Journey to Amapa
As far north and east as you can go
in South America, bordered on the south by the Amazon river, on the east
by the Atlantic Ocean, and to the North by the 
Guianas,
lies the Brazilian State of Amapa. I cast a wondering eye on this empty
area of my maps many times before I had a chance to go there. Finally
in the summer of 1996 as part of my efforts to establish an Outward
Bound Wilderness school for Brazil. I was invited to visit Amapa to investigate
the possibilities more fully.
The city of Belem, in the bordering state of Para, is where I had spent a great deal of time with family and friends, and is in fact the nearest link to the outside world. Besides the many private vessels the ply a trade between Belem and Macapa the capital of Amapa, there is a regular ferry service several times a week. So on a pleasantly warm day at One o'clock in the afternoon, I set sail aboard the Sousa Mariana, a steel hulled ferry, to cross the Amazon delta to Amapa. The ship had three classes of accommodation, a common situation in Brazil. Second Class where most traveled was the middle deck. What you are paying for is literally the space only. You bring your own hammock and sling it on the provided hooks. Sounds like fun and swinging on a hammock as you cruise the river, and the day before the departure when I visited the ship to take a few shots the middle deck looked deceptively spacious. But I knew better from previous trips I had done, up river. When I arrived an hour before departure the following day the second class deck was jam packed tight. There would be no swinging on this boat, so closely were the hammocks slung. But, hey, I am sure it's a great way to make new friends.
I had booked a berth in the first class area of the ship, up top. There were several different possibilities, in this class. Inner and outer air conditioned cabins, two, four, or six sharing. Some even had their own toilet and shower faculties. I had opted for an inside quad cabin sharing with a three fellows returning home after visiting Belem.
The top most deck of the ship was an open party deck, complete with bar, and dance music. And party they did.
Off the top deck the ship takes on
a air of quite contemplation as the miles slip by. Families that had booked
an outside cabin
relaxed and many eat food they had brought along rather than buy the food
that was aboard. As I passed down the outer deck I felt as if I was somehow
intruding, as if I was walking across a series of front lawns and looking
in windows. But of course no one gave me a second glance. If they did
it was because I was a gringo and therefore a source of speculation and
curiosity. There was not another foreigner aboard.
I met a number of interesting characters as we cruised, an accountant from the south traveling to take a new job in Amapa, he looked more out of place than I did, a retired petroleum engineer who had studied at the University of Chicago in about 1945, bold young boys eager to try out their high school English on me, but to shy to try for very long. And as usual many people who just smiled in that simple way wanting to show they were friendly.
Oh, Third class. Although I did not venture below, I had taken a look the previous day as well. Packed hammock space of course, but below decks. That meant almost no ventilation. In this heat, close to the engines noise and packed like canned fish. I couldn't help but wonder how many they lose per trip.
The sister ship to ours passes inbound
for Belem.
And of course this was reason for a great shout from the party deck as
if they had sighted land of the first time. All manner of craft ply these
waterways.
And as we went from wide open Ocean like river to narrow canals though
the delta where it was so narrow I could almost reach the overhanging
tree branches the change was quite shocking.
This specific part of the Amazon seems to be where sad little ritual was played out on these narrow canals. As the ferry approached canoes appeared from the shore,.... and waited for the larger vessel to pass. At first I thought it was just out of curiosity or to wave, then I had a demonstration of their real interest. Someone at the table next to me scooped up half a package of biscuits into a plastic bag, tied the end closed and tossed it over the side. The nearest canoe shot forward and retrieved it as it floated on the water. No wave or shout was ever given. Looking forward I could see a long line of canoes spaced perhaps 50 meters apart gathering, looking back the ones we had already passed were returning to shore. If this was begging, it was done in the quite dignity of the forest. And offering accepted with a sad gratitude. I was angered when I saw a young fellow brush some garbage into a bag and close it in the usual manner, with the obvious intention of playing a joke in very poor taste. I was glad that his comrade prevented him from doing so.
Close to the end of the second day, knowing that we were nearing Santa Anna the port for Macapa, I found a good vantage point on the railing to catch my first sight of Amapa. Some how I was not prepared for the gang of jet-skiers from the local beach club that came out to greet us and play dare devil games crossing dangerously close in front of the ship.
Waiting for us on the cement wharf was a huge crowd of expectant friends and relatives, along with the usual troops of would be porters. I negotiated a price to have one of them convey my two bags off the boat. I had learned long ago it is wiser when entering a new town to walk ashore with rarefied dignity, than to struggle down a narrow gang plank into a pushing sweaty crowd. When we had reached the open area beyond the crowd the poor fellow dropped my gear and requested a little more for his effort citing that the load was much heavier than he had expected. I took one look at the beads of sweat on his face and gladly agreed.
Macapa is a bustling plea
sant
little city on the edge of nowhere. I did not see as much poverty as I
was used to. The streets are wide with those typical high sidewalks found
in many cities in the tropics. The 15th century fort that sites on the
edge of down town is fascinating. A favorite stop in the just on the edge
of town is the monument at the equator, where one may stand with one foot
in the Northern hemisphere and one foot in the southern hemisphere. Next
door is the civic football field where you guessed it , the centre line
is the equator.
Brian Bell, national sales director
for Leica cameras and Halldor Bjarnason, , Executive Director of
the Canadian Cerebral Palsy Association were my companions of the trip.
They joined me by air a few weeks later for our little walk in the woods.
I often hire local guides to save time and effort. 
These
are not professional "show the stupid Gringo around" types,
but rather just regular local woodsmen or boatsmen that I meet on the
spot. For example that's Desy in the middle, between Brain and Halldor.
A clever little fellow which I hired along with his boat to take us up
the river from Serra do Navio. He also came with us into the forest. You
might see from this shot at the right how he has a little problem with
his posture. He explained to me that he was out hunting, at about age
17, and bending over a stream for a drink his shotgun, which must have
been cocked, discharged, striking him in the calf of his leg. He was alone
and how he managed to get home with an injury that blasted away much of
his calf muscle must be close to a miracle. It left him with a
permanent limp from a shortened and stiffened leg. This I did not know
when I initially negotiated for his services. He had been recommended,
and when I found him he, and two of his comrades were leaning against
a garden wall. He had not bothered to stand up right when we talked, something
I took no notice of at the time. (And I tend to believe, he maintained
his position quite on purpose.)
But it was a situation I never had reason to regret. Desy was amazing. His main source of income was gold panning in the headwaters area of the Rio Araguari. He owned a long wide wooden cargo canoe with the expected mufflerless diesel engine. This shallow draft vessel is so common in the Amazon region because it can manage the rocks, mud and sand bars. And Desy was a master in every sense of the word. He knew every rock of every rapid, and would often turn at right angles in the middle of a cataract, only to turn up river again to pass between two well known boulders just at the surface. There was never so much as a hesitation in his eye as he wended his way through the rapids in his ungainly 20 foot craft. The most amazing thing about old Desy was how he had adapted his "handicap" as most people would have thought of it, into an advantage. I first noticed it as we approached the bank to put in for lunch on the first day. Rather than jumping over our gear and ourselves seated in on crosswise benches to secure a line to the front of the boat. He ran along the gunwale. A most impressive trick. Going forward he would always run on the right side, his good leg on the inside stepping on a rail that ran the length of the canoe. Because the difference in the height of the rail and the edge of the canoes hull he could walk like he had two normal legs. Of course to return to the stern of the boat he would always go on the left for the same reason. To my utter amazement he never worn shoes in the forest. Boots and long trousers in the forest had always been my first rule. Between the three inch long spike like thorns, to burrowing spiders, to ....heaven forbid..., pretty little Corel snakes, the idea of being that vulnerable is enough to make any jungle fighter wake up screaming in a cold sweat. But Desy pulled his shoes off before he stepped into the boat, explaining that he only wore them around "town". ("A man has his dignity after all.")
Desy was a humble man, to the point of chronic shyness for a long time after we meet. Only by our constant shows of friendliness and respect did he finally relax a little to the point where on the last night he even joined us around our camp stoves for tea without being called. But I must admit there was one incident which I think gave old Desy room to smile.
We camped one night at a site I had used a few weeks before. The "bahaka" I had constructed at that time was still there so Brian, Halldor and I slung our hammocks and make ourselves 'comfy'. The shelter was simply a set of polls braced up horizontally against trees with forked sticks. The design was quite simple and sturdy. I had been taught how to do this on a previous trip. It allowed us to stretch a plastic tarp over top and hang our hammocks and bug nets in it's shelter. Now, not all wood is created equal. In Canada when you cut a green trunk four or five inches in diameter you can bet it is very strong. Certainly strong enough to support the ends of three gringo hammocks.
"Wrong!"
By about three in the morning, in the darkest part of the night, when we had long since tired of listening to the sound of the night and had drifted off one by one. I awoke when by back contacted with the ground rather suddenly. Fortunately it was a short distance and there were was nothing on ground below us. The others grunted from their respective places on the jungle floor, the night was dead calm. I reached for my light and saw immediately what had happened. The cross piece that had supported our three hammock a one end had broken right in the middle, and deposited us quite unceremoniously on the ground, nets hammocks and all. Like so many fish dragged ashore in a fisherman's net. All we could do was laugh.
Desy who had constructed his own shelter some short distance away, hit us with the beam of his flashlight and asked if we were OK.
We extracted ourselves from our netting with great care so as to not damage it any farther. And with flash lights in hand cut a new pole, repaired our netting with tape, and were once more back in bed, all be it more the wise about wood quality.
The funny part is that when we were telling a friend back in town, about our little adventure in architecture Desy literally fell over in laughter remembering that night. He had been to shy to laugh as us when it had happened.
A cute little train runs between the
port of Santa Anna, the port, and the mine site at Serra do Navio.We treated
ourselves to the best seats available, the caboose. Although there is
a road this rail link seems to be
the main transport for north south travel in the state. Serra do Navio
being only half way up the state. There is a road of course but I found
the experience of riding the train out of the city, across the southern
plains of Amapa and into the forest quite unique.
Strangely here right at the edge of
the Amazon river, on the equator, and in the middle of the that great
rainforest itself a natural open arid prairie exists. Complete with scraggy
trees and cowboys. Tree farms have been planted here, and produce a huge
amount of raw material for paper production. About 100 km from Macapa
this dry "Campo" suddenly starts to change into forest. Beginning
with low lush growth and ending up in tall trees. The view back out of
the train as we head toward the jungle
seemed
lonely but actually there are many small farms and towns along the way
who enjoy the convenience of the railway.
Once in Serra do Navio we shouldered our packs and headed out. Ah...not for the jungle to the hotel.
Ah,...Serra what a funny little place. The true company town. Santa Anna, port facility, the railway and the town of Serra do Navio were all constructed to support the Manganese mine. An impressive open pit project in the middle of the Amazon rain forest. It and the tree farms are the main industries by far in this state. Built in the 1960s the whole operation was a testament to private enterprise. The term "company town" in Canada and elsewhere I am sure, invokes images of price gouging company stores, in a squalid, one industry town. Serra is far from that. It was not that the company moved into town and started hiring locals. There was no town and very few locals at that time. Especially those skilled enough or interested enough to work for the company. In order to attract skilled workers, town site was carefully laid out on a hill in the forest. In includes, a commercial centre, school, health clinic, sports complex with lighting for nighttime soccer matches, outdoor pool, and mini neighborhoods with various levels of housing based on ones position with the company.
The hotel at Serra do Navio was originally used as the club for the management of the mine, but since the mine is shutting down, it is accepting outside guests.I was delighted the first time I arrived with this little hotel in the middle of the forest. The hotel is laid out in several buildings single level connected by covered walkways, through spacious grounds.
It sits on the top of a hill surrounded by forested rolling hills in all directions. The best pool in South America and a dining room facing west just right to watch the sunset over the forest.
It was in the forest just outside the hotel grounds on a little walk one evening I had my one and only encounter with a little wild Agouti. I had seen them in many villages being kept as pets, but never in the wild. Perhaps one of the most timid of forest dwellers. The size of a small dog, they look sort of like long legged rats with wiry red hair. (Minus any tail, rat like or other wise.) As I walked the trail, in my habitual slow quite "patrol" a heard something in the undergrowth not far off. I had no idea what it might be but my patience had pad off before. When I am on patrol I carry in my hand a tripod folding stool so I can sit behind my camera tripod. I froze, listened, then quietly and carefully deployed my stool and sat. It may be a long wait. Camera ready, I became as dead still and listened. Amazingly it did not take long. About three meters (ten feet) from where I sat, a tree had fallen perpendicular across the trail and some one had used a saw to cut out a section to clear the path again. An adult Agouti came walking along the log and jumped down onto the trail between the two sections of the trunk just as bold as brass. I had not moved a muscle other than to track him with my eyes, moving my head only very carefully. He stood in the middle of the trail and regarded me with grave suspicion, for at least a full minute. Since there was no wind, so he could not get my scent, and I was motionless he apparently gave me the seal of approval and to my delight began to forage in the leaf litter around the fallen log. I still did not move. I know I would get but one chance at a shot, and was willing to be as patient as it took. Finally he disappeared around the end of the log and was out of site even though I could hear him continuing to root about. It was time to make my move. I had been facing into the forest off the trail and had only turned my head, now I carefully shifted my position to bring my lens to bare, while keeping my eyes on the target.
"Creeek", the damned stool groaned and the Agouti's head appeared around the corner of the log like a cartoon mouse hiding from the cat. I, of course, had frozen again at the sound, but was to late, after a three second perusal of what had made that noise, he apparently made up his mind. I was not to be trusted and he was gone in a flash. The vision of his little face peering around the log at me brings a smile to my face to this very day. Needless to say I have no photo to show you.
For a little walk into the forest right out of Serra I hired a fellow with the unlikely name of Gama. (Accented on the MA.) An intimidating man at first glance, he looked like Zulu warrior who had misplaced his spear and was suspicious you might have it. But he had come highly recommended by the company biologist, so I put on a hard face to match his and we headed out. As soon as we began to talk I realized that as usual I had the man all wrong. Gama had the face a hard life had given him, but inside was the soul of a poet. He often sent me groping for my dictionary to try and pick up some of the meaning to what he was saying. His views on the forest, and its' dwellers left me speechless. Spending more time with him in the forest would be reason enough to go back.
For part of the year he works at the
mine for the company, and part he spends by himself in the forest on tiny
streams panning for gold. He showed us his territory in the forest, and
where he does his panning. Gama
in this shot at the right leads the way along the trail to his stream.
When I asked its' name he replied very straight, "Gama Creek".
And who was I to argue.
He showed us long hanging vines that contained a sweet store of water, that like a hose could be cut, allowing the water to pour out and drank.
At night we swung in our hammocks, and listened to the night sift come out. Whole different sets of species take turns roaming the forest, at different times of day and night. So I love to retire as the sun is setting and watch and listen. As the moon raises and travel across the night sky pools of a florescent fungus glow in the dark adding a ghostly quality to the night. On my first outing in the area with a guide called Daniel, I noticed as we were preparing to bed down he had not strung a mosquito net. I queried him on this and he told me there was no need. He assured me that this time of the year, the area was free of biting airborne raiders at night. Not wanting to appear the timid gringo, and against my better judgement I did not bother to mount mine either and climbed into my hammock. Actually it was very pleasant not to be confined in the netting.
We lay chatting in the dark with the bats zipping through our shelter like dare devil pilots. (You can't see them but every once in while a little fluttering sound would tell you they were adjusting their fight path close at hand.) Suddenly a miniature helicopter swooped in and hovered a few inched from my nose. Well at least that was what it sounded like. You know those models you can build and fly remote controlled. I was so stunned it was gone before I could think to reach for my flashlight.
"What the hell was that?" I gasped.
"Just a big bug?" Daniel replied non plused. I considered carefully the experience, and decided it was one of those freak, once in a lifetime kind of occurrences, and relaxed again. Wishing I could have seen what it was. Moments later, it was back, same routine hovering inches from my face in the dark before flying off once more. Slightly more rattled, it did take a little time but I relaxed again. When it happened the third time. I got up and slung my netting. Guides advice or no, I had no desire to wake up with some miniature monster making love to my left nostril.
Here in this part of
Amapa the terrain is mostly well drained rolling hill country. Permanent
jungle
streams cut it's way through the forest, preventing trees growing in its
path. Not bad as trails go but wear lots of bug dope for the little fellows
who like to hitch a ride where the clothing fits the snuggest.
Amapa is a fascinating contrast like much of Brazil, the reason I will go back is its' incredible forests. There has been little if any clearing of forest here. Even the mine is a mere pin prink on the skin of a vast area. And even at that managed so well it makes little impact on the forest 100 meters away. To sip evening tea, and listen to the cries of a Howler monkey troop near by as they sing before they sleep is truly the best way to end a day.
CS
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