Day 134 - Caught in a Dire Situation

This morning, we received our transit permit and had all the legal must-haves to travel through Brazil.

We didn’t waste any time and headed straight for Caracarai, a small Indian village on the Rio Branco, hoping to find a boat to Manaus. The three-hour drive was exhausting because of poor road conditions and flooded areas. There wasn’t much to see, just rainforest and an occasional straw hut on the side of the road.

In Caracarai, we went from boat to boat but couldn’t find anything suitable. One merchant wanted too much money. Another one couldn’t accommodate our camper. A third one agreed to take us, but he first went upstream to Boa Vista. Later that afternoon, we found a boat that would leave in two days and was reasonably priced.

We were relieved and decided to take a leisurely drive through the village’s main street, looking for a place to eat. Ursula, Wally, and I enjoyed the brief relief after such a long, exhausting day.

Suddenly, I heard a noise.

A little boy (we later learned that it was a six-year-old named Francisco) was playing marbles with his buddies on the side of the road. His back was turned toward the road, so he didn’t realize or hear we were passing. We were driving very slowly, about ten miles an hour. As we passed, he suddenly stepped backward into the road, and our camper's rear tire ran over his foot.

I looked in the rearview mirror and saw him lying on the ground, holding his foot. I was in disbelief and shock.

We pulled over immediately and ran to him. It was a terrible sight. He was obviously in severe pain and screaming. His ankle was injured. The skin had been peeled back, and I could actually see the exposed bone. The wound was horrible and bleeding badly.

I quickly fetched our first aid kit and covered his foot with a sterile bandage. My military training took over, and I did whatever I could to help him.

Within moments, about twenty people came rushing out of their huts and surrounded us. Everyone was shouting and making fists. We were terrified and had no idea what was going to happen to us.

Then the village police chief appeared. He was barefoot, wearing only gym shorts and no shirt. He was furious. He took us into the police hut, pointed at the handcuffs hanging on the wall, and screamed at us. It was clear that he intended to arrest us.

This was only our 4th day in Brazil, and unfortunately, we couldn’t understand a word he was saying. But it didn’t sound good.

I used sign language to make the chief understand that the boy needed medical attention as quickly as possible. I offered to transport him to the hospital in Boa Vista, where the nearest hospital was located. It took a while for the chief to understand what I meant, but finally he did.

Meanwhile, a nun named Therese had arrived. She ran the local Catholic school and had medical supplies available. She gave Francisco some morphine to help with the pain.

We left for Boa Vista immediately and drove as quickly as the road conditions allowed. Francisco was lying on the bed in the back of the camper, moaning in pain. A nurse accompanied him and gave him more morphine from time to time when his condition worsened.

It was close to midnight when we arrived in Boa Vista. The hospital had been alerted and took care of Francisco immediately.

But there was another problem.

The local police had been alerted about the accident and wanted to arrest us. I knew we hadn’t basically done anything wrong, and insisted on speaking to the head of the Transit Police, Mr. Zimmerman, whom we had met the day before when we obtained our Transit Permit. He grew up in Porto Alegre, in southern Brazil, and spoke a little German.

From my conversation with Mr. Zimmerman, it became clear that the people in Caracarai had falsely accused us. The police chief had been contacted by phone and told that our car had hit the boy while we were speeding.

We told Mr. Zimmerman the truth, and he took notes, but said we would have to stay at the police station until they could interrogate us. Apparently, every traffic accident in Brazil required a formal process, whether you were guilty or not.

We had to hand over the car keys, our passports, and our Transit Permit to the local police chief, and they allowed us to park the camper in a covered parking lot behind the prison with lots of mango trees.

Later, I presented the police chief with our Insurance Policy, which seemed completely irrelevant to him. I don’t think he even knew what insurance was.

That night, Ursula, Wally, and I barely slept.

We had come to Brazil with all the proper permits. We drove slowly and carefully. When the accident happened, we had stopped immediately and done everything we could to help Francisco.

And now we were sitting behind a prison, without our passports, our car keys, or our Transit Permit, wondering what would happen to us.

What a terrible thing to happen! How will it end?

Stats: Miles 182, Expenses $0.00Read more