In the morning light
the current once again carries our boat toward the Atlantic.
The river glitters
gold in the low sun. Scattered trees of the várzea floodplain forest glow
against the laundry-blue sky. White men, in their greed, went hunting for El
Dorado and thought it was a heap of gold, but in fact it is water that is the
real gold that keeps this region alive.
This time there is also an inflatable canoe in the boat, along with two paddles. At the time we don’t yet realize that everyone has a slightly different idea of what is about to happen. We photograph an anhinga and a ringed kingfisher. Then we stop and wander a little way through the forest, Ramiro carrying the canoe on his back. In the forest there is a larger lagoon: Amarun Cocha, “Anaconda Lake” in Kichwa. Judging by their shape, these lagoons are old river meanders.
For some inexplicable reason there is only one canoe available. That probably also explains why the canoe-camping trip promised in the program has never taken place. In any case, the three of us squeeze into the rubber bathtub: Ramiro sits on the back edge with a paddle, Kalle is in the middle and gets the other paddle, and I lounge in the bow doing nothing but with absolutely no legroom. We paddle out onto the still lake, which is like a mirror. From the left bank comes a familiar burping sound and bulky, punk-haired hoatzins flap about in the branches. This time they are much easier to see, with their blue faces and bulging red eyes. They stare at us just as curiously as we stare at them. Ramiro tells us that years ago only one pair nested on the lagoon; now there are perhaps twelve. In any case, more. Here at least tourism does not seem to have harmed the birds.
The shapes flashing over the water are not swallows but bats again. They gather hanging on a snag sticking out of the water and then suddenly scatter all at once. A little farther on, a yellow-spotted river turtle basks on a tree trunk, the same species whose hatchlings we released into the river the day before yesterday, though this individual is already about a year old. At the far end of the lagoon, a bird with a striking red head hops among the leaves of a bush: a red-capped cardinal. There is no sign of the anaconda.
We land and carry the canoe back to the river. There are pastries with jam and an apple. Kalle had the impression we were heading back to camp; I had understood that we would transfer to the motorboat and continue downstream. What we do not have, however, is a boat. So we take the same positions and paddle our wobbly craft out onto the river. Most of the time we simply let the current carry us. The forest on both sides whistles and shrieks and seems new around every bend, relatively new. The bushes of black-capped donacobiuses, for instance, are already familiar. Everything drifts slowly over the field of view. For a few moments a dolphin accompanies us. Leaves occasionally drop into the water with a splash. They do not rustle but clatter. A meditative drift.
The sun beats straight down from overhead. After half an hour our legs and backsides are stiff. Our drinking water is running low. It turns out the boatman is supposed to bring us lunch at noon. Around a quarter to twelve we stop under a tree leaning out over the water, stretch our legs, and cool our toes. Then we move on. A yellow butterfly lands on my sleeve and sips at my hand. It feels like a strand of hair on my skin. A capybara and an Amazon river dolphin swim past.
By half past one there is still no sign of the boat. I wonder how Carlos understood the day’s plan. To avoid roasting completely we climb ashore again into the shade of the trees. Someone has clearly camped here before. There is of course no phone signal, the GPS device is nearly out of power, and the camp is about fourteen kilometres upstream. Ramiro looks for interesting insects for us and weaves a basket from a palm leaf. A swallow-tailed kite skims the water in mid-flight. Around two o’clock the sound of an engine begins to carry across the river. The Italians had not finished their walk at the scheduled time. Perhaps they were making up for yesterday’s waiting. Lunch arrives together with the cook.
After a rest break at camp there is a blowgun game. The traditional hunting weapon is three metres long; the dart tip is made from a sharpened piranha tooth, and monkeys are shot down from the treetops with it. We only have to hit citrus fruits stuck onto sticks with a shortened version. I even manage to hit it a couple of times.
This time there is also an inflatable canoe in the boat, along with two paddles. At the time we don’t yet realize that everyone has a slightly different idea of what is about to happen. We photograph an anhinga and a ringed kingfisher. Then we stop and wander a little way through the forest, Ramiro carrying the canoe on his back. In the forest there is a larger lagoon: Amarun Cocha, “Anaconda Lake” in Kichwa. Judging by their shape, these lagoons are old river meanders.
For some inexplicable reason there is only one canoe available. That probably also explains why the canoe-camping trip promised in the program has never taken place. In any case, the three of us squeeze into the rubber bathtub: Ramiro sits on the back edge with a paddle, Kalle is in the middle and gets the other paddle, and I lounge in the bow doing nothing but with absolutely no legroom. We paddle out onto the still lake, which is like a mirror. From the left bank comes a familiar burping sound and bulky, punk-haired hoatzins flap about in the branches. This time they are much easier to see, with their blue faces and bulging red eyes. They stare at us just as curiously as we stare at them. Ramiro tells us that years ago only one pair nested on the lagoon; now there are perhaps twelve. In any case, more. Here at least tourism does not seem to have harmed the birds.
The shapes flashing over the water are not swallows but bats again. They gather hanging on a snag sticking out of the water and then suddenly scatter all at once. A little farther on, a yellow-spotted river turtle basks on a tree trunk, the same species whose hatchlings we released into the river the day before yesterday, though this individual is already about a year old. At the far end of the lagoon, a bird with a striking red head hops among the leaves of a bush: a red-capped cardinal. There is no sign of the anaconda.
We land and carry the canoe back to the river. There are pastries with jam and an apple. Kalle had the impression we were heading back to camp; I had understood that we would transfer to the motorboat and continue downstream. What we do not have, however, is a boat. So we take the same positions and paddle our wobbly craft out onto the river. Most of the time we simply let the current carry us. The forest on both sides whistles and shrieks and seems new around every bend, relatively new. The bushes of black-capped donacobiuses, for instance, are already familiar. Everything drifts slowly over the field of view. For a few moments a dolphin accompanies us. Leaves occasionally drop into the water with a splash. They do not rustle but clatter. A meditative drift.
The sun beats straight down from overhead. After half an hour our legs and backsides are stiff. Our drinking water is running low. It turns out the boatman is supposed to bring us lunch at noon. Around a quarter to twelve we stop under a tree leaning out over the water, stretch our legs, and cool our toes. Then we move on. A yellow butterfly lands on my sleeve and sips at my hand. It feels like a strand of hair on my skin. A capybara and an Amazon river dolphin swim past.
By half past one there is still no sign of the boat. I wonder how Carlos understood the day’s plan. To avoid roasting completely we climb ashore again into the shade of the trees. Someone has clearly camped here before. There is of course no phone signal, the GPS device is nearly out of power, and the camp is about fourteen kilometres upstream. Ramiro looks for interesting insects for us and weaves a basket from a palm leaf. A swallow-tailed kite skims the water in mid-flight. Around two o’clock the sound of an engine begins to carry across the river. The Italians had not finished their walk at the scheduled time. Perhaps they were making up for yesterday’s waiting. Lunch arrives together with the cook.
After a rest break at camp there is a blowgun game. The traditional hunting weapon is three metres long; the dart tip is made from a sharpened piranha tooth, and monkeys are shot down from the treetops with it. We only have to hit citrus fruits stuck onto sticks with a shortened version. I even manage to hit it a couple of times.
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