C ândido Rondon Remembering Teddy Roosevelt

by Scott Edward Anderson

I had my doubts when Roosevelt joined our expedition
exploring my River of Doubt from its headwaters to the Amazon.
I had my own doubts about him, too, despite
his reputation as rugged and a conservationist.

He seemed frailer than I expected.
When he got cut on a rock
securing two boats in the rapids,
it took him down swiftly.

He became feverish and delirious, endlessly repeating
“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan...”
As if his own pleasure-dome was there
on the edge of some sunless sea.
Then his son Kermit and our physician told me
Roosevelt still had a bullet lodged in his chest.
He’d been shot while making a speech months back—
spoke for 90 minutes. He never complained.
Our heavy dugout canoes were no match
for the river’s rapids and rocks.
We lost time with every lost boat.
Still we drove on, determined.

He insisted I call him Teodoro ,
as “Roosevelt” was difficult
for my Brazilian tongue.
We feared his loss every day.
When we made it to the confluence,
he asked to be roused and positioned
so as to see the Amazon with his own eyes,
so there could be no more doubt.

We renamed Rio da Dúvida
after him: “Rio Roosevelt.”
Although, to me, it will always be
Rio Teodoro.