Jack Simpson’s journey to Brazil to look at proper
Young Macaw
Shortly after lunch we headed back to Cuiabá. Before leaving the primitive tracks and hitting the secondary dirt road, we approached a natural meadow-like clearing. About the size of an American football field, the clearing was covered with ankle-high green grass and a sprinkling of palm trees. As we pulled even with the meadow-like area, Oscar slammed on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a sudden stop. Shifting into reverse, he backed up about five car lengths. Because I had been daydreaming, and Ed had been snoozing, neither of us had any idea what was going on.
Exiting the jeep, Oscar said something to Ed. Then he walked into the clearing, looking upward at a particular palm tree. The tree was about three times the height of Oscar, and had a trunk as big around as the steering wheel of a big-rig diesel truck. Locating a plank-like section of an old dead tree laying on the ground, he pulled it to the tree that held his attention. Leaning it against the tree at an angle, Oscar used it as a ladder to get about halfway up the tree.
Ed and I watched closely as our driver slowly and cautiously inserted his hand and half his arm into a saucer-sized hole. After moving his hidden hand around in the dark cavity, he slowly and carefully withdrew his appendage. In his hand was a young scarlet macaw, one of Nature’s beautiful and unusual birds – with a hinged upper beak and zygodactylous feet. About three-fourths feathered out, it displayed a lively curiosity about life outside the confines of its cave-like nest. Although the youngster’s plumage was immature, the forthcoming brilliant red was in evidence.
I am not sure who was the most surprised, Ed or me. Probably me.
As Oscar scrounged around in the jeep for something warm in which to wrap the fledgling, Ed went into what I can only describe as a fit of outlandish temper. Ranting and railing in Portuguese, he cowed Oscar into returning the bird to its nest. Afterwards, Oscar looked
bewildered and disappointed. Ed looked grim. With my mouth shut, I said nothing.
Ed was undoubtedly correct in insisting that the young bird be put back in its nest. I know that. But if I lived where Oscar lived, and if I found a young macaw and wanted to keep it as a pet, it might take more than Ed Zanni to convince me otherwise.
The only other happening of interest on the return trip was Oscar almost getting us killed.
Headlight to Headlight
We got back onto the primary dirt road, the red-dirt highway. The home stretch. The sun had set. It was almost dark. We were tired. But we were all three awake. Heading south, we were traveling at a consistent fifty miles per hour (the speedometer showed 80 kph). Heading north, coming towards us, was a monster Mercedes diesel-powered truck. The truck took up slightly more than its allotted half of the road. Oscar positioned our vehicle so that it took its fair share of highway. Therein developed the problem.
The left front headlight of the truck was on a collision course with the left front headlight of our Willys. I didn’t think too much about it. There was no reason to get the right-side tires out onto the shoulder of the road yet. The truck was not that close.
Seconds ticked by. The truck was rapidly approaching. It was following a set course, without deviation. Oscar had set the jeep on a course, also. And he was not deviating. Suddenly it became clear. We were going to crash, headlight to headlight, with the diesel truck. Like a baseball bat hitting a baseball. And we were going to be the ball. Smashed. Mangled. Dead. No tomorrow.
Realization grabbed Ed, also. He was sitting in the middle. With an oath, he reached across his chest with his right hand and jerked the steering wheel.
I do not know how we missed the truck. But I do know that I owe my life to Mr. Ed Zanni.
The abrupt change of direction put the short-wheelbased Willys into a slide. Oscar fought it all over the road. Rear-end tried to pass us on the right. Oscar overcorrected. Rear-end tried to pass us on the left. Oscar overcorrected again. Rear-end switched sides again. Somehow, the top-heavy vehicle remained upright, rather than rolling down the road, scattering our bodies like broken dolls. Finally, our macho driver hit the brakes, and we plowed to a stop. Still on the road. Sideways. With the jeep pointed east on the north-south highway.
The truck? It never slowed down, I guess. At least it did not stop.
Ed and I were baffled. When asked what happened, Oscar was at a loss to explain. Maybe the oncoming lights mesmerized him. Maybe he was asleep while sitting upright at the wheel. Maybe he was playing chicken. Maybe he was despondent about losing the young macaw and decided we should all die. Regardless, we survived. No harm was done.
Damned if it wasn’t a big cabover Mercedes truck though.
Although I was not enthused about the land that Ed Zanni presented to me, I have good memories of Brazil. The city people were helpful, and they liked to laugh. But it was with the country people that I felt most comfortable. The peaceful and polite old man with the goats, and the men in the hinterland, the ones working for Zanni, the ones who were men’s men: soft-spoken and courteous, men you’d want on your side when push-came-to-shove. Because you knew they would be guarding your back, the same as they would expect you to guard theirs – if they accepted you into their no-nonsense brotherhood.
Yes, it was the people who I remember most from my introductory trip into the back-country of Brazil. They made my journey worthwhile.