Vera asked if we’d like to feed one, with a bottle of exceptionally rich milk. Stephen was desperate to have a go, and she showed him how. He held the tiniest calf firmly under its chin, with its head just above the surface so it could breathe, and tenderly pushed a baby’s bottle between its enormous, prehensile lips.
With a flipper resting on the great man’s arm and a line of milk dribbling down one cheek, the minuscule manatee closed its eyes and sucked and slurped really loudly. If Stephen were a manatee his eyes would have been closed, too, and I’m sure he’d have been dribbling down one cheek. The two mammals – one already endangered and the other about to be (as you will soon discover) – were in seventh heaven.
The Amazonian manatee was first described as a cross between a seal and a hippo, though it’s not related to either. There is nothing else quite like this perfect piece of evolutionary engineering in the world.
A baby manatee confides in the man charged with nursing it back to health.
After a rejuvenating couple of days marvelling at manatees and poring over emails, we were ready for our final expedition into the wi-fi-free jungle beyond Manaus. This was the part of the trip we’d been looking forward to the most: we were going to release an orphaned manatee back into the wild.
We took a scheduled flight 700 kilometres (440 miles) west, to a small town called Tefé, and set up base camp in the Anilce Hotel.
If you’re ever given a year to live, move to Tefé. Founded as a base for missionaries in the 17th century, it’s pleasant enough, with a Central American flavour to its buildings and streets, but there is absolutely nothing to do. Every day lasts an eternity. I asked a couple of people how they spent their spare time there: ‘reading’, said one; ‘watching DVDs’, said the other.
It reminded me of an Icelandic friend’s response to a visitor who asked what there is to do in his remote village in the winter. ‘Well, in the summer there is fishing and fornication,’ he said, ‘and in the winter there is no fishing.’
We were fortunate, though, because we had things to do and people to see. We waited for the customary storm of the day to drop its customary load and then set off to find the offices of the Mamirauá Project.
We’d flown halfway across the Amazon to meet an honorary member of the project, called Piti. Rescued from a fishing net with a nasty wound in his back (probably made by a harpoon), Piti was a baby manatee. He had been nursed back to health by the staff of the project and was about to embark on the first leg of a long journey to be released back into the wild.
We found the offices, eventually, floating on a wooden platform in the middle of the river, and introduced ourselves to two of the staff: Miriam Marmontel and Carolina Ramos.
If you’re a single male zoologist, looking for a suitable study subject, I would recommend Amazonian manatees. You would be part of an elite group of specialists studying an enigmatic and endangered animal. Plus Amazonian manatee-ologists are all passionate and intellectual and, in my limited experience, would all turn heads on the streets of London, Paris or New York.
I couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say.
‘Please can we see your manatee?’ sounded a little lame, or rude, or both.
Stephen took over.
‘Please can we see your manatee?’ he said.
We walked around the wooden platform, which was rolling slightly in the wake of a passing boat, picked our way past several garden sheds or offices (it was hard to tell which), and there in front of us was a bright blue fibreglass tank full of murky water. We leaned over the side, and saw Piti’s little back breaking the surface.
Miriam and Carolina introduced us to Michelle, who had been Piti’s nurse and confidante for the past few months.
The three girls asked who would like to help prepare Piti for his impending expedition. My hand shot into the air faster than a chameleon’s tongue.
We carefully drained the water from his tank, until he was floundering around like an eel in an empty bath, and gently manhandled him onto the wooden floating jetty to be weighed and measured. He twisted and writhed. There was no hint of aggression, no lashing out, no biting. He simply wanted to demonstrate that he could out-wriggle us if he really wanted to. Michelle crouched down beside him and whispered something in his ear. He listened carefully and, miraculously, calmed down.
He farted.
This was not your average laugh-it-off friend-in-the-pub kind of fart. It was a lengthy, ear-splitting, far-reaching fart.
Stephen stepped back.
‘At least he’s not a meat-eater,’ he remarked, trying to be helpful and positive.
Then he farted again. This time it was a shockingly wet fart which I felt hitting my shirt, dribbling down my shorts and then running down my leg. I glanced up, gasping for air. Stephen was standing on the far side of the tank.
Miriam pronounced Piti large enough to travel, so we lifted the anxious manatee out of his pongy postcard from the wild and started carrying him to another tank, ready and waiting on the deck of a boat called the Com te Abreu.
‘Watch your feet!’ Stephen called, helpfully, from behind a garden shed.
The plan was to take Piti 160 kilometres (100 miles) into the heart of one of the biggest jungle reserves in Brazil where, ultimately, he would be set free.
We hoisted the unwitting little manatee onto the deck of the Com te Abreu and into his temporary new home. With a wriggle and a splash, he disappeared beneath the surface.
We said our goodbyes to Miriam, Carolina, Michelle and Piti, and arranged to meet early the following morning.
But you know what they say about the best-laid plans? Without the benefit of hindsight, little did we realise that we were also about to embark on our biggest and toughest adventure yet.
It was still dark when we rolled up, lifeless and uncommunicative, at the appointed ungodly hour.
Mark, Michelle and Piti, preparing for a journey into the heart of one of the biggest jungle reserves in Brazil. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans?
It started to rain.
We commandeered two boats, just large enough to carry eight of us and 31 pieces of kit, and slowly motored out into the middle of the river. We found the Com te Abreu, which was moored alongside the floating wooden platform, and squeezed into a small gap in front of her bow.
Stephen got out first. I set foot on the wet platform a few seconds later, just as he disappeared behind the main boat.
Suddenly, there was a thump and a blood-curdling scream.
I