Jack Simpson’s journey to Brazil to look at proper
No-nonsense Men
About three-quarters of an hour later we arrived at two rough-made wooden buildings, neither of which was much larger than a single-car garage in suburban USA. The dwellings signaled the end of the road. Hills and jungle-like vegetation acted as a fence on three sides of the buildings and the acre or two of cleared ground upon which they had been constructed. A river occupied the remaining side. Twenty yards across, and of undetermined depth, the river- waters moved slowly, but not sluggishly. Decaying leaves deposited by overhead trees gave the river a faint brownish tinge, the color of anemic tea. The river was the only thing I liked about the place.
As Oscar shut down the Willys, three men appeared from the larger building. They were employees of Zanni. Two were olive-skinned. One was white. All three stood about five feet eight or nine inches tall. They looked to be around thirty or thirty-five years old. Their bodies carried not an ounce of fat. They were quiet, polite, and cautiously friendly as we were introduced. But they were hard-looking men. Hard and capable. Men you’d not want to insult. I liked them immediately. They were of a different cut than either Oscar or Ed. Although Oscar had yet to realize it.
Steaks were served at dinner that night. Steaks from a three-foot fish one of the men had caught in the river. As we ate, two kerosene lamps spread a soft yellow glow over the handmade plank-type dining table. The mellow illumination barely reached three pistols, holsters, and belts hanging from wooden pegs just inside the front door.
After eating, and drinking the ritual cup of cafezinho, I retired to the bunkhouse and went to bed – after coating my head, neck, and bare arms with insect repellant.
Ed and the Author at the river
The next morning one of the men handed a rifle to me, and a cartridge belt to Ed, prior to a two-man stroll down the near-side of the river. Why I was handed the weapon, rather than the landowner, I do not know. Probably because Ed had told the men some cock and bull story about my recent combat experience.
As we followed the river downstream, Ed told me what had taken place the night before, after I excused myself and went to bed.
For whatever reason, Oscar took it upon himself to impress his hosts. After all, he owned a Willys jeep, and he lived in the capital city of Cuiabá. He did not have to grub for a living in the wilderness. Plus, being a shade over six feet tall, he was a man of above average stature. According to Ed, he regaled his audience with stories of his physical prowess and past exploits. After a while, he took a long breath. It was then that the senior of the Zanni workers quietly asked one of his mates how many men he had killed in Goiás (the adjacent state to the east).
“Only two,” replied the man.
“And you, how many in Amazonas?” he asked his other partner.
“Three,” he replied, “but they deserved it.”
Stabbing Oscar with flat eyes, the man asked, “And you, senhor, how many?”
Shocked, Oscar mumbled that he had never killed a man.
“What did the jerk say after that?” I asked Ed.
“Nothing. He kept his mouth shut the entire remainder of the evening.”
I laughed. Because if you’re going to talk the talk, you’d better be ready to walk the walk. For there are people who will not listen, very long, to bullshit. And there are places where life is cheap, where law officers seldom go, where each man takes care of himself.