Memory Stick--First Chapter

Bob Penworthy leaned on the river boat’s railing, staring out at the dense jungle. A large bird, resembling a Great Blue Heron, lifted off and squawked its displeasure. As the boat swung around a slight bend, he heard another chunk of the undercut bank splash in the water.

 Bob recalled a particular copse of trees—with a Kapok tree growing straight out over the river—meant he had a mile to go before reaching Manaus, Brazil.

On past trips, he’d chartered Captain Jake’s sleek cabin cruiser, a far cry from this tub—a lot faster and infinitely more comfortable.

But, no matter how thoroughly Bob searched, Jake couldn’t be found at the embarkation point and he’d been forced to take the only available transportation back to civilization—this rust bucket.  

The Amazon Belle was no Love Boat, the three-decker plied the Negro River between Barceló and Manaus primarily carrying cargo and providing low cost transportation for the native Indians. An agonizingly slow journey, barely faster than a dugout, since she stopped at every village and settlement.

Frustrated with his accommodations and the length of time all ready wasted, he felt a mixture of anger and concern for Jake, although right now, anger constituted the major ingredient.

As the Kapok tree came into view, Penworthy moved closer to the railing opening. He wanted to be the first off. Not just because he was anxious the trip to be over, but because of what happened four days ago when the Belle had pulled into another nameless settlement.

  A dozen dirty, squealing hogs, several cages of chickens in full voice, baskets of tubers, they looked like taro roots, and four barrels of stinking fish were loaded.

He watched as the hogs and chickens were shuttled off to the cargo area. A few more malodorous critters, he concluded, won’t make a bit of difference. They’ll simply add to the miasma and nearly constant din.

Then, three Caucasians came aboard and Bob thought he’d finally have someone to talk to. He didn’t understand the language of the nearly one hundred Indians allready on board and the only other white folks were Canadian, and they stuck to themselves. His attempts to engage them in conversation were met with rebukes.

They probably can’t stand to get a whiff of me.

The three new passengers were dressed as if the ship was a fancy cruise liner—slicked back hair, reflective sun glasses, loud Hawaiian style shirts, and leather tasseled loafers.

Penworthy stifled a laugh. They’re behaving like the Three Stooges.                            

Acting like the owned the Belle, the three of them swaggered aboard, pushing other passengers aside. Penworthy pegged them as nothing more than thugs and an uneasy feeling crept over him, like an itch on his back he couldn’t reach.

“Well, only four days to go,” he said to himself. “Guess I can continue to put up with the isolation.”

Curiosity had gotten the better of him and he decided to investigate the three new comers. He started looking on the lower deck. He stuck his head in the so-called galley and immediately wished he hadn’t. An ashtray on the small working table overflowed with cigarillo butts. Scraps of food, buzzing with flies, along with ground out cigarettes littered the floor. Dented pots and pans, scorched black, looked as if they had never been washed. The walls around the cooking area were filthy, apparently some sauce had exploded.

 “Thank God, I’ve got a supply of Imodium,” he had said as he finished the examination. Hogs, chickens, and bales, boxes, and baskets of cargo made up the rest of the deck.

He continued his search, finally spotting them in a far corner of the third deck bar. As soon as he entered, the trio stopped talking and stared at him. Penworthy drank a beer and left.

His itch came back.

Bob noticed shortly after the encounter, one of the three were nearby wherever he went on the boat. The following day, Penworthy decided to play with them at the next stop. He disembarked and headed towards the village. Stopping behind a small shack he watched the boat. The Loud Shirts—he had dubbed them—ran from stem to stern, one on each deck. He stepped out in the clearing and pretended to examine something. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guy wearing a garish Green Parrot shirt, hot-foot it off the boat.

Bob chuckled and wove his way around the huts, back tracking occasionally. A blast of the ships horn told him the game was over and he better re-board.

Since they hadn’t made any intimidating move, he figured they were charged to just keep him in sight. Every time the Belle approached a stop, he gravitated to the gang plank. They apparently gave up trying to be subtle about watching him as Green Parrot, or one of the others, was within arm reach. 

But, just in case his minders knew what he carried, he slept with his pistol close at hand.

The Belle pulled away from the shabby dock and back into the main channel. They had only gone a quarter mile when she maneuvered around a sharp bend. Bob stared at the wreckage scatted about the mud flat bank. It looked, from what little was left, similar to Jakes cruiser. The hull was in two pieces and the cabin looked like it had been blown apart. The stern part of the craft was charred, obliterating its name. Yet, it still looked vaguely familiar.

A blast of the klaxon, warning a close-by native dugout, brought him back to the present. The ship slowed even more as it approached the pier. Unfortunately, the slight breeze created by its movement disappeared and the animal stench settled over him like a blanket.

Passengers pushed and shoved, fighting for his spot, the Belle bumped against the wharf twice before coming to rest. A crewman tried to force his way through and the captain lay on the lanyard, apparently trying to get the crowd to make way for him. For a moment, it seemed to work, as the gangplank banged on the dock.

It was no more than a cattle chute, narrow boards nailed across to give hoofed animals better traction, and rickety side to keep animals, and people, from falling overboard. In his hurry, Penworthy gave someone an elbow and grunted a meaningless apology as he shoved the person away. He raced down the ramp, nearly tripping on one of the boards and headed toward the meager line of taxis.

“Sosecal Camera Shop,” he said to the lead cab driver.

The cabbie looked at him and shrugged his shoulders.

Penworthy repeated his request in Portuguese.

The driver smiled and motioned towards the rear seat.

As he crawled in, he glanced back as a swell of shouting reached him. Penworthy realized the person he knocked out of his way was a woman. She shook her fist and screamed as she caught Penworthy’s eye. He imagined they were obscenities and sure as hell not, “Nice to meet you.”

He searched the people hurrying off the ship. No Loud Shirts seemed to be among the crowd.

 At last he could breathe some fresh air, if one could call the air on the waterfront fresh. But it was better than the god-awful smell of the ship. Better than the rotting jungle and better than the Icolappia Indian village he called home.

The taxi wound its way to the camera shop where his digital pictures of the Icolappia were quickly transferred to CD’s. He emerged from the doorway and stood under the shop’s awning. Penworthy stepped out into the bright sunshine and spotted a cab, its roof’s pyramid light flashing.

He flagged it down and asked, “Este taxi esta livre—is this taxi for hire?”

The driver nodded, “Sim.”

 Penworthy told him to take him to the open air market.

The aroma of garlic, rosemary, cumin, and the licorice scent of fennel—spices he hadn’t smelled since last leaving Manaus, filled the air. They mingled with the lavender scent of men’s aftershave, women’s perfumes, and the redolence of cooking foods as he strolled among the mass of people. He meandered from stall to stall, his eyes constantly shifting.

He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he saw the rich variety of foodstuffs around him—fresh fruit, bar-b-que pork, grilled vegetables. He wanted to try them all after the bland plantain and boiled taro root that constituted the mainstay of the Icolappia menu. He ended up striking a deal for half of a roasted chicken.

Moving on he found a stall that offered a cool tropical fruit drink. The flavor was like liquid gold as the juice of ababai with a touch of mammee, trickled down his throat. Finding an empty table, he pulled up a chair and studied the crowd. Partially to look for adversaries, but mostly to enjoy the beautiful women.

Three weeks earlier, one of the village youngsters suffered a severe cut on his leg. He had watched the medicine man try his best, but rattles and chants were just noise. He had pleaded with H. M. to let him try. Penworthy convinced the medicine man to administer some of his drugs. The antibiotics reduced the redness around the gash and the child recovered.

In gratitude H. M., as Penworthy called the Head Man, presented him a gift of ten emeralds. He was astounded and tried to decline, but the leader wouldn’t listen. “My people consider these to be sacred rocks,” he said. “To refuse them would be an insult. But first, Bob Penworthy, we must prepare them for an outsider. When you come back the rocks will be ready.”

After he returned, the emeralds were presented in an elaborate feast. While in the village, he felt they were perfectly safe; however, now that he had left the tribes protection, he kept them close at hand, hidden in his fanny pack.

He finished his chicken and headed for the hotel. On previous trips Bob could shower on Jake’s boat. Despite his unruly hair and full beard, the hotel staff had treated him courteously.  Today however, in addition to his rumpled looks, he reeked. The check-in clerk looked at him with a wrinkled nose and an unmistakable expression that he wished Penworthy had picked another hotel.

The clerk threw down the folder with his room key and muttered directions to the elevator. He made a detour to the hotel’s clothing shop and purchased a pair of khaki Docker shorts, a light green polo shirt, and plain white boxer underwear. He completed his purchases with three pair of socks and new tennis shoes.

 As he stepped in the elevator, a few people covered their nose and hurried out before the doors shut. Still wary, he punched the seventh floor button even though he was booked in room 512. Half of the dozen passengers got off with him. He headed down the hall, pretended he was going in the wrong direction, and backtracked. When everyone disappeared into their rooms, he raced down the stairs to the fifth floor. He tossed his purchases and back pack on the bed and headed for the shower.

After bathing, he considered cutting his own beard. But, the thought of the barber’s warm, scented towel and the simple luxury of being shaved, sent him downstairs.

Refreshed, his face still tingling pleasantly from the spicy aftershave, he sat down to write a letter to his daughter in Pennsylvania.

After finishing her letter, he headed down to the lobby and copied several pages of his field notes. He wrapped the leather pouch, containing the gems—in a double layer of cardboard—inserted it, Lisa’s letter, and the field note copies in a FedEx shipper.

Finally, he added a small bundle of what appeared to be sticks. He selected expedited air delivery after being assured it would be delivered in two days. With his initial tasks completed, Penworthy thought about his first night back ritual and his stomach growled in anticipation.

At his favorite restaurant, he sat down to a medium rare porterhouse steak, baked potato, a green salad, and washed it all down with a bottle of Chilean Pinot Noir.

Tired, and full from his meal, Penworthy crawled into bed. Imagining all kinds of disasters that might befall the Icolappia over his stupid mistake with Jake, he took solace in the fact that neither the captain, nor anyone else, knew how to find the village.

His wine induced sleep came quickly and dreamlessly.

The next morning, refreshed, he grabbed his gym bag and started walking to the nearest clothing store to complete to his wardrobe. As he paused to stare at the window displays, the soft purring of a finely made car engine filtered through the street noise. At the next store, he ignored the exhibition of dress shoes and studied a reflection in the window; a large, black Mercedes.

As he continued walking, the car matched his pace.