Pascal's Backyard on the Amazon

The Amazon Delta 1989

Near the mouth of the Amazon, adjacent the Port City of Belem, hundreds of forest covered islands form a maze of water ways, large and small. Many of these islands contain forests of a fruiting palm locally called "Acai", and are home to simple, hearty people that make their living in the harvest of this cherry sized arboreal fruit. Through my wife’s family I have enjoyed entry and acceptance to a world few outsiders are privileged enough to see.

As we stood in the early morning on the high broad wooden wharf that served as the daily clearing house for the Acai harvest, people stared openly at my strangeness. Though by North American standards, an average 5 feet 8 1/2 inches, I was noticeably taller than average in this market place. Well tanned by the same standard, but hopelessly pale compared to those who stared, and conspicuously over laden with the duffel bag and camera case at my feet. Not that they had never seen such a spectacle, but television was one thing and this was a real live gringo. A Norte Americano with so much money, he needed a big canvas bag to carry all his belongings. The black vultures soared high overhead as they always did at this time of the day riding the morning thermals on their never ending patrol for food. The business of the day was carried out by loud laughing fathers, while their brawny bare backed sons hauled cane baskets of Acai from the boats to the feet of the cigar smoking brokers.

From the thin shade produced by a dock warehouse wall, I watched the small boys torment half a dozen pigs tied by their ankles and left laying on the decking. I mused absently on the origin of the phrase "hog tied", and somehow was quietly annoyed at the children. It was bad enough they were destined for tomorrow’s ham sandwiches, did they have to be insulted in the mean time.

Pascal finally came striding up the walkway from his boat, greeting acquaintances as he came and catching sight of us, broke into a wide toothy smile. Something he did easily. Somewhat of a local community figure, he was large and black and had the same Irish twinkle in his eyes that my father had possessed. It had endeared me to him when we had first met weeks before. He had a huge pot belly that was always hard to get a shirt around, and the wrinkled brow of a thinker. As a young man he had worked for Petro-Braz the state oil company, on petroleum exploration teams all over the Brazilian Amazon. Saving enough money to buy a patch of flooded forest on the "Island of the Leopards", he settled back to harvest the Acai on his land and raise a family.

Grasping my hand, he pumped it gently as if I was fragile, then placing a hand on my shoulder and another on the left side of my rib cage he gave me a little shake. A common gesture in Belem, that had no doubt evolved from a hug, but never the less was a sign of genuine warmth. His business concluded rapidly and my aunt and uncle, Flavio, my wife’s young cousin, and myself were ushered onto his boat. This forty foot narrow hulled diesel river boat, was larger than most on the island, since he also ran a sort of irregular ferry service. So with a splutter of diesel fumes and squawking chickens we were off to the Island of the Leopards.

Pascal lived down a long narrow tidal stream that traveled far into the interior of the island. Difficult to understand without seeing it from the air, these stream as they are called locally are not streams in a conventional sense but rather the low area of the island where the river seeps through. The Amazon literary flows through the island.

When the ocean tide is receding the Amazon is left free to proceed, the ground is dry and the stream can be seen to flow out. As the tide slows and then turns the river backs up and much of the island’s ground disappears. The flooded forest. In the rainy season, tide or no tide, many areas have no dry land. Houses are all on stilts, transport in by canoe.

As usual there was a welcoming committee on Pascal’s wharf when we arrived, strangers are always an event. To this day I am never sure exactly how many souls make up Pascal’s extended family. After attempting to remember the names of the first eighteen I acknowledged my inadequacies to myself, and retreated into my cover as a "confused gringo". Too early for lunch, never the less food and drink were necessary as the protocols of good hospitality prescribed. We caught up on recent small happenings, munching on fresh river shrimp in ground manioc and Coca Cola, while a myriad of shy children stared from the corners of the room, only to be coaxed closer by the wrapped candies I always carried for that purpose. Like encouraging little forest animals into petting range.

I had planned to take a little walk around the island with Flavio, while uncle and aunt socialized, being back in time for supper. As I dressed into my GI Joe boots and combat pants in Pascal’s living room, the centre of attention as usual, one little fellow in shorts and a smile, asked if I was going in the Mato (forest). Laughingly I replied yes, and without thinking asked if he wanted to come too. His reply was more than I could understand, and my attention easily diverted, the matter forgotten. Flavio appeared in my wife’s jungle pants and my old pair of boots, grinning from ear to ear. He obviously pictured himself, Rambo incarnate. I took my farewell bows like a departing movie star by handing out more of the chocolates and headed for the back porch amid warnings from the adults of mud to my mid calf. (Which I naturally waved aside in understanding.) I jumped off the porch about to strike outward when the young fellow appeared at my side. Barefoot, to my surprise he wore a blue cotton dress shirt, and to my apprehension machete and harvest basket for the gathering of Acai. My hesitation must have been apparent, an adult asked from the crowd if it was really OK. "What the hell", I figured he will know the trails and I did "invite" him. Warning him I would be going a long way and out for the whole day I set my compass on a perpendicular bearing from the main waterway and strode off with Flavio and my little friend in tow.

Yes, he did know the trails and there were many criss-crossing the area. After all, this was where the family harvested its crops of Acai on a daily basis. He took the lead, and as his confidence grew so did his chatter. The trail was intermittently moist and muddy to about ankle deep, turning to the right to avoid crossing a significant water course, I checked my compass as we went. There was no way I was going to trust this little river rat, a choice I had no reason to regret that day. The farther we got from the smell of Pascal’s pig sty the more engrossed I became with the forest, as usual. I was still making some attempt to avoid the areas of deeper mud, after all no sense in getting my trousers dirty for no reason. We crossed a gouge in the forest floor some 7 meters wide and almost devoid of water, on a log placed there for the purpose. At the next such crossing we stopped for a drink and as we relaxed some of Pascal’s neighbors came down the trail from the opposite direction making me feel like a new Stanley in Africa. Muscular smooth skinned and very black, they approached with baskets of Acai on their heads of perhaps 30 kilo. With a brief good morning, they bounced across the log bridge without breaking stride and disappeared down the trail. Man, wife and child......I had just been feeling very proud of myself having traversed this mud slick structure with just my camera and day pack.

As we branched out into smaller less used trails the foliage began to close in and our little friend without blinking began to swing his machete. Of course the hole he made was insufficient for Flavio and myself so we took turns expanding the way. At the next crossing, I felt I had arrived at what I had come to experience in the flooded forest. Our young friend seeing nothing of note threw himself into the undergrowth on the opposite side and soon disappeared in a flurry of machete strokes. I looked up. From where I sat on a huge dead root in the middle of the dry stream bed the forest seemed to embrace me in a wet velvet green. Spaced, tall trees thick with vines and bromloides, towered over a dense under growth which in turn towered over us in the stream bed. As the sound of the machete working receded into the distance, the local inhabitance recovered their voices and we were suddenly surrounded by the songs of millions of insects and tree frogs. The clamor was surprisingly deafening. The young companion returned with chattering inquiry of our tardiness and Flavio hushed him into inactivity, explaining "The Senior wants to listen." I am sure he must have been thinking "To What?". It was at that point I finally took a good look at our friend. A handsome ten perhaps eleven year old, his brown skin smooth and his face radiant with health. He had Pascal’s twinkling eyes, but in his senior the twinkle was the wisdom of age. This light was mischief! I asked him his name to my surprise it was "ED". I asked Ed if the tide would affect this water course today, being the dry season. He replied in the affirmative yet I skeptical, considering previous experience with Brazilians of this age.

Fish gulped air from their brown water resting place next to us, frogs sang and Ed continued to chatter no matter how many times I chastised him for it. Finally frustrated I told him we would go and he responded like a dog off his leash diving into the forest, basket in hand.

It was obvious now that Ed was no longer bothering to even look for a trail, but my compass told me he was heading straight as an arrow in the direction I wanted to go anyway. When we inquired as to his intensity of purpose, he said simply there was "another habitation" over there. My curiosity piqued I gave him more rain, and after an hour or so of hacking a way through the undergrowth, with a few back tracking detours to avoid wasp nests set like booby traps in the brush, sure enough we struck a major water course. Turning left to follow its course we came to a small house within 50 meters, on the opposite bank. It was on the edge of the island at the entrance of a large stream. To my surprise we had crossed from the interior to the coast of the island in about 3 hours of effort. I bounded across one last ankles worth of water in a ditch like flow and self-satisfied, declared lunch on the dry ground over looking the homestead opposite.

Over lunch Ed shimmied up a few trees to harvest the valued Acai and I snapped a group shot for posterity. Flavio to my head shaking amazement had not been wearing socks inside his boots, but his feet, street tough, had no problems. Ed was fascinated by the folding stool I always carried to sit on in blinds behind my tripod, and played with it like a new toy every time I stood up.

Finally with ¾ of a basket of Acai and our lunch complete it was time to go. Ed was making some speech about being back at the house in 40 minutes which I greeted with disbelief, and a challenge to prove it. Privately terrified he may be right. As I slung my day pack I got that first shock that foretells trouble. The ditch I had crossed not 1 hour before at my ankles was now full. Easily to my waist. Ed for his part hefted the basket onto his shoulder and headed off straight as a arrow for home. Much less hacking this time Ed had apparently gotten his bearing, and with his load was in no mood for tourism. We approached one of the streams we had crossed earlier. No longer was it a trickle in the bottom of a crease in the jungle floor but a slow moving barrier of perhaps 3 meters deep and impossible to tell how wide with all the undergrowth.

Ed lowered the basket into the water, it floated, Ed swam, and Flavio and I stared. Although I had no problem with getting a little wet, I did have about $1500 worth of Camera gear on my back and no protection from submersion. Rain yes, swimming no. I have no idea what was going through poor Flavio’s mind, I suspect at about that time he was thinking that he hadn’t signed up with this outfit to go swimming in snakes, and who knows what infested water. Finally with Ed’s gleeful direction we were able to stubble across a submerged log bridge, only to immediately to realize we had not really crossed anything, it continued. Ranging from ankle to knee deep we waded on, Ed choosing the route, he chattered and teased "which way now?", as we struggled to keep my gear dry. Finally we came to an area non passable by anyone of my weight and disposition. Ed chattered insatiable and laughed and I came to realize he was having us on in grand style. I tried to explain the concept of "little devil" to Flavio in my halting Portuguese without success. Of course we were not lost, but I had not counted on quite this much water at the height of the dry season.

Time was growing short, I became concerned that our efforts to preserve my equipment may slow us to the point of being late, and inspire concern on the part of our hosts. I told ED to head for home and tell everyone we were OK. Just delayed somewhat, and with trusty compass in hand began to navigate a course around this latest barrier. Ed protested loudly trying to redeem himself. I suspected he realized there may be retribution for mischief awaiting him should he return home without us. We soon left him behind, with his burden explaining he was no longer trusted.

The stream was surprisingly easy to get around, finally finding a place where the water was only to my chest we managed to cross with my pack held high. Continuing on we managed to cross several more areas of like concern. At one point unsure of the depth I motioned Flavio to take the lead. And he delivered the classic "me first?!" statement of alarm. "Yes, I have the camera." I replied. To his credit he 'plunged' into the work and we managed to cross, camera dry.

We waded on, Ed could hear our machete strokes and continued to call for us to "come his way" even though to do so would have meant a little swimming. Eventually my compass navigation brought us back on a parallel course with our tormentor and we entered an area of obvious trails. (Only apparent by the spaces in the undergrowth.) Ed finally appeared and pointed out the most direct trail back to the house but by that time I had already heard a passing boat motor and was confident of our location.

I needn’t have been concerned about worrying my hosts they had long since departed for a local party and we were greeted by the pigs at the back porch. My gear had survived unharmed, and after washing in the stream I realized that as usual I had not been mentally prepared for the experience. Which of course seems to be the story of my life in the Amazon. Although never lost or even disoriented thanks to my compass, I had walked into the Mato expecting something akin to a walk in a forest and instead it resembled an open water scuba dive. Not because we got wet, but the normal methods of land marking, and following trails easily used on firmer ground disappeared with the incoming tide. It became a compass navigated affair exactly as if I was scuba diving underwater. The ever-changing forest floor covered by the incoming water obscured any possibility any other method of navigation, the dense undergrowth obscured any view of the sun. Had I not used my compass exactly the way I would have at the beginning of a dive I would have had to rely on young Ed, bless his heart, to get my gringo rear end out of there, and my camera gear would have become so much soggy junk.

Preparing to depart on Pascal’s boat the next day, Ed suddenly appeared out of the crowd. "I am a good guide, Seu Charles?" He said looking up at me with large, shy again eyes.

"Yes Ed, my little friend," I replied in Portuguese. "Very good guide." And then in English "Easily as good as Denis the menace." And we all laughed.

Ed gets ready to climb one of the tall slender Acai palms.

Look closely at this next photo and you will get and idea of the risks involved in climbing a 40 meter palm tree with nothing more than a loop of burlap around your feet. Hi ED.