Chapter Two: How Hard Can This Be?

Brazil is the largest country in South America, almost as large as the United States. It lies east of the U.S. and is mostly below the equator. Belem is the bustling capital city of the state of Para in northern Brazil, a port city with 1.4 million people today. Situated 100 miles from the mouth of the Amazon River the delta reaches over 90 miles wide. The Amazon’s headwaters begin over 4000 miles west in the Peruvian Andes, eventually discharging seven million cubic feet of fresh water per second along with sand and silt 100 miles out into the mid-Atlantic Ocean.

Dick and I were certainly not the first to mine diamonds in Brazil. Many had gone before us, habitually unsuccessful. But a lucky few, very few, had struck “pay dirt”. At least 36 diamonds in excess of 100 karats each have been taken from the Amazon Basin. The diamonds travel from the higher elevations to lower areas along the vast network of the Amazon’s thousand tributaries. This drainage, the largest anywhere accounts for 20% of the world’s fresh water. The heavier diamonds tumble downstream migrating to the lowest areas of the rivers from the higher interior regions of the Amazon Basin. As they journey along the diamonds become caught in poços (wells), large holes that lie below the natural river bottoms. Diamond diggers, (Garimpeiros) access these wells during the five-month dry season when the river beds, now dry, expose the still-filled wells.

The diamonds are found in the cascalho (gravel) or diamond-forming material, at the bottom of these wells; accessing them becomes the challenge. Some hunters used diving equipment to reach the bottom, hauling the material up mechanically where the gravel is then processed, similar to panning for gold. Others import costly heavy equipment to pump the gravel to the surface and then separate the diamonds from the gravel using a mechanized sluice system. For those without significant resources, read Dick and me, it is much more common to use water pumps to empty the wells. As the water recedes you work your way around the periphery of the well moving downward toward the bottom “panning” manually for diamonds as you go. Panning is done by using a set of three circular bowl-shaped screens two feet in diameter, nested together. Each screen has a different-sized mesh, the largest on top. When the gravel is shoveled into the three nested screens and then rotated and washed in water, the unwanted dirt and sand is rinsed away and the denser diamond forming gravel is caught in the screen gravitating towards the center. The smaller particles have now moved through to the next screen. Each screen is rotated while immersed in water and then visually inspected for diamonds before repeating the process with more gravel.

We were so busy with logistics, gear, personal effects, passports, and visas, that the enormity of what I was about to embark upon had not crept onto my radar. Larry had done massive work including setting up contacts in Brazil for Dick and me, exploring and confirming areas where we were authorized to mine, registering claims and dealing with mountains of bureaucracy not to mention financing. Two gentlemen, Michael Kowalski, of Studia Corp (a Brazilian firm) and Dr. Penagle, a German born geologist, had been lined up to assist us when we arrived. Long days and short nights were all- consuming. Money, a key ingredient, money, was materializing slowly and the $1500 we had was barely enough to get started.

Armed with rudimentary Portuguese and excessive enthusiasm, on 14 August 1967, I flew to New Orleans where Dick and I met for a connecting flight to Belem via Caracas. On the plane our spirits were high; chattering optimistically about how we were going to succeed in making Aramine, the Brazilian subsidiary of Larry Graham’s recently incorporated company, WCPC, flourish. Brazil had not seen the likes of us, two charged-up experienced naval officers seeking their fortunes. What was so hard about all this? We were going to simply tip Brazil on its side momentarily and let the diamonds roll into our pockets. The world was ours and we were on our way to conquer this corner of it.

In truth, deep inside, we harbored unspoken fears of the challenges ahead: a foreign language we hadn’t mastered, minimum knowledge of Brazil and diamond mining. But mostly it was being without support. The ubiquitous Uncle Sam wasn’t there to provide meals, a bunk, equipment and supplies; now we had to operate – in Portuguese – all on our own. Thoughts of our Portuguese instructor’s insights began inescapably creeping back into my mind.

Two hours for customs and passport checks was routine for Brazil but made Dick and me overly uneasy. Surreptitiously hidden in the bottom of our 170 pounds of gear were two 44-magnum pistols along with sufficient ammunition to do some serious damage. The weapons had been separated from the ammo, buried deep in our luggage. At the outset we decided not to declare these weapons fearing confiscation. We nervously held our breath as inspectors pawed through our gear, sweat dripping freely from our armpits as we anticipated the worst. Seconds seemed like hours, our hearts rammed into our throats and pounded like pistons as inspectors looked through each bag pausing for closer scrutiny on a couple of suitcases. When both guns and ammo went undetected we breathed monstrous sighs of relief. Soaked from humidity and panic we were almost unable to speak about the unbelievable luck we had just had. At the customs exit we gathered our gear and moved quickly to the street and hailed a cab.

It did not take long to check into the Hotel Excelsior Grao Para and get some sorely needed shut-eye. This hotel was a middle-of-the-road businessman’s establishment; we would come to think of it as a five star palace compared to what we could later financially afford. Located one and a half degrees below the Equator, in Belem the days and nights are equal in hours and temperatures drops only in the early morning. Thirty minutes of late afternoon rain provides minor relief. The city is hot and muggy with the characteristic smells of many foreign cities, a mix of open air markets, diesel smells from vehicles and odors from exposed sanitation schemes that are unheard of in the United States.

Dick and I quickly jumped into all the activities required to get our enterprise off the ground. We had much work to do over the next five days before we headed south for an exploratory overview of possible diamond mining sights to determine the feasibility of this venture. At the same time we had to get acclimated to a new environment, humidity, culture and diet. My intestinal system was making a transition as well and I had been fighting diarrhea for the previous several days. This initial trip would take us into the interior of the Amazon jungle 475 miles south of Belem via two plane rides, an eleven hour boat trip up the Rio Araguaia followed by considerable hiking in the oppressive heat and humidity.

In the meantime we worked with our two contacts, Michael Kowalski and Dr. Penagle whom we were paying $50 a day each consulting fees plus expenses. Both of these gentlemen were exceedingly helpful in getting us jump-started, adjusting to this region and translating for us. Bank accounts had to be set up; we had to register with the Brazilian military, and we needed a local lawyer to get worker identification cards. We then met with a man named Joao Walter at the development organization (Sudoun) to facilitate importing equipment if necessary, and assessed potential Brazilian equipment that might be needed. Dr. Penagle had also made preliminary contacts for workers that we would need in the jungle: local supervisor, boatman, cook and the Garimpeiros, our diggers. Our consultants suggested we put workers on a salary; differing amounts depending on the job except the “straw boss” who should be offered 2% of the diamonds.

Like many countries, business in Brazil is transacted only after the buyer and seller have had a chance to get to know each other over tea, coffee or some other traditional native beverage. The drink of choice in this part of Brazil is cafezinho, or espresso, a very strong demitasse heavily doctored with cubes of sugar, cream optional. Even when we made a new friend, met a banker or an acquaintance we would drink a cafezinho. Over the next few weeks we met many people and drank many cafezinhos, much to my chagrin.

As we were scurrying around and adapting to our surroundings along with some sightseeing we became exposed to several unique northern Brazilian cultural characteristics. In this busy city of Belem drivers, mostly VW Bugs, did not use their car headlights at night. Instead of using their horns, they flashed their lights at pedestrians if they got too close. When conversations refer to someone they do not wish to express an opinion about, they will tell you to, “make your own appointment”, meaning they do not want to get involved. Upon visiting a friend you do not go to the door and knock as you would in many countries, you stand by the gate and clap your hands until you are invited in. Most Brazilians are purported to be Catholic but south of Belem in Maraba where we were heading, we later observed on Sundays the women would attend Mass while the men would steal off to the luz vermelho, the local red light district.

On August 18th we went to the Banco Do Lavoura and drew out enough money to put a down payment on pumps, tools, airplane tickets to Araguatines and a shot gun for hunting. Checks drawn on a local bank could be used for most business transactions; otherwise cash was used, lots of it. The rampant inflation rate in Brazil was due primarily to the construction of Brazil’s new capitol, Brasilia, located inland where it was difficult to get people to move. This currency rise required briefcases full of Brazil’s 1967 legal tender, the Cruzerio (Cr). The volumes of money got to be so much that the government came up with the Cruzerio Novo (NCr) making exchange $.33 per NCr. It was important to note the date when money was exchanged because of the rampant inflation. Dick and I had to be cautious as we moved around Belem with great quantities of Cruzeiros.

Before leaving Belem for the interior we met another gentleman, Dirk Werk, a 30 year old Dutchman, who had traveled all over the world, spoke several European languages plus Brazilian Portuguese and was currently teaching English in Belem. With his slight build, medium height and light brown hair he seemed to fit right in to the melting pot of Belem providing us sage advice on our adventure as well as contacts we needed and he helped set up. He had an aura of calmness, a more mature worldly persona that gave us a sense of confidence and some relief.

After lunch with Dirk we enjoyed meeting some of his students and listening to Dirk play the guitar. One of the young ladies was Miss Para and had come in fifth in the Miss Brazil contest, a very attractive young lady. Dirk would later prove to be an invaluable friend helping us in a time of extreme need. He was familiar with the jungle area where we were headed and compared it with the old Wild West in the U.S. As we checked out of Hotel Excelsion we were shocked by the laundry and food charges, $30 for laundry and $10 per day for food, putting a definite crimp in our budget. Michael Kowalski had completed his consulting tasks for us and headed back to Rio de Janeiro for more pressing issues with his own firm, Studia.

On 20 August Dick, Dr. Penagle and I departed on a Curzerio do Sul Airlines, a DC 3 for Maraba, 275 miles south of Belem. Maraba, a small town of 14,000, is located on the Rio Tocantins just below where the Rio Araguaia joins it. We took a small boat across the Tocantins and then walked to the center of town followed by young boys jostling us to carry our bags, each wanting more money. The town was right out of the old American west; dusty unpaved roads, very few cars and pistol packing cowboys riding horses. Here we met a merchant, Abibe Ferreira, at his store where we purchased supplies and hammocks for the continuation of our trip further up river. We befriended him with a gift of a Kennedy half dollar which he greatly appreciated. According to Abibe, Brazilians loved President JFK because of his stern foreign policy, strong convictions and his fair generous posture towards Brazil. He said that he had written Kennedy thanking him and he had received a response. When Kennedy was assassinated it is said that Brazil stopped for a week to honor him. Abibe indicated that Brazilians later looked upon Americans less favorably due to Lyndon Johnson’s foreign policy and the Viet Nam War. Abibe would later become a vital and controversial figure in our lives.

We stayed in a small hotel owned by a friend of Dr. Penagle for 8,000 Cr ($3) per night including meals. The accommodations were basic: small room (10 X 12), two beds, two chairs and mosquito netting over each bed. The room had one window without glass looking out onto the street. At best it kept us out of the sun, providing a place to eat and rest. Clearly these accommodations were way ahead of some we had experienced in Viet Nam.

Life moves more slowly here. Nothing is rushed; even the day starts late. Long siestas follow lunch, avoiding the hottest part of the day. Stores reopen late afternoon and close around 7:00PM before dinner. People take their time and there are no rigorous schedules. Business is conducted leisurely; commitments being flexible and done mostly with those you know, primarily in cash and a handshake. The inhabitants work to live rather than live to work. This lack of urgency and timeliness would become a sore point with Dick and me, causing significant frustration that was only magnified when we tried to fight it. It seemed the further south we went, the hotter it got and the slower things moved. The excessive heat and high humidity continually bathed us in a proverbial sweat.

The next day Dick, Dr. Penagle and I flew to Araguatins 75 miles east of Maraba in a Beechcraft Bonanza. This small village with a population of 1000 had a small gravel airstrip where most of the villagers ritually congregated when planes landed or departed. Streets in Araguatins were unpaved and rutted, consisting of gravel and sand. This village had limited electricity that operated a couple of share refrigerators and a few lights strategically located to find your way after dark. After meeting the mayor of Araguatins, we were introduced to a local man who would become our straw boss, Duval Durant. In his early forties, he had a medium lanky build but he was strong, clear evidence of years of hard work. He was tall with a longish rugged-weather-beaten face, black hair with receding hairline. For much of his life he had lived in the Araguatins locale and knew the area well. He had experience working in a number of capacities including guiding, hunting and exploring. He even had diamond mining know-how having hunted for them off and on for years! He was a good choice for us particularly having labored alongside the locals as well as the indigenous Garimpos.

We did not spend much time here before departing for Santa Isabel, an even smaller village of 200 with mud structures and thatched roofs a half day’s travel upstream from Araguatins. Seven of us of us, Dr. Penagle, Duval, a cook, two other men and Dick and I set out on a 40-foot canvas-covered boat and headed upstream on the Rio Araguaia at 5 knots to Santa Isabel. During the trip we began to get better acquainted with Duval, a solid leader, confirming he was the right choice to be our straw boss. His English was non existent so we were forced to improve our Portuguese and he seemed very appreciative that we were trying to learn.

Several hours later the river narrowed, running more swiftly, and it became apparent that we would not make Santa Isabel, so we stopped for a short time at a small farm (fazenda) owned by an elderly man and his family. First we watched as he gave all the children in the hamlet a blessing as they passed by. He invited us to spend the night on our way back down river to Araguatins. We continued on until 10:30PM before tying up for the night along the river bank. After eating dinner onboard we continued testing and improving our Portuguese, littered with slang at this point. The boat crew got a big bang out of calling me Pech Miguel after one of the native fish of the same name. That night we slept fitfully onboard the boat, Dick and I in hammocks slung from the stanchions for the first time. As the early morning mist hung low over the river and the temperature dropped to 40° we shivered to get warm again.

We began to adjust to the local eating and sanitation habits. Food would be primarily biscuits and coffee in the morning and then essentially the same for both lunch and dinner, with a local meat, noodles, rice, and some kind of tree root and of course coffee and an occasional banana would be added. My stomach had shrunk as well as my eating capacity and I felt weaker having lost weight. Hygiene had gone from commode toilets and tepid showers in Belem to using holes in the ground and bathing by pouring cold water over our heads in both Maraba and Araguatins. Jungle sanitation was now relegated to jumping into the river to wash our clothes and clean up.

We arrived in Santa Isabel very early, tied up the boat and were soon off on foot with local Indian guides to scout several mining sites four hours away. Along the way we paused only at some thatched huts for rest and water near where indigenous Garimpos lived. By noon as we walked along the dried-up river bed, over rock faults, shale and gravel, we arrived at the two largest wells, the Corvena and Gamaleira both of which have tremendous amounts of water. Seeing the immensity of these two wells Dick and I were stunned by the amount of water that needed to be pumped and the logistics required to work either of them. We concluded after quick calculations based on cost and time left in this season we could not effectively work these wells; estimating we needed $35,000 to ensure even a small success. Later we would find out that the Corvena Well had never been fully exploited due to an underground passage from the main river keeping it from being emptied. By mid afternoon as we made our way back to the boat in what seemed excessively high humidity and temperatures well over 100°, we were soaked and sweating profusely.

The Garimpos looked to be very hardy, durable lads with sturdy muscular builds and were exceptionally handy with a machete. Later in the afternoon they displayed their prowess living off the land with a shot gun, a spear and machete, killing a dove, and catching a large stingray and four fish for dinner. When darkness arrived so did the ubiquitous mosquitoes so we sequestered ourselves back into our hammocks, which helped us only marginally from getting bitten through the canvas material. Very early the next day we continued scouting and measuring the four smaller wells on our registered claim for water volumes and pumping times. If we were going to be successful this season mining diamonds, we had to find a smaller well. Our window of opportunity was tight. The best of these four smaller wells we judged was Isle de Cocoa well, 80 yards long, 40 yards wide and an estimated 40 feet deep. As we suspected, the map showing our concessions was entirely inaccurate. Untroubled by the incorrect map we decided that if we were to mine this season it would be Isle de Cocoa. The day was hot, the temperature again topped a 100° as we hiked down river to rendezvous with our beached boat near a large rapids. We could hardly wait before we jumped into the water to cool off. The rapid was truly a torrent of water which we needed to transit in order to get back to Araguatins. The skill to navigate the boat through this area was nothing less than miraculous, requiring picking the exact point of entry into the channel to run it successfully. It was tense but Charoot the boatman did a superb job negotiating his way thru this nasty stretch.

A couple of hours later we reached the farm and sadly learned the elderly gentleman we had met died earlier that morning. His wife was already on her way with him to Maraba by boat. The sentiment ran deep with all of us as we had just seen this wonderful kind gentleman two days before. It seemed so sad to Dick and me that some one should die so far from medical help. Unfortunately, this was life in the jungle, emphasizing to us the tough existence; truly survival of the fittest.

As we shoved off for Araguatines I started to feel terribly ill, a fever, massive headache and sharp stomach pains. When we reached Araguatines I felt worse than I can ever remember. My guess was that it was due to the food we had eaten as most of the meat we consumed was covered with maggots before it was cooked. By our standards this was not living, it was survival, and we had not yet become acclimated. We stayed at Maria’s Hotel -- if you could call it a hotel -- a small room off to the side of the main mud and adobe abode. These accommodations were basic, a hut with a brick floor, mud walls and hole-riddled tile roof. We had two wooden beds covered with a straw mat. Pigs, dogs, chickens, lizards, and other assorted pests and animals ran and crawled at will through Maria’s home as well as our room. The pigs made no distinction between the house and the sty. I pulled my blanket over me hoping to hold down the fever and that all this would soon pass, but it was not to be. In the middle of the night, unable to stand, I crawled outside the hut throwing up what was left in my stomach leaving most of it by a small tree not far from the door.

By noon the next day I started to feel better and not having eaten in over 24 hours I had some noodles and a glass of beer. Unfortunately, eating with us at lunch was the most grotesque 300 lbs. person I have ever witnessed. I quote from my journal, “Sitting with us was a man from Rio (de Janeiro) who is undoubtedly the sloppiest, fattest, grossest, unmitigated ass I have ever witnessed. He came to the table with no shirt, no belt, and his gut hung so far over his pants he couldn’t sit anywhere near the edge of the table. He didn’t seem to believe in chewing food with his mouth closed, so every time he spoke food tumbled onto his plate or his obese stomach. He chewed with his mouth open contorted to one side allowing the unwanted residue to collect in front of his teeth so he could easily spit it to one corner of his plate.” Needless to say he completely ruined our meal.

As the day passed I began to gain some strength with more bland food. What I could not believe was that the guy we ate lunch with the previous day was going to ride back to Maraba on the same small Beechcraft air taxi on which we were scheduled. Lifting this guy up into the plane was going to be a challenge for a successful take-off. It was exceptionally tense, nail biting with the bitter end of the runway rolling beneath us before lifting off thankfully clearing the trees but only barely. We stayed with Abibe Ferreira, our trusty merchant, until the flight back to Belem was scheduled. In Maraba, Abibe’s accommodations seemed luxurious; sleeping in beds, and no squawking chickens or animals under foot; only lizards scampering on the walls and mosquitoes trying to penetrate the cheesecloth-covered beds.

After our initial foray into the jungle Dick and I slipped down into a very low ebb. Aside from the physical discomforts of 115° temperatures, high humidity and neither of us feeling particularly strong, we could not see much upside in this venture from a business perspective. Our instincts told us this was not a good deal and we were ready to toss in the towel. However, as we started to feel better stubbornness prevailed over our better business judgment; valor replaced discretion; who knew – just maybe we might find some diamonds.

Abibe Fereira offered to provide all equipment and supplies we would need to work the well. He provisioned all the supplies out of his store in Maraba and facilitated getting the larger equipment out of Belem. The fact that he had two homes, one in Maraba and a second in Belem where his family lived, with well established contacts made working with him much more efficient. Time was of the essence.

Late on 26 August the three of us, Dick, Dr. Penagle and I returned to Belem; Dick and I in better spirits, ecstatic to have a hotel with running water, showers, flushing toilets and comfortable beds to sleep in. The Hotel Vanja was a definite step down, no Excelsion Grao Para due to our meager finances but it was more comfort than we could stand compared to Maria’s much less the jungle. Even losing electricity for a period of time did not dampen our spirits. We were ecstatic to be back in civilization! Since I had only eaten the equivalent of one meal in the last 40 hours my weight was down eleven pounds to 154.

We telegraphed Larry on 27 August in lieu of a phone call because we surmised that our voices would only reveal our personal feelings and reasons for resisting the project : climate, disease, nutrition issues not to mention our fragile state of mind: “TRIP COMPLETED-DECIDED OPERATE LOCAL RESOURCES- MINIMUM US 6000-REQUIRED ASAP. US 1000 OVER LAST US 2000-BALANCE NLT [No Later Than] 15 NOV. CABLE IMMEDIATELY, REPEAT IMMEDIATELY, HOTEL VANJA, BELEM-LETTER FOLLOWS.” Larry’s return telegram said he would, “Cable $1000 ASAP and $3000 would follow prior to 15 November and as available.” It was clear that Larry was having serious problems raising money and Dick and I would definitely be operating on a “shoestring”. I had to dig deep for lessons learned in UDT when training got to be so abundantly grueling it became mind over matter. So with emotional pain we turned to the task at hand –,”it’s all in the mind.”

Abibe was scheduled to arrive in Belem on the 27th August but was delayed in Maraba due to other commitments and did not get there until the 30th to assists us in acquiring the equipment. In the meantime we attacked a myriad of tasks, received another funding installment from Larry, and enjoyed being in a large city, sightseeing, going to a couple of movies, and reading books in the evenings and other slack moments. We went to Mass, our first time in Brazil, on Sunday evening at the Cathedral Nazare and before it was over we were sopping wet from perspiration.

Dick and I were still not fluent in either speaking or reading Portuguese so we read anything in English. Letters from home were the most valuable commodity we had. We devoured these letters and any news from buddies still in Viet Nam. The next priority was current event magazines particularly Time magazines which were consumed cover to cover including every ad and all the small print we could find. Then we read any and all books we could buy or borrow. In free moments not spent strategizing or planning we had books close by. Some of the books we read over the next three months: Boeing (history of the Boeing Co.); a biography of Thomas Jefferson; Dag Hammarskjöld’s, Markings; Rachel Carson’s, The Sea Around Us; Bernard Fall’s, The Viet Nam Reader; Judgment At Nuremberg; and several WWII history books including D-Day books from both the German and Allied perspectives. We of course also read all the equipment manuals. Towards the end I even resorted to reading an old calculus book I had dragged along with me.

On 29 August, two weeks after having come to Brazil, we parted company with Dr. Penagle. He left to return to Rio de Janeiro to address other commitments leaving Dick and me feeling quite alone with pangs of culture shock emerging. We had become greatly dependent on him for his professional knowledge, Brazilian customs and contacts, translating for us and his friendship. The fact was we could not afford him anymore. At $50 per day plus expenses, the total of $750 we owed him was eating dangerously into our budget. The cord was cut; we were on our own and needed to get our operation underway.