The day not long born – Bloody hot already, the sun reflecting off the tarmac and I could already feel the weight of the heat on my back and head, even through my Tilley hat. The fragile looking little single-engined plane, nicknamed in Brazil a ‘Teko Teko’ because of its resemblance in sound and vision to a child’s model plane driven by elastic bands – It stood there and shimmered and glowed in the sunshine while the temperature had not yet even reached 42 degrees Celsius.

In what seemed like slow motion a fat mechanic slowly hand pumped fuel into the plane’s tank. The smell of aviation fuel added itself to the tropical morning smells as Adam Baines and I stood waiting nervously to load and board this Teko Teko. Denis, the pilot, stood there in his beautifully cut, fashionably faded Khaki. This forty-something, athletic pilot exuded confidence as he emerged from the cockpit holding a slender glass phial which he dipped in the fuel tank. Denis looked at the yellow liquid in the phial against the blue, blue sky. He slowly brought it to his nose and gently sniffed it and rolled it under his nose with the concentration of a wine connoisseur. In Cruzeiro the pilot’s nose makes the final decision between aviation fuel and anything else that could find its way into tank!

Denis eyes turned to us, then drifted slowly over our baggage. He was not in a good mood. We were last minute passengers with extra weight, forcing him to remove all his various boxes, destined for different jungle stops and reload the craft again. On top of that we were going to pay the $900-00 with travellers’ cheques instead of US dollars cash. Denis looked us over. I could feel him wondering if the traveller’s cheques would bounce. He starred at these two Europeans and he probably wondered if we knew what we were getting into. I said, “The traveller’s cheques are paying for the return as well as the outward journey and, if they bounce; you won’t have to bring us back. Chief Biraci will vouch for us anyway”. Right he said, looking at my waistline “Back to the cargo hanger to get you weighed”. Finally, now having to believe that I really did weigh 85 Kilos, we approached the plane again.

Instrument checks done, the tower gave us clearance, chocks away. Propeller whirling, he shouted above the engine in English, let us sway. Mystified for a moment, then Denis loudly said the Lord’s Prayer in Portuguese and asked for the Lord to watch over our journey. A moment of reality came through the excitement and I prayed to whatever gods are up there, please keep an eye on us. The plane slowly surged forward, gathering speed, it lifted off and skimmed above the trees. Cruzeiro gradually disappeared behind us. At last, the adventure was to begin as we soared up, up and away.

I saw a carpet of green under the sky blue canopy, the sea of endless forest stretching as far as the eye could see to the edges of the horizon. I had a feeling of how small and insignificant are men in comparison to this wonder of nature. We flew on, gradually leaving behind the amazing golden beaches of the snaking river Jurua, so different from any riverbank I had come across before in either Africa or Australasia.

I was sitting in the seat by the pilot with my camera at the ready. Ready for what? I looked down at the trees so tightly packed together, my imagination was running away with the thought of what might happen if our one motor took sick and died. Chief Biraci had said, “There are no bad old pilots in the Amazon. Bad pilots die young; and so do their passengers”. Quickly glancing round I saw Adam starring out of the window, obviously moved by the sight of such beauty. Not the time to spoil his dream with a possible nightmare, for at that moment a rainbow appeared across the jungle and made what was already wonderful, magical. I looked at the Chief relaxed in his seat. I began to feel some of passion he had for his home, and also began to understand how he stood up at a conference in Panama and caused consternation by tearing up a prepared speech while shouting, “The Yawanawa want their land back”.

This man, who had lived on the building sites of Rio Branco and earned a pittance of money, had not only fed and clothed his body, but also fed his mind and soul and to become a survivor. At a time when most Indians ended up on the bottom of the human scrap heap, became alcoholics and the low life of the gutters of these fifth world towns. Chief Biraci had educated himself, fought for Indian rights to become their spokesman at the various conferences that became fashionable in the 80’s when the 1st world became aware of environmental issues. This plane journey was giving Biraci a small escape from his almost constant responsibility for the tribe. We had been in the air now for about 75 minutes, a journey that would have taken about fifteen days on foot or twenty by canoe.

Denis, the pilot, banked the plane and we moved on to another compass heading. He shouted over the roar of the engine in as much of a conversational tone as possible, “Don’t forget to be back on the grass strip on the date we agreed. We were cutting it fine by planning to be back just a couple of days before the start of the rainy season and the plane would be unable to land if the strip was waterlogged. I had already had a bad landing on a previous trip on a water soaked landing strip, the plane had tipped up on its nose – So, I had been there, done that and had no desire to repeat the excitement. “I make two passes and then I leave – That’s the deal”. I shouted back to the pilot,” I won’t forget, nor will Adam we both know that a seventeen day walk as the wet season starts could be the end for us”. Denis smiled,”Could be? It definitely would be”. “Thanks for the vote of confidence”, I shouted. We banked again and Denis said, “Sete Estrellas, time to land”. We swooped down low, crossing the river Gregoria and making for the grass strip by the side of the small group of thatched huts that was the village of Sete Estrellas and the jumping off point for our trip into the unknown.