Snapshots of Mamore, Bolivia (5 of 5)

The anticipation of harbors is common to all sailors. It had been eleven years since I walked down the gangway of a lofty barquentine in Ushuaia, southern Argentina, loaded with impressions and emotions from high seas. Our last day on the river magically revived bits and pieces of these distant memories, even though five days on the barge differed considerably from nearly four months at sea.

In the end, out of boredom, I placed a bet on the arrival time. If I had gambled for real, the prize would’ve gone to an old man who came aboard two days earlier. He had an expression of a sage but I doubted he could read or write. He didn’t carry any possessions when he embarked from a tiny village tucked behind the palms and tall river grass. He wore a drab old shirt (that once must have been white) and brown pants rolled up above his ankles. A pair of leather flip-flops protected his brown, earth-colored feet. The old man liked to smoke dark tobacco rolled in coarse, brown paper.

It was difficult to determine his years since people in the tropics look either amazingly young or deceptively old for their age. His face, though, testified to a long and, oftentimes, arduous life on the river. Numerous wrinkles masked his honest-looking dark eyes while his brown skin betrayed endless days and nights in the open pampas. I had observed him for the past two days sitting in various spots on the boat. He carried a halo of calm in his dreamy gaze. When I saw him for the first time I immediately felt an inexplicable affinity towards him. Was it because he felt something that I wasn’t able to?

The old man impressed me with his generous gesture when he handed Don Carlos a cluster of limes on a wooded tray as a sign of gratitude. “A gift to the captain,” he said quietly and walked away. His most favorite place, though, seemed to be under the deck, next to my hammock. Standing with a cigarette rolled out of a newspaper, he would stare blankly at the banks of the river as if reminiscing about some distant memories. He embodied the river, its energy, secrets, hard work, life and death. I knew the man was going to die soon. The right side of his neck bore a huge lump under the skin. Knowing little of medicine, I could nevertheless make out a big tumor swelling up in his throat. And this old man didn’t even have a simple mattress to sleep on!

We had not exchanged a single word until the last day of our journey. The rain began to pour down in the early afternoon. The passengers had already retreated to their hideouts. The old man made fire in the grill upon which he threw bananas. The warmth of the flames seemed so attractive and inviting while the heavy rain stirred the river outside. Then suddenly I remembered that the cook had not used up all the potatoes and yucca in the galley, and that we could cook them too. The man looked pleased when I brought the groceries. He overlooked the cooking while I lay in my hammock and watched. I found it funny to see the tongues of flame lick his callous skin with no reaction in his eyes. He returned my amusement with a smile. We shared the potatoes and yucca eating in silence.

Finally, I asked: “What time do you think we will arrive in Guayaramerín?” With a face of someone who knows what he is doing, the man examined the riverbanks and answered, “A las cinco de la tarde.” He proved to be completely right.

Boats with Brazilian flags were more and more frequent on the river. They announced the final part of our river journey. All of a sudden everybody seemed in a hurry. The skipper messed up the mooring part pretty badly, bumping against other boats in the harbor and nose-diving with the bow deep into the bushes.

I left the boat in the rain, heading off into the town. I rushed to find a hotel, eat well, and find some weed. After all, I was bidding good-bye to Bolivia in a couple of days. River Mamore continued on to the Amazon.

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