Tudo Bem

Parana do Paratari, AMAZONIA, BRASIL
Targeted fish: tambaci, tucanare, piraracu, sahardeon, janjea, piraiba, pirarara, arowana, triera, caruazu, bobo, jiju, surubi, cascuda, pechibuey, piow, sardina, jaraci, piranha, many others….39 different species were quickly rattled off by da Silva girls (excuse the phonetic spelling)
Fishing methods: setnet, harpoon, bow and arrow, hand-tossed net, hook, paralyzing powder made from tree bark
Footwear: nada, bare feet
Favorite local sayings: “Tudo bem” (All’s good or no worries, used lots like “Pura Vida” is used in Costa Rica)
Local food: A combination of peche, arroz, and feijon (fish, rice, and beans), spagetti, and lots of corn farina. Fish soup or fried fish. Guayaba and cacao fruit. On rare days, gallina (chicken) or carne preservada (canned beef product).
Drink of choice: Nescafe coffee, Escudo beer
Local entertainment: swimming, teasing piranhas, Saturday night Catholic mass, community bingo games
Local music: mostly absent upriver (no power), but in certain homes, the incredible percussive beats of SAMBA!
Select Local Fishing Boats: Of all the canoes in the region, only one was named: Deus e Amor- God and Love. (This was a typical name painted on larger boats downriver in Belem. Although not as tough sounding as the Time Bandit, it calls upon two omnipotent forces for protection, and so it’s probably a superior choice.
Local Fruit: over 60 different fruits mentioned as being commonly eaten, plus six different types of bananas

On my final evening upriver, Antonio set his nets in a small lake, which we reached only by getting out of the canoe and pulling it (barefoot) through a shallow stream that stemmed off of the big Solimones. The offshoot was less stream and more a tangle of spiky vines and reeds, but at least it was brief. Once we mucked our way into the opening of the lake, huge flocks of brilliant white stork-like birds crossed above like they had waited for us to show off. Dipping up and down just above the water, flocks of noisy black birds passed, their group so thick it looked more like a dark and fuzzy low-lying cloud. Antonio set the nets quickly, instructing sternman Joe as to where he wanted to set with a word or wave of his hand. He told me that the lake held some especially big jacare, and I had every reason to believe this, judging by the especially dense amount of life- even for Amazon standards- above the water.

On the trip back to his house, I could see why Antonio had been quick with his net-setting. A fine tropical rainstorm was daring us to outrun it. Antonio throttled his engine to it’s highest, but of course the storm won. It was as if the canoe were passing under a waterfall continuously for 20 minutes- what must have been inches of rain. And then the storm passed and the sun came back out for a blazing sunset.

At 5am we were back on the lake. Still dark, the birds were quietly roosting, but the occasional giant bat swung through the flashlight’s orb. As we approached the first net, an intimidating thrashing of reeds distracted us both, and Antonio paddled straight towards the ruckus and into the reeds. Two red eyes glowed from further in. Antonio threw his two-pronged harpoon and the world went crazy. Antonio had stuck a jacare of the “Mucho grande” variety, and the receiver wasn’t happy about the matter. The harpoon tip was attached to about 20 meters of stout cord, and this was attached to the harpoon’s shaft by a few piece of weak cotton string. With the explosion, the shaft had come loose, as designed, and now Antonio had nothing but a long leash on his new pet. I had no idea what could be done next, it being still dark and the jacare of unknown size being held somewhere within 20 meters but having only suffered an annoying skin piercing. Loud thrashing continued. Antonio told me to paddle in full reverse- attempting to tow the croc out of the reed cover. The chaos incarnate would have none of this and I couldn’t pull the boat an inch.

Antonio had done this dance before, though, and was unimpressed by the stubborn animal. He pulled steadily on the cord, carrying the boat towards the red eyes, whacked the croc on the head with his paddle (after which, exactly twice, the beast took at good chomp at the bottom of the canoe), and backed the boat away, al the while keeping tension on the cord. After repeating this over and over, and waiting calmly at a 20 meter distance between surges, Antonio finally traded his paddle for a machete, and, with the absence of fanfare more characteristic of his father, placed a few quick strikes on the neck of the tired jacare. With this, the vertebrae was quickly severed and splashing stopped immediately. As dramatic a scene as it may have seemed to me (and as much as I’m describing it like a medieval battle), this was just another morning of bringing home Amazonian bacon for Antonio. He had carefully but efficiently killed a three-meter jacare- lots of steaks for an asado (barbeque), a nice change of fare from the usual fish. There was little entertainment value in this for Antonio, and it certainly wasn’t done for bragging rights.

By the time the aquatic grizzly of the Amazon was aboard it was light enough to see, and the birds were declaring the arrival of dawn. The nets, perhaps due to the violent flush of rain the evening before, held a nice batch of arowana, long slim fish which boast massive scales and an impressive forked goatee. This was one of the very few days since I’d been with Antonio that he’d caught a sizeable amount of fish to sell to market. There may have been a little extra sparkle in his grin as we left the lake.

From Josa’s house, I waived down the passing transport boat, and in three hours I was in a different Brasil, a different world. Music blared from boomboxes and street vendors hawked pirated copies of the latest Hollywood movies: the streets of Manacapuru. Here and in Manaus, only a few hours further from the da Silva’s floating home, with a little sweat and toil it seemed like a person could make a decent living at all sorts of different jobs. Why does Antonio and his clan continue to eek it out fishing upriver, when they could earn more and eat better in a city so nearby? Antonio had actually known big city life- he’d worked for four years in Manaus transporting vegetables to and from the market- and had chosen to come back to the river life. What keeps him here when he seems so constantly broke? Probably the same thing that keeps Mainers from moving to Boston, that stops every last Alaskan from moving to Anchorage, the same things that keeps outpost Newfoundlanders clinging to the rock. Sometimes work is just what you do to afford living where you want, how you want.