Rurrenabaque/Amazon Basin, Bolivia

Thursday, January 6, 2005:

[Where indicated (*), names have been changed to protect (me from the possible wrath of) the innocent.]

There was a flury of activity in front of the Alias* Tours office when I arrived at 8:30 AM. Several men were strapping enormous jugs of gasoline and water to the roof of a battered, rusted-red Toyota landcruiser, covering them with blue tarps and tossing assorted packs and boxes into the vehicle. Inside the office, several returning backpackers were filling out evaluation forms and exhibiting their mosquito-bitten arms and legs to a pair of young German women who were apparently waiting for the same excursion I would soon be leaving on. One was tall and broad, with long blonde hair, while the other was an exact opposite: short and diminutive, with very short brown hair and thick glasses. They looked like lesbians (not there´s anything wrong with that).

Within several minutes, the rest of the group assembled in the office. There was a layed-back Irish couple (Neal and Anita) that had recently returned from a two-day trip to the jungle. They had their own mosquito bites to show for that. In addition, Joanne, who I had spent 8 hours with at the TAM airport a few days before, was there with her boyfriend, Steve (both from London). The five of us, along with the two Germans (Claudia* and Helga*), would be spending the next 3 days and 2 nights together in the grassy river-front fields in Bolivia´s Madidi National Park, some 4 hours north of Rurrenabaque by car.

I chatted casually with Joanne and Steve as we waited for some sign of readiness from the men preparing the van. The German girls seemed quiet and reluctant to join in, perhaps out of a lack of confidence in their English (which was very good, nevertheless). As we sat, I stared at the numerous customer-written recommendations posted along the walls. They seemed promising, at least those I could understand. I would estimate that a quarter of them were in English, a quarter were in Spanish, and a spattering were in German and Dutch. But the vast majority (probably a third) were written in Hebrew. It was truly bizarre to see this in the middle of the Bolivian Amazon.

Finally, some 45 minutes later, we piled through the backdoors of the landcruiser. There were two benches running alongside the windows and we settled in, knee to knee, for the long ride. The cook, a woman of forty or so named Lucy*, sat in the front seat with the driver and another man, evidently there to assist with loading and unloading. She explained that we would be picking our tour guide up as we neared our destination at the edge of the river. We would then take a boat up the river to our campsite --- a series of cabins with mosquito-net walls.

We drove out of Rurrenabaque in the sun and sweltering heat, dust from the dirt and rock road billowing into the cabin of the van through the open windows. As we passed another vehicle or bounced over a particularly bumpy stretch of the bumpy road, the driver and cook placed their hands up onto the cracked windshield, as if to make sure it wouldn´t shatter abruptly on the slightest impact and fly backwards into the vehicle. This wasn´t exactly comforting.

The group talked in the back as we drove. Steve and Joanne had a few more weeks of travel left before they would have to head back to London. Joanne would be starting her job as a corporate lawyer there in February. Neal and Anita still had 4 months left out of 6 in South America. They would be heading south into Chile, down to Patagonia, and then back up through Argentina and into Rio, Brazil. He was an accountant and she was a psychiatric nurse. Both had received "career-breaks" and would be returning to the same employers when they got back. Yes, this sort of arrangement is possible and occurs much more frequently in European countries than it does is the States (obviously). The relatively silent German girls were college students taking a break from their studies. Although they seemed the most removed from the group, they weren´t unfriendly. In all, it seemed like decent bunch to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with. However, a quick "In Case of Emergency, Who Gets Cannibalized First? Check" revealed to me that I, as the lone lone traveler, could get the nod. I would have to work hard to prove myself useful --- like in a highest-stakes version of "Survivor!"

The landscape consisted of four colors: The clear blue sky with white clouds, the green forest, and the brown of the dirt road. Every so often, plumes of dust would rise up in the distance and obscure all forward vision. The driver didn´t slow down much as he drove through these dust-clouds on the left, right and in the center of the road. Apparently, he was betting that his hand in front of the windshield would absorb the brunt of any head-on collision we had with an oncoming vehicle (its driver presumably also holding his hand in front of the windshield --- or his eyes --- and everything thereby magically turning out to be just fine).

After a couple of hours, we came to a particularly bad stretch of road. There were deep pits of mud and sunken tire-marks caused by the heavy rainfall that had evidently cancelled my flight three days before. A small truck was stuck in the mud, the driver fruitless revving the engine and spinning its wheels as his mud-covered companion tried to push the vehicle from every conceivable angle. He was also scooping up mounds of dry dirt and heaping them under the truck in an effort to create some traction. We stopped the van and the driver and other tour agency man went forward to help. In a few minutes, they had managed to push the truck onto sufficiently dry ground for it to move. "No four-by-four drive," the driver said to us. "Have to have four-by-four drive." I nodded; the two men in the truck were probably going to get stuck again not far down the road. They seemed patient enough, as though they were used to this sort of thing. Hopefully they kept enough water on hand because, in my experienced scientific opinion, it was getting to be approximately two million, four hundred thousand degrees outside (Celcius).

We stopped about an hour later at a tiny guard-post that marked the entrance to Madidi National Park. We each had to pay $5 for admission over the next 3 days. This is pricey for Bolivia, but when you consider that our tour cost $15 per day (including all meals) --- a total of $45 for three days --- its hardly upsetting.

We drove into a very small village of not more than a few hundred people. A young, clean-cut man dressed in green and brown army fatigues came out of one of the buildings, hopped up onto the rear bumper of the van, and clambered on top of the roof. This was our guide, explained Lucy. His name was Carlos*.

We stopped at another small building in the village, where Carlos and the driver loaded a single boat motor onto the roof (was there a spare in case it failed, sombody asked? I didn´t listen for the obvious response). Carlos then hopped into the back cabin with us and we rode quietly for another 10 minutes before reaching a series of ramshackle wooden buildings resting on stilts along the edge of a murky-brown river.

One of the buildings was a restaurant and the other seemed to be a dwelling where its owners lived. There were several jeeps and vans in the parking lot and numerous backpackers and guides from other tour agencies were milling around a group of local women who were selling snacks and soft drinks from little stands and tables. A series of long wooden canoes with motors rigged onto their backs were tied up along the shoreline. A strong, sewage-like odor permeated the air. I assumed it was the result of bathrooms that emptied waste directly into the waters below the buildings.

We went into the restaurant, where lunch was quickly served by the family that owned it; a light soup and a main meal of ground, spiced beef and rice, with salad on the side. It wasn´t bad, but as I sipped the juice that had been provided, I felt my stomache start to clench up tightly. Something wasn´t sitting right, and I suspected that it was due to the use of unclean water in the juice, soup and/or food. Still, I´d been mostly fine for my three-plus months in Central and South America. I figured I would be able to handle whatever was bothering me this time around.

After lunch, we loaded our bags into a canoe (the jugs of water and gas and boxes of supplies had already been loaded) and set out upon the river. As we pushed off from shore, I said that I was glad to be leaving the rancid stench
of the restaurant behind.

"It is not the restaurant," said Claudia, breaking her silence, "it is the river." And then, in her best unintentionally Shwartzenagger-like voice: "You vill hav to get uzed to it."

Ugh.

How bad did it smell? In the stifling heat, with the sun beating down on us in the boat, it was one of the most potent, pronounced stenches I ever recall being exposed to. It smelled distinctly of rotting eggs, ash, smoke and shit. And there was no escape from it. The river was broad and, as Carlos explained to us, quite deep, at over 12 meters in certain spots. As we left shore, the deep-brown color gave way to a near pitch-black shade. Reeds and leaves and half-submerged trees pushed up through the surface. It was the rainy season, and much of the pampas lay under the water now. But for the foliage and the occassional series of bubbles and rainbow trails of gasoline, the surface was clear and smooth. Like a black mirror, it reflected the shoreline, sky and clouds. Sometimes a reed on the river´s edge appeared to descend indefinitely down into an endless abyss.

Carlos started to chat with us in Spanish from his position at the motor in the stern. "Where are you from?" he asked the Germans. "Germany," they said.
"Where are you from?" he asked the English and Irish. "England," and "Ireland," they said. "Where are you from?" he asked me.

"Nueva York," I said.

"Ahhh, Americano!" said Carlos.

"Nueva York!" I said. "No Texas, no Florida, no Ohio!" This made Carlos roar with laughter. He was a smiley, chatty sort and kept up the banter for a while with the group. The Germans, sitting in back with him, were the only others who spoke semi-conversational Spanish. He seemed content to try to flirt with them for a while, something I could not comprehend even if they were NOT lesbians. But it was amusing enough and lighthearted. I stared out at the black water as we motored onward.

It was about 20 minutes into the trip when the heat and stench combined to overpower me. I felt my stomache muscles tighten violently. I felt dizzy. Half of me wanted to throw-up and the other half wanted to pass out. I began to gag and leaned over the boat in a stupor. My fellow passengers noticed and tried to help. In the end, after several (unsuccessful) efforts to vomit, I drank some water and climbed up onto the gunnel of the boat, which brought me a good 8 inches further above the surface of the water. I began to recover. But still, the smell was wretched.

Soon Carlos revealed to us that he had been conducting a little experiment to see who could speak Spanish. His English proved to be excellent. We learned a little about him: He was 27 and was a sergeant in the Bolivian army. "I am the Bolivian Rambo," he told us. "Not like American Rambo," he said, grinning at me through pearly teeth. "American Rambo is UGLY." He then apologized to me for this remark, which I found strange because, of course, Sly Stallone is UGLY.

At the this point, I should provide the answer to a question some of you must be asking: Were there any monkeys? You´re damned right there were monkeys. We passed three groups of monkeys in fairly rapid succession during our three hour trip down the river that afternoon. Unfortunately, I don´t remember the names of two of the varieties, only that one variety was the smallest in the region and that the other variety was the largest in the region. Then there was a cluster of howler monkeys perched in the tops of a series of trees along the river. They weren´t howling at the moment, however. Carlos told us that most of the monkeys were females and that only one was a male. As for the other monkeys, the little ones were quite curious and, when we stopped our boat on the shore under their tree, they came down to stare at us. We stared. They stared. We stared. They stared. If it weren´t for the fact that monkeys kind of creep me out, I would say they were cute. In fact, I will say that they were cute. But they still kind of creeped me out.

After the monkeys, we moved on. We saw condors, eagles and birds of paradise, among other avian exotics. The condors screetched at the top of their lungs like pterodactyls, while birds of paradise had wavy, plumed heads ---the sort that cheap, tacky show girls in Vegas movies try to imitate with their purple-feathered hats. There were also macaus and a few tucans.

As we went, Carlos taught Steve a drinking song:

Mama yo qui-ero... [Mama I want...]
Mama yo qui-ero...
Mama Mama Mamaaaaa
Yo quiero---

Una Cerveza! [A beer!]
(Una Cerveza!)
Una Cerveza!
(Una Cerveza!)

Mamaaaaaaa....
Yo quiero
Una Cer-ve-za! [Repeat until insanity sets in]

This kept up for a bit. I prayed we would make it to our camp very soon.

And then, just as the heat reached its worst and the rotting egg stench became its most unbearable, we saw a series of wooden shacks on stilts above the water. A ramp, half-submerged, led up to the front door of the front building. A sign, also half-submerged, stuck just far enough out of the water to advertise the salient details:

SUN-SET-BAR
WE SERVE
COLD BEER!

Steve tied the boat to the ramp and we clambered out and inside the lodge. Inside, a series of picnic tables stood on the right while a long line of hammocks in numerous colors hung in a neat row on the left. To the back there was a kitchen with a refrigerator. There was a thin, white-haired man with a trim mustache, probably in his mid-50s, wearing a dirty white wifebeater T-shirt. He welcomed us while a tiny, mousy-gray cat with long slender legs meowed at us softly and flopped down under a hammock.

The beers weren´t free, but they were cheap at about $1 each (apparently, the white-haired man lived here most of the year and sold beer to various visiting groups --- but he was affiliated with our tour company, which had its facilities here). We all settled into hammocks and enjoyed the very slight relief from the smell of the river that the lodge was providing us, due to its greater height above the surface of the water. After a time, we retrieved our things and Carlos led us to the back of the lodge and out a door. A wooden bridge with railings branched out in several directions before us. To the left there was a tiny wooden shack that housed a shower and toilet. To the immediate right there was a ramp that led up to a porch of sorts above the water. It provided a view over the river and over the wet, green grasslands that stretched away in the distance. A quick glance showed that the sun was setting in that direction and that, indeed, one could head out onto the porch with a cold beer and watch it descend. But there was still time for that. The central path on the bridge led to two small cabins some 100 feet away. One contained a series of narrow beds, each with a canopy on top that supported a mosquito-net. The other was a small mess-hall, with a table and cooking area. All of these buildings and structures stood some 3-4 feet above the murky black surface of the water on wooden stilts. All of the buildings had mosquito-net mesh in place of windows.

We settled into the dorm, then returned to the hammocks to rest for a while. Meanwhile, Lucy was cooking our dinner. After some time, I went to get my book from the dorm room and saw Steve on the bridge in front of the cabin. Carlos was there too. "Look!" Carlos said, and pointed out into the dark, bubbling water. Two beady eyes stared unassumingly up at us. About 20 feet away, a small (4 foot) crocodile lay submerged in the muck with only its head protruding. We sat and watched it watch us. Carlos hopped down off of the bridge and onto a log that stuck up out of the water (which was probably less than a foot deep here). The crocodile slowly swam forward. Soon he was right under Carlos, but he didn´t do a thing. He just waited. Carlos came back up and, after a time, headed for the lodge. Steve followed him a minute later. The instant they left, the crocodile swam right up to the spot under the bridge I was standing on and looked up at me. You´re all alone now, he seemed to be saying. Why not hop in for a swim?

I went backto the lodge for a beer instead. After a time, we all went out onto the porch to watch the sun drop beneath the horizon in a steady pulse of pink and violet light. Lucy announced that dinner was ready and we found ourselves with a pleasant dinner of spaghetti, meat sauce, salad and bread. I was hungry but found that I could not eat very much. My stomache was still clenching up on occassion and the smell of the food kept mingling with the noxious fumes from the water. This confused my appetite like nothing else ever has.

Somebody finally asked Carlos what the smell from the river was. We had speculated that despite the reports that the Bolivian Amazon was nearly pristine, the river might be polluted from gasoline and other tourism or development-related factors. His answer reassuringly put an end to this theory, but didn´t help my appetite any.

"It is the rainy season and much of the vegetation --- maybe 90% --- is submerged under the water. It is dying and the smell is of all that vegetation rotting."

"It smells like Satan´s Ass," I muttered to the Irish. They nodded.

After dinner, Carlos asked us if we would like to head back in the boat to see if we could spot crocodiles, alligators or caiman. All three are on the river, Carlos explained. In the darkness, with your flashlight shining, you can pick out the crocodiles and alligators by their glowing red eyes. The caiman have glowing yellow eyes. Someone inquired as to how big these lizards could get. The answer was somewhat shocking: the crocodiles and alligators grew up to 3 meters or so (about 10 feet), while the caiman could reach an immense 6 to 7 meters (over 20 feet). This rivals the size of the salt-water crocodiles in Australia, which --- so I have read --- stopped evolving some 50 million years or so back. They are relics from the age of the dinosaurs and probably the most dangerous creature one can encounter in the wild (moreso than great white sharks because, apparently, the crocs are always hungry and ready to kill). Carlos told us that the caimans were quite unlikely to approach a boat full of people. But a boat with only one person in it? Sure. I thought back to how the little crocodile under the bridge had cunningly lurched forward the instant I had been left alone with it.

The Irish were tired (they had already been in the jungle for several days before the rest of us) but everyone else decided to head out on the excursion. We motored away from the lodge, each of us scanning the waters with our flashlights. Millions of stars littered the sky overhead and, in some areas, dense patches of sky radiated sparkling mists of swirling bright lights. An electrical storm boomed silently and repetitively in the distance, filling the night sky with explosive white flashes of lightning that stretched across the entire width of the horizon.

Steve was the first to spot a crocodile. He pointed and, in the distance, we saw the twin red lights gleam like fires in the darkness. We approached, but the reptile dove under the water and disappeared. We saw another one a few minutes later, but it too eluded us. After a time, Carlos shut the motor and paddled silently down the river. We heard frogs, crickets, cries of strange birds. Fireflies gleamed as they swarmed along the waterfront.

We saw the yellow eyes of a caiman, yet never managed to get close to it. Otherwise, we just sat and stared at the sky (which was itself reflected in the smooth black water). Carlos paddled. I sat at the front with Joanne and Steve and, after a time, Helga crept up. Claudia remained in the back. It was at this point that I began to wonder if Claudia really was a lesbian. Carlos was clearly putting the moves on and... she seemed to be loving it. I didn´t explore this line of thought too much more, as I found it revolting. The Bolivian Rambo was a dynamic little bundle of laughing and smiling testosterone, wrapped in a camoflauge package. Still, he was likeable enough, despite his gruesome taste in gringas. Perhaps I sound harsh, but my view would soon be unanimously confirmed by international representatives from the states of England and Ireland.

We came back to the camp at 10 PM or so and, after some reclining in hammocks, began to get ready for bed. The Bolivian Rambo came up to me at one point and asked if I perhaps knew of the state of Florida --- he had an uncle who lived there. "Yes," I told him, "I know Florida." Then, in front of everybody else, he offered a dubious and rather creepy compliment: "I like New York here," he said, referring to me, "he is small like me but has big chest muscles." Umm. Right. Too much time in the jungle for the Bolivian Rambo, apparently. Still, he was kidding around and I wasn´t all that worried that he would get too friendly if his prospects with Claudia turned sour (well, they were sour to begin with, but in a different sense...).

Finally, we settled into our beds and pulled the mosquito nets down from the canopy tops. Inside my insect-proof bunker, the heat was stifling. I was drenched in sweat in minutes (though I had already had a fair headstart). I fell asleep to the sound of frogs and crickets and birds. Somewhere close, I thought, perhaps directly under me, a little crocodile was waiting for someone to come swim with him.