Mother of the Gods

Sorry for the large delay in postings. The MV Explorer just pulled out of the port of Manaus and is now crusing down the Amazon toward the rumored terrible waters of the Atlantic. The poor spider in our porthole is clinging on for dear life. Jenn and I named it Fang, which is probably bad because when you name things you get attached to them. I'm not sure how much longer Fang can stay attached to our window. I'll keep you posted.

The following is a "3-4 page paper about Manaus" written for my travel writing class. Figured I would kill two rocks with one bird. (Just kidding). I hope my email will send the whole thing. Pace yourself.

According to my first expectations, Manaus would be a dirty little shack-filled town at the head of the Amazon River.  According to my limited Wikitravel research, Manaus would be a big and bustling city with bigger and better buildings and happy Brazilians dancing in the neatly paved streets.  And according to my own two eyes, skyscrapers with no windows and invasive plants lined the crackled roads we walked while passing creepy little Brazilian men.  How do you say “Take a picture, it will last longer” in Portuguese?

        The smell of humidity and boat exhaust pushed in the gangway doors as students and life long learners alike pushed out of the wooden frame and down the stairs, unknowingly smacking each other with backpacks and belongings in the process.  We were greeted by the usual beeping of the metal detector and swiping of ID cards.  And something else, not so usual. Slightly annoyed but proud men beating drums and too-happy dancers in traditional Brazilian attire both swayed to the melody of the country’s upbeat, native music, welcoming us to their country.  Camera flashes began to fly, and the first groups organized outside of safety and inside of a mixture of shady tour operators and military police.

        Soon we were walking up a shaky catwalk and over the Rio Negro, littered with trash, sea grass, and misplaced building walls.  More importantly, we were walking straight past the ATMs.  Good.  We boarded the bus for our tour, which, by 1:30 that afternoon when we caught sight of our out-of-place ship, I had renamed “The Good, the Bad, and the Uglier than Usual Tour.”

        The good. I’m not a picky person.  In reality, my mind usually turns bad situations into good ones, not that I’m saying this was a bad situation.  We started the tour with a trip through a fish market that no one could have imagined. The smell of Sea World struck even before we ducked into the warehouse. Fish. Fish on all sides. Fish with no heads, no skin, no means of identity. And men. Small, grimy men who used the same knife to clean their toenails as they did to prepare their catch.  We meandered down the congested alleys and the scent changed, along with the scenery, to vegetables, fruits, and other goods that don’t make girly girls squish their pretty faces into unpleasant expressions. Towers of bananas rose on either side like the gates to a hidden country. Colorful pupunha flowed over rusted wheelbarrows and more bananas were loaded off delivery trucks by the triple-dozens while workers argued in Portuguese about where they would be put if you already couldn’t see the ground.

        I can’t tell you how big the street was we crossed next, because I noticed that Brazil apparently has an “invent your own lane” policy. There were no lines, no marks of any kind on the road (except for squashed bananas), and crossing was the second most treacherous thing we did all day. Once on the bus, our tour guide gave his habitual speech about random facts of Manaus. “ Brazilians eat five to six times a day” (The solution to why they’re all chunkier than I pictured). “Water is more expensive than gas” (They pay by the liter). “To your left you can see the cemetery, and you’ll notice that people here are buried above ground.” (Ew).  As his microphone cut in and out, I caught an explanation for the ridiculous amount of construction. I had forgotten the World Cup would be hosted by Brazil in 2014.  Convenient that my visa doesn’t expire for 10 years.  As we continued a child played soccer with a balloon and perhaps an invisible friend, and the more sophisticated condos and hotels of Ponta Negra came and went.

The bad. Americans.  Have you ever heard an American complain about a foreigner coming to Disney World or the Statue of Liberty and not being able to speak English?  Turns out most US travelers’ mentalities don’t change.  It seems as though the idea of the melting pot faded out with long skirts and wearing your pants up to your belly button. So even if you’ve decided to go to Brazil for a study abroad, these people darn well better know how to “Habla Ingles” or there’s going to be an issue, a breaking point, and a snobby “Never mind”. In English of course.

The uglier than usual.  When our bus made a stop in a neighborhood comparable to the commercials of starving children in Africa, I was scared to even get off. Looking like total tourists with wide-brimmed hats and cargo pants, our group made it’s way down a steep dirt road and into the homes, families, and lives of the people who lived there. I felt embarrassed to be taking their pictures with my shiny digital camera as they stared or waved from their porch. It was like a visit to the zoo. Except it was free and heartbreaking.  Their homes had no windows or doors. Toothpaste and soap were set on a shelf next to a bike helmet and a can of oil. The children played in the road with no shoes, and we got back on the bus like it was no big deal. Just another day, almost time for lunch. As we left the tiny neighborhood behind in our dust, I wondered if they would get lunch that day too.

A night on the town for a tourist consists of massive street parties and dancing until the sweat can be rung out of your clothes. We stepped out of our taxi and onto a portion of road blocked to traffic. Natives stood unobtrusively around alcohol and snack stands, dressed in normal clothes and carrying a variety of instruments.  My friends and I awkwardly followed the actions of the seasoned locals, who, as humans and creatures of habit, seemed to have their usual spots located.  We had heard about this samba, but had no idea what to expect. And then all of a sudden we were being ushered to the front. The front of what though? I noticed dark, suntanned skin lining up according to instrument. Men, women, children, all shapes, all ages. And then they began to play. Like my high school drum line, but better, more intense. You couldn’t just hear the beat, you could feel it in your chest and ears. These people were rehearsed. Two beautiful dancers shook and shimmied in their hooker-esque heels. The air was electric, full of energy. Whatever we had come for, we weren’t expecting this. And as victims of the front row usually are, we were pulled up to dance, starting a trend, and attempted to move even half as gracefully as the mascots of this unexpected samba outbreak as more and more people flooded the street to join in.

We occupied our last four days in Manaus with last minute decisions and sore feet. Driven mostly by suggestions from anyone we could understand, we ventured back to the ritzy part of town on the 120 bus, where an aqua blue infinity pool welcomed us with tempting sunshine and bacon strips three times as thick as what you would get in the States. 

        The markets were like a game. Dirty, bustling and smelling like a mixture between fried Brazilian delicacies and mud, it was complicated. The language barrier was the rules, the obstacles were the creepy men and chance of being robbed, and the objective was to walk away with a one-of-a-kind prize that constituted victory. Here is where we used our elementary level Spanish knowledge to converse and barter as best we could, and here is where we turned bored shop owners into smiling contenders and participants of the game we now shared.  Whether their attitude changed back right after we walked away or faded slowly as they slept in their tiny, aerated homes that night, I just hope we gave them the impression that we, as Americans, are more willing to dance than they previously assumed.

        We spent the night talking a rather hefty “tour guide” into giving us a deal on a day trek through the Amazon, and that’s exactly what we got. Juan and his two monolingual teenage sidekicks corralled a 15-passenger group through the fish and fruit markets, where we first picked out our lunch, which a native Amazonian family would be cooking for us in their home. Too good to be true. I was the caboose of the scattered line, and was fed samples by the chattery Brazilian girls Juan had brought along. I was throwing into my mouth corn-looking pieces that weren’t corn and parts of plants I was warned by our dean may be covered in fertilizer.

        A tiny, leather-skinned man in an old tin boat greeted us at the dock and drove us an hour down the Amazon past spurts of grass and fins of pink dolphins. We rounded the bend to a tiny floating hut, more porch than shelter, where two tiny children, a mother, a parrot, and a dog carrying a monkey named Nico on it’s back greeted us with somber expressions. We proceeded to shore and were quickly rushed into the jungle with three more dogs and a wild man carrying a machete for the coolest jungle hike I had ever been on. We wandered a small rooted trail, and every once in a while Damien, the machete man, would wander off the trail, holding up his hand with a mixture of muttering and grunting, telling us to stay put. Out of his forest of tricks he pulled expandable palm branches used to ward off jaguars, tree bark used to heal both breast cancer and minor cuts, a twig that smelled of bengay, and a large log he hacked with one foul swoop of his obviously sharp and dangerous machete, which, when tipped like a rain stick, poured cool mineral water into (and out of) our mouths.

        We ended the afternoon with a feast prepared by the family. Colorful peppers, onions, and tomatoes lined a pot of chicken and piranha, while mounds of rice and noodles complimented the protein. We swam in the same water that the family used as their bathroom and trash. I figured since no one had recently used either, a quick dip would be just as good an idea as eating the fertilized herbs from the market.

        As we motored away from the rocking home and the Amazon, the sun set in a sherbet colored sky. It looked like Disney World. I guess Disney World looked like Brazil. Whatever the case, I felt fulfilled. An accomplishment, something to check off the bucket list. In the end, I can’t decide if my first impression of Manaus when walking through the gangway was higher or lower than my first expectations, but in the end, it was exactly what I wanted.