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The River of Solitude in Brazil — Page 2
Story and Photos by Volker Poelzl

When we passed a large bay in the late afternoon, my girlfriend spotted a hut and a column of smoke that rose a short distance behind the muddy bank. We pushed our canoe up on the grassy bank and followed a narrow path to a clearing in the forest.

A woman and several children greeted us from an outdoor kitchen next to a thatched hut on stilts. They were caboclos, as Brazil's river people are called, descendants of native tribes and rubber collectors that once populated the region. My girlfriend introduced us and explained that we were looking for a shelter for the night. The woman, Dona Rita, immediately invited us to stay with them and sent one of her sons down to the river with us to get our gear. On the way we heard a shotgun nearby, and on our return to the hut we met Salomon, Rita's husband. He was a slim and agile man with dark sparkling eyes that revealed his unbroken energy. His shotgun hung over his shoulder as we exchanged a few words of greeting.

"Welcome to Bahia de Belém," he said. "I thought you had engine problems. That's what usually brings guests to our place." I told him that we had come in our canoe from the biological reserve and that we were paddling downriver. He shook his head. "You are doing this . . . for pleasure?"

I nodded. Then I asked him about the gunshot. Salomon led us to a clearing behind the hut and showed us the carcass of a large snake with a black zigzag pattern. It was at least eight feet long, and I could see its scales still moving, even with its head blown off.

"It's a bushmaster snake that I found all curled up like this." He made a spiraling motion with his hand. "I killed another one this morning. We have lived here for six years and have never seen any poisonous snakes," he said with concern. "I used my last cartridges today. We are unarmed now." He looked helpless for a moment, but he quickly recovered his spirit. "We'll have the sport fishermen on the river in a month. They always trade shot cartridges."

When we returned to the hut, Dona Rita offered us fresh corn bread, and we shared our chocolate with the children. After dinner we had a lively conversation with Rita and Salomon sharing tales of our different worlds. Our hosts showed an unbending optimism despite the difficulties they were suffering. To leave behind a hopeless existence and build a life along this remote river seemed more an act of desperation than of choice, but neither of them seemed to have any regrets. At bedtime, which comes early at Bethlehem Bay to preserve fuel, Salomon helped us string our hammocks next to the others and we spent a crowded night in the small hut with our hosts and their five children.

Downstream on the River of Solitude
Before our early departure the next day, we gave our hosts some of our provisions as an appreciation of their hospitality. "You have a long day ahead of you," Salomon remarked when he accompanied us down to the canoe. "If you paddle all day, you can get to Monte Cristo in the evening. You'll find empty huts there." We took his advice seriously and kept a steady pace all day. We paddled through a labyrinth of islands and bays, as the river meandered through a flooded landscape of grasslands and dense jungle. Several times we saw spider monkeys in the trees that dispersed with loud shrieks when they saw us. When we approached a small cove for a break, we saw several caimans sunbathing in the mud. We drifted by quietly while holding our breath, but the reptiles didn't take the slightest interest in us and remained motionless. Once we were past them we took to our paddles and quickly left the scene.

Just before sunset we finally reached the abandoned ranch outpost of Monte Cristo, where we set up camp in a dilapidated hut. Its interior had been devastated by the flood and was covered with debris and dry mud. We had to spread our tarp over the bulging floorboards before setting up camp. High-pitched sounds from the rafters suggested that we shared our abode with bats. We set up our hammocks and soon fell into a deep slumber of exhaustion to the distant roar of howler monkeys.

The next morning we broke camp early, and after checking our calloused hands, we pushed off through a field of water hyacinths out into the main river channel. Just over thirty miles to go. We gave each other a high-five and picked up our paddles, which seemed heavier than we remembered. We started slowly but soon regained our normal paddle rhythm. Left, left, left — change sides — right, right right. The river glistened in the early morning sun, and the water reflected soft hues of yellow and orange. One last day on the river of solitude.

Volker Poelzl is an adventurer, author, and travel writer with a passion for exotic and remote places. His travels have taken him to nearly 40 countries worldwide, and he continues to explore off-the beaten-path destinations. He is the author of Culture Shock! Brazil and Culture Shock! Portugal, and a contributing editor of TransitionsAbroad.com.

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