Part IV: Two splendid river days

Moving along at glacial speed here in posting Part IV…

At one point along this trip, Brooke, Carolina, and I had a discussion about the potability of the Rio Guapore’s dark tea-colored water.  I was a skeptic, having been raised on fears of giardia in Colorado mountain streams and trips to other hot climates like Kenya and seeing what amoebas did to some of my traveling companions.

Brooke insisted, however, that the water was fine.  That what we needed to do was be prudent and take it from faster-moving areas.  I resisted and protested, stammering something about the farms around and groundwater seepage and the hot climate being a breeding ground for any small species to multiply and flourish.  After all, hadn’t I just read in Andrew Revkin’s book The Burning Season that it was estimated only a small portion of the species in the Amazon had been identified? That even seasoned tropical biologists shake their heads in confusion.

But lo and behold, I drank from the depths of Rio Guapore, finding raw satisfaction in the chance to casually dip my Nalgene into the river as we floated along. No iodine tablets, no purification system.

The heat of the day failed to dissipate by Day 3 of our voyage.  We paddled most of the day.  Short breaks punctuated the long stretches of slow paddling so we could watch the animals around us.  We saw more dolphins today and many birds.

We camped on the edge of a place called Fazenda Guapore – or that is what the fazenda workers we came across earlier in the afternoon told us.  They – I think I recall there were three or four of them – were fishing from a rocky beach using a setup similar to my own, though they had more luck (or skill, likely).  They were drinking vodka and laughing at the names of our boats (Capivara and Peixe Boi) as we pulled up.  Named for fat, slow-moving water mammals. Just like us.

We talked to the fazenda workers for a short while. I noticed the stylish jeans of one of the guys.  They asked us to stay for piranha ceviche, but we decided to move on after the three of us were about knocked over by the heat on shore.  For some reason, the idea of drinking hot vodka and being swarmed by mosquitoes didn’t make us have much of an appetite.

Soon after we saw the fazenda workers, though, we decided we really were tired and pulled over for an afternoon nap at a sweet spot not far downriver.  Also, Carolina was beginning to feel a sharp pain in her arm and hand that was disconcerting particularly since she was physically the strongest one of the three of us.  To escape the mosquitoes, we pitched our tent and ended up staying for the evening. 

I think we realized then how quickly the heat can kidnap a person’s energy.  Also, we were eating, but not as well – or as regularly – as we should have.  In the coming days, we would make a better effort to revitalize ourselves with energizing guarana powder dissolved in fresh, cool river water and treats liked canned peaches and milk.

The next day would be our longest on the river.  We woke up feeling refreshed.  We paddled most of the day, stopped for lunch at a ferry crossing, and continued on into the night.  It was a picturesque day.  This slide show below tells our story (with music even… borrowed w/out permission. “Cocada” by Rita Ribeiro). I’m a bit disappointed in the quality of the youtube.com video and am searching for a different application so bear with me….

Part III: Sweaty Green Heat

The next few days were a hot, green blur.

We ended up on a side trip that quit at a cul-de-sac, forcing us to turn around and paddle upstream for a few hundred yards.  The sky remained mostly cloudless.  I expressed sarcastic doubt about whether we were really in a rain forest due to the noticeable absence of precipitation.

Our trip hugged the tail end of the wet season here though, and the Guapore was showing signs of a thickened waist after the indulgence of the rains.  The dark river water crept into the thick of trees, partially submerging some and making them dance for survival.  There were few dry areas to stop.

I was relishing the heat – absorbing it into every inch of my body.  When I left Goldstream Valley in mid-May, the days were lengthening, but the snow in my yard not fully melted.  We hadn’t emerged yet from winter in the North.  Sweating felt great.

Our first full day out , we stopped for a a short break at a pasture area with cows – the characteristically boney, white cattle of the Amazon.  They viewed us with boredom.   A black version of the characteristically boney white walked slowly to the river’s edge to lap some refreshment, engulfed in a swarm of yellow butterflies.

I made a few attempts at catching a little fish.  My goal was to use this little fish to catch a piranha, which seemed a reasonable goal considering the abundance of these toothy, pack-oriented fish in the Guapore.  I had a line, hook, weight, and some bread for bait.  No such luck.  I would try again periodically throughout the next week and a half, but to no avail.  I did, however, eventually acquire a sturdy – though small – stick that served nicely as a pole and made me feel like Huck Finn, if nothing else.  Still, I remained hopeful; we passed several fishermen – some with floorboards flopping and thrashing with scaly beasts.

After our first full day on the river, we pulled up to a fazenda to camp.  In my journal, I scribbled a name – Pousada Fazenda.

This might or might not be accurate.  But what is true it that the sight of this fazenda was stunning from the river – an oasis of land and palm trees after paddling in the heat from 9:30 a.m. until 4:30 p.m.  There were some people there – a couple guys and a chubby teenage kid.  He said his dad owned the property and that it was fine that we camped – as long as we went outside the fence a little ways upstream.

Brooke was craving a swim and asked if it was safe.  The guys laughed and shook their heads – electric eels were also swimming, best to keep out of their way.

The presence of these eels (with an electrical current strong enough to stop a man’s heart, according to our animal guidebook) would keep us out of the water for most of the trip, forcing us to resort to periodically shedding clothing, submerging it entirely in the river, and putting it back on to keep cool.  Sometimes, we would brace the canoes while one of us leaned over backwards and soaked the head, hair, back of the neck.

We made it much further this day than the one before.  Below is a map of our progress thus far:

This map is interesting because it shows how the river, while engulfed in green forest, is surrounded entirely by a network of farms, ranches, and roads.  It is a bit deceiving on the river. Our expedition felt far removed from development and yet there it was, swaddled around us.  I would learn too that even all this development is a bit deceiving.  The Amazon Basin has continuously fooled would-be farmers and ranchers, intent on turning the seemingly lush landscape into an economic resource.  The soil is nutrient-poor, however, and sandy.  Cattle need exceedingly large tracts of land upon which to live and farms remain viable for only a short amount of time.

Still, we felt lucky to be here, traveling by boat through this lush landscape.   We relished that we could not see beyond the green walls.  We also enjoyed meeting people along the way – fishermen, farmhands, resort workers, tourists, families.  This wide, sulky river teems with life.

Part II: Maps and morning glory

Our map situation remained a bit peculiar.  Hence, we hadn’t a clue where our first campsite might be.   We did ask at Vila Bela if there might be a good spot an hour or two paddle downstream.  The answer: Yes – and we should stay to the right around the first island.  We would hear a smattering of advice like this throughout the trip, all of it welcome.

Since our IGBE map only covered the section of the river in Rondonia – a good three to four days’ paddle from where we put in at Vila Bela – we instead primarily relied upon GoogleEarth maps. They were a blessing – and a tool I would recommend highly again. Not only were the govermnent maps out of date, but the scale was too big. Sandbars and cliffs were marked with xx’s, as were some villages, but we would soon learn that much of this was outdated (the map was printed back in the 1960s, so go figure).

The most problematic part of this map, however, was its extreme lack of detail concerning our very braided route.  Often, the river split, with one braid wandering off for kilometers in romantic daydream, only to reconnect a short distance away.  Some shoots were in fact dead ends, fun perhaps to explore, but ultimately a bit frustrating.  I developed a sense of admiration for the early explorers – for Candido Rondon in particular, a Brazillian who spent more time paddling through the rivers of the Amazon Basin than anyone else – probably ever – has.

Essentially what we did was to divide our entire possible trip into 31 segments and printed each one as a 5X7 photograph at a local film processing business in Chapada (similar to the one below, but of course without the added points).  As a result, our trip became a series of randomly-timed celebrations based on the way my sister cut and pasted the maps from GoogleEarth.

(“Are we on the next photograph yet? Woo-hoo! We have made it to the next photo!”)

And while none of the villages were labeled – or even identifiable, we could distinguish where the fazendas (cattle ranches and farms) slipped a tongue down to the river edge.  On the photo, fazendas were distinguished by a light brown smudge in the smear of green. In the latter part of the journey, these smudges also indicated 100-200 foot-high red cliffs supporting expansive plateaus upon which fazendas sat, (which could have proved problematic if we were really counting on a specific smudge to camp) but we were generally flexible and willing to wait it out for a nice spot to pitch our tent.

Of course, these observations took a few days to recognize, but once we did, navigation was pretty breezy.

We arrived at our first real fork a short while after launching and used our GoogleEarth images to determine which one would be prudent to take.  Below is a GoogleEarth image showing our first day:

Our first night was the most stressful (if you can call it that). Our rather late launch meant that we only had a few hours to paddle before the bright blue sky would darken and we’d be setting up our first camp by headlamp.  And though the moon had been full and luminous and we could have easily paddled in the dark, we opted instead for comfort… and finding our first campsite in the light of day.

At about 4:15 p.m., we spotted it.  An abandoned house on the edge of a field.  We pulled up next to the bank and found that there was a small strip of swampy area that separated the landing area from the house. We donned our boots and I mistakenly thought about putting mosquito repellent on after we finished unloading – rather than before. I would never make this mistake again, but suffered soundly for the error in judgment.

We pulled our boats up out of the water – we weren’t quite in an eddy and it would have been unfortunate to lose our canoes the first day out. (Not to mention embarrassing).

We heard voices across the river – then cars passing. Highway 375 was just above us, reminding us that while we might feel like we are in the middle of wilderness, development is knocking on the forest door.

We delved into our food supplies, cutting up a few of the vegetables – or “freshies” (a NOLS term, I think) – and made pasta.  It was OK.  I wasn’t that hungry.  Come to think of it, I was never really that hungry on the trip – too hot. But it is important to eat and so we usually did – and most of our cooking could be qualified as “pretty decent.”

This night we also made a fire – we had been told by a the friendly soft porn cell phone guy in Vila Bela that this would ward off jaguars.  He also warned us that caimans were a curious species and might wander into our camp if we set up too close to the shoreline.  Careful to heed the advice of those more knowledgeable, we did both.  On future nights, however, our adherence to this policy waned a bit.  We never lit another fire and more than once, camped less than recommended 15 meters distance.  Rebels we.

The next morning, Day 2 of our journey, we were hustled awake by a near-debilitatingly pretty sunrise.  Brooke made coffee and we enjoyed the morning glow.

Part I: Expedition Rio Guapore

Well, here it is. The first installment of the tale of the three intrepids’ expedition down the Guapore River in Brazil. If someone were to ask me to describe the trip in one phrase, it would have to be the Brazillia slang phrase “chique de mais” – a phrase we more than once heard as a reaction to the three of us pulling our boats ashore.

(A rough translation would be something like “awesome.”)

Anyway. And Ah-hem. Part I:

We arrived on my mom’s birthday (May 21) in Vila Bela, a picturesque spot of a town that used to be the former capital of the state of Mato Grosso. Most roads were dirt – red dirt that crept and lodged, permanently it seemed, into seams and crevasses of seams and crevasses.

The town centered around a park with cement benches, neatly-cut (if faded) grass, and a bizarre and massive structure covering a rather small set of old town ruins.

It seemed a bit out of place, but congruous with the way development seems to occur in this state… Over the top and without regard for maintaining the basics. I’m not trying to judge, but the amount of money that seems to flow through Mato Grosso is somewhat grotesque, particularly in light of the level of poverty and dilapidation.

On this evening though, the sky had transformed itself into a brilliant show of gloomy, glowing red. The heat of the day fighting mercilessly against the cooling of the night. We felt lucky and even more so when we got serenaded by Vila Bela’s own Frank Sinatra (thank you, thank you very much) and looked at soft porn on a friendly guy’s cell phone over beer and grilled meat.

We took our time the morning of our launch. We knew we should start early on – the days only get hotter as the sun reaches its post-noon-time pinnacle, but it was a holiday and businesses were closed. We had some last-minute sundries to purchase and Carolina took advantage of a final morning of sleeping-in (well, not really – there would be a few more).

The drive to Vila Bela was stunning. We’d managed to hitch/pay for a ride in a pickup truck that might or might not have already been on its way there for some sort of business. We counted ourselves lucky – navigating buses/taxis with all our gear would have been doable, but a bit less relaxing – and with fewer stops. We drove through the countryside, rain forest turned into cattle ranching land.

Herds of cattle stretched out before our eyes, and I couldn’t help but think about the Nebraska landscape of my parents youth and look for similarities. I could find few, even the cows were a different breed.

We arrived with the setting of the sun over the Guapore, which stretches rather glumly through town. The reflection across the wide, hot river made us pause for photos. I contemplated what the hell we were doing, figuring I’d leave the why to old age. Carolina pointed out a yellow-slatted bar on stilts over yonder. This would later be the locale for our last cold beer… The celebratory round of Skols before heading off into the land of warm beer…

But I am getting ahead of myself. The morning of our departure, Brooke and I spent the time doing last minute grocery shopping and searching for a sheet (yes, it is true, Arctic-dwellers, we did not have all our bedding) for myself and Carolina. We were unsuccessful, Vila Bela was in the throes of celebrating a holiday of some sort and the only store open was the one for groceries. Oh well.

We discovered two rusty wheelbarrows in the back garden of the house we were staying and knew we’d scored our wheels for transporting our gear down to the river’s edge – about a six block trek. Not far, but some of our gear consisted of some awkwardly-shaped barrels and bags that were profoundly easier to cart than carry.

There was no shade in which to assemble our Ally Pack boats. I quickly became hot and kept lathering on the sunscreen, 40+ (I don’t mess around). We made a few mistakes and had to make some adjustments, but mostly the assemblage went off without a hitch.

The guys who drove us down came by to check out the boats (you can see them resting in the cool of the shade behind Carolina and me in the photo on the right). The look on their faces when they saw how neat the finished product was similar to ours – generally impressed. There is something about the way the folds of canvas and odd collection of poles transform into a viable, strong boat that makes one take a step back, filled with a sense of admiration for someone else’s ingenuity.

Of course, Brooke told me that real canoe aficionados don’t think much of these canvas contraptions, but since I’m not one of those, you know canoe snobs, I allowed myself to wallow in wildly impressed stage. Hell, we wouldn’t be there without them.

After a lunch – and cold beer – at the aforementioned establishment, we launched at roughly 2:45 p.m. Brooke and I took over one boat, with Carolina steering solo in the other. We figured we would switch around in the coming days enough that it probably didn’t really make a difference.

The first thing we noticed was that not only did the river look fat and slow, but it was fat and slow. Not even a ripple except for the ones we caused by our own paddles. Within the first half hour, a pink dolphin began swimming near us. We heard it before we saw it – a loud, quick exodus of air and water through a blowhole. We took it as a good omen.

In the coming days, we would see more animals than you could shake a stick at; hear sounds that would make most forearms shiver; and more than once, worry that we might be actually heading backwards. Dangerous times.

Our first concern, however, was to figure out where the hell to camp.

To be continued…