Coast

Colombian Pacific, near Buenaventura, September 2011

The storm has been raging all night. Rain billowing in hard from the sea, inevitably wearing away the rotting wooden structure of the abandoned discotheque where we have taken shelter, perched two metres from the cliff edge.

The rain falls heavier here on the Colombian coast than in the Amazon. Possibly heavier than anywhere else in the world, this region is so under-studied. Never before have I experienced such magnitude of thunder and lightning and such torrential rain. It is akin to something biblical and I am charged with a new kind of energy which I have not before experienced. With the overwhelming power of the storm and the constant din of waves breaking on the shoreline only metres below us, sleep proves difficult here. By 4am we are sat upright in the attic of the discotheque. A million rain drops thunder on the asbestos roof above us, and wind tears through the holes between the wooden slats which form the walls. We are compelled to the moment. Staring into this wild weather front which comes every night, and does not pass until well after dawn.

It is now 5am as I write. I have woken early for after five fitful nights in the storms, I still feel I am out there on the cliff edge – a feeling I want to hang on to. It is difficult to know where to begin to describe Colombia’s Pacific Coast. Is it at once so vibrant and wild, that one feels they have been cast off to a distant land seldom reached by explorers. The dense jungle and mangroves provide such a hindrance to arrival from the sea, that much of the shore line is inaccessible. Passing from Buenaventura by sea, the diversity is overwhelming. Trees spill down to the water’s edge and occasional sandy beaches can be spotted in hidden coves between the caves which dot the cliffs. There are African settlements along the coast. Here they receive no government assistance. There is no integrated sewerage system in the town of LLadrijeros where we stay, but there is electricity, though no longer in the discothèque. Yet the people seem content here and the sea and land provides good nourishment for all are healthy.

Beyond the African settlements, Indigenous people  inhabit the jungle from the river system known as El Bongo by the African community, and upwards from the San Juan estuary which paramilitary traffickers optimise. This is an area one approaches with extreme caution for these groups rely on extortion, kidnapping, and drug trafficking to finance their army. And the whole region of the Pacific is under their control. This is one of only two pockets of land deemed safe enough for regular Colombians to freely visit. I want to push the boundaries.

The nature of what lies beyond this safe zone pulls at me somehow, even though I am aware of the danger and have heard of the massacres and kidnappings lasting nine years. Indigenous communities have been displaced from land they have inhabited for millienia. Possibly it is this stark contrast between ancient harmony and recent conflict which compels me to contact these people. To visit a tribal community in the midst of such conflict. I also believe that while this conflict is brutal and violent, it has to some extent preserved vast tracts of rainforest and deterred excessive intrusion by multinational forces and the impending development through road networks and gross mineral extraction. In a way, I believe the guerilla to be wardens of the rainforest. But I have been told they are cruel and care only for money and power. What is the truth here?

Pacific Colombia

 

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Sirens and Rain

BSES Amazon Expedition, August 2011

It is now before dawn on the banks of the rapidly drying cocha wiuiri.  My hammock swings below a sodden canopy after heavy rainfall which lasted several hours yesterday afternoon. I spent the night huddled in a ball desperately trying to conserve the minimal heat my body could generate from the evening meal. It was pretty much a sleepless night.

Yesterday, the small and alert bushman Gavino had lead me up the Vicente trail to intercept Fuego Fire at Nequillal. It was the first time I had traveled alone with Gavino and invaluable as I could see exactly how he moved through the forest. We passed beneath trees which bore the mark of high water some three meters above the ground. I would love to travel by dugout among the trees with the Cocama when the forest is in flood. It must be a spellbinding sight.

An hour from the head of the Vicente trail we reached Nequilla. The bushman took a bag of ground yukka out and mixed a handful with river water and a pinch of sugar. I was invited to do likewise. The yukka grows easily in the tropics and is a key source of carbohydrate for the indigenous peoples of the Amazon who have a poor diet for the most part. As we ate, we waited for Fuego fire who were clearing a trail from Orena Runa.

This was a unique part of the expedition for me. Without being prompted, the bushman Gavino began to describe an old story about the place we were. Nequilla is situated at a tight neck of a small river and at this point the water is very deep, though narrow. Twenty years ago the bushman was hunting alone here, as is the custom of the Cocama. He heard the call of Sirens – beautiful maidens who live as mermaids do in the water. The sound he described was fantastic – at once unearthly and beguiling. Indians have been known to drown heeding the call of the Sirens and emerging themselves deep in the black water, unable to swim. Unfortunately my Espanol is too limited to extract deeper information about the legend of the Sirens, but this tale is in line with much indigenous folklore I have studied. I was on the right track.

We looked up stream and Marcos’ distinctive yellow cap appeared beside a fallen tree, then he disappeared again. Gavino set off along the river to meet the group and we caught up with them ten minutes later on the other bank.  The day before, their leader Vicky had suffered a fall and fractured her ankle in two places. It had taken seven hours to bring her out to San Martine by canoe, which was a logistical feat involving as much portaging as paddling due to the low level of water and the umpteen fallen trees blocking the river.  I had been sent out to take her place and my brief was to inspire the group and lead them back to San Martine on foot.

Before heading out to the Vicente trail I traced a map which I had found in Asiendes. It detailed the trails leading to Salvidoras – an old indigenous settlement reclaimed by the jungle and now used for ayhuasca rituals by cocama shaman. It was a lucky find as the only maps we had of the area were pulled from google earth and offered little information save for the shapes of rivers. With our satellite phones and HF radio being little use in the jungle, this map would prove essential in my ability to convince the group to take up the challenge of the long march to San Martine. I had heard that the group were in poor shape and had decided to head up the Vicente trail and follow the river home. It would be necessary to inspire them with tales of buried treasure swallowed by the jungle. A tale not so much fabricated as functional.

The group were divided. Half seemed tired and unmotivated after five days moving through the jungle on minimal rations, the other half wore feathers in hats and carried machetes with a gleam in the eye. My map and discourse soon convinced them to apply themselves for the long haul, and the prospect of digging for tribal artifacts was the icing of the cake.  We changed direction and marched back into the jungle towards Cocha Wiuiri. Then the rains began to fall hard.

San Martine and the Cocama

 

5am,San Martine, Amazon.

 

Here I write to usher in the dawn. The cock has crowed his morning alarm and now a breeze rustles the trees along the cocha – the peripheral effects of the Santa Rosa weather system which can strip roofs of palm from village shacks.

The deep dark shroud of night is giving way to lighter shades of grey and it will not be long before morning arrives. For now I sit at a desk fashioned from a single tree. My pen moves quickly, connecting my thoughts with the paper harmoniously as this time between day and night always allows. Quiet and still, before the sounds in the canopy wake the people and they go about their daily life in the way they have done for thousands of years. The paper is of the tree and we are of the rainforest. What is more apt than to stain these pages with my own reflection of this place?

I wish for a dawn where day never comes, a constant grey zone between the lines where in my own thoughts I can understand my place in the world. I trust in decision, yet deep down I know that fate is the ultimate decider. I strive only to live as closely as I can to my destiny, so that I can meet it on my own terms rather than be pushed up against that reality without a moment’s notice.

Of course there are risks operating in the jungle, but these are carefully weighed. One bite from a coral snake, or a tug from below by a full grown caiman would spell a certain end to this life. As explorers we accept these risks and tread with care in lands where man is not master. The longer we stay here, the more we understand our place in the ecosystem. There is a tribe in Brazil who to initiate a boy into manhood, require of him to scale a tree and beat a wasp nest. The boy leaves the tree so badly stung, that death is not uncommon. This ritual stems from the belief that once the world was ruled by insects and wasps emerged the victors, and by being stung so violently by these insects, the tribe can affirm their place in nature, and act respectfully within it’s diversity.

By listening to our guides and studying their ways, we can become closer to the environment we live in and act less as cogs of a destructive machine, but become individual agents of positive change. Only by placing ourselves in a living nature where man takes second place can this realisation be achieved. Perhaps this is the most valuable of lessons. To leave the rainforest humbled, and willing to give of ourselves rather than take the resources treated respectfully by others in their native lands.

By Canoe

Travelling by canoe has given light to a new vein of exploration. Without doubt, it is a more practical and pleasurable mode of travel than slogging it out on foot with a 30kg bergen on your back.

It is at once tranquil and progressive as a form of transport. In contrast to the cruel trials of humping one’s equipment on land, the water moves naturally and carries our load with its own force. With this enlightened approach, one is able to fully witness the environment through which he is passing. One layer of the rainforest’s hostility dissolves as she drops her guard for us to pass on her waterways – the very life veins of the forest, and we are afforded a view with fresh eyes. We see the jungle’s beauty in the myriad of greens which lighten the trees, the hawks which fly high into the canopy, and kingfishers who dart swiftly along the rivers like ushers guiding us through each of their own territories.

From the mouth of the narrow Yanoyaquillo, two pink river dolphins shepherded us up the narrow winding waterway to within a kilometre of our camp. They look like large grey/pink marlin with long pointed noses, more prominent than a bottle nose dolphin. Each time they breached the surface our group would gasp in awe at the proximity of these intelligent mammals, who seemed happy to guide us along their waterways.

The jungle is still a hostile place, but after three weeks in the thick of it, The Eels have learnt to understand her ways a little more. The drone of the mosquito plague is now as familiar as the background chatter of a television set. Sleeping on a rolled out tarp or swinging from two trees in a hammock is as normal as in a soft quilted bed, and the constant humidity and bites of unseen insects are no longer a source of complaint, but a matter of fact. I feel that if we were to be cast into this foreign land again the Fire would be adept in camp craft, aware of danger, motivated by their support and compassion for one another, and able to continue as explorers in this wild and dangerous place.

Canoes have been utilised in the Americas for millennia. A simple tree hollowed out is as poetic a form of transport as can be. With effort applied in a regular rhythm the canoe cuts swiftly across the water’s surface. With correct placement of the paddle, the canoe can be easily maneuvered and angled in a given direction by shifting one’s body weight. I am a convert. This will be my form of transport on future trips when water is present. For it is foolish to not make use of the way’s of the indigenous.

Camp Craft and Jungle Critters

Night at the Cocha

Yanoyaquillo River, 19 August.

Our camp is pitched above a rapidly falling river level. On arrival it was necessary to cut steps into the now high river banks so we could chain the baggage up from the dugouts. When all of our equipment was on shore, each person was allocated a task to construct camp.

A kitchen area is chosen, where a fire is started. This fire is bolstered by two large logs upon which a pot of river water can be balanced and heated. This tea-coloured Amazonian water is known as ‘Black Water’, so called due to it’s heavy silt content, in contrast to the clear ‘White Water’ which is found in other tributaries in the Amazon basin. This water is laden with life, yet when brought to a rolling boil for a minute becomes quite drinkable without any noticeable side effects. In fact the microbes may be of some benefit to us, if at least to create more robust constitutions.

While two people are detailed to creating an evening meal in the kitchen – on this particular day Inigo and Dean, another two are digging a long-drop – the colloquial term for jungle toilet – some fifty metres from camp. This toilet is a pit a foot or more deep which has logs across either side to act as a footing while one goes about their business. When we desert the camp, the long drop is covered with ash from the fire and sealed with machete-hewn logs. It is of note that a variety of creatures have been encountered on our trips to the long drop. One night as I staggered half awake through the jungle, I nearly tripped clean over a large toad who was sat squarely in the path starring at me. I had to make a beeline around this monster. Another morning, a grey whip snake slithered away as I approached our public convenience.

The biodiversity of the rainforest is staggering and each time we have struck camp a new critter or threat has appeared. Just yesterday morning Stevie opened his dry bag and a pink toed tarantula crawled out. Although not lethal, since movies such as “Raiders of the Lost Arc” the tarantula has gained an elite status as a fear inducing arachnid. In reality, if bitten or stung by this ominous spider, one will most likely receive a localised inflammation. If this is scratched and becomes infected then the perpetual humidity of the jungle will create a festering sore and this in itself is a risk. I flicked the tarantula from the dry bag with a deft motion of the hand and it scuttled away through the kitchen. Another night I rose as is my habit two or three times to go to the toilet. Half awake, I swung my feet from the hammock and into my boots. Something soft was in the left boot under foot. Dreamily I reached in as i tipped the boot up, and out scuttled a young pink toe. As I have seen on a tv show, if the tarantula is not threatened and only touched softly, he will not strike.

The following morning a preying mantis disguised by a tree watched as we took a typical porridge breakfast. From my aluminium bowl I flicked what I thought was a leaf. In fact it was a small tree frog using an inappropriate disguise against this alien container. Fortunately this species was not poisonous, though able to master an incredibly high volume of sound during the night, and so contribute to my sleeplessness – each species has their own form of defence or attack.

Whilst kitchen and long drop are being created, a communal sleeping area is made. This is done by first sourcing a flat space from which small trees are cleared. Several stakes are then cut, about a metre in length with a v shape at the top and are driven into the ground at a 30 degree angle and connected by a long cross beam. This is done on both sides and acts as a counter structure to the force of swinging hammocks and the weight of rain falling on the tarpaulin above. With a central beam, uprights and tarp in place, this tent-like structure is held together by twine formed from strands of bark-fibre which Cocama men extract from a suitable tree. The depth of knowledge of these astounding bushmen is such that each tree can be utilised for a practical purpose.

A tarp is laid on the ground and logs are placed at the edges over which the tarp is rolled. The aim of this is to hinder the intrusion of spiders, serpents, and other critters. To illustrate this point, a coral snake was found in Teresa’s bed one day. Fortunately it was not found inadvertently during the night or the consequence could well have been certain death. As it is, we ensure that our equipment is packed away when not in use and that all is checked thoroughly to prevent the frequency of such experiences.

On the Rio Yanayaquillo

Amazon Jungle, 18 August, 6am.

As I rock in my hammock, cocooned by the mosquito net, the empty page calls me to conjure a description upon her blank face. I can hear the soothing patter of dawn rain on the fabric which stretches above me, it’s milimetre-thickness enough protection from an equatorial down pour.

In this remote place on the Yanoyaquillo – a tributary of a tributary of the Marion, which runs into the Amazon some 400km west of Brazil, we set camp above a rapidly falling water level- a village of personal spaces littered far beneath the jungle canopy. Here I feel a sense of adventure, purpose, and peace – our isolation is complete. This unique feeling has been achieved by spending three weeks living together and overcoming the challenges the jungle has presented us. Having learn’t some of the jungle’s ways, we are now able to survive here and operate to a daily routine.

After weeks of trials and tribulations; moving on foot through dense undergrowth, setting camps in primary forest, and surviving on slim rations we have adapted into a form of super-embryo who are sympathetic to one another’s needs and always act in favour of the group over the individual. This naturally invokes a sense of peace so that finally we can feel the diversity of flora and fauna which live and breathe all around us. WE see the jungle with fresh eyes, as if a cloak has been lifted and we explore our environment harmoniously utilising the most apt vessel for this purpose – the canoe.

Our party use two dugouts -each fashioned from a single twenty-year old tree trunk – to carry the bulk of our equipment – food and camp supplies, personal effects, and four persons a piece. These are hardy craft and are poetic in their form and function. We also have two aluminium canoes manufactured in the Canadian style which are sufficient to transport two persons and their luggage. When paddled swiftly our party can move at a steady pace up river as the slow flow allows at this time of year. The river has fallen by about two meters in so many weeks. Today it was necessary to cut fresh steps into the near vertical mud of the river bank for us to reach the canoes moored beneath camp. In a few more days it will no longer be possible to travel up the Yanoyaquillo. The low water has begun to expose fallen tree trunks which will soon block the passage of any sizable craft.

The dynamics of the Electric Eels Fire are so tightly entwined that morale is positive and strong. This is ideal given the nature of the adventure, as if a quip was given air to negative encouragement splinters would form and, like wedges would drive the group apart. I am thankful and at times humbled by their positive spirit which they maintain from dusk til dawn. My role as Fire Leader places me in a position of pastoral support and guidance for the group who age from 16-20. In effect I can advise them based on my own mistakes and exist zen-like as a facilitator. I respect the character and methods of Stevie, our Canoe leader. He has a supportive approach coupled with a bubbling northern wit, and at times a quiet demeanour after being in country for some time. The group have all taken a shine to him.

We also travel with a Cocama bushman named Antonio. As I write now he is kindling a fire with two of the young explorers. His methods are exacting and effective, even after a night of steady rainfall. The fire is built upon a base of sticks which help to ventilate it as well as keeping it off the damp jungle floor. Using a machete, dry shavings are scraped from inside of a wet piece of wood, upon which a spark is sent using a flint and striking stone. In minutes Antonio has the fire blazing, a task which may have taken us some time.