Camper Travel 1974-1975

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 rain forest 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. But later in the afternoon, we found a boat that would leave in two days and was reasonably priced.

We were relieved and went for a leisurely drive through the village's main street, looking for a place to eat. Suddenly, I heard a noise. Unbeknownst to us, a boy playing marbles with his back to the road didn't hear us pass, and when he stepped into the road, his ankle got caught by the rear tire. I looked in the side mirror and saw him laying on the ground holding his foot.

We pulled over immediately and ran to him. A terrible picture! He was in severe pain and screaming. The heel's skin was peeled back, and the ankle looked out of alignment.

I quickly fetched our first-aid kit and covered his foot with a sterile bandage (military training).

Indians started rushing out of their huts, and an angry mob quickly surrounded us. Everyone screamed and made fists. Then the village police chief appeared barefoot in gym shorts and a bare torso. He took us into the police hut, pointed at handcuffs, and screamed at us.

We were terrified and unfortunately couldn't understand anything 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 back in Boa Vista. That took a while to sink in, but he finally understood. Meanwhile, Mother Theresa from the Catholic school had given the boy some Morphine.

We drove to Boa Vista as quickly as the road allowed. The boy was laying down in the back of the camper, moaning. He was accompanied by a nurse who gave him more Morphine from time to time.

It was close to midnight when we arrived in Boa Vista. The hospital was alerted and took care of the boy immediately. And yes, the local police had also been alerted and wanted to arrest us. But I knew we didn't do anything wrong and insisted on speaking to the head of the Transit police, Mr. Zimmerman.

Fortunately, we had met him the day before when we obtained the Transit Permit. Zimmerman was initially raised in Porto Alegre (in southern Brazil with a sizeable Ex-German population) and understood a little German. From my conversation with Mr. Zimmerman, it became clear that the people in Caracarai had made false accusations. They claimed our car hit the boy while speeding.

We stated the true facts to Mr. Zimmerman, and he took notes. Then he said we would have to be grounded at the police station until an interrogation could occur. Any traffic accident in Brazil requires a process, whether guilty or not.

We had to hand over the car keys, passports, and Transit Permit to the local police chief.

He allowed us to park the camper in a covered parking lot behind the prison. I presented the police chief with our Insurance Policy, which seemed irrelevant. I don't think he even knew what it was.

None of us slept well that night. What a terrible thing to happen! How will it end?

Stats: Miles 182, Expenses $0.00Weiterlesen