It's a Jungle Out There
ESSAY / BY GRETCHEN SCHOENHOF
Shimmying catwalks,
cold showers, pushy monkeys and
killer bees
are quite enough for one reluctant eco-tourist
Most people reared
on Tarzan movies have a romantic idea of
exploring the
jungle. Personally, my curiosity was totally satisfied
by Johnny Weissmuller
and Maureen O'Sullivan. So, you may wonder
what I was doing
chugging up a narrow tributary of the Amazon River
with 15 other
people, peering out into the pitch dark and listening to a
chorus of monkeys,
birds and other creatures. Good question.
Several years
ago, at the height of the craze for Amazon adventures, my
husband, Gene,
and I received a letter from the New York Botanical
Garden inviting
us on what was, for us, an unusual journey.
"Gretchen, look
at this, a trip to Brazil to study ways to preserve the rain
forest," he
said. "There'll be several botanists along as guides."
"Hmmm," was my neutral reply.
I scanned the
letter. It described the fall trip starting in Rio, where we
would visit
the botanical garden, then fly to Manaus to stay in a luxury
hotel and visit
the famous opera house. Next, we were to stay overnight
at a camp deep
in the rain forest and learn about experiments on
preserving the
remaining forest without depriving the Brazilians of the use
of the land
for their livelihood.
Returning to
Manaus, the group would spend a day on the Amazon River
and two nights
in a remote jungle hotel. There we would study the flora
and fauna and
learn about the lives of indigenous peoples along the river
and how they
used the plants around them.
"Well, I've never been to Brazil," I admitted.
"It might be fun. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," my husband noted.
"Let's think about it for a couple of days," I stalled.
We signed up.
As my story begins
we are more than halfway through the trip, tooling
along at the
end of a long day on the river. At 4:30, the captain had
announced it
would be four more hours before we reached the Ariaú
Jungle Hotel
(today the Ariaú Amazon Towers Hotel, considerably
expanded). Now
it is nearly 9 o'clock. As we work our way up the
narrow branch
of the Río Negro, the blackness is intense. Suddenly
thousands of
sparkling lights appear that soar from the river to an
amazing height,
like a magical stage set.
First, several
flights of stairs ascend from the riverbank, then at the top,
two large round
wooden towers of the hotel loom twinkling out of the
darkness. The
river, now at low ebb, will rise 65 feet by the full rainy
season, covering
the stairways.
We all climb
the stairs and greet the hotel staff. We climb more stairs that
curve around
the outside of the tower to reach the dining level, three
levels up. Screens
encircle the entire building to keep out the monkeys,
we are told.
Good thinking. We enjoy a delicious buffet of catfish stew,
chicken and
rice.
So far it seems a great spot. I start to relax. My mistake.
After dinner
we are escorted to our rooms. Out the door in the top level
of the tower
swings a narrow catwalk suspended on 60-foot-long poles
that rise through
the dark from what I hope is the ground. My husband
and I are first
in line. I freeze. I am like Jimmy Stewart in "Vertigo."
"Please can't
we cross over on the ground?" I implore. Whatever animal
life lurks below
seems an inviting alternative. While it is explained to me
that this is
the only way, all the rest of the jungle travelers wait impatiently
behind.
We set out. I
clutch my husband's waist, and blue with terror and very
embarrassed,
we progress very, very slowly.
Finally, on solid
ground, I plead with the hotel clerk to find me a room,
any room, accessible
over ground. "But we have given you the best room
in the hotel
-- right at the top!" explains the troubled manager. "There is
another, lower
catwalk you can cross tomorrow," he assures me. He
doesn't know
I plan to remain here to eternity rather than return as I
arrived.
Safe in our open
room under the thatched roof, we strip off our clothes
and race to
the shower. Only cold water drips down over our tired
muscles. Oh,
well, think camping, I tell myself.
Morning comes.
I get ready to strike out across the chasm with trembling
heart. As I
step out on the high wire, this time only 20 feet above the
ground, I see
a monkey jump from somewhere onto my startled
husband's shoulder.
This monkey is holding a small tube of toothpaste!
He sits eating
it and gazing at me, squeezing quantities out of the tube as
needed.
When we tell
the manager, he laughs and says it is always wise to keep
toothpaste out
of reach. "Don't be surprised if these monkeys land on
your head. They
do it all the time," he said. And as we hesitantly cross
back and forth
on the lower footbridge, we find he is correct.
We breakfast
on plantains, scrambled eggs, delicious cubes of something
made with coconut,
fresh fruit and coffee. Thus fortified, we descend the
stairs to the
river again and set out with the rest of the group with Scott
Mori, a botanist
from the New York Botanical Garden, whose specialty
is the sex life
of the brazil nut family, and Joe Barbosa, our Brazilian
guide. Like
many who are born near the edge of the vast Amazon, Joe is
part-Portuguese
and part-Indian.
e paddle off. Soon we see a group of women vigorously
washing clothes in the muddy brown water. We learn that they
are washing
the laundry from our hotel. I start to itch just thinking about
it.
After about 45
minutes we pull up to a small dock. Waiting for us are
about 15 villagers,
Joe's conhecidos, or friends, many wearing baseball
caps, sent from
the United States, the status symbol of the jungle. We
climb up simple
steps to a small camp. There are several square buildings
covered with
palm fronds tightly woven together in sheets. The roofs are
tin, also covered
with palm. Almost immediately, we are surrounded by a
huge swarm of
what we are later told are killer bees. We are instructed
to stand completely
still. No problem. Five minutes later, when this
delightful experience
ends, we start our tour of the little camp.
Next to the houses
is a spacious room used to turn the cassava plant into
farinha, or
flour, which constitutes the main staple of the native diet.
Beside it is
a shed where the fronds are woven. Next we see where the
children of
the family live. It's a one-room house, about 6 by 8 feet.
Inside, there
are four little hammocks hung one on top of the other in a
criss-cross
fashion. There is a poster of Tom Cruise on the wall.
We make it back
to the hotel and a swim is proposed. After listening to
the story of
how the natives put a cow into the river to see if the piranhas
are biting and
only cross if the cow doesn't disappear, I decide on a nap.
I am happily
about to doze off when I feel a strange dampness pass over
my face. I open
my eyes and notice that the sky has turned very dark.
The wind is
blowing into our open tower in a menacing sort of way, and
the vegetation
outside is an eerie pale green. I hear rumbling from afar.
Then, quite
suddenly, rain starts to fall in huge sheets like giant movie
screens, accompanied
by claps of thunder so loud I feel I have the
timpanist from
the New York Philharmonic at my bedside. I huddle
under the thatched
roof. I am very glad to see Gene when he returns, not
struck by lightning,
eaten by piranhas or chewed by alligators, just very
wet.
Later that evening,
we stop by the office to arrange for a private boat to
take us back
to Manaus in the morning. We are leaving the trip early to
attend a business
meeting in São Paolo. Afterward, we join the group --
we are all friends
by now -- to compare notes about our day and sip
caipirinhas,
the wickedly strong Brazilian cocktail. We have another
delicious supper
and then retire to our room to pack. About 3 o'clock in
the morning,
I wake up feeling very sick. After several trips to our
luxurious bathroom,
I know I have food poisoning.
Am I sorry I
went? No. It was an amazing, if rigorous, adventure. The
forest is magical,
and the sound of the monkeys and birds at night is like
nothing I have
ever experienced. The vastness of the Amazon River -- its
flood plain
extends up to 30 miles wide -- is an unforgettable sight, even
the horrendous
rain storm was something to see once.
But the next
year we got another letter, this time to go to an exotic and
fascinating
island off the coast of Brazil. Alas, pressing business
prevented our
departure from New York. Our trip to the jungle was a
once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity, and for me once in a lifetime was enough.