An Extraordinary Act of Compassion on the Amazon River

One pivotal experience heightened my sense of compassion forever.

My traveling buddy, Karen and I were in sore need of a hit of compassion. We were stranded on the Amazon River and unable to pull any tricks out of our seasoned, nomad sleeves.

We had launched on our journey many weeks before this moment arrived. We had overcome several formidable obstacles, working our way down the Rio Napo tributary in Ecuador. Little did we know, Ecuador and Peru would launch into a silent and hostile war over oil rights in the Amazon.

Our small river boat cruised into the port of Iquitos, Peru, halfway to our destination, Belem, Brazil at the river’s mouth. Officials were waiting at the port and promptly informed us river and air traffic had been called to a halt.

Ours was the last boat landing and none would be departing.

Amerindian tribes had been killing travelers on the river. Their frustration over the intrusion of foreign oil companies and disasters culminating from invasive, faulty construction on the Trans Amazonian highway had climaxed. They were being displaced and began retaliating the only way they could.

Their actions, combined with trigger happy military on both sides, brought trade on the river to this very rare standstill. Even mail boats were barred.

Iquitos was a city like no other on the Amazon. It was and still is the largest city in the world that cannot be reached by road. The population in 1977 was around 145,00 people. It was also the hottest, most humid place the two of us had ever landed in.

The instant we ventured out from the shade of our boat, we felt like a solar drill bored a hole through our skulls. Exposing our brains to a sunny side up fry. We dripped, sweat running in rivulets, on the hunt for a room to rent.

Settling on a dispiriting, tiny room, we threw our packs down in relief and turned on the ceiling fan. Mercy arrived, not for long. The fan cranked and whined for half an hour, then mysteriously died. The worst was when it happened in the middle of the night and we couldn’t go outside. This would be a constant occurrence, as electricity surged in and out.

We settled on a daily ritual in an effort to maintain sanity. Early morning found us hotfooting our way down to the port in a futile aim for news about passage downriver.

We finally resorted to paying the airport a daily visit as well. The place was deserted, except for a bare bones staff, including an air traffic controller playing solitaire. We reached his lair in the tower, after days of quizzing the few people on the floor below. We startled him by knocking on his door.

“What! Who are you and how did you get up here? Access is forbidden. You need to leave!”

“We just want to know if there are any flights coming in or going out in the next few days? The workers on the first floor sent us up here. We’re getting desperate. Can you help?”

“You’re not the only ones stuck here. There’s a team of medical workers needing to evacuate as well. No one is going in or out. Sorry, but you’re out of luck for now. Come back tomorrow and check again.”

We began steadily haunting the small airport. At least it had power for fans. Twice, the traffic controller informed us a flight might leave early morning the next day. Twice, we ran to the airport in dawn light, praying that was true. Nope.

Day eleven arrived and again we consulted the traffic controller.

“Tomorrow morning there will definitely be a flight. It’s been confirmed, but it’s completely booked with the medical workers. There’s no way, unless someone doesn’t show up. Highly unlikely. I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

“What time is it leaving?”

“It’s scheduled for departure at 8 a.m. but be here earlier if you want to try contacting the pilot.

We gave up any notion of sleeping that night. Sitting in our beds, wasting away in the 24/7 sauna. There was nothing left to drip. Our bags were packed and we left the room before dawn, practically running to the airport.

We noticed unusual activity right away. We queried a man we had talked with before. Was there a plane leaving?

“Yes, it’s been loaded. The passengers and pilot arrived early and they’re leaving now.”

He pointed to the tarmac where we spotted an 8 seater, military plane. Propellor spinning in a slow taxi to the runway.

Without exchanging a word, Karen and I tore off out the door and onto the tarmac. We flew, possessed souls in need of salvation, until we came to a juncture the plane would pass by. We stuck out our thumbs and I started doing jumping jacks as well. Like I said, fried brain.

The plane came alongside us and the entry door flung open. The young pilot, around our age in his mid twenties, shouted out.

“What are you doing!?”

“Can you take us? We’re stranded too!”

He eyeballed us, dragged out a clipboard and scanned his stats.

“How much do you and your packs weigh?”

We shot him an estimate. We had light packs and had turned into lightweights ourselves, thanks to our perpetual, sauna spa.

“Okay, I think I can swing it, but every, single, person on board is going to have to agree or it’s a no go. There’s a risk involved. You’re both going to have to sit on your packs too. I can’t have you sitting directly on the floor.” He turned to the passengers.

“We’re going to vote. Raise your right hand if you’re willing and your left hand if you don’t want to risk it.”

Every, single, right hand, instantly shot up into the air. A miracle was taking place.

Steps were thrown down. Hands reached out to grab our packs and help us get settled. I glanced back and waved at the traffic controller who was glued to his binoculars. He was shaking his head in disbelief, but no one was running to stop us.

I was positioned behind the pilot and could see the same thing he did, shifting slightly to one side. Steps were retracted, the door was locked and we continued our taxi to the beginning of the runway.

OMG! It was a short, bush plane length! Jets had never touched this tarmac.

The pilot had a mad glint in his eyes. I was sure he rode a motorcycle. I looked back at the passengers and gulped. We were all suffering from a major case of jungle fever, casting aside boundaries and rules. Wild West under the Southern Cross.

The pilot’s hands tensed as he revved up our puny engine and the propellor began spinning madly. Off we shot! The jungle wall looming closer by the second. Could we clear the canopy? If not, we wouldn’t be around to talk about it.

Our wheels left the tarmac. Into the air we soared. At the last possible moment. Our plane had cleared the canopy by a good 30 ft! A celebratory hurrah rang out as we continued gaining altitude.

Karen and I shed silent tears, releasing tension. A gust of compassion had lifted us into a lofty altitude no plane could ever offer.

The pilot yelled out, “We left two hours early and I have a full tank of gas. Is anyone interested in a tour of Northern Amazon? I can share some history.”

We shouted out a hearty agreement and the pilot began detailing what we were seeing below. For more than an hour we cruised at low and high altitude over a series of rivers, threading their way toward the mighty Amazon. Some were a stunning green and turquoise color. Others were shades of brown and even black, like the Rio Negro coursing down from the Andes Mountains.

At one point, we came in low over a clearing and a naked Indian came out and shot an arrow at our plane. The pilot grew up in the region and knew the name of this formerly untouched tribe. I felt a wave of empathy for the lone defender’s plight. I wouldn’t want a noisy, winged beast invading my turf either.

We had a smooth landing in Leticia, Colombia. Karen and I waited around after sharing a group hug with our fellow passengers. As soon as everyone departed, we went over to the pilot.

“We’d like to give you some money.”

“No way chicas! That flight was the most fun I’ve had since becoming a pilot. What a story! No one’s going to believe two wild women hitched a plane on the runway! They’re probably not going to believe I stopped for you too. I can’t believe it myself!”

We burst out in relieved laughter. Karen and I shouldered our packs and began walking down the road to town. Fifteen minutes later, a motorcycle whizzed by with a toot, our daredevil pilot waving enthusiastically. I knew it!

After the excitement had ebbed, I had time to reflect on what had taken place. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the willingness all on board had demonstrated. It moved my soul to be the recipient of tremendous kindness. I wanted to pay it forward in small and large ways, as often as possible. My heart was lit up by a fever and it wasn’t malaria.

I think of this uplifting adventure more often in our current times. How do we react to the suffering of others and what are we moved to do? A debate lingers over wether it’s necessary to feel empathy, before we can sow seeds of compassion. Maybe witnessing the challenges we all face, through the lens of compassion, fosters our ability to feel empathy for another. Regardless, they weave a connected web.

A lot of us get bogged down in the, what can I do syndrome. We think we need to employ bold endeavors in order to make a difference. The opposite is often true.

It’s the small, everyday acts of generosity and openness, creating a wider bridge to others. Holding the door open for the person behind you. Pausing to listen fully. Smiling with your eyes at strangers on the street. Expressing a willingness to be fully present to what arises in our lives.

Small acts start compiling and creating a deeper lifeline to ourselves as well. We see how far we can go, after believing we have reached our limit. Only to find out there’s more in our reserve than we knew.

I haven’t hitched another plane, but I’m still flying high, all these years later, on the fumes of compassion. Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. They are lying in wait for our discovery and activation.

None of us are alone. United we thrive. We can grow, learn and extend our compassion to one another. We can do it now.