Rio Mamore

by Bailey Collins (Canada)

A leap into the unknown Bolivia

“One, two, three DOWN!” Six bodies crashed into the bottom of our metal motorboat as we scrambled to pull the tarp over our heads. We were in the middle of Rio Mamoré and it had been raining all day. Our time on the river had been spent balancing the desire to stay dry with the desire to take in the unfamiliar landscape around us. The vegetation along the banks had grown increasingly dense the further we sailed from Chimoré. We had seen caiman eyes glowing from beneath logs in the shallows, capybaras scurrying through the brush and wooden transport boats stacked high with freshly picked bananas. I peaked out from under our makeshift rain protection and made eye contact with Diego, the driver of our boat. The tarp was a luxury. Diego and our second guide Jaun had been forced to brave the elements all day, even jumping into the river to tinker with our troubled motor. We were on our way to visit three indigenous farming communities to learn about sustainably growing cacao. I had met my five travel companions while volunteering in the city of Cochabamba. We had jumped at the chance to see rural Bolivia while supporting smallholder farmers, but to say that our trip had gone smoothly so far would be a blatant lie. Our first morning in Chimoré, over a 5AM breakfast of empanadas, we learned that our departure upriver would be delayed due to problems securing fuel. In Chimoré, gasoline can only be bought in small quantities to prevent cocaine production. We weren’t discouraged. We savored our extra day by attending a music festival in nearby Villa Tunari. A local woman kindly allowed us to sleep on her office floor as we hadn’t brought enough cash for another night in a hostel. We awoke to an apocalyptic thunderstorm and discovered two members of our group had food poisoning. We still weren’t deterred. By 10AM the storm had subsided enough for us to travel upriver. At 7PM, with the sunset painting the sky pink and purple, we were nine hours into what was originally an eight hour journey. As Diego and Juan whispered rapidly, it became increasingly apparent we were still nowhere near our destination. The river was unsafe to navigate at night, but all the private land was unavailable for camping. We had no cell service, nowhere to sleep and our food supplies consisted of several soggy packets of oreos, marshmallows and saltines. Anxiety was beginning to infiltrate our group’s optimism. Diego and Juan pulled up to shore at the base of a rickety staircase leading up to the jungle and told us to wait. When they returned, they announced that a family was willing to let us pitch our tents under their spare shelter. The relief and gratitude I felt in that moment was intense. The family spent the evening skirting around their property, giving us quick sideways glances as we ate marshmallows and shook the water from our tents. I could tell they were not at ease and I regretted the barrier created by my almost nonexistent Quechua language skills. That night I acquired approximately four hundred new mosquito bites, but nothing could crush the delight of having a safe patch of ground to sleep on. By morning it was clear our luck had changed. The sun shone on our dry boat. When the guides cut the motor, it was so we could watch pink dolphins frolic below us, not because we had broken down. That afternoon, we rounded a final bend and pulled up to the first community we would be visiting. Several wooden houses dotted the shoreline, young children splashed in the shallow water and chickens ran on the sand. As Juan tied the boat to the dock, Diego leaped into the water and raced to embrace his wife and child. I had yet to see a single cacao tree, but I had already learned so much on this trip. No matter where you are on the globe, people can be united by kindness and perseverance. I had started the journey upriver fascinated by the perceived differences between myself and indigenous Bolivian communities. I arrived equally amazed by our similarities.