The Devil lives in Belem

Security guards at Banco do Brasil carried machine guns

I met Bobby and Jessy down the Amazon from Belem.

First thing Bobby said was, “The Devil lives in Belem.” Jessy said, “Never trust a Brazilian.”

I disagreed. I’d met some pretty cool people in the country.

But then I heard their story. And then the next day I experienced my own story.

Bobby was a hard case Australian and a river rat having spent 7 years on the Amazon. Jessy, a US soldier, was AWOL from Vietnam waiting out the war in Brazil.

They both had enough of Brazil and were going to head north, as was I.

I had been on the road in South America for 5 months, now heading north, but was literally at the end of the road … there weren’t any roads across the Amazon Basin.

The solution: go out in the Atlantic.

A few weeks earlier Jessy, Bobbi and a Brazilian friend had purchased a 26-foot river boat. But through a previous arrangement made by the owner, they never got ownership.

After inspection, they had agreed on a price. The boat was in excellent shape, so then all walked up to office of the Mayor of Belem to sign lots of papers and hand over payment. To ensure everything was legit, the Mayor signed off as well as the Chief of Police and then it was handshakes and more coffee.

The new owners walked back down to the river. But as the previous owner disappeared down an alley, they realized the boat was gone.

They raced back uptown: the Mayor was no longer available and the Chief of Police provided nothing but a silent menacing glare.

The three persisted for a few days with authorities until they got the message when their Brazilian partner got hauled off a park bench on a trumped-up drug charge and jailed.

And this is where I came in.

They needed a third person to buy in to repair and outfit a second boat they were forced to buy. It was a similar 26-footer that, however, needed a lot of work. And from my side, I needed transportation north.

The next day I walked into Belen’s imposing Banco do Brasil:  lots of marble, a long row of well-dressed tellers and at the end, security carrying a machine gun.

I showed the teller US travellers cheques, but held them back, and requested 30,000 Cruzeiros in hundreds.

He started counting out in tens. I jumped back and let everyone know in a very large voice that I was being ripped off.

Security ran up and, to my honest surprise, stuck the muzzle in my stomach. I was the bad guy.

You could hear a pin drop for what seemed an eternity and then some other customers came forward, I assume not knowing Portuguese, to say I was doing no wrong.

The teller eventually calmly counted out the proper amount.

I returned to my new friends downriver to acknowledge that yes, I guess the devil does live in Belem and that I no longer will trust a Brazilian, certainly in Belem. Some say all the garbage, the flotsam and jetsam, the human detritus that floats down the Amazon ends up in Belem.

I also had now bought into a 26-foot Brazilian river boat with a flat bow and gaff rig, with a boom that stretched well past the stern, capable of carrying 3 ton of fish or 3 head of cattle.