We woke up early the next morning and stared at the breakfast the hotel had provided for us—boiling milk, moldy bread and a yogurt dish that looked as though it was months old. I spent the last Real I had on water as I probably would have dropped dead of dehydration had I not gotten something that slightly resembled water into my system. A few hours later we were on our way to the boat we would be living on for the next three days—a walk through a ghost town, our guide explained, because everyone was still too far hungover and exhausted from the activities the night before to get up. The stores were all closed for Carnaval and confetti lined the streets, resembling a post-apocalyptic scene out of a black and white movie.
The boat we were on was absolutely enthralling, though not for the reasons that you may think. It only had two floors, one of which being the floor taken over by hammocks and the other for the family that ran the boat, the guides, the kitchen, bathroom, and table for food. It was the most rudimentary yet indescribably perfect setting for our Amazon trip. Anyone who has not slept in a hammock in the blazing heat with mosquitoes carrying yellow fever and malaria swarming around while listening to the far off drumbeats of indigenous people’s rituals late into the night has not truly experienced the Amazon. Sure, there are hotels and larger boats. Sure, we were caught in a tourist path on the river. But none of that seemed to matter when the fifteen of us just lay there listening to life all around us. Never before have I felt so small or so much a part of something in my life than while I looked out over the Amazon River.
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