Covering the short distance from the Royal Princess to shore amid water-arching, pink dolphins, my tender penetrated thick, swampy, molasses with its dual-pontoon underside, circumventing two river boats before approaching the wooden, stilt-supported houses and thatch huts marking the Boca da Valeria “pocket of humanity,” which could equally have been considered a “pocket of (arrested) time.” To the river dwellers, this had been “home.” It had been all that they had known. We had brought our preconceived “ideas” of home, which had been all we had known. Neither had been the same, or even remotely close. Perhaps I would find some elements of commonality between the two during my visit.
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