We left the apartment Monday morning before eight; Rusty was walked and he knew we were leaving him as he watched us from the couch. I don’t think he was interested in leaving the cool apartment and indeed tomorrow we will probably have to shoe horn him back aboard GANNET2 as we get on the road, and I know he won’t want to go.
The doctor spent an hour going over Layne’s symptoms, her colonoscopy report from the US and her diet and happily he diagnosed a more sympathetic diet for her gut. No colonoscopy and no tests so we got a prescription and carte blanche to leave on Wednesday. First hurdle solved.
We tried two air conditioning places walking in and failing to generate any interest. What I couldn’t get across was that the air from the rooftop unit isn’t as cold as it should be but they said that’s normal in Manaus where the temperatures are absurd. We will have to live with that for now.
Now I want to take you food shopping at Carrefour Ponta Negra in Manaus. We took an Uber here from the air conditioning shop and picked up a few staples to take back to the apartment in another Uber. The cart rack had a sign in English and that’s my cue to go on a rant. Another one. Look below at the products listed for that aisle in the store. “Other flours” whatever that means. Pipioca? Huh?! Arroz is Spanish for rice so that’s okay. Realçadores? No idea what they are.
Here’s the problem when you go shopping. The phone signal in here is so weak you can’t get online and to use Carrefour’s free WiFi you need to enter your social security number. The one foreigners don’t have but it’s a number every country has though why you need to use it to access free WiFi I could not possibly say. It’s one of those bureaucratic nonsenses that make me crazy in Latin American life. Imagine entering your social security number in this situation. Would you? Me neither.
So I walk around with no access to the internet. I can mangle Spanish and I can speak Italian and I can read some basic Portuguese but shopping is a nightmare and I am learning how hard it is not to speak the local lingo.
I saw some familiar Tabasco among the sauces and spices. What fresh hell is this? No idea.
Maça means apple (manzana in Spanish). But I do know you pronounce the word “mashan.” And the fruit is not great here at $3:50 for two pounds, a lot of it is bruised and wilting like it spent a week coming up river on a barge in a hundred degree heat.
Chatting with the doctor about the roads he said it’s the barge owners that want to keep their monopoly and won’t allow proper roads to be built. For us it’s an annoyance but for the locals the cost and difficulty of transport has to be crippling. I’d be pissed paying premium prices to eat wilted broccoli and bruised apples and over ripe bananas.
They don’t hold back here either. You aren’t handicapped in Manaus; you are masculine but “deficient.” The Tower of Babel has a lot to answer for. and by the way if you deliberately expose yourself in the bathroom you can be jailed for between three months and a year. I could read that warning and it was on the women’s loo too in case you get any ideas.
Our next hassle was getting an Uber. We left the store but the app wouldn’t let us arrange a pick up in the shopping center and we had a cart full of bags. In desperation I went into the motorcycle shop and contrived to explain the problem to a salesman who was typically Brazilian and to the time to not only use our app to order the Uber but sent a message to the driver to explain our exact and correct location. Then offered a shot hot sweet coffee from the shop thermos and walked out into the heat to make sure it worked out. It was a process that had us and the salesman and the driver all laughing together as we loaded the bags. There’s a lot to love in Brazil if not the language.
And the driver was a young Venezuelan immigrant living with his brother for the past seven years in Brazil. He could actually speak Spanish so we talked about his life in Manaus where he makes a good living especially as Venezuela is such a mess. He was also a fan of President Trump for facing down President Maduro the dictator of Venezuela and interestingly he was certain the cost sunk by the US would have been running drugs as he said that area of Venezuela is notorious for doing that. It was a enlightening conversation.
And by the way, you know “pollo” is chicken in Spanish, right? Guess what it is in Portuguese… would you believe: frango? I kid you not. Behold frango asado:
Anyway here are few left overs from our meander through the store. Açougue. No idea what that is.
Canned figs?! Quite popular apparently.
And if you expect rapid service at checkout forget it. Nothing to make you feel like an impatient gringo more than standing around in a glacial checkout line. It took forever.
And so home to our temporary home. All I can think is they speak in English in Guyana. Can’t arrive there too soon.
Our route, below. Drive on the left and speak English in Guyana and also in Suriname, formerly Dutch Guyana where English is also widely spoken. I’m flying to Europe to see my sisters from Paramaribo (para-marry-beau) the capital, in October. So we have a deadline. Layne gets to spend two weeks in the capital of Suriname with Rusty which should be easier than coping with Portuguese.
