The entrance to the Amazon/Pará river system is something like the Thames. It is a hugely wide estuary, but across the entrance are many shallow, shifting sandbanks, and there are only three ways in through tricky entrances. We entered via the southernmost, the Canal do Espadarte, swept in by a fierce tidal current through overfalls. It would be a nasty place in bad weather.

Inside is the magnificent sheltered cruising ground of the river system itself. Our first stop was at the city of Belém, seventy miles inside. But first we had to negotiate the fishermen. Drift nets of up to half a mile long are placed directly across the river, in places many of them overlapping one another so that it is necessary to zigzag back and forth, searching for gaps between the flags marking the ends. We never ended up tangled in a net, but it was a close thing a couple of times.

Belém

Belém feels like a city in steep decline. It prospered greatly in the C19th rubber boom, and there are some magnificent public buildings from that period, all too many now boarded up as “restoration projects” – including the cathedral. It was symptomatic that the Yacht Club, where we needed to leave Sentinel, turned out to have folded a year or so before with (if we understood the curling notices) debts of £½m. The once splendid clubhouse was derelict, the esplanade crumbling with lights all smashed, the workshops demolished. Roofs of the boat sheds were flapping loose in the wind, and although some still held boats others appeared to be occupied by squatters. Only the swimming pool was still operational, used daily by local school children.

This was a problem, as we relied on such clubs for places to get ashore, security, water and power, assistance regarding local bureaucratic procedures, and advice with finding resources in town: not to mention enjoying the bar and general facilities on offer. However there were still three yachts on the former club moorings, so we anchored there anyway. We found just one outside water tap still working, and there was still gate security of a sort.

Outside the yacht club gates we found ourselves pitched into the Third World, unlike anywhere else we had seen in Brazil. On one side of the road was an extensive shantytown of rotting wooden buildings, with little alleyways of boardwalks over drainage ditches that were serving as open sewers. On the other side were timber wharves all along the river, and fronting these, primitive little workshops dealing with ancient boat engine and bilge pump spares, cycle repair shops and the like. At the far end of this road – which was over a mile long – was Belém’s famous “Ver-O-Peso” market, selling all the produce being brought down the Amazon by dozens of small trading boats, which moored and unloaded at the dock at one end. Our guidebook warned this was not a tourist area, and not altogether safe to enter, but we were fascinated to see it. Open stalls sold meat, fish, vegetables and fruit. Despite the heat, lack of refrigeration and general squalor, the food seemed in remarkably good condition, with none of the dreadful rotting smells of such markets in other countries, nor the flies. Part of the reason was that meat was sold ‘live’: if you bought a chicken or piglet, the animal would be slaughtered and butchered there and then. Black vultures prowled around to gobble up the most disgusting of the garbage. At high tide, when the river overflowed the wharves and the lower part of the market, they roosted incongruously on the roof of old market building.

A corner of the Ver-O-Peso market, Belém.

Lyn samples a bowl of açaí.

The main fruit being sold was açaí, a speciality of this area, found nowhere else. At one end of the Ver-O-Peso was a whole section devoted to açaí stalls, where snacks could also be bought and the market workers had lunch. The fruit is crushed and gives a purple juice, somewhere between blueberry and elderberry in taste. This juice is served in pewter bowls, and drunk like a soup, with toasted manioc (cassava) flour which is spooned in to thicken it to taste. A bowl was a good meal.

  Attending to the formalities proved anything but routine in Belém ...

Belém to Breves - The River Pará

We had thought to leave the yacht in Belém while we went on an organised tour to see the Amazon jungle. But with the Yacht Club gone, there was nowhere secure to leave our boat for any length of time. If we wanted to see the Amazon, it would have to be in Sentinel. So after five days in Belém we completed the formalities, bought the charts, topped up with fuel, water, food and drink, and on 30th April off we went.

The whole area of eastern Amazonia is an immensely complex system of waterways, reminiscent of Holland, as it perhaps would have been before the dykes. There are rivers, principally the Pará and the Amazon with their numerous tributaries, but also many through waterways like natural canals, called “Furos”. This divides the area into a countless number of islands, all low and marshy, barely above water. Roads are impossible, all habitation is on the waterside, rivers are the only means of communication.

A barge on the river Pará.

A river bus steers round the vegetation.

We covered around 50 miles a day. It was only possible to travel during the daylight because of the floating vegetation, logs and clumps of water hyacinth. The latter had tough underwater roots that would stop a propeller as surely as any hawser, and we were forever steering around them. Moreover the route was complicated, we constantly needed to pick out channels and avoid shallows. In theory there are lit navigation marks through the busier routes, but in practice none at all were lit, the solar panels were missing. And worse – in the case of buoys, at least half were missing altogether, and those that were left all had their entire superstructure chopped off, which made them hard to spot. As we left Belém behind, lights in the smaller riverside villages grew fewer and fewer, and the Amazon night became inky black.

It is well known that the Amazon has a very shallow outer estuary stretching far out to sea, a result of the silt brought down. We had assumed that the same would apply to the waterways themselves, but not at all. Even the furos were amazingly deep. At one point our depth sounder recorded 80 meters, and stretches over 30 meters deep were commonplace. It would be deep right up to the edge of the river bank. This made for difficult anchoring when we came to stop. Moreover the bottom was often scoured out rock, with sunken logs. So the holding was problematic, and we had to pick our spots carefully. Tidal currents reached two knots in the backwaters, and more in the rivers, so that at times it was prudent to anchor and wait. But by good fortunate the current seemed to be with us a lot of the time. We had hoped to sail, but apart from the ferocious squalls that accompanied the occasional thunderstorms, the wind was very light, and we motored throughout.

The chart may show a lit 'preferred channel' buoy ...

... but this is what you get (at least it was there).

For the first couple of days we were travelling up the River Pará. The river was busy through this section, with countless river ferries, some long distance going all the way from Belém to Manaus, smaller ones serving the villages that could be half a day’s travel apart. There were also numerous barges pushing enormous lighters with up to 60 container loads of goods. It was all very reminiscent of the Dutch waterways.

Shortly before the town of Breves we reached a place called the “Straights”, where the river divides with six or seven separate routes coming off, and the furos start. We went along the one to Breves itself. Exceptionally in this area, Breves is built on a firm knoll, and there were paved streets and even a few cars.

Breves to Afuá - Furo dos Macacos.

After we left Breves the next morning, suddenly we realised we were all on our own. The upstream traffic had turned off to Manaus. We were on the Furo dos Macacos, a through route that we had identified with difficulty when buying charts, and which we now followed for 120 miles through the back of beyond.

Typical thatched riverside dwelling.

It was comparatively narrow, with overhanging jungle on either side. In a whole day we would see no more than a couple of small river boats, one being the daily river bus. For although isolated, this area was by no means uninhabited. Every half mile or so there would be a small wooden dwelling built on stilts by the waterside, They looked a bit like large English summerhouses - palm-thatched wooden huts with a door and one or two windows in the front, and maybe a porch. No glass in the windows but possibly wooden shutters. Some açaí palm trees, a couple of dark, hairy pigs rooting around, and a dugout canoe floating in front. Here and there these were grouped into tiny hamlets, sometimes around a small sawmill, with a short, tumble-down pier for the river boats to stop.

The passing-by of a boat is always an event in this area, and Sentinel was evidently a considerable novelty. Women and children came out of their dwelling waving and cheering as we went by, often jumping into their dugouts and paddling out to greet us (we saw few men, who were probably away working at the sawmills). The people were of mixed native Indian and European descent, and everywhere there were children. Four or six below the age of twelve would pour out of each tiny dwelling to greet us, and we could see more babes-in-arms with the women. We were brought gifts when we stopped, items of delicious local food, and tried to return the favours as best we could. Now we know how the queen must feel waving and smiling for hours on end!

Visitors ...

The one thing that connects people is the river bus. Sometimes one would come by in the evening after we had stopped near a village, and it could be a romantic sight. As dusk fell, people would start to congregate near the pier, and there would be a sense of expectancy. The village generator would start up, and two or three dim lights would illuminate the scene. Then the river bus would arrive, itself dimly lit, most of the passengers dozing in tightly packed hammocks slung beneath the canopy. One or two people might get on or off, joy on arrival, tears of departure: because even the nearest small town would be several days’ travel away. There would be a vendor trying to sell fruit and drinks to the through passengers, perhaps fresh fish or water-buffalo for the captain’s pot, from which the passengers would be fed during the day. After quarter of an hour, the boat would slip away, people dispersed back to their homes, the village generator stopped and the pitch black tropical night descended, until life resumed again shortly before dawn.

We did worry a bit what might happen in this remote area should our engine break down. At one point we were a hundred miles from a village large enough to at least summon help, and it would take days to drift in the light airs. However our ancient Perkins engine, which ran a Commer Van long before Sentinel was built, continued to work as reliably as always.

After the Furo dos Macacos we joined the much wider River Jacaré, which opened out into the Amazon itself. Rounding several islands, we reached Afuá. Afuá was typical of the two or three larger villages at which we stopped. Built on marsh liable to be covered at high tide, the whole village was entirely of wood, on stilts. The streets were boardwalks. Of course there were no roads, so no cars, but many bicycles. A long way from anywhere else, this village boasted a few public radio-telephones, and there was even an Internet Café. No mobile phone service, of course. Shops were basic and tiny, spilling out onto the boardwalks, but cheap beautifully fresh produce was plentiful, diesel was for sale and we were able to restock Sentinel for the long journey to Trinidad.

Afuá is a village built on stilts.

A steak meal for two, right by our boat, cost us £1.25!

Afuá out to sea - River Amazon.

The Amazon evokes images of exotic wildlife: jaguar, toucan, anaconda, piranha. We knew that in our limited journey we were unlikely to see much of this. One animal we did see several times was the unusual river dolphin, pearly pink in colour. We heard their breathing holes as they surfaced and saw a bottle nose and a fin more fish-like than normally associated with dolphins, as they curved through the surface of the water. There were also exotic wading birds along the river banks, and huge insects and dragon flies which landed on Sentinel. If we did not see the wildlife, at least we could hear it, specially at night, with authentic jungle sounds in the remoter spots.

The Amazon rainforest has also become synonymous with deforestation. We saw numerous sawmills and timber yards, the amount of timber we saw both in use and being transported was enormous. Yet the riverside itself, as far back as we could see, was always unbroken jungle except for the small clearings around buildings. We had no way of judging what it might be like further inland.

Beyond Afuá our way took us out through the Canal do Norte (North Channel) of the Amazon. This would take us two days, so an overnight stop was essential before tackling the tricky outer passages, where the currents run at their strongest and much remains unsurveyed. Normally we liked to stop near a village, where we felt safer, but there was nothing further beyond Afuá. At dusk the best we could find was the entrance to a lonely creek on the outlying, uninhabited Ilha do Curuá. Not entirely uninhabited though, for as night fell we could make out the watchful shadow of a dugout paddling along the shore. We were anchored near the spot where in 2001, celebrated yachtsman Sir Peter Blake was attacked and killed by river pirates while he too anchored overnight waiting to leave. For the first time we locked ourselves in before going to bed. At around one o’clock there was a moment of tension as we heard the rumble of a fishing boat engine coming closer, and a searchlight flashed across the windows. In fact this had happened before, as the fishermen were always curious when they came across us at night, but this time we held our breath until the noise of the engine faded away.

As it happened we were to spend one more night in the Amazon. We passed into the outer estuary via the Canal do Norte with five knots of current under us. By evening though the tide was turning against us, and the fickle breeze died to nothing. Although over 30 miles from the nearest land we were in only 8 metres of water, so we dropped the anchor and turned in. It is an eerie sensation to be anchored so far from land in the utter stillness of a flat calm. But at least we felt a lot less nervous than the previous night. Shortly after dawn a light wind came in from the south-east, and we finally sailed clear.

Last sight of Brazil.

Looking at the map it appears that we barely scratched the surface of this immense water system: what we did was little more than a circumnavigation of the Ilha de Marajó. Even so, we had covered over 700 nautical miles, mostly under engine, which had taken three weeks. During this time we saw not a single other yacht, apart from the three local ones moored off the former Yacht Club in Belém.