Franz L. Kessler's blog ^pro

Der "Hindustan Aeronautics Limited" Flugplatz gehoert einer Staatsfirma, die Flugzeuge und Hubschrauber in Bangalore zusammenschraubt. Dieser Flugplatz musste aber auch den zivilen Sektor bedienen, und mauserte sich so bis Juni 2008 zum offiziellen Bangalore Flughafen. Mit dem steigenden Flugaufkommen war aber kaum noch Platz fuer Helikopter und Jet-Testfluege, und der Flughafen platzte aus allen Naehten bei mehr als 300 Starts und Landungen/pro Tag, aber nur zwei Toren. Die HAL Testfluege wurden nun aus reiner Not ueber den Daechern der Stadt ausgefuehrt. Wie durch ein Wunder (und Wunder gibt es viele in Indien) stuerzte nie einer ab. Nach langem hin-und-her wurde der Flugplatz im Juni fuer den allgemeinen Zivilverkehr geschlossen, und gehoert jetzt wieder alleine der HAL, und gelegentlich einfliegenden Parteibonzen.

Wir sind schon fuenf Stunden vor der Abreise am Flughafen. Da herrscht wieder mal das grosse indische Chaos, wo jeder versucht jeden auszutricksen . Eine Gruppe aelterer Inderinnen probiert mal wieder sich vorzudraengen, aber diesmal stellt sich ein anderer Reisender quer, blockiert die Gruppe, und die alten krantigen Furien muessen so in ihrem eigenen schlechten Karma kochen. Lektion: Reisender, so kommest Du nach Indien, dann sollest Du alte Weiber meiden.

Kaum sind wir an der Polizei und den Militaer-Sandsaecken vorbei, da faellt der Strom aus. Das Licht kommt zwar nach zwei Minuten zurueck, aber der Computer streikt noch weiter, und nach viel Gestikulieren und Kopfschuetteln geben die offiziellen Schnurrbaerte auf. Nun wird manuell eingecheckt. Nach zwei Stunden Schlange schaffen wir es zur Pass-Kontrolle, dann schliesslich in den Warteraum. Es ist Mitternacht. Da der Flugplatz in zwei Wochen fuer immer dichtgemacht wird, sieht es im Wartesaal erbaermlich aus. Der Boden ist unglaublich staubig und verdreckt. Die meisten Laeden sind schon dicht, aber wir haben noch zwei Stunden auf unseren Flieger zu warten. Also lassen wir uns auf den roten Stuehlen mit den vielen dunklen Flecken nieder, was anderes gibt es ja nicht. Von einem Schwarzweiss-Fernseher flimmert irgenein beknacktes Cricket-Match. Um 1 Uhr morgens erbarmt sich dann der Cleaner, ein beschnurrbartetes Wesen vom Maenner-Klo, und zieht gemaechlich seinen rabenschwarzen Mopp phlegmatisch durch den halb-leeren Wartesaal. Dort wischt er auch eine verdaechtige gelbe Lache auf, und verteilt die Sosse im Warteraum. Jetzt stinket es wirklich ueberall nach Urin. Um 2 Uhr kommt dann endlich unser Flieger an.Jetzt heisst es nochmal anstehen, bis das Tor zum Einstieg endlich frei ist. Und wir zwaengen uns durch die gleiche Plexiglas-Roehre wie eben damals, bei der ersten Ankunft. Bei der Rueckreise kamen wir dann im neuen Flugplatz an. Nein, ich bereue nichts an dem alten HAL.

© 2008 by Franz L Kessler

Ps. Der neue Flugplatz ist wesentlich besser!

Die Goldvorkommen der Kolar Fields liegen etwa ein Drittel der Fahrstrecke zwischen Bangalore und Madras, am Rande einer Hochebene. Diese Vorkommen wurden seit beinahe 2000 Jahren ausgebeutet, doch die Produktion in den immer tieferen Solen wurde schliesslich zu teuer. Die Bergwerke liegen jetzt (seit 2003) still, und die Monumente der Industrialisierung verfallen allmaehlich. Dieser Artikel beschaeftigt sich mit Geologie und Bergbaugeschichte dieser Region.

Zeugnisse des Geisterglaubens sind im suedlichen Indien kaum zu uebersehen. Vorallem werden Schlangen, -Baumgeister verehrt – oft in einer Mischung aus Erfurcht und Angst. Dies spiegelt eine Welterfahrung wider, die sich stark von der modernen abhebt.

Oel und Gasreserven kommen in der Presse haeufig zu Wort. Vorallem im Zusammenhang mit Panik-Rufen in der Art wie: „Die Reserven gehen zu Ende, in 20 Jahren geht das Oel aus.“ Was dahinter steckt, ist in Wirklichkeit hoch kompliziert – eine Verstrickung geologischer, Produktions-technischer, wirtschaftlicher, juristischer und politischer Faktoren. Und dann gibt es eine ganze Reihe von Definitionen des Worts „Reserve“. Die allgemein bindende Version der „Reserve“ ist die der Securities Exchange Commission, zumindest fuer alle Firmen, die an der Wallstreet eingetragen sind, und deren Aktien dort in New York gehandelt werden. Und der Markt-Wert der Oel-Firmen Aktion haengt massgeblich von eben diesen Reserven ab. Dieser Artikel gibt ein Beispiel, was Reserven sind, und was sie nicht sind - und welche Faktoren am Spiel sind.

Richtig, gelogen wird ueberall, vorallem wenn Geld im Spiel ist, und etwas klemmt. Hier wie dort gibt den Bau-Unternehmer, der entweder auf Sitzung oder im Urlaub ist. Oder die tuerkische Kuechenschabe, die sich in einem suizidalem Sturzflug in der Kaffeetasse ertraenkt. Oder die amerikanische Haus-Versicherung, die das vom Sturm weggeblasene Dach erst ab einem Schaden von 51% bezahlt – natuerlich liegt die Sturm-zerzauste Schadensflaeche wie immer bei 49%. Aber nirgendwo wird soviel gelogen wie in Indien. Luegen ist Kommoedie, Luegen ist Leben. Sind deshalb die Menschen in Indien schlechter als anderswo? Nein, wahrscheinlich nicht. Nur dass ihr Leben viel komplizierter ist! Ueberleben ist ein Kampf, in einer Gesellschaft wo man sich nicht in die Augen sieht, und gegenseitig totbeisst. Dieser Artikel untersucht die moeglichen Gruende anhand einiger Beispiele.

Diese Geschichte schreibe ich fuer all die noblen Touristen, die sich vom Fuenf-Sterne-Indien blenden lassen: So wie in dieser wahren Geschichte geht es draussen auf der Strasse zu - mit solchen und anderen Schwierigkeiten hat man als in Indien lebender Auslaender dauernd zu kaempfen - vom Strom im Aquarium, ueber Wasserrohrbrueche, Feuer-Ameisen in der Bananen-Staude zu sich stapelnden Aktenbergen bei der Auslaender-Polizei. Die Kobra im Kartoffelbeet, das Skorpion unter dem Fussabstreifer. Am schlimmsten aber sind die 100000 Luegen, die allgemeine Unzuverlaessigkeit der Menschen. Aber heute kommt der Container an. Geniesset eure Kerala Oelmassage!

Dieser fuenfte Artikel einer Serie ueber Indien erzaehlt von den Freuden und Problemen der Feldkueche.

Dies ist der vierte Artikel ueber Reisen im suedlichen Indien, genauer gesagt in der NW Ecke von Tamil Nadu, dem suedlichsten Staat, dort wo das suedindische Dreieck sich zuspitzt. Nein, ich lese nicht im 'lonely planet.' Meine Ziele suche ich mir auf dem Satellitenbild - und so fuehrt das Eine zum Anderen.

Alles schien richtig, doch dann machte uns das Wetter einen Strich durch die Rechnung. Der dritte Artikel in einer Serie ueber Motorrad-Trips in Indien.

Yesterday morning, dry crisp air, I saw

A snail on her stubborn path

Crossing a dry tar road

Running out of slime

Facing a dry morning sun, vehicles,

Dehydration and death

I seized the little coiled house, and put it

Into wet fresh dew grass beyond

When walking home, I thought:

Perhaps, one day, some entity

- You may call whatever you like -

Will grab me and put me onto my

Own, fresh pasture lands

© 2008 by Franz L Kessler

Diese Frage stellte mein Dolmetscher wohl mehrmals, in den Kannada und Telugu-Sprachen.. Skript von einer Motorrad-Tour im suedlichen Indien.

Ueber einen Versuch, mit dem Motorad dem indischen Staedte-Chaos fuer eine Weile zu entkommen.

Have you ever been sitting in an airplane sensing that something is seriouly wrong? I experienced the below in Congo, Africa, about 1994...A short-story

A short-story

1980 was a cold year, not unlike 2008. I spent the spring in rainy Northern Spain, doing geological survey work, for my first degree. That's when a dead cow started to interfere with my life.

Just ahead of dawn I woke up with a familiar bang and a grinding sound. I rolled over and almost touched one of the orange-glowing exhaust pipes, our outdoors anti-mosquito device. The boat trembled, squeaked then stopped with a sudden quiver. It felt like a deja vue.

I heard Jimenez shouting “estamos parados.” He was reprimanding Jorge, the roustabout, who had fallen asleep, whilst steering the convoy.

Herby woke up as well. “This can’t be true!” he said. We had got stuck, this time next to a muddy island covered with rotting dark drift wood and overgrown by water lilies. The river lay wide open and gave the appearance of a lagoon. Fog lay over the water, a gray blanket in the first light. Many miles afar, a brown line indicated a distant levee. ‘Oh, these damned channels and shoals,’ I said to myself. Herons were stalking through the mud, picking worms and fat white larvae from the soft sediment. Bon appetit.

So, here we were, stuck. Nothing happened for the next two days. Endlessly, the captain tried to pull the barges out of the mud. He sometimes succeeded, only to get stuck again. Jimenez looked increasingly depressed.

“With the rainy season in full swing, the water will rise and make us float,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was serious about what he said. Perhaps he simply tried to comfort himself, or us. Everyone on the boat seemed to have fallen in a silent or grumpy mood, as the open-ended problem caused a lot of stress and seemed to burden everyone onboard. Adriana hardly came out of her den, and the captain looked sick and appeared to hide in his room, whilst delegating his authority to Jimenez.

At least Herby’s fever was gone. We borrowed Jimenez’ chessboard and we killed dull time by playing chess, this for the next two days. I won mostly over Mario, but lost most times against Herby. He played with mathematics, whilst I played by instinct. Mario always lost out against Herby. Fortunately, it rained quite frequently, in massive downpours that followed one after the other, thunder and lightning, gloomy evenings. It gave us some relief from mosquitoes. There wasn’t any juice left in the truck battery, and the searchlight went completely dark. We were desperate.

“We should have taken the bus back over the mountains, instead of going onto the boat,” moaned Herby.

“Yeah, we should have done that. We just are left with thirty-five days to get to Montevideo. I wonder how we will ever make it down to Uruguay.”

We played another party, and went to sleep. Sunlight woke us up. We were still stuck, hopelessly stuck, in the middle of the Amazonas that barely flowed away with a lazy drag. I had enough. Everything appeared to me as a dream turning sour. I had consumed all my positive feelings. I saw the captain as an old, dangerous fool. Even the haughty Jimenez wasn’t anything but an involuntary clown. I had enough of Adriana’s river soup, the eternal salted fish and cooked bananas, and the pretty but potato-minded Esperanzita.

I leaned against the railings, as Herby came along.

“How do you feel today, I asked?”

“Not too bad,” he replied. “I just wished we could leave.”

As we talked in a morose mood, the Padrino started to pull once more. The ship vibrated, and creamy cappuccino-colored vortices appeared behind the boat.

“We are really stuck,” commented Herby. “We are just stirring and milling foul-smelling gumbo clay.”

Suddenly there was a different sound, a sound we hadn’t heard for many days. It came from the sky. It was an airplane.

“Look at this,” I shouted to Herby, pointing to the sky.

Herby looked puzzled and shook his head, and said:

“It’s a plane, nothing but a plane. Man, haven’t you seen planes before?”

“Stop it,” I laughed. “It’s flying low, with a loud noise. I can even see the logo ‘Fawcett.’ What does that mean? The bastard is landing! We have made it to Iquitos! It’s the only long airstrip in this part of the world, and the city must be right around the corner.”

Joy lit up on Herby’s face. “Yes! You’re right. This is great!” We hugged each other and danced on the deck like a couple of happy drunken chimpanzees.

The roustabouts Jorge and Jaime looked at us. Their puzzled looks told me they couldn’t dig what was happening to us.

“Look over there,” I said to Herby, and pointed to the distant lee shore. A small outboard engine passenger boat, hummed in the distance and trailed the shore in downriver direction.

“They might take us,” I shouted to Herby. “Let me pull off my T-shirt and give them a sign.

“You are just an awful, silly optimist,” replied Herby. “They’ll never pull over.”

“Let’s give it a try,” I said and whirled my last white shirt in the wind above my head. “Ten bucks for me, if the bastard turns around and pulls over.”

“Deal,” said Herby laughing, and gave me five.

What happened next caught both of us with surprise. The little boat changed course and headed right toward us.

“Quickly, let’s get our stuff!” Off we ran, grabbed our few belongings, and shook hands with the captain, Jimenez, and Adriana. She gave me a long, sad and puzzled look.

For eleven days we had lived together like a family, and now, in a matter of seconds, our lives split apart as quickly as they had come together. The small passenger boat pulled alongside of the Padrino. It was fully loaded almost up to the waterline, covered by a palm-leaf roof, and carried already some twenty passengers.

“Hope to see you in Iquitos,” I shouted over to Adriana and jumped over into the boat that lay moored against the Padrino. It may sound sad but there are moments in life when emotions come second. There was no choice, and no time to loose. The boat’s little outboard engine hurled up. Then we took seats on sacks full of green coconuts, squeezing –in between cholitas in long cotton skirts. I looked back. In the mild afternoon light, the Padrino and the four stuck barges were rapidly vanishing in the haze. On the other downriver side the glittering skyline of Iquitos appeared, and shone like a mirage above the corner of the next meander.

I felt elated, exited and very sad at the same time, knowing that a great and unique adventure had come to a sudden ending.

© 2008 by Franz L. Kessler

“It’s already 2030,” Herby said. “We have little time for the party left.” He was right, of course. Who would forsake a genuine jungle party for a simple flirt, which could possibly be re-kindled at a later time? I reluctantly took exception from my evolving sweetheart, and left for the party.

“We’ll leave at midnight,” shouted Captain Perez from the bridge, laughing. “Don’t drink too much, boys, and be sure to crawl back to our boat before we leave.”

We balanced over the wooden plank that linked the boat to the levee. Not far, on the banks of the river, the party was fired up already. It was refreshing cool. A generator behind the plaza powered some flickering neon bulbs that attracted thousands of moths, beetles and other insects. Food and drink stalls lined the plaza. At its corner a aluminum cauldron steamed with fermented cornstarch (chicha). An elderly lady stirred the pot, and served a crowd of people queuing up. The stuff tasted sweet and mellow, and was in ample supply, and one didn’t feel the alcohol during the first three mugs.Fat-bellied black hogs walked through the crowd, and grunted as the strange gringos made their appearance. Everybody had come down to the plaza. A crowd of young and old gathered on a simple circle of clay under a palm leaf roof. The drums were beating, and the dance started. A wild, primitive, primordial beat sounded, the essence of any dance music, perhaps. The girls on the dance floor were just gorgeous. Any of them looked like a beauty queen, with velvet brown skin, long black hair and lancet-shaped eyes. The captain was right.

We danced and drank as much as we could. But following my innate curiosity, I soon discovered the delicious aguadiente, fermented and distilled from wild bee honey, gorgeous stuff. I shouldn’t have touched that fire water. In combination with an empty stomach, the sweet chicha plus aguadiente became a killer drink I better should have refrained from. I became hopelessly drunk. I lost my balance and my pretty dancing partner as my condition deteriorated. I went to the jungle edge to relax and to recover. Faces appeared, dreamlike in the blue moonlight, offering different kinds of drinks and drugs. I resisted this time, however, and staggered back to the Padrino as the departure signal horned.

I almost fell in the river, whilst crawling over the wooden plank leading back to the boat. Then I felt an enormous stomach pain. I couldn’t remember quite clearly what happened next.

When I woke up, it was already 1000. The boat was steaming at full blast over a sparkling river surface. I had been sleeping like an angel, sitting with my back against the railings. Captain Perez showed me a roller ball pen portrait he had made from my sleeping face, whilst having his breakfast. The portrait was remarkably well done and bore quite a bit of resemblance with me.

I went around the boat on my morning tour of duty. Mrs. Sanchez gave me a terrible look.

“You were rumbling around and squalling all night. Nobody of us could sleep.” It was the first time Mrs. Sanchez had ever talked to me. Some people never find a good occasion to talk, that’s why they are left with the bad ones.

I tried to look as innocent as the Easter Lamb, shrugged my shoulders, and moved on.

At the engine room I met the taciturn Natcho. He didn’t say anything, but gave me an ominous look whilst handing me a big broom. I walked around the corner, and there it was. I saw a huge, pyramid-shaped heap of dung, right in front of Adriana’s kitchen entry door. Last night, I vaguely remembered, I had tried to liberate myself from stomach pain. As the bathroom was unusable I had to sit on top of the railings. Contemplating Newton’s law of gravity I was aiming at the mighty whirlpool behind the ship’s propellers.

I did my duty and cleaned the passage. Adriana came by and gave me a bottle with Chlorox. She didn’t say anything or even look at me.Last night, so it seemed, I had ruined my reputation for good. I had disturbed everyone’s sleep, neglected the charming Adriana, and decorated her kitchen entry. That’s probably why many religions call for a modest use of alcohol, and the avoidance of any drugs. The worst thing was that it would take me some time to mend my sensual fences with Adriana.

I cleaned myself with a few buckets of river water, and sat in the sun to dry-up, which happened quickly. Then I went to see the captain on the bridge, as I felt a need to apologize. Captain Perez was in a merry mood, and seemed to be happy for another little chat.

“Don’t take life too serious, son,” he said laughing. “We all make mistakes, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.”

He obviously wanted to cheer me up, and pulled off one of his many stories.

“Look over there,” he said, pointing toward the jungle. A section of the forest passed by, characterized by very tall and large trees, and particularly widespread canopies.

“In this kind of forest,” he whispered, “You can collect any kind of medicine plant. There isn’t a single disease without herbal cure from jungle plants. Look at this huge tree over there, for instance. It carries a fruit exactly looking like a penis. It even keeps people of my age going, I’m not kidding.”

I listened to his medical bush stories for a while, and took my exception for a party of chess with Herby. Once the game was finished, with me as so often the loosing party, I saw Esperanzita coming along, and I wondered if I could chat her up a bit. I lured her to follow me into a corner on the ship’s stern section. We talked a little bit, but the problem was that there was not much to talk. I gently reached out to caress her lovely cheeks.

“I don’t want to go with you dirty gringo,” she screamed, smacked my face and rushed back to her kitchen den. Her words gave me some indication to which level my reputation had fallen.

Quietly I walked back. Emiliano Sanchez, having witnessed our theatre scene form a-far, gave me a sharp glance and whispered:

“So, tell me, did it work?’

I just shook my head.

“Hombre, you did what you had to do,” said Emiliano. “A real macho has to explore his terrain, and put his mark. Life is direct and brutal like a bullfight.”

“You are right, Emiliano” I said, engaging in a silly macho conversation. “A man has to be a man, be daring, brave, and take risks. Women are like fortresses. They don’t surrender at the first wave of attack.”

I didn’t believe any of the crap I was saying, but a little bit of comedy didn’t do harm either. Sanchez gave me another approving nod and said: “Well said, my friend.”

“Peruvian women are the best in the world,” he whispered to me, shyly glancing over where the family was sleeping. His evil fat-apple-butt wife was snoring. The last thing he wanted was to wake up wife and kids, while sharing some particular wisdom with me.

“Peruvian women are pretty, horny and hot. They want to do it three times a day, at least. But they are brats, too. They need are in need of some male guidance, do you know what I mean? Sanchez grinned and chuckled. His golden Chavin ring sparkled.

We continued chatting nonsense like this for a while. Up on the sky, a small metallic triangle of a jet roared in easterly direction, leaving a straight double condensation trail behind. I watched the aircrafts distant trace with awe. How many days had passed since I saw a plane on the sky? The aircraft I saw was probably heading toward Iquitos, I thought, but we seemed still to be far away, and there was nobody who could tell how far.

When it was getting dark I returned to my corner at the exhaust pipes, to find my mate Herby in bad condition. His skin was red like a lobster’s and he was shivering all over the body.

“Swamp fever, likely a bad malaria” diagnosed Jimenez, who came back from his daily inspection of the engine room. “He will die from it, if he doesn’t get medical help soon. Take these fever pills. They are the last drugs I have. Maybe he will hold out until Requena.”

I kept watching Herby throughout the night. He was sweating and stammering incomprehensible stuff. At dawn the ship slowed down as we were approaching Requena. We arrived there at ten thirty.

“We are leaving at noon, sharp,” said Captain Perez. The Sanchez family left the Padrino in the little alumina dingy. Then it was my turn. Jorge, the one-eyed roustabout, rowed me over to the quay. He had instructions to wait for me, but not too long.

Requena was a little town located on a peninsula, bounded on one side by the river and swamplands on the other side. I was in a hurry to find medicine. To my surprise Requena turned out to be a Chinese city. I quickly got hold of a good Chinese doctor. I described him Herby’s problem. He just nodded, and gave me three pockets of medicine.

As there was about half an hour left, I went to a Cantonese restaurant, and enjoyed a fresh-roasted Peking duck. They served also a local drink, called something like Aguajina. A yellow, sweet fluid, full of flavor it was one of the best drinks I ever had tasted. It was made from a swamp plant, they told me. Sitting on a bench and watching people walking by was fascinating. The scene looked like an impressionist painting, but with a Chinese décor. A dirt street ran along a row of little shops. On the other side of the street stretched swamplands, full of white, yellow and blue lotus flowers. Every young Chinese lady walking on the quay sported some red or blue payong umbrella. To protect from the sunlight, I suppose. I wondered in which part of the world had I landed. Was this really Peru, South America, another twist in our strange collective dream?

I wished I could have stayed longer, and established a more lasting contact with this intriguing place and its people. But my time was up and I rushed to the harbor. Somehow our dear captain always managed to curtail the good times, whilst allocating plenty of spare time to blow up his boat, or to get stuck somewhere in the middle of hell.

When I arrived at the harbor, I saw Jorge rowing away, in the small aluminum dingy. The Padrino had lifted anchors, and blew compressed air through its horns.

I made signs, and Jorge reluctantly rowed back to pick me up again.

The next day or two passed without mayor incidents, and we made good progress. At midday, Captain Perez called me to the bridge.

“Look here, son,” pointing to the distance. Out there is the confluence point of the Ucayaly and the Maranon. Once they join up the river ahead is called Amazonas. A river so broad and wide, that sometimes you can’t see either of the shores. Our journey should progress well now, and we might be in Iquitos by tomorrow midday.”

Herby’s health improved significantly, and we made plans for what to do next after arriving in Iquitos, and how to continue from there our long journey to Montevideo, down under on the other side of the continent.

When dusk fell I remarked that the searchlight had become weak. There was hardly any electricity left. Our travel now relied entirely on the waning moon and the instinct of Mr. Someone behind the rudder. I sensed that our ordeal wasn’t quite over, yet.

(c)2008 by Franz L Kessler

After a good cup from Adriana’s teapot, I felt completely exhausted. A tropical rainstorm poured down on the boat. With curtains of rain everywhere there was nothing to be seen.

“Our clothes won’t dry fast that way,” said Herby, still a little depressed.

I went up the deck and felt an overwhelming urge to sleep. Millions of heavy raindrops hit the Padrinos’ metal roof, and the noise dragged me into another, unconscious world.

When I woke up, the sun was shining, and I saw Herby’s face.

“Oh my God, I patted your back some twenty times. Are you hibernating? I thought you wouldn’t wake up.”

I rubbed my eyes. I felt caught by my dream. I had seen my father in some difficult situation. I was worried.

“Look over here, Frank,” I heard Herby saying. “I can’t believe it!”

“What’s wrong,” I inquired, still rubbing my eyes.

“Just come over here and have a look!”

Gracefully, the Padrino pushed around the next meander and in front of us laid the village of Groa, its Indian huts scattered over an opening, an abra, in the forest.

“Nice village,” I remarked.

“You don’t get it,” said Herby. “Look at the clay wall. Over there are our barges.”

Herby was right. Aligned one by one, they lay in the tiny village’s port. Our roustabouts were there, and waving at us.

“This is impossible,” I said. “There was no tugboat around, and these barges can only drift… I know what I’m talking about.”

I lived one of the strangest moments in my life. My observations didn’t make any sense. Was our life after all nothing but a huge collective dream, with thousands of ramifications, and subplots? Herby shook his head, puzzled like me, and picked up one of Mario’s revistas. Its title said: ‘Only revolutionary socialism can propel Peru into the future.’

Meanwhile we had reached the shoreline, and the Padrino gently took berth along the harbor’s clay wall. With great joy we received our lost roustabouts.

“Hey you gringos, do you want to join me for a swim?”

It was Adriana. She stood at the lower deck, in her bra and underpants, and was about to jump into the river. She looked gorgeous. Not that she could compete with the pale and sexy front page girls. Her hips were large and strongly built. She had opened her black hair. It fell over her large shoulders. It looked like she could carry the world. But she was a real woman, from this very earth and with a fresh caramel skin. She was by no means a painted plastic puppet. Her lips were red, and without any lipstick.

I didn’t make her wait for too long, and even Herby joined us after a while. It was great to paddle around in the river. After a few days without a decent shower I didn’t think too much about the probable stingrays, caiman and the piranhas around us. We played in the water, and had a lot of fun. Both Jimenez and the proud Sanchez threw us evil glances. Most men are idiots, in one way or the other, I thought. Jealous and full of pride, they couldn’t join in and be part of the fun game.

Adriana withdrew to her den and gave me a hot sparkling glance before disappearing behind the corner of her kitchen door. ‘That girl is in the mood,’ I thought. Dusk was about to fall. Drums were sounding from the village.

“Let’s go,” said Herby. “This looks like fun over there,” pointing toward the village. Well, there could be fun on the boat too, I thought. I selected a blue shirt and went to see Adriana. A tiny petroleum burner gave a flickering light. There she lay in her cod, in her best white dress, and adequately perfumed. Her eyes sparkled, and she rubbed her thighs against each other. Unfortunately this brat of Esperanzita kept on humming around. Without her presence I would have held Adriana a hundred times in my arms already, and enjoyed her wonderful female nature to the fullest. Just when I pondered about the how to proceed, my friend Herby came to interrupt our evolving tête-à-tête. He was a person who would always turn up at the wrong moment for the right reasons. Preoccupied with politics, and sometimes mathematics, love relations didn’t rank high on his agenda.

(c) 2008 by Franz L Kessler

Meanwhile the Padrino had picked up full speed, and the river rushed beyond my grinding saloon door, waves shooting past. With increasing speed the boat shivered. What was going on? Was there a need for another race? Why did the captain take so much unnecessary risk? We all knew how fragile our convoy was. An uneasy feeling haunted me. My instinct told me: be prepared. Something would go seriously wrong again, I sensed. An uneasy twenty minutes passed by. Even half asleep I watched the boat nervously.

‘Keep cool,’ I told my self. The boat continued to tilt and more water came rushing in with gurgling sounds. ‘I will count until three,’ I told myself. ‘If the boat doesn’t tilt back, I’ll dive into the river, to save my very life.’ Oh my God! Will I have to die now?’

I counted one, then two, then… the boat gradually tilted back, somewhat limping on my starboard side. The big wave rushed back into the river, sucking away the little suitcase containing my traveler checks. I jumped to grab it, but … too late. I saw my shaving gear and a bottle of cologne drifting away in the current, as well as a pair of shoes. I dived for the bag with the camera. There I stood shivering. It was soaked from the bottom to the top. I checked my remaining papers. Wisely I had put flight tickets, passport and check receipts stowed in a leather bag in my blue jeans, and most of my cash was inside my zip leather belt, and just a little wet.

I heard the Captain shouting “All hands on deck”. Jimenez was screaming in the engine room “we are flooding!!”

Down below my feet, the engines stalled. I felt water up to my knees. With a slurping sound some of it receded back into the river, as if with a second thought..

My feet trembled. My body felt cold. There was a sudden silence. Even the countless mosquitoes had been washed away. All had happened so quickly. It had been an encounter, an eye-to-eye with death. Just another ten inch of tilting and I might have been buried in the river mud under thousands of tons of steel and Portland cement. It didn’t feel funny to go to eternity that way.

I rescued my soaked sleeping bag and our remaining rucksacks. They were damned heavy. I felt like a walking water spring, as the muddy river spilled out of our clothes and belongings onto the stairs. I took all of my strength to carry our water-soaked belongings up to the deck of the limping ship. I looked around. The moon had set behind a curtain of black rain clouds. The boat was gently, but uneasily drifting without engine power in complete darkness, without any control.

On deck I met Herby. He lay on the deck, looking apathetic, and was bleeding on his head. “Where are my glasses,” he stammered. “I cannot see much, what has happened? Where are my shoes?”

It turned out that Herby, who had been sleeping on the dinner table, had rafted with the table over the deck to hit the last bar of the railings with his forehead. What a lucky bastard. His shoes and glasses had been catapulted into the river, and equally our precious anti-malaria tablets.

I felt desperate, too. In an act of anger I pulled out the film from my camera, and threw the plastic roll into the river. What a shame. All these beautiful pictures were gone for good. Gradually, as darkness gave way to the first rays of sunlight, I calmed down and went to see what happened.

I first met Adriana. She had a stoic expression on her face, and didn’t say anything. With a regular swing she emptied bucket after bucket of water from her thoroughly flooded kitchen, aluminium pots floating around like a hopeless flotilla. Next door, the engine room was under water, too. There stood Natcho, looking like a ghost, with a soot-covered face, in the middle of diesel fumes, dark oily water reaching up to his belly.

Jimenez came over, looked at the machines, then at me and said: “Can you help us?” Together we disassembled the auxiliary motor pump. Something had gone wrong with the carburetor. It turned out to be river silt, stuck in an air inlet valve. We reassembled it, and the pump uneasily sputtered back to life. Water gushed out off the fire hose, and in an hour or two the engine room was pumped empty and back under control.

I went up to the bridge, to meet a worried Captain Perez.

“What has happened,” I asked him.

“We don’t know for sure,” he replied. “This river is full of shifting sand bars. You can hit one by day, or by night. What’s the difference? Even the best map of the world won’t help you. We navigate by instinct. It’s almost a gamble,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“We have lost three of our four barges, and our roustabouts. They were sleeping on the Griselda. The Alegria is what’s left.”

“Can they swim?” I cautiously asked.

The captain’s face suddenly became sad, and he quietly shook his head. “Only God knows if they have survived.”

A shiver went through the boat. The Penta diesels rumbled back into life. They sputtered a little bit, and sooty black clouds were ejected from the twin exhaust pipes.

Captain Perez regained his smile.

“Situations like this one aren’t always as bad as they look at first glance. Let’s see, we’ll check everything, until the Pentas work like a clock. These Volvo engines are like a rock. Don’t worry we’ll make it to Iquitos. There is no alternative, anyhow.” He ended the sentence with a loud laughter. I wasn’t sure, if this was all that funny, and I probably looked puzzled.

“Give me three, four hours, son! We’ll stop in Groa, a nice little village. It has two pubs, and the prettiest ladies of the entire Amazon. It’s carnival time, and everything goes. We’ll fix the boat over there and find some of our cargo back, so God will!”

I went up to the deck. Adriana and the Sanchez family were arranging laundry lines all over the deck. The two of us could use two lines to dry our clothing. The entire sundeck now was covered with some of our papers, books and wet sleeping backs, laying on the ground or hanging here and there. Whatever riches we had well hidden in our bags, lay now exposed to anybody’s eyes. I borrowed Jimenez’ fine mechanic’s tool set. Then I disassembled my Minox camera as well as I could. First I rescued the battery. Then I borrowed one of Mario’s leftist revistas, and put my camera parts on the paper. Gradually it dried between the orange glowing exhaust pipes and the equatorial sun.

Herby didn’t look happy. His passport had been with my stuff down in the broken cod room, and was soaked. Now dry, he opened his passport to find the picture gluing on the wrong side of the leaflet. We joined up in a desperate laughter. Somehow our adventure felt unique, and I tried to dig some positive points. “There is nothing we can do right now. Maybe we can have another picture made in Iquitos, and get new glasses for you,” I said. “We’ll try to get our traveler checks back. There should be an American Express bank. I kept a sales copy in my zip leather belt, together with the dollar notes.”

“Good point,” I said laughing. “Let’s enjoy life as long as we can, given it may be our last day.”

(c) 2008 by Franz L Kessler