Ruta Uno - complete and illustrated

Yes, Route No.1 translates as Ruta Uno, not Ruta Una. I don`t understand why, but it does.

I have Jenny Spencer, my ex Peace Corps advisor, to thank for setting off down Ruta Uno. I didn`t get to all the places you suggested, Jenny, but to enough to make the trip more than worthwhile.

To make sure of getting off in the right place I was smart enough to select a bus with a large "Vaguaron" sign in the destination window. Only it didn`t finish its trip there, and I had to hop off smartly when I realised the bus was leaving Vaguaron.

Well, it`s not a big town, so I shouldered my pack and marched back towards the centre. Jenny had invited me to enjoy the view from the nearby hill (hills and views therefrom are rare and precious in Paraguay). I looked at the hill and decided that it was too much like hard work to climb with my big pack so I took a photo instead. Here it is.

The main attraction is a colonial church, with a museum for dessert. Only I had not noticed an old church from the bus. Hmm. After a few blocks I asked for directions and turned off the paved road. Two blocks later I still hadn`t seen any sign of the church, but I was being invited to purchase a bite to eat at a tiny cafe. As it was lunch time I agreed that this was a good idea. And where was the church? Oh, it`s two blocks that way.

Lunch finished, a young man invited me to sit in a cooler spot and have a chat. Joel was a journalist, and certainly managed to communicate well with this foreigner. Mostly he was interested in life in NZ and the opportunities to work there. I did my best, but had to refer him to the nearest embassy for detailed information. He was also interested in why someone would come all the way from NZ to visit a church in Vaguaron. A pretty reasonable question.

He assured me that my packs would be safe in the comedor, told me to wait and popped off on his motor bike to deliver his wife and their fairly new baby somewhere. He returned in 10 minutes and it was my turn to be the pillion pasenger.

Joel solved the problem of the hill by finding safe storage for my pack and taking me to the base of the hill. Together we scrambled up and so, Jenny, I did get to admire the view. He also pointed out a roof that, he promised me, belonged to the church.

At the top of the hill.

The South of Paraguay is much greener than the Chaco. There is more obviously farmed land, although there are plenty of patches of bush. Part of the hill had recently burned and Joel bemoaned the terrible number of fires raging in Paraguay. I gather that the Russians have promised to send a fire-fighting plane.

Back down in the village, we motored past the church. One of the reasons I had missed it from the bus was that I had been looking for a conventional stone church with a bell tower. This was a wooden structure and the bell tower was merely a lattice not as high as the main building. We passed on to the museum, located in the house of Dr Francia, Paraguay`s first post-independence dictator. Dr Francia was not a pleasant person. The museum was closed anyway.

The church seemed to be open, so I asked to dismount and see inside. From the moment I produced my camera it became apparent that Joel`s claim to work in television was no idle boast. He had an excellent command of camera angles and the importance of the position of the sun.

There was a nominal charge to enter the church. I have seldom felt I got such good value from visiting a building. Normally I get bored very quickly, but this was different somehow. The walls and supporting pillars were decorated with subdued, natural colours. S. American churches have tended to the garish. There were helpful information boards. They were printed on clear plastic, but Joel and the church guardian found a folder to place behind the plastic and allow me to photograph the information. One day I will copy them into an Internet translation engine and find out what they say.

Despite its modest size, Vaguaron has a one-way system and I now understand the wanderings of the buses. I bid a very fond farewell to Joel, reclaimed my big pack and set off to wait where the buses run. Bursting with local information I successfully hailed the direct bus to Ybycui.

I had a lot of strife with this place name. My final understanding is that it is pronounced Ee-bee-kwee. My attempts to master this have caused much hilarity amongst the locals. The bus took me to the village where, my guide book promised me, there was a hotel with a restaurant. My plan was to alight at the plaza, which is normally the community centre. Ybycui fooled me. It has no plaza. This is virtually unique in South America. However, I spotted the hotel and hopped off before the bus could carry me off to unknown parts.

I thought that if I didn´t photograph the hotel´s name no-one would believe me.

There were no lights on, and only one door half open. However my "Hola" produced a senorita from the equally unlit back rooms. Yes, they had a room. I chose the economico as the austere streak in me will always do. I was shown a perfectly acceptable room and the two bathrooms shared by the money-saving guests. I was also shown how to unlock and relock the front door when I wanted to go out or come back in.

The room rate I got was a steal. There was a working air conditioning unit in my room and since I appeared to be the only guest I had two private bathrooms!

Half an hour later I sallied forth to explore. The hotel was now fully locked and it was apparent that the restaurant would not be serving dinner that night. In lieu of a plaza Ybycui has a very long main street. My search for an Internet cafe was unsuccessful, and I drew an equal blank in my quest for a restaurant. I bought precautionary supplies from the supermarket, including a litre of cold beer.

I did find hot food for sale. A small establishment with no signage was barbecuing asaditos (something like kebabs) and hamburgers on the pavement. I suppose 2 hamburgers and a litre of beer is at least plenty of calories.

The next morning brought two unexpected events. The first was a power cut and the second was rain. Thunder rumbled and the rain came straight down. It certainly cooled the air. It didn`t matter that I had no air conditioning or fan.

The restaurant door was half open again. Yes, of course I could have breakfast. And by some miracle water was heated for my coffee before the electricity returned. When would the bus leave for the national park? "10 o`clock, but it won`t run because of the weather. Well, it might."

It didn`t. But by the time I gave up on the bus the rain had eased and I had a plan. I would hitch-hike to the park. I double checked the route and set off. Paraguay has a reputation of being an easy country to hitch-hike in and my experience backs that to the hilt. At least half the vehicles that passed indicated that they were shortly turning aside, which strongly suggested that they would have given a lift if they were going my way. And in less than 10 minutes I had a lift.

It`s a long time since I hitched a ride in the back of a ute and, with the breeze playing around me, I had fresh air all the way to the park.

Admission was a nominal 5,000 Gs ($1.30). First I visited the historical site of Paraguay`s first ironworks. It was based on iron deposits in the neighbourhood. The English language information was both informative and entertaining. The translation was not of the highest standard. For example, the Spanish word cañon can mean both canyon and cannon. You will be uplifted to know that this factory manufactured many canyons. There was no coal available for the high temperatures necessary, so the Paraguayans made "coal from trees". I presume they meant charcoal. It must have been charcoal burning on a huge scale.

The restored part of the ironworks.

The works were sponsored by dictator Carlos Antonio Lopez. He certainly had his darker side, but he did many constructive things for Paraguay. His blind spot was his son, who was mentioned in a previous post. Lopez Jnr initiated the war of the Triple Alliance in which the ironworks was an early casualty, destroyed by alliance troops.

While I lined up my first photo I made the acquaintance of Paraguay`s equivalent to sandflies. Who had forgotten to apply his insect repellent? That remedied, I was off to enjoy the natural history of the park. From the museum to the recreational area was an hour`s walk through the bush. Unlike the Chaco, cactuses were rare and most trees lacked spines. Birds sang in the treetops and, for the most part, stayed hidden. Plump doves foraged on the trail, but usually I only saw cinnamon brown wings as they fluttered out of sight. There were a few butterflies, but of disappointingly dingy colours.

At the recreational area was the first of the waterfalls the park is famous for. They were indeed pleasing to the eye. Something like Whangarei Falls, but barely half the height. Remember that Paraguay is generally very flat and has few waterfalls. The area beside the falls was equipped with a picnic table, which I spread out my lunch on. How thoughtful of the park authorities. It had not rained for some time so I risked taking off my waterproof.

The peace was dashed by the arrival of a high-spirited school party. They greeted me gaily and laughed at their inability to make me understand. Across the river I was quizzed by an anxious teacher. Had I seen three girls? He did not seem relieved that I had seen three girls earlier walking the track toward the museum.

In a grassy area I did see birds. Lots of red-rumped caciques, flashing their bright behinds as they flew and cackled from tree to tree. The visitor centre was a disappointment. It was firmly locked and looked as though it had been for some time.

A photogenic ant.

My worst case plan for returning to the village was to walk, but I still had time to follow the trail to another waterfall. Here the butterflies were more numerous and much more colouful. I even saw a couple of big blue and black morpho butterflies.

The Salta Guarani waterfall was quite a bit higher and well worth the walk.

Proof that I was there.

It was 4 or 5 km back to the park entrance. Optimistically I enquired of the ranger if there might be an afternoon bus. "Walk 4km along the road to (something I didn´t understand) and there will be a bus from there." It was encouraging but after the morning disappointment I wasn´t going to rely on it.

Striding along the highway it dawned on me how incredibly lucky I had been to get a lift all the way to the park, which is the end of the road. However, there were farms so there must be some other traffic. And the school party had a bus waiting to take them back to their homes.

I got a short lift quite quickly and then walked a long time with no passing traffic. I saw nothing that remotely resembled a bus or a place a bus would turn round. A farmer going the other way in a cart drawn by two cattle engaged me in pleasant conversation. He had a brother living in California. Of the 5,000 ha park, 1,000 ha had burned. Today´s rain was very welcome. He, too, promised public transport. There would be a micro at 5 o´clock.

My worst case solution was to walk all the way to Ybycui village so I kept on tramping. Eventually I did get a lift. Once again I travelled in the cargo section of a ute. And a small bus did pass us going towards the park. If I had needed it the afternoon bus was running.

In the evening I dined on asaditos and beer for a change.

I had visited a tiny part of the whole park. The very best waterfall, Salta Cristal, is approached from La Colmena, a settlement famous for being populated by the descendants of Japanese immigrants. Paraguay is a country of many surprises. But getting to La Colmena by public transport was too time consuming.

It was still two buses to get to my next destination on Ruta Uno, San Juan Bautista. It calls itself a ciudad (city) but that´s stretching it. Large village is more like it. I arrived at lunch time, so I first visited a comedor near the bus stop for a barbecued meat meal. When I asked for directions to a hotel or similar I was escorted round to the back and shown a nice little room. It was expensive, but it did feature a modern air conditioning unit and a private bathroom. And I had no evidence yet that there was any alternative, so I took it.

After settling in I sauntered along the main road checking out the birds and taking photos when I realised that across the street was a military installation. Not a good place to be seen using binoculars and a camera! I changed direction and found the plaza, where I watched a nice bird with blue wings and ate ice cream while soaking up the tranquilo atmosphere.

In the night the modern air conditioning unit dripped on me. The pipe for discarding moisture must have been blocked.

Jenny´s most urgent recommendation was a village a little way off Ruta Uno called Santa Maria de Fe. It was a lovely, laid back place. Plus there were monkeys in the plaza. And for anyone planning a trip to Paraguay I echo this endorsement. It is charming. I did remember the women´s collective, Jenny, but the only place I saw with "co-operativa" on the wall was closed.

The plaza is well wooded. At the time I arrived it was monkey-less but a large flock of monk parakeets was noisily building large, untidy nests. At times their shrill gossip was almost deafening. The park keeper (pictured) saw me sitting there and came over for a chat. Communication was limited because I had great trouble understanding his accent, but he companionably shared his terere.

I mentioned the monkeys and he got straight to his feet. He took a few bananas from a bag beside his wheelbarrow and beckoned me to follow. Behind the museum in what looked like private garden he whistled at the trees. And monkeys came to investigate. I had imagined something small like squirrel monkeys or even tamarins but these were big animals. What I took to be the dominant male was all black, while the others were off-white with black faces. They were at least the size of howler monkeys. The older members of the troupe had a thick fringe of fur round their faces, like hillbilly beards. If anyone knows what species they were, please leave a comment or send an email.

My impromptu guide held out a banana and the black male came down and cautiously took it. Who had left his camera behind in the plaza? Silly Bill.

This noble park tender then showed me two wild bees´ nests in the plaza before resuming his duties. The more accessible one he had assued me was populated by bees that did not sting, so I took some photos. Fortunately he was right, because several got in my hair.

Stingless bees at the entrance to their nest.

After absorbing more of the tranquilo atmosphere of this remarkable village I moved on. I would have eaten there, but everywhere was closed, including the comedor. One passing villager said there were buses at 1 and 2 pm. Another said 12:30 and 1:00. In fact, a bus came at about 12:45 and took me into San Ignacio, where I got a very nice lunch of vori vori, a typical Paraguayan dish.

There were flat sections of Ruta Uno, but mostly there was enough irregularity in the land to generate widely spaced contours. The farms passed by the bus window to Encarnacion. Properly this is the end of the highway, but I have counted my visit to Trinidad as part of my Ruta Uno trip.

The chosen day started with rain. Heavy, we mean serious business rain backed up by deep no-nonsense rumbles of thunder. It was like that in Ybycui. It will clear up. And indeed the intensity waned so I hardly got my jacket damp as I jogged over the road to the bus station. But it didn´t stop.

I quickly found a bus to Trinidad. I do not refer, of course, to the Caribbean island, but to Santissima Trinidad del Parana, one of the many Jesuit settlements in the province now called Misiones. I think it was the wrong bus. It was a bus that did not want to get out of the garage that morning. Maybe it didn´t like the rain, but it sulked. It found traffic jams in the town and stopped for ages for no reason. Once out on the open road it grumbled along at a crawl. It was due to go all the way to Ciudad del Este and seemed determined to turn a 4-5 hour journey into an overnighter. It took over 70 minutes to travel the 35km to Trinidad and I pity the passengers going all the way to Ciudad del Este.

The Jesuits set up scores of settlements on either side of the Parana River. They brought Christianity (of course) and significant economic development to the indigenous people. They also organised an army that put an end to slave raids from Brazil. In particular they virtually controlled the yerba trade. This plant is the basis for Paraguay´s tereré and Argentina´s mate, so it is consumed in great quantities. Eventually the Jesuits became so powerful that the Spanish king - Carlos V I think - evicted them from S. America.

The settlements are called reducciones (don´t rely on that spelling) and are now all in ruins. It was a few hundred metres from the bus stop to the site and, whilst the rain had almost stopped, it was unnaturally dark; almost to the level of moonlight. The sequence was classic. There was a flash of lightning, closely followed by a very loud clap of thunder. A few very large, fat raindrops heralded a downpour of impressive dimensions. I wriggled into my waterproof in record time and skeltered to the entrance where the ticket office offered shelter.

For quite a long time the custodian and I gazed in gloomy silence at the rain as the paths became streams. Eventually the rate of the downpour eased enough that I decided to resume my role as tourist and I walked out onto the grass. Miraculously, the ground had absorbed most of the water and my boots hardly squelched at all.

The walls and floors were of stone and brick, so the dimensions of the buildings are very clear. There are no roofs left, so I guess they were built of timber, possibly with some kind of thatch. Stone buildings for the indian workers and their families would have been luxury compared to the indigenous style of residence.

At some stage the original church and cemetry were replaced by new ones, but the "primitive" church is about as well preserved as the newer one.

The bell tower of the first church.

The rain continued to vary in force, with one burst of quite torrential precipitation. Luckily I was near the section where the archaeologists have roofed in a section of cloister and was able to take cover.

There were lovely white flowers growing in the grass. They were fairly delicate and had been badly battered by the rain. I took photos of a couple, but they weren´t focussed correctly.

I was most surprised that visitors were permitted to descend into the crypt. There is nothing there now. I do not understand is how it wasn´t flooded, because the entrance is open to the elements and plenty of rain was able to flow down the steps.

I´m not sure if visitors are supposed to climb to the upper level, but the chain was down and there was no-one watching. This is the altar end of the new church.

In all, I wandered around the site for an hour and a half. I didn´t see a soul. The custodian kept dry in his office and no other tourists braved the weather.

There is another site in nearby Jesus, but my enthusiasm for Jesuit ruins was amply satisfied. Besides, the buses to Jesus run hourly, and waiting for up to 60 minutes, even in a bus shelter, did not appeal.

The bus back to Encarnacion was an optimistic, can-do sort of bus. Water sprayed busily from its wheels as it completed the return journey in three quarters of an hour.

And that really was the end of Ruta Uno, because I crossed the river into Argentina the next morning.

En la selva - Part 3 Gaitana River

For this trip we had a different guide, Rafael. Like Victor he had had a lot of experience guiding in the jungle. However, he misidentified a couple of birds, which seems odd. Maybe he just got the English names mixed up.

Once again we were loaded into a long boat canoe. We headed upstream and Rafael kept an eye out for caiman. However, the exciting wildlife was higher up. Rafael was explaining that a tall, grassy plant was not sugar cane, but closely related, when a small face peeked out between the stems. It was a squirrel monkey and once we looked in the right places there were scores of them, moving through to the fruiting trees just along the river bank.

The boatman reduced engine revs so that we could watch until our necks were sore. Finally, however, we had to move on. We were on our way to fish for pirañas.

Once we turned out of the main river into the Gaitana River the banks were much closer and wildlife was easier to spot. There were glossy kingfishers in several sizes, blue morpho butterflies, unidentified birds and the call of the unseen ´wolf-whistle bird´. This avian, which Rafael said was small, brown and very difficult to spot, duets with its mate. The female gives a soft call and then the male responds with a two-tone blast that is the perfect wolf-whistle. No spotty human male could produce such perfect notes.

At a river fork Rafael insisted on taking the smaller channel. I don´t think the boatman was keen, but our guide had a special fishing spot that he wanted us to have the benefit of.

The long boat was difficult to manoevre in the narrow waterway. There were many fallen branches and tree trunks that obstructed the channel. See the example in the picture.

But who cares, because we saw red howler monkeys from this creek. They live in family groups, but I only saw two. They were ambling confidently from tree to tree. They are large monkeys and clearly sport red fur.

Round one corner the debris in the river was too much. The boat grounded on at least two submerged tree trunks. With the aid of the emergency paddle Rafael eased us back into deeper water while the boatman struggled to manoevre his monster drive shaft to a position where it could assist.

Back in deeper water Rafael sternly ordered the boatman to have another go - with maximum revs this time. So the clearly doubtful engineer gunned engine and aimed at the narrow opening, under which we knew there were obstacles. Rafael almost lifted us over the submerged wood and somehow we made it through.

Rafael now concentrated hard on picking the best channel from his perch in the bows, and that is why he missed seeing the otter. We knew there were otters in the region, and we also knew that they are rare and not terribly often seen. It was either Mary or Gabriella who saw it first, and I think all the tourists got a glimpse before it saw us and dived from the bank into the river. It was sandy brown, which Rafael said meant that it was a young animal. The adults, who can reach 2 metres long, are black. The name in Spanish is "lobo del rio", which means "river wolf".

After more tight corners and scrapes, Rafael admitted that the river was too low to get to his favourite fishing hole. Nevr mind. We dropped back to a bend in the river and dropped our kidney-baited hooks into the water.

Jungle-style fishing poles.

Pirañas are bloodthirsty devourers of anything that smells of blood, right? No, actually. Most of the 30-40 species are vegetarian and maybe we should have tried broccoli for bait. There were a few alleged nibbles, but no real bites.

When we got tired of this we turned around and headed for the swimming hole. Swimming in a piraña-infested river? Yep. Rafael insisted that it was perfectly safe and that he would be the first in.

Back in the main Gaitana River channel at a broad bend there is a liana that makes for perfect Tarzan swings out over the water. True to his word, Rafael demonstrated its properties before we cautiously donned our togs and followed him. The bank was very slippery and we could have made a great mud slide. Several of us slithered around anyway, to the amusement of those still in the boat.

After we had jumped from the bank, Rafael demonstrated the even better take off from a horizontal branch. The branch was a bit moist, too, but with care no-one came to harm. The river was only about 20 metres wide, but I could not touch bottom except when very close to the bank.

When we were about ready to pack up, Gabriella decided to go ashore. Like everyone else, she slipped on the bank. Having muddy clothes made up her mind. She would do the liana swing. So I was no longer the oldest swimmer - and Gabriella did her jumps fully clothed.

Happy with our water games we set off back to the lodge. There were some showers but they were warm and I sat in the boat in my togs rather than pull dry clothes over a wet body.

Back in the main river there was a noticeable wind, and the temperature wasn´t so tropical. The rain got stronger and ahead we could see a real downpour coming towards us. What we didn´t see was the icy blast that came with the downpour. The rain really stung as it lashed my skin and I hurried to pull my waterproof out of my day pack.

The last 15 to 20 minutes of the journey were most unpleasant. The Amazon basin is one place where I did not expect to be blasted by cold, horizontal rain.

Back at the lodge we found that the rain had been forced through the insect screens into the cabins. Luckily for Jaimy and me, it only affected the hammock space, not the bedroom. Others, particularly near the river, were not so lucky.

We had experienced a rare, but not unknown, phenomenon of cold air coming down from the Andes into the river basin. The lodge was caught unawares and had no sensible response. For a while, even the generator seemed to be affected by the weather. In Caiman cabin, Jaimy used both spare blankets that night while I used my sleeping bag inside the bed; not a tactic I expect to employ again in the tropics.

En la selva (In the jungle) - Part One

Between returning to Cusco from Machu Picchu and departing for the jungle I spent a day on such chores as my laundry, sqeezed in a visit to a museum (Museo Inka) and went on a day trip to the Sacred Valley. I was hoping for a tour of the Inca sites but it turned out to be mostly a tour of souvenir stalls, so I do not count it a successful day.

Some of the souvenirs I didn´t buy.

Departure day for the jungle started badly. Some of the stitching on my day pack ripped and the right shoulder strap was hanging on by a single stitch. There was no time to do anything about it. I just had to go.

This was my final farewell to the family that had hosted me during my Spanish lessons days. Luz and Alcides (pictured) had made me very welcome and treated me more as a friend than a paying guest.

Check-in time was 2 hours before take off. This seems absurd for a domestic flight, but my Spanish isn´t up to arguing with airline officials so I meekly obeyed.

Having checked in, two more setbacks arose. I had planned to use the waiting time to update my blog but there was no Internet access at the airport. Not even at absurd, inflated, airport prices. Then the security check discovered my penknife. It had a blade less than 2cm long; ideal for peeling an orange and useless, I would have thought, for aerial terrorism. However, I can´t claim that I didn´t know the rules. I had carefully put the knife in my checked luggage for the flights from NZ to Peru. So my penknife joined other non-weapons in the security check bin.

The 50-minute flight to Puerto Maldonado allowed wondeful views of snow-capped peaks and then of the mud-brown Madre de Dios river winding through the tropical greenery.

Some Andean peaks.

Madre re Dios River.

Eco Amazonia efficiently managed the pick-up at the airport. We had 20 minutes to explore Puerto Maldonado before the boat left. It reminded me of other towns in hot, humid places. Commerce is very small scale, varying from tiny permanent shops to market stalls to barrows. Butcheries tried to shade their produce, and I only saw a few flies testing the quality of the meat.

Transport to the lodge was in a long, narrow boat powered by a large Evinrude outboard. Long and narrow is the locally popular design, and allowed great speed though the water. I estimated 20 knots. The helmsman preferred the centre of the river to gain maximum help from the current. Even so it was an hour and 20 minutes journey.

Photo taken from our boat. The sister vessel, as you can see, was for the luggage.

Being 100mfrom the nearer bank severely limited bird-watching, but I did manage to identify snowy egrets. Tick. More eye-catching were the tall trees, whose name I have forgotten, with pink blossoms that punctuated the green of the forest.

One large sandbank was being busily dredged for gold. Minerals are still a major source of income in the province, despite the falling returns, as mesured in grams of gold per day.

We arrived at Eco Amazonia Lodge in time for a late lunch, beautifully wrapped in banana leaves. This is a special touch only for the welcoming lunch, though the quality of the food was uniformly high.

I was allocated accommodation with Jaimy, an outgoing Dutchman and hockey player, so the conversation was animated until our first expedition into the jungle.

Monkey Island
Long ago, the river carved a new channel that created a large island. A population of monkeys was isolated by this event. We learned later that nature put three species on the island and the lodge added two more.

To get to the island we were split into small groups, each with a guide and each herded into a canoe. This vessel had the long, thin design of all the river craft. Propulsion was provided by an unbranded two-stroke motor atached to a propellor by an enormously long shaft. This was encased in a sturdy metal tube, with guards to protect the propellor from the many floating logs and other hazards. This robust design allowed the tube to be used as a lever if necessary, and it was pivoted so that the propellor could be swung to the side for turning or even directed forward to give reverse thrust.

Normally nature watching demands quiet, if not actual stealth. Instead, our guide, Victor, marched along the trail hollering, "Platanos. Platanos, monos." (Bananas. Bananas, mokeys.) They are wild animals in the sense that they are uncaged, but they are used to late afternoon banana hand-outs. Nevertheless, it was quite a while before a single black spider monkey swung cautiously down through the branches.

He obligingly came low enough for everyone to attempt photography in the undestorey gloom, and then retreated with his booty, giving a wondeful demostration of his prehensile tail. We marched on, and in a few minutes were able to see two brown capuchin monkeys. These were a lot slower to come within banana-grabbing distance. Then a troupe of white-fronted capuchins appeared. These were much bolder. Then, all of a sudden, the trees were alive with monkeys. A whole troupe of the black spider monkeys joined the white-fronted capuchins, dangling from their tails in classic spider monkey style.

Somehow, all the groups of visitors had converged, and the monkeys were being offered bananas from all sides. A few steps away from the main action the shyer brown capuchins stayed aloft, but well within range of a thrown banana. In their tree a saddleback tamarin appeared level with my head. Tamarins are the smallest of the primates but this one trotted through the branches with great confidence.

This picture of a saddleback tamarin is the only half-decent photo I got on Monkey Island.

So in the end the outing was a great success for tourists and monkeys alike.

The way back to the canoe was enhanced by a colourful sunset, and flights of birds on their way to their night-time roosts. These included my first wild macaws. One bird was moved by the occasion to sing and display in a tree-top. Victor identified it for me as a crested oropendula. "Not the same species as at the lodge."

Vicor had been guiding for over 14 years. His English was more than good enough, and he knew both the English and scientific names for very many of the plants and birds that we saw. He also knew that the pattern of marks in the muddy sand was the trail of a female turtle, left after she laid her eggs.

Caiman Spotting
The manager of the lodge was very strict. We had to dine in our groups. Luckily our group was a sociable one that was happy to comply. There was Mary from Washington state with her 19-year old daughter, Sandra. We quickly established that Sandra would rather have been with her sister and their boyfriends. There was Gabriella from Switzerland. She was probably the oldest in the group, the only smoker and much the most colourful character. She was accompanied by her niece, Antoinette (I think), who did all their organising and coped with her aunt´s impulsive nature with great good humour. Then there was Venka from Norway with a beauty chorus of two daugters and two nieces in tow.

Excursions left on time. I came to call the manager "the colonel" because of his insistence on military-style rigidity and timing.

So down to the dock we went at the appointed hour and hopped nimbly into our canoe. Victor was carrying a car battery and a powerful light. The idea was that the light would reflect red when it lit on a caiman´s eye. I did see a red reflection once, but Victor semed able to spot a caiman without this identifier.

When he spotted a head on the surface he would signal to the boatman and the motor would quieten as we nosed carefully in for a closer look. Eventually we would get too close and the mud-brown head would duck below the surface with a soft plip.

We saw three in the water and one on the bank. The 10cm head (these were all quite small as caiman go) was attached to a body and tail that together measured about a metre and a half. Unfortunately the only one we saw entire like this quickly took fright and dived into the river.

We had been heading upstream in our search. To get back the boatman headed away from the bank and then cut the motor so that we could drift back to the lodge listening to the sounds of the jungle at night.