Сhapter EIGHT
IN FEBRUARY 1989, we had arranged for air tickets so that Paiakan could come to North America. After a brief stop in Chicago, where he was a guest of Terry Turner, a physical anthropologist at the University of Chicago, Paiakan flew to Toronto for our concert to raise funds for the protest to be staged at Altamira. Our translator was Barbara Zimmerman, a young Canadian herpetologist who was working in the Amazon.
Tara had an audacious idea—why not invite the major multinational companies that did business in the Amazon to attend a reception before the concert to meet Paiakan in person and, in return, to donate a thousand dollars? We would be asking companies that were destroying the rain forest to give money to someone fighting to protect it. We drew up a list of eighteen companies, from American Express to the Bank of Japan, and I called the Toronto head of each company to extend the invitation.
The Toronto reception was a gala event. The Elmwood Club donated its elegant premises and exquisite Thai food. The CBC filmed the arrival of the hosts—me, Paiakan, the Canadian writer Margaret Atwood, and Gordon Lightfoot—and the well-heeled guests. Of the eighteen companies, all but one sent a representative with a check. In one hour, we raised $16,500. That was a lot in the eighties. The only exception was the Bank of Japan. I had called the president, identified myself, and said, “I understand you have interests in Brazil and thought you would like to meet an Indian leader from the Amazon.” After a considerable pause, he replied, “We have interests in Brazil, but we do not have interest in Indians.”
The main event that night was the concert at St. Paul's Cathedral on Bloor Street. Dozens of volunteers had put up posters advertising it; when we got to the church, I was astounded to see a lineup extending around the block. More than three thousand people jammed that church, and the atmosphere was electric. A stellar list of people had agreed to appear: Margaret Atwood read a poem, and Gordon Light-foot and a hot a cappella group, the Nylons, sang. The World Wildlife Fund had the terrific idea of selling certificates to “Guardians of the Rainforest” for twenty dollars a pop.
Ojibwa drummers sang, and then Gladys Kidd, an Ojibwa elder, addressed the crowd but looked directly at Paiakan: “The terrible thing that's happening is what we call raping the Earth. We had that happen here to us too. We do the best we can. I say that to you because I feel with my heart how it must be for you. The animals can live without us, but we cannot live without the animals. Give strength to one another, to our Kaiapo brothers, in your prayers tonight. In all the hall today you see the change come that they too can have peace in their hearts towards what is happening to them now—it will not happen if they work together. Meegwetch.”
Paiakan appeared onstage in a shirt and pants, but his face was painted and he wore a brilliantly colored feather headdress. He looked spectacular. The grand room went silent as he spoke about his forest home, which had supported his people for so long; the threat the dam posed, and his need for our help. It was an incredible evening, and when it was over, we had raised more than $50,000.
We went on the next day to Ottawa and another gala event. Elizabeth May gave a brilliant speech, and once more Gordon Lightfoot performed. This time, he promised Paiakan he would go to the Amazon and sing for him. In Ottawa we also could try to exert pressure on government. Canada was a voting member of the World Bank, and we wanted our delegate, federal finance minister Michael Wilson, to vote against World Bank loans for destructive projects such as the dam.
At a press conference with Paiakan, a reporter asked, “Why do you wear feathers and paint?” Paiakan calmly retorted, “Why are you wearing a tie?” He knew what he was doing. The Globe and Mail in Toronto, the Ottawa Citizen, and the Toronto Starnewspapers all featured color photos on their front pages. Michael Wilson got the message—he later told people he had received more mail and calls about the Amazon and World Bank loans than about any other issue in which he was involved. The Canadian public had responded magnificently.
By the time Paiakan left, after only a couple of days in Canada, we had raised $70,000. Cynics might say it was just the novelty and glamor of an Indian from the Amazon that prompted such support, or merely a response to assuage our own guilt about what we had done to First Nations. If that is true, I don't have a problem with it. But I also think the notion of the great rain forest filled with amazing creatures and people lifted our spirits and made us want to be part of its protection.
The Nature of Things program was broadcast as a two-hour special entitled “Amazonas—The Road to the End of the Forest,” and it garnered a huge audience. The public's concern about the issue was building. Now the Altamira dam showdown was looming, and Tara began the difficult task of arranging our own trip all the way to Altamira, a frontier town deep in the Xingu valley of the Amazon. But Paiakan's visit had created enormous interest in the battle, and soon people were calling us to see whether we were going and then asking whether they could tag along. Before she knew it, Tara was juggling the logistics of travel, housing, malaria pills, shots, lists of what to take and wear—an enormous undertaking—for forty people! One of her priorities was to learn Portuguese to be able to pull the trip off.
We had a virtual who's who of the Canadian environmental movement traveling with us, including Elizabeth May of the Sierra Club, Peggy Dover of the World Wildlife Fund, Paul Watson of the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, Jeff Gibbs of the Environmental Youth Alliance, Peggy Hallward of Energy Probe, Gordon Lightfoot making good on his promise, Guujaaw of Haida Gwaii, and Simon Dick, a Kwagiulth from Kingcome Inlet.
The British Columbia contingent flew to Toronto, where we met up with the eastern folk. At the airport we also met Rosie Mosquito, an Ojibwa-Cree from northern Ontario, and when we changed our plane in Miami, we were joined by Phil Awashish, the Quebec Cree who had become a hero when he learned of and sounded the alarm about Hydro-Quebec's plan to flood Cree territory.
We flew into Manaus, the Amazonian town that had flourished during the rubber boom early in the last century. We landed in the middle of the night and took taxis to our inexpensive hotel downtown, where we registered two to a room. We were all exhausted, but I was so impressed with Gordon Lightfoot. Here was a superstar who had his own jet to fly from gig to gig. I am sure he was accustomed to going to the airport in a limo and used to being taken care of, but here he was, one of the gang. A young man said to him, “Gord, you're bunking with so-and-so and there's your bag and here's your key,” and Gordon hauled his luggage without complaint.
The next morning, Tara had arranged for us to visit the research station where Tom Lovejoy had studied the effect of forest area on the maintenance of biodiversity. It was called the Forest Fragments Project, a collaboration between the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., and Brazil's Insititute for Research in the Amazon. Lovejoy had made an inventory of the plant and animal species in plots of intact forest of one hectare, ten hectares, a hundred hectares, a thousand hectares, and ten thousand hectares, surrounded by cleared land, and then followed their fate over time. He found there was a direct correlation between size and biodiversity—the smaller the area, the fewer the surviving species—and that the rate of loss was inversely proportional—the smaller the plot, the faster the loss of species. His studies demonstrated that if biodiversity is to be maintained, very large tracts of wilderness must be preserved.
Our plan was to visit the lab site and stay overnight. An open truck picked us up as arranged and took us the fifty miles into the forest to the trail leading to the camp. As we entered the great Amazon forest, the impact of the road's existence became clear—it was a slash of dried red mud that animals, including birds, were reluctant to cross because they would be exposed and vulnerable; roads can be barriers to wildlife movement as much as fences are. And creeks were simply plowed through. As we wound along the road, it began to rain, a tropical torrent, and soon the truck was slipping and sliding up and down the hills as if we were on a carnival ride. Eventually we had to abandon the vehicle and walk. The rain was so intense that it drove straight through Tara's umbrella, to everyone's amusement.
Finally we reached the campsite. Our dreams of putting our clothes in a dryer were dashed. All we found was a concrete pad with a thatched roof and hammocks strung under that. Luckily a tarp covered a kitchen area, where a cook fed us caipirinhas (a delicious rum drink) and a magnificent meal of rice and tambaki, a large fish that eats nuts that fall into the water from the trees. I went out along a trail with my fishing rod and caught a couple of small fish, which I let go.
After dinner, Simon and Guujaaw picked up a plastic dishpan and thanked the cook by beating out a rhythm and singing feast songs from the coast of British Columbia. Several of the station's researchers joined us, including Barb Zimmerman, our Toronto translator and an expert on amphibians and reptiles, who had suggested the station trip in the first place. She took a group of us out late at night to look for frogs. It was very dark, and we shared tiny flashlights as we slipped and fell and cursed along the trail.
Barb was really impressive, finding the tiniest frogs on tree trunks and under fronds, but when asked about a bird that squawked away when we came along, or an epiphytic plant on a tree, her answer was, “Don't ask me, I'm a herpetologist.” The reductionism of science demands this. But when I was in Aucre, every time I asked Paiakan about an insect, fish, or plant, he had a name for it and could tell a story about it.
From Manaus we flew to Belém. En route we spied a newspaper with a picture of Paiakan in a hospital bed! Had the gathering at Altamira been derailed by violence? Tara grabbed the paper and determined that Paiakan had appendicitis; he still intended to appear.
Our flight to Altamira was scheduled for 4:00 am. Unknown to us, the airline was heavily overbooked because so many journalists wanted to go to the unprecedented protest at Altamira. We had reservations, but when all forty of us showed up more than three hours early, we were told there were only three seats left and the plane would take off as soon as it was full—two hours ahead of the scheduled time. I learned then that yelling in anger doesn't get you anywhere in Brazil. The people behind the desk simply melt away, leaving you fuming by yourself. I was devastated—all that planning, and here we were stuck in the Amazon. And only Tara spoke Portuguese.
It was decided that Rosie Mosquito, Gordon Lightfoot, and I would take the three remaining seats and Tara would try to charter a plane for the rest. As we flew off, I was sure I wouldn't see Tara again till I got back to Canada. After we had checked into our hotel and unpacked our luggage, I went downstairs and to my astonishment found Tara and the rest of the gang checking in. After we had left at two in the morning, Tara had found out where aircraft could be chartered, negotiated two small planes for thirty-seven people, collected the money from the gang for it, and landed in Altamira right on our heels. Her gift with language had paid off in spades.
Gordon Lightfoot and me on our way to the research station near Manaus
When we arrived at Altamira, everyone was abuzz with the news about Paiakan's emergency appendectomy only days before. I was sure that without him, the protest gathering could not possibly succeed. To our relief, he was there at the opening—gray and weak but still clearly the leader. He wore a striking headdress made of dark-red and blue feathers as he barked orders. It was a huge event, with some six hundred Kaiapo representatives and forty other tribes; hundreds of Brazilians, from officials at Eletronorte, the power company proposing to build the dam, to the National Indian Foundation (FUNAI), the Brazilian government organization for Indians; environmentalists and reporters from around the world, and hundreds of armed soldiers ringing the walls inside the building
The media were in a frenzy. Everything was so exotic that photographers and camera operators couldn't miss—just point and shoot. Each tribe of Indians wore its own characteristic patterns of body paint and headdresses of feathers, leaves, and grass. The meeting took place in a large building with a dirt floor covered in palm fronds. Soldiers in full gear lined the walls, and the various tribes sat on the floor in front of a large head table raised on a dais. After pouring in tribe by tribe with rhythmic chants that raised the roof, the Indians covered three-quarters of the floor in a large horseshoe around the table, and the onlookers, including us, and the media occupied the space between the Indians and soldiers.
Within the great hall, the officials from government and Eletronorte presented and rationalized their plans for Plano 2010 and the dams as best they could, but they were confronted with angry Indians and their Brazilian supporters including unions, rubber tappers, and human-rights organizations. An electric moment that no one who was there will forget occurred while an Eletronorte official was speaking: an elderly Kaiapo woman jumped to her feet, waved a machete, and began to harangue the Kaiapo warriors. I later learned she had asked whether the men there were fighters, and if they were, why didn't they kill these people who were oppressing them?
Even though I couldn't understand a word of her speech, it was clear that she was furious and was whipping the crowd up. The tension was unbearable; we bystanders were all very aware that we would be caught in any crossfire if violence or shooting broke out. To punctuate her remarks, the woman walked up to the head table, raised her machete at the Eletronorte official, and slapped his cheek with its flat side. A yell went up as the soldiers raised their weapons.
To his credit, the official didn't move a muscle. In the heat of that moment, I looked over at Tara and pointed to the floor; if violence broke out, we sure wouldn't make it to the doors. Paiakan exhibited his superb leadership skills as he stood slowly and held out his arms. Speaking softly and carefully, he calmed the heated crowd and eased the tension by saying that the woman's dramatic act was not aggression but theatrics.
To minimize contact with non-Indians and therefore reduce the chance that indigenous peoples would pick up a disease, a traditional village was built in the forest far outside town. Paiakan invited the Canadians to visit the village one night. It was wonderful. We were fed traditional food cooked on fires, and Guujaaw and Simon created a sensation when they appeared in full First Nations regalia, dancing, drumming, and singing.
I vividly remember the attendance of Pombo, a chief who went on to a political career in the Brazilian parliament but who died only a few years later. He had a headdress that resembled a woman's swim cap covered in feathers, and he gave it to Simon as we left. Raoni, the chief befriended by the English singer Sting, with the striking labret in his lower lip, was at the fireside along with Paiakan.
At one point, Simon brought out a bow and arrow, and when he raised it, the onlookers gasped; it was an aggressive act to raise a bow
One of the tribes at the Altamira demonstration
thus. When Simon let fly, I thought of all the people in the rest of the village who might be punctured by an errant arrow. Thunk! It went into a branch. Everyone in the group gave an appreciative grunt, while I exhaled in relief.
Simon and Guujaaw, two of the most outstanding First Nations traditional singers and dancers in all of B.C., wore carved masks on their heads and performed in front of Amazonian chiefs and warriors, who sat riveted. Guujaaw's face was streaked with black, and he wore a heavy animal fur. As he sang and drummed, sweat poured down his face and body in the humidity. Later I met Simon standing in the shadows, tears running down his cheeks; this incredible contact had touched something deep within. He said his life had been transformed by that night.
Sting was scheduled to appear in solidarity with Raoni. All this excitement was the biggest thing ever to happen in Altamira. The rock star, a friendly man, stayed at the same two-bit hotel as our contingent. Young girls waited outside for him, and when they spotted Jeff Gibbs, a tall, gangly young man from Vancouver, they'd scream, “Stingee! Stingee!” and surround him, begging for his autograph. Jeff happily signed for Sting, a huge smile on his face.
The event was a sensational success for Paiakan. It was raining the day the meetings ended, but when the tribes emerged from the building to dance and sing, the rain stopped and a rainbow spread across the sky. Even the most jaded reporter surely felt it was an auspicious sign. In celebration, the local men performed a special corn-planting dance outdoors.
The meeting was reported around the world, and under pressure from many countries, including Canada, the World Bank pulled its support from Plano 2010, bringing it to an end. Although the Amazon and Kaiapo territory remained under siege on many fronts, one threat, at least, had been defeated. After the meeting, Paiakan took off his headdress, which his mother had made for him, and gave it to me. It is another of my most prized possessions.
Because of his tremendous visibility and the success of the demonstration, Paiakan had been receiving death threats daily while in Altamira. We knew that in Brazil union leaders, Indians, and religious and civil-rights activists had been murdered with impunity. While in Altamira, Tara and I met late at night with a handful of trusted Brazilians concerned that Paiakan's life was in jeopardy. It seemed surreal; the death threats were serious, and here we were, coolly discussing ways to avoid Paiakan's assassination.
I marveled at the courage of the Brazilians present, who were surely putting their own lives in jeopardy by supporting Paiakan, while Paiakan himself showed no signs of fear or backing down. As long as he remained in Aucre, he would be safe, because the only way in was by plane on a tiny airstrip completely vulnerable to Kaiapo warriors. But in Aucre he also would be isolated. We spoke of setting up a fund so that when he needed to get out to Brasília or to travel abroad, he could call in a plane.
Press conference at Altamira. That's Sting standing, Paiakan seated looking up, and Simon
Dick in full regalia behind him.
Paiakan saying farewell to Tara and me at the Altamira airport
In the end, it was decided that Paiakan needed to get out of the country so that things could cool down. We asked him where he would like to go. “To Canada, to stay with you and Tara,” was his reply.
WITHIN DAYS OF OUR return to Vancouver in March 1989, Paiakan arrived with Irekran and their three daughters, Oe, Tania, and baby Majal. Their body paint had faded, but the girls' heads still had a triangle of shaved hair, just growing in. In the chilly night temperature we had taken to the Vancouver airport clothing we had gathered from friends, but Paiakan refused to let his family wear anything used. Tara and I had prepared an apartment in the basement of our house for the family. But when Paiakan found out that the sheets were not new, he said they wouldn't sleep in the beds; our diseases were a very real hazard for them. New clothes and sheets became our first priority.
We had set a fire in the fireplace, and once the family was settled, we went downstairs to visit. We discovered that the little girls had
Demonstrating the headdress given to me by Paiakan at Altamira
dragged coals out of the hearth onto the bare wooden floor and were playing with them; we explained that wooden floors are different from dirt. When my father-in-law, Harry, went out the next morning for his usual early walk, he found the downstairs kitchen door wide open, one of the stove's burners red-hot, the television on, and all the lights blazing, but everyone apparently in bed.
Irekran and the girls spoke only Kaiapo, so all of our communication was through Tara and Paiakan speaking Portuguese. Paiakan's daughters and our girls got along famously, each learning many words and songs in the other's language. I have a vivid memory of Oe and Tania pedaling tricycles furiously along the sidewalks, Severn and Sarika running madly after them. I'd built our girls a playhouse high in the dogwood tree in the backyard, and Oe and Tania loved it, playing there for hours. They easily took to dressing up; we'd find Sari, Oe, and Tania sitting laughing in tiaras in the shower stall. Sarika took Oe and Tania to school with her as the best show-and-tell she'd ever come up with.
The whole family loved the killer whales then on display at the Vancouver Aquarium and returned again and again—six times in all—to gaze at those magnificent animals through windows that gave the public an underwater view from inches away. But our visitors' likes and dislikes were unpredictable. We took the family up Mount Holly-burn just outside the city, and while Irekran and the girls loved tobogganing and playing with snow for the first time, Paiakan sat in the car and smoked cigarettes.
The girls loved the sea and waded straight into it (in March!), but Paiakan and his wife always sat with their backs to it, which puzzled me. Then one day, as we were driving, our car drew alongside a wild river. All five of Paiakan's family flung themselves at the windows, everyone talking at once, pointing out the river's features in a flurry of excitement.
Oe (left) and Tania (right) with Sarika playing dress-up in the shower
We arranged for translators and took the family to visit as many different First Nations as we could. The first place we visited was Tofino, on Vancouver Island, where the Nuu-chah-nulth people were holding a meeting. As we flew across the island in a small seaplane, I pointed out the extent of clear-cutting below to show Paiakan we had our forest battles too. Gradually I realized he and Irekran weren't listening to me but were staring straight ahead, clearly uncomfortable. In the Amazon, it turns out, some pilots fly very close to the forest canopy; if there is a mechanical failure and there are no clearings to set down in, the plane can crash-land on the trees. Paiakan had survived three such crashes. But over Vancouver Island, we were flying very high to avoid the mountains, a couple of them more than seven thousand feet high. When Paiakan and Irekran looked down, they saw a lot of snow and rocks—not a very welcoming surface. After we finally landed, Paiakan announced, “Chiefs don't fly in small planes,” which was baloney, but I wasn't going to argue. We ended up having to take a long bus ride and a ferry trip to return to Vancouver.
In Tofino, Paiakan was feted like a relative by the Nuu-chah-nulth. As he spoke through the translator about the struggle to protect his territories, you could have heard a pin drop. These were far from wealthy people, yet they collected thousands of dollars to help their brother from the Amazon. One old man hunted around in one of his pockets and finally came up with a hundred-dollar bill folded into a small square and obviously carefully saved for a long while. “He really needs it,” was all he said as he threw it into a pot. Canadian First Nations people understood that the Kaiapo were going through what their own people had suffered and felt an instant bond with them.
At our cottage on Quadra Island in the Strait of Georgia, I showed them how we dig clams. Irekran and Paiakan loved looking for clams as a kind of game, but when I broke one open and ate it raw, they were revolted and lost interest in clamming. They wanted to eat only what they were familiar with—chicken, white-fleshed river fish, beans, farinha, rice, and bread, which they loved toasted. When we fed them halibut, they found the taste and texture a satisfactory substitute for freshwater white-fleshed fish.
But when we caught a small halibut on a fishing trip with a group of First Nations leaders, Paiakan was appalled. He'd never seen a flat fish, with both eyes on the top of its head, and found it monstrous—ugly and unappetizing. When I told him that was what he'd been eating, he never touched halibut again. At first, he and his family wouldn't eat salmon, either—too red.
Paiakan often surprised us. On one trip, we were driving up Vancouver Island toward Port Hardy and spotted a huge plume of smoke. As we drew nearer, we could see that an area of forest had been clear-cut and the slash gathered into massive piles and set alight. Paiakan remarked, “Just like Brazil.” Another time, having flown over large areas of clear-cut that were covered in snow and visible as a checkerboard pattern from the plane, he said, “Brazilians destroy the forest because they are poor and uneducated. Why do Canadians?” When he first settled in our house, I drove him through downtown Vancouver, figuring he would be impressed with the cleanliness of the streets, the gleaming buildings, and the stores filled with goods. His response was unexpected: “To think all this comes from the Earth. How long can it go on?”
We took him to Alert Bay, home of the Kwakwaka'wakw people. On the ferry from Port McNeill on Vancouver Island to Alert Bay on Cormorant Island, several Kwakwaka'wakw kids kept coming by to look at Paiakan and shyly ask us who he was and where he was from. They could see he was an Indian, but he looked unlike any they knew. The boys were typical modern First Nations kids, dressed in jeans and runners with caps on backwards, and Paiakan imperiously ignored them. It seemed he could see that these youngsters were what the Kaiapo could become, and he did not like it.
When we arrrived at the ferry terminal in Alert Bay, we were met by Kwakwaka'wakw dancers in full regalia and led by our friend Vera Newman. We were feted in the spectacular communal “big house” and were again showered with gifts of money. (When I visit Alert Bay now, more than fifteen years later, people still ask about Paiakan.) We traveled to Haida Gwaii, where Paiakan was taken out on Lootaas, the canoe that was paddled from Vancouver to Haida Gwaii during the battle to save South Moresby. Everywhere we went, Paiakan made an indelible impression with his impassioned and articulate plea for help in protecting his forest home.
About three weeks after the family arrived, Irekran, a very severe-looking, imperious young woman, called our names and motioned us to approach. Paiakan translated: “Our children should be in Aucre studying. It's cold here. I miss my family. You promised to get us an airplane. Where is it?” Tara and I were nonplussed. Airplane? Where had she got that idea? As we racked our brains, we realized that back in Altamira, when we had gathered to discuss what to do about the death threats, one idea put forward was to establish a fund for Paiakan to use whenever he needed a plane to leave the village. Irekran must have interpreted this as a promise to buy a plane. To her, it appeared as if we just plunked down money whenever we wanted anything. A plane must have seemed a reasonable demand.
It so happened that I was scheduled to go to England the following week. There I called Anita Roddick, creator of the Body Shop empire, who had attended the Altamira gathering, met Paiakan, and been impressed by him. I told her about Irekran's demand, explaining that having a plane permanently available at Aucre would allow Paiakan to remain in touch and effective from the safety of the village but would have many other uses. It could be used to survey and police the vast area of Kaiapo territory, and it could transfer sick people and elders when needed. Anita had just had a meeting with her shop franchisees, where she had talked about Paiakan and his struggle, and the delegates had donated money from their own profits. Anita wrote us a check for US$100,000.
Toward the end of the family's stay with us, the ever-supportive gang at the Western Canada Wilderness Committee printed thousands of copies of a paper devoted to Paiakan and the issues in the Amazon. We joined with them and the Environmental Youth Alliance to hold several packed events at high school auditoriums. We all gave rousing speeches, and in the end, Haida leader Guujaaw got up to drum and sing and invited Oe and Tania and Severn and Sarika to accompany him. These wonderful events helped to raise more money for Paiakan's work.
After six weeks of living with us, Paiakan and his family decided it was safe to return home. They had raised thousands of dollars, made contacts with aboriginal “relatives” up and down the west coast of Canada, and would return with the promise of a plane soon to follow.
When we arrived at the airport, it seemed we had lived through a lifetime together, and to my surprise, Irekran began to weep inconsol-ably. In their society, there is a ritual kind of wailing that I had seen when Paiakan was welcomed home and when we witnessed a funeral, but this was different; I felt she really was sorry to leave us. We were soon all reduced to tears.
“Come and visit us,” Paiakan begged, and we decided that would be a wonderful adventure. So we wished them well and promised we would travel down soon.
Meanwhile, in Canada, Tara discovered there was a whole catalog of used planes around the world and determined that a Cessna seemed the best choice. She also found a pilot named Al “Jet” Johnson, who had flown for decades with American Airlines, lived in Vancouver, and was a close friend of Sea Shepherd Conservation Society founder Paul Watson, who had gone to Altamira.
Tara contacted Al, and he offered to check a used plane we had found in Galveston, Texas. He reported that the Cessna Utility 206 was in good shape. It cost $50,000, which would leave enough to ensure a proper maintenance schedule. He recommended we buy it and have the seats pulled out so that extra gas tanks could be installed, and he would fly it to Brazil for us. Al is a true hero. In full hurricane season, he hopped and skipped across the Caribbean and along the north coast of South America, phoning in his adventures from cheap hotels in Guyana or Suriname. After navigating the plane through Brazilian authorities, he piloted it for Paiakan and the village for several months before finally returning to Canada.