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.