Great Bolivian River Trip

The Great Bolivian River Trip
from Journal of Jim Wright

Introduction

Tom Gale and I were the only two volunteers from our Peace Corps Group who were sent for the full two years to the Department of Santa Cruz. When we arrived in Santa Cruz, we were immediately struck by the difference from the Altiplano and the tin mines that we had been trained for and had expected to work in.

Unlike the Altiplano, Santa Cruz has a warm, humid climate and produces tropical crops such as rice, cotton and sugar cane. The inhabitants, who call themselves Cambas,have quite different origins from the indigenous campesinos and miners in the highlands. Santa Cruz was founded by Ñuflo de Chávez in 1560. Chávez brought a contingent of Spaniards north from Paraguay in order to check Portuguese expansion from the east. Many of the Spaniards brought Guarani women, which led to the creation of the first Cambas. Chávez named the new city after his native city in Extremadura, Spain. Today’s Cambas have fanned out throughout Santa Cruz and Beni. The Cambas are generally gregarious, friendly and fun loving. A lively work ethic is not their strong suit, but they do work long hours during the harvests.

Tom and I lived in villages about 100 Km. north of Santa Cruz. My site, Santa Rosa del Sara was only about 25 Km. from Tom’s, Rincon de Palametas. Both of us worked mainly on programs to finance rice production. I also worked with water and electricity cooperatives.

Tom and I had talked for a long time about taking a river trip from the Department of Santa Cruz to Beni, and finally were able to arrange it near the end of our stay in Bolivia. We arranged to take a friend of mine from Santa Rosa, Rafael Fernandez, as a guide. Before coming to Santa Rosa, Rafael had spent most of his life in Beni Province living in and traveling throughout the vast remote river region north of Trinidad. There he had become a skillful woodsman and hunter, and he had learned every bend of the complex river system stretching from Santa Cruz to Trinidad. He had taken a group of American Catholic priests on a similar trip about three years before.

May 7, 1969

Rafael Fernandez and I left Santa Rosa early in the morning, about 6:00 AM. Rafael has lived in Santa Rosa for about ten years. A boy, who was to return the horses to Santa Rosa, rode on the back of my horse. Cambas pride themselves in their ability to get up at the crack of dawn and get to work in their chacos (rice fields) before the heat of the midday sun, but today we seemed to have beaten them all as we began our horseback ride to the river. When we passed the outskirts of the seemingly abandoned village, I remarked to myself what a strange situation this was: me, a North American with a small boy on the back of a horse and our Bolivian guide a few yards ahead, his horse laden with supplies for a two-week river trip into the headwaters of the Amazon.
We arrived in Rincon de Palometas late, after having been delayed by a fence put up by Canadian Mennonites who had recently colonized the area north of Santa Rosa. When we finally found the path around the fence, we discovered that the water in the Palometillas River was high, so we had to carry our provisions over the river, arriving in Rincon at about 11:00 AM. Tom wasn’t ready to leave, so we bought meat and ate lunch there. The three of us left Rincon north toward Cuatro Ojos at about 1:30 PM. A jaguar had been seen on the road to Cuatro Ojos the day before but there was no sign of one today. We arrived at Cuatro Ojos at about 6:00 PM. There we met Don Pepe Ciaroni who lived there. He invited us to dinner and gave us a place to sleep. This was the jumping off point for the river trip to Trinidad and Beni Province.

Cuatro Ojos is the farthest populated place region north of the city of Santa Cruz. Don Pepe manages a cattle ranch here. Beyond Cuatro Ojos are miles of unpopulated swampland. Before dinner we went to the river to inspect the boat the Tom had bought from Don Reinaldo, a German logger, and we took a swim in the river. After dinner, we talked with Don Pepi for several hours about the history of the region and the lore of the river. We were most interested to learn about the almost legendary Ibañez family who had “tamed” the Siriono Indians in the region we were to pass through. We were also amazed to learn that there had recently been trouble with certain bands of Indians, still wild tribes north of Cuatro Ojos, who seldom allow themselves to be seen by the Cambas.

May 8

We left Cuatro Ojos at about 9:15 after breakfast with Don Pepi. The boy stayed behind to take the horses back to Rincon and Santa Rosa. Almost from the first bend of the river we were surrounded by a large and diverse array of wildlife: parrots, doves and waterfowl. Our provisions consisted of only a bag of rice, some lard, coffee, cumin, sugar, salt, pots and utensils, so we were largely dependent on the game Rafael could shoot and fish. At noon we stopped for lunch. In only about five minutes Tom caught a 25” tropical catfish that we ate for lunch. We followed the river all afternoon trying to hunt game, but without success. We made camp at about 6:00 PM. After dark Rafael hunted jochi pintado, a jungle rodent a little larger than a rabbit, but without success.

May 9

We left camp at about 8:30 after coffee. At about 9:30, Rafael shot a duck and narrowly missed a second. We made lunch, roast duck and rice, in a deserted plantain grove that Rafael had remembered. There we picked a large bunch of plantains and a number of papayas. After lunch we bathed in the river, washed clothes and left the campsite at about 2:00 PM. In the afternoon, now past Puerto Saipina, we took several shots at wild turkeys but missed. We passed Mercedes at about 5:00 PM where we picked some tangerines and lemons at the site of an old sawmill. We also saw a lone hunter on the riverbank and called to him, but he didn’t answer. Rafael surmised that he must have been a fugitive. Past Mercedes, we entered part of the river called the Madrejeones del Pirai. It consisted of wide, deep stretches of river with almost no current. We had to paddle for a long stretch. We made camp at about 5:30 and had coffee and biscochuelo, a hard, stale bread we had brought with us. But we still had no meat. After dark we again went hunting for jochi pintado along the riverbank. Jochi only come out at night and are hunted by waiting quietly along the river and shining a flashlight in their eyes when they come to drink from the river. This time Rafael killed one after missing his first try. We finally had meat, enough for two days!

May 10

We stewed jochi for breakfast, which was quite a treat. It tastes like a cross between chicken and pork. At about 9:00 AM we broke camp and paddled hard all morning through the madrejeones. At about 11:00, however, we came to a place where lilies and floating grass grew across the river as far as we could see. It was a fantastic sight, a vast light green expanse contrasting to the darker green of the forest and the dark blue of the sky. We had to spend three hours paddling through this part of the madrejeones, however. Several times we came out into open water only to float around a curve and find another sea of lilies blocking the way. One time we were near the edge of the river, Rafael in the bow opening the way, when we disturbed a wasp nest in some overhanging bamboos. Rafael was bitten four times, me once, and Tom jumped into the river to escape. He explained to Rafael that he had had a sudden urge to take a bath. Either because few Cambas can swim and would never jump abruptly into a river, or because of the obsession Cambas have about bathing themselves, Rafael found the whole incident hilariously funny.

Throughout the madrejeones, numerous land-locked fresh water porpoises played around the boat in open water. We decided not to eat lunch but to continue to the end of the madrejeones. There would begin a part of the river called the “Colchales del Pirai” where the current is stronger. When we arrived there, unexpectedly a wide-open area of swamp and grassland replaced the high canopy along the riverbank. It was a marvelous expanse. For the first time we could appreciate fully the vastness of the wilderness we were passing through. Until now the river had been about thirty yards wide at the widest point, but now we could see for miles. The wildlife was different here too. Herons, storks, ducks and all sorts of tropical birds abounded. The river coursed swiftly through this area, and we came upon rapids where we had to lower the boat by rope through the worst part. The rest of the afternoon we passed grasslands and low thorny brush before arriving to a part of the river called the “Arrollo Negro” (Black Creek). We made camp where the higher jungle started again. We ate “Locro de Jochi,” (rice and jochi stew) and plantains for dinner and roasted the rest of the jochi to eat the next day. Rafael figures we are still a good three days from the “Colchales del Palacio.” He explained to us that previously the Rio Pirai had once flowed east into the Rio Grande, but that several years ago the river had changed, making a new course across the grassy expanse we had passed through to flow into Arrollo Negro.

May 11

We woke up early at about 6:30 and ate part of the jochi for breakfast. Tom’s camera had been broken since yesterday so we stayed in camp for a while to try to fix it. We could not, and we lost a lot of time but finally left about 11:00 AM. The river was wider, but not as wide as yesterday in the madrejoenes. The wildlife continued to amaze us. Since the first day there have been beautiful parrots and macaws of all colors and sizes along the river. Yesterday and today several capigura – the world’s largest rodents, amazingly agile for their size – jumped into the river as we as we approached. There were herons, bitterns, ducks and other species of large birds. Beautifully colored small birds abounded along the riverbank. Almost everywhere there were flocks of waterfowl and large birds. Alligators, too, lined the riverbank and darted into the water as we approached. At night with a flashlight it is never difficult to find numerous sets of glowing alligator eyes in the dark river.

The canopy of the jungle is higher here, even though quite a bit of mahogany has been cut from this region. The banks of the river are grassy, but the jungle just beyond is impenetrable. Today we stopped at 2:00 PM and finished eating the jochi. We also took a swim despite Rafael’s warnings about stingrays in the river. There are also said to be parañas in this part of the Arrollo Negro, but fortunately we have not yet seen any. Since yesterday we have been in the part of the river where Siriano Indians have been known to appear. We sleep with knives and loaded guns.

In the late afternoon Rafael shot a turkey and we made a locro (Camba rice and meet stew) from it. We are staying in a campsite made by the Ibañez brothers, the family that had lived along the river and had “tamed” the Siriano and taught them to harvest lumber and cultivate chocolate.

Mosquitoes at night are the worst part of the trip. From sunset there is a steady swarm, and insect repellent does little to keep them away. The first night on the river several of them got into my mosquito net through a hole, but I have since fixed it. They are constantly audable outside the net and sting any part of the body through the net that that comes in contact with it. When outside the net, we have to stand in the lee of the campfire so that the smoke will ward them away.

May 12

We got off to an early start. The jungle here is high and impenetrable. At about 11:00 we arrived at Canadoa, another campsite once used by the Ibañez. Rafael knew of a fruit grove about one km. into the jungle so we left the boat to pick fruit. Rafael said that the Siriono also sometimes come to pick the fruit, so Rafael took a gun. It happened, though, that someone had cut down the trees to make a rice chaco the year before, so we returned to the boat. Soon afterward Rafael killed a wild turkey that we ate at noon.

In the afternoon we came to more rapid current. I shot a turkey in the late afternoon. There were now hundreds of macaws and parrots of all colors flying over the river. There is also more game in the region. We have been quite lucky with the weather. Every day has been sunny and rather hot. Rafael says we should be able to pass the colchales (a very broad part of the river blocked by large floating islands) the day after tomorrow. Our campsite tonight is in thick jungle. There was a flock of monkeys here when we arrived. We sleep on split motacu palm leaves, which soften the ground and keep the dew off in the morning.

May 13

I woke up about midnight and realized it was about to rain. There was just time to warn the others and get all the gear and clothes under a makeshift tent using Tom’s sleeping bag carp before the rain came. Fortunately, the rain only lasted an hour, and we were able to go back to sleep in spite of the water on the ground and in our palm-leaf beds and the water still dripping from the trees high overhead.

We woke up early and got underway by about 7:30. About three km. from the campsite we saw the first traces of the Siriono. A primitive bridge had been constructed across the river. It consisted of stakes driven into the riverbed with logs tied with vines crosswise between the stakes at the water level. Rafael told us that this was a place where the whole tribe had crossed the river, and he surmised it had not been long ago. Shortly thereafter Rafael and Tom heard a whistle that Rafael said sounded like a man imitating a partridge. He added, however, that partridges did not sing at that hour of the morning; he was obviously worried. We kept on paddling. The Siriono could, of course, move through the rainforest faster than our canoe because of the curves in the river. If there were Siriono, however, they decided not to confront us at that moment, and they never let themselves seen.

Shortly after our brush with the Siriono, Rafael shot a large turkey called a mutum. A second one got away. We stopped at noon and ate the turkey on a bluff overlooking the river. At lunch Rafael told us that he was seriously worried about the Siriono. He warned that if they did appear, he would not shoot them. They could be quite vengeful and would follow the bends in the river as we paddled and pick us off one-by-one. Fortunately, he said, we had probably come in contact with just a small hunting party that meant us no harm. Tom told me he was worried that the Siriono could arrow Rafael and we would not be able to get past the Colchales (the floating islands that blocked a large swamp that lay one day ahead of us). Only experienced river men knew how to find the way out of the swamp.

At 11:00 AM we passed the mouth of the Rio Palacio which flows south from near Santa Rosa. It was there, Rafael told us, that people from Santa Rosa had seen a party of Siriono two years ago. Since arriving at the Rio Palacio we have been passing through the “Madrejoenes del Palacio.” There is very little current here, so we had to paddle hard all day. The riverbanks are covered intermittently with grass and lush, dense jungle. The parade of tropical wildlife continued. We saw many colorful parrots and macaws, alligators, monkeys, tortoises, ducks, herons and other species along the riverbanks all afternoon. We plan to get up at 3:00 A.M. in the morning to hunt jochi and should be able to arrive at the colchales by daybreak. If we are lucky we will pass through in one day.

May 14

We knew that yesterday’s stressful encounter with the Siriono had been dangerous and more risky than Tom and I had bargained for. We could have easily been killed. But we did not know that we would face another serious ordeal today. In terms of stress and hard work, this was the longest and most difficult day. We got up at 4:00 A.M. and got underway almost immediately, listening for jochi, but there were none. We passed Tarara, a place where the Ibañez had lived, but a few years ago the Siriono drove them away. The sunrise was spectacular as we entered the vast swampy area of the colchales. Before moving too far from dry riverbanks, we stopped at about 8:00 to have coffee. It was here that breathed a sigh of relief. We had slipped away from the rainforest area of the Siriono. We realized Rafael had gotten us going early to slip into the swamp under cover of dark in case any Siriono were following us along the river.

The Colchales del Pirii is an immense swampy area. One can see for miles over the grassy swampland. The river winds through the swamp, but it occasionally disappears into a lagoon covered by floating grass and weeds that have to be circumnavigated. Fortunately, Rafael knew how to find the way through. At the end of the last lagoon, however, the way was almost completely covered. Large floating islands of grass and lilies covered the swamp between us and where the river would reappear from the floating islands. We would have had to fight through about 500 yards of almost impassable intertwined floating grass to reach it, but Rafael knew a more direct route passing through only about 150 yards of grass to a place further along the river. We could then drag the boat over a stand of patuju (tall ferns) to a place where the river was flowing on the surface. He explained that he had done this several times before. We worked at first with the paddles and finally reached the point where there was no alternative to getting out of the boat and pushing. We knew that the waist-deep grass and mud was infested with snakes, alligators, crocodiles and untold insects, but there was no alternative. We pushed for about an hour, advancing a few feet at a time. Then Rafael went on alone. He chopped his way through the Patuju, but he returned shortly thereafter reporting that he could not fine the river.

We were desperate! We could see the possibility of having to spend the night in the swamp and perhaps spending several days finding where the river flowed out of the colchales. Still worse, we might be faced with the impossible task of paddling upstream to Cuatro Ojos. Then Rafael pointed to another place where he thought where the river might emerge beyond the patuju. We pushed the canoe out to the looser floating grass and made our way to the closest place to the point he indicated. Tom insisted we reconnoiter ahead this time before pushing the boat through the floating islands again. He and Rafael went ahead and I stayed with the boat. In about an hour they returned with the news that they had found the stream, but it was too far away to drag the boat to it. We were now almost certain we would have to spend the night in the Colchales. However, as we headed back the other way Rafael suddenly remembered where he had passed three years ago when he brought a group Catholic priests down the river. We headed that way. It was now 5:00 PM but we were finally on the right trail. After pushing the canoe a long way we turned towards the patuju. The patuju were on a strip of ground between the swamp and the river. Rafael found a trail leading through the patuju leading to the river about forty yards away. To our relief, there was even a ditch leading through the patuju to the river on the other side that would make it easier for us to drag the boat to the river. It was almost dark, so we decided to make camp by the river. We dragged the boat part of the way through the patuju and carried the gear through the trail to the bank of the river. We hacked a camp out of the patuju, had a dinner of just rice and went right to bed. The mosquitoes are worse here than anywhere; there are dark swarms of them. About twenty got into my net before I could zip it up. Rafael thinks we can get the boat through the patuju in the morning in about an hour and be on our way.

May 15

We were awakened early by a flock of 500 to 1000 parrots that were nesting in the trees above us across the stream. They all seemed to caw on cue at the first ray of dawn. Tom yelled and they soared up against the morning sky. I had slept badly because the roots the patusus we had chopped away to make room for our nets were jagged and uncomfortable. Also, during the night my whole net and sleeping bag had slipped a few feet toward the ditch leading back to the swamp. We had coffee and began to work. First, Tom and I chopped a channel through the patuju so we could drag the canoe to the river. This took about twenty minutes with our two machetes. Then we portaged all our gear through the patuju while Rafael bailed the boat. It was now much lighter, and, in spite of a mahogany log that had been left in the ditch, we managed to drag the boat through the ditch with less effort than we had expected. We were at last free from the Colchales!

The river that runs out of the Colchales is called the Palacito. It is much narrower and swifter than the river that runs into the Colchales. After the previous day’s ordeal, we were curious to find out where the river actually flowed out of the Colchales. After cleaning the boat we decided to paddle upstream to find where the river flowed out of the colchales. We had to cut several limbs that blocked the river. To our surprise we arrived at a dead end about 200 yards from where we had been the day before. It might have been better if we had followed the current, but it was difficult to be sure, because the floating islands move and change their shape in a short time. Anyway, as Tom remarked, it had been a “portage to end all portages.” Rafael and I agreed. To add to the adventure, Rafael found jaguar tracks near our camp, but he could not be sure how old they were.

We followed the river back downstream, carried by the fast current past last night’s camp, passing fallen trees and vine-draped branches. In a short time, however the Palacito opened up into the Yapacani River. Although the river had changed names several times during the trip, it was the same stream as the Pirai that originates in the mountains and valleys of the Santa Cruz-Cochabamba Highway. Many smaller streams run into it, and it changes names accordingly, but never is there such an abrupt change as when it flows into the Yapacani. The Yapacani is much wider and has sandy beaches. As we reached the mouth of the Palacito, its swift current shot us abruptly into the wide and much less rapid Yapacani. In front of us lay a wide sandy beach where two Beniano hunters were camped out. Rafael later explained to us that they were Yura Indians; to his amazement they recognized him from several years earlier. They had hunted several jaguars, some smaller jungle cats and about thirty alligators. We talked with them for some time, looked at their catch, and finally traded them a kilo of sugar for some wasu meat. They asked us about the Siriono along the Arrollo Negro and told us that some loggers had been arrowed there the month before. If we had known that, we would not have slept nearly well when we passed through. They remarked that the Siriono had surely seen us but had not elected to shoot at us.

We continued following the wide, winding Yapacani. Before lunch Rafael shot a duck, and at our lunch campsite he shot two turkeys that we cooked for dinner. We made camp early on a wide beach. There were many footprints of wild animals, including tigers, but hopefully they won’t come tonight with us here.

May 16

Today we were awakened by a flock of monkeys roaring near camp. We spent the morning washing clothes, having a roast turkey for breakfast and licking our wounds from the colchales. At about 11:00 we headed down the Yapacani. This wider river is more monotonous than the Pirai. I shot a turkey in the afternoon and Rafael shot another soon afterwards. In the late afternoon we passed several schools of hundreds of fish swimming upstream to spawn. It was quite a sight as they jumped around the boat. For several hours a few playful but harmless freshwater Amazon porpoises followed us downstream. We made camp at a site similar to last night’s camp. Rafael says we are about three hours from the Rio Grande.

May 17

This was our first day back in contact with civilization. At about noon we finally arrived at the Rio Grande, a river even wider and less intriguing than the Yapacani. Along the Rio Grande about three large bends from the mouth of the Yapacani, we began to see houses perched along the high banks of the river. These were the first of the Beniano river people came in contact with. They were the people Rafael left ten years ago to live in Santa Rosa. Late in the afternoon, Rafael suggested we camp at the home of an old friend of his, but it was dark before we arrived at his friend’s place. I was amazed to notice how many families seemed to be living along this desolate part of the river. After asking at several homes, we finally succeeded in finding Rafael’s friend’s place and carried all our gear up the riverbank to make camp for the night. Rafael’s friend was not home, but he insisted that his friend wouldn’t mind if we stayed. We made a quick supper, set up our nets outside Rafael’s friend’s house and went to bed.

May 18

We were awakened at about 2:00 AM by lightning and a light shower, so we quickly moved everything under the thatched roof of Rafael’s friend’s house. It seemed that we had barely gotten back to sleep when the friend finally came home from a heavy all-night drinking bout. He was extremely drunk and distraught. He kept us awake most of the rest of the night and early morning with a drunken tirade about his wife who had left him the previous day. Tom and I have both been subjected to drunken Camba tirades, but this one was exceptional and lasted for hours. By dawn Rafael was in a hurry to leave, so without even having coffee we quickly loaded the boat down the steep riverbank, thanked Rafael’s friend and got underway. This was our introduction to the people who live along the Rio Grande. Their lives are simple. They hunt for most of their food, grow a little rice, pick chocolate, and apparently spend much of their time drinking cane alcohol that is brought up-river from Trinidad by river traders.

At about noon another old friend of Rafael’s, who saw us passing by, hailed us from the riverbank. He invited us to his house for lunch, but it was at least two hours and several rounds of cane alcohol before we could finally get away. It was Sunday, and all the men were drinking. They were determined that their American guests share their hospitality. It was here that we learned about a problem that would face that afternoon. At “El Pico”, the place where the Rio Grande and the Rio Ichilo flow together, the Bolivian fluvial navy had set up a camp to control the flow of Cuban-trained guerrillas led by Che Guevara and the Beniano, Inti Perado, who were suspected to be moving arms along the rivers. Fortunately Tom had his Peace Corps Identification; I had forgotten mine.

At about 2:00 PM we arrived at El Pico and resolved to stop at the outpost and declare ourselves. At the outpost we were told that the Sergeant in charge of the Bolivian Navy post was not there but was across the river at the trading post and lumber camp. We crossed the river, not knowing the experience in store for us. At the lumber camp we were told that the Sergeant was inside a cabin, so Tom and Rafael went to find him; I stayed with the boat. In a few minutes Rafael returned saying the Sergeant wanted to see me. There were several men in the cabin, the Sergeant, Roque Ibañez, the youngest of the Ibañez brothers, a German named Hans Winter and a Beniano named Fredi. All had obviously been drinking heavily for some time. Fredi, the bookkeeper for the lumber company, was the drunkest of all, screaming, breaking glasses, and threatening to kill us. The Sergeant was also extremely inebriated. He asked for my identification and learned I did not have it. I began to panic. I tried to cajole him. The Sergeant was from the town of Oruru in the Altiplano. I told him I had been there and lied that I thought it was a nice place.

Don Roque and Hans Winter were quieter. I turned to Hans Winter and initiated a conversation in German, hoping to enlist him as an allay. One had to wonder about the background of a German living in one of the most isolated places in South America and carrying out what seemed to be illicit mahogany trading (the logs were to be floated down the Amazon to Brazil), but we needed someone who could influence the Sergeant. I discovered the coincidence that he was from Hamburg-Altona, which is very near Buxtehude where I had lived as an exchange student in Germany several years before. Realizing I was an unlikely Cuban Communist, he tried to talk some sense to the Sergeant. But after some time, the Sergeant abruptly announced that if I did not have identification, I would not be allowed to pass and would be placed under arrest. All pleading was in vane; he was dead serious that I should be detained and sent up-river to his superiors. This would mean an indefinite delay to the river trip and, as Tom commented, it would cease to be a misunderstanding and become an international incident. At first, the Sergeant wanted to take me across the river to his camp immediatey, but finely he consented to let me stay the night at the lumber camp. A schoolteacher there invited us to dinner and allowed us to sleep on the schoolhouse floor. I went to bed depressed, but at least consoling myself with the somewhat amusing thought that I may be the only American to have been arrested by the Bolivian Navy.

May 19

We were awakened early by the school children rustling around the schoolroom. I dreaded having to face the day. The memory of the bloodshot eyes of the drunken navy Sergeant still haunted me. By the time we were well awake, Hans Winter was already up and leaving for the other side of the river to get the Sergeant. We waited impatiently for him to come back. We watched anxiously as his canoe approached from the shore opposite us, and, to our relief, we saw that he was coming back alone. The Sergeant had apparently awakened with a very bad hangover and had lost his inclination to bring me to justice. We were free to go. Fredi soon emerged and, to our amazement, he turned out to be a very pleasant fellow sober. He invited us to breakfast and later to lunch. Most interesting, however, was the conversation that morning about Don Roque Ibañez. It was his lumber workers who had been arrowed by the Siriono along the Rio Palacio, through which we had traveled. He told stories of years ago when his older brothers, Mauro and Felix, hade “tamed” the first Siriono. Eventually they had several hundred of them working along the Rio Grande. This lasted until the river changed course and there was no more work for the Indians. Many have since returned to the rain forest, some of whom were probably among those we had come in contact with.

It was our lucky day. The night before we had met a man named Manuel Agilais, who lived in Trinidad and was a riverboat trader. That afternoon he was planning to leave for Trinidad and he agreed to take us as passengers. We tied our boat to his larger motor-powered riverboat and were soon on our way, glad to leave the Sergeant and the events of the day before, but with mixed emotions knowing the most eventful part of our adventure was behind us.

The Rio Mamore is much wider than the Rio Pirai where our trip had begun two weeks before. It seems to be a series of wide, sweeping bends stretching from El Pico all the way to Trinidad. Several bends from El Pico we came upon a raft of mahogany logs that Don Manuel was to deliver to a sawmill near the mouth of the Rio Secure. The trip would be slow, floating with the raft of logs and occasionally pushing them out of the way of snags in the river. The sunset along the river was magnificent, but soon afterwards mosquitoes came out in force, so we retired early, setting up our nets on top of piles of corn.

May 20 to 21

We have spent two days and nights floating with the raft of mahogany logs down the Rio Mamore towards Trinidad. On the afternoon of the 21st we arrived at the sawmill, delivered the mahogany logs and continued to the port near Trinidad. It is night, and we are waiting until morning to go ashore.

May 22.

When we woke up, it was pouring rain with no sigh of letting up. I was concerned about having another confrontation with the Bolivian Navy about my identification, so Don Manuel thought it would be better to proceed into Trinidad from the port in spite of the rain. The trip was a little more than we bargained for. We had to walk the first few miles through ankle-deep mud. We finally arrived cold and soaked at a small settlement on the other side of the river from Trinidad. We crossed in a dugout canoe, and from there we planned to follow a road into Trinidad. However, the road was closed because of the torrential rain. We resolved to walk the remaining seven miles into the town.

It was almost noon when we finally arrived in Trinidad, tired, cold and soaked to the bone. There we had to cross another swollen creed in a dugout canoe and walk several blocks from the edge of town to Don Manuel’s house. Finally we could change into something dry and were invited to a warm meal. We had reached the end of the trip.

May 23-24

We had to wait two days in Trinidad before we could get a flight back to Santa Cruz. The people in Trinidad are much like the “Cambas” of the Santa Cruz region, and they say the town itself is much as Santa Cruz was twenty years ago. Trinidad still sees very few foreigners, except for a few missionaries, so we have drawn quite a lot of attention in the streets. Children are amazed at Tom’s beard and long sideburns. Fortunately, the authorities did not accost us again.

The plane trip back over the territory we had covered in more than two weeks took only about forty-five minutes. The vast grasslands, swamps and jungles below flashed by so quickly that we could hardly identify the route we had taken. Shortly before arriving in Santa Cruz, I could make out the little village of Santa Rosa below where the trip had begun. The feeling of awe we had gained for this vast wilderness had added greatly to our appreciation of the entire region of eastern Bolivia, and we both felt our two years there would have been incomplete without the trip.