Long believed to be the birthplace of the Incas, your exploration of the mesmerizing Lake Titicaca is one that will see you completely immersed in the local indigenous cultures. Home to a cluster of floating islands, you’ll get the opportunity to visit the Uros Islands (constructed entirely by the local Uru people using the Totura reeds that grow in Lake Titicaca), Amantaní Island and Taquile – a place where 350 Quechua-speaking families exist completely unchanged by modern society.
Your overnight home-stay experience will take place on Amantaní Island, and it’s here a local family will welcome you with open arms and homes to share their unique lifestyles. Witnessing first-hand their revered traditions and long-preserved customs is a privilege you won’t soon forget.
If global warming has taught us anything, it’s the realisation that some of the world’s most incredible natural wonders probably won’t be around for much longer. Which makes a voyage on the MV Skorpios III with Skorpios Cruises all the more important. The three-night Kaweskar route sets sail from Puerto Natales for the Southern Patagonian Ice Field, bypassing 15 glaciers, including Amalia, El Brujo, and Bernal, along with others located in the Fiordo Calvo area.
You’ll be able to admire the immense size of these melting marvels up close, and there’s also the option to sail through multi-coloured ice-floes on the smaller expedition boats. We don’t know how long these glaciers will last so we’d recommend taking this trip sooner rather than later.
If you want non-stop action – hiking, kayaking, bike riding, whitewater rafting – G Adventures’ Argentina and Chile Multisport tour is designed to push you to your physical limits. For 20 days you’ll cycle through the vineyards of Mendoza, raft your way down rapids on the Chilean border and hike Aconcagua (the highest peak outside of the Himalayas), Glacier National Park and the renowned W Trek in Torres del Paine National Park. Phew!
Downtime comes in the form of wine and chocolate tastings, which you’ll have definitely earned, and a few free days to explore the local towns. Trust us when we tell you that time to recuperate will be much needed. This is one voyage that definitely isn’t for the faint of heart.
You’d be forgiven for thinking this expanse of red water was a mirage if you were travelling in any sort of altered state through Bolivia’s southwest altiplano. You’re not seeing things though. This shallow salt lake, covering 6,000 hectares, rests at about 4,250 metres above sea level and is a neighbour to the famous Salar de Uyuni. The unusual colour of the water comes from a surfeit of red algae and other microorganisms. White patches are also not a visual illusion – just massive borax deposits on the lake’s surface.
The other attractions at Laguna Colorada are the flamingos that can be seen wading in the shallows. One of the three species is the rare James’s flamingo – also known as the puna flamingo – which is native to the region but was thought extinct until a small population was discovered in 1956. While they’re still considered endangered, the abundant plankton in the water keeps them coming back in hefty numbers for food. They’re naturally white, by the way; it’s the algae that stains them this glorious shade of pink.
There’s no doubt Chile is one long, thin nation, so there’s no better way to discover its wonders than on a cruise. With Hapag-Lloyd, you’ll join one of its luxury expedition ships in Callao, Peru’s largest seaport, before setting sail south.
Jump in a Zodiac and watch out for pelicans and Humboldt penguins off Isla Pan de Azucar, head to shore to check out the colourful city of Valparaíso then get set for one of the journey’s highlights. In Chile’s south you’ll sail its fjords searching for whales, and explore the Torres del Paine National Park and Magallanes National Reserve.
The final stop is Ushuaia in Argentina, the world’s southernmost city. The 18-day cruise is a great way to see the Chilean coastline with its volcanoes, glaciers and the remnants of ancient civilisations. And the cherry on top? You get to see it all from the comfort of a luxurious expedition vessel.
We bet you’ve never had a welcome party of 300,000 king penguins before, but that’s exactly what you can expect when you reach St Andrew’s Bay, in the British Overseas Territory of South Georgia.
Your arrival via Zodiac® means you can get up close to these magnificent creatures, who blanket the black sand beaches of the south-Atlantic Ocean island every November to begin their breeding and nesting season.
As the second largest species of penguin in the world, king penguins stand nearly one metre in height and are easily identifiable thanks to their glistening white chests (which they love to puff out during mating season) and striking orange-yellow plumage. And it’s not just penguins that reside on South Georgia, with black-browed albatrosses and humpback whales, plus fur and southern elephant seals all calling the island home.
Exploring this remarkable landscape with you will be a team of experienced naturalist guides, whose knowledge and expertise on the region ensures no question – no matter how tricky – will go unanswered.
The best way to experience this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for yourself is to jump aboard a polar voyage with National Geographic Expeditions. They run a number of explorations between South America and the Antarctic Peninsula, including the upcoming Beyond the Polar Circle cruise, departing 15 January 2020.
Immersing yourself in nature without the sacrifice of comfort is exactly what you’ll get in a BubbleSky ‘tent’. The transparent dome, hidden within El Retiro, Antioquia, keeps a close eye on its carbon footprint with each room inflated by an air compressor using the same amount of energy as a 55 watt light bulb.
A comfortable semiorthopedic queen-size bed, private bathroom and hot Jacuzzi deck out the fittings trimmed with nature-inspired décor. Completely self-contained, guests will need to bring their own food, which can be cooked atop the gas grill and enjoyed on the deck, overlooking the surrounds. This is camping, without worrying about cheeky wildlife. Sleep under the stars without the bugs!
Hidden behind an unsuspecting façade in the heart of San Jose’s oldest historical district, Barrio Amon, this turn-of-the-century French Victorian mansion houses an affordable and stylish hotel. Cues to its coffee-plantation history are scattered throughout with dazzling handmade tile floors, high ceilings and Victorian-era furnishings.
Each morning you’ll enjoy your free freshly cooked breakfast in the restaurant, which overlooks the swimming pool and Jacuzzi, both connected via a slide, and the adjacent gym. The hotel also has a wellness centre, offering anti-ageing, dental, IV vitamin bar, osteopathy and massages.
Falling in love was the last thing I had expected to happen on an expedition to the remote parts of Costa Rica’s Caribbean Coast. It’s the middle of my final night on Pacuare beach and darkness blankets the otherwise vibrant landscape I’ve come to know so well, interrupted only by the stars casting a fading spotlight over the waves violently crashing against the sandy shore. I’m out here wearing just Crocs and my underwear, thankful for the lack of light pollution in this remote haven.
The moon’s silver light outlines the curves of the body lying before me and I barely notice the bugs attacking my legs or the grains of sand flying through the air. Goosebumps creep across my skin as jolts of electric euphoria cause my mind to blank. It’s a moment so magical that despite my weary, sweaty body,
I almost hope it never ends.
When I arrived at Pacuare seven days ago, this was not the tale I thought I’d be weaving, but we have little say in the hand of fate.
I’m travelling with Biosphere Expeditions to a small beach-fronted research station in the province of Limon where I’ll be working with a team of scientists, research assistants and volunteers from conservation organisation, Latin American Sea Turtles (LAST).
A few hours drive from the country’s capital, San Jose, brings us to the canals of Tortuguero where we travel an hour by dinghy through the winding waterways. With every corner of the bend, the lush, green rainforest unfolds, and we play ‘I spy’ in the hope the tropical trees will uncover spider, howler and capuchin monkeys, geladas, caiman, green macaws, sloths and jaguars.
The engine of the boat hums to the chorus of cicadas and birds chime in for their solo, while white-faced geladas occasionally grunt their tenor parts like schoolboys whose parents have forced them onto the stage.
When we arrive at the station, we’re welcomed by the thunderous sound of the Caribbean Sea, and the delicate growl of Shakira, a deaf Rottweiler whose bark is as tough as her bite, but her nature as placid as a wise old owl.
“She is a guard dog,” our expedition leader Ida Vincent warns.
“She tends to go about her business, but we advise you avoid patting her because she does have a tendency to snap.” She points to Fabián Carrasco, LAST’s resident biologist, who reveals a nasty scar across his thumb and hand.
Teaming up with the volunteers from La Tortuga Feliz, a neighbouring program, we will walk a seven-kilometre stretch of beach each night in four-hour shifts between 7pm and 5am in search of leatherback, green and hawksbill turtles. We have one main goal – to find the turtles and collect the nests before poachers do.
Sea turtle eggs are hunted and sold on the black market, and for some species, like the green and hawksbill, they’re also traded for meat and shells. It’s long been a belief that the eggs are an aphrodisiac, which Fabián explains comes from an old sea tale.
“Fishermen were spending weeks or months out at sea. When sea turtles mate, they join tails and the male drops his sperm into the female. The process can take 30 to 40 minutes, but because the males want to stop others from mating with her, he hugs her for hours, or sometimes even days. The fishermen would see this and think they were mating the whole time.” I blush. The story is comical, but one that sadly results in a diminishing population, with almost all species appearing on the endangered list. Climate change, habitat damage, pollution, sand erosion, light pollution and fishing also play a part.
It takes us a while to adjust to our new surroundings. Our accommodation at the LAST station is rustic, dormitory-style bunk beds, some with a private bathroom, and others sharing the doorless washrooms, all fed by solar power. While the rest of our group search for phone service hotspots, I decide to make the most of this opportunity to completely detach from the outside world. It may be basic, but it doesn’t forgo comfort – there’s no need for hair dryers out here, and after a few hours in the sticky humidity, I welcome the pipe-style cold showers.
Our first day, like most days, is spent lounging in hammocks, attending lectures on sea turtles and getting to know our fellow volunteers. Sunlight hours are quiet and relaxing in preparation for our night shifts, but there’s still plenty to do and between chapters of books and dips in the sea, we help with beach clean ups, hatchery duty, fixing and cleaning equipment, and learning Spanish.
Fabián, a Mexican-born biologist who has worked with LAST for the past three years, runs the show and along with our leader, Ida, they make us feel welcomed and at home.
“In the beginning, I dreamed of working with big cats,” Fabián tells me, but an introduction to the world of turtles had him hooked. “It was something I wanted because I liked working on the beach, seeing the turtles and really enjoyed my time in the lab studying microbiology.
“Turtles are animals that cannot fend for themselves so when they come to the beach, they’re very vulnerable … They don’t do any damage when they come here, and we, humans, are their biggest predators.
I’m not here to be a hero, but I do want to protect them.”
Ida, who is also a marine biologist, agrees. “We could be really lucky on this trip,” she tells our group. “There’s a nest of turtles almost ready to hatch so we might get some babies.” Her smile and enthusiasm is infectious and despite our apprehension of what’s ahead of us on our walk tonight, we can’t help but embrace the energy.
After an early dinner of beans and vegetables (our meals are plant-based and organic, and alcohol is forbidden on the station) we are broken up into groups and head to bed to rest before our first shift.
My guide for the night is Hernan, a local who tells me he’s been looking for turtles for almost 10 years. Many of the guides are ex-poachers, now employed by LAST to lead teams during the season, which runs from May to November. For the most part of the four-hour walk, our group stays silent, chatting only between breathless puffs and during short breaks.
By the time we’re on our way back, my feet are covered in blisters, my body aches and I’m excreting so much sweat I can no longer tell if it’s been raining. A broken-English and broken-Spanish conversation with Hernan distracts me from the exhaustion, and while there are no turtles to be sighted tonight, it already starts to dawn on me that this trip is offering up more than just an opportunity to bond with my favourite oceanic reptiles. I was about to learn as much from the people as I was from the turtles.
Alongside the conservation work, LAST also invests in educating the locals, employs poachers and runs activities for the children who live nearby. “We want them to see us as a part of the community, rather than enemies,” Fabián explains as we scoff down our breakfast empanadas.
It’s only our second day here at the station, and our overnight introduction to saving the turtles is a reality check, but the hope of hatchlings keeps our spirits high.
The hatchery sits a few hundred metres away from the station and is a small, fenced-in section of sterilised beach that’s guarded 24/7 to protect the
re-nested eggs against predators – poachers, dogs, cats and crabs among them. Hatchery duty falls under our job description on this trip, but first, we need to learn how to recreate a nest.
Turtle nests, we learn, are circular holes with a lip pocket for air. As I dig my arms deep into the sand, my inner school student is desperate for praise. It turns out digging a near-perfect circle is harder than expected and with each “it’s too wide”, “it’s not straight enough” and “dig a little deeper” my overachiever persona is kicked to the curb.
I spend the afternoon soaking my feet in a makeshift saltwater footbath until the sun starts to lower its position in the sky. “It’s babies time,” Ida says, as we all walk over to the hidden nest Fabián buried earlier in the season.
The path there is as fascinating as the exhumation we’re about to witness. Geladas make frightening grunting noises from their thrones high in the trees, while leafcutter ants carry small squares of green on their back in a hi-ho fashion. Toucans squawk, desperate to steal the spotlight with their kaleidoscope beaks, and dogs follow us, baffled that on this rare occasion, no one is interested in playing.
A few kilometres up the beach, in an area covered in vines and overgrowth, we gather around Fabián who lies belly down. We’re given instructions for the hatchling release – never walk in front of a turtle, don’t interfere with their path to the sea, and above all else, watch where you step. As he scoops sand out of the nest by the handful, the occasional wriggling flipper is caught and gently placed in a polystyrene foam box to protect it from the sun. It’s important the hatchlings are released in the shade to avoid the hot sand frying their delicate bodies.
A leatherback nest houses an average of 80 eggs, and the exhumation takes a little over an hour, revealing a number of unsuccessful ones plagued by fungus, bacteria, or foetuses that died before hatching. As if the 1 in 1000 survival odds for hatchlings to reach sexual maturity isn’t enough, only seven are released from this single nest. Before Biosphere Expeditions and LAST arrived in Pacuare, poaching at this site was nearly 100 per cent, and has since been halved. I take comfort knowing that despite the small number, our release saved these hatchlings from a sure sale on the black market.
I stand in awe as they drag their tiny bodies across the sand toward the sea. One little guy lags in the back, trying to figure out whether he should follow his siblings to be engulfed in the ocean’s waves, or whether he’d much prefer to stay in the comfort of the box he’d just been released from, awoken from a tranced state. He’s my favourite, I decide, and with each simultaneous push of the flippers, it’s hard not to be moved by his conviction. Human footprints build mountainous obstacles, and while the lagging hatchling is not quick, nor graceful, his determination is unwavering. As a group of 20-odd humans standby rooting him on, my love affair with these chelonians strengthens.
Witnessing this has turned hatchery duty into a coveted role – everyone wants a break from the night walks and to be the first to see the near-ready nest in the hatchery emerge. I draw the lucky straw, along with my roommates, Scarlett and Talar, and sit on the 3am to 6am guard shift.
In 15-minute intervals, we inspect each nest, which are protected from predators by some netting, hoping to witness some bubbling sand indicating the exciting arrivals. The sun puts on a spectacular show, and a new day is dawning, but still no turtles.
It takes two more nights of braving the humid, rainy conditions before I come face-to-tail with an adult leatherback. It’s around 9pm and I’m getting some sleep when Ida comes knocking on our dorm’s door. “Ladies, come quick! There’s a turtle right out front!”
we hear her say in a tone somewhere between a shout and a whisper as to not wake the nearby sleepers.
Suddenly, body aches and wounded feet dissipate and I sprint to the station’s gate and out to the beach. This is the moment where exhaustion, relief and emotion collide and as I stand in the moonlight in my underwear, I feel my eyes well up with tears.
The mamma leatherback gracefully goes about her duty, sprinkling sand with a delicacy and calculation I’d been unable to match when digging days earlier. This is the only opportunity she’ll get to protect her babies, and once she’s satisfied with her masterpiece, she heavily turns her body back toward the sea. Her presence on land is far more laborious than her ability to glide through water, and just before she hits the wet sand, she takes a moment to rest and then, with a few more heaves of her flippers, she disappears, unknowingly leaving her babies in the safe hands of Carlos, an ex-poacher turned guide.
In that moment, my skin crawling with fervour, every step of the week becomes entirely worth it.
As I sit in the kitchen on my final day listening to paradise’s soundtrack, Fabián lies in the hammock somewhere between sueños (dreaming) and consciousness, and Shakira sits calmly by his feet. I stare out into the canal where Carlita, our cook, rests at the end of the dock, and I movie-roll my way through the last week. I’ve run out of clean clothes and my body is desperate for a hot bath, and yet, right here in this special part of Costa Rica, I feel totally and utterly at home. My heart is full.
The red light of sunset hangs in the mist churning out of the thundering rapids. Two tribesmen, the best river runners in their village, steady their motor-dugout for a run upstream into the fury of the monstrous waves. Beyond lies the mystery of the vast, jaguar-haunted Guiana Highlands, but the only way in is on the Kabalebo River, which sits just past these rapids. The Amerindians pick a line and the old outboard screams as the boat shoots into the heart of the rapids. If the canoe happens to turn broadside to the fury of the river, it will be broken up and lost, and we will be left stranded in the Amazon jungle.
Upon my arrival to the capital, Paramaribo, the Minister of Tourism told me “Suriname is very wealthy.” We meet in the shadow of an old Dutch castle with rusting cannons still trained on the Caribbean. Suriname is emerging from a dark era of dictatorship and atrocities, so common in post-colonial nations, but I’ve come here to explore its dramatic potential for adventure. His Excellency, dressed more like a Somali pirate than a diplomat, offers me a glass of rum and smiles, reaffirming that this is an extraordinary country. “In the jungle there is gold and bauxite; many minerals, many opportunities for mining.” The crux of what he is saying is this: Suriname must make its way in the world, either by extraction or appreciation of its only asset, the Amazon jungle.
Old town Paramaribo looks like a film set, and as I walk a dirt road lined with soaring Amazon hardwoods and colonial mansions, I consider my plan. The Minister of Tourism agrees to loan me a Cessna aircraft to explore the country, wanting to prove to the world that Suriname, both a Caribbean and South American nation, is at peace and has much to offer. My journey is taking me deep into the Northern Amazon to stand upon the banks of the storied river, Kabalebo.
“Ready to fly?” my pilot asks early the next morning as I board a small single-prop bush plane. Before I have time to answer, he quickly gets the shuddering craft airborne, and we’re tracing the Caribbean coast toward the mouth of the Kabalebo River, where we will land and refuel. From the air I can see silt dark water lapping at dense mangrove forests, a visual indication why Suriname has never caught on as a beach destination, despite a long Caribbean coastline. I was encouraged though; I wanted jungle adventure, not white sand.
Stepping out of the plane at a riverside airstrip, I’m greeted by Evan, the last Peace Corps volunteer working with the Maroon people.
“They were slaves, and when they escaped, they went into total isolation out in the jungle,” he explains as we step into his little wooden pirogue, a narrow canoe made from the trunk of a tree. Following the abolition of slavery in the 19th century, Dutch colonials brought cheap labourers from Indonesia, India and China. Meanwhile, former African slaves formed what amounted to a nation within a nation. Living in the jungle, they were cut off from the changing language and customs of their homelands. “Their culture is like a time capsule, it hasn’t changed for 200 years,” Evan says.
The people we meet in the village are quiet and show no signs of curiosity as to who we are. “The escaped-slave mentality is still strong,” Evan explains as we walk through the village. Shrines to Obeah sit at corners of dirt lanes and A-frame huts are decorated in a style that Evan says was commonplace in West Africa long ago. “Everything is about survival for them,” he adds. Their garden locations are secret and they keep caches of supplies hidden in the jungle, including machetes, cooking pots and pickaxes. “These are their wealth, their bling-bling.”
I check into a riverside lodge nearby called Pikenslaay, where I fall asleep to the calming and mysterious sounds of the jungle, and awaken to the golden sunrise reflecting on the Kabalebo. The view before me is an almost clichéd picture of a jungle river; a dense canopy hangs over dark, slowly roiling water.
Our next destination is a 300-kilometre plane ride away. My pilot is navigating by map and compass as we trace the looping course of the Kabalebo, sometimes crossing the broad stretches of unbroken jungle. From the aerial view, the jungle looks vast with no sign of humans, yet across the border in Brazil, the very same jungle is quickly disappearing. Technically known as the Guianan Moist Forests, the terrain we are venturing into is known as one of the largest intact tropical rainforests in the world, stretching from Venezuela in the west to the Atlantic coast in French Guiana. My thoughts drift back to the tourism official I’d met in Paramaribo and his unconcealed pro-industry attitude. If Suriname is to save its wild places, it will have to be done with tourist dollars.
Suddenly, the pilot pulls back the controls, jams the throttle and the plane shudders as it angles away from the grassy airstrip below, and narrowly clears the jungle canopy. It banks steeply, and as he wipes his forehead and pulls off his radio headset, the pilot says “On the runway… big anaconda.” Our welcoming party to Nature Resort Kabalebo, a rough collection of buildings and grass huts set on a short runway cut out of the jungle. This is the most remote settlement in Suriname.
“Welcome to the jungle!” a bare-chested, barefooted man shouts, happily swinging a machete as he walks towards the plane. “I’m Jerry, your guide,” he says in a strong Dutch accent. He explains that come afternoon, we will be travelling upriver in a boat, into a part of the Amazon that is untouched by man. “No place you can go is more wild.”
Jerry, a zealous fisherman, suggests a walk to the river to cool off. As I glide through the water, he pulls a big silver fish from it. I ask what type of fish he’s catching, to which he emphatically replies, “Piranha.”
“How dangerous are piranhas?” I ask, quickly kicking toward the shore. He takes a moment to think before he responds; “This time of year, if you aren’t already bleeding, they shouldn’t attack you.
“If you go in any of these villages, you’ll find people missing toes or fingers. Just don’t go swimming naked and you’ll be fine.”
On the walk to the resort’s nearby village, I learn that we will be travelling upriver in a motorised dugout with two of Jerry’s best boatmen. We are entering wild territory here with just the slight possibility of running into some small nomadic Indian groups, although unlikely given the remoteness of the area. It seems Jerry is more concerned about the illegal gold miners who have begun to rush in from Brazil and wreak havoc on the environment.
The village of thatch-roofed huts is small and smoky. Amazonian natives lounge around in loincloths and donated clothing, drinking warm cassava beer brewed in clay pots. “The women chew the cassava,” Jerry says, handing me a bowl of beer made from the fermented remains. I try not to think about the information he has just passed on to me as I take a sip.
Once a year, the village men make the trek to the coast to sell cotton, which is their only cash crop. The rest of the year, the village lives on starchy cassava, fish from the river and animals hunted in the forest. Despite understanding the modern world, and valuing manufactured items, they don’t like the city and distrust people from it, and even those who move to the city eventually come back to the village, Jerry explains.
As our vessel’s engine starts and we begin speeding up the river, Jerry yells over the drone of the outboard, “These guys know every rock and every fallen tree under the water.” The settlement is barely out of sight when I see my first caiman, a small alligator half-submerged and poised on a rock. A short ride upriver, we surprise a group of capybara, large rodents which can dive underwater for several minutes. One has long, slashing wounds running down its back. “Jaguar,” Jerry confirms. “There are many animals here because there are no people.”
Our aim is to travel as far into the Amazon as possible, but for tonight we’re staying at Uncle Piet’s Lodge. Our dugout glides onto a sandbar just as the sun is setting, casting its shadow over the raw wooden stilt house on the riverbank. “Welcome to Uncle Piet’s Lodge,” Jerry smiles. “The most peaceful place in the world.”
It takes no time for Jerry to bait his hook with some of the piranha he caught earlier and he begins fishing in the growing darkness. Behind us, a small generator kicks on and the house lights up. Over a fire, cassava bread is warmed and a bottle of rum is passed around as we sit with the locals. It’s the first time I’ve heard them speak and within minutes, Jerry walks out of the gloom with a monstrous fish.
I roll out of my hammock in the darkness. Scarlet macaws are screeching raucously nearby and monkeys forage in the treetops on the far bank. Jerry is already awake and brewing coffee over a small fire. We are leaving early to reach our campsite, water levels permitting.
Our hopes are high and we spend the day poking our canoe into tributary streams, swimming and fishing. Following a set of jaguar tracks from the riverbank into the jungle, I realise why early European explorers lamented the density of the “Green Hell” where a day’s travel is often limited to a single kilometre.
Sharp, spined hanging vines tear at my clothes as thick undergrowth and sucking mud entangle my feet. Cicadas call out as loud as fire alarms and every surface is covered in insects, but it’s Jerry’s snake warning I’m most worried about. He tells me there are species in the jungle with a bite that will kill me.
Despite this fear dwelling inside me, it’s hard not to marvel at the spirit of the Amazon. It’s full of life; monkeys make treetops their endless playground, capybara play their roles as the socialites of the jungle and jaguars stealthily crawl through the thick vegetation, each animal gliding through this hot gloom with a grace and ease I can’t imitate. This corner of the Amazon seems like one of the most deadly places on the planet, and yet, the natives consider this very same jungle home and thrive in its chaos.
I wonder to myself if it’s merely a change in perspective which will allow me to experience the jungle more as a friend than an adversary.
It takes us most of the day to reach the boat-destroying rapids, and after each attempt to make it through, we find ourselves courting disaster. I make my way upstream through the dense jungle to get a better look and realise the water is too low to make it over the rocks and the dugout is too heavy to portage around them. Jerry finally shakes his head and calls the attempt off. “It’s too dangerous, you don’t want to spend the night out here,” he said. He was right, I didn’t.
This is as far upriver as we can go. I am content with what I’ve seen. I take a moment to savour my last moments in the wildest place I have ever visited, and despite the urge to continue deeper into the jungle’s depths, I still have a couple of days to spend at the lodge. I sneak up on hiding caimans, fish for monsters of the river depths, search for glimpses of giant anacondas and jaguars tracks lacing the riverbanks.
As we silently drift back toward the airstrip, watching scarlet macaws browse the canopy, I wonder if more people were to come and experience this untouched aspect of the Amazon, would there be more incentive to preserve it? But for a country still recovering from a troubled past, is the wild expanse of rainforest worth more in tourist dollars than the gold which may lie beneath it? I certainly think so.
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