Russian 
The Amazon: Less of a journey, more of a job interview
Conquering the Amazon starts with one small mistake: thinking it's a trip. The Amazon thinks it’s an interview. One you showed up to without a résumé, without references, and wearing white sneakers.
People say the jungle only accepts the strong. That’s not true. It welcomes everyone. But then it watches carefully to see who actually is strong.
A green sea that humbles your confidence
We arrived where the air is thick enough to slice and spread on toast. It’s warm, wet, and immediately informs you: you’ll breathe on a schedule and sweat without one. The Amazon greets you like a mother-in-law who’s already disappointed.
Locals call it the green sea. I’d call it a recycling center for overconfident people. Everything either stings, bites, or gives you a look that makes you question your whole existence.
We were told: don’t leave the trail.
The trail, however, disappears every 15 minutes out of spite. The compass spins like a politician near elections. GPS assumes you’re dead.
At first, you’re a hero
After an hour—a philosopher. After two—a religious convert. After three—you’ll sign a contract with any deity, including minor pagan ones, if it means the biting stops.
The mosquitoes are not insects, they’re a culture
With structure, strategy, and a clear dislike for outsiders. They land in groups, hold meetings, then begin the attack. You can feel them checking boxes: neck? check. ankles? check. self-worth? gone.
At night, the jungle turns the sound on
All of it. It hisses, clicks, laughs, and shrieks. Especially laughs. You lie in a hammock—clearly designed by someone who’s never slept in one—and realize: if something falls on you, it’s not an accident. It’s scheduled.
The river is the scariest
It looks like water. But it’s a mix of swamp, soup, and conspiracy. You can swim. Once. The Amazon will remember.
We rode a boat with an engine that only started if ignored. The captain was calm—the kind of calm you earn by either controlling everything or giving up entirely. He said: If anything happens, the river will carry us. Where? He didn’t say.
You don’t conquer the Amazon. You negotiate with it.
Eventually, clarity arrives. You don’t conquer the Amazon. You negotiate. Quietly. No sudden moves. No plans.
She watches you fall, get back up, and in the end says: Fine, live. But know this—I saw who you really are.
When we got out, people asked about heroics. I told the truth: I survived.
That was enough for the Amazon. And for me too.
