The Alto Madidi
Exploring
the Amazon's newest and wildest National Park.
"That is the River Tuichi," yelled our guide over the roar
of the outboard motor, "We'll soon be in the Alto Madidi National
Park." My eyes followed his arm across the broad, muddy expanse
of the River Bení to where I could vaguely see a small tributary
river breaking through the dense barrier of vegetation that surrounded
us. It looked pretty small from where I was sitting.
The whine of the engine climbed a couple of octaves as the captain
cranked up the power and put our boat into a sharp turn. We carved
a wide arc across the river and dived at breakneck speed into the
narrow mouth of the Tuichi, whizzing just beneath some overhanging
branches. Dense jungle foliage whipped past us in a dark green blur.
Everything was wild and untouched. The shore looked like it had never
seen so much as a footprint.
With little warning, our captain killed the engine and the boat coasted
gently up onto a sandy bank of the river. Immediately our guides leapt
off and began tossing our baggage ashore. Surprised at our unexpected
departure, we scrambled to get our stuff together, barely having our
feet on dry land when the boat pulled away and sped off into the distance,
leaving us all alone in the middle of the jungle.
I
was in the Alto Madidi National Park, one of the most extraordinary
ambitious conservation projects within the vast Amazon Basin, encompassing
an entire ecosystem 4.7 million acres in size. Its habitats range
from steaming lowland rainforest to glacier-covered Andean Peaks.
It also boasts an unparalleled biodiversity: as many as 1000 species
of birds, 5000 species of flowering plants and a staggering array
of mammalian and aquatic species. Peru’s Manu National Park
has long been considered South America’s best eco-tourism destination,
but in the words of Charles Munn of the Wildlife Conservation Society,
“Madidi beats Manu hands down!”
Madidi's easiest point of entry is the charming town of Rurrenabaque,
just a 40-minute flight from the Bolivian capital of La Paz. 'Rurre',
as the locals know it, is the archetypal jungle settlement. Thick
vegetation spills down from the hills around the town, stopping only
where the city streets begin. The River Bení gurgles quietly
alongside, its muddy waters oozing and sucking at the town's rickety
wooden jetties.
Although
Rurre is seeing an ever-increasing tourist trade, it is still pretty
low-key. Most of the accommodation is cheap and simple, and there
is still only one hotel within the park itself - The Albergue Ecologico
Chalalán (see information later).
Most tourists visit the park with one of the local guide agencies
that provide river transport, food and guides. Most have their own
campsites within the park, although few consist of more than a few
wooden huts and a pit toilet.
For the more adventurous, some agencies offer longer treks through
the park, and this was exactly what I was after. Along with several
other tourists, I chose to do a four-day trek through the park with
Agencia Fluvial, one of the oldest and most respected agencies in
town.
Our guide was Senom, a man in his mid forties who had spent all of
his life in and around the forest, learning from his medicine-man
grandfather since he was a child. He was accompanied by Jose, our
cook for the journey.
With them, we would walk through the heart of the Alto Madidi, carrying
everything with us and setting up camp each night on the forest floor.
It would be no walk in the park, but it seemed the perfect way to
get that Amazonian adventure I had always dreamed of.
At least, that was the theory; by the time I was standing on the
bank of the River Tuichi, staring into the heart of the jungle, a
few nights in a comfortable eco-lodge was sounding pretty good.
Just to make matters worse, within a few minutes of landing an army
of flies, mosquitoes and ‘who-knows-whats’ began to lay
siege to our party. Hundreds of them hovered around our faces, biting
our necks and crawling around in our orifices.
Within the forest, the sheer density of the vegetation was astounding.
Thousands of leaves blocked out the sun, leaving the forest floor
in a permanent twilight. The ‘thwack-thwack-thwack’ of
Senom’s machete could be heard at every step. He insisted that
he had passed this way just the previous week, but already it seemed
that the forest had reclaimed the path.
Within just 100ft of the riverbank, I already felt as if the jungle
had swallowed us up. I had no clue how he was navigating. He carried
no compass and the forest gave away no points of reference, yet he
always seemed to instinctively know the right way to go. As the day
wore on, I began to realize just how well his senses were attuned
to our environment. He was constantly stopping us and pointing out
things that we would have walked straight past.
With
his help we saw Giant Morpho butterflies flitting amongst the trees,
their electric blue wings flashing like disco lights against the dark
forest. He pointed out the dark shapes of three-toed sloths resting
in the canopy above. He kindly steered us away from large green spiders
that sat silently in their webs over the trail, so perfectly camouflaged
that many times I almost walked face first into one.
On one memorable occasion, he drew a large group of tiny yellow monkeys
into the trees above us merely by whistling. They gave us an acrobatic
performance worthy of Cirque de Soleil, leaping from trunk to trunk,
swinging acrobatically from vines and freefalling onto the narrowest
branches without fear.
Perhaps the only thing of greater diversity and abundance was the
plant life. Through the teachings of our guide, the forests were no
longer just a blank background to our journey, but a living repository
of food, water and medicine. He helped us find edible fruit and nuts.
He showed us the tree that produces the deadly paralyzing sap that
is used to coat blow darts, as well as other plants that can treat
cancer, arthritis, diarrhoea and even impotence. Most impressive of
all was the vine that, when cut, produced a cool stream of pure, sweet
water.
We
spent our first night in a small clearing on the forest floor, protected
by nothing more than a mosquito net and tarp. We arrived just before
sundown and darkness encroached upon us rapidly. By the time we had
set up camp it was black as pitch.
As I lay in my sleeping bag, listening to the myriad sounds of the
jungle, I began to feel increasingly uneasy. It seemed as if the whole
forest was alive. Beyond the fringes of our camp, in the black of
night, my imagination conjured up the stirrings of strange creatures,
the malevolent twinkle of tiny eyes and the glint of hungry fangs.
I had come here to see the jungle, but I was beginning to feel as
if it was watching me instead.
We left our camp behind early the next morning and began the climb
over the high ground that separated the Rivers Tuichi and Hondo. The
sun was shining brightly and it didn’t take long for us all
to work up a good sweat. We made good time, but the morning was quiet
and uneventful.
It wasn’t until late afternoon that Senom’s ears first
pricked up in interest. At first he said nothing, but as we trudged
further down the hill both he and Jose became ever more agitated,
sniffing the air and talking in hushed tones. I heard the word “chanchos”
pass their lips several times, but unfortunately the Spanish translation
deserted me.
Soon, a pungent, musky aroma, not unlike sweat, began to permeate
the air. True, we had gone two days without so much as a damp cloth
to wash ourselves, but this oduor was too potent to be coming from
us. The smell continued to get stronger as for some time, until we
began to hear feint gruntings and snufflings filtering through the
trees.
Finally, while crossing a small creek, we got a glimpse of something
hiding in the undergrowth. Just a few meters away was a large hairy
body, perhaps three feet high. At one end was a wide mouth from which
protruded a pair of dangerous-looking curved tusks. For a moment we
gazed directly into its sparkling eyes, and then it suddenly shot
off through the undergrowth as fast as its stubby little legs could
carry it. It was a wild pig.
From
that moment, all hell broke loose. Senom quickly broke off in pursuit
of the beast, charging off the trail into the middle of the jungle.
We dashed off in pursuit, not quite sure what we were doing was wise,
but excited nonetheless.
By now the sweaty funk was so strong we could almost taste it and
the sound of the pigs was coming from every direction. It seemed like
we had stumbled into a herd of a few hundred animals. The rumble of
their footsteps roared through the trees like a hurricane. From every
side we were assaulted by the sound of snapping branches, angry grunts
and piercing screeches. It sounded as if some terrible invisible beast
was on the rampage just a few feet away from us.
These animals, also known as peccaries, were once the most feared
in the forest, attacking a man without hesitation. In Senom’s
father’s time, the first thing you did when you encountered
a wild pig was to climb a tree as fast as you could. However, decades
of hunting have turned the tables sharply. Now it is they who run
when they meet humans.
We spent our second night overlooking a wide bend in the River Hondo.
The following morning we set out along the riverbank in search of
enough wood to build the raft that would carry us back to Rurrenabaque.
It was a fairly simple task. At every bend in the river lay fallen
trees whose roots had been swept away by flood and erosion. This dry
wood was light and extremely buoyant. With a little help from us,
Senom and Jose floated the trunks into the river, lashed them together
with bamboo strips and built a little platform for us to sit on.
So,
for the next two days we floated idly down the river on our raft.
It was definitely a more relaxing way to view the jungle life. The
buzzing mosquitoes and flies of the riverbank were gone. No squirming
little critters threatened to drop down the back of our shirts at
any minute.
The river life was abundant and easily seen. Small turtles lined
up on roots that dangled into the water, sometimes so many that they
were piled on top of each other like a stack of pancakes. Families
of capybara (the world’s largest rodent) scurried along the
shore or rested in the shade of overhanging branches. Alligators lay
motionless on the banks of the river, or sat submerged at the edges
of slow moving tributaries.
Perhaps the most spectacular sight came at sunset, when noisy flocks
of yellow and blue macaws came in to roost in the treetops above us.
They arced through the sky like flaming arrows with the sunlight blazing
off their colourful plumage.
As I watched darkness fall over the forest on our final evening,
I began to feel more than a little sadness. It had not been an easy
trip. On many occasions the oppressive heat and swarming insects were
hard to bear. But all that faded from memory the minute a tiny yellow
monkey swung through the branches of a tree above us, or a spectacular
rainbow of birds streaked through the dark canopy. At these moments
I forgot everything and could just marvel at nature in all of its
startling beauty and complexity. That made it all worthwhile.
