Tears for Manaus

I have been to the city of Manaus, Brazil, the gateway to the Amazon, three times – well, actually six times, because we’ve stopped there on the way in and out of the jungle on each fishing trip. It is a bustling yet friendly city, a once-wealthy home to barons of the rubber industry and now a free-trade zone.

Unlike Rio, which I visited only once, under typical circumstances it feels exceptionally safe.

Unfortunately, right now it is purported to be one of the least-safe cities in the world. That’s not due to crime, but rather due to the uncontrolled spread of the coronavirus.

There was a surge in the virus in Manaus in the spring, when hospitals filled to capacity and bodies were loaded into mass graves. I’m not qualified to cast blame on any bad actors in this situation, but the failures seem to have been several, and the results were catastrophic. Some suggested that “herd immunity” would kick in, but those hopes were dashed, and then literally interred. As false security became the norm, the new “Brazil Variant” of the virus took over.

I fear for my friends who live there have already suffered and will continue to suffer. Selfishly, I fear that I will never go back to one of my favorite parts of the globe.

The only downside to our international travel bug is that we repeatedly fall in love with places that can’t always love us back. We get attached to people who we might never otherwise meet – and who we may only see once in our lives. Then, when we hear that they’re suffering, we suffer too. Just as the tragedy in Manaus tears a hole in me, I can’t bear to see another hurricane hit Lake Charles, La., or consider the possibility that the Pebble Mine project in Alaska will come back from the dead.

Loving places hurts sometimes. It’s still worth it.