3 - Oh well, shit happens
“Adventure may hurt you, but monotony will kill you.”
Anonymous
Leaving the airport in Iquitos, we slowly work our way through one long traffic jam of motorbikes and tuk-tuks - the small motorcycle-like rickshaws. At the boat dock, we load up and head out for a 3-hour speedboat ride up the Amazon River, tied with the Nile as the longest river in the world, at over 4300 miles.
Leaving behind miles of sandy beaches, and the concrete and steel canyons of our urbanized city life in San Diego, we arrive at the steamy jungle site that will be our home for the next two weeks. Stepping off the boat, we find ourselves worn out, banged up and dripping with sweat from pores we were unaware resided in our bodies. But we’re packed and prepared to be attacked in some form or another by a large percentage of the jungle’s many inhabitants.
The Tahuayo Lodge sits on the water’s edge of a dogleg in the Tahuayo River, a tributary of the Amazon. There’s a huge room that’s part dining/meeting/bar, a library room, a hammock room, the kitchen, an area for the staff quarters, four dormitory-style rooms with shared bathrooms, plus fourteen rooms of varying sizes with private baths. All are sitting at least twelve feet off the ground to prevent flooding during the wet season.
Our room is a 2-story family suite. Upstairs there are two twin beds, a tub/shower, walk-in closet and a small dance floor, but no disco ball (rumor is it washed away in the big flood of ‘14). Downstairs is similar but with a queen bed and a small screened-in porch instead of the dance floor. The canopy-style beds are enclosed in lightweight nylon fabric to keep out bugs. Windows are made of screen cloth also to help keep the bugs out, but let the airflow in, and are covered in drapes (or are they curtains, Janet?). When open they offer a birds-eye view of the rainforest mere steps from our room. We’re also provided a view of the river through the cracks in the floorboards. Needless to say, the accommodations are rustic but quite pleasant and functional. We have a shower that dispenses ambient temperature water, a sink, and flush toilet in our room. What more do you need in life?
One of the highlights here is the lack of Wi-Fi, so we are forced to talk with other guests instead of hiding behind a mindless blaze of ‘likes’ and scrolls on our portable electronic screens. Another highlight is the full symphony that performs outside our room every evening. The backbeat is covered by a 10,000 cricket orchestral. Accompanying them and filling in on the higher notes are numerous ‘cheeps,’ ‘chirps,’ ‘tweeeee-WEETS’ and ‘paaaaaa-WERP-WERP’s’ played by a menagerie of night birds. A rare baritone rumble of distant thunder brings up the bass line.
As the early sun pushes through morning fog, the nocturnal musicians play one last encore before packing it in. Taking their place on stage are flights of daytime songbirds with an infrequent monkey joining in on harmony. Waking to the sound of songbirds is a pleasant way to start the day, but a shrieking ‘aaaa-REEET’ … ‘aaaa-REEET’ at 4:38 am is not! If it weren’t for this constant chatter among the wildlife, it would be quiet enough to hear water evaporate.
The majority of the navigable sections of the Tahuayo River are less than 50 yards across with some portions far less, but during the wet season, the river stretches far beyond the thick forest of trees and vines that line the shore. Our visit here in the jungle is during the shoulder season as it transforms from wet to dry, with neither having anything to do with rainfall amounts, but based on the amount of flooding from the snowpack melting in the Andes Mountains, 100’s of miles away. As the snow begins to melt and trickle down the mountainside, the trickles all merge to become torrents causing the river to rise and flooding the surrounding forest, hence the ‘wet season.’
When planning our trip, I spoke to Paul, the owner of the lodge and he offered a bit of information.
“It’s a common misconception that the wet season is because it rains,” Paul began. “While there is heavier rain during the wet season, I tell guests to expect a 60% chance of rain every day during the wet season, and a 40% chance during the dry season. Remember, you’re in a rainforest, and it rains year round. Once the snow melt is gone, the river level drops, and we enter the dry season. What were areas previously accessible only by boat are now dry land.”
Our room is one of the furthest back from the front of the lodge, and there is a foot or so of river flow beneath us. Over the next several months the water will drop another six to ten feet. With an earlier mention of our room being 12 feet off the ground gives you an idea of how much the river fluctuates between the two seasons. In 2014, the river rose 18” above the floor level, wiping out some of the buildings.
Today as we head up the glass-smooth river in our runabout, splashes of red bromeliad blossoms appear on the variegated forest-green landscape. In the midst of this, tiny blue and white swallows flit about while white herons swoop low over the river, their massive wings appearing to move in slow motion.
Continuing upstream, Manuel, our guide and native Amazonian from El Chino, a small village downstream from the lodge, diverts our canoe and we enter into the moody rainforest. Tangled cobwebs of thread-like vines drape down from high branches in search of the nutrient-dense water. Thicker vines are wrapped tight around the trunks of trees as they rise from their submerged bases. Meanwhile, the sun wages war with the green canopy that surrounds us, and a few victorious shafts of sunlight make it through, illuminating the many small spiders and insects we’d prefer not to have seen. Manuel, with razor-sharp machete in hand, slashes a narrow passageway through the forest. Gliding through water the color of strong tea but with the opacity of chocolate milk, we duck and weave our way through the jungle while searching for pockets of rainforest alcoves in which to spend time searching for wildlife.
One of many bromeliads along the river.
With 630 species of birds in the Amazon, finding them is not a problem. Manuel has over 20 years of experience at Tahuayo Lodge and is an expert at pointing out the tiniest of wildlife with ease. Sitting in the canoe soaking up the pristine beauty and tranquility, it’s inadequate to put in words the sheer complexity and abundance of life we are surrounded in.
We spend the morning zip-lining through the tree canopy. Four separate but connected platforms span a portion of the rainforest by either zip-line or a short suspension bridge used to get to the next platform. The ride was thrilling but far too short. Once you get your breath and heartbeat back from stepping off a 50’ tall platform nailed to a tree and can relax to enjoy the ride, it’s almost over.
One of the many things you can do at Tahuayo Lodge is swim with pink dolphins. The day we went to the lake where the dolphins generally hang out, neither one of us jumped in the water with them, preferring to stay in the boat and photograph them. We had numerous sightings, but none got close enough to say ‘you swam with dolphins’, had we been in the water.
Not much of a photo, but this is a pink dolphin.
During an afternoon outing in search of anything that moved, we encounter a small orchid plant in bloom hanging from a low branch. With cameras at the ready, we fire off a few photos. In a discussion with Manuel about the many orchids we grow at home, our guide suggests we take the plant with us.
“Is that legal?” we ask, not wanting to break any Peruvian fish and wildlife laws. After all, having one felonious family member is enough.
“Sure, no problem,” Manuel replies. “Take it.”
The flower won't make it, but the plant will survive the trip.
With his approval, I gently pry the tightly clamped orchid roots off the tree limb and lay it on the bottom of the boat. As Manuel slowly backs the boat away from the spot where the orchid was, I notice out of the corner of my eye a camera body, long telephoto lens, and tripod making a deliberate but unhurried plunge over the side of the boat and into the water.
Oops!
With lightning fast reflexes, I manage to grab one leg of the tripod before the entire camera rig disappears to the bottom of the river, and quickly lift it out. Water pours off of and out of everywhere.
Oh well, shit happens.
It’s a somber ride back to the lodge where we fill several bags full of rice to see if we can dry out the equipment, but my guess is the camera and lens are now worthless. Yes, it is a huge blow and disappointment as this happened on our second full day here. But on the positive side, there are now half as many pictures to go through and edit, and one of us will probably end up with an upgraded camera body and lens.
How is that ever a bad thing?