The dark of early dawn still covers us when we see the light of a ship across the river, in panic we start packing our stuff together, running up and down as if it made a difference. Then at nine in the morning the port master finds us sitting on the river bank, staring at the ship and the deckhands who are talking cheerfully to locals suddenly appearing out of nowhere. When not talking, they are packing “stuff”, that is huge drums of gasoline, a tractor gearbox, food for the farmers and salt for the cattle. Life is not an easy one around here, at the farm where Elisio works the diesel generator consumes gallons of fuel by the hundreds, so every barrel has to be shipped up in two days, unloaded by hand, uploaded on a tractor and driven off to the farm. Slowly it is our turn, after all cargo has been organized it is time for the passengers to embark, we find a perfect spot on the upper deck, everyone is extremely excited, after all we have been sort of imprisoned for three days, and some of us were genuinely concerned about our possibilities of travelling on. The ferry finally departs amidst enthusiastic horn blows, but after a minute it turns back, there is shouting from the shore and amongst the trees far away a shadow of a wide-rimmed Pantanal hat appears, the owner leaning heavily in his rowing pole, hurrying along the narrow channel littered with water lilies. Another boat follows, laden with boxes, tanks, children and dogs. Another hour of waiting, we finally set sail around noon. The banks of the river are covered by lush rainforest, only occasionally dotted with houseboats, fishing huts and wading birds. Within an hour we are served steaming rice with meat. Three meals a day are included in the R$ 60 ticket, with the captain personally serving the food, a rare experience indeed these times when air travel prices soar while “food” served on flights is impossible to compare with this decent meal. Moreover, here we can take as many servings as we want. In warmer times we might hang our hammocks on the deck, but now we flee into our cabins and double bunks. The engine house is an experience in itself, a small room saturated with black oil, glistening steel tubes and unbearable noise. Along the passageways sheep are tied to the railing and people lean over in the wind, talking to each other. Most make their way upstairs, probably to have a look at the gringos on a cargo ferry in the middle of the Pantanal, a sight probably not many have seen.