Even in the full radiance of a hot sun the port city of Manaus, Brazil, looks gray. Small cement block buildings line the narrow cobblestone streets, surging with Brazilian women in bright, tight camisoles and colorful skirts. A brown skinned laborer in long baggy shorts slumbers on a bench in the humid heat. Small children near grimy food stalls look for handouts. There is a constant hum, accented with frequent shouts and calls, in this press of humanity at the confluence of the Negro and Solimoes Rivers.

Hot and sticky, we are sitting in a dilapidated yellow bus with windows that are permanently wedged half-open, listening as our guide Francesco points out places of interest. There are only three: the wharf, the market, and the Opera House.

"Bom tarde," he greets us in Portuguese. Francesco is a swarthy man with a loud, raucous laugh that follows every sentence he utters like a series of exclamation points. He wears a loose green shirt, and when he steps off the bus he instantly blends with the locals. We follow the high pitch of his laugh.

"Aqui, we are visiting the Opera House, built in 1851 by the rubber barons, who brought European culture to this place. They hired the Viennese Opera to make the long and arduous journey to Manaus to provide classical music for their entertainment."

Standing in the center of a mosaic tiled plaza the building is impressive. Towering high above the dirty streets, its grand gold dome looks like a religious shrine. The inside is dark and cavernous with a high curved ceiling and enormous crystal chandelier, box seating ornately sculptured, and faded red velvet seats. The air is dank with the odor of ancient decay.

"The theatre seats 400 people," Francesco informs us. Amazed by the ostentatious display of wealth, I wonder at the cruel power Europeans welded over the native Brazilians. "The Europeans lived on huge rubber plantations in the jungle. Every four or five months they would come to Manaus to take care of business and go to the Opera."

I could see why the rich would not have been content to live in this third world port. But the grandiosity of such a life as theirs is hard to grasp. How many plantation owners could there have been? Enough to fill the Opera House?

We are staying at the elegant old Hotel Tropicale along the waterfront. Its long, wide corridors are reminiscent of an earlier time. The large window in our room is hung with heavy draperies emitting the lingering mildewed smell of a tropical climate. After a large dinner buffet and an exotic jungle stage performance sleep beckons.

Next morning we wait for porters to load our bags on a run-down tour boat that is to take us up the Negro River. We are the only occupants of the vessel besides the three crewmen. Following the riverbank on the starboard side, we are soon unable to see the other side of the river. It is as much as six miles wide. We expect a two hour ride to the Ariau jungle lodge where we will stay for a few days. Our boat moves along slowly propelled by an irregular roar of the motor.

Suddenly rain descends silently in sheets. It is thick as snow making a pattern of millions of polka dots in the water. Then thunder and lightning are added to the deluge. In the flash we can see neither shore. Our driver turns the wheel one way and then another. He seems confused and agitated.

"O que ha?" (What's the matter?)
"I think he's lost," my husband Carl says.
"Lost? Nao comprendo. (I don't understand.) He drives this route every day," I respond. n
Now the three crew men hold a conference, with loud comments in Portuguese, wild hand gestures, and pointing.
"Ali. Nao. Aquela! Nao!" They do not agree on the direction to go.

Carl offers his compass. The boatman takes a reading and continues into the blinding storm. Eventually we see a faint outline of shoreline and wooden dock through the mist. In great relief we climb out at our destination, Ariau Amazon Towers.

The hotel is built on 25 ft. stilts high above the water level. It was the first tourist lodge on the Amazon, built in the early 1980's. As we traverse a bridge walkway, a dozen squirrel monkeys appear chattering and scavenging for handouts. Vivid green parrots and red, yellow, and blue macaws squawk to their mates. The rustic wooden lodge is extensive with six towers housing guests, large reception and activities areas, dining room, souvenir store and outdoor bar.

We are told there are five miles of walkways built on stilts. Guide Michael outlines our activities for the next few days. There will be a Jungle village hike, visit to a homesteader's house, cayman hunt, and piryana fishing! The sun has emerged and the air is heavy and hot. We are panting with very little exertion and eager for the indulgence of air conditioning and a cool Cervesa.

I suppose we tourists have become the next century of whites following the European rubber barons to inflict our "civilized" life style on the Amazon.