The events in the following story encompass the distance of 800 kilometers dividing the towns of Trinidad and Guayaramerín in the northeast of Bolivia. River Mamore, one of the principal tributaries of the mighty Amazon, links the two places, winding gracefully through the thick jungle, wet pampas, and grazing areas reclaimed from the forest by cattle farmers. Travelers resistant to mosquitoes and wasps, preferably non-vegetarian, are given a better chance of survival when in the area. The author does not guarantee equally alluring impressions and good time.
I caught a cattle barge from Puerto Barrador; a small port located 12 kilometers outside the town of Trinidad. Someone there had tipped me that a local entrepreneur, Don Carlos Montero, was headed for Guayaramerín, a 5-day journey down the river Mamore. Coincidentally, this was where I planned to go next. I found Don Carlos Montero in the galley of his colorful barge, El Parabero, dipping his fat and greasy fingers in a bowl of rice and cooked beef.
"I'm interested in getting to Guayaramerín. I heard that one of your boats is leaving tomorrow," I said counting on an affirmative answer. His inaudible 'sí' gave me a ticket on board and unfolded the inner bowels of the Amazon forest with all its resplendent and unforgiving content.
The first night on the boat nearly drove me to insanity. El Parabero stayed in Puerto Barrador overnight, becoming a magnet for mosquitoes. Since my veins pumped the blood of new excitement, the suckers gave me no break. Every inch of my skin was mercilessly bitten. In the end, it was hard to distinguish between the scars from endless bites and self-inflicted injuries left after continuous scratching. As we set out early in the morning, I was extremely relieved to feel the breeze soothe my irritated skin. I also decided that it would be wise to make use of my tent as a shelter from mosquitoes for the coming nights. The ideal place lay behind the bridge where I eventually found solace in my sleep.
Measuring with my eyes the size of the river, I had a difficult time imagining what it would be like to glide down the Amazon where, as I heard on numerous occasions, ships lose sight of the banks. The sheer breadth of Mamore was overwhelming but more so was the expense of the Pampas. With a cup of coffee in one hand, I pondered in silence the green, lush banks. I imagined stepping inside the forest, like the first Spanish and Portuguese explorers, and losing myself in its overpowering heartbeat. Could I have survived a day within its limits? I gave myself one, at the most, two days but beyond this I would become helpless and defenseless (Well, let me think about it...).
The steady roar of the engine didn't quite blur out the sounds of the forest. A myriad of natural notes proceeded from within the banks, provoking my imagination to look for their colorful and most exotic sources. I closed my eyes, sinking into a short but deep sleep. My body and mind caught on the tune...
During the river journey we encountered very unstable weather. After all, the journey coincided with the rain season where frequent torrential showers and dense humidity are the norm. When I woke up, the sky had already shed its turquoise and green colors and become gray - a sure sign of an approaching downpour. I needed to find a dry shelter rather quickly. I tied my marijuana-colored hammock at the stern directly below the galley from where I could see the riverbanks. It was an ideal hideout both from the people and mosquitoes. It had a difficult access, as it was located on one of the adjoining barges. In between piled stocks of cargo such as platens and yucca (an eatable root that tastes like a potato after boiling). One could also trip over a big Jeep, personal belongings of the passengers, small birds in even smaller cages, a squealing pig with its paws tied up, and all sorts of furniture and wooden pieces covered with a filthy drape.
Except for Don Carlos Montero and his two boys, both the crew and passengers slept somewhere around the barge. A popular spot was directly below the bridge, not too far from the engine. The passengers slept there squeezed in like canned sardines. "Damn, I'd have gone mad with all that noise from the engine room," I thought to myself. But if someone had once experienced a bus ride in Latin America, then such indifference to the noise wasn't surprising.
As for me, I was completely comfortable in my "private corner" where I devoted time to reading books, stared in the distance, and laughed at the rain. For a moment I believed I could become another Mark Twain writing diaries about life on the river. Just before I wandered off too far on my mental self-indulgence, I heard a voice from up above: "Mateo, ven para el almuerzo!"
Questions?
If you want more information about this area you can email the author or check out our South America Insiders page.
