On the way to the Pacaya Samiria reserve (Amazon)
It is capricious. It follows no rule, no pattern, it simply scribbles furrows, waves, folds, swirls at its whim. It creates unique canvases. It traces fleeting works of art under impulses that disappear at the very moment the brush draws the last line. No matter how much I contemplate it, I cannot decipher what its next move will be. I struggle to do so until my attention dissolves. I dedicate myself only to looking at it, with no other intention than to enjoy it, because its spell is such that it bewitches.
Capricious, anarchic, seductive. Such is the water of the Huallaga River that borders Yurimaguas in Peru and takes you to the gateway of the Amazon, the Pacaya-Samiria reserve.
But its beauty does not work alone; it needs the props that adorn it: the overwhelming curtain of vegetation that watches it pass unmoved; the lost logs that sail upon it waiting to land on any shore; the motorboats that mercilessly tear its surface, tormenting it with the hoarse rasping of the engines.
And I am captivated by that serene beauty, without artifice, of its simple downward flow. Or perhaps it is not the river that enchants me, but this absurd feeling halfway between simple happiness and lazy sadness.Lately I have begun to drag that nonsense (or with all its sense) while I cross off days on the calendar waiting for the hated return. An indolent state of mind that appeared right after the storm, after the rain fought in a fierce duel with the river, when there is no one else left on the porch but me and my nonsense.
The almost magnetic attraction of this moment of calm after the rain subsides. The sounds fade, the current slows down, and you want to slow down time too. I close my eyes. A smile escapes me and I let it go through my lips. I breathe the unmistakable smell of wet wood coming from the railing, the olfactory footprint that the storm leaves in the air. Blindly, I can feel the soaked hammock swaying alone on the porch of this hostel with its somewhat dilapidated charm.
– Did you see it?
The Argentinian’s question suddenly wakes me from this half-sleep of serenity in which I was immersed. I hadn’t even noticed his presence despite having shared the storm with him. Lanky, thin, disheveled, naked from the waist up, and so many other ‘dis-‘ prefixes that defined him.
-The dolphin. Did you see it? There to the right, it just popped up.
No, I hadn’t seen it, but at that very moment, we together set off to search for the trail of the supposed pink dolphin flirting with the river. And no, it wasn’t supposed. Three times it strutted before us again while the magic of the moment spread across the porch. Expectant eyes tracking the surface, looks pointing out the position, silent laughter and complicit silences as if a single word could submerge the dolphin forever underwater. Until it did, and it didn’t reappear.
Once again, the water regains its brush and the day succumbs simply, without fanfare or dazzling sunsets, amidst a leaden horizon filled with clouds.
After the dolphin left, we both remained silent staring at the river, perhaps looking for the right word to recover the magic that had just sunk into that same brown water. Soon his shyness wore off. With an innocence that didn’t fit his appearance, he excitedly told me it was his first dolphin. I almost felt embarrassed to reply that I had swum with several a few weeks ago in Bolivia.
-You’ll surely see them now in the reserve. I think inside the Amazon they are very easy to see.
I have been waiting for a day for the boat that sets sail from Yurimaguas to the tiny village of Lagunas where you enter the long-awaited Amazon, in the reserve of Pacaya Samiria, the largest national reserve in all of Peru. Everyone staying at the hostel comes from there or, like me, is waiting for the boat. Yurimaguas is nothing more than the mandatory stop before or after the jewel in the crown. Everyone tells wonders of that adventure, of that silent sailing in a canoe, hunting animals with the camera lens or just with the retina.
But not him. The scrawny Argentine explains to me that he won’t go, that he doesn’t have the money to do it, that it ran out a long time ago. However, he does not abandon the trip Now he is here, staying in exchange for cleaning, for sweeping a little of that same porch that has sheltered us from the rain, for lending a hand in whatever is needed. He arrived by hitchhiking and hopes to leave by hitchhiking. He doesn’t know exactly when, or where to. He hoped that luck would give him a wink, to be able to stay overnight in the reserve, to listen to the jungle night of the Amazon.
Without money it’s complicated, impossible rather. He gave up days ago. So this pink dolphin that has just flirted with us is his victory, his reward for many swept floors, for countless afternoons watching the river, for daily walks through the local market collecting fruits and vegetables rescued from going to the trash to become dinner. There is no money to buy food either. Traveler’s subsistence.
————
That same night we shared dinner. And the next day the boat finally set sail for Lagunas. And yes, the long-awaited adventure was perfect, even more than expected. I captured with my retina, much better than with my camera, macaws, sloths, toucans, piranhas, monkeys of all sizes. I heard the sounds of the Amazon under the stars. And yes, I caught a glimpse of pink dolphins playing hide-and-seek again. And yes, I remembered the scrawny Argentine…
Does it make sense to travel like this when you miss out on part of the best? Does it make sense to camp miles from Perito Moreno but never get to see it? Does it make sense to move forward to get closer to a dream knowing that it will be very difficult to achieve?
