Let me tell you, the Amazon is no joke. It is hot, wet, and full of insects. This probably doesn’t come as a surprise, but the extent of the challenge just existing there can’t really be understated. It was by far the most difficult thing we’ve done this trip.
It’s also absolutely stunning – a once-in-a-lifetime chance to experience scenery, biodiversity, and climate that you’ll see nowhere else.
We spent four days in the Amazon rainforest – split between Chuncho Lodge in Tambopata National Reserve and Sandoval Lake. We saw dozens of different creatures in their natural habitat, caught incredible sunrises and sunsets, canoed through marshland, waded through still pools of water in the dark of night, climbed a 120 foot canopy tower, slept in mosquito nets, were surrounded by monkeys, found a gecko in our shower, listened to a massive thunderstorm for hours… the list goes on and on.
It was an intense four days.
Day 1: Fresh off the Boat
The flight in to Puerto Maldonado was uneventful – we catch a few glimpses of blocks of thick green trees interspersed with squares of farm and ranch land. Rivers twist through the landscape like thick brown snakes.
Our guide, Manuel, meets us at the airport and drives us to the lodge headquarters – a small building at the end of a dirt road with its own cat, pair of adorable dogs, and family of chickens. We drop some stuff off and hit the road again.
We pass farms, shacks with corrugated tin roofs, and fruit stands. Gradually the jungle becomes thicker and we start to see pools of standing water just off the road. Men and women on motorbikes zip around us.
Finally we stop at a steep muddy river-bank. The water seems high in the channel, but a muddy ring on the trees around the bank shows us a high water mark at least 10 feet higher.
We clamber into the large canvas-topped boat – Mary as light as a cat, me cautiously squatting, convinced I’m going to capsize the thing. Chuckling, Manuel says a few words to the captain and we set out, motoring down the Tambopata River.
Chuncho Lodge
The captain expertly dodges floating debris and submerged trees, and just a few minutes later we pull up at a dock on the far side of the river. We are instantly captivated. Clouds of bright butterflies – green, red, blue – surround the rough-hewn clay steps leading out of the river.
The trees form a verdant archway, with log circles serving as stepping stones down the muddy path. We havn’t gone 10 feet before Manuel stops us, holding up a hand and pointing at a rustling in the trees.
“Monkeys” he says in a hushed tone. “Two types – squirrel monkeys and capuchins. Those are the big brown ones.”
Pretty soon we are surrounded by rustling, squeaking, and the sound of fruit and sticks dropping through the trees. We pick out the tiny squirrel monkeys flinging themselves from branch to branch. The larger capuchin monkeys follow more cautiously behind. All of them pay us absolutely no mind, save for a few curious stares.
Manuel tells us this is because they have not been hunted in this area. “This is the natural way for animals. They only care about danger. If we don’t present a threat, they will ignore us completely.”
After taking in the monkeys for a few minutes, we move on to the lodge. Raised up on stilts above the muddy grass, thatch-covered buildings look out onto the river. One sports a number of lazy hammocks, another serves as a dorm room for the staff. The main building is an impressive open-sided affair, with cute vine-and-branch furniture, a small bar promising “coool drinks”, and a large kitchen.
The view is amazing – surrounded by jungle trees, a carefully tended garden full of birds-of-paradise, fruit trees, and palms, and the river lazily flowing in the distance.
We look at each other with huge grins – this is incredible! We’ve never seen anything like it. With a lodge this beautiful and relaxing, this was going to be a piece of cake.
Our little moment is interrupted by an ear-piercing “GRAWWWWKKK”. We walk around the side of the building and see a huge, and vibrantly colored red-and-blue macaw sitting on a tree just behind the kitchen.
“That’s Wowee”, Manual informs us. We make our introductions to the resident parrot (a rescue). We quickly learn that while macaws may be one of the most beautiful birds in the rainforest, they have a hilariously undignified call – halfway between a shriek and a grunt.
We walk through some more butterflies and settle in to our dorm – sans electricity for the moment (boo), but with mosquito netting (yay). After a little hammock time and a tasty lunch, we are ready for our first excursion.
Canopy Tower
We set off across the grounds and into a trail carved through the thick jungle. Manuel shows us a few different fruits as we walk, using his machete to chop them in half. Every few feet he’d point out a different plant, tree, or vine and tell us a little bit about its uses. He used his machete to clear any dead branches or low-hanging vines that had appeared since his last time here.
The trail is mostly flat and hard-packed, fairly easy hiking. Manuel tells us not to expect much in the way of flowers or fruits once we get into the thick of it – they are both valuable nutrient sources for wildlife, so tend to be fairly picked over this time of year.
At one stop, he shows us a slice of tree bark that smells just like garlic. At another, he points out a type of huge ant that would leave a nasty stinging welt for over 24 hours – bullet ants, one of the biggest dangers of this part of the selva.
After a few more minutes of tromping through the steamy, dripping jungle we come to a small clearing. Rearing up through the trees is a massive tower, seemingly made entirely of a single column of scaffolding and held in place by huge wires anchored into concrete blocks. I can’t even see the middle, let alone the top.
“We’re… going up that? How… how tall is it?” I stammer.
“40 meters. Perfectly safe, you’ll be fine” Manuel says. “Just take it slow.”
Mary quickly clambers up, disappearing out of sight after just a few minutes. I… take my time. After five stories, I’m uncomfortably aware of the shifting of the tower at every step. After 10, I’m gasping, my brain screaming that I’m about to plunge to my death.
“You’re almost there!” Mary calls from the top. “You can do this. There are benches up here. It’s a great view!”
Step by step, dripping with sweat, I finally make it up the last flight. Manuel gives me a pat on the shoulder as I sink down in relief, shuddering slightly as the tower gently sways in the breeze.
Mary’s right, the view is absolutely spectacular. We’re above the canopy of even the tallest trees. They spread before us like an ocean, rustling gently. Flocks of parrots soar from place to place – red-and-blue macaws in pairs or trios, blue-and-greens in larger flocks. We spy a hawk circling, and clouds of tiny sparrows.
Every now and then Manuel will point out an interesting bird or tree through his high-powered spotting scope. We get some great pictures of parrots of every description, perched in trees and flying in clusters through the air.
The sun begins to set behind the mountains to the west. I think I spy a black shape moving in a nearby tree. We search for it with a high-powered mag-light for a minute without luck.
“Maybe it’s a jungle spirit” Manuel says with a laugh.
Night Hike
It’s definitely easier going down the tower in the dark. Despite being keenly aware of the deadly fall on all sides, something about not being able to see the fact that I’m 40 feet above a 60 foot tall tree takes the edge off.
We get to the bottom and Manuel tells us to get out our flashlights. I knew that there was a night hike in the cards but wasn’t quite sure about what that would entail.
The forest is significantly more intimidating at night. Enormous moths, the size of one of my hands buzz by the lights. The beams make it extremely apparent just how many flying creatures there are all around us. The dripping foliage, vines, and moss take on a somewhat more sinister air once it’s not clear what exactly lies behind them.
We set off down the trail, stepping lightly in our large galoshes, and pausing whenever we hear a rustle of leaves or snapping of branches in the distance. “Those are just fruit bats” Manuel assures us, but I’m excited by the possibilities of a night-time encounter with a tapir, howler monkey, or jungle spirit.
After just a few steps, Manuel stops us and points at a hole in the ground. We stare at it for a minute, not seeing anything. Then, the sudden motion of a set of enormous, hairy legs clues us in to the resident. A massive tarantula, at least eight inches wide, with a cluster of smaller but still gigantic children scuttles away from the light.
“Watch this” Manuel says as he takes a stick from the ground.
Like a lunatic playing with the world’s most hideous cat, he carefully drags the stick in front of the burrow. A few seconds later and the enormous arachnid strikes! It grabs the stick in its jaws, scuttling forward into the light. A few seconds later and it spooks again, grabbing its young and ducking once more into the safety of its little cave.
“Those are common around here” he says with a laugh as he leads us further down the trail. Oh, good.
The trail turns muddy, and then watery, as it crosses an enormous puddle. I’m ready to turn back, but Manuel doesn’t slow as he wades forward. I’m certain that we’re going to get dragged under by an anaconda at any second.
Instead, after a few paces we stop and Manuel highlights another type of snake – a 6 foot boa, wrapped around a small tree sticking up through the murky water.
Manuel is really excited at this. “It’s very unusual to see a boa this low!” he tells us as he snaps pictures from several different angles. He hasn’t seen one like this for at least 3 or 4 years – they usually keep to the middle canopy.
It’s an impressive creature – the large snake slowly shifting in a tight knot around the small tree. With poor lighting, it would be easy to mistake it for a mass of vines. The snake isn’t venomous, and is too small to pose any threat to a human.
We leave the boa in peace and trudge further along. Manuel highlights a succession of other creepy crawlies. He shows us a train of bullet ants, a quick way to end our Amazon adventure if we put our hands in the wrong spot. We see a couple of spindly-legged whip-tail scorpions, one a massive fourteen centimeters in diameter, perched on the trunk of a huge tree.
A few more spiders and ants later and we slosh our way back to the lodge, soaked, exhausted, and ready for a hot dinner and well-earned rest. We’ve got an early day tomorrow, we’ll be up at 4:30 to hop on a boat and head for the famous Chuncho clay lick – where hundreds of macaws gather to eat clay in a glorious, colorful cacaphony.
Thunderstorm
It’s pitch black (no electricity, remember?) as we strip off our muddy clothes and get ready for bed. As we tuck in our mosquito netting, the first ominous rumbles of thunder roll out across the chirping, buzzing jungle. A soft patter of rain begins to fall, and then picks up intensity, thrumming against our wood-and-thatch roof. Soon all we can hear is the pealing of thunder and the endless cascade of rain.
The storm roars all night. I’m halfway convinced the dorm is going to collapse around our ears. Its watertight seals hold (turns out they get a whole lot of rain in the rainforest), but we don’t get a wink of sleep.
Day 2: Misery at the Clay Lick
More than a little bedraggled, we wake up at the assigned time to meet Manuel. Rain is still pouring down, and after we’ve suited up and gathered our stuff he comes out and tells us to call it – he’ll wake us up if the rain lets up.
Relieved, we trudge back to our beds.
Just as we’re drifting off, Manuel comes knocking at our door. “The rain’s stopped” he calls. “It’s time to go!”
A Wet Morning
We grab our things once more and splash our way through standing puddles down to the waiting boat. Bright green lizards scamper out of our way in the hazy pre-dawn light. Plump [turkey birds] let out warbling cries as we clamber aboard our craft.
“Keep your eyes peeled” Manuel tells us as the engine coughs to life. “This is a good time to see wildlife. They’re all waking up, and very hungry.”
We churn down the muddy brown river for about forty-five minutes. The sky remains a steely grey as the captain takes us around rough patches, partly-submerged trees, and through swirling eddies.
A cloud of bright white swallows bursts from the branches of a skeletal tree as we pass. Here and there we see small waterfalls feeding the mighty river. We pass huge islands and fresh debris. Using my pair of childhood binoculars we spot a greater spoonbill standing in the muck – feathers a soft pink, like a flamingo.
We pull into a checkpoint, where Manual clambers out to arrange our entrance to the protected clay lick. A couple of minutes pass.
“What’s that?” Mary asks, pointing. Across the river, maybe 200 feet away, I see a couple of blurry brown shapes poking their head out of the water near the far bank.
“Capybara” the captain calls out.
We gasp and scramble for the binoculars. Sure enough, we can barely make out some fuzzy little bodies clambering out of the water and on to the bank. They pause for a long minute, staring left and right, before ducking into the underbrush and out of sight. I’m extatic – I’m a big fan of fuzzy little creatures and capybara are at the top of my “want-to-see” wish list.
Unfortunately, that’s about the last nice thing that happens on our little excursion. “I don’t like the sky” Manuel mutters as he hops back into the boat. The clouds do indeed look ominous as they shift across the sky. The weather holds until we get to our destination – a little inlet with a set of wooden stairs, surrounded by a small flotilla of other boats.
We scrape by and tie up, then clamber up the stairs. The walkway rises up out of a floor of pure mud, with spindly trees and small stands of bamboo breaking up the marshy landscape. A few minutes later and we come to our destination – a blind, facing the famous clay lick.
Macaws come to lick clay from miles around. It’s an important part of their diet – it allows them to consume fruits and flowers with a level of toxicity. The clay absorbs the toxins, greatly expanding the range of food available to the birds. At peak time, just after sunrise, it’s not uncommon to see hundreds of the birds gather.
There are four other groups of people waiting when we arrive. Guides have set up spotting scopes, and there are binoculars around every other pair of necks. Everyone is hushed, only the calls of a few scattered birds breaking the silence. We’re sure the macaws are about to arrive.
Then… the first drops fall. A pitter-patter of rain blankets the lick. Manuel lets out a soft sigh. “They won’t come in the rain”, he says. “We must be patient”.
Over the next four hours, time and time again the rain breaks, the sun shines weakly through the clouds, a few birds begin cautiously calling to their friends, we hush in anticipation… and a few minutes later, the rain starts up again.
To top it off, there are no toilets at the blind.
It’s a long, parrot-free morning.
Finally, Manuel relents and we bundle ourselves back into the boat as rain pours down.
Recovery
I don’t think I’ve ever taken a shower quite as nice as the one I took after getting back from the clay lick. Cleaning away the mud and disappointment of the morning in that lukewarm water was blissful.
As we assemble ourselves for lunch, we notice something about the clothes that we’ve hung up to dry over the last day. Well, first we notice that they’re not drying. Like, at all. No real surprise given the humidity of the area, but a bit disappointing. The second thing we notice is that they’ve got a pungent new odor. Imagine a really sweaty gym sock hit with a proper dose of mold. Ew.
We don’t really know what to do about this. Should we quarantine the reeking clothes? Leave them up in the hope that they dry out at least a little? Wash them again in an attempt to kill the whatever-it-is growing on them?
We decide that there isn’t much to be done and just let them air out. It wasn’t terribly effective. In fact, the smell actually spread to a lot of our other clothes that we hadn’t washed, even our luggage. It took a good couple of rounds with hot water and powerful detergent in Cusco to get them back to baseline.
Lesson learned – no matter how gross your clothes are when they come off your back, washing them in the rainforest isn’t going to improve things much.
Exhausted from our dreary morning and our laundry woes, we swat down a quick lunch and collapse for a nap – our first real sleep since we’ve arrived.
Botanical Hike
All too soon it’s time to rouse ourselves and go on another trek through the forest.
We pull on our galoshes and follow behind Manuel. He shows us some fascinating things in the forest – how the incredibly dense Brazil nut fruit must be cracked to get at the fatty, savory nuts within, the sweet and sour taste of fresh cocoa pods, and a mouth-puckeringly sour “jungle tomato” called cocoña.
We find a tree that, when tapped, unleashes swarms of fiery red ants.
“Jungle tribes will tie unfaithful women to these trees” Manuel tells us gravely.
Mary scowls. “What about the men?”
“Jungle tribes are polygamous, the men can’t be unfaithful” he says with a shake of his head.
“Typical.”
He plucks a leaf from a bush and rubs it with a little spit between his fingers. He has us smell it twice – the first time, it smells like avocado. The second time, like onion. He calls it the “guacamole plant”.
Pretty soon, we’re re-visited by our monkey friends. It’s a wonderful sight – tiny, furry bodies flinging themselves without a care through the sky. Larger capachins dangling from branches by hand, foot, or prehensile tail. There’s squeaking, chattering, and the constant patter of falling fruits, leaves, and twigs as the gang passes through.
Even though we’re taking the same trail as we did last night, the storm and rainy morning have turned it into a total swamp. We suck our way through mud and slosh through puddles up to our knees. We have to use alternate routes in a few places as the water gets up over the level of our boots.
Despite this, Manuel and Mary end up with galoshes full of water in a couple of particularly deep spots. I’m thankfully spared as my thick calves form a water-tight seal with the boot – benefits of being on the larger side, I suppose.
We come across another plant with unassuming green leaves that Manuel rubs briskly between his palms with a little water. Soon, the leaf produces a puddle of rich maroon dye. He snaps off a thorn from a nearby tree and uses it to carefully paint lines across Mary’s face.
“The more lines you have” he explains “the greater your respect in the tribe.”
A little further we come to an enormous kapok tree – some 70 meters tall. These trees, Manuel says, are the tallest in the Amazon. Despite its massive size, it’s only a couple hundred years old. Their survival mechanism is their incredibly quick rate of growth – up to 4 meters in a single year, under optimal conditions.
We see the various stages of the strangler fig – beginning as a small vine growing up an established tree, it gradually envelops the tree, consuming it entirely and eventually becoming a massive tree in its own right.
It’s starting to get dark, and we’re sweaty, muddy, and soaked from the rainwater. We head back.
“Wait, here’s one more interesting tree” Manuel says as he points to something that looks a bit like a mangrove growing out of the water. It’s got a single trunk, but an array of roots fanning out beneath and pushed up out of the soil almost a full meter. Each root looks a bit like a vine.
“This is the walking palm” he says, motioning towards one of the roots that looks a little fresher than the others.
“During its lifetime, it can move up to a full meter. It does this by sending out roots in all directions. When it finds a spot that is sunnier and wetter than the its current spot, it will send out a lot of roots, and the old roots will begin to die. This is how it walks through the forest.”
The light is about to go down for good, and memories of the huge ants and enormous moths of the last night is enough to spur us quickly back to the lodge.
We take our second blessed shower of the day, chow down on some healing chicken and barley soup, and try to get a little more rest. We’ve got another early day tomorrow – we’re headed out to our second lodge at the lake.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t rain” Manuel says over dinner.
“It will be a very, very long day if it does.”
Day 3: A Beautiful Day at the Lake
We get to sleep in a bit this morning, only waking up just before sunrise instead of hours before. We grab our bags and work our way through another tasty breakfast.
Sidenote – I havn’t talked much about the food so far. As a rule, it was really good. Breakfast would be continental with extremely good fruit and juice, lunch and dinner tended to be soup plus some meat, rice, potatoes, and salad. Fairly typical Latin American fare – hearty and tasty.
Bellies full, we anxiously look at the sky as we get on the boat. It’s steely grey, with fast-moving clouds. No rain yet, but it’s definitely not off the table.
Getting There
We’re on our way to Sandoval Lake. It’s a wildlife reserve off of the Madre de Dios river, about three hours the other way from Chuncho Lodge. First we take a boat back across the river, then drive the hour back to Puerto Maldonado. From there we take another boat ride, this one about 30 minutes in a covered motorboat.
Once we get to the entrance to the wildlife sanctuary, it’s a about an hour walk with all of our belongings across a well-maintained boardwalk, then another 45 minutes by canoe to our next lodge.
To make a long story short (OK, shorter), the weather held. We made it across the Tambopatas river, back to Puerto Maldonado, up the Madre de Dios, and to the entrance to the sanctuary with out a drop of rain. Better yet, the clouds broke and we started to see some blessed sunshine.
We walk the last few feet down the boardwalk into a small clearing. Long green canoes, each one large enough to seat 8 or 10 people, are tied up to a number of new-looking piers.
Beyond, mangroves, walking palms, and ficus poke up through dark, still water. Butterflies chase each other through the moss-covered branches and vines. An old man hops from boat to boat, getting a canoe ready.
“Hola, Papi!” Manuel calls out as the short, clean-shaven, wirey man ambles over.
They shake hands and exchange a few words in rapid Spanish. “Papi” hands over a couple of rough wooden paddles and we cautiously clamber aboard our new watercraft.
We’re silent as Manuel pushes off and we nose through the brackish water. Only the occasional splash of the paddle and occasional drone of a fly or cry of a bird punctuates the moment. It’s magical. It feels like we’re explorers, pushing our way through uncharted waters, about to discover a land untouched by human hands.
Well, at least until another canoe of loquacious Germans comes down the channel the opposite direction.
Still, we catch our breath as the trees fall away and the water opens up into the lake proper. The lake is almost entirely a wildlife preserve. Canoes are allowed in roughly half of the water, with the other half being devoted to sanctuary and research. A few small lodges are allowed to operate on one bank of the lake. There are no real hiking trails – everything must be observed from the water.
As a result, there is a staggering amount of wildlife to be seen. The trees and vines rise up like lush green walls on every side.
Plump hoatzin birds – also known as “stink birds”, due to their unique way of fermenting food in their multiple stomachs – squawk at us as we pass and flutter from branch to branch.
We see a sharply-angled head with a beak bobbing along. The body is completely submerged, just the head sticks out of the water.
“Snake bird” Manuel informs us. “Fastest duck in the world. Not great at flying, but an excellent swimmer.”
We see cormorants, green-billed ibis, several species of heron, and cormorants – frozen with their wings outstretched, still as statues, only their beady eyes following our slow progress across the calm lake.
A few minutes in and we get our first taste of real sunshine. I can immediately see why Manuel says he prefers the rainy season. Combined with the glare on the water and the passive humidity, it gets oppressively hot, fast.
We slather on sunscreen and put on big hats, and still manage to get properly cooked.
We get another diversion just as we’re pulling close to our lodge. Another troupe of monkeys is passing through, this one right on the water’s edge. It’s such a delight to see these little creatures in action, and we get the best vantage point of a big capachin hanging from its fuzzy brown tail over the water, calmly peeling the bark from a branch as it stares us down.
The Lodge
I don’t actually know if this lodge had a name – we didn’t see signs anywhere and Manuel just said it belonged to the same family that rents the canoes. The facilities were simple, but the setting was absolutely breathtaking.
As we walk up the flight of stairs, we see more brightly colored butterflies next to a small chuckling waterfall running into the lake. The same log-section stepping stones mark the path to the main cabin.
We see a few interesting creatures as we were settling in – crickets at least four inches long, a number of friendly geckos, some of the enormous moths asleep on the mesh window, and one plump rodent called an agouti, which looks something like a cat-sized rat.
I get a start as I step into the shower. As I’m closing the door, I see a little creature’s head staring back at me from a crack in the wall. Sure enough, it’s a good-sized gecko, hiding out in the dark and the damp. We decide his name is Simon, and as he’s not bothering us we decide not to bother him.
We also get one spectacular view of the lake from the hammocks the lodge provided. Surrounded with palms and ferns, and with the sun gently peeking through the clouds, it is a perfect window into a tranquil, emerald world.
A Boat Ride to Remember
We lunch, we nap, and a few hours later we’re ready for our evening excursion. Activities in the Amazon tend to be clustered around the morning and the evening. The biggest reason is that’s when the non-nocturnal animals are most active.
It’s also just too hot to do much during the middle of the day – much better to take a nap along with the animals and try to do some sightseeing as the sun sets.
Fun fact – roughly 70% of the animals in the Amazon are nocturnal. It’s just not practical for humans to reliably spot them at night, which is why mostly look out for the ones active during daylight hours.
We set out with a couple of goals – the lake is famous for its family of giant otters. We’d also like to see some of the black cayman which come out just after sundown. Related to an alligator, an adult black cayman can grow up to 6 meters long!
Our voyage starts out calmly – the sun beats down on us as we cross from one side of the lake to the other. We see some birds, a few fish jump, but generally things are calm. A couple of other canoes circle the shore with us, everyone talking in hushed voices, eyes peeled.
Then, suddenly, someone from a nearby canoe sticks an arm up. Excited whispers ripple across the water. Manuel swings the canoe around and we peer through our binoculars.
It takes a minute but we finally spot it. A sloth! Hanging from one of the highest branches in a tree, it calmly swings its head from side to side. Based on the dark coloring and facial mask, we guess this is a three-toed sloth.
Then, suddenly, another whisper goes across the boats. It’s another sloth!
Manuel shakes his head with a grin. “Very, very unusual to see one sloth, let alone two!”
We stare between the two in hushed amazement for a few minutes. I’d never guess that we’d see a sloth in its natural habitat – what a treat!
“Maybe it’s mating season” a Brit in a nearby canoe chuckles. “They’ll come together in about, oh, six months”.
We bid our furry, lackadaisical friends farewell as we set off in search for other wildlife. Manuel gets a tip from another guide as we paddle past that the otters are out. We both dig in our paddles and high-tail it for the spot – a stretch of shore with a couple of large, dead trees.
As we coast by, everything is calm. No sign of the otters in the still water. The sun is starting to kiss the horizon, and Manuel shakes his head.
“We’ve missed them. But we know where they’re sleeping – we’ll see them tomorrow morning.”
The pinks and cool blues of the sunset are breathtaking as we cross the lake once more.
Manuel tells us he’s going to do something special – he’s going to catch us a piranha. We coast into a small enclosure, surrounded by fallen trees as the light leaves us. Manuel gets out a small tub of chicken skin, a length of fishing line, and a small hook.
“Are piranha dangerous?” I ask, a little anxiously. “We always hear how they can strip a cow to bones in just a few minutes.”
He shakes his head.
“They can do that, but not here. Here it’s too wet – there’s too much food, and too much space. In Venezuela, there are lakes that get very low during the dry season. When you have only a little water, and a lot of very hungry fish, that’s when you get the conditions for a feeding frenzy.”
He tosses the hook a few times, jerking it sharply at every nibble. Only a couple of minutes pass, and he lets out a little hiss, flicking his wrist. Sure enough, a bright-eyed sharp-toothed little piranha is flopping around in the bottom of our boat.
He easily scoops it up and shows us its sloped face and protruding jaw. Snatching a leaf from a nearby bush, he shows how incredibly sharp the teeth are. The piranha takes precise little bites out of the leaf, seeming like a scale-covered little paper punch.
Exposition over, he tosses the fish back into the lake.
It’s fully dark now, and we set back out. There isn’t much in the way of moon or starlight, and it’s more than a little spooky as we glide across the black water.
“Now we look for cayman.”
Manuel gets out his high-powered mag-light and starts flashing its beam over the surface of the lake.
“Watch for the eyes. They’ll reflect the light.”
“There!” Mary whispers as she points out a pair of glowing pink circles just above the waterline.
We dig deep, crossing the lake quickly, and coast up alongside the reptile. Sure enough, it’s a black cayman. This one is an adult male, but only about two meters long. It placidly floats along, paying no attention to the hovering canoe. Its eyes and snout sticking above the water, it looks a bit like a sentient log.
We stare for a minute longer, then peel off to look for some more specimens.
Again, Mary calls and points. “There! And there! Two! Three!”
She’s got a good eye for gator spotting. All of the ones we see after the first are juveniles – much smaller, only a couple of feet long. They all duck out of sight as we get close. I don’t blame them – we’re a huge black mass shooting out blazing beams of light.
After a few more cayman sightings we decide to call it a night and make our way back to the lodge. It’s been a great day – the weather held, we saw tons of wildlife, and got to experience the Amazon at its most beautiful.
Shower. Eat. Sleep. We’ve got to get up bright and early to track down those otters.
Day 4: A Fishy Goodbye
We force ourselves out of bed at 4:30 AM. At this point we’re both exhausted, groggy, sun-burnt, and bug-bitten. Our clothes are uniformly damp, mud-stained, and rank. We’ve seen some incredible things in our time here, but we’re dying for a laundromat, a cup of strong coffee, and a proper sleep-in.
These otters better be worth it.
Otters & Monkeys & Fish, Oh My!
We clamber in the canoe once more. We take a quick lap around the shore in the pre-dawn light. Even the birds aren’t out yet, and the lake is as still and quiet as we’ve seen it.
Mary quickly spots another couple of cayman. Maybe this is her super power? The mottled brown-and-green skin and calm, unblinking yellow eyes are striking in the soft grey light.
Even though Manuel assures us that they’d never attack a human, preferring fish and small birds, I’m still glad that we’re not swimming in these waters.
Then, it’s time. We pull hard across the lake and coast up to the same dead trees we marked last night.
Once more, we quietly coast up. At first, nothing. A huge splash catches my eye near the center of the lake – I swear I can see a monstrous fin surface and quickly sink beneath the water.
“Was that… an otter?”
Manuel laughs and shakes his head. “No, no. Just a big fish. The otters will be near the shore.”
I love to swim, but I’m never sticking a toe in this water.
The fish, arapaima gigas, is one of the largest freshwater fish – commonly reaching a meter in length with a maximum reported size of four meters! It’s also an oxygen-breather – it needs to come to the surface, which is why it’s fairly easy to spot.
As I’m scouring the lake for a repeat appearance, Manuel softly calls out and points.
Sure enough there’s a brown furry body gently cresting through the lake. Then, a head pops up. There’s a flurry of movement as another body comes up with a small, wriggling fish. We’ve found the family!
It’s tough to judge size from our distance, but Manuel tells us these otters get up to a meter in length – much larger than any otters in the States. Gigantic creatures seems like something of a theme in the Amazon.
The otters frolic and play, ducking out of sight as they swim and then popping up with a sneezing sound as they gulp in air. They seem totally unconcerned with our presence, fishing and foraging for their breakfast.
We follow them for a good twenty minutes, until they eventually escape into the protected area of the lake and we turn back.
Manuel is very pleased with himself. “I knew we’d see them! The parrots didn’t cooperate, but at least the otters did!” he beams.
Satisfied, we turn back. This was our last little excursion, now we’re in for breakfast and the trek to Puerto Maldonado.
The lake has one more little surprise in store before we go.
When we’re nearly to the lodge’s dock, Manuel pauses, then points. We can’t see anything at first, but with the help of binoculars we eventually make out some large red-furred shapes. They’re clambering about a tree a couple hundred meters off.
“Howler monkeys.”
I’m thrilled. The rumbling, hooting howls of these monkeys – audible up to 3 kilometers away – has been a frequent occurrence during our excursions. Howler monkeys are the third common species of monkey in the area, but they’re a bit more reclusive, preferring to travel solo or in small groups.
Getting to see a group of them at play is a real treat!
I’d love to get a little closer, but we’ve got a schedule to stick to. I take a few blurry photos and we head back.
Farewell Puerto Maldonado
We’ve got to do the same dance in reverse to get back to the airport, so we don’t have any time to waste. We scarf down breakfast, hop in the canoe and push our way across the lake one last time.
I wave goodbye to the huge chicken-like hoatzin squawking as we glide past. Mary rolls her eyes.
Going through the canal is just as magical the second time. There’s something so exciting about the eerie water and looming trees. I can’t stop looking for anaconda (native to the area, but extremely rare).
We huff it down the boardwalk and to the waiting boat. We’re utterly exhausted as we hop aboard. I take some farewell photos of the muddy water and lodges as Mary catches a few well-earned minutes of shuteye.
When we make it back to town, I’m so, so glad.
I don’t think I’ve ever been as physically or mentally exhausted as we were on that last day of the Amazon. I slept for a solid fourteen hours once we got to Cusco.
Was it worth it? Absolutely.
We got to do, and see so much. I never thought I’d get a chance to visit this place that we spend so much time exploring in our imaginations, at zoos, and through books and film. It was just incredible getting a little taste of a world that feels so dense and full of life.
It’s also a world that’s fast disappearing. In the Madre de Dios area, mining and logging make up more than 90 percent of the economic activity. Tourism represents a scant two percent.
Finding sustainable ways to support the people of the area while preserving this incredibly rich and diverse habitat is an enormous challenge to the local and national governments in all of Amazonia.
If you’re looking for an accessible, thrilling, and rewarding trip – consider a lodge in the Amazon. The guides and lodges are accommodating of all ages, abilities, and comfort levels. The money that tourism injects goes a long way towards setting up sustainable systems and protecting this precious resource.
If a trip to Bolivia, Brazil, or Peru is a little too far out of your comfort zone, consider supporting Amazon Watch or the Amazon Conservation Association. These charities support indigenous people, help reforest depleted areas, and push for national conservation legislation.
