Shit, I’m swimming in the Amazon, Manaus, August 2008

Dear Jess and Kelly, alto cinqo.

Manaus is muggy.  Really muggy.  You can almost see the water droplets forming in the air in front of you.  I had flown in at dusk and as I waited for the airport bus the cloud filled sky changed from pink to purple.  Now I was on the ground I was confused; from the plane window all I saw was rainforest.  Just a vast expanse of green.  So now I was sitting in a concrete bus shelter, on a concrete road, outside a concrete airport with not a tree in sight, I was starting to question my sanity.  I mean, I knew Manaus was a city in the middle of the Amazon, but I hadn’t really expected a city.  More a large village.  Maybe even a small town at a push. 

The hostel was also puzzling, for a start it was packed.  I was sleeping on a mattress in a hallway.  Where had all these people come from?  Manaus is not easily accessible; one solitary road leads from Bolivia in the south, through to Venezuela in the North.  The boats that run along the river only leave every two days and the flight is ridiculously expensive.  At breakfast I did some detective work and discovered that everyone was there for a conference, a herpetology conference.  I recoiled.  Herpes required a whole conference?    No, don’t be ridiculous, herpetology is the study of amphibians and reptiles.  Of course.  I knew that.  The kind, if slightly pitying man who explained all of this to me was an American who specialised in frogs.  Conversationally I was up the creek without so much as a current, let alone a paddle, but he was on a role.  Who knew of the obstacles that poor field scientists such as himself faced on such a regular basis when trying have their extremely rare and previously undiscovered frog recognised.  The plebe in me couldn’t resist, I asked him to name his next new species after me, the Amandicus Rosicus or something along those lines.  I figured after the lecture I had had to endure for the past 45 minutes I was owed this much.  He laughed nervously.  Maybe not.

So onto the purpose of this trip.  The Amazon.  The mighty river we all learn about in school and the plight that the rainforest surrounding it faces.  I pictured myself, Indiana Jones style hacking my way through ancient creepers to the centre of the untouched jungle.  Of course I then proceeded to book myself on a very tame and touristy 3 day tour which involved a guided stroll and a boat trip.  Although not plush, the ‘retreat’ may as well have been 5 star luxury compared to some of the hovels I had been accustomed to previously; beds not hammocks, three square meals a day and a jetty from which to jump.  Yes that’s what I said, jump.  I was a little taken aback at this revelation.  “Jump” I questioned… “into that?”.  The river looks like something Oliver may have asked for seconds of, not to mention the beady marbled eyes of caiman, sloping lazily by, no doubt eyeing us up for their next meal.  I had been given all the assurances and I wasn’t going to be accused of packing my bikini for nothing.  So standing on the edge I took a deep breathe, closed my eyes ready to leap from the edge.  Then, out of the hut behind me ran three skinny white boys yodelling at the tops of their lungs, they passed me in a blur and catapulted themselves into the water.  Well, I thought, what a way to ruin a dramatic and life defining moment.  Now there was nothing more to do than preserve my dignity and hop in behind them.  The water was a lot warmer than I had expected, like a bath.  Probably due to the silt suspended around me as a floated, everything felt smooth and thick against my skin.  Then it suddenly struck me, here I was, in the middle of the rainforest, swimming in the Amazon.  Do things get better than this?  

Ode to Autumn

Autumn, the king of seasons.  Royal golds and regal reds set fire to the trees.  The weak morning sunshine streaming through the slit in my curtains is transformed to a warm glow.  You can hear this season, it whispers through cracks and under doors, or roars at you in open spaces.  You add you own accompaniments, the parched leaves shattering underfoot with a familiar crunch.  I live beneath two ancient oak trees and they release their acorns in one fail swoop every year.  Outside my front door lies nature’s answer to bubble wrap, the satisfaction of each step is toe curling.  Suddenly all I want is coffee; coffee while I’m sat in the sun, outside a café, snuggled into my hat and scarf.  Cheshire cat grin, squinting towards the sky.  Scarves.  What a revelation.  I relish the moment when I leave the house and think, ‘oooh now, that’s a bit fresh, better get a scarf’.  I have an entire draw devoted to this humble accessory (when you have limited wardrobe space this is excessive, trust me).  An addition to this addiction has been hats.  I lived for a long time under the impression that I wasn’t a ‘hat person’ (I am also not a sunglasses person, or a dog person) but I must overcome my fear, as frankly, hats are cool. 

As the months grow darker Autumn has not just one, but two festivals to lift your spirits.  As a child I would look forward to Halloween with all the excitement of Christmas.  Hours would be spent fantasising about my outfit.  On my first ever Halloween, my mother bought me a clowns costume.  There was a yellow and white plastic polka dotted bow tie, comedically oversized in comparison to my three-year-old head.  A wig of rainbow colours and obviously the obligatory face paint.  I must have cut a fearsome figure as the two little boys who arrived for a trick-or-treating excursion burst into tears when they saw me.  I am still somewhat contented with this memory.  Only a few days later you find yourself strategically choosing layers to ward off the frosty night air as you stand in a field, craning your neck upwards as explosions of colour shimmer against a slate black sky.  Is there something morbid about celebrating the failed attempt of essentially our first terrorist?  Burning effigies certainly have something of the macabre about them but I am quite happy to put these qualms aside if it means steaming bowls of chilli con carne eaten al fresco.