Runtu : I boarded a 727 in Cochabamba / http://proza.ru/2023/11/28/776 / early in the morning
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2023 - Авторская Журналистика : Hео-трансцендентальный театр : " Великолепная Семерка Блистательных и Великих Женщин Мира " - из творческого круга Рудольфа Нуреева: Личное Общение и Опыт жизни этих Выдающихся личностей помог мне прожить счастливую жизнь на Западе и в России : I - Наталия Дудинская - Россия - / http://proza.ru/2006/04/14-309 / - II - Галина Уланова - Россия - / http://www.proza.ru/2017/09/15/442 / - III - Элизабет Тейлор - Англия США - / http://www.proza.ru/2017/09/26/1006 / - IV - Матильда Кшесинская - Россия Франциия - / http://www.proza.ru/2017/09/16/461 / - V - Тамара Карсавина - Россия Англия - / http://www.proza.ru/2017/09/25/1381 / - VI - Марго Фонтейн - Панама Англия - / http://www.proza.ru/2017/09/29/228 / - VII - Лаурел Мартин - / http://www.proza.ru/2017/09/28/894 / - Австтрия Австралия - Iouri Runtu: French : Rudolf Noureev : La Mort a Paris / Юри Рюнтю : Russian / Uri Runtu: English / Canberra ACT Australia : 2022.
2023 : Telegram : Runtu, Uri TikTok : Автор : Юри Рюнтю - / http://www.proza.ru/2006/04/14-339 / Журналистика: Русская Литература Дальнего Зарубежья : 21-век Австралия / Ryuntyu Yuri RU / Australia Media 2018 / Media are the collective communication outlets or tools used to store and deliver information or data. It is either associated with communication media... / Iouri Runtu: French / Юри Рюнтю : Russian / Uri Runtu: English / Canberra ACT Australia : Hео-трансцендентальный театр : 2022.
2023 : Telegram : Runtu, Uri TikTok :статья : ' 20 лет - писал 62 книги и 16 лет выводил свои тексты на Проза-Ру. / http://www.proza.ru/2017/10/31/1114 / Рюнтю Юри / Yuri Ryuntyu / Москва Россия / Journalism refers to the production and distribution of reports on recent events. The word journalism applies to the occupation, the methods of gathering information and organising literary styles / writer journalist / Media TV Radio Ryuntyu, Yuri Matthew / Canberra ACT Australia / Iouri Runtu: French : Rudolf Noureev : La Mort a Paris / Юри Рюнтю : Russian / Uri Runtu: English : Hео-трансцендентальный театр : 2022.
Flying to El Beni felt like going to a different world.
I’d never been in the jungle, and I was excited.
Cannon and I boarded a 727 in Cochabamba early in the morning, and then had a couple of hours on the ground in Trinidad, the capital of El Beni.
It was hot and humid there, and the green
savanna seemed to stretch out forever.
After lunch, we boarded a bright yellow
twin-engine plane for the trip to Guayeramerin and then to Riberalta.
We could the savanna gradually giving way
to dense jungle as we travelled north.
Eventually, it was so humid that you could only see the land if you looked almost straight down; otherwise, the humid air looked like a gray fog covering the landscape in every direction.
Suddenly we dropped down toward the jungle, and the pilot announced we would be landing in Santa Ana, a small town on the Mamore River. I couldn’t see anywhere to land, so I prayed that the pilot knew what he was doing.
Just as I thought we were going to crash into the trees, a small green strip appeared cut out of the jungle. We landed on grass and slowed until we reached a small cluster of huts.
A crowd of perhaps 50 people emerged from the trees and surrounded the plane.
We got off the plane to stretch our legs, as people crowded around us, trying to sell everything from tropical fruits to carved blowguns.
We bought a bag of Brazil nuts rolled in chocolate and sugar, drank some cold Cokes, and got back on the plane.
We arrived at Guayeramerin in the middle of the afternoon, and it was sweltering hot.
This time we weren’t able to get off the plane, but as soon as the passengers had departed, we took off again.
During the short trip, we stayed barely above the trees, and the plane jumped and shook with the unstable air.
By the time we landed in Riberalta, we were both hot and a little nauseated from the flight.
On the dirt road outside the airport were a few “mototaxista,” motorcycles used as taxis in a town where there were no cars.
We climbed on the backs of a couple of motorcycles, trying desperately not to drop our suitcases as we spend along a rutted dirt road, the motorcycles trailing bluish smoke behind us.
After a short ride, we pulled into the central plaza, a lush garden lined with mango trees surrounded by red-brick paved street, the only pavement in the town.
On one corner of the plaza stood a restaurant and ice cream parlor, with a few rooms for rent behind it. That was to be our home for a while.
We walked into the room and put down our bags, Cannon having already paid in advance for the room before leaving.
There were insects everywhere on the walls and tiled floors, and the windows had only mosquito netting nailed in as screens instead of glass.
The hotel and restaurant had been built by a Yugoslavian man who had come to Riberalta to make his fortune, though I was never sure what he had done for a living.
His widow was now running his business enterprises, which were slowly failing one by one.
Only a few framed photos of the family in Paris, Prague, Berlin, and Belgrade remained of the family’s former wealth and position.
Cannon explained that we would be moving into Senora Peris’s garage, after she had cleaned it out.
I wasn’t too happy about living in a garage, but then I discovered that the garage was much nicer than the places I had lived in La Paz.
It had a yellow ceramic tile floor and a couple of screened windows.
It would be a decent place, once we moved in.
For the time being we stayed in the little dark room in the motel, with a slow ceiling fan creating just the slightest circulation of air.
At dinner time, we walked a couple of blocks to a small mud hut with a banana-leaf roof, home of the Chipunavi family.
They had been church members for a few years and came sporadically to meetings, but she had a soft spot for missionaries.
Brother Chipunavi was a fisherman, Riberalta being situated at the confluence of the Beni and Madre de Dios rivers.
Hermana Chipunavi cooked our dinners over an open fire in her small kitchen, attached to the main house.
She had two electric appliances: a small refrigerator and a television.
The only television station that came in at all was the Bandeirantes network from across the border in Brazil.
Each night the family would gather to watch Brazilian soap operas.
“Do you understand Portuguese?” I asked one night.
“Well, some of it,” she said.
“Why do you watch TV when you don’t understand it?” I asked.
“Well, it’s better than nothing.” I couldn’t argue with that.
Each night we ate fish and fresh tropical fruits and a lot of rice.
I loved being able to pick mangos and cashew fruits from the trees as we walked along.
One day as we stopped to pick mangos, a large blue macaw climbed down from a branch and perched on Cannon’s shoulder, giving him a tremendous fright.
The branch there was indeed struggling, but they had a new and enthusiastic branch president, who had just returned from his mission.
He had grown up in Cochabamba, and there he had met a young woman from Riberalta who had a small child.
He had baptized her, and they had moved to El Beni in search of work. He had immediately been called as branch president.
The branch met in a room next door to our garage apartment, which had once been Senor Peris’s television station.
We had a few benches in the front of the room, and the back was crowded with rusting video equipment and boxes of videotapes.
The only church members in Riberalta who had remained involved in the church were an elderly woman and her daughter, a girl named Bebby, who was about our age.
We had been placed in Riberalta because the two of them had travelled to Cochabamba and demanded that President Nichols send missionaries to help their branch.
We spent our days locating lost members of the church and inviting them to the meetings. That first week, we had about ten people attending, mostly women.
The branch president, Oscar Rodriguez, sat down with us and went over a list of assignments he thought he should make.
The next Sunday we arrived at the church to find it padlocked, with President Rodriguez sitting on the doorstep.
His wife, it seemed, had objected to the idea of him having private interviews with the women in the branch, so she had hidden the key.
When we went to their house, she screamed at us and said we were trying to break up their marriage.
She relented only when I told her that I would sit in on the interviews to make sure nothing inappropriate happened.
Church was late that week, but we had even more people there.
For p-day, Cannon said we needed to go to Brazil to get food.
“Are you sure it’s OK?” I asked.
“Sure, I told President Nichols it was the only way to get good food,” he said.
Before sunrise, we walked to a small shop on the edge of town, where a single pickup truck sat.
For $2, we could sit on a plank set across the truck bed and ride to the border.
For another dollar, we could ride in the cab, but Cannon said it was too hot inside the truck.
So, we climbed in and sat on a plank, and the truck started on the two-hour journey to Guayeramerin, on the border.
The brick-coloured dirt road was literally cut out of the jungle, the trees rising on either side of us.
It was hot and dusty, but at least being in the back of a truck made it seem windy and kept us reasonably cool.
Twice we stopped where the road crossed a river, and the truck drove onto a small barge attached to a rope.
A boatman started a small motor and used a long pole to steer as we crossed.
Two or three hours later, we arrived in the small town of Guayeramerin, which looked a lot like Riberalta with its muddy streets and low thatched houses.
The truck pulled to a stop at the crest of hill that descended a hundred feet or so to the bank of the Mamore River, which at that point marked the border with Brazil.
We quickly exchanged some dollars for Brazilian Cruzeiros and then hopped in a small aluminium motorboat, which carried us swiftly across the river to Guajara-Mirim, the Brazilian counterpoint to the little Bolivian town.
The first thing I noticed as we walked up the paved road from the river was the Chevrolet dealership, and down the street was a museum displaying artifacts from the town’s heyday during the rubber boom nearly a century before.
Cannon had been here before, so I followed him to a restaurant, where they placed fruits, vegetables, and rice on our table, and then brought out long spits with several kinds of meats.
This was my first experience with Brazilian churrasco, and I ate my fill.
All told, it cost us about $3 apiece to gorge ourselves on this excellent food. Afterward, we headed to a supermarket (the first I had seen since leaving the US), and we spent about $40, mostly on perishable items we couldn’t get in Bolivia: milk, yogurt, bacon, mostly.
The cashier asked us why we had bought so much food.
“We live in Bolivia,” I said. She nodded with comprehension.
After another boat ride, we arrived on the Bolivian side of the river.
A uniformed sailor of the Bolivian Navy stood on the bank, a machine gun in his hand.
“Are you Brazilian citizens?” he asked.
“No,” we said, and he motioned us ashore.
We rode back to Riberalta in the same truck, this time watching one of the most spectacular sunsets I had ever seen.
Back at the house, we lay on the rooftop patio, staring up at the stars.
The electricity turned off every evening at 6:30, so it was so dark that you could see all the stars, the milky way crossed the sky in a clear pale swath.
I knew I was going to like it in El Beni.
Runtu 10 Пьес автора и Стэнфордский университет US
Рюнтю Юри: литературный дневник
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