Carry On Up The Amazon

My trip up the Amazon River was taken many years ago whilst in my early 20’s.

At the time I was working as Lord Smythe’s official taster.

He was insane, convinced that people were trying to poison him.

The pay was £500 per day as he imagined it was a dangerous job.

The rest of his staff was outraged at my fleecing his worshipfulness, but hey, money is money.

The food was delicious and I had to get there early in the morning, obviously, to taste his breakfast, always a fry up.

The Lord was eternally grateful and I got to eat everything he did, so I got quite substantial around the waist line.

Anyway back to the trip.

In 6 months I had earned quite a large nest egg, anyway it was time to leave as the Lord, unfortunately, had been killed by one of his bison, which he kept as pets, it had bolted when it was stung by a wasp on the lip.

Typically for Lord Smythe, his last words were:

“How’s Billy, how’s Billy?” (The Bison that is).

Yes, typical of Lord Smythe to be thinking of others, even with his terminal breath.

So, I had plenty of funds, and it was a tossup between a trip up the Amazon or taking a cruise around the Caribbean with my friend Ted. Needless to say, Ted was quite put out when I explained that the spirit of adventure had trumped the spirit of cruising indulgence.

I phoned an old friend to talk it over and we met in the Butterfly and Bullet, a pub near Charring Cross Station.

I wanted to talk over the logistics of the trip, you know how many pairs of underpants I might need, and whether the water in the Amazon is drinkable, or as I suspected, not.

My old `mucker` Richard Branson arrived looking decidedly peaky after a heavy night of making more money.

I bought him a `half a Shandy`, and found him to be extremely helpful.

“Have a map, a friend with a gun, and sturdy boots!”

I inwardly agreed to the sturdy boots and map, but I didn’t like guns, after once as a boy being shot in the funny bone by a pellet gun, wielded by a drunken uncle.

I was living in North London at the time and flew from Barnet Airport, all the way to the Amazon Basin.

I had chartered a Lear jet, another reason to thank Lord Smythe; and was the only passenger. I had my own Butler, an ancient Welshman with one eye and a toupee; I think He said his name was Neil.

We landed in a rain storm and I was lucky to be wearing my baseball cap with the mini umbrella on top; I had my trusty small ruck-sack with me, nothing else.

I waited at the arrivals desk and asked in my halting Portuguese whether I could hire a man with a small boat to go up the Amazon.

Apparently my Portuguese was too halting as the lady at the desk looked at me with which I assumed was a quizzical expression. I think I also caught the word `Loco`, amongst a stream of unintelligible verbosity, `Loco` is probably a Latinate universal.

 

I heard a shout behind me “Mark, Mark, I don’t believe it!!”

I quickly turned around to see my friend, the Brazilian Football legend Pele.

I greeted him with joy and excitement; he asked me what I was doing there and agreed to find someone who was daft enough to go with me up the Amazon.

“What size boat do you want to hire, and is it going to have a motor?!” Pele looked genuinely concerned and I remembered the times we had spent playing Chess whilst He had been in London whilst hired by the BBC as a pundit.

I was hoping to Hire a Pedalo and Pele really broke into very loud Portuguese, with a flourish at the end in English “Bonkers!”

“You see my friend I’ve put a lot of weight on recently and I thought I could kill two birds with one stone, you know whilst travelling up river, losing weight as well!”

Eventually he conceded to what he had dubbed my delusional plan, and found me an indigenous Amazonian, male, not more that 4 ft tall wearing red shorts and a T-Shirt with a picture of Nicolas Parsons wearing a Tiara.

 Pele told me whilst my little friend was leading us to the hired Pedalo, jumbo size, that my Amazon Guide had been told that Nicolas Parsons was the Queen of England, I gave a nervous titter.

The Pedalo was large enough to carry both me and my new friend.

We would take it in turns paddling and as we waved goodbye to my friend, the football legend Pele, I was gratified to see that my Guide, who I now will call Richard, I couldn’t make out the name he had given, was peddling at a rate that I can only say was almost supernatural.

Yet, like a duck who remains calm on the water, whilst his webbed feet are going nineteen to the dozen, Richard was utterly still whilst from the knees down his legs were moving like the Energizer Rabbit on speed.

The Amazon River is only second to the Nile in terms of size and length, and as we organically motored up its green, sometimes muddy brown length, the sights were astonishing.

The exotic birds and mammals, parrots with stunning plumages, Jaguars frolicking with cows in the water, Piranha trying to nibble on my fingers as I let my hand drag over the side into the refreshing river.

I felt it was time to stop and have a bite, Richard had been peddling non-stop for 3 days, and he might have been fine, but I needed a break!

Richard, like some contemporary `Friday`, made a shelter from some jungle fronds.

I made some Marmite Sandwiches, which he spat out in disgust, whereby proving the old adage about Marmite, you either loved it or hated it; I was secretly glad as I could eat his too.

I slept like a log and woke to the sound of Richard quietly humming an Indigenous Amazonian Tune, whose melody sounded remarkably similar to `Yes we have no Bananas`, which was quaintly enjoyable.

He was skinning an Aardvark, so I went down to the River's edge to make my ablutions.

There was a group of men admiring our Pedalo, they too were Indigenous people of the Jungle.

Suddenly as I approached one of the men turned and with a wicked grin said in broad Geordie “away man! That yoo-er Bo-at?”

He and the other men were dressed only in grass thongs and were extremely colourfully tattooed, and I could almost smell the danger.

Suddenly Richard came rushing out of the Jungle’s edge, screaming like a banshee, and the men fled in panic.

We set off and I decided it was my turn to paddle the Pedalo; Richard seemed mildly hurt but acquiesced.

I did a good 3 minutes and then let him happily take over.

The next few days were a blur as He peddled and I took photos on my phone, luckily I had topped up with a Terabyte of Data.

When at last we reached the end of the Amazon, there was a large crowd waving banners, waiting for us; how had they found out?

Suddenly pushing through the crowd I saw my old friend Princess Anne, surrounded by Courtiers in Colonial hats; she always was a real brick!!

“Hello Mark, I heard about your trip from Dicky Branson and I thought I’d welcome you with an iced glass of Moet!!

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I only drank Bollinger and sipped it with a smile, as Richard collected the colouful garlands from the excited welcoming party.

Flying back, this time in Anne’s Lear jet, with Richard, who had decided to become a Butler, sitting at my feet, I regaled the Princess with our Amazonian tales. Her favourite story was the time when I had nearly been strangled and eaten by an anaconda.

Luckily, I had told her, I’d managed to stuff a Marmite Sandwich down its lengthy reptile gullet; like Richard it wasn’t a fan, and I was free; she really loved that story.

One week later, back in Blighty, back in my Barnet bedsit, I lay awake and thought about my epic journey, what next? I mused.