On our third night aboard the M. Montiero, I came down with a fever. My wildly swinging temperature demands coupled with the multitude of insect bites all over my legs led Jim to suspect malaria. The next morning, a far more likely culprit was found: the rather dubious mince that was served at dinner.
Of the nine gringos aboard the ship, two others suffered the same food poisoning symptoms as I. Others, like Jim, were plagued with constant stomach pains that would last for the next couple of days. Most of us gave up on canteen meals there and then, turning instead to a staple of Cup-Of-Noodles and cookies.
The M. Montiero's first three days of travel were smooth and without pause. From my bedridden fourth day onwards, however, we would make port for several hours each day to offload cargo to tiny jungle villages along the Rio Negro. The more knowledgable amongst our group of gringos suggested catching a speedboat directly to Tabatinga from Friday's destination, Benjamin Constant. Eager to shed the two extra nights of Cup-Of-Noodle dinners, Jim and I were quick to agree.
Just past lunchtime on Friday, we farewelled our floating home and set out on a speedboat with seven other backpackers representing France, Canada, Norway, the U.K., and Spain. For 15 reais per head, the journey was an exciting change from the pleasantly slow pace of the cargo ship.
Tabatinga is tiny and services are rather sparse. The town is serviced by a plentiful taxi fleet of cheap, motorcycles (called moto-taxis), but often, there is hardly a larger vehicle in sight. A search for a taxi that would take our backpacks proved fruitless, so our seven-person group embarked on a 15-minute walk from the Tabatinga docks to the Brasilian immigration office in the centre of the town. Once officially stamped out of Brasil, we crossed an invisible border on our way to the airport in Leticia, where we obtained entry stamps for Colombia.
Leticia's airport is, bar none, the smallest airport I have ever seen. Neither customs nor immigration checks seem to be well enforced, as all immigration tasks take place in a small, air-conditioned office that is tucked away to one side of the airport - which really just is one large room. A quick enquiry at the AeroRepublica counter in the airport yielded surprisingly favourable results, and we were allowed to change our flight to leave for Bogota two days sooner than planned, and at no extra charge.
Once we returned to the city centre, Jim and I split away from the rest of the group to check in to the best hotel our money could buy. In Leticia, this means the Hotel Yurupary, which at US$27 per room per night, boasts a pool, poolside bar, in-house restaurant, and air-conditioning. One thing we did not get, however, was hot shower water. Yet another profanity-spouting shower ensued. Surely I have endured way too many of these cold showers on this trip!
During our city centre wanderings later that evening, we bumped into Anja (a Norwegian girl who had travelled with us from Manaus), two others from her hostel, and their Colombian host. When asked if he was native to Leticia, I was surprised and amused to hear the host reply: "No, I am from the mainland." It was only upon flicking through my guidebook that I understood his comment on Leticia's isolation. While it is undoubtedly closer to central South America, Leticia is located in the Amazon Basin, which is a large part of the 40 or so percent of Colombia that is controlled by guerrillas.
Under this new light, the town took on more of an air of the surreal than ever. On one hand, manicured shrubbery line and divide wide, well-paved streets. On the other, armed police officers stand guard at every street corner, as if warding off some danger of which I am as yet unaware.
Also strange to me was how every man and his dog, so to speak, seems to own a motorcycle in Leticia. The culture makes for some unlikely motorcycle riders, including entire families with small children, pregnant women, and girls who, besides their shoddy motorcycle helmets, were dressed up to the nines for a Friday night date.
Then again, I guess helmet hair probably isn't too big a deal in these parts and at this time of year anyway. It is now wet season, which means constant drizzles and sudden storms - as Jim and I witnessed on Friday evening. So much for having a swim in the hotel pool!
posted by liz at
11:35 PM
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