Brazil - Nighttime Waves. The Rain Forest, a new President.

The city of Manaus feels out of place, plopped in the middle of the Amazon Rainforest on the edge of the Negro river with over two million people. Hands are raised in the competition for who can reach closer to God in the the city square's churches. A few Bolsonaro hats are worn near the docks in the tumultuous wake of the recent election where Lula took the reins in a narrow race. The city square was filled with both protestors and counter protestors over the outcome of the election, fueled by fraud allegations from Bolsonaro. Elsewhere in the country, bombings and storming of national buildings were taking place. "It's a democracy, they have to accept it. They will have their turn if the government does badly," the cab driver notes as he watches the Bolsonaro supporters pass by as we drive to the river.

The entrance into the river is a ramp, descending for several hundred meters. After the rainy season, it'll be nearly entirely covered. Trees in the river show the water line on their trunks, some wear it on their waist, others don't have a distinct water mark at all - which means they spend the entire rainy season underwater. Their resilience is noted.

After a few boats and cars and buses I meet Anderson and Marcelo. Anderson is a young early twenties guy, who grew up nearby on a fish farm sporting a broad smile that reaches the edges of his face. Marcelo is in his late fifties with a white stubbled beard. Having spent much of his lifetime in the rainforest when he can, he advises us that staying that long in the forest is not a successful method for a long lasting marriage. He tells a story of his training for the jungle faction of the Brazilian military, where they put them individually in the jungle for 40 days with basic supplies, plus a gun and a single bullet. They were meant to survive by scavenging, hunting and treating themselves through their knowledge of the jungle's foliage, waters and animals. Marcelo tells us he never worried about listening for jaguars, "You'll never hear them until they bite you." At the end of the forty days, they returned to the table of the commander, putting their equipment down. First, their machete, next their gun, and finally, if they hadn't used it, the single bullet. If you didn't bring back the bullet, you received a camouflage hat, but if you did, you got a green hat. "I have a green hat," he told us proudly. These two acted as guides for a Swiss woman intent on staying in the jungle for several weeks and myself, as we go into the rainforest for the week.

We set off taking a small boat into veiny tributaries, each getting smaller than the last, until we find a small area that Marcelo had staked out in previous years. As we're unpacking, Anderson pulls a single barrel shotgun from his pack, looks at me and says, "Just in case." Thin trees are cut down, and hammocks are strung through them, lashed with rope fashioned from the bark of a nearby tree. The rope in local slang is called "killer killer rope" as alcoholism and depression surged after the introduction of alcohol into their communities. Its introduction, paired with a lack of jobs, led to high amounts of suicide in the community, giving the rope its name.

Anderson tells me a story of a short ugly man in the jungle who will put you in a small jail in the jungle, and hit you everyday if you kill too many fish.

Walking through the jungle, mushrooms grows like the black sprouts in Princess Mononoke. At night I can't sleep. There's an intense burning on my neck due to tree fungus putting its invisible stingers into my skin. It hurts like mad. I shove my hands in long socks to stop myself from trying to touch my neck.

During the day there's a few hour period where it pours. It rains to the point it's tough to see. I would always ask Marcelo if we should wear a rain coats, but he would just shrug and say we're fine. Then sitting in a canoe, it would rain heavier than standing in the shower at full blast. But, I would look at Marcelo and Anderson getting drenched, and they never seemed to mind.

The jungle is real. I don't know how else to put it. Looking down the water overflowing with life. Every bug imaginable passing by me as if I were a buffet prime rib, trying to figure out if I taste any good. Deet and Picaridin don't work much here, putting up an impossible fight. Poets writing about the Amazon probably have to change their styles. Courage is redefined, and let me tell you, it's not the jungle warfare on the 4th floor of the Solomon Brothers. It's Anderson walking in sandals by coma inducing spiders, delicately dealing with an electric fishing unhooking piranhas and traíras. It's difficult, but those who stand up still go forward. This has been a humbling experience.