Salt Touched

Let me begin by telling you this: the amazon is not what you think it is. It is so wide that at times it feels less like you’re sailing on a river and more like you’re transversing a particularly muddy ocean. One where you’re not quite certain you want to know what’s below the surface. The first time I sailed the amazon I was disappointed to see nothing but muddy water stretching seemingly as far as the eye could see.

At least, that’s what I remember, but I think my memory may have been tainted by the pall that hangs over the contract that is associated with it, because doing this same route now has presented me with quite a different picture.

Because the amazon is also exactly what you think it is. The hot, wet, air presses down on you like a thick wool blanket, and if you are not careful to keep yourself hydrated that heat can have dire consequences. At the narrower points of the river you can see the jungle clawing its way up to the sky in fits and tangles, fighting against itself for every last scrap of sunshine. Under that canopy are species we have not even discovered yet, this is the kind of place where you would not be surprised to find that legends are closer to truth than myth. There is no true scientific proof that there is not a giant anaconda dozing somewhere beneath those trees.

After all, the amazon is known to grow things big. When I was first here – almost 6 years ago – one of my co-workers and I thought we might take a stroll out on deck after work one evening. As we approached the door we looked at each other and wondered if it was raining…because that’s what it sounded like. But when we pressed our faces to the glass in the doors to look outside what we saw wasn’t rain…but insects. Mostly beetles and moths as I recall, of all sizes, from tiny to more massive than you’d ever truly think a multi-legged winged creature could become. What had sounded like rain was the sound of their tiny jewel-liked bodies beating themselves up against the glass and the decks. It was unlike anything I have ever seen before or since.

The swarm of beetles has not been recreated so far this trip, but it would not surprise me if that was yet to come. We’re here for another few days after all.

Of all the ports that we call at during our time on the river, Boca De Valeria is probably the most unique. Only our ships call here, and I am convinced that it is more for us to check in on them than anything else. The line’s history has it that the port was discovered accidentally, one of the ships travelling the river encountered mechanical issues and had to drop anchor just off shore while repairs were made; having little else to do, they lowered the tender boats and went ashore to explore. When they came upon the small village that they had sighted from the ship, they found that every single resident had locked themselves inside their houses, terrified of the onslaught of so many new and strange faces. Over the years we gradually built up a relationship with the village, and now we call on them perhaps once or twice a year. They are no longer as shy as they once were, but we also are careful not to force ourselves on them; these could easily be considered tribal people, their culture and their way of life does not need to be tainted or influenced by ours. We even tell the guests not to bring the children (who flock to the dock with offers of improvised tour guiding and handicrafts every time we arrive), candy or unnecessary sugar.

There are always guests who insist on believing that Boca De Valeria is some kind of a set-up, that no one actually lives there and that everyone goes home and the village sits abandoned after we depart. I could assure such people until I lose breath that such is not the case, that the world is not necessarily their own personal theme park; but I’ve come to realize that people will believe what they want to believe no matter how much truth you try and give them. And the truth in this case is that the village is precisely what it appears to be; for these people the jungle really is their back yard.

When it comes to this particular port, the best story I have heard is not the line’s, nor mine (my time in Boca De Valeria the last time I was here consisted of exactly five minutes before I was intimidated by so many strangers pushing into my personal space and high-tailed it back to the ship) – it’s Amras’.

Over ten years ago when he called here for the first time, he came across a family that, despite the vast gulf between their two languages, he was able to bond with. There were pictures taken that day, and purchases made and all that expected kind of thing. Two years later he came back, and found the same family, and to his delighted shock, they remembered him.

Then we came back this season, and I was able to stand and watch in basically mute amazement as he was able to find the same family again. Although the little girl he met so long ago has now grown up and – as far as we can gather – has children of her own in another town, the mother still remembered him. Personally I was just glad to be there, it’s not often that you get to witness something like that. The world needs more of the kind of joy those kinds of circumstances can bring.

Getting to their home required a bit of a trek from the dock and through the jungle, but it was so very much worth it.

Leaving as small a footprint as we could, we left the village behind us and slipped back out into the what I still suspect may be one of the strongest currents on earth (strong enough that we had extra officers manning the tender boats for the whole day), and churned our way upriver to our next port…