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Pandora: God In The Jungle – Introduction

25 Sunday Sep 2016

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“for we cannot but speak of what we have seen and heard” ~ Acts 4:20



Dear Reader,

I have carried this story around in an invisible backpack a very long time. So long, in fact, I am not certain of the exact days and dates in which everything took place. Stored away under lock and key in the attic of my mind for nearly two decades, only a handful of people have been allowed into that reserved space of mental real estate to hear the story. Why? Primarily out of fear of being branded an enlistee in a hyper-faith church movement, denomination or other such religious label ordinarily associated with people telling such a tale as the one you are about to read – I detest labeling of that sort.

Why then do I choose to tell it now, to go public and risk the seering heat of the branding iron these many years later? God knows. Perhaps I have just grown too old to care what others may think, or maybe it has taken this long for God to burn out my senseless concern for being accepted or rejected by my peers and associates who I labor alongside side of in ministry and sit together with in ministerial circles. I really don’t know and with all due respect, I honestly don’t give a hoot.

What I do know is what I was a personal witness of; a supernatural God doing something supernatural in one of the most remote parts of the world. Thus to my friends, family, associates, acquaintances and colleagues please understand; This backpack has become too heavy – it is time to lighten the load, and might I add: If you should now or ever think to tell me “God Can’t” – you’re too late, and this story is why that is so.

Please note, this is a book I am currently writing and will add chapters here at my blog site as they are completed. I hope you will read along expressing your thoughts in the comment section.

 

Blessings to all,

Pat

Pandora: God In The Jungle – III

24 Saturday Sep 2016

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CHAPTER THREE

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us” ~ 2 Corinthians 4:7

I suppose it was spiritual embarrassment responsible for the guilt-ridden sense of shame I felt. “I am so-so sorry, Lord. How could I have ever doubted you? I will soon be 50 years old and not once have you ever abandoned me, not in the pulpit or in life. I have faced villainous people and threatening situations more times than I can possibly count. Mountains I couldn’t climb, rivers I couldn’t swim, valleys I couldn’t cross yet, I’m here, I made it, still going – Please, forgive me.”

Sitting down for lunch the mood was festive. “The devil got a black eye this morning”, I heard someone say. “Sent off packing”, another voice chimed in. The battle on the Amazon an hour or two earlier had gone unimaginably good. Fourteen people had made decisions for Christ with a dozen or so more seeking prayer. Every team member was with someone, no one sat idle, God showed up, and showed out. The pats on the back (though undeserved) were as free flowing as the river, “Great job, Pat”. That was an amazing sermon, brother, did you see the look on their faces? Those people were truly convicted, weren’t they?”
Truth is, whatever the content of the message was, I haven’t the slightest. I wanted to remember, I wanted to capture whatever words I had said and hold them hostage for use another time. Much like Winston Churchill’s 1939 radio statement concerning Russia, however, the entire sermon remained “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma”. My only explanation for the lapse in memory is simple, though; it wasn’t me, the words weren’t mine.

Sitting there the center of attention, the man of the hour, the guy with a word from God receiving a boatload of accolades, I wanted to scream out aloud; “Stop it! Just stop it! Don’t you guys get it? That wasn’t me out there this morning. The man you saw nonchalantly moving about with a bible in his hand doing whatever it was he was doing, that was a zombie – dead man walking. The voice you heard, that wasn’t mine. Like John the Baptist, I was but a voice crying out in the wilderness (the jungle, or the rain forest, whichever you prefer to call it), but more like doubting Thomas than John the Baptist. God stepped up to the plate this morning, ladies and gentlemen; he took the bat out of my hands, he hit the ball, he drove in the runs – it wasn’t me.”

I joined the celebration letting the world see a smiling face, but the heart of shame that pounded in my chest they did not see. I had not trusted God at the breakfast table, I had tried to manufacture a sermon on my own. The fact of my not knowing anything at all about the people I would preach too, their manners and customs, their language, the idioms and other parts of speech peculiar to their language never entered my mind. I was just mindlessly going through the motions of regularity doing things as I always have. I had a lot to learn on this trip, and there was so much to learn about. A foreign people, a foreign land, myself, and the God I thought I knew. It’s funny in a way, finding out how little how much we think we know about God is.

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No one kept count. We had handed out at least a case of bibles and two packages of “Good News” gospel tracts, both in Spanish. The morning’s effort had been something I would imagine similar to the events of Acts 2 on the day of Pentecost. Other than people talking and the boats engine begging for more Pennzoil, I didn’t hear a sound nor did I feel a breeze. Little doubt, though, a mighty rushing wind had made its way down from heaven sweeping over the bow of the boat. I don’t think I spoke in a language not my own, I’m not certain, but my preaching tongue was definitely under the control of the Holy Spirit.

Walking through the boat a little later, I fully expected to see the bibles and tracts laying around without a crease in the page and definitely not dog-eared. Many times I have passed out literature at public gatherings and events later finding them littering the ground or tossed in a garbage can. Many years ago I was asked by a concerned parishioner to visit with her brother who had been convicted of killing a convenience store clerk in an armed robbery and now sat on death row in Huntsville, Texas. Knowing he would soon step into eternity, she needed peace.

Having leaped the hurdles and jumped through all the hoops required by the Texas Department of Corrections for “Spiritual Advisor” visits, I made the two and half hour drive down I-45 in a little under 4 (Texas highways are most always under construction). Arriving at the prison, the guard towers overlooking the 11,247-acre compound known as the Ellis Unit grabbed my attention. Was a guard with a .30-06 putting me in the crosshairs? Probably not, but you will think about it. Having been searched at the guard shack (me and the thing I called a car) I drove through the gate, located an empty slot and parked. I had been in prayer mode all 171 miles of the journey but the thought of entering a maximum security prison being a bit chilling, one more prayer seemed appropriate before going in.

Twelve-foot ceilings connected to the floor by means of cinderblock walls painted a dismal looking battleship gray gave the building an appearance much older than its 25 years. Rusty pipes delivering hot water from the boiler room for heating cell blocks and areas where inmates were housed ran the length of the ceiling, water stained from apparent leaks at the joints. The ambiance was that of a medieval dungeon, although well lit, the feeling was dark and cold – had me thinking I should have chosen to wear a long-sleeved shirt in spite of the warm temperature floating somewhere around the 80-degree mark. I met first with the prison chaplain who gave me a quick what to expect education for the first time visiting minister and a rather less than optimistic appraisal of spiritual life in the penitentiary.

“Everyone gets Jesus in prison”, the man who looked like Robert De Niro with a Jimmy Durante’s nose said laughing. “When you leave today, you will see two trash cans just outside the gate”, he continued. “One for trash, the other a recycle bin for bibles. They all find Jesus inside these walls, most choose to leave him here on their way out”.

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The noisy engine continued playing its worrisome song as I stepped down into the boat’s belly, far less unsettling than the one sang by the three prison doors locking behind me as I passed through them that day in Huntsville, though. Not a single tract on the floor, no bible laying around and none in the garbage. Not at all what I expected, they were held tightly in people’s hands, being read. One older man I would guess nearing 70 based on his white hair and wrinkled face, sat alone engrossed in the book. I stood there watching for five or ten minutes, he never looked up. It was the same story all over the boat, even the watchful woman who earlier sat like a guard on the post in a hostile environment protecting her plantains, her baby and her chicken was reading the bible unconcerned with me or anyone else.

Beneath the I-45 bridge in Dallas, the street people happily receive and make use of the food and clothing our church and other ministries distributed each week. Items made of paper (cups, plates, bibles and tracts), however, would be taken with a smile and a gracious thank you, then become kindling for the burn barrels located outside their tents and cardboard box houses minutes after the good Samaritans would pack up and drive away. The majority would stand patiently listening to a sermon, not so much in a sincere interest, but because it was their food ticket, the price for a slice of pepperoni pizza. A bible they could get just about any time at the downtown Gospel Mission or the Salvation Army shelter. Quite the opposite, a bible on a boat in the Amazon was treated a treasure to be read and absorbed, and from my vantage point, these people were sponges. For a minister of the gospel, it was like hitting the jackpot in Vegas witnessing this unearthly or better said, this unlike back home phenomenon – a people sincerely hungry for the Word of God, genuinely grateful to be owners of a bible, eyes glued to every line.

The day had been a long yet glorious chain of events – unforgettable. Following a dinner of boiled chicken, beans, and rice, a lot of inspiring conversation recapping the day gave way to heavy eyes – it was time to again tame the cloth tiger. I fell into the hammock that night an Oscar-Meyer wiener in a hot dog bun but that was okay, not the heat, not even that obnoxious engine would rob me of the joyous adrenaline my heart sent surging throughout my body bringing peace and needed rest. I prayed silently, “Thank you, Lord, for this amazing blessing, for all I have seen and witnessed today. Forgive me for having doubted you this morning, I will never do that again” – or so I thought. “Good night, Jesus.”

 

Pandora: God In The Jungle – II

16 Friday Sep 2016

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CHAPTER TWO

“preach the word; be ready in season and out of season. . .” ~ 2 Timothy 4:2

 

It’s Wednesday morning now, I think. Already having lost track of time back in Iquitos, what the hands on the clock may have read at the moment wouldn’t matter much anyhow. No one seemed to care what day it was, it was just a day like all others. Sun comes up, sun goes down, a redundant and monotonous cycle meaning only, “Do what needs to be done while you can see what you need to do”. Although you won’t hear it said quite that way, it is indeed befitting of jungle dwellers – a motto they all should adopt. When the sun goes down in the rain forest you can’t see anything, you won’t be able to find the latrine nor the path leading to it. You won’t even be able to find yourself – pack a flashlight and lots of batteries. As a side note, feed the Energizer Bunny well, don’t trust off brands. Lay out a few extra bucks for the name brand batteries like Energizer and Duracell and you might not get caught alone in the dark wondering not who, but what may be there with you.

Our adventure having only begun, we were still river miles away from Pandora. The morning sun began dancing over the waters bouncing rays like a Ping-Pong ball into my wanting to stay shut eyes. The suns resolve to rise, however, being more powerful than the determination of my sleepy eyes to remain closed, it was the Sun 1 – Pat 0. I mentally cursed the noisy engine for being the thief in the night sleep robber it was when all at once the reality of where I was dawned – snug as a bug in a rug, but – in a hammock.

Hammock: a 7.5’X4.5′ single-minded, demon possessed piece of stretchable cloth having multiple strands of rope attached to both ends and suspended horizontally between two points (usually posts or trees); used for chilling, siestas, sleeping and falling out of to sustain bumps, bruises, and foul language ordinarily not associated with missionaries and members of the clergy. 

The video processor in my head running an instant replay of yesterday’s Pat vs the Hammock show brought up an embarrassing vision of everybody getting another belly-busting laugh at my expense. Lucky for me, though, I was able to avoid the same rookie mistakes and come off looking the pro landing directly on my feet first try. “I beat you, you moth-ridden hanging devil from hell, chalk me up a big ‘W’, put it up on the big screen by my name”. Whistling a victory tune my bare feet hit the floor and went staggering off to the bathroom, fortunately, taking my body with them – it had been a long night.

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A greater distance had grown between banks over the past six or seven hours. Ever widening, it seemed, we were somewhere in the river’s throat. Exactly where that was, I didn’t have a clue. Civilization becoming more and more a thing in the past, or so it seemed, reality began setting into my pea-sized brain; “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy, and this isn’t Oz. The Yellow Brick Road is the river on which you are afloat, and Emerald City is a primitive jungle village you might make it too if that clanking engine responsible for your restless night holds up. If not ask yourself, ‘what would Tarzan do’?”

Anticipating another sultry day brought to mind a twisted version of the Rich Man and Lazarus story found in Luke 16. Physically unable to go dumpster diving, you might say, Lazarus is a poor beggar whose body, ridden with sores, is laid each day at the gate of a Rich Man’s house begging to eat just the scraps that would fall to the floor from the overflowing buffet lavishing his table. For Lazarus, a pig’s diet would be a tasty and much-appreciated meal, but the rich man was without a single bone of pity in his plump body. Looking the other way turning a deaf ear to Lazarus’ cries, he goes his merry way ignoring the despicable looking beggar leaving his care to whatever stray dog might happen by to lick the lesions and abscesses riddling his diseased body.

One day both men die; Lazarus catches a flight to heaven, the rich man is shuttled off to hell. In torment, the rich man looks up to see Lazarus and father Abraham lounging at poolside with a glass of sweet iced tea and a wedge of lemon in hand. The rich man begs Abraham to allow Lazarus to dip his finger in the glass and come dab his parched tongue with the refreshing  wetness that he might have but a millisecond’s relief from his suffering.

That’s something like the way I was beginning to feel as the sun turned up the burners. Anything at all with a cube or two of ice would have been a real treat. But it didn’t happen for the rich man, and it wouldn’t be happening for me. No doubt hell is much hotter than the hottest hour on the Amazon, but a few days afloat along the equator will sure make you wonder about it.

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Inching slowly in a southerly direction (and I do mean “slowly”), the engine was still pleading for a bath of Penzoil as we came to a stop dropping off a few passengers who scampered up the bank to a greeting party quite anxious for their arrival. Were the children who stood atop laughing and leaping doing so in play? Were their spirited antics in delight to have their dads back home, or was it something else? A piece of hard candy, maybe? Medicine?

This was the Village of San Paulos, it was quite large as villages along the Amazon go and the last one we would see for another day and a half. A motorbike carriage like the ones that zipped through the streets of Iquitos ran along a lone dirt road kicking up clouds of dust as it sped out of sight, swallowed by the jungle. Like a rickshaw pulled by a motorcycle instead of a man afoot, these odd looking contraptions were operated by the cabbies of Iquitos. More like an amusement park ride than a taxi service, however; unknowing and unsuspecting tourists, such as myself (the day I took the plunge), would be rocketed through heavy traffic by drivers playing chicken with oncoming vehicles and dodging pedestrians. Quick stops, fast starts, and ninety degree turns at a rate of speed lifting a tire off the ground would together make for a wet your britches experience you were glad to have survived escaping with your life – but admittedly, it was a wind in your face blast.

After 15 minutes or so, we took on a couple of new passengers, a man, and a goat, and were moving again.

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The fresh scent of animal manure wafted in the morning air as we sat at breakfast. Not being a pig farmer, I didn’t find the aroma to go well with scrambled eggs and Jimmy Dean pork sausage, but we survived the unpleasant air quality and left the table with full bellies. Each day switching between Spurgeon’s, “Morning and Evening”, and Oswald Chambers’, “My Utmost For His Highest”, we had our usual devotional reading followed by a time of prayer. Being there as missionaries, Howard and Helen suggested we map out our day (not that we were on a tight schedule working against the clock) and be missionaries doing what missionaries do. Suggested and approved by majority vote (drawing straws actually), it was decided that one of us would preach to the native passengers this morning and another in the afternoon – you’d never guess which of us the lot fell on to be first at bat would you? My request for a recount was rejected as was my frivolous attempt to weasel out of it. The vote was in and tallied, “Hey, Pat, tag – you’re it”.

The fork moving from the scrambled eggs to my mouth, I contemplated my options finding two, 1) preach, and 2) preach. Given thoughtful consideration, I chose both. After the others had left the table I retrieved my Thompson Chain Reference Bible, King James Version, from my army green duffle bag sat down and began thumbing aimlessly through the onion skin sheets hoping something would jump from the pages like a Jack-in-the-Box to grab my attention for a sermon text – nothing. I bowed my head, whispered a quick prayer and looked again – still nothing. It just wasn’t working out for me. One of the guys sensing my frustration asked, “do you want to pray about it? – Already have”, I said. “Do you want to pray again? – I did that too”, I told him. “Do you want to go for a triple?” he said with a chuckle – we both laughed. Turning to leave he placed a common laborers calloused hand on my shoulder and reminded me, “chill buddy, God’s got this”.  “Perhaps he should preach then”, I fired back. We laughed again then he went about with his to-do list leaving me to mine.

It may help to understand I was a pulpit preacher, sermonizing by the book. A faithful adherent to the guidelines established by First Baptist Dallas pastor, Dr. W.A. Criswell in his classic work, “Criswell’s Guidebook For Pastors”, the sermons I brought were prepared well in advance of Sunday morning, scripted and shadow boxed before standing behind the sacred desk – reliance on the Holy Spirit’s guidance was in the preparation phase, not the delivery.

Always certain to look the part, my bible would be in hand as I stepped up on the platform even though I really wouldn’t need it. Scripture text and quotations were bold typed in the five or six pages of notes I had placed on the podium before services began and those are the ones I would be reading from. However, it was important for the congregation to see me open and set my bible atop the pulpit else in their minds, “you’re not preaching the word of God – you’re just making a speech”; and without holding the bible up over your head every once in a while, shaking it a little, the fire wasn’t going to come down and the sermon would be powerless, bearing no fruit for the kingdom, Dr. Criswell said so (okay, that’s stretching his words a bit).

Honestly, I could have used a Xanax walking up to the stack of crates my colleagues had put together for a makeshift pulpit to place the good book on, and to make the situation a little nervier, I would be speaking with an interpreter – I had not done that before. I had heard others do it, but me, oh no, not me, “can I just get a rain check.”

One of our team members had already kicked off our Church on the Water morning service with a few songs that drew a rather large number of people from their cubbyholes to see what was going on at the boats bow. He played his guitar and sang (in Spanish) with a holy passion that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck, it was truly beautiful. I couldn’t understand a single word coming from his lips but the tune I knew well, I sang along.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, there’s just something about that name;
Master, savior, Jesus, like the fragrance after the rain.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, let all heaven and earth proclaim;
Kings and kingdoms, will all pass away,
But there’s something about that name.”

When introduced, my wobbling legs moved towards the crude pulpit, trembling hands opened the bible to Romans 5:8 and in what had to be a noticeable quiver in my voice I began to read:

“But – God – commend-eth his — love – toward us, — in that, while we were – yet sinners, Christ died for us.”

There must have been 30 or so curious onlookers spersed across the bow of the boat and our entire group stood supportively close by. Even so, I felt alone; “Where are you, God? You put me here, do something”. Asking one of our team to lead in an opening prayer, I called for everyone to bow their heads, I did the same. As he prayed aloud, beneath my breath this frightened shell of a man cried out to God for help. I had not an ounce of confidence in myself that moment, and what I needed, right then – right there, was God to wake up from sleep and speak to the tempest in my soul as he did once before on the Sea of Galilee when his disciples were caught out on the water in a raging wind storm (Mark 4). “Say it again, Lord, please, say those three words once more – ‘Peace, be still’”.

What happened next, whatever words I spoke following the “amen”, I truly don’t remember. What I do remember, however, what I will never forget, are the tears streaming down the faces of the 14 natives who stepped forward answering the call to follow Jesus. Did a call even go out? Obviously so. Did I give an invitation? I guess I did. Truth is, I don’t know what I did, I don’t know how long I did whatever it was I did, I don’t know what I said, or if I had said anything at all. After tagging the opening prayer with a sheepish “amen” a Lion showed up – the Lion of the tribe of Judah; Pat had checked out, the Holy Spirit checked in. Come to pass for me that day were the words of 2 Samuel 23:2,“The Spirit of the LORD spoke through me; his word was on my tongue.”

We stood receiving those coming forward praying with each one. The unexpected number of people responding sent our interpreter into a tailspin, yet she was somehow able to keep up. Our entire team a sobbing mess handed out gospel tracks and placed bibles in the hands of any and all who would take one. It was a sight I had not seen in a very-very long time back home in Texas.

“Jesus”, I said to myself, “Is this why I am here? Patience my son”, a tender voice whispered, “be patient – we’ll talk later.”

Pandora: God in the Jungle – I

13 Tuesday Sep 2016

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CHAPTER ONE

 “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations. . .” ~ Matthew 28:19

 

The Delta flight departing Dallas/Ft Worth International in route to Atlanta arrived in the Peach State on schedule. Meeting up with a team assembled by Pioneer Outreach Ministries founders, Howard and Helen Toombs; we sat together in the airport terminal getting to know the 12 men and women from across the country who would be making the journey together on a four-week expedition deep into the heart of the Amazon Rain Forest. Our objective: build a house of worship and the faith of an indigenous jungle tribe who had recently received the gospel and would occupy that house.

Six or seven hours after take-off from Atlanta LAX, we disembarked the 747 directly onto the tarmac of Jorge Chavez International in the capital city of Lima, Peru. Exiting the plane, I quickly understood the need for the Environmental Protection Agency back home and was most grateful for it. Free-flowing toxins in the unregulated Peruvian air were nearly overwhelming, I felt nauseous. Burnt jet fuel along with diesel and gasoline fumes poured from aircraft exhaust systems and the tailpipes of automobiles, buses and commercial trucks lining the roads leading in and out of the airport. Thickened by plumes of gray smoke spilling from tall flue stacks in a neighboring industrial park, a brownish-yellow haze hung low in the rush hour sky. The only thing keeping the grizzly smog bank at bay, 30 feet or so above our heads, was the heat waves rising up in torrents from the near bubbling asphalt beneath our feet.

Wiping away the beads of sweat constantly popping out on our foreheads, we walked towards the terminal praying for favor with each step. Peru is probably not the best place in the world to be caught smuggling in contraband, but getting medical supplies to a people whose closest clinic would be a three to four-day journey, we thought the risk to be one worth taking.

Remaining poised, calm, cool and collected, we approached this burly, Lou Ferrigno looking customs officer who checked our credentials but nothing else. He did ask our reason for coming to Peru, however, and that set off flashing strobe lights, buzzers, bells and whistles in our minds. Howard and Helen had forewarned back in Atlanta to expect the question, but we were to say nothing about being missionaries or being there for religious purposes. The words “missions” and missionaries”, they told us, were red flags to the Peruvian authorities as missionaries were notorious for attempting to sneak things (however good) into the country and would result in a scrutinizing bag and luggage search that would consume time and may find us serving time. “Going on an Amazon fishing trip”, was my well-rehearsed reply, and it worked. It was also true, I did wet a hook a time or two.

Gliding through customs on spirit wings, we handed over our stamped passports to Helen for safe keeping, then hopped aboard a previously arranged charter taking a tired crew to the hotel where we would stay the night before making the second leg of our journey.

Overlooking the Pacific Ocean, Lima is a gorgeous city actually, World-Class should they clean up the air. Founded by Spanish conquistador Francisco Pizarro in January of 1535, Lima is home to one of the oldest higher-learning institutions in the New World, the National University of San Marcos. The colonial architecture is breathtakingly beautiful and well preserved. Magnificent cathedrals, top notch museums and lots of interesting places to taste the cuisine of South America make this multi-cultural city worth visiting. We saw bits and pieces on our commute from the airport and would see more on the return but for now, there were things to talk about and preparations to make.

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Following a morning devotional in the hotel lobby and a simple breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and a choice of grape or strawberry jelly, we loaded up the bus and were on our way back to the airport. The two-hour flight took us over the breathtakingly beautiful High Andes mountain range then down-down-down into the Amazon River Basin. Iquitos, the sixth most populous city in Peru, gateway to the Amazon, largest city in the world that cannot be reached by road – boat or air only.

A city of a nearly a half-million people, we were pretty much mobbed by a herd of children desperate to extract an American dollar from our pockets as we exited the plane. “Let me carry that for you. Do you need someone to show you around? Let me help you, I can take you wherever you want to go”. Just about anything imaginable was in their little hands, draped over their shoulders or hung across frail looking five-year-old arms attached to twelve and thirteen-year-old bodies. T-shirts, shoes, jewelry, exotic butterfly collections, Piranha mounted on wooden blocks and if lucky, themselves as your personal tour guide. “I make you a good price; Anything you want; American money is okay”.

We would later learn whatever money these impoverished children might make peddling their goods would go into the pockets of their parents or pimps, and if fortune’s smile would be so kind as to find them invited to be a traveler’s private escort, just maybe they would get something to eat.

Coming face to face with people living in conditions several feet below substandard, the poorest of the Peruvian poor, was expected. I just didn’t expect those faces we would come face to face with to be so small; nor did I expect it showing up on the travel docket quite so early in our journey. My heart had been broken arriving in Iquitos, and would be broke again before we left the next day, but not completely shredded. That moment, about three and a half days up the river remained buried amongst the thick ferns and towering trees of the rain forest in a tiny village the natives called Pandora.

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Early morning rainfall made for a muddy, slippery mess. Navigating the 45-degree slope leading down the river’s bank to the boat waiting to take us away was for us a challenge. The rows of merchants vying for one last sale, though, were unhindered by the slimy embankment. Sure footed, and quite industrious, they were all eager to make sure you made your way across the gangplank with the little luxuries unavailable the second you leave the landing. Like a troop of Carnies working a State Fair midway (minus the scent of corny dogs, popcorn, cotton candy, and beer); they held up their wares in display shouting aloud, beckoning you to their makeshift booths, “you don’t want to forget” this that or the other. Bottled water, toilet paper, an ice cold Coke (ice cold anything being something I would later kill for) snacks or a souvenir – “get it now – last chance”.

About a hundred and fifty feet, maybe two stem to stern, and about seventy-five feet wide, the big boat was an old clunker powered by a diesel engine in its belly. The loud rhythmic clanking of its cylinders pleaded for an extra quart or two of oil and was equally annoying as it was disturbing. Annoying in that the noise was pretty much a no sleep tonight guarantee while the thought of its giving up the ghost to leave us adrift or crashing into the river banks where some savage jungle tribe of pigmies looking for a head to shrink would hit the jackpot painted a not so scenic picture in my macabre imagination. I suppose I watched “Trilogy of Terror” one too many times.

Designed to be both a passenger and cargo vessel, river boats are the only means of public transportation throughout the Amazon basin for jungle dwellers and the adventurous tourist alike. Top to bottom, ours was a triple decker. Along with that obnoxious engine, the hull was the temporary home for peasants, those paying the lowest fare. Having precious little air flow below deck, it was horribly hot in the hull, sweltering. The stench of animal waste mixed with high humidity, not to mention the vermin (rats) and other nonhuman creatures I suppose lurked about, made for miserable conditions. However, it was just an ordinary day for native travelers, a place to perch with their goats, pigs, and chickens happy to be on the way back to home and family.

Deck level was for middle-class passengers (if there is a middle class in the jungle). They had it a little better, at least the air was less dense and an occasional breeze coming off the water would provide momentary relief from the heat and drive away the foul odors rising up through the cracks and crevices from below. The upper deck was the abode of the wealthy. By the standards of those in the hull, that was us. We were the big dogs on board; Americans, the only people on earth rich enough to enjoy the exclusive top floor accommodations

Although by comparison,  a port-a-toilet would be spa-like, we had a bathroom to use, not a hole in the floor. We had a kitchen to cook a chicken in, a plate with knives and forks, and something that resembled a worn and weathered picnic table with a bench to sit at taking our meals. In likelihood, these people had never seen a port-a-toilet much less a clean bathroom, and any effort to describe my kitchen and dining room table would be met with a deer in the headlights stare of bewilderment. A bed with a mattress and box spring – what’s that? A living room? Privacy? Will no one see you pee?

The third deck was a wide open area with steel poles floor to ceiling and cross beams spaced and running at a distance between so to enable guests to hang their hammocks. Allowed for was just enough room to crawl (or if like me, fall) in and out of those mindless devils without sending your neighbor into a cocoon making spin or tumbling out on the floor. I had attempted lying down in a hammock a time or two as a kid but never had I actually had to spend the night in one. It took a few embarrassing spills to get the hang of it without getting hung up in it, but after a few practice runs, I was able to keep the number of bumps and bruises manageable.

The makeshift kitchen was located at the stern (rear of the boat) with a bathroom smaller than an airline lavatory directly behind. A paper thin graffitied wall separated the two. Water was suction pumped up from the river into a small sink for washing dishes and cookware, and into the commode for flushing. In fear of a stray Piranha or something else slivering up the plumbing, I refused to sit on the throne.

Having put away our bags and setting our living space in order, I meandered throughout the boat familiarizing myself with the available amenities (there were none) and looking for a muster station with a life raft in case that clanking engine caught fire. What? No muster station? No life raft? Definitely not a vessel owned by Carnival or Royal Caribbean. What had I gotten myself into?

Down in the hull, I walked among the people doing my best not to trip over anyone taking a siesta acknowledging those who would look my way with a head nod and/or a smile. Not knowing their language and making my little stroll without an interpreter to accompany me, communication of any kind was dependent on body language and facial expressions. A woman with a small child sat atop a small heap of plantains holding both the little one and a chicken in what looked a gorilla grip. The survival of one being linked to the other, her beady eyes darted back and forth in watchful guard. Her possessions weren’t much, but she was vigilant, ready to spring into action at the slightest threat of ill will from anyone, including me. I wanted to cry and as quickly as I slipped out of sight, I did.

Moving up the narrow creaking stairwell to the first deck, I stood alone port side at stern staring at the murky waters churned up by the propellers thrusting the big boat further upstream. Brushing away the tears trickling down my cheek I found my gaze shifting between the river banks on both sides about two or three hundred yards away. With the sun slowly dipping behind the skyscraper-like trees, darkness began swallowing the entire basin – just a few more bites and the day would be gone.

“So this is the Amazon”, I thought to myself. “Home of the jaguar, black panthers, ocelots, monkeys, the giant anteater, anaconda, parrots, toucans, green poison dart frogs, the infamous piranha and an entire host of unnamed and perhaps unknown creatures yet to be cataloged by science. 2.7 million square miles of river basin encompassing the greater part of Brazil, Peru, and significant parts of Colombia, Ecuador, and Bolivia”. At that moment I was so small, so insignificant. Like one out of the billion stars beginning to twinkle in the infinite sky above, I found myself but a droplet of water in a vast and mysterious landscape of shadows. “Why am I here, really?” I would know the answer but not yet, it would have to wait for Pandora.