Notes from the Amazon Basin
They call it the Three Step Cobra. The name, reminiscent of a waltz more than
a poisonous snake, is derived from the three staggered steps a victim
takes between attack and collapse. Our present casualty, a young man in his late teens, was blessed with a thick sock that blocked most of
snake’s venom. The more common injection would have
systematically destroyed his organs within minutes.
The crew loaded him
into our jon boat, along with a postpartum mother whose stillborn
baby (her fourth in thirteen pregnancies) had just been birthed. The ropes were loosed, the engine churned.
The boat turned and sped to the nearest town, Boa Vista, where the two
could receive treatment. Both lived, the fresh physical and
emotional scars apparent.
The Amazon Basin is a place of wonder and
heartache. The wonder of the region was clear from the frosted windows
of our plane as it circled above Manaus; the heartache was evident
later. The humidity was the first thing I noticed upon stepping out of
the airport. During our trip, I would come to sweat like I’ve never
sweat before; I shall never complain about Missouri humidity again.
We
arrived at our boat, the Beatriz, just before the sun cast its setting
across the river’s expanse. We entered on the first deck which
housed the kitchen, showers, and the living quarters (i.e. tied
hammocks) of the boat crew. The upper deck would be our home for the 10
days of the trip. Our hammocks - the only bedding available - would be
tied to the ceiling by day and let down by night. The choppy waves of
the first night, combined with the foreign sleeping arrangements, made
any sleep fitful at best. We soon learned how to manage the hammocks
(the key is to lie sideways, not like a banana) and sleep came
easier.
We awoke the first morning to an approaching squall.
Storms on the Amazon are like the worst of those at sea: immediate,
swift, overpowering. As the fierce winds broke the calm of the morning,
the crew struggled to drop the outer tarp to protect against the rain.
I later learned that river storms can be deadly if they so
choose. They usually push downstream, but occasionally they reverse
course and move upstream, going (as our group’s leader stated)
“against every fiber of nature.” The thunder, the pounding rain, the
wind, were unlike any creation of man.
The Amazon itself is
either an ocean or a massive lake, but it never feels like a river. At
its widest it spans over 200 miles, but it remains overwhelming for its entire meandering course. Its tide is a yearly one, which had just begun receding during
our trip. The rapid drop of the water table would make it impossible
for us to reach several villages without a shuttle.
Each in our
group of 11 was assigned one of five tasks: construction, medical,
dental, optical, or Vacation Bible School. Construction was rarely
needed, but the other groups needed all available help. I assisted
where I could, organizing the medical supplies, making trips to the
boat, taking photos. Everyone worked hard, sweat hard, and (after
getting adjusted to the hammocks) slept hard.
The poverty in
these villages is different from that which I’ve seen elsewhere. Amazon
villages are blessed with abundant natural resources; one need only step into
the jungle or into a canoe to find one’s next meal. Most villagers
thrive in their subsistence living.
The heartbreak of this region is
what can only be called neglect; a neglect by the government, NGOs, churches, doctors, and myself. Access to resources for an elementary quality of life
(basic medical care; basic medicine, like Aspirin, more so) is sparse
and poor. The people are happy, of course, having only a vague idea what they lack,
yet the essential accouterments
of healthy life are almost wholly absent.
Few in our over-medicated,
under-interested American society can fathom a life in which paper cuts go
without Band-aids, headaches without pills. This is daily life for
most on our planet and it passes unheeded, unexamined by the affluent
West.
Brazil did not show me total poverty - Kenya and Tanzania revealed that - but it stands as another
reminder of the blessings we’re given
and the selfishness with which we hoard them. To what does the latest
political gossip amount while a malnourished African boy fashions
sandals out of tire scraps, constructing the only shoes he’ll own for
years? Of what use is the latest “essential” gadget in bringing basic
sanitation to children of the Amazon?
The audacity with which we live our isolated American lives is never
clearer than when reflected in the
eyes of a stricken child. Those
eyes, full of unrealized hope, rightfully haunt all who see them. Their
gaze should draw all of us away.
