but not now. Now I was supposed to get to Altar do Chão.

Things more or less stowed, I quickly climbed down to the main level to disembark.

I asked again: what’s happening? Are we leaving?

Guy, we’re repositioning, said a deckhand. To make it easier to unload, you know?

My things packed and my pride wounded, I was now completely done with the boat and would not be returning upstairs for more sleep. Besides, I was off to this lakeside town that some journalist had christened “the Caribbean of the Amazon.” Sleep could wait.

The dock in Santarém had an ugly industrial aesthetic, crowded with trucks and dockworkers and piles of sand and boxed produce, interspersed with plenty of trash. It was a little ways from downtown. Walking off the boat and down the dock I disappointed what felt like scores of taxidrivers who had assumed an easy sale. I strode past; I would be walking the 30 minutes to the center. It was a beautiful, albeit hot morning, and I wanted to stretch my legs after two days on the boat.

The quiet streets began to get nicer as I approached the downtown waterfront. Joggers ran past, or others on walks with friends for a little morning exercise. An endless stream of boats were pulled up on the shore. Sellers hawked coffee and breakfast cakes. People made eye contact and said good morning.

I made it to the bus stop where I’d take an hour ride to my destination, and almost immediately the bus appeared. Excellent luck. I sat down and our bus wound its way through downtown, past a new housing development, a series of mega grocery stores, a university, and miles of jungle.

Finally I got off the bus and stood alone on the morning street of this little town. I trusted my Google Maps, walked towards the edge of civilization where there was a small hostel where I’d planned to stay. The streets were empty, a little run down. A dead sloth lay on the ground, surrounded by vultures. Compared to Santarém, the place felt abandoned.

I arrived at the outdoor hostel, called Albergue da Floresta, which was built amidst a grove of trees and was very quiet. It was still fairly early. I found a table and sat down, took off my backpack. I was soaked in sweat. I drank water from my old Nalgene and ran my hands through my hair, trying to consider the strange line of events that had landed me there. I had been feeling that a lot.

After a few minutes a kind-faced woman of about 40 approached and sat down next to me. Sámia had dark eyebrows and light skin, and I could easily tell in her soft way that she was in charge. She asked me how my voyage was, set me up with a bed, and invited me to have coffee in the communal kitchen. I stowed my things and went to the bohemian outdoor space where she wove me into the conversation, asked questions, introduced me to two Argentines and a Brazilian staying there. I began to relax.

Altar do Chão is a delightful place. The small town sits on the edge of the Green Lake, right where it meets the Tapajós River. Much of the year the lake’s water line is low, revealing beautiful white sandy beaches around the entirety of the large lake. Being that the place is not particularly populated, there is always an empty corner of sand to lay down and relax. Even more if you take one of the small canoes across the lake.

By evening the weather had cooled and the large square filled up with musicians and sunglasses salesmen, people sitting on the steps of a stone monument and enjoying a cold beer. In Altar there are plenty of good restaurants, juice bars, and a delicious place to get fresh açaí. Also a drugstore, a small grocery, an ATM—everything you could possibly need.

It was also all very affordable, and I couldn’t help but notice a strong hippie presence. People who had arrived and simply never left. I admit: I had planned to stay two days, ended up staying four, and after I left quickly realized that I had stayed for too short a time. I even considered going back. It is that kind of place—a kind of gravity well of relaxation and good vibes. Every evening featured live music and dancing somewhere, much of it traditional folklore dance or old-school Brazilian jazz.

Angelo was Sámia’s husband, who helped take care of the hostel and also ran a Capoeira studio on the back of the property. He had straight gray hair that went to shoulders, and over the four days I never saw him once wearing a shirt. I began to learn that most people had rarely had a conversation in their native Portuguese with an American, and people began to ask questions and tell me things.

Angelo, as it turned out, was partially descended from American Confederates who had immigrated after the Civil War. Apparently a number of either fed-up or disgraced confederate families had moved to Santarém, and in the south of Brazil a larger number of descendants can still be found dressing in gray and celebrating the American south in a town called Americana.

I told Angelo about the guy on the boat who had told me to be careful in Altar do Chão, that someone had died. Angelo smiled and then began to laugh. Bob Marley played in the background.

Sure there are problems here, said Angelo. But this is a peaceful place. There are no worries here.

This became a common occurrence. Brazilians seemed always eager to warn me to be careful wherever it was that I was going. But then I would arrive and talk to the locals and their faces would scrunch up.

Here? they would say.

Sure, if you’re out late drinking and have a 100 real bill on your forehead, then yeah, it is dangerous. Just don’t be dumb.

###

I haven’t had so much as a whisper of trouble in Brazil. Nothing even close to the relatively minor scares I’ve had in Morocco and in Bulgaria. It helps that I’m a healthy-looking man and also look very much like a foreigner. People really want me to have a good trip. I think this is at the heart of these Brazilians’ constant warnings: they know tourism is important to their struggling economy, and they want me to have a good experience. But it sure comes off a little strong.

So much of fear is simply fear of the unknown. Perhaps more than in any other time of my life this has been made clear to me. When we don’t really know what to expect and don’t know what will happen, our minds come up with the most fantastical possibilities based on whatever snippet of information we think we overheard. We are on high alert for the worst to happen.

This is made manifest every time I try to peer into the muddy Amazon. I can’t see anything. The water is so silty brown, so turbid, that there is zero visibility in the water. The piranhas, the anacondas, the electric eels and the crocodiles—they are completely invisible. This shroud of muddy particulate masks everything. It is terrifying.

Yet on the edge of the river over and over again I have seen children jumping into the water and laughing and carrying on. To them it seems like there’s nothing at all to be afraid of. To them it is all there is.

Sitting in the warm Green Lake water, the sun began to set. I had spent the entire afternoon with a new Norwegian friend, lounging on the beach reading and talking and swimming in the warm Green Lake. The weather had been perfect, and now the sun was setting in a giant pillow of red and orange haze. In the distance began a strange sound, like a far-off waterfall through a conch shell.

What’s that? I asked.

Those are howler monkeys, said my friend. This has been my favorite sound for the last month.

I lounged in the calm water and felt the sand in my toes, listening to the distant howlers. It was an incredible sound. It was as if these monkeys could reproduce the sound of a fighter jet making a high speed turn in slow motion. If I had been close, I might have been afraid. But these were far away, part of the jungle soundtrack.

Instead of fear, on that pristine beach all I felt was peace. Peace of the setting sun and the endless wonder of nature.

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Okay, bye, for now!

-jed

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 (next)