Tales to be told - 75 days and 75 nights

A rainy misty May day in Bolsterstone, wood chopped, slowly warming up, the fire now blazing, a cup of coffee, and music playing.  

Since returning from Amazonas, instead of writing I've been engulfed by a return to the Western World, given most of my attention to family, turned 50, rebuilt (and rebuilding) part of the house, wandered and cycled the British countryside, earned a little cash, visited in-laws in Japan (with a side exploration of Kakeromajima and its Lidth's Jay), and spent the rest of the time reading and thinking. However just this morning I read of the discovery of a group of "newly contacted" indigenous people at an undisclosed location in Venezuelan Amazonas, with a picture of a village on what looks like one of the upland massifs. 

And . . . . . . I've finally sat myself down and started writing the blog I told so many people I was going to write - 75 days and 75 nights . . . . . . . . 

Tales to be told

This is a story of three white men (*1) and a journey deep into the rainforests and jungle of Amazonas in southern Venezuela. You will not necessarily believe everything described in this tale, however it is all true. I remember everything written here, but then again I don't remember everything. While travelling there is always a desire to record things, and it is a good aide memoir, but I think it is essential to always keep at the forefront the priority to experience. I can't really feel the deep spirit of a place or an event and get my head around it unless I am so involved with it as to forget the camera, the notebook, the recorder. Even the last minutes of the day, in the hammock - do I lie back and listen to the forest, smell the air and feel its life pulse, or do I write what I've done that day? Well the answer was, even after weeks of nights - to absorb the experience. Think about it - you don't stop while making love to write down how it is for later recall . . . . . . . . well I haven't yet. This inevitably means that the most intense moments are the ones not directly recorded, the ones which overwhelm with just being there. They are filtered over time by all the creators of memory and association, but this is still the truth.

  

 One of these is the author

 

I won't quite begin at the beginning. I'm not even sure where the beginning is since it was such along time ago, and there are actually many beginnings as will become clear as we travel along. This specific story is a journey between two great rivers basins  - a continuous river voyage from the Orinoco watershed into the Amazon basin, which grew from a greater journey from northern Alaska to Chilean Antarctica into an adventure of its own . . . but that is getting well away . . . . 

I set off on the 9th of July, having just watched the Tour de France come through the most beautiful English valley where I live. I must have been in an elevated mood, as the riders I thought (from my keen cyclist perspective) seemed a little slow . . . . . . The usually deserted valley was packed with people making the pull of the remote forest, and the push of modern chaos, stronger.

Cyclists (and onlookers) all over the place

I arrived in Caracas, Venezuela in the middle of the afternoon on the 10th, and with no hassle from the customs, hauled my bags, a 20kg rucksack, a 23kg boat (in a bag, a big bag) and 12kg of hand luggage, out of arrivals to be greeted by Richard, with whom I'd had my first proper South American adventure (apart from a little wander through the Darien Gap), back in 1990 - I'd actually last seen him in Paris in 1995, still with the same formidable enthusiasm and energy. Much to my relief he immediately took charge of the boat and after finally persuading the bus driver that the boat would fit in the back of his bus, we headed into Caracas on ultra-cheap public transport.

The boat in its bag

(By the way this is not actually my body . . . )

Caracas CBD from the top of San Agustín (Hornos de Cal)

I was in a jet-lagged haze the rest of the day, I dozed through the welcome meal, and in the morning we - being joined here also by Eric, a German South African friend who was cycling around the world and joining us before setting off down South America - headed straight through the chaos of a Caracas rush hour to the southern "local" bus station. The plan was to head as quickly as possible to the end of the road in Southern Venezuela, a town called Puerto Ayacucho. This was going to be a two day trip with a night in the middle of Los Llanos -"The Flat Lands" at San Fernando de Apure (a town which had a bigger "surprise" for us on the return journey).

BEFORE:  Eric - myself - Richard in San Fernando de Apure

There will be plenty of maps in later posts, but the plan was to ride with local Indians/traders up the Orinoco from Puerto Ayacucho to Tamatama a small settlement just above where the Casiquaire splits off the Orinoco. This down stream bifurcation is very rare on such large rivers, and in-between such vast river basins. Basically 4/5th of the Orinoco continues as the Orinoco on its way to the north Venezuelan coast and empties into the Caribbean. However 1/5th of this large river, the Casiquaire takes another route dropping slowly into deep forest. It is in-fact the largest natural bifurcation in the world. Once you get sucked into the Casiquaire it is a journey of ~330km through lush tropics to the Rio Negro with just forest and a few Indians in between. From San Carlos de Rio Negro it is a further 1750 miles to the mouth of the Amazon. We had four weeks with Richard to paddle the Casiquaire and drop him somewhere where he had a chance of getting out - then me and Eric were planning to head up a tributary and try and get to, or as close as we could to Cerro Avispa, a little explored upland area of Amazonas. Cerro Avispa and Cerro Aracamuni form a grouping of mountains more precisely known as the Neblina–Aracamuni Massif. Between the Casiquaire and the mountains is 8,600 sq miles of pristine forest with very few people. We would first branch off up the Rio Pasimoni, then the Rio Yatua, and then explore an un-named river until we were stopped  either by white water or we ran out of food (or both).

The aim of the expedition in Amazonas , Southern Venezuela (area in red enlarged below)

The aim was to penetrate the Cerro Avispa Massif at the red dot . . . .N1.344 W65.960

So the next day we headed further south to Puerto Ayacucho through the flooded grasslands of the Llanos and their myriad of birds - frustratingly, but beautifully glimpsed from the bus window. I quickly re-realise why I love this continent, this type of travel so much - dusty bumpy buses where you don't for a moment forget the journey or the landscape; basic hotel rooms with real smells and sounds and sometimes wildlife, and with windows and balconies over noisy streets. No cocooning from the world here

The Atures from the mirador above Puerto Ayacucho

Puerto Ayacucho has a wild west frontier feel, and the river here is actually the border with Colombia, but more so it is the frontier with huge swathes of tropical forest to the south stretching hundreds of miles south, deep into Brazil and then way beyond. The town is here because the Atures Rapids upstream block navigation on the Orinoco. From here a road leads 55 miles (90 km) south-southwestward to the river port of Samariapo,  circumventing the rapids. 

We spent a morning searching out provisions and remaining items of equipment - several kilos of rice, pasta, some packet sauces and soups, herbs and spices, and fresh vegetables for the first few weeks, and some chunky big cooking pots. We also chose a few luxuries - coffee, sugar, dry biscuits, a single bottle of whiskey and a pot of drinking chocolate - our only food apart from fish from the river for a few months. It seemed a huge amount of food at the time, and even then Richard thankfully persuaded me to take a few of the "luxuries" . . . .

Kids playing in the Orinoco (and Rich)

We took off for the afternoon to explore Puerto Ayacucho beyond the main street. Soon we were wandering through a mixture of rocky outcrops, local houses and mostly smiling folk down towards the riverside to dip our feet in the big river for the first time. The men were trading fish from dugout canoes, carting it off in wheelbarrows, while the kids splashed around and leaped from trees close but seemingly oblivious to the swirling currents. It was an easy introduction to Amazonas since it was overcast and relatively cool. After being both observed and observers by the river we wandered through the barrio, trying to find a vantage point, a mirador, over the Ayacucho Rapids. 

An impressive mirador in Ayacucho sits at the south end of a outcrop of exposed, weather-rounded rock, giving spectacular views over the town to the north and east, the whole of the lower rapids on the west side and into Colombia, and the wet green forest stretching south as far as the eye can see. For the first time from this last outpost we could actually see what we were heading into. It was a little bit of relaxation and the realisation that this adventure was really going to happen. Richard and Eric were getting to know each other and seemed to get on fine, and I was catching up with them both.

 Relaxing . . . . . . at the mirador

The only people we could see were specks in the houses below or fishing from rocks in the river. The whole town seemed busy, but with a complete lack of tourists. All the tourist offices appeared to have shut down, we assumed because of the tense political situation in the country and the anti-Venezuelan sentiments being circulated in the western press. Unlike previous visits I'd not seen a tourist since leaving Caracas where they were also extremely thin on the ground, and we found only Venezuelans in the hotels in the town we visited. Maybe after half an hour or so soaking in the view we casually saw three figures wandering up from the barrios by the river. Not taking too much notice, Rich and Eric were sitting on the wall at the edge chatting, while I was standing trying to scout further a field with my binoculars. It did however just catch my attention that the of the three guys approaching the front guy at least was carrying a machete. Just to be on the safe side I wandered over to pick up my rucksack which was exposed on a bench a few metres from where we were sitting. Eric and Rich seemed to think nothing of it. A few minutes later and they had nearly joined us. Still standing I turned to the first guy and smiled - he didn't smile back. He looked the oldest, a scrawny weathered local, maybe in his late 20's, and his two companions forming a triangle behind him, younger, maybe teens to 20's. But something wasn't right. Unsmiling he aggressively raised his machete standing right in front of me, pointed to my binoculars, said "camera" and gestured with his empty hand for me to give it to him.

Now to put this in context I don't think I thought much about what to do. Over my travels in South America I had been attacked seriously twice before (*2), and over time I had told myself that giving in to these people would only make it worse for other "travelers" to come. This I think for good or bad had become conditioned in me, an instinct I wasn't going to squash. But also given my passion for birds and wildlife and the whole reason for the trip loosing my gear was actually practically unthinkable (we had everything valuable with us rather that leave it in the hotel). So I immediately said "No" and shook my head. At this point adrenaline had started pumping, and I had little idea what Rich and Eric were doing behind me. Anyway, he looked a little agitated and with a wave of the blade repeated his demands, to which I replied the same, and there was a momentary pause. Then almost together though we both spotted Eric's bag on a slightly isolated bench, and in an instant he lunged and grabbed it. Then luckily for us, in retrospect, he made his mistake. Instead of backing off slowly protected by his machete, he dashed off after his companions who were now running of down the slope. No way would I have tackled a guy backing away with a machete, but the instant I saw him turn and run I was running down the rocky slope after him. As I ran I was shouting at him, in a mixture of Spanish and English, swearing in English, and saying "muerte" (death) in Spanish, together with some other gruesome, but grammatically very poor Spanish. I was as well rapidly gaining on him, and the instantaneous thought was to use my advantage of size and gravity to just land on top of him, squash him and give him no chance to use the blade. His friends were seemingly out of the equation, being faster runners. Just before this could happen, as I was just a few feet away from him and about to leap he dropped the bag and his momentum carried him a dozen metres down the hill before he turned again with the machete raised. I grabbed Erics bag, stood there and just shook my head. Surprisingly I acted as if this was just a routine event in the life of an explorer. By this time Rich and Eric arrived behind me and he turned and continued down the hill. A little panicked at the thought of them returning with reinforcements, we wound our way down the rock on the alternative west side back into the bario, and with many sideways glances half an hour later were back in the busy centre of the town.

The last supper - street burgers and gaseosa (fizzy pop)

That evening and actually for quite a few days after I was haunted by the event and the chemicals it released into my body - not the easiest thing to forget about. We feasted in the warm evening on street cooked burgers and fizzy pop at the lively main crossroads in the town - multiple burgers and litres of the sugary poison. A great last supper, and a restless sleep, we hadn't really caught our breath, and this was only the third day of the adventure.

The next morning we found a truck to take us and the gear 50 odd kilometres, bypassing the series of rapids on the Orinoco, to the sleepy river port of Samariapo. Being the last contiguous road in Southern Venezuela we had to negotiate several military checkpoints, as always just telling them we were going to the next settlement up the river, but we had no real problem. We found Samariapo relatively quiet. Previously I'd always gone to the smaller east side of the port, a semi-hidden inlet where the indigenous folk from the various tribes up river tend to arrive and depart. Eric was keen to watch the world cup final so the choice would have been limited! By the main landing stage a couple of the shacks had TV's showing the event, but with no South American team involved there was little enthusiasm, apart from maybe Eric himself.

A German watching Germany

Samariapo World Cup fever

Later in the day we got talking with some folk taking a boat load of supplies up river to sell to miners on the Rio Manapiare, a tributary of the Rio Ventuari, itself a tributary of the Orinoco. We wanted to go up way past where the Ventuari branches off the Orinoco, but it was a start and they were friendly. We slept in our hammocks on their boat that night, soaked by our first intense Amazonas downpour, and were woken at 4am to make a pre-dawn start heading up the Orinoco.

Only the river - Leaving the lights of Samariapo

To be continued . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

*1 "This is the story of eight white men . . . is one of the most honest accounts ever written of a scientific expedition""  Gordon MacCreagh - White Waters and Black (1926) -   - over the years I've covered most of the route of this 1920's expedition. The book is very funny and I would highly recommend it. 
*2 The first time in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil in 1990 when despite a few beers I managed to fight off two guys costing me just a split lip. The second in La Paz, Bolivia in 2005, I was strangled unconscious in a scuffle with three guys who failed to find ~$1000 I had very safely hidden on me (they didn't steal my trousers!).