Manaus Dock

A continual procession of people busy like ants, coming and going loading cargoes of fridges, televisions, bikes, furniture, boxes and bags of varying shapes and sizes, while truck after truck loaded merchandise destined for towns along this river region inhospitable to conventional transport.

To the people of the Amazon, this river is their highway...their means of transport and when moving villages, their carrier.

Elien, a Dutch Psychologist, and Christa, an artisan jeweller from Germany, accompanied me down to Manaus' famous floating docks to search for a suitable vessel to deliver us to Brazil's white sandy coast.

After inspecting numerous boats we chose the N/M Santarem, a larger and relatively newer boat. The sign told us that it sailed Wednesday, calling into Santarem, Paratins, Obidos and other ports on its way to Belem.

Proudly showing us round the Santarem, Captain Cristiano, permitted us to sleep aboard the night prior to departure. He warned us not to pitch our hammocks too close to the rails if we planned to stay dry. Later we would discover that these side passages were the main thoroughfare for people to navigate under on their way to answer nature's call.

"Second class is not good," said Cristiano, encouraging us to lodge ourselves in first class where the hammock spaces were numbered and air-conditioned.

Resisting the temptation, we planted ourselves in second class below, toward the stern but far enough from the showers and toilets. This, I thought, would be a more unique and appropriate way if we intended meeting and mingling with the locals.

Last night before departure, swaying gently in my hammock to the gentle bobbing of the Santarem unable to sleep, I was excited as a child on Christmas Eve. Awake for what seemed forever, reflecting, thinking, imagining the adventure that lay ahead.

Leaving our packs chained to a post, we left for breakfast and on our return, it was as if a bomb had struck the boat, with disorder and mayhem everywhere. Ducking under and weaving round numerable hammocks crisscrossing in all directions, people were busy organising their living quarters. The deck looked like a Chinese laundry, with numerous hammocks of varying colours, shapes and sizes draped from the ceiling pipes like clothes left out to dry.

Dumbfounded, I watched as marauding, naked feral children ran wildly, playing, squabbling and crying. A baby, not even a year old sat playing on the deck in her diaper, pacifier in mouth, and a large butcher knife in hand stabbing at the floor.

Young smoker

I was being studied by a boy of 12 casually lying in his hammock opposite me, puffing on a cigarette oblivious to the commotion and calamity around him.

Chickens strutted happily under my hammock, unfazed by my appearance, pecking at the floor near my pack. Towering above them a blind, senile old man, twisted by rheumatism with a wooden stick argued to himself and cursed while trying to clamber over bags and boxes.

Meanwhile, more hammocks were raised. More and more our personal space encroached.

A grey haired, golden dentured, pipe smoking grandmother, arms waving, barked orders and argued with family while she proceeded to change hammock position four times. On their way to a wedding in Belem, the next four days would see this cranky matriarch of the feral family argue, fight and scream with family members on a too regular basis.

Young noisemaker

More and more hammocks were raised. More and more our personal space invaded.

In some ways I feared that the feral family would be rowdy and up all night. Between all the kids and babies, I suspected sleep deprivation was definitely on the cards. I was right about that, but wrong about the source.

Questions?
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